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skyward-floored · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 1: Swooning, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Welcome back to whumptober yet again >:D I’m going to try and do all 31 days again, we’ll see if I can manage it!

Anyways, this got longer then I meant it to, but I had to corral the ending into something that made sense XD Enjoy!

Read it on ao3

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“You find that key yet, Rancher?” a voice called from way off in the distance.

Twilight barked back a negative, and continued to sniff around for the key to the exit of the room the others were in. There’d been a spot only his wolf form could easily get to, and so he’d climbed up to it and crawled through, moving soft dirt with his paws until he’d entered into the more spacious area he was in now.

The room appeared to be circular, but there were several high walls he couldn’t see over so he couldn’t tell for sure. They were somewhat maze-like, and confusing in their layout, so Twilight was forced to rely on scent, searching for the metallic, and no-doubt rusty-smelling key.

He turned several corners, following a faint metallic smell he hoped was his objective. There wasn’t much in the maze apart from a few rats and the concerning remains of a skeleton, and Twilight padded cautiously on, perking up the moment the glint of a treasure chest finally caught his eye. He ran up to it, and transformed back into a Hylian, eagerly opening the chest.

A dark, shining key sat inside, just what he’d been looking for.

Twilight reached inside with a warm feeling of satisfaction, then heard a faint click as he lifted the key. A cloud of dark particles shot up from the chest, blowing right in Twilight’s face, and he gasped involuntarily, inhaling a good portion of it.

He began coughing as the dust coated his throat, the dust making him choke as he stumbled backwards. The cloud settled after a moment, but Twilight kept coughing out whatever he could, blinking tears from his eyes and wiping dust off his face.

He patted himself down, and looked around for any threat or danger to his person, but the room was as silent as it had been, and apart from the dryness of his throat, Twilight felt no ill effects.

Must have been an old boobytrap, he thought to himself, coughing a bit more as he pocketed the key and headed back the way he came. Arrows or something were probably supposed to fly out at my face... Whatever it was probably disintegrated because they were so old.

Twilight coughed again, and shook more dust out of his hair.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t here a few decades sooner.

Twilight made it back out of the maze and into the other room without further incident, though the skeleton tried to grab him as he walked by. He easily fought it off, and told the others about it with a laugh as they continued through the dungeon, and the strange black dust entirely fled his mind.

The dungeon was large, obviously some kind of fort once upon a time, but it had been long abandoned apart from the monsters who’d taken up residence inside. The heroes ran into a large group of them shortly, and they set to work, room echoing with shouts and screeches alike.

Twilight went for a troublesome-looking gibdo (one of Legend’s fortunately, apparently his didn’t scream), and began attacking, slicing at the strangely thick bandages.

Sky was fighting another one nearby, and a little further away Legend was yelling something as Wild shot several fire arrows. A group of the gibdos burst into flames, but Twilight tried to focus on his own battle, even as Legend yelled at Wild again.

The gibdo wasn’t fast, but it was sturdy, and it took a lot of time for Twilight to make any headway in hurting it. He jumped around to the back of it more than once, slicing in the same spot, and the gibdo finally seemed like it was flagging after several of the attacks.

It made a move for him, swiping at his middle, but Twilight took the opportunity to roll around and run it through with his sword, the monster letting out an odd moan before collapsing into dust.

Twilight glanced at where the gibdo had swiped at him, but his tunic wasn’t even ripped. Satisfied that he was fine, he jumped back into the fray, avoiding a stalfos that jumped at him and nearly sliced off his arm. Twilight immediately went on the attack, blocking another swipe with his shield, and lunging forward to swipe at the monster.

But the moment he stepped forward, a strange wave of something swept over him, making him stumble. He blinked dizzily, head lightly spinning, and looked around in confusion.

His head felt light, the battle around him fading at the edges, and he put a hand to his head, wondering what on earth was going on.

He felt almost as if he was suffering the effects of an injury, a knock to the head, blood loss or something similar, but that gibdo had barely touched him, why was he..?

Twilight stumbled as he avoided a swipe from the stalfos’s blade, clumsily blocking it with his shield. The crash of the weapon hitting it made him wince, and he desperately tried to gather his wits about him so he could fight back.

What was going on here?

Twilight tried to go on the offensive, swinging his sword, but somehow he missed the stalfos entirely. The lack of resistance made him stumble, and the stalfos let out a strange clattering cackle as it swung at him again, red eyes blurring in Twilight’s vision.

A glowing blade suddenly entered his sight, and Twilight watched as Sky swiped straight through the stalfos that had been hedging him, the bones falling to pieces. The room was suddenly a lot quieter, and Twilight distantly realized that that must have been the last monster.

“Twilight, are you okay? That thing nearly got you!” Sky said with a smile, his voice only mildly worried as he sheathed his sword.

Twilight gave him a nod, blinking as he tried to make the room quit swimming around him. It refused to stop though, and Sky’s expression turned more truly concerned.

“Twilight? Are you all right?”

“Fine, I’m... I’m fine,” he said a little shakily, resting a hand on his head. “Think I... just...”

He coughed, black flecks falling on his hand, and his mind abruptly flashed back to the dust in the treasure chest.

...perhaps the boobytrap hadn’t been as ruined as he’d thought.

Sky’s eyes went wide, and the room suddenly lurched, shaking and wavering all around. Twilight heard a shout, but it was muffled and strange, and didn’t make any sense to his ears.

He couldn’t hold his weight any longer, and he felt his eyes roll back in his head as his legs gave out.

(...)

Something shook him, a bit frantically, and Twilight sluggishly came back to awareness.

He blinked his eyes open, and bit back a groan as he closed them again, his vision swirling and rolling around. Something was shaking him again, but Twilight didn’t reopen his eyes, afraid he would throw up if he did.

“Rancher, open your eyes, come on.”

Twilight reluctantly cracked them open, several things moving above him in dizzying color.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” the same voice asked him, and Twilight blinked, trying to focus on the things in his vision that kept blurring in and out of focus.

“Quit movin’ th’m,” he mumbled, and more voices echoed above him, making him only feel more dizzy as he tried to listen to them.

“Concussion you think?”

“He didn’t hit his head, there’s no injuries there I can find.”

“Well what’s wrong with him then?!”

“Has he had anything to eat today?”

“Probably needs a bath, he’s filthy.”

“Don’t be stupid, that wouldn’t make him faint!”

Twilight’s breath caught funny in his chest, and he coughed again, a sharp wave of vertigo hitting as someone sat him up. A groan escaped his lips, and a hand gently turned his head.

“Twilight, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Twilight blinked hazily, trying to focus on whoever was talking to him, but his vision refused to do what he wanted it to, and his dizziness grew to an excruciating degree.

He let out a whimper, uncertain of what was going on, and felt a sudden sharp pain in his chest, intense and painful. It spread through his body like liquid fire, and he cried out, moving suddenly agonizing.

“Twilight!”

The hand was back and frantically patting his cheek, and something moved in front of him again, but all Twilight could do was focus on the dizziness and pain that was demanding all of his attention.

“Twilight, please, focus, do you know what happened?”

Twilight breathed in shakily, tensing as another wave of pain ripped through him. He had to tell them what was wrong, he had to warn them in case there was more of the dust, in case it hurt one of them— but all he could do was try not to scream.

“Twilight?”

Twilight squeezed his eyes shut, then reopened them, trying to meet whoever was in front of him’s eyes.

“Th... dust...” he moaned, voice barely more then a whisper, “brea... thed...”

His breath caught with pain, and Twilight heard someone shout as the dizziness overcame him again, darkness washing over his vision.

(...)

When Twilight woke back up, he was being held between two people, arms over their shoulders.

He blinked dizzily, and saw stone under his feet, moving slowly as he was carried forward. We must still be in the dungeon.

Another wave of that strange fiery pain ripped through him, and Twilight gasped, making whoever was holding him startle.

“He’s awake!”

Footsteps clattered on the stone, and hands poked at him, lightly holding up his chin.

“Rancher? How are you feeling?”

Twilight couldn’t manage anything more then a groan, and something gently ran through his hair.

“Okay, that’s alright, you’re going to be fine. Can you drink something for us? Warriors thinks a potion will help.”

Twilight mumbled something he hoped was a good enough reply, and something cool was pressed to his lips. Sweetness hit his tongue as it was tilted back, and Twilight drank, waiting for the potion to kick in.

The very beginnings of warmth began to settle in his chest, but then his stomach lurched, and he jerked forward, coughing up the healing draught and gagging at the taste of it coming back up. It felt weirdly dry as well, nearly making him choke, and Twilight felt the arms come up to prop him into a slightly different position.

“Easy Rancher...”

“Should we give him another?”

“He won’t be able to keep it down, not with the way he’s acting.”

“Well now what?!”

“...Guys? He’s... not just throwing up potion.”

The room went oddly quiet, apart from Twilight’s harsh breathing, his stomach and head now swirling with nausea. He’d finished throwing up, but now his tongue and throat felt like sandpaper in his mouth. He coughed something out, and there was a hand on his cheek again, holding him steady.

“Four said he mentioned breathing in dust earlier... do you think that’s what he meant?”

“I don’t see what else he could have meant.”

“So the dust is making him like this... we just gotta get it out somehow!”

Twilight moaned as his head swirled, and something touched him, gently rubbing his shoulder as his awareness started to fade again.

“Don’t worry Twi, we’ll fix this. Just hold on.”

(...)

Twilight came to with a jolt the next time, something forcing his mouth open, air being pulled through his lips.

He heaved in a gasp, and hands moved to hold him down, voices talking far above his head and the ground rolling up and down under his back. He tried to struggle, but the hands were firm, and something brushed through his hair as he tried to drag in another gasp.

“I’m so sorry Twilight, but this’ll help, try and stay still.”

The wind increased in its intensity, and Twilight felt like every bit of air was being sucked from inside him, leaving him unable to breath, unable to fight, to get away they were holding him down—

A sob choked from his throat, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t resist, couldn’t stop them from doing whatever it was they were doing and it made him feel sick. What felt like sand fell down his cheeks, and he let out a breathless scream as the air continued to be pulled from him, the fire in his limbs blazing, his head swirling.

There was more talking but Twilight couldn’t focus on any of it, his world narrowed down to pain and wind and a scratchy feeling in his throat and lungs and all over inside of him.

It hurt.

He still couldn’t breathe, no matter how he thrashed or cried out and the pain was so intense and thick that the darkness soon dragged him under yet again.

(...)

A hand was brushing through his hair, teasing out knots, gentle in its motions.

Twilight didn’t do anything but focus on it for a minute, the touch soothing and calm. Then he realized just how dry his throat felt, his insides hollow, and he let out a breathy moan, trying to open his eyes.

“Whoa, easy,” someone said, and Twilight finally dragged his eyes open, pleasantly surprised when his vision didn’t smear. He was able to look to the side and meet who turned out to be Four’s eyes without any swirling spots or fire in his chest, and he felt a spark of equal relief and confusion.

“...’thy?” he rasped, and Four nodded, looking pleased.

“Hey, he’s awake!” another voice said, and Sky leaned over into Twilight’s vision. He looked tired, but there was a smile on his face. “Good to see you up, Rancher.”

“Oh thank Hylia,” another voice gasped, and Wild appeared in his vision as well, looking utterly relieved. “We weren’t sure if that was going to work or not.”

“If what w...work..?” Twilight croaked, and Sky, Four, and Wild all looked at each other.

“We had to get the dust out somehow,” Four said quietly, guilt thick in his voice. “I figured since you inhaled it... sucking it out would be our best bet.”

“Four has an item that worked rather well,” Sky said, though his smile had grown tight. “We weren’t sure at first if it had helped, but... well, we’re glad you’re all right, Rancher.”

Twilight blinked, and looked between the three. He was having some trouble following exactly what was being said, he felt sore and tired, and a bit like a paper straw someone had sucked air through a few too many times, but even he could tell that Four felt awful.

And sure, he didn’t quite know why, or remember exactly what had happened, but Four had helped him, and that was enough for Twilight.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, and worked past the bit of dizziness still in his head to reach over and pat Four’s hand. “Thank you.”

He couldn’t manage anything further, but it seemed like it was enough. Four took his hand in his and gave it a squeeze, and Twilight dredged up a smile.

“Screw dungeons,” Wild muttered fiercely, and went back to playing with Twilight’s hair. “They’re stupid and they suck.”

Twilight barked out a laugh, wheezy and uncomfortable, but it was worth it seeing the relieved looks that were exchanged above him.

“Agree. Screw ‘em,” he croaked.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu twilight #lu Sky #lu four #lu Wild #whumptober 2023 #day 1 #swooning #how many fingers am i holding up?#writing from the floor #ask to tag #more specific warnings on ao3 if you need that #anyway WHEW #I stayed up late trying to finish this #I finally wrangled an ending that’s... well it’s okay I guess XD #at least it’s done

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jasmines-library · 7 months

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Just One Big Headache

WHUMPTOBER 2023: Day one, prompt "How many fingers am I holding up?" FANDOM: Supernatural Summary: A routine salt 'n' burn takes a nasty turn when the spirit directs its anger towards you, leaving you with a nasty concussion, but not to worry, the Winchesters are there to look after you. Warnings: Head injury, concussion, loss of consciousness, violence, weapons, broken ribs. Word count: 1.8k Author Note: Aaaaaand its off! Welcome to jedi-archives whumptober 2023! I promise i'm going to try my best to get these out everyday but i can't make any promises. My prompts are coming from a mixture of the official @whumptober prompts and my own. I'm starting off with something slightly fluffy to ease us in. With that said, happy whumping!

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

'it's just a salt 'n' burn' they said. 'it'll be fun' they said. Oh boy were they wrong.

The air was crisp as you stepped out of the Impala. You watched as the little clouds of air rose before your face, illuminated by the street lamps which flickered haphazardly. Tugging your jacket closer to your body you made your way around to the back of the car, following the crunch of Sam’s shoes as he walked across the frosted grass. Dean propped open the trunk and made quick work of loading rock salt into his rifle and ensuring that there were enough matches inside his pack. The other Winchester hauled the shovel from the car and leaned it against his shoulder; it was hefty and made with iron, caked in mud and rust. The pistol that you shifted between your hands was so familiar, like an extension of your body. It fit snugly in your grip. Flicking the chamber open with a metallic click, you made sure it was fully loaded before snapping off the safety and slipping it in a holster on your belt.

The grass was damp from the frost that had settled on the grass in the graveyard. It had managed to claw its way up the gravestones and trees like fingers too. It seeped uncomfortably through the toes of your boots as you trudged towards the grave. Small and unkept, it sat located towards the west side of the gravesite. It belonged to a young woman who was brutally murdered a few years ago, but who’s case ran cold. It was safe to say that she was pissed; her revenge taking the form of hunting down those who were associated with the woman who killed her. But what started out as unfinished business soon turned cold and twisted as she turned to others who had wronged. Her grave stood out on the line of tall, pearly stones with dainty flowers laying at their feet. It was dark and clad with weeds. Unloved.

Dean’s duffel landed with a thud next to the grave, unsettling the ground around it. The shovel went down next to it.

“Alrighty.” He said, rubbing his hands together. “You know the drill.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but brought out his hands in front of him anyway. “Seriously dude, I don’t even know why we bother anymore.”

“It’s a game of chance, Sammy. Now shoot.”

After the count of three, you and Sam shaped your hands into a fist and brought them forwards. You smirked. Dean had played scissors. With a groan, he pulled his hand back and reeled his body away.

You laughed. “Scissors everytime, Dean.”

The eldest Winchester grumbled something underneath his breath, but picked up the shovel and begrudgingly began to dig until the shovel hit something solid, you and Sam kept your eyes peeled for any sign of the spirit.

“Okay. This is it.” he confirmed, hauling up the lid of the coffin. It creaked open on unsteady hinges. The corpse beneath still had skin attached to its discoloured bones. It pooled loosely around the woman's frame. The putrid smell that emerged would have made you gag had you not already had your fair share of salt ‘n’ burns. “Keep an eye out for that son of a bitch.”

Sam lent a hand to haul his brother out of the newly dug pit. From where you were standing, a few feet away, you could see the top of his hair poking out from the top of the opening. Almost mechanically, the brothers began to tip the gasolene and sprinkle the salt onto the body.

The deathly howl that suddenly emerged in front of you snapped you awake. The spirit raced towards the Winchesters, gritting her teeth and scowling. Her vacant eyes narrowed at them as she got closer, but your fingers were on the trigger before you could blink, sending her away with a shrill cry and a cloud of grey.

“Hurry.” You told your friends, who had moved from preparing the body to the old duffel on the ground. Dean rummaged around desperately on his knees, not caring about the cold, until he felt the familiar grit of the matchbox against his fingers. Tugging it out, he ran back to the body. Sam tugged the shotgun tighter to him and positioned it in front of himself. The two of you danced around, keeping your eyes peeled for the ghost.

The spirit appeared behind you this time, wailing like a banshee. Sam shot it in the chest before it howled shrilly and disappeared.

“Dean! Hurry up!” You cried as it reappered again. He was busy fumbling with the matches, which refused to light on the cold box. He pushed too hard against the cardboard and felt the stick snap and splinter. He cursed loudly.

“I’m trying!” He huffed back through gritted teeth.

All it took was that one look over your shoulder to Dean for the spirit to catch you off guard. Sam’s shout of your name was a second too late as a ghost appeared behind you, wrapping its cold, bony fingers around you and flinging you away. You cried out in pain as your head collided with one of the neighbouring gravestones and your body slid to the floor.

“Dean!” Sam yelled out for his brother, firing his weapon at the creature and sending it dissipating to somewhere else on the property.

The match slipped between Dean’s fingers, twisting in his grip as he tried to create friction between the two objects. Time seemed to stop as Sam raced towards your side to be cut off by the woman re-emerging in his path. That was when the match tumbled from his brother’s grasp, landing on the heap of chemicals and starting the chain reaction of events.

The woman reeled back as she burst into flames like a candle. The sound she made was dreadful, it cut right through you as she writhed on her feet. When she finally finished her onslaught of screaming and her bones were no more than a dismal pile of ash, Sam fell to his knees in front of you, cupping your head in his hands. It lolled to the side, unable to hold itself up against the throbbing pain in your skull. Sam was suddenly aware of the blood that trickled from your temple and coaxed his fingers, crying out again for his brother, he gave your face a gentle tap. Your eyes fluttered beneath heavy lids.

“Hey, Hey. Kid. Stay with me.” He pleaded, searching your face. “Open your eyes Y/N, come on.”

Your eyelids felt like they were made of lead. Your head felt hazy as you peeled them open, watching Sam swim before you.

“That's it! Keep them open Y/N.”

Dean was to your left, his hands roaming your body for any other injuries. You whimpered when his fingers flushed against your tender skin on your upper back. You were sure you had a broken rib. Or three.

“I know. I know sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s face was close to yours as he tilted it upwards. He saw the way that your pupils were dilated; one the size of the fucking moon, the other lagging behind.

“Shit. Dean?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Dean prompted, “Can you stand?”

He moved to position himself under your arm, wrapping it around his neck. Sam’s arm weaved around your waist and the two of them hauled you to your feet. The movement made you want to hurl and you cried out as the pressure in your head and ribs increased tenfold.

“You’re okay, sweetheart, You’re okay.”

Your movements were sluggish as you floated towards the car. your vision doubled and you were now struggling to differentiate left and right. Your legs trembled in your fogginess, you seemed to lose all control of your limbs, relying heavily on the arms wrapped around you to aid you back to the Impala. It was when your vision blurred and your legs completely folded beneath you like a crushed can that Sam scooped you up into his arms. He cringed at your noise of discomfort, but raced behind his brother to the old car which was parallel parked across the street.

“We’re nearly there kiddo,” He hushed. “Just keep those pretty eyes open for me, okay?”

You tried to keep them open. You really did, but it just became too much. Your body became slack in Sam’s arms as you gave into unconsciousness.

The light was too bright when you peeled your eyes open again. You were back in the bunker, propped up on pillows in your bed. Your whine alerted Dean to your awareness. His hand, which was clutching yours, moved to wave in front of your eyes.

“Y/N? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Sam rolled his eyes, swatting his hands away. He saw the way you squinted painfully against the light and moved to the switch on the other side of the room to dim it, before promptly coming to perch on the edge of your bed. . Satisfied, you hummed and scanned the room, eyes landing on the two worried Winchesters who loitered in your room. They breathed a visible sign of relief when they saw your eyes focus on theirs. Your ribs still stung, and the throbbing in your head was still present. You reached up and trailed your fingers across your temple. The skin had been cleaned there, the dried blood no longer glued to your face. You could still feel it in your hair where Sam hadn’t quite managed to get it all out. The skin was rough and had begun to scab over. A pair of hands wrapped around your wrist and pulled your fingers away.

“Don’t touch.” Sam said tenderly, handing you a glass and a handful of painkillers. The glass was cool against your lips as you swallowed them thickly. “It should heal on its own. It didn’t need stitches.”

You blinked groggily. “What happened?”

“Ghost got you good.” Dean told you. “You have two broken ribs and a concussion.”

“And the ghost?” you asked.

“Taken care of.”

Nodding slowly, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

“I-” Dean stuttered. “You had us worried Y/N”

“I'm sorry.”

Sam shook his head firmly. “Not your fault.”

“But-”

“Nope. Not hearing it.” He said sternly.

You sighed. “So, what's the damage, Dr Winchester?”

The youngest brother chuckled at the remark, glad to see that you were feeling more of yourself. “You are going to stay in bed and rest for a few days. We are going to stay here and look after you.” he told you before you rolled your eyes at the idea of being bed bound.

“I suppose I could do that.” You shrugged, not opposed to the idea of having the Winchesters as your personal waiters for the next few days.

“I thought you’d be happy.” Dean shook his head, then gestured to the covers and the tv which was mounted on the wall. “Room for two more?”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

DAY TWO

🏷️ Whumptober Taglist

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up?#concussion #brokenribs #unconscious #hurt/comfort #whumo #supernatural #supernatural x reader #winchester #winchesters x reader #fanfiction #writing #angst #supernatural fanfiction

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serickswrites · 10 months

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How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up?

Warnings: rescue, captivity, torture, unconsciousness, restraints, poison, caretaker and whumpee

“Whumpee! Whumpee! I’m here. I’m here!” Caretaker shouted as they ran to the basement where they knew Whumper had to be keeping Whumpee. They had checked the rest of the house and Whumpee was nowhere to be found.

Caretaker kicked open the door and hesitated on the stairs. Whumpee was slumped over, arms pulled at an awkward angle by the chains that kept them attached to the wall. “Whumpee?”

They could see Whumpee’s body move with each breath, but Whumpee didn’t respond to their words. Caretaker hurried forward. “Whumpee?” They rolled Whumpee onto their side. “I’m here Whumpee. Whumpee! Say something.”

Caretaker gave Whumpee a little shake. Whumpee blinked open bleary eyes. They blinked, their gaze unfocused. “C-C-Caretaker?”

“I’m here, Whumpee. I’m here.” Caretaker said softly as they looked for a way to get the cuffs off Whumpee’s wrists.

Whumpee’s lips twitched as their eyelids drooped closed once more. “Hmmmm,” they hummed once before going quiet.

“Stay awake, Whumpee. Talk to me.” Caretaker worked quickly.

“Mmmmm. ‘m ‘ere,” they whispered as they struggled to open their eyes once more.

Caretaker tapped Whumpee’s cheek as Whumpee’s eyelids fluttered. “Whumpee. Keep your eyes on me.” What had Whumper done?

“C-C-Can’t. T-TTooooo ‘ny. ‘zzy.”

“Whumpee, how many fingers am I holding up?” Caretaker had a sinking feeling in their stomach. “Whumpee, how hard did you hit your head?”

Whumpee blinked up at Caretaker with fever bright eyes. “No. P-P-Poi--” their words cut off as they began to cough. Loud, wet coughs wracked their body as they tried to speak once more. Caretaker rubbed Whumpee’s back as Whumpee kept trying to speak.

But Caretaker knew what Whumpee was going to say and didn’t need Whumpee to finish. Whumpee had been poisoned. Rage boiled in their stomach as they realized Whumper had set this trap for Caretaker. Made it easy for Caretaker to find Whumpee. But didn’t make it easy to save Whumpee. Caretaker made a silent promise that they would pay Whumper back in kind once they got Whumpee to safety.

“It’s ok, Whumpee. I’ve got you. I’m going to save you,” Caretaker said as they lifted Whumpee into their arms.

Whumpee had gone silent after the last bout of coughing. Terribly silent and still. “Whumpee?” Caretaker tapped Whumpee’s cheek as they started towards the basement stairs. “Come on, Whumpee. Wake up.”

Whumpee’s only response was the quiet, irregular wheeze that let Caretaker know they were still alive. “Hang in there, Whumpee. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Hold on.”

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adrift-in-thyme · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 1: “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Read it on Ao3

- Wild & Four

- Summary: On the battlefield, Wild suffers a concussion and Four has to split to keep him safe

CW for head injury/concussion and brief mention of vomit

—————————

“Champion! Behind you! Look out!”

Four knows it’s too late even as he shouts. In the time it has taken him to turn around, catch sight of the armed moblin, and open his mouth, the monster has already raised its weapon. And at the distance he is from Wild, there is no possible way he can make it to him in time, even at a sprint. But he tries anyway. Cutting down the nearest monster, he breaks into a run.

Wild whirls around as his warning registers, sword held ready. His eyes widen as he sees the moblin and for a split second Four dares hope that maybe, just maybe he will have a chance at defending himself or getting out of the way. Sure enough, Wild throws himself into a sideways leap. But even as he does, the moblin swings its weapon in a wide, horizontal arc.

The sword catches up with the champion at the tail end of its journey. It collides with his side with such force Four is certain he can hear the bones in his arm breaking from here. Wild goes flying head over heels, then lands a few feet away in a heap of bloodied tunic and spread-eagled limbs.

“Wild!”

Four looks between the champion and the monster that has now turned its eyes on him. If the others were here perhaps he could afford to rush to his friend’s side immediately. But they are back at the camp, awaiting the results of their patrol.

A patrol that was never supposed to lead to a camp full of black-blooded monsters.

Gritting his teeth, Four makes his decision. Holding the sword high, he closes his eyes and lets the familiar sensation wash over him. Magic flows through him and out, his emotions splitting and solidifying.

“Oh no! Wild!”

No sooner has he opened his eyes again, Red catches sight of their fallen friend. His face spasms as he takes a step forward.

“We’ve gotta help him!”

“You go to him, Red—” Vio says.

“And hurry it up,” Blue interrupts, gesturing toward the monsters that are now closing in on Wild’s prone body. “He hasn’t got much time.”

Vio nods. “I’ll come with you.”

“We’ll handle the monsters over here,” Green says, already turning on his heel. Blue lunges after him without hesitation.

Red doesn’t have to be told twice. He rushes over to Wild as fast as his legs can take him, cutting through any monsters within reach. Once he reaches the fallen champion, he skids to a halt. Sheathing his sword, he hits the ground on his knees beside him.

“Wild?”

Wild looks far worse from this proximity than he did from far away. His arm is indeed broken and lying at an unnatural angle. Blood darkens his tunic on his right side where the weapon hit him the hardest. The crimson liquid trickles down his forehead too and an angry bruise is already forming beneath it. Its purples and blues and golds stand starkly against the pallor of his skin.

Bright blue eyes blink open, then promptly shut. Wild groans.

“Is he awake?”

Vio comes to kneel beside Red, brows pinched in a frown. Red wipes at his eyes, swiping away the beginnings of tears.

“I-I think he’s waking up.” He leans forward. “Wild, can you hear me?”

“Mhm.” The champion groans again, shifting a bit. “Hurts.”

Red puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re here now. We’ll make it stop hurting.”

Vio turns away and starts rifling in his pouch. “Prop his head up, Red.”

With gentle hands, Red complies, guiding the champion’s head into his lap. Wild pries his eyes open and squints up at him.

“Wha…happened?”

“You were wounded in battle,” Vio says. He is in the process of setting out supplies now. A bottle of potion stands amongst the blades of grass, its crimson contents glittering in the midday sun. A bundle of bandages joins it. “Though we’ve yet to ascertain the severity.”

Red thinks for a moment, then holds two fingers in front of Wild’s face. Try as he might, he can’t quite still their trembling. But it doesn’t matter if anyone sees. Not now, with his friend so severely injured. And besides, he wants to help in any way that he can.

“How many fingers am I holding up, champion?”

Wild blinks mismatched pupils, trying and failing to focus on the appendages. After a moment, he snickers.

“Four.” He starts to giggle. “Like–like you. Four Fours.”

Red looks over at Vio. The violet-clad hero pauses in the middle of unscrewing the potion, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Seeing double, acting loopy, pupils in two different sizes – the symptoms all point to the thing he had suspected since seeing Wild’s head injury. A concussion.

“Hey!” Blue calls from a short distance away. The screams of monsters drift over from where he and Green are still battling fiercely. “You guys gonna keep us updated or what? Is he okay?”

At that moment, Wild’s laughter turns into a wet, hacking cough that shakes his injured body and brings tears to his eyes. Cringing, Red strokes his hair in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

This situation is getting worse by the moment, he is sure of it.

“He has a concussion,” Vio calls back. “And some bad bruising, broken bones. I can’t be certain of the internal damage.”

“But the potion will take care of that, right?” Red asks, desperately.

Vio shrugs. “For now. But we need to get him back to camp as soon as possible. He’ll need rest and a fairy. Here, he can’t get either.”

Wild’s coughs subside, though he shivers with the aftershocks of them. He slumps back against Red, breathless. Sniffling, the hero reaches down and slips his hand into Wild’s.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

He squeezes and the champion squeezes back, albeit lightly.

“Don worry bout me,” he slurs, gazing dazedly at nothing. “Be fine.”

The very fact that he isn’t even attempting to get up, tells of the lie in his words. But neither Red nor Vio sees fit to point it out. Merely sharing another glance with Red, Vio sets aside the cap of the bottle. He watches Wild for a moment to ensure he won’t begin coughing again, or worse, vomit. Then, when he is relatively certain he won’t do either, he touches the bottle to his lips.

“Here, drink.”

He tips it back just enough that the liquid slides sluggishly into Wild’s mouth and the champion swallows obediently. Once he has drained it all, Vio places the bottle back in his pouch and turns his attention to the bandages. Green and Blue jog up to the little group as he unravels them, sheathing their swords. Wild looks up at them, a slight grin tugging at his lips.

“Four Fours,” he chuckles, and Blue’s face instantly folds into a death glare.

“What on earth is he rambling on about?”

“He’s out of it,” Green says, taking note of the bleariness in Wild’s unfocused eyes and the blood still drenching his tunic. “You said he had a concussion, Vio?”

Vio nods. “The potion should take effect soon, but he’ll still need to rest up.”

“We need to get back to camp as soon as possible.”

“Yes. Here, help me move his tunic out of the way.”

Green bends and lifts the fabric up and away, revealing a sizable gash marring the champion’s left side. He lets out hiss as the air touches it, hold on Red’s hand tightening.

“It’s okay,” Red murmurs.

Vio immediately gets to work, cleaning the wound as best he can and then wrapping it in the gauze. The other three help in any way they can and between them all, they manage to make quick work of it.

“That’ll have to do for now,” Vio says, standing up and brushing off his tunic.

Blue blows out a sigh. “Great. Now we’ve gotta get him back.”

“I can walk,” Wild croaks. He is a bit more alert now that the potion has had some time to work. But still in no state to go skipping back to camp.

He looks up at them, familiar determination coloring his eyes. “Sorry, but you guys definitely can’t carry me.”

“No, we can’t,” Vio agrees, calmly. “Not unless we absolutely have to, at least.”

“But we’ll support you every step of the way!” Red promises.

Green nods. “Of course we will. Every step of the way.” He unsheathes his sword and holds it high, already beginning to shimmer in colors of four. “Though we’ll do it as one.”

Between one blink and the next, one small hero is standing before Wild. He offers the champion a small smile.

“But don’t worry. No matter what you won’t be alone.”

He bends and hooks his arm under Wild’s shoulders. The height difference makes maneuvering him upright difficult, and when Wild stumbles, both of them nearly topple. But Four manages. And soon they are limping down the hill, back towards camp.

Back towards safety.

Four breathes a sigh of relief. His body is vaguely sore from the battle and splitting, his mind worn from worry and strategy. The sooner they can return for both of their sakes, the better.

“Hey Four,” Wild mumbles, beside him.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Four smiles. “Anytime, Wild.”

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up?#linkeduniverse #fic #concussion tw #blood tw #injury tw #mention of vomit #lu wild #lu four #lu colors #whump #trin writes #hurt/comfort #angst #HERE WE GOOOO #I’m so excited for this month

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quietlyimplode · 7 months

Text

the language of flowers and silent things.

Whumptober 2023: Day 1 - How many fingers am I holding up

Warnings: perceived death (no death I promise), panic

Word Count: 2.3k (gif not mine)

Summary: The marriage of Clint and Natasha.

A/N: there are people that stand with you in darkness, brave the shadows and not shy away, if you have friends like that hold them tight. This is for you @broken--bow .

Friend, without you there would be no whumptober, there are no words for the consistency of friendship you have supported over the last month, and thank you doesn’t seem enough. I wish it were more, but thank you all the same.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

KASHMIR

2011

“It’s cold,” Natasha grumbles.

“Yep,” Clint replies, popping the p, and trudging on through the snow.

“How far?”

The snow is white and endless, and Natasha is sure they aren’t going the right way. Her rifle, slung across her shoulder, rubs and feels heavy, as it hits the back of her thighs; even though likely it’s her backpack that has the weight.

Clint glances at the gps, a small look of surprise on his face.

Natasha stops.

“What?”

“It’s less that two hundred metres,” he says, pointing to the left.

He adjusts his pack and trudges forward, giving Natasha places to put her feet as she grumbled again.

“You’re Russian!” he says, exasperated as the safe house comes into sight.

She throws him a look a rolls her eyes.

“I don’t like the cold,” she deadpans.

Approaching the house, they both split up, covering the front and back and simultaneously breach the door way.

Covering the rooms in a pattern, Natasha is first to call all clear, followed by Clint, as she beelines for the generator and sets up the heater.

The white noise of the generator infuriates Clint as he keeps the first watch; more snow falling. He

wonders if it will ever stop.

The cold that penetrates is icy, even though they’ve used spare blankets under the doorways and old newspapers on the window.

Natasha was finally asleep.

He knows by the soft breaths, slow and even.

She doesn’t like sleeping in the cold, and he knows why, it reminds her too much of the barracks of the Red Room.

She berates herself about becoming too soft, even as she makes their apartment and their rooms a constant temperature.

Less nightmares.

He tells her it’s not a bad thing to protect yourself from bad dreams, but it never seems to stick.

She sighs audibly and he wonders what she’s dreaming.

If the snow continues to fall at this rate, they’ll be snowed in. The trek here all uphill, and he hates Maria a little for directing them to this one.

“Hydra,” she’d said, “they’ve taken advantage of the political climate, and infiltrated the region.”

It’s a shame; he think idly, Kashmir is beautiful, but the evil that has infiltrated made it unsightly.

The man that they had killed was wanted by Interpol, crimes against humanity and all that.

Natasha’s kill shot hitting him between the eyes, as Clint had done the calculations quickly around wind speed and elevation.

One shot, one kill.

They made it look easy; isn’t that why Fury sent them?

Now, stuck in the snow, in a quaint house, Clint has too much time to reflect and worry about the repercussions of not being extracted until the snow stops.

His grip tightens on the gun, and he adjusts his position.

Natasha focuses on the landscape, the parts she can see anyway. Snow covers the door, just reaching the window and she feels vulnerable at not being able to see all the ways around them.

She knows if she looks at Clint, she won’t be able to hide her disappointment.

He won’t be able to hide his fear.

The satcom phone lays inert, as they await the next call.

Any way out.

Any opportunities for exfil.

Not likely for the next twenty four hours anyway.

The tension in the room is palpable. The generator has enough petrol for the next five hours, and the temperature is far below zero.

Clint focuses on the bowl of cereal, the snow still around them.

This was supposed to be easy.

He suppresses a shiver and pulls his coat around him trying to gain any heat he can.

The one room they’d kept heated, now growing colder.

He knows they both feel it.

Natasha pushes away her bowl, half eaten.

“You gotta eat, Nat,” he murmurs.

“We need to leave,” she argues, “the generator is done, the food almost gone, and the pipes are frozen. We have no water apart from what we have in that bucket.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s cold outside, no one is coming here in that weather; plus where are we gonna go? We have to wait for them to come.”

She’s knows he’s right. Standing and staring out the window, she shivers.

It’s not a good sign.

“Clint.”

The seriousness in her tone has him on edge as he joins her.

“It’s stopped snowing.”

They both know, when the temperature drops the snow stops, the sun, or what was left of it, hides behind the dark as the black starts to descend, night approaching; though the hour not late.

“What are we going to do?” she whispers.

They move to the smallest room, a tiny broom closet, big enough for the both of them. No windows, blankets piled in.

“I hate the cold,” she gristles, her teeth gnashing.

Clint pulls her closer, trying to stay warm, even though he’s sure it’s not helping.

“Talk,” he asks, “take my mind off this.”

The request isn’t lost on Natasha, the beginning of the third day had begun and they still had no way out, the sat phone silent, stood next to the door.

“Mmmm,” she says; trying to stop her teeth chattering.

“If you changed around this house, what would you do to make it better?”

It’s an old game, one they used to play when nightmares would keep either of them awake and neither wanted sleep.

Clint bites, he wants nothing more than the deep dread that fills his body to go away.

“Thicker windows,” he starts, “and for there to be a better security system.”

Natasha grunts in agreement.

“Insulation,” she continues, “the bedroom, I’d move to the back of the house, maybe another bathroom.”

Clint snorts.

“Like our house?”

She laughs, shivers hard and suppresses another.

“What’s that like again?”

He sits up a little straighter, and starts talking about the blueprints he’s sketched out when they’d first started dating.

“You know, you’ll have a library, and I’ll have a target room, the kitchen will be big, and the bathroom always warm.”

“The house is always warm,” she corrects.

“Heated floors?”

He nods, “definitely heated floors.”

She rests her head on his shoulder.

“”It sounds nice.”

The night passes slowly.

Both in and of consciousness, eating where they can and bodies shivering hard against the cold.

“My lungs hurt,” she grunts, forcing herself to take a breath.

Clint can’t answer, he agrees, but can’t do anything but nod his head.

She’s terrified; not because she’s going to die, but because he is.

“Talk to me,” she says, her teeth chattering.

She remembers Russia, the coldness of the room and the lack of heat in their dormitory rooms. The blankets thread bare.

She felt it then, but had no context about how warm the world could be.

“You think the world is warm?”

Natasha hadn’t realised she was talking out loud.

“It’s different, here, don’t you think?”

He swallows, trying to readjust his position but finds his limbs uncooperative.

She’s not making sense and he’s worried. He can’t think straight though and maybe she can’t either.

They won’t die here.

Someone will come.

“When we get married,” she starts.

They both laugh.

But it’s the silence that hangs.

“What are we going to do, Clint?”

She can see their breath, and movement is getting harder. Natasha knows this cold, Russian winters this biting, freezing kind of bitter. If they die….

If they die it’s not a bad way to go, here, safe with someone she loves and a life she curated for herself.

If she dies…

“What kind of wedding will it be?”

Clint stops her train of thought.

Desperate to change the subject to anything apart from their imminent death, he hugs her closer, trying to not be unnerved by how cold her skin is.

“Small,” she considers, indulging him.

“I’ll wear white, you’ll wear a tux, but it’ll only be our closest friends.”

He nods.

“Who are we inviting?”

“Maria.”

“Coulson.”

They take turns naming their friends.

“Pepper.”

Clint frowns, “really?”

“Yeah, why?”

The shiver stops him from answering, and she tries to pull the blankets more around him.

“If you invite Pepper, we’d have to invite Tony,” he says grumpily, disliking the fact that someone who heavily objectified Natasha would be invited.

Natasha’s head rolls over to him, a smile on her cracked lips.

“We’d make him sign a NDA,” she almost laughs.

“He wouldn’t be able to talk about it, and it would destroy him.”

Clint laughs, a cough bubbling as he sucks in too much cold air.

“He’d probably get a good present anyway.”

“Fury?” Natasha asks, and Clint nods.

“Yeah I think so.”

He sighs.

“Is it sad it’s such a short list?”

She shrugs.

“Who else would you invite?”

Clint knows.

Family. Isn’t that who you’re supposed to invite for your wedding? For you brother to be your best man? Or for your mother and father to sit in the front row and cry?

“Who’d walk you down the aisle?”

She ignores the question.

“I’d invite Yelena,” she decides, looking wistful.

Clint rubs her leg.

“Yeah. I’d invite Barney,” he agrees. Even though it’s likely his brother and her sister as long since dead, it’s a nice thought to have.

“Your mom,” she opens the thought.

Natasha stops but continues after a moment.

“I think I would have liked our mothers to come, even if mine abandoned me.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say.

“I would have liked that too,” he breathes.

“I think you’d walk me down the aisle,” she whispers, coughing into her gloves.

“Where?”

He knows where, he just wants her to say it.

“Okinawa,” she smiles, knowing he loves the shores of the tiny island as much as she does.

“Of course,” he smiles back.

They sit in silence

“We can find them, I think.”

Clint says it with conviction.

Natasha looks at him intensely, breath white, nose red.

They’re going to die here, he thinks idly. Why not give them another mission, even if it only gives them hope.

“Our parents?”

He shakes his head.

“Our siblings.”

Natasha sees Yelena standing at the door, sad eyes, hands waving goodbye.

Her eyes open and close languidly.

“Okay.”

She knows what he’s doing.

Offering hope when there isn’t any.

Gloved hand reaches out under the blankets and takes his.

“If we survive this, and if we find Barney and Yelena, we will get married. You just have to ask,” she proposes.

Clint nods, his movement slow, his voice quiet and somber.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Natasha? Will you marry me?”

Head against his, she kisses him slowly, purposefully; like it’s the last draw of breath she’ll ever take.

“Yeah, Clint, of course I’ll marry you.”

Maria panics at the empty house, wondering where her friends are.

If they thought she wasn’t coming, maybe they left to find safety; it would have been a death sentence.

Temperatures outside so cold it had taken far too long to trek anywhere for safety, the snow too deep.

As it was, it had taken too long for the helicopter to land anywhere safely.

Maria looks around.

Two people that already have so much trust issues, she’s not sure what they would have done.

She’s sure they would have thought no one was coming.

In the instant, Maria feels panic.

She clears the first room and the medic clears two more rooms; then — Maria finds them.

Huddled together, Natasha’s head on Clint’s shoulders their faces pale and they look half dead.

She calls the medic over, unwrapping them from the blankets.

“Thready,” the man tells her, assessing Clint, then Natasha.

They drag them out, laying them down on stretchers as they both call it in on the sat phone.

Maria places the warmers over their chests, as the medic works on placing an IV for both of them.

They work quickly and efficiently; slowly working to warm their friends, hoping against all hopes that the hypothermia has no permanent effects.

Natasha hears before she sees, the whir of the plane, the pain in all her muscles as life starts flowing back into her.

“Clint,” she tries.

Voice cracking, not loud enough, she can’t see him or hear him, her heart hurts and her thoughts race.

They’re going to get married.

They’re going to find Yelena and Barney.

They’re going to…

Breath comes fast, alarms blare and she panics; sitting up, eyes now open she finds herself connected to machines and monitors.

Clint lays next to her.

Laying back, doctors surround her.

“Clint,” she says again.

Maria appears in her field of vision, a stoic face.

“He’s okay too,” she clarifies.

Panicked eyes greet her.

“Natasha,” Maria says, “look at me.”

Wild eyes look her.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

She sticks two fingers in Natasha’s face, and predictably, her friend rolls her eyes.

“Two.”

Maria puts three more.

“Three.”

She nods.

“He’s okay,” she assures.

Closing her eyes, Natasha grunts and sinks back into a deep sleep.

“God you’re both so predictable,” Maria grunts, half holding him down.

“She’s fine, look, okay?”

Clint gives her a goofy smile, clearly still delirious.

He sees Natasha, oxygen mask on, eyes closed.

“She’sgonnamarryme,” he tells her, words mumbled.

“What?”

Maria thinks she misheard, because neither Clint or Natasha feel like the marrying type.

He nods, “jus’ gotta find Yelena and Barney.”

Clint’s eyes slip closed.

“She’sgonnamarryme,” he says again, falling back into a drugged sleep.

#whumptober2023 #no. 1 #how many fingers am i holding up?#marvel fic #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #clint barton fic #clint barton x natasha romanoff #Natasha Romanoff x Clint barton #the language of flowers

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bumblingdragon · 7 months

Text

Whumptober - day 1 - "How many fingers am I holding up?"

(shaking him is not helping with any brain injuries, for sure)

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up?#OC #art #blood #digital art #my ocs #Lee #clip studio paint #i don't anticipate being a completionist this year but im here now #my art

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iriel3000 · 7 months

Text

Hurry, She Needs You

Summary: Natasha becomes ill from what they think is food poisoning. Tony and Bruce try to care for her until Clint arrives home from a deep cover mission. Part 1 of 6

Whumptober Day 1: Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Natasha whump, light whump, eventual happy ending

“OK, I made my speech. I'm ready to leave." Tony Stark loosened his silk, Ferragamo tie and unbuttoned the top of his white dress shirt.

"Photo op with the Board of Directors and then we can go." His sultry companion tossed her long red hair over her shoulder, surveying the room.

New York’s finest came out for the city’s annual Public Works Charity Auction. Natasha had agreed to accompany Tony while Pepper was at the Clean Energy Conference in Chicago.

"Really?" He asked, eyes lighting up. "Pepper always makes me stay and schmoose."

"Do you want me to act like your wife tonight?" Natasha arched an eyebrow and toyed with her empty rocks glass.

"That's a loaded question, Agent Romanov." He smirked and signaled for another drink.

“If anything,” Tony lowered his voice, “I need you to use your skills on Aldrich Killian. There are whispers he’s experimenting with biologicals and I want to know what he’s up to.”

“Maybe the next party. I’m tasked to only one crazy billionaire tonight.”

"Aren't I the lucky one?” Stark raked his eyes over her elegant figure.

Natasha wore a simple yet sexy little black dress with a diamond necklace, earrings and a plain black band on her right ring finger. He joked that the ring had a hidden needle full of poison inside.

“Aldrich couldn’t handle you in that dress tonight, anyway.” That got a smirk out of her. “Speaking of simps, where’s Barton?”

Her face softened, becoming almost wistful.

“Too far.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Stark.” A waiter interrupted and held out a short glass with clear liquid, another sat on a small tray. “Compliments of Mr. Killian.”

Tony looked across the room at Aldrich then turned away from his top competitor and rolled his eyes.

Natasha accepted both, thanked the young man and downed the first drink in one gulp. She held up the second and toasted to Killian in thanks.

“He doesn’t look pleased that I drank his expensive liquor.”

“I'm sure he wanted to see me choke on it.”

“Bitter finish,” she scrunched her nose, “I did you a favor.”

The host of the evening announced a silent auction would begin in ten minutes.

“Romanov, get us out of here.”

“Follow me.” Natasha stood but quickly put a hand to her forehead.

“You okay?” Tony jumped to her side when she swooned and grabbed for the edge of the table.

Tony laced his arm through hers. She giggled.

“Wait. Are you drunk?”

"No.” Natasha yanked her arm free, wobbling a little as she did so.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" He’d seen Natasha drink way more than tonight but never slur or stumble.

"Funny. Do you want to leave? Or do you want me to announce that the after party is at your house?” She turned towards the podium.

“No, no.” He stopped her. “No more jokes. Get us out of here.”

On the ride home, Natasha was quiet. Tony kept from commenting on the fine sheen of sweat glistening over her face and neck or how she kept her eyes closed, making little noises with every turn of the car.

He had his own private entrance to his penthouse but offered to ride up with Nat.

“I’m fine.” She clipped and fumbled into the elevator.

Tony hovered until the number to her floor stopped and started back down. The doors opened.

The empty compartment should have made him feel better, but it didn't.

Stark wandered down to his basement lab and poured a scotch, contemplating on how to check on his favorite bodyguard without her knowing he was checking on her.

Hey. he texted. Does William Tell know we went on a date?

Waiting for a reply, Tony flipped on the news and opened his new software system, an advanced A. I. program he’d been working on for the Tower.

Glancing at his phone, he frowned. No response yet. He tried again.

Breakfast in the morning? Happy wants to go over the new security install with you.

His knee bounced impatiently waiting for a response.

At the five minute mark, Tony called for Jarvis.

“Jarvis, security override, Stark616. What is the status of Agent Romanov?”

“Agent Romanov’s heart rate and blood pressure are abnormal. Vitals indicate she is unconscious, sir.”

Tony raced to the elevator.

“Agent Romanov is in Agent Barton’s quarters, the master bathroom.”

Tony would’ve enjoyed that little piece of information any other time, right now, he needed to know Nat was okay.

Rushing through Clint’s apartment, Tony burst into the bathroom.

“Oh my God, Natasha.” She was unconscious on the floor. “Nat, wake up! Jarvis, call Bruce!”

tbc...entire story will be posted below after part 6

Hurry, She Needs You

#whumptober2023 #no. 2 #no. 3 #swooning #how many fingers am I holding up?#the avengers #Clintasha #fic #no warnings for part 1 #hawkeye #black widow #clint barton #clint x natasha #natasha romanov #hurry she needs you #I made it!#whumptober 2023

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dreamersbcll · 7 months

Text

“But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps”

- whumptober, prompt no. 1

(the halloween party in 6, but different)

——————————————————————————

In all fairness, the party wasn’t going so great, even before Sam knocked that boy out.

Tara knew that she was risking a lot being here. She was risking her low profile, her reputation, and her safety. But she was also threatening Sam’s.

At first, she was okay with that. Her big sister would live. Tara was young and in college. The partying phase was bound to happen sooner or later, especially when Sam was so goddamn clingy.

It was like her big sister couldn’t let Tara out of her sight- which she understood why, but it was getting too much. The ‘Find my iPhone’ training and self-defense classes made sense, but it got old quickly after the six-inch hunting knife as a first day of college gift. Coupled with Sam’s ability to track Tara down at all times and constant texts, calls, and voicemails, Tara was bound to rebel.

If she thought this out better, Tara would’ve gone to a party before Halloween, given the sister’s history with people in costumes. Tara knew that. But she wanted to show Sam she would be fine by herself, especially on a holiday.

So perhaps that’s why she takes shot after shot and mixes all kinds of liquor. Maybe that’s why Mindy and Chad look at her like that, concerned and slightly worried. And perhaps that’s why Tara follows that guy up to his bedroom, fully knowing what he wants.

Maybe, just maybe, she would’ve given it to him to prove that she could defend herself, because she wasn’t just her history.

And then Sam snatched her up.

One minute, Tara followed this guy up the stairs; the next, she was being tugged back by another arm. She smiled, thinking it was Mindy being playful, but instead, she was met with the enraged eyes of her big sister.

“Tara? What the fuck are you doing?” her sister snarled, her fingernails digging into Tara’s arms.

Before she could retort, the man of the hour decided to open his mouth.

He reached over and slapped Sam’s hand away. “Hey, don’t be such a cockblock, bitch.”

Sam pulled her arm back, her eyes darkening into the signature Carpenter sister's rage.

Tara couldn’t deny her rage. How dare this asshole touch her big sister like that. It was her job as a little sister to fight and annoy, but Sam was her sister above all else.

Opening her mouth to retort, her voice blended with Sam’s immediate response.

“What did you say?”

“What the FUCK did you say?”

The man laughed at the repetitive sisters, rolling her eyes. He bent down, getting up in Sam’s face. His big sister straightened up, one hand resting on the knife in her pocket, the other on the taser.

He smirked at the action. “I said your big sister doesn’t have to be such a bitch. God, I’m just trying to be a nice guy,” he spat.

Sam cocked her head. “Oh yeah?” she said icily, her voice even.

Reaching over to grab Tara’s arm, he tugged, trying to pull her up. “It’s not like this little kid will ever get a guy unless he really hates himself.”

Tara pushed herself off of him, her mouth open in shock. “Well, at least I’ll get a guy who isn’t a limp-dick fuck who couldn’t get a rock to like him!” she hissed back, getting up in his face.

Before Sam can back her up, Tara gets struck. One minute, she was upright; the next, she flew into the wall, slumping up against it. She could feel blood pouring from her nose, and her head was ringing. Her whole body was pulsing, her vision blurry.

Her ears were ringing. Every time she blinked, it was like she was watching everything in stop-motion.

Blink.

Within mere seconds, Sam went from staring at Tara in shock to turning into the blood-thirsty Carpenter daughter she was.

Blink.

Her big sister was on top of him, throwing punches, blood, and teeth flying around the room. Tara could hear a tooth fall down the stairs; each time it knocked against the wood, it sounded like a gunshot.

Blink.

Yelling. Sam was yelling in her face, maybe talking. He was slumped across the stairwell, unconscious. Tara’s head was pounding. Her big sister brushed a streak of blood that trickled down her mouth away with her thumb while her other hand held Tara’s chin firmly. Tara closed her eyes, leaning into the touch.

Blink.

Sam scooped her up and quickly moved the pair through the crowd and out the door.

Blink.

Tara was laying on the ground, cool concrete sinking through her jeans. She was sitting on her bottom, her head lolling down. Sam was sitting across her, sitting criss-cross, holding Tara up by her shoulders.

Cold air blew across Tara’s face, and she breathed in the best she could. Her nose was broken, her breathing borderline panting, her throat thick with blood.

“Sam? M’ head hurts,” she mumbled, feeling very heavy.

She should close her eyes and sleep. She was so tired. Her head was so heavy. Instead of fighting it, Tara let her body lurch forward, her dead weight flopping into Sam’s chest.

Sam caught Tara and forced her back to a sitting-up position. “Hey, no. Look at me. You have to look at me, my love. See me,” her big sister cooed, her voice low.

(Though probably concussed, Tara could hear the lace of panic that was interwoven into Sam’s voice, a warning sign in the soft cadence)

Groaning, Tara forced her head up, her eyes crossing from dizziness. Her head felt light but heavy, and she couldn’t see. It was like someone took her head, shook it up, and sat it on a still body. Fuck. There goes the rest of Halloween.

“Look at me. How many fingers am I holding up? Look at my fingers, honey. Look at me,” Sam whispered, taking Tara’s chin with one hand and tilting it to her face.

Tara honestly can’t remember the last time she had seen Sam so panicked. It must have been months since Woodsboro, a long time since the night of the hospital attack. Though Sam was in the wind for years, Tara is still haunted by that look of sheer terror on her big sister’s face from the hospital. It was like Sam knew at that moment that it was the end, and she couldn’t escape it.

But they did, and now Tara was on the ground outside of the fraternity, her eyes half-shut, her head lolling down in exhaustion. If it was that same panic that Tara remembers, she knew what Sam was most afraid of—the helplessness of it all. Whether it was the fault of the actions of her big sister or not, Sam would still blame herself to hell and back, even if it was Tara’s irrational decisions that put them here.

However, Tara couldn’t soothe her sister’s fears. She barely knew her anymore. And this was all Tara’s fault for sneaking out to a frat party anyway. It wasn’t like she could wave a magic wand and get this all over. And to be fair, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to make it better. Underneath all the pain and confusion, she was pissed that Sam followed her there. She couldn’t get one night alone and be a normal kid.

What they went through wasn’t all they were. It wasn’t like Ghostface was coming back anyway.

And still, despite all her anger and doubts, Tara decided to play along with Sam’s doctor check-up, knowing that this was the only way Sam could calm down.

Plus, her head fucking hurt, and she couldn’t see straight.

Looking up, Tara groaned, trying to focus. This would be easier if she weren’t wasted, much less concussed. But getting glimpses of the silent panic and distress her big sister was in, Tara knew she had to try.

“Three,” she mumbled, closing her eyes to relieve the thumping in her head.

If she were looking, she would’ve seen Sam wince in relief. She would’ve seen Sam reach out, unsure, as if to comfort Tara.

But Tara wouldn’t take the comfort, and Sam knew that. They weren’t there yet. But Sam had to comfort herself somehow.

So, instead of reaching out and holding Tara to her chest, Sam rested her hands on Tara’s knee, squeezing tightly. Tara is half-smiled, still woozy, sitting up.

“Sam?” she whispered, swallowing a wave of nausea.

Her sister leaned in, eagerly listening. “What, Tara?”

Tara smiled at the relief in her sister’s voice. Not for long. “I’m going down.”

And then she collapsed into Sam’s arms, blissfully unconscious.

#scream #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #carpenter sisters #whumptober2023 #AU: i’ve got blood on my hands #safety net #how many fingers am i holding up?#ao3 author #HAPPY OCTOBER!!!!

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set-phasers-to-whump · 7 months

Text

soon

prompt: "how many fingers am i holding up?

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi here's whumptober day 1! i am going to do my very best to complete this month but i can't promise anything...also my stuff is gonna be generally quite a bit shorter than usual. sorry but i hope you enjoy anyway!

Through a fog of pain, he hears Solo’s voice. It sounds muffled and far away, but he gets the sense that whatever he’s saying is important, so he tries very hard to focus. His head is spinning horribly.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

He understands the words. But when he tries to look, to focus his eyes on Solo’s hand, he finds that he’s completely incapable of answering.

Everything is blurred and too bright and Solo himself, never mind his fingers, is nothing more than a smudge of darks and lights.

“Three?” he guesses.

“Not quite.”

“Oh.”

The blurry shape that is Solo is suddenly a lot closer, and then he’s being grabbed around the middle just as his legs start to shake.

They sink to the ground together and Illya closes his eyes. His ears have started ringing, a terrible high-pitched whine, and his head is pounding in time with his heartbeat and it hurts and he isn’t even sure why.

Solo’s hands are steady, one behind his back and the other touching his chest. Illya tries to lean forward, to put his head down and shut out the pain, but that hand on his chest stops him.

“Don’t try to move,” Solo says into his ear, close enough that Illya can make out the words over the ringing. “Just breathe. Rest for a second.”

Illya tries to nod, but even the slightest movement of his head makes the pain spike. Talking seems like an insurmountably difficult task, so he just hopes that Solo understands that he understands.

“Here, lean on me a bit,” Solo offers, and Illya can feel him shifting his position.

He slumps to the side slightly, leaning into his partner. He wants this to stop. It hurts.

Solo’s hand moves to his arm, rubs up and down. “I’m sure your head hurts something awful,” he says. “I wish I could help. But backup should be here soon, and then we can get you out of here.”

He doesn’t know what backup Solo is talking about, and he doesn’t have a clear picture of where here is, but he trusts him. Soon.

He leans a little more heavily into Solo’s side, and Solo holds on to him a little more tightly.

thanks for reading! lots of my stuff this month (that i've written so far) is around this length-ish just bc i have a lot of other stuff to do lol. ik maybe it's not as good to read such short pieces but it's what i got atm, hope you liked it anyway maybe? and i look forward to this month!!!

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up?#the man from uncle #fic #illya kuryakin #concussion #head injury #here's hoping i can be a completionist 5 years running #bc i really want that. but also i'm living it up in a foreign country and also school so. we will see.#i've got some stuff already written at least so rest assured there'll be a bit more from me this month #my writing #i say things

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bearsinpotatosacks · 7 months

Text

I'll Haunt This Ship (To My Last Breath) - Whumptober2023

But now the room is spinning while I'm trying to fill in all the gaps - I paced for hours on empty; I jumped at the slightest of sounds

Scotty gets electrocuted on the job. It's lucky Bones is good at his job.

For day 1 & 7 of @whumptober . Also on AO3.

Words: 710

Bones tapped his foot as the turbolift landed in the engineering decks. As soon as the doors open, med kit in hand, he bolted off toward where the crowd of people had formed around Scotty. He pushed them out of the way, there were way too many people here, and saw where he lay, not breathing, on the floor.

“Move back, all of you,” he said, kneeling to the floor and feeling for a pulse.

There was none.

“Has anyone done anything?”

The crowd shook their heads. Amateurs. You’d think a group working in one of the most dangerous parts of the ship would know at least some first aid. Even the security officers knew how to see to a phaser wound.

He moved his head over his face to feel him breathing and felt nothing again. “How long has he been down?”

“Two minutes,” said an Ensign.

He rolled up his sleeves. Despite all their medical advancements, CPR was still the only way to revive someone who’s heart had stopped. Apart from concoctions made from a mad mans blood, but resurrecting Jim was a one time thing, at least he hoped.

“Right, Scotty, I’m sorry about the ribs.”

He placed his hands on the breastbone, the heels over where his heart was and began to press down hard. The crowd flinched when the ribs began to crack and splinter. He didn’t flinch. The only way CPR properly worked was if you broke a few ribs, it meant you were getting through to the heart properly.

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.”

He focused on his head. Tilting it back, he pinched his nose and gave one deep breath, waiting to see if his chest moved, and it did. He did one more breath but didn’t see any signs of life.

“Can you hear me?” He said as he carried on with compressions. “Scotty, can you hear me?”

No answer. He carried on with the compressions, starting to appreciate all the times Jim made him go to the gym, because without those horrible arm workouts, he probably wouldn’t have the strength to do CPR for too long.

With Scotty still not responding, he lent his head back and did two more breaths. His chest rose but didn’t carry on. He didn’t open his eyes.

“Don’t give up on me Scotty,” he said between compressions. “I think the Enterprise would stop working if you died, or you’d start haunting it, one of the two, and I don’t like the thought of either.”

As if the thought of anything happening to the Enterprise had pulled him from the brink, he jolted upright, eyes wide open and heaving in deep breaths. He lay a hand on Bones’ shoulder as he guided him on breathing easier.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Bones asked him, waving his hand in front of his face.

“Three?”

Bones nodded. Scotty moved his hand to his chest as he tried to get up.

“Why do my ribs hurt?”

Bones looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll explain later.” He said. “Now to sickbay, come one.”

He put his arm around him as they headed back to sickbay. Scotty limped, still holding his ribs as he did. The doors opened with a swoosh, some of the ensigns shouted good luck and gave him thumbs up, it was nice to know Scotty was more well liked with his staff than he was.

“Do I have to go to sickbay?” Scotty asked as the turbolift shifted upwards.

Bones rolled his eyes, “You literally died.”

“I’ll be fine!”

“No, you’re at least getting a check up, if not a full night in sickbay, and tomorrow off.”

“But-”

“No buts, now come on.”

The turbolift dinged as they reached sickbay. Scotty sighed as he walked him in and placed him on the bed. A nurse came over and began doing some tests as Bones took some readings.

“At least I can get caught up on my engineering journals.”

Bones just nodded and added a tourniquet to his arm. Tapping the IV bag, he made sure there were no bubbles in the bag or the tube, before pushing the needle into the vein and shutting him up.

“Anything to get you sitting still, Scotty.”

Can you tell I've started watching ER? One of my main gripes with that show is how light their CPR is? In one episode they feel bad for breaking ribs when I swear that's the point. Also don't take any of this as medical advice, I have no first aid training apart from ER. I have learnt how they put IV's in, also from Wikihow. But between getting into Top Gun and 2023 whumptober, I've kind of forgotten what equipment is canon in Star Trek and what's made up in my mind, lol. Thanks for reading! @whumptober-archive

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spoopkook · 7 months

Text

NO. #1

"But now this room is spinning while I'm trying just to fill in all the gaps." | "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Summary: The Captain gets black out drunk at a party and remembers the last time that occurred.

CW: disassociation, unreality, delusion, multiple realities, mention of murders, deaths, the works

Words: 2,552

"Hey, hey, Captain? Captain, are you okay?"

"When did the room start spinning?" You asked.

"Captain?!" Mark looked concerned. His face looked funny all scrunched up like that.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Mark asked, holding up three fingers.

"Uum, eleven?" Your counting skills weren't the best right now. And neither were your eyes. Or anything else.

You lost consciousness before you could register what was happening. You wouldn't have known, but someone caught you before you fell.

…

You woke up. After catching up to the fact that you were now awake, you were in pain. Excruciating pain. The worst migraine ever. Aches all over. Oh and you were in a gurney. That was never good.

"Um hello?" Luckily someone was there with you. He never left your side after all.

"C-captain! I'm sorry I fell asleep…"

He seemed ashamed of himself. "Don't worry Mark. You didn't have to stay in that uncomfortable chair for however long…"

You cleared your throat. "How, how long was I out? I remember the party and the toast with the champagne… poker, and games, and oh my god didn't Damien do a keg stand?! Everything's blurry. I don't quite remember last night and I'm trying just to fill in all the gaps."

"Doctors! Celci! Get in here!" Mark called out the door.

"Um, Captain, your head might be in worse shape than just a hangover… there's no Damien as part of our crew and… there were no poker games last night?"

"You don't know who Damien is? But Maaaaark, he's your friend! How could you not kno-"

Then it hit you. Mark was dead. You remembered his dead body wrapped in that red robe on the floor.

"Nonononono…." You went into a panic, everything around you blurred.

"Celci get in here quick! We have a medical emergency!" Mark called out again.

…

"The Captain's unresponsive," Mark informed Celci.

"How long have they been like this?"

"They woke up just a few minutes ago and they seemed fine! Until they started talking crazy and now it seems they're disassociating or something I don't know!"

"Mark, calm down. Yelling doesn't help right now. What do you mean talking crazy?"

"They were trying to recall the events from last night, but it seems like they got black out drunk or something. They don't remember much… but then they said they remembered Damien doing a keg stand? And something about poker?"

CC couldn't put her finger on it but something about that name struck a chord with her.

"Did they say anything else about this Damien?" CC asked.

"They said I should know him because he's my friend?" Mark said, exasperated. "I don't know about you, but I've never met a Damien in my life. Let alone at last night's crew party."

"Okay. You stay with the Captain, let me see what I can find out."

…

Celci went to the server room. She had no last names and almost no clues, but she'd look anyway.

She typed in 'Damien' and millions of results came up. "Ugh this won't help."

'Damien and Mark' less results came up, but as Celci scrolled through it still seemed useless.

'Damien keg stand' nothing worth looking into popped up.

'Damien Mark party'

Now the results were getting interesting.

"Mayor Damien Whitacare has no comment on the death of former Hollywood star, Mark Iplier. Mark Iplier showed up dead at his mansion last Tuesday during a party with friends. Police have not released any information, but amateur news reporters, Jim and Jim, say they have evidence from the crime scene. The story continues to unfold…"

"Hmmm…" Whitacare where had Celci seen that name before?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was just Mark and the Captain. Mark and a very hungover and confused Captain. Did someone put something in their drink last night? Your behavior had Mark worried.

"You-you-you" your voice quivered as you pointed an accusing finger towards Mark. "You died, you're dead. Am I dead? What's happening?"

"Sshhh, Captain calm down…" Mark tried to soothe you by rubbing your hand.

"Don't touch me!" You screamed, still unsure if what you were seeing was real.

"Captain are you remembering the wormhole incident or something? I know we haven't really talked about it, but I know it must've been awful for you," Mark tried to calm you down.

"Wormhole? What are you talking about?"

"You-you don't remember?" Mark was close to tears.

"W-wormholes don't exist. Are you trying out method acting or something?" You asked, Mark was talking nonsense and he was a talking corpse.

"W-wormholes don't exist?" Now Mark was extremely puzzled. "Captain, that's how we got here… to the new planet."

Suddenly, Mark got an idea. "Captain, what year is it?"

"What year is it? What type of question is…." You thought for a moment. "Well, it's 19-"

"NINETEEN??!" Mark responded. "Captain, it's 2083."

"What?"

~~~

"Ahh, Dorene Whitacare," Celci greeted the colonist at their new residence on the planet.

"And what do I owe the pleasure?" Dorene asks before taking out a plate of cookies. "You can have one if you like dearie."

"Thank you, Ms. Whitacare, but I was wondering if you knew a Mark?"

"Why that's the name of that head engineer isn't it? I don't like him, he always gets my title wrong."

Celci felt a sort of kinship that she couldn't explain with Dorene. It seemed to go further than just shared hatred.

"Well, yes, but do you know any other Marks?"

"Hmm. Good question," says Dorene.

"Or-or a Damien?" Celci asks.

"Now that's a name I haven't heard in quite some time…"

~~~

"Captain, who are you?"

"I'm the DA. I'm not reading scripts with you or improvising or whatever this is Mark. Who are you and please just tell me the truth."

"A district attorney?"

"Yes ever since the mayor promoted me. I don't want to be a part of whatever game or story this is, Actor."

"Actor?" Mark asked.

"You. Because you know you're the actor. Do you have amnesia or something?"

"No but I think you do. I'm not an actor. I'm your head engineer. You're the Captain. Of our ship the Invincible II? Any of this ring a bell?"

"Invincible II? After the first 'Invincible' went down they decided to make another one? Has no one learned from the Titanic?"

"Captain-"

"Would you stop calling me that! I told you I didn't want to be part of your story today, Actor. Go bother someone else."

"Well okay, Cap- I mean District Attorney. I think it's best if you rest for a bit and I'll just be out in the hall."

"Okay Mark."

~~~

"So Mayor Damien Whitacare was your great uncle?" Celci asked.

"Why yes, something like that." Dorene answered.

"Do you know anything about that news story? About the dead actor-"

"Only that he had what was coming to him."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He was playing with powers he couldn't understand. Things from beyond the veil. It manipulated him and ruined everyone close to him."

"Well uh, nice talking with you Dorene, but I have to check on the Captain," Celci clumsily left the conversation, feeling very uncomfortable.

"I'm sure you do," she said.

~~~

Mark and Celci bumped into each other, running away from their subsequent conversations.

"Hey, watch i-" Celci interrupted herself when she realized he came from the Captain's room. "What did they say?"

Mark rubbed his head where they collided before continuing, "that they're a district attorney? And I'm an actor… and that I'm…"

"Dead?" Celci asked.

"How did you know?"

…

"So let me get this straight, over a 100 years ago, some famous actor named Mark died at a party with this Mayor Damien and mysterious District Attorney?" Mark asked.

"And the case was never solved. The police tried to cover it up, blaming this crazy colonel or some blaming a detective who was there that night, but it doesn't add up. Who hired the detective to be at the party and why? Also the District Attorney, the Mayor, and some other guests disappeared that night. The chef, butler, and groundskeeper all told the policemen their stories, but…"

"But?" Mark asked.

"They all said something supernatural happened. They were all speaking nonsense."

"But why does our Captain think they're connected to this DA?"

"I'm not sure. There's a colonist on board who's a descendant of the mayor or something but I don't know."

"Who's a descendant of the Mayor?"

"Dorene Whitacare." CC answered.

~~~

"Hey Captain, are you feeling any better?" Celine asked.

"I told Mark I'm the DA. You can drop the act. I don't know why you of all people would play along with him though."

"Ok DA. And who am I?" She asked.

"You're all acting so weird! You're Celine! The seer? Mark's ex wife? Any of this sound familiar?"

Saying no would be a lie. Some part of Celci felt like she was somehow connected to all of this. She didn't believe in reincarnation and past lives, but… after what she'd seen in the wormhole, she does believe in multiple universes. Perhaps the Captain was remembering a universe so vividly, they were stuck in it mentally.

Maybe if Celci could remind them of the end of this universe when they were inevitably sucked into a wormhole they could break them out of it.

"Right. Right. Well can you tell me what you remember from the party?"

~~~

"Hello, Mrs. Whitacare," Mark greeted.

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not married anymore young man!"

"S-sorry Ms, Ms. Whitacare," Mark corrected.

It may have been the first time she reminded him in this universe, but they both remembered.

"About that… who were you married to before?" Mark asked hesitantly.

"That's none of your business boy!"

"Okay, uh sorry. Do you want to tell me about your great uncle Damien?"

"Here, I baked cookies."

She was avoiding the question, but Mark was still going to take one. "Sure. Thank you. Would you know anything about…" Mark paused for a moment. He was getting nowhere asking about Mark or Damien. He should go to the root of the cause.

"Sorry, I meant to say… what do you think of our Captain?" Mark asked.

"Well I think they've made a lot of mistakes. But they've been through a lot, and they're very strong to have gotten this far."

"Does the Captain remind you of anyone?"

"Why yes they do. Multiple people," Dorene answered.

"And who would that be, Ms. Whitacare?"

"Why, I need to get the cookies out of the oven. You can interrogate me some other time, Mark." Dorene got up and headed towards her kitchen.

"But you already had cookies…"

~~~

"Well, the gang was back together again! There was a toast by Mark himself of course, poker games, a keg stand, probably a fight or two… Honestly, I don't remember much. And I fell asleep around 1:30 am, but…" you said.

"Go on," Celine encouraged.

"Well I woke up the next morning and Mark was dead. His body on the floor. Out of nowhere. The detective turned it into an investigation. Said it wasn't an accident. Everyone started accusing each other. It was chaos. But you know the rest."

"I know the rest?" She asked.

"Because you suddenly showed up. I don't know why… maybe because your lover William hadn't come home? I don't know. But you are the master manipulator. You could turn everyone against me in a second. And then the ritual and the time…"

"What else were you doing in these days after the party?"

"Well I was helping the detective as best I could. But I didn't know who I could believe. My dear old friends or a man of the law or the staff… none of it added up. The colonel's eccentric but he wouldn't… he… William wouldn't…" it was all flooding back to you. The fights, the lightning storm, the gunshots. William shot the detective and then he shot… you."

"I-I I'm dead. He shot me and I fell off the balcony… how am I here?"

"Do you remember what happened next?"

What was happening. Was this another one of Celine's rituals?

"I… I was in the void. With the actor's corpse. And you and Damien… you said everything would be okay… you trapped me." You started to cry. "You walked away with my body and you just left me there!"

Mark walked in at the worst moment.

"And you! You! This is all your fault! It was all your stupid plan for revenge! We were your friends! How could you." You hit your fists against his chest until sobs crashed over you and you just leaned against him.

"Hey, it's going to be okay, Ca- District Attorney. You're no longer trapped. You're on a new planet far, far away from Earth and everyone who hurt you." Mark tried to comfort you.

"Is this another one of your lies?"

You ran out of the room. You ran out of the hospital. But they were right. This didn't look like earth. The plants were different. There were two moons in the sky. A memory of Mark, your head engineer, crossed your mind. He was in front of that glass window, holding a coffee mug and telling you about the new planet you've discovered. The ship… the- the warp core.

You felt the scar on your hand. The warp crystal. You were the Captain not the DA. Was it another universe you remembered? Or a past life? Maybe a little of both…

~~~

Eventually, Mark caught up to you.

"District Attorney?"

"It's alright. I know I'm the Captain now." You sat on a hill admiring the stars. They looked different than on Earth. You wondered if you could name a constellation.

"Do you know what happened?"

"I'm not sure. I was so stuck in this other reality. All the multiverses we went through and lives we've lived… I guess it was bound to happen and scramble my mind eventually."

"Let's hope it doesn't happen again. It was kind of scary," Mark admitted.

"Yeah… do you remember past lives?"

"Yeah. Quite a few. Most I'd rather forget."

"We really screwed stuff up with that wormhole huh?"

"I screwed stuff up," Mark said.

"No. We did. I was the Captain. I was in charge and I…. I played with my crew, the colonists I was supposed to protect, I played with you like toys. Like your lives were nothing more than dust on the wind."

"I built the warp core. I'm the whole reason all this happened in the first place."

"You were trying to fix my mistakes."

"That you didn't make!" Mark argued.

"Because I lost your trust. I lost everyone's trust. I was a poor leader. Now enough dwelling on the past. Let's run this colony as best we can, okay?" You asked.

"Yeah," Mark agreed.

"And I promise to never get that drunk again."

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chizue-witchery · 7 months

Text

⚜️. *. ⋆ Fandom: QSMP | Quackity SMP

⚜️. *. ⋆ Pairing: Jaiden Animations & Roier

⚜️. *. ⋆ Character/s: Jaiden Animations, Roier

⚜️. *. ⋆ Summary: Roier is holding her hands like she'll disappear from his grasp and she doesn't understand why. She's right here.

⚜️. *. ⋆ Word Count: 1,010

⚜️. *. ⋆ Warnings/Tags: major character death, hurt no comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst

⚜️. *. ⋆ Prompts/Squares Filled: "How many fingers am I holding up?" || @whumptober • Doesn't Realize They've Been Injured || @badthingshappenbingo • "Don't cry." || 100 Ways to say "I Love You" Challenge Prompt#39

Whumptober2023 Masterlist || BTHB Masterlist || 100WTSILY Masterlist

AO3

A/N: before clicking the read more, this is a disclaimer that they are the characters/cubitos and not the content creators themselves!! other than that, i hope you enjoyed reading my first ever whumptober entry! <3

"¿Cuántos dedos tengo en la mano?" A voice calls out to Jaiden; a voice she can barely recognize due to her ears ringing, squinting her eyes to try and recognize who is holding her hands tightly. She could feel a wet pooling sensation beside her, wondering what it could be.

"Mírame, Jaiden." Jaiden didn't even know she was off looking to the side, away from the face she could barely recognize, turning back to look at the face. She could barely make out any of the person's features but she recognized the bandanna that is currently wrapped around her hands.

Someone is holding her hands like she'll disappear from their grasp and she doesn't understand why. But she knows who owns that bandanna.

"Roier…?" She whispered, realizing how much it hurt to say something. Her throat burns and she doesn't know why.

Her vision is slowly clearing and she could see Roier's panicked expression; an expression Jaiden hasn't seen on him for a long time. She wonders why he is looking at her like that. His grip on her hands never seemed to waver, but she could feel them shaking.

"Jaiden," he said, his voice sounding calm and collected even though Roier's expression isn't. He lets go of one of her hands and lifts a finger. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Jaiden squints her eyes, her vision still not fully cleared. Still, she answers, "... four?"

Roier's brows furrowed. He repeated the question, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She must have guessed wrong, then. She tries again. "Three?"

Roier shakes his head, then sighs. "It's one, Jaiden."

"Oh," is what all she says, not knowing how to respond to it. She must be out of it if she got it wrong twice.

Jaiden tries to get herself up, but Roier prevents her from doing so. "No te muevas, Jaiden– don't move," he tells Jaiden and she stops. "Las pociones no funcionarán contigo. Estas demasiado herido."

When Jaiden doesn't respond, Roier remembers she can't check the translation device due to it being broken during the impact. "The, ah, potions won't work on you. I don't want to risk it."

Roier would've already used a totem of undying to help her, but one has already been used on himself; still feeling the after effects of using it.

Jaiden slowly nods, wondering if it's just her or is her vision getting dark. Her head is starting to hurt too, shutting her eyes close to help ease the pain for a brief moment. "What.. happened..?"

Roier releases Jaiden's hands, wrapping an arm around her instead to keep her steady. "The Code attacked us while we were exploring." A pause. "Hice lo mejor que pude para protegerte, pero fallé…"

Jaiden hums and exhales a shaky breath. "Thank you for protecting me, Roier…"

"It wasn't enough," he retorted. "Aún te lastimaste y ahora estás—" He stops himself from continuing his words.

Jaiden didn't need the translation to know what he's talking about. She could feel it in the way the pool around her doesn't stop, even with the bandages wrapped around her waist. Her breaths are getting shorter and she opens her eyes so she can look at Roier one last time, even if it feels heavy.

"Thank you for being the best partner I could've had in taking care of Bobby," she slowly starts out and Roier's eyes widen.

"Cállate, Jaiden–" he says, "We're going to get through this. Don't—" His voice cracks at the end.

"It's okay," Jaiden whispers, lifting her hand to caress Roier's cheek, noticing the blood (her blood) smearing it. "It's okay…" she repeated softly.

Roier's eyes never leave hers as he places his free hand on top of hers, closing his eyes as a tear rolls down his cheek.

"Don't cry, Roier." She tells him with a smile while the tear droplets land on her face. "You'll… you're going to get through this…" Jaiden's smile never wavers even as more tears drop on her face. She only looks at him like she always does; safe. "You have Cellbit, Foolish, Forever– you have everyone by your side."

Roier shakes his head. "I won't have you."

"No… no, you won't." She slowly shakes her head. "But it's okay."

"It's not." told Roier, eyes brimming with more tears. "No puedo perderte también–"

Jaiden quietly shushes him as she lifts herself up a bit to press their foreheads together as she closes her eyes. "You're going to be okay."

Roier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then he opens them once again to look at Jaiden. This will be the last time he'll see her. He can feel it's going to be the last time he'll see her.

She won't respawn and they both know it.

Which is why Jaiden tries her best to be strong for Roier even if her body hurts a thousand times more every time she moves. Because Roier has always been strong for both her and Bobby, it's time for her to be strong for him.

She stops holding Roier's cheek and wraps both of her arms around him, giving him comfort in her final moments because it's the only thing she can do.

Roier wraps his other arm around her, keeping her close because it's the only thing he can do. They're way too far and there isn't enough time to save Jaiden's life.

It's the end.

"Te quiero mucho, Jaiden…" he whispers to her as the sun sets behind them.

"I love you too, Roier," she whispers back to him as her hold on him loosens, feeling colder and colder by the second.

"Saluda a Bobby de mi parte…"

Jaiden never got to hear his last words, her eyes closed with a contented smile as she slumps over Roier.

She never got to hear Roier cry nor did she feel him shake her body as he tells her to wake up over and over again until he had to be dragged away from her body.

Jaiden's gone and Roier breaks.

#whumptober #whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up?#qsmp #fic #jaiden animations #roier #qjaiden #qroier #major character death tw #badthingshappenbingo #100 ways to say i love you

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caffiene-fueled-fuckery · 7 months

Text

Whumptober 2023 - Day 1: MASH (Radar H/C)

What if it hadn't been Henry that was trapped in the bombed out latrine that day? What if it had been Radar instead?

Rewrite of S3Ep15: Bombed

The ground shook as the shell hit the compound, knocking nurses and corpsman to the ground and the doctors nearly on top of their patients. Shards of shrapnel exchanged for shards of glass as the windows blew in, narrowly missing a medic’s exposed skin. Dust plummeted from the ceiling while dirt flew in the window, and it was all they could do to keep the patients from having debris lodged in their open wounds.

“Somebody give me a towel!”

“Somebody put a blanket over that window!”

“Kellye!” Margaret called, directing the nurse to use the blanket in her arms. Another nurse and a corpsman helped her cover the window as the screaming continued, only perforated by the exploding shells not 50 meters away.

Hawkeye’s voice broke through the din. “All right, keep calm, everybody. This can’t go on much more than forever.”

Frank sneered at Hawkeye, but it merely masked his panic—and poorly at that. “Come on. Give me that glove.”

“Doctor—” Sanchez tried to say, but Frank cut her off as he shoved his hand back towards her.

“Get it on! Come on!”

“Margaret!”

The woman turned back to Hawkeye, still leaned half over the patient. “Yes, Doctor?”

He held the patient down with a forearm across his chest, praying that he’d fall unconscious before the next shell hit a bit too close. “We’re gunna need a lot of sulfa.”

“We’ve got plenty.”

The door to the OR slammed against the wall, its noise nearly unheard under the booming of Henry’s voice. “Pierce, McIntyre, Burns—Anyone! Come quick!”

Frank’s head jerked up, voice tight and hands shaking. “What happened?”

“It’s Radar! He’s in the latrine!”

“Hooray for regularity,” Hawkeye joked, though it lacked its usual mirth.

“It’s been hit,” Henry bit. “He’s trapped!”

Hawkeye moved without hesitation, calling back to Margaret as he left. “Debride the wound.”

He jogged out of the OR behind Henry, Klinger and a couple of corpsman hot on his heels. Henry turned back to them outside the wreckage of the latrine, complete with snapped planks of timber and flaming sheet metal, the panic in his eyes quickly making its way to the rest of his body. “If anything’s happened to Radar, I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s like a son to me!”

“Henry, settle down.” Hawkeye reached for a piece of sheet metal, passing it back to Klinger. “Now, what seat did he normally use?”

“Uh, left, on the far side. Picture window. Here.” Henry crouched down, tugging at the splintered wood and tossing it behind him.

“Radar?” Hawkeye began calling for him, prompting the others to begin calling for him as well. “Radar!”

“Wait a minute!” Klinger stepped forward, holding his hands up. “Hold it! Shh. I heard a moan.” Silence fell over the group. Klinger crouched over the debris, the hem of his dress snagging on a nail. “Radar, if you can hear me, knock three times! If you can’t, knock twice!”

In the dragging silence that followed, Henry shot Klinger an incredulous look, only to be distracted by the shifting of metal. One knock. Two knocks.

Klinger gasped. “Oh Lord, he’s dead.”

“Radar!” Henry screamed, lifting everything within his reach to get closer to Radar.

“Radar, you alright?” Hawkeye shouted, passing some more metal to a corpsman.

The search continued, only halting for a moment when Henry froze, staring at something beneath a 2x4. He tugged at the fraying fabric until it became unhooked from the wood and flung into his lap. “Radar’s hat…” He looked up at the rest of them before diving back into the pile, heaving at the debris. “Radar!”

“I’m… here…”

Radar’s weak voice barely made it to their ears. Hawkeye and Henry got as close to the sound as they could, moving one more piece of sheet metal before one of the boy’s arms became visible. Henry grasped it and began pulling him out of the pile while Hawkeye waited another moment for his head to be visible.

“Don’t touch the other one,” he told Hawkeye, his glasses so cracked his eyes were obstructed from view. “Think s’broken.”

“Okay, alright, take it easy. Up we get.”

Hawkeye, careful not to jostle his arm, grabbed around his waist to pull him the rest of the way out. As soon as his foot came free, Henry guided him to sit on an overturned oil drum. “Radar? Are you alright?”

“‘M okay.”

“That’s convincing,” Hawkeye remarked.

“‘M fine, sir.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Henry, though his voice remained gentle. He reached forward and removed Radar’s broken frames, revealing glassy eyes that struggled to focus on him. Henry furrowed his brows. “Gee, kid, you took quite the beating. Let me see your arm.”

Radar hissed when Henry’s fingers so much as prodded at his skin, teeth clenching and eyes screwing shut. Henry stayed focused on examining his arm, but could still hear his laboured breathing. “Easy, Radar. You’re alright.”

“Actually, sir—”

“Just a small break.”

“Sir—”

“Nothing too serious.”

“Colonel Blake,” Radar tried once more, his voice wavering and small. “I don’t feel so good…”

“Hmm?” He looked up, taking in the ashen face before him. Henry released his arm, just in time to move out of the way as Radar’s stomach heaved and his lunch splattered to the ground between his feet. “Oh, geez…”

“Sor—”

Henry rubbed his back when his stomach cut him off with another heave. “No, it’s alright. This happens sometimes when you get knocked in the noggin.”

“It,” he panted, “it does?”

“Sure does. And you got hit real good.”

“Right.” Radar sat with his eyes closed for another moment before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He cradled his other arm close to his chest, wincing as he adjusted it. Then he jerked his head up, eye wide as he hopped down form the oil drum. “Oh!”

“Woah there!” Henry stepped back, watching as the boy swayed. “Careful.”

“‘M okay, sir. I won’t be a bother no more.”

“You’re not. But you shouldn’t move so fast when you’re unsteady.”

“‘M fine.”

Henry held up 2 fingers. “Radar, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four, sir,” he said, eyelids fluttering. “But… you have a really big pinky finger…”

Henry lunged forward just in time to catch Radar as swayed too far and pitched to the left. He collected the boy in his arms, sitting him between his legs on the ground. Radar yelped when it jostled his arm. “Sorry, Radar!”

He could only hiss in response, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Okay, kid, it’s alright.” Henry looked down when Radar shook his head against his chest. “It is, really. You’ll be okay.”

“‘S not that…” Radar forced his eyes open. “Father Mulcahy… He’s still under there…”

“What?” Hawkeye nearly shouted, still standing nearby. “Why didn’t you tell us this before, Radar?”

“‘M sorry. I forgot.” His voice trembled as he spoke. “I didn’t mean to forget.”

“Take it easy on him, will you, Pierce?” Henry snapped at Hawkeye’s back as he started digging again. “He’s probably got a concussion.”

“Well, where was he?”

“On my left,” Radar sniffed. “He was telling me about his sister.”

“Okay, alright, Radar,” Henry soothed. “It’s alright. Hawkeye’s not mad at you, he’s just worried about Mulcahy. That’s all.”

“I didn’t mean to forget ‘im under there. Honest…”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Ho-Honest… I didn’t mean to—”

“Radar, it’s alright.”

A sob bubbled up as Radar repeated himself again. “I didn’t mean to.”

Hawkeye glanced back at the pair over his shoulder with a frown. Henry gave him a pointed look.

“Here he is!” Klinger shouted, shoving another piece of metal out of the way.

Hawkeye took one of his arms, beginning to haul him up. “You alright, Father?”

“Come on, Father,” Klinger said, taking the man’s other arm. Together, he and Hawkeye pulled Mulcahy to his feet as he began speaking.

“Sis and I picked up these apples from under the tree…”

The two exchanged a puzzled look. Klinger steadied Mulcahy while Hawkeye kept one hand on his arm, using his other hand to check his eyes. He studied them both, watching to see how his pupils reacted to the light, which would have been easier if the man was looking at him. Instead, his unfocused gaze flitted all over the place.

“I remember I said, ‘You can’t make a pie out of crab apples…’”

Hawkeye felt his ribs for damage.

“…and she said, ‘I learned how in the Girl Scouts.’”

Hawkeye checked both of his arms before turning back to Klinger, who stared at him with a wrinkled brow and a more than confused stare. “He’ll be alright. He’s just a little dazed.”

“She used brown sugar,” Mulcahy continued, his blue eyes the only part of his body not caked with dirt and dust, “and the crust was just so crispy and nice.”

Hawkeye’s features couldn’t seem to decide between concerned and amused as he watched the Chaplain speak.

“Well, it was so good, we ate it all before dinner!”

Hawkeye turned to Klinger. “Get him back to his tent. Let him rest.” Klinger only nodded in response, pulling Mulcahy gently away as he continued to ramble deliriously.

“Mommy came into the kitchen and said, ‘What the hell’s going on in here?’” He turned then, taking in Klinger’s red dress. “I remember, Mommy. You know…” He looked Klinger up and down again. “That was the first time I ever heard you swear.”

Klinger squinted at him before giving a wide-eyed look to the ground. He wrapped his other arm around Mulcahy’s back and led him silently, or so he hoped, to post-op.

Hawkeye, on the other hand, headed straight back to Radar. He crouched in front of him, watching as Henry ran a hand over the boy’s hair in an attempt to comfort him. Hawkeye reached out and laid a hand on his uninjured arm, just under his corporal’s stripes. “Hey.”

Radar shook his head, causing him to whimper. He kept his eyes closed. “‘M really sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“Is he okay?”

“He will be.”

Radar squinted at him. “He’s hurt?”

“It’s nothing major.” Hawkeye frowned, reaching out to wipe a tear from Radar’s cheek. “Hey now… What’s with the tears, hmm?”

“I’m—sorry—”

“Radar,” Henry sighed, tightening his arms around him. “It’s okay. Everyone’s going to be fine. What’s that?”

Radar tried again, though it was still difficult to hear through his sobs into Henry’s chest. “My fault.”

“Oh no it ain’t. You didn’t drop that bomb on the two o’ ya.”

“I didn’t want anyone to get hurt because of me!”

“Well, Hell, Radar,” Hawkeye tried to reason,” you’re hurt, too.”

“But… But…”

“No, not buts. No one here wants any butts, right, Henry?”

“Huh? Oh, right. No butts.”

“Exactly. See? No one is mad at you, Radar. I’m sorry that I snapped at you before.”

“S’okay.”

Hawkeye rose from his crouch and stepped back, chest aching from the way Radar’s kept hitching with suppressed sobs. He pursed his lips. “We should get him back to his quarters. let him rest.”

“Yeah, that’ll be for the best. Help me out, will ya, Pierce?”

With a nod, Hawkeye bent down to help Henry up. “Here, let me help carry him.”

“No, no, I got him.”

“But Henry, your ba—”

“I said I got him.”

Hawkeye opened his mouth to argue, but shut it just as quickly when he saw the look in his eyes. This wasn’t a request. It was an order.

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