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one-piece-aus · 6 months

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Whumptober Day 15

Cracker x Reader

TW: Implied parental abuse

"Hold still-" You reached for Cracker's arm with a cotton pad when he swung it away from you.

"What are you doing?!" Cracker glared at you. He just came home to relax.

"I'm trying to clean your wounds," you said, attempting to grab his hand to bring his arm back to you, and he kept holding it out of your reach.

You don't understand why your husband must be so difficult when it comes to cleaning his wounds. If Cracker tended to his injuries better, he wouldn't be so vulnerable to pain. You swear he bruises worse than a banana.

"Leave me alone, woman!" Cracker got up from his seat to move away from you only to bump into a bookshelf behind him and have a few books fall on top of his head. "Ow, STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!"

He picked up the bookshelf and threw it across the living room. Books were now scattered across the floor. You sighed but you knew the servants would clean it up later. You moved over to Cracker who now sat on the floor, pouting and holding his sore head.

"Cracker, would you please let me take care of you now?" You gently laid your hand over his.

"Fine," he grumbled, rolling his eyes to look the other way as you took his arm. Lightly you pressed the cotton pad to his arm, and instantly, he flinched and yonked his arm away. "Ow! What is in that thing?"

"It's rubbing alcohol, it kills the germs on the surface to prevent an infection, which causes severe pain later," you stated trying to grab his arm again.

Reluctantly, he lowers it back in your gasp, wincing with each press to the wound. "Ow... ow..."

"Oh, you poor baby," you coo as you delicately clean his wounds. "Mind telling me why your pain tolerance is so low? I thought all Big Mom's sons had to go through rough training to be strong."

"No-" He winced again before continuing. "We didn't have to train if we didn't want to, we just had to find a way to help Mama out with her dream to find the One Piece. Perospero took to reading books, studying the art of warfare and navigation for example, he can fight but he didn't dedicate himself to training like Katakuri."

"Hmmm, so you trained because you wanted to. Is it because of your admiration for your brother Katakuri?" You guessed.

"No- well- that's not the real reason... I just wanted to get stronger so I couldn't feel pain anymore."

"How come?"

Cracker tilted his head back, debating whether to tell you or not. "You know how Mama discards our fathers once we're born?"

"Yeah."

"Well, she didn't always do that, but my father was the last one." His tone melted into a resenting growl as he brought up his father. "Since Mama was busy a lot of the time, she didn't watch the damage he did to me." Cracker bawled his fist, trying to contain the anger rising with the memories. "It wasn't until Katakuri saw the aftermath of one of the bastard's episodes did Mama find out." His rage died out as he opened his palm again, he then turned to you with a smug smile. "And then I never had to see him again."

You smiled at him, happy your husband is now being more open with you. Finishing the bandage over his arm, you patted his arm. "There, all better now."

"What?" Cracker held up his arm to see the wound was covered in white bandages. "When did you-"

"When you were talking," you giggled heading out of the library. "Don't go anywhere, I'm going to get you an ice packet."

Cracker watched you leave, dumbfounded. Glancing at his patched arm then at the exit again, a smile curled up his lips.

Tag: @bookandyarndragon @roseoftrafalgar

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quietlyimplode · 6 months

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The language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 15 - I’m fine

Warnings: aftermath of recovery, discussion of red room procedures

Word Count: 2.4k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha recovers in Okinawa and tells Clint some of the horrors of her past. The relationship still young; she’s not sure he’s ready to hear it.

A/N: <3

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

OKINAWA

2010

She dreams of drowning.

Water filling her lungs, pressure all around her.

She can’t take a deep breath.

“Breathe,” comes a whisper.

“Breathe.”

But it hurts, no one should be breathing in water.

Her arms are held by the water, a cruel taunt in trying to swim up for air, and she fights it, once, twice, then… arms like lead, she lets the water take her, absorbing her, drowning her.

It hurts, she thinks, but maybe she deserves it, and then sinks into unconsciousness.

She sleeps a lot.

Coulson comes and smooths things over; he pulls strings at the American airbase that Natasha is transferred to, and it allows them to be frank in conversations, rather than understanding half of it.

She wakes and seems to realise she’s in a hospital, looks for Clint and goes back to sleep. Even as they taper down the pain medication, she sleeps just as much.

Clint worries.

They tell him it’s just her body’s way of healing.

He thinks it’s more than that.

It’s worse than the dissociation, or seems to be, because she doesn’t talk to him, doesn’t respond to his questions and just goes through the motions when she is awake.

He doesn’t know what to do.

The nurses come and go, and the doctors give her a cursory check, and every time, she’s asleep.

At 2am, she watches him closely.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” she croaks.

He smiles and touches her hand gently.

“Where else would I go?” he whispers.

He doesn’t want to tell her that sometimes her nightmares make her thrash, and that the nurses are scared of her at nights, that he seems to be the only one to calm her.

He doesn’t tell her that he’s been so worried that he wants to bundle her up and take her away from the hospital because it seems to be causing harm, not to her body but to her mind.

So he just rubs his hands over the top of hers and then kisses it.

“Thank you for staying with me,” she says, staring.

He nods and kisses her hand again.

“Go back to sleep, Nat, I’ll be here.”

She has a fever.

She think he’s someone form the red room.

He spends the night telling her stories again.

Finds facts about the place.

She thinks she’s going to die.

Clint assures her she’s not.

“I want to leave,” she moans to Clint, half conscious and trying to get out of the bed.

A growl passes her lips as she looks around in anger.

“I want to leave,” she says, Clint looking on in sympathy.

“You’ve broken your ribs, a collapsed lung, and are recovering from surgery, as soon as we can ween you from the antibiotics you can go,” the doctor says in frustration.

“I understand hospitals aren’t your favourite place but leaving now, would be detrimental to your health.”

Blatantly, she ignores him.

“Can we go?” she asks, trying again, this time standing.

“Please?”

Clint’s heart pounds.

It feels like a test.

“I’ll take care of her, we have a place nearby, we can come back if there’s anything wrong,” he argues.

He just knows that this place is not good for her.

Nightmares nightly.

Dissociation daily.

They’ve been here almost two weeks and already he can see how much weight she’s dropped, only eating and drink enough to avoid further intervention.

The doctor stares, Natasha already out of bed, trying to pack things into a bag.

He swallows and then nods.

“Fine, but you’re going against medical advice. We can’t keep you here. Come back in three days for a check, and if okay next week, I’ll sign you off for flying,” he starts.

Turning to Natasha, he continues.

“Antibiotics, every 5 hours, with food. No skipping them. Strap your ribs, and keep the cast on your arm. Do not leave the country. They need at least another week. Do you know how painful the flight would be on delicate lungs with the altitude? Let alone flying with broken ribs on a plane? No, I repeat, no skipping the country.”

He turns to the nurse to draw up scripts and turns back.

“Three days.”

Clint nods, apprehension pulling at him, wondering if he’s up to the task of taking care of an injured friend, lover, whatever they are that’s slightly undefined.

“Three days,” he nods back.

“I’m fine,” she growls.

“Just let me help?” he replies, frustrated.

“No, I can do it, I…”

The cereal pours everywhere. Natasha stares at the little pieces going everywhere and he swears he sees her bottom lip trembling. She covers it, swearing instead, but he feels he knows she’s teetering on the edge.

“Go have a shower,” he sighs, “I’ll clean it, and then maybe we can go to the beach?”

She nods, stalking off before he can say another word and he sets to picking up all the tiny pieces.

He’s glad for the separation and the slight time alone, wondering at her capacity and if he needs to seek help from Coulson or Fury.

He knows some of the trauma and difficulties with hospitals, but he also feels he’s missing something. She’s getting better, but also, it’s like nothing he says, nothing he can do is helping.

They go back to the doctor tomorrow and whilst the last day has been better, it feels like it’s going downhill again.

It’s like before, when he first bought her into Shield, maybe not that bad but it feels akin to it.

He wanders into the small bedroom, and finds her sitting on the bed.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

She stares for a moment, then looks to him.

“I can’t have children,” she says abruptly.

It’s so left of field that Clint doesn’t answer straight away.

“I didn’t lie to you, but I didn’t know how to tell you,” she says quickly.

“What?” he says dumbly.

“In the Red Room, they take away your ability to have children. They call it Graduation. They put you in hospital, sedate you, and then celebrate the fact that they’ve just performed major surgery on you with another test. The last time.. The last time I spent so long in hospital was when they took…” she pauses.

“They took my choices. Any choices, for their own reasons and own gains.”

Natasha stares at her hands as she finishes and Clint feels the pieces fall into place.

“Nat…” he says dumbly, sitting next to her on the bed.

“You don’t have to say anything… and if this; whatever this is needs to stop and we can just be partners or not, you can decide that too, I just wanted you to know. I know… the last two weeks, I can’t… I couldn’t hold it together. But this, I think I needed you to know. I needed to tell you. It’s not fair. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a relationship like this and…” she sighs; stopping the tirade as he pulls her into a sideward hug.

“You think, that not being about to have children, that the evilness that others did to you, matter to me? That it would make any difference to how I see you, only to consolidate my view of how brave and strong you are?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re an idiot” he finishes.

She’s silent and he’s worried he’s said something wrong.

“Nat, hospitals - they’re not good for you are they?”

There’s tears that he can see on her face as she shakes her head.

“I should be better than this,” she says, shakily.

“They make me lose time, make me panic, the smell mostly, it becomes all I can think of. Gloves, the sound of the beeping on the machine, I see, hear and smell it and I’m back in the red room.”

There’s so much more that makes sense now, in her reactions at the hospital.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologises, “I didn’t know.”

She shrugs, “what could you have done? You got me out of the there.”

He wants to do more.

“For the record, the whole not being able to have children thing, doesn’t make a difference in how I feel about you. It doesn’t make you any less, and it certainly doesn’t change what this is between us.”

He sighs heavily, hugs her harder, and then stands, offering a hand.

“Tomorrow we have to go back,” he starts, “how will I know what to do for you?”

She frowns, “what do you mean?”

Clint thinks, remembers Coulson, when he was struggling with talking in therapy and words just seemed too hard.

“There’s like a traffic light system,” he ponders, “red for triggered, yellow for getting there and green for okay.”

He pauses feeling like he’s explaining it all wrong.

“I’m explaining this wrong.”

Natasha isn’t stupid, and she’s been in enough therapy that it makes sense to her.

“I have to go?” she says in a small voice, and he doesn’t want to make her with all his heart.

“An hour,” he promises, “a quick check and then we can come back, go to the beach and you can choose dinner.”

Not meeting his eyes, she nods.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

“And if you say red, we can leave, okay?”

She nods, a small movement.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, feeling she wants to talk more but perhaps doesn’t have the words.

“Can we go to the beach,” she asks, “I don’t know how you got this house, or even have it this close to the beach but, I think it helps. It’s like a holiday.”

He smiles.

“It’s pretty cool isn’t it? We are on holiday, by the way. Fury knows we never take leave. We have two more weeks, so there’s not rush on anything. First we just need to get you off the antibiotics, those ribs healed and then we can go back, but because we are on leave, it doesn’t matter.”

There’s a small shift in mood as he tells her this.

“We aren’t going to get fired? You’re not going to get in trouble for staying with me?” she asks.

Clint laughs, derisively.

“You thought they’d fire us?”

She nods, slowly.

“Nat, we are the best two operatives they have, they’re not firing us. In fact, they sent Coulson, who fixed things and then he signed off on the house so we were safe.”

He helps her up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you before, I assumed that you’d assume we were okay, and you’d be on leave.”

Natasha shakes her head, and points to the bathroom.

“Join me?” she asks, pulling her shorts down, and moving away.

He laughs.

“Of course.”

He thinks it’s the ocean that helps to heal.

Small conversations on the Red Room, she indulges him with answering questions, and he only pushes so far.

It’s easier as they’re walking on the sand, to ask the harder ones.

She asks them back, and they grow closer. The time comes to an end and he calls in, Fury and Coulson sending through mission packets to the small house by courier.

Natasha sighs.

“I knew it was coming, but I don’t think I was ready,” she tells him on the last morning.

“This was my first holiday,” she confesses, “and I didn’t hate it.”

He laughs at her.

“I’m glad,” he says, opening his own mission packet and then watching as she opens hers.

“Separate missions,” he says glumly.

She nods, scanning the information.

“What do you know about Tony Stark?”

Clint swallows, he knows the name, just about everyone in the city does.

“Do you mean Iron Man?”

They both laugh, Natasha moving off the couch to grab the paperwork that she’d just picked up.

“It’s my next mission.”

She hands him the envelope and he grabs his.

“I’m going to New Mexico,” he returns.

“Why solo missions?”

He shrugs, grabbing his mug off the table and sitting down next to her.

“I don’t know.”

Natasha frowns.

“I think I just got used for working with someone.”

The last five weeks have certainly done wonders for team building, he thinks.

“Do you think it’s punishment?” Natasha asks.

“Okinawa was a shit show,” Clint admits, “maybe they’re testing us.”

He goes to refill his cup, lifting it to ask her if she wants one as he considers their words.

“Maybe not a test, maybe more that they want to see what we can do alone.”

She scans his paper.

“Avengers Initiative? Mine says that as well.”

Clint sits next to her, grabbing the paper and sighing, “Nah mine’s more boring, there’s a spike in geothermal land, and Fury thinks it’s alien.”

Natasha laughs, and then looks at his face.

“Oh, you’re serious,” she clarifies.

“It’s more about protection of the scientists, if it is alien,” he surmises.

She sits near him, flipping through the paper.

“They’re looking at you, for the Avengers,” she says reading further.

He laughs, easily.

“I think it’s us, they’re likely looking at, who better than an ex carney and a former Red Room graduate?”

She nods, “scraping at the bottom of the barrel, really.”

“Stark is up for it too,” she tells him.

“I’ve got to submit a portfolio, for the undercover shit,” she says, annoyed.

“And be hired.”

Clint smiles as he reads the parameters.

“God, Stark’s going to be a creepy man, isn’t he? He wants evidence of work, and they’ve put that he values modeling here.”

She groans.

“I’m good at taking photos,” he grins.

“Why can’t he be gay? Or married? Why models?” she complains.

“Nat, he’s going to take one look at you and hire you on the spot,” Clint assures.

“Come on, let’s spend our last day here before our flight, and when we get home, I’ll take your photos.”

Natasha stands, the bandages invisible under her top.

“Rich people suck,” she grumbles again.

“I know Fury has only done this to give me extra time, but still, I’d prefer your low ball mission to New Mexico rather than playing politics with Tony Stark and Pepper Potts.”

They make their way out, Clint checking twice that the door is locked.

“You never know,” he says, still grinning, “you might make a new friend.”

“Shut up,” she replies, throwing the car keys at him.

#whumptober2023 #no. 15 #I’m fine #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #fic recs #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #clint barton x natasha romanoff #Natasha Romanoff x Clint Barton #marvel fic #avengers fic #black widow fix #red room

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sigurism · 8 months

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Boyd Holbrook

#<3 #boyd holbrook #man of the world #no. 15 #my edit #christopher tennant

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oneweirdbookaddict · 6 months

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Whumptober day fifteen!

Time is a hypocrite... nothing bad will come of him hiding injuries, right..?

Special shout out to the lovely @akchimp75 (sorry for the tag if you don't want it!)

804 words

Warnings for injuries (not described much but there), stitches (again, not described much, but it's there), lying, and needles.

~~~~

He gets back to camp, finding one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight sleeping heroes…

Wild’s curled up next to Twi, the older in wolf form. Hyrule’s next to Legend, one hand grasping the veteran’s tunic. Wars is next to Wind on the other side of camp, his scarf covering both of them like a blanket. Sky’s fast asleep, snuggled in a ridiculous amount of blankets, as if in a nest, and Four’s asleep with a book on his chest.

All perfectly fine.

He gives a relieved breath, sinking down to sit by the fire.

Takes a second to scan over his injuries… then sets off to taking care of himself.

One slow breath, two slow breaths- and he pops his shoulder back into place.

Groans under his breath, but the ache slowly fades as he takes a minute for his vision to return and sips some water.

He takes a deep breath, tying a strip of his blanket around the cut on his am. Watches for a minute, but blood doesn’t seep through it.

Digs through his bag, grabbing his med kit and the stitches in it. No antiseptic, but he’ll manage.

Washes the needle off, shaking his head slightly at himself.

So he takes a slow breath, bunches his shirt up and bites it tightly in his mouth, looking down at his leg. The cut gushing blood.

One. Two. Three. One stitch. Two. Three.

Carefully moving up his calf, hands shaking worse by the minute, he gives himself eight deep tissue sutures, twenty normal ones.

Manages not to wake any of the boys in the process, too.

He lets himself take a few minutes after that, leaning back against his tree and taking a few slow, controlled breaths, wiping his face off.

The wound is nasty- trailing from the top of his ankle halfway up his calf, but no longer in dire need of medical attention.

Blood loss exhausts him, but he can’t let his eyes close.

One more deep breath, then continue.

The wound at his side isn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared- just a scrape, really. He cleans it easily and lets it be for now. His knee throbs, but he sees no damage. On the outside, at least.

Other than that, he’s just banged up. Bruised, battered, sore, but… not going to die.

He has the slightest limp when he walks- it’ll be gone by morning, and if it’s not he can blame his old joints if anyone notices.

His clothing covers any injuries, and the armor will hide it even more, so he won’t have to worry about that, and Wild had said they’re on course to reach town early tomorrow. So he shouldn’t have to worry about fighting again.

He hadn’t used bandages or a potion for the sake of anyone inquiring about missing one, so that’s covered… and no one will notice the stitches. He’ll be fine.

Any soreness that lingers in the morning he’ll be able to push through.

He lets himself settle, but he has no other disturbances for the rest of his watch. No other monsters come near.

Once the moon gets low enough, he takes a slow breath and stands. Aching muscles scream in protest, but he pushes through and gently shakes the captain awake.

Wars wakes easily, squinting blearily at him. “Is it my watch?” He mumbles groggily, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

“Yeah, good morning.”

“Maybe for you it was. Third watch is the worst.” The captain grumbles lightly, taking his scarf off when Wind refuses to let it go.

They both smile softly, watching the sailor sleep for a moment.

Then Wars stands with a sigh, stretching his arms above his head, moving to the fire he’d just abandoned. “Sleep well, Old Man.”

He winces slightly as he stands. The captain catches it, eyes flicking to him.

“You alright?”

“Of course,” He says easily. “My old man back just isn’t keeping up as well these days.”

Wars gives a smile, shaking his head. “Want me to-”

“That’s alright. I don’t need anything, I’m fine.” He shrugs Wars off before he can finish, and Wars nods unconcernedly.

Part of him feels bad lying to the Captain- they’ve already had talks about trust, but… Wars doesn’t need to worry about him. He’s fine, and he treated his injuries already, so there’s no point in telling anyone. There’s nothing else they can do.

Taking the time to rest so he can heal is unnecessary- he’s mainly just banged up and sore, two bad cuts to worry about. He can walk just fine without injuring himself further.

He doesn’t need any help. He can handle himself.

So he gives Wars one final nod, settling into his bedroll and falling asleep easily past the lingering aches and throbbing of his injuries.

~~~~

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darkkitty1208 · 6 months

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Entry for day 15 of Whumptober 2023, prompt no. 15: Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Doctor Strange (Movies), Iron Man (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange Characters: Tony Stark, Stephen Strange, Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Peter Parker Additional Tags: Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Hurt Tony Stark, Overworking, Workaholic Tony Stark, How Do I Tag, Whumptober 2023, Insecurity, Insecure Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, aka dear ink's fave trope, Romance, Established Relationship, Kissing, Arguing, Vulnerability Series: Part 12 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Tony is being stubborn and refuses to rest. Stephen tries to find out why.

#whumptober2023 #no. 15 #suppressed suffering #i'm fine.#marvel cinematic universe #doctor strange #iron man #fic #fanfic #stephen strange #tony stark #ironstrange #my writing

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aziraphalesbookkeeper · 6 months

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Hugo picks up on things fast. After just one week at his new bartending job at the Spider's Bite, he learns three things: 1) Don't touch Cass's shaker unless you want a black eye. 2) Lance's baking is the perfect hangover cure. 3) Varian's boyfriend is the absolute worst.

Whumptober Day 10: "Can't you see that you're lost without me?" & Day 15: Suppressed Suffering

#whumptober 2023 #no. 15 #suppressed suffering #rapunzel's tangled adventure #tts #tangled the series #implied SA #(offscreen but stay safe)#varigo #varigo fic #hugo vat7k #yong vat7k #nuru vat7k #varian vat7k #alexa play girlfriend by avril lavigne #TEAM AWESOME FINALLY IN THE BUILDING

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ssa-atlas-alvez · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 15 (Aaron Hotchner & Y/N Hotchner) - Mr Scratch Part 2

(There's not currently a Mr Scratch Part 1 aha, had this idea and then wrote it for Whumptober)

No. 15 EMOTIONAL DAMAGE

Lies | New Scars | Breathing through the Pain

Warnings: toxic masculinity, child abuse, blashbacks, beaten, concussion, kicking punching, guns, bullet wound (fake), blood, hallucinations, noncon drugging, drugging, insecurities, strangulation.

Word count: 3216

Aaron watches in horror as Lewis aims the gun at you, he yells out but you can't hear him. Lewis pulls the trigger and you stagger forward before falling to the floor, just in front of him. "(Y/N), (Y/N), no, no, no," He looks up, tears already streaming, "What have you done?!" His voice is sharp.

Lewis smirks, "I killed him."

Hotch watches in horror as Lewis fades into thin air.

"Watch out, I'm coming through that door," Lewis whispers, “Kill me.”

Your heart’s in your throat when you get there. David and Spencer go round the front, Derek and JJ taking the back. You go through the side. Turns out, it takes you straight to Aaron. Lewis is nowhere in sight. Aaron’s got his back to you. “Aaron?” You call softly. He turns to you - you see a hard look in his eyes. You don’t see any weapons, nor does it look like he’s going to attack. Okay, so far so good.

"Aaron?" You ask, cautiously approaching him. You didn't know what Scratch had told him to believe.

"You killed him," Was Aaron's response. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, before you could reply, he charged at you, knocking you to the floor.

Derek's eyebrows furrowed as he heard a loud thud. With the grip on his gun tightening, he slowly began to make his way towards the sound, unsure of it’s origin.

Aaron aimed a surprisingly well-aimed punch to your ribs, causing you to give a loud grunt. "Aaron, it's me," You insisted. Aaron ignored you, aiming his next punch at your face.

Not knowing what else to do, you bucked him off you as you scrambled up, trying to get some distance between the two of you. "Aaron, you need to calm down, it's me, it's (Y/N),"

“You don’t get to say his name,” Aaron growled, he made the first move again, aiming for a punch. You block on instinct, landing a jab to his side - guilt gnaws at your stomach. Aaron responds by taking a large chunk of your hair in his hands and slamming your head into the counter. You stumble back, everything spinning.

“A-aron, it’s me,” Ignoring you, Aaron swept your legs from under you. You gave a moan when your head hit the floor. Dazed, you blinked up, staring at your brother in confusion, vision blurring for a moment.

"You killed him," Was all Aaron responded, sending a hard kick to your ribs that winded you.

"Aaron? It's me!" You exclaimed, curling in on yourself to try to reduce the pain. You shut your eyes tightly, trying to block it all out. Scrunching your eyes closed tighter you try to breathe through the pain as the strikes continue. You felt like a kid again, alone; Aaron and Sean had left and you were all alone - all you wanted was your brothers. Except it was your brother this time. Aaron couldn’t save you, not when he was the one hurting you.

The next thing you know, Aaron is straddling you, hands wrapped tightly around your throat. Your hands immediately fly to your throat, trying to pry his hands off. Trying to gasp for breath, you look into his eyes, hoping to see recognition, but there's nothing there. His gaze is the hardened look he sends to unsubs.

"A-Aaron, its me, I swear-" You choked out, hands desperately clawing at your brother's hands. "A-"

As your vision begins to blur, you can't help but think how similar Aaron and your father look.

Derek's eyes widened at the scene, he strode forwards before pulling your brother off of you, holding him back. "I need some help in here!" Derek yells, and everyone immediately rushed in. Rossi and Reid stay whilst JJ and Kate go after Lewis. He wanted nothing more than to go over to you, to comfort you - but he knew the second he let go of your brother and stopped holding him back, he’d go right back to beating the shit out of you. Derek made a mental note to hit Peter Lewis when they found him.

You cough loudly when Aaron’s hands are ripped from your neck, wincing at the pressure on your ribs and throat it causes. You spit the blood in your mouth onto the floor, ignoring it as it continues to drip, you could deal with that later. You doubt anyone would mind. You give a small groan, moving your right arm to cradle your ribs as you start to force yourself to sit up. Pushing past the pain, nausea, and stinging, and force yourself up.

Spencer rushes to your side. "(Y/N)?"

You scramble back until you feel a wall press against your back. You know it’s irrational, that’s it’s Spencer. But you needed security. And breath. You couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t you breathe? You could see your chest rising but there was no air. Where did the air go? Oh god, you try to take a large breath, only for none to reach your lungs yet again. Not now, not now. Now really wasn’t the time…

A hand on your shoulder makes you jump. You flinch away. When a strike doesn’t come, you look up, head spinning. Your vision’s blurry, but enough you can make out who it is. Spencer. Embarrassed, you curl into yourself and bury your head into your elbow, willing this to be a dream so you don’t have to deal with the humiliation. You’re breathing’s still shallow, but it’s better. You feel sick.

“(Y/N)?”

"I'm fine," You croak, wincing again both at the sound of your voice and the pain speaking caused - in your throat and the pounding of your head. "Is Aaron okay?"

"Get off me!" Aaron mumbled angrily, "He killed him-"

"Hotch, everyone's fine," Rossi said softly.

"Rossi? You need to get Scratch he killed-"

"Aaron, everyone is okay,"

"(Y/N)?"

"(Y/N)'s okay too," Rossi answered. You forced yourself up, wiping the blood from under your nose with your sleeve.

"I'm right here, see," You held out your hands, motioning to yourself with a pained smile, trying your best to blink the tears from your eyes.

"What happened?" Aaron asked, motioning to your bleeding nose, cut lip, the large cut and bruise beginning to form on your forehead (as well as the blood that began to trickle down from the wound), and the hand marks that were slowly starting to bruise on your neck. Aaron's eyes widened, "Did I do that?"

Derek opens his mouth to answer, but you beat him to it, "No." You lie with a sniff, "Scratch did, you found him, tore him off me. You wouldn't get off of Scratch so Morgan had to restrain you," The lie comes easily off your tongue and it makes you feel sick. But it was either this or tell your brother he almost killed you. Everyone's glaring at you for lying to him. It's clear even Aaron doesn't believe you.

"(Y/N), don't lie to me," Aaron said.

You swallow, "I'm not." You feel like you're going to throw up.

Rossi says nothing and simply tells the others to wait outside and take the elder Hotch to the medics. He turns back to you when they’re gone, saying, "You can't lie to him." He states.

"But he'd feel guilty knowing," You respond with a one-armed shrug.

"So what, you're going to lie in the paperwork? Expect everyone else to lie there too?" Rossi asked. You sighed.

"He doesn't need to feel guilty for something he didn't mean to do. It's Aaron, he's going to feel guilty no matter how many times I tell him it's okay,"

“He has a right to know,”

“No.” You said, shaking your head, wincing at the pain exploding through your skull as you did so. “No, because then it’ll just be another thing that Aaron Hotchner Hates About Himself. And I’m not putting that on him. If you guys want to tell him, fine, I don’t give a shit if I get into trouble or suspended or fired or whatever, I’m not having my brother hate himself about something he couldn’t control,”

Rossi shut his eyes, “(Y/N)-”

“No, Rossi,” You cut him off, “You don’t see him on his bad days- on his really bad days. I’m not doing that to him.”

You stumbled towards the door, too stubborn to ask to lean against Rossi. Morgan’s immediately by the door when you get there, taking the majority of your weight as you walk the rest of the way to the ambulance, snaking his arm around your waist and pulling you close.

“What was the panic attack about?” He asks quietly, deciding to be blunt.

“I’m no expert, but probably the panic,”

Derek gives a small chuckle, “Hilarious,” He replied. “But seriously,”

“Bad memories,” You answered vaguely. Derek nodded, you had confided in your childhood after a particularly bad nightmare. He knew that you would confide in him when you wanted or needed to, he didn’t want to push you. Instead, he decided to change the subject. Seemingly knowing what he was thinking, you added, “I’ll tell you about it later,”

“How are you feeling?”

“Nauseous,” Derek’s thumb rubbed a gentle circle along your side.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner,”

“Please don’t feel guilty,” You said, shaking your head, “You got there as soon as you could,”

When you reach the ambulance, the paramedic’s eyes go wide. And before you know it they usher you to the bed to sit on whilst they check you over, Aaron now cleared - with strict instructions to take it easy and stay the night with a friend - sat next to you.

“I know I did this to you,”

“No, you don’t, because no you didn’t,” You hate lying to him. But it was for the best.

“I’m not stupid, (Y/N),”

“Never said you were,”

“Then stop treating me like it,”

You sighed, turning to him, “That’s not why I lied,”

“Then why?”

“Because it’ll go on your list of things you hate about yourself and I don’t like that you hate yourself for one, but for two I definitely hate that I am the cause of some of those things,”

“I don’t hate myself-”

“Loathe, then,” You said, “Look, is lying wrong? Probably. But when it’s my brother I’m trying to protect from his own over-analysing brain? I don’t think so,”

“I have a right to know what actually happened, what I did,”

“Why? So you can beat yourself up about it?” Aaron glared.

“(Y/N),” Aaron said sternly. Unsure of what else to do, he decided to pull the Boss (TM) card, “As your superior, I’m ordering you to tell me what happened,”

“Fine, you wanna know what happened?” You asked, pushing the paramedic’s hands away from your forehead. “You slammed my head into a counter, kicked the shit out of me, and then tried to strangle me. Happy?” You see the look on Aaron’s face, it had dropped, eyes filled with guilt - despite him trying to mask it. You shut your eyes with a sigh, “That’s what I wanted to avoid,”

“You shouldn’t have to not tell me things because you’re worried about my reactions,”

“You’re my brother. And you internalise things. Of course, I’m going to worry,” You said with a shrug, “Besides, as far as I’m concerned, Scratch did this,”

“But I’m the one-”

“Look, as far as I’m concerned, this was Scratch,” You said sharply, leaving no room for argument. “I am not having you mope about for days because of this, so get it out of your head that you did this, okay? Because I only have so much willpower not to smack you round the back of the head for being this self-deprecating, alright?”

You knew what you were saying was probably falling on deaf ears, but at least you had said them. When you were done, you turned back to the paramedic and gave a small nod.

A concussion, bruised ribs, and a broken nose. 'Nothing major' you thought to yourself with a nod. You were told to rest up, visit the doctors if anything got any worse, and to stay out of the field until you were fully healed.

When the paramedics are gone, you turn to the team, "Alright, I'm off, I'll see you bright and breezy tomorrow,"

"No, take the day off," Rossi said, you shook your head.

"Nah, I'm fine, honestly," You argued.

"Babe, take the day off," Morgan pressed, you shook your head again.

"I'm fine,"

Aaron sighed, nodding, he knew there was no point in arguing with you. You would come in either way. The team disbanded, making their way through the crime scene. The sooner they got this done, the sooner they could all go home.

"Hey, Hotch?" Morgan asked, walking up to Hotch, away from you. "Can I drive (Y/N) home? I just want to keep an eye on him,"

Ignoring the pang of guilt, Aaron nodded, "That's probably a good idea. Let me know when you're both home safe," Morgan nodded.

You look up, hearing footsteps. Morgan, you give him a small smile, "Alright, I've got permission to drive you home," Morgan said, "I'm also making it known now that I staying round," You cocked an eyebrow and managed to smirk, "Not like that," He sighed and you gave a small snicker.

Derek drives you back to yours, the drive silent but not uncomfortable, the radio gently playing in the background.

It took you a while to get to sleep, Derek next to you, you closely wrapped into his side. “Hey,” Derek whispered, “Level with me, where’s your head at?”

You shrug, “I’m fine,”

“Baby you keep saying that,”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

“I’m here when you want to talk about it,” Derek mumbled, placing a soft kiss to your head.

“I know,” You shut your eyes, allowing sleep in.

You woke up a variety of times during the night, not moving when you did - Derek’s arms wrapped tightly around you. Eventually, morning rolled around.

You came into work the next day, despite everyone trying to convince you otherwise, everything patched up and semi-okay. Everyone was on edge and it was driving you crazy. You weren't going to break down in a puddle of tears over a few punches. You were fine.

Aaron was cautious around you, moving slow, keeping his voice levelled, not wanting to do anything you may perceive as threatening. And you did you best to act as though nothing had happened, like it didn’t hurt to breathe, to talk, to move. You knew if you did, it would just be added to Aaron Hotcher’s List of Self-Loathing.

You knew you said it was fine. And it was, you were acting normally with him and you had forgiven him - actually, you felt there was nothing to forgive him for. But your body didn't exactly register that. You know you had no reason to be so cautious of Aaron. That he would never intentionally hurt you. He was your brother. And yet, you had to stop yourself from flinching, had to push the panic aside when he spoke to you.

You were in the break room, making a coffee, you turned around to face Aaron as he walked in, "Hey, I'm making a coffee, you want one?"

He nodded, he really needed the caffeine. Aaron wondered if this was what Spencer felt like if he didn't get his caffeine fix. It had been a day since the incident and you still seemed okay with him, so he assumed that everything was fine. Although, this didn't stop him from proceeding with caution around you. The cuts on your forehead were scabbed over, as was the small cut on your lips. Your nose was a dark, angry red, as were the corners of your eyes. And the bruises on your throat were slowly turning purple. Guilt gnawed at his stomach before he did his best to push it aside.

"I'll grab the sugar," He smirks, knowing you were going to add a massive amount to your coffee (despite his repeated warning that it wasn't good for your teeth). And so, Aaron reached past you, freezing when you flinched away.

"I'm sorry!" You apologise, eyes wide, realising what you had done and the hurt on Aaron's face. "I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine,"

“Aaron, I didn’t mean-”

“(Y/N), it’s okay,” You looked at your brother, despite his trying to hide it, you could see the clear guilt in his eyes.

“I- I need to go to the bathroom,” You rushed out of the room before Aaron could tell you to wait.

You brush past Morgan and Reid, ignore JJ and Kate calling your name, you just keep walking. When you reach the doors, you check that the room is completely empty before locking the main door. You let yourself sink to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest in a weak attempt to comfort yourself.

You curled into yourself, biting your lip to hold back your cries. It wouldn’t do any good, in fact, probably the complete opposite. Aaron was still at school, taking part in a play and Sean was out with friends, leaving you home alone with your father. “You gonna follow the rules now, boy?” He growled, and you nodded, a whimper falling past your lips. “Do not cry, boy, what kind of man cries?” There was a small pause when you failed to answer, he decided to answer for you, “The answer is weak men, boy. Men do not cry, boy,”

You shoved the heel of your palms into your eyes, trying to stem the tears. “Men don’t cry," You muttered bitterly to yourself, digging your hands deeper when the tears continued. “Men don’t cry,” You repeated, hoping that if you kept repeating the phrase maybe it would stop you from crying. “Get it together, (Y/N),” You paused, removing your hands from your eyes, blinking.

It wasn’t often you’d deal with negative emotions on your own. More often than not, your brother was there to help. Although, that wasn’t exactly a possibility in this situation. Fresh tears pricked the corners of your eyes at this realisation. You sniff. “Nope, no, not happening,” You mutter before letting out a small groan. You sniff once more, blinking repeatedly in a feeble attempt to make the tears go away.

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door, “(Y/N)? It’s me,” Derek. “Can you unlock the door?” You sniff, contemplating it before reaching up and unlocking the door. “Hey,” He greets as he sits down on the floor next to you.

Neither of you speak.

“I just kept thinking he looked like our dad,” You mumbled, voice wavering with emotion. You gave a sob as Derek pulled you close to him, “And I feel so guilty, he’s hurting and beating himself up because of me.”

“(Y/N)-”

“I need to talk to him,”

“Maybe that’s not a good idea right now-”

“Why not?!” You snap.

“I just mean you need to calm down first,” He answers, rubbing a hand up and down your arm.

“I’m sorry,” You sigh, “I love you,”

“I love you too,”

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ashintheairlikesnow · 2 years

Text

Didn’t Make It

CW: Beating, failed escape, dehumanization, pet whump

Death Valley | Lüge | Welcome Home |

For @whumptober 2022, Day 14 15, and 16 - Failed escape and Breathing through the pain, plus “No one’s coming”

Ranchers Rest, California, 2003

Finn made it to the door.

He had one hand out on the front step, feeling the warmth of the sun on the concrete, before his head exploded in pain and he slumped to the ground.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Mouse," Robert said, his voice a growl against Finn's back.

"Nein," Finn groaned, struggling to push himself back up, digging his fingernails into the bottom of the doorframe, the strip of metal all that separated him from the outdoors, from freedom, maybe from rescue.

Vision blurry, he didn't understand at first why there was red splattered over the doormat now, not until something ran into his eye and stung. Only then did he understand that it was blood.

A clatter of something falling with a thump as Robert dropped it was following by Robert's fingers twisting into Finn's hair, yanking backwards so his chin was pulled harshly up.

Finn frantically shook his head, trying to dislodge the grip. His broken leg throbbed from being dragged behind him, the homemade splint of cheap plywood and gauze and rope scratching against exposed skin. "Nein, nicht! Lass mich gehen!"

Wide-eyed, he stared out at the perfect normal sidewalk leading to the street on a perfectly normal afternoon. He could see a house across the street, a car in the driveway.

He screamed. His voice cracked, desperate, as his heart pounded against the ground.

"Hilf mir!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Robert's hand clapped over Finn's mouth as he hissed into his ear.

His fingers smelled like motor oil and diesel gasoline, pushing Finn's lips painfully into his teeth. Finn's stomach turned and he coughed, fighting the bile trying to rise in his throat, reaching up with one hand to grab and pull, trying to free himself, screaming still.

It was all muffled nonsense, and Robert used the grip on his hair and mouth to pull him roughly backwards, kicking the door shut as he fell backwards, Finn a thrashing blur in his arms.

The door slammed with a thunk that was the only thing louder than Finn's heartbeat.

The bright afternoon daylight dropped instantly back into the musty dim yellow that came through Robert's ancient curtains.

Tears burned in Finn's eyes, he kept clawing uselessly at the hand over his mouth, kicking out with his good leg. He got a good hit against Robert's ankle, the man letting out a howl of pain as his hands instinctively jerked back.

Finn threw himself forward, towards the door, but Robert landed on his back a half-second later.

His chin bounced off the ground, teeth clicking together and pain ricocheting like a bullet through his skin.

The carpet was cool and sticky-rough on his stomach and hips. Too familiar a feeling by now.

Robert leaned over, Finn groaning at the weight, struggling to take a deep breath against the pressure.

Robert's breath smelled like barbecue, whatever he'd eaten for lunch. "What the fuck was that, little Mouse? That isn't our routine."

The coarse fabric of his mechanic's coveralls rubbed agonizingly into raw welts layered over the younger man's back and thighs, stinging pain like his body was on fire.

Finn sobbed, letting his aching head drop so his forehead pressed into the carpet. "Let me go," He pleaded, voice cracking, barely audible. "Bitte, bitte, nicht…"

"You're damn lucky that Mrs. Meyer across the road has to see her cardiologist today," Robert said, nuzzling against Finn's ear, listening to him cry. "Otherwise she’d have been home... and you'd be dead already. Plus, I’d have to kill her and make it look accidental. Aren’t you tired of getting people killed, little Mouse?”

Finn thought - he had endless nightmares about - the look on the face of the hotel manager before Robert had shot him, and he went limp once again.

Robert pushed himself up, stepping on Finn's splinted leg with a heavy work boot until the man let out a wail at the pain and pressure pushing into the fractured bone.

He waited until Finn's cries softened, listening to him breathing in carefully slow inhales and exhales, forcing himself to keep breathing through overwhelming throbbing agony. Finn fought his stomach, twisting around nothing, forced himself not to vomit on the carpet, knowing he'd be the one who had to clean it.

Then, once he knew Finn could hear, Robert did up the locks, one by one.

"I know it's hard," Robert said, in a tone of rational, reasonable understanding. "This isn't your country. These aren't your people. And nobody's coming for you, because no one knows where you are. I get that. But if I see you within six feet of that door again, I'll cut your feet and hands off."

Finn slowly looked up at him, his face smeared with drying tear tracks and blood. Red still clumped his hair together where Robert had hit him with the tire iron lying on the floor nearby. "My… hands-"

"You don't need hands to crawl like a good dog," Robert said. "Or feet either. Keep that in mind. Not that you're a dog, but… well. How many feet do mice need, you think?"

Finn slumped, all the fight gone out of him at once. The sticky carpet rubbed across his forehead, the smell of carpet shampoo never quite washed out only barely covering the sickly scent of the dead from the basement below.

Robert grinned and had a beer on the couch. He sat with his boots digging into Finn’s back.

When Finn started to cry, Robert sighed and turned the volume up on the TV.

For whumptober: @whumpworld

Finn tag list: @astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whumperfully @pigeonwhumps @squishablesunbeam @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature ask if you want to be added to the taglist

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i-am-still-bb · 5 months

Text

No. 15

“I don't need you to help me, I can handle things myself.” | Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

Pairing: Fili/Kili Rating: T Universe: Fast Car (formerly Dead Batteries) Words: 1579

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, hangovers, bad life choices, implied Kili/OCs, references to earlier events of physical and emotional abuse.

“I’m fine,” was the lie that Kili told everyone. He told it to his teachers, himself, his friends, and even Fili.

After his mom died? I’m fine.

After his dad found out like Kili liked boys? I’m fine.

After Fili showed up drunk in the middle of the night and left Kili conflicted with the fact that he liked his best friend in that way. “I’m fine.”

After Fili almost fought Kili’s father in his front yard? “I’m fine.”

College professors? His college roommate? The other drunk kids at parties? “I’m fine.”

Ari and Tauriel were the first people that Kili admitted that, no, he wasn’t in fact fine. Granted, Ari had been holding his hair back while he puked at the time, but it was still true.

“Have some water,” Ari urged, holding out a plastic cup emblazoned with the Student Union’s logo.

Kili leaned back against the cold ceramic of the tub. “Thanks,” he said weakly, taking the cup with a shaky hand.

“Do you always get so drunk that you sleep on random people’s floors?” Tauriel asked as she passed by the bathroom door again. She was busy cleaning up her and Ari’s campus housing from their Thirsty Thursday party the night before.

“I…” Kili hung his head. He wanted to say no. No, he did not routinely wake up on the floor. No he was not regularly so hung over that he had actually made sure that none of his classes started until afternoon. “Yes.” He took a sip of the water. He wanted to drink more to rinse his mouth out and to feel hydrated again, but he knew from experience that he should not do that.

“Is that fun?” Ari asked.

“It can be,” Tauriel interjected again. This time she stopped in the doorway with a plastic trash bag hanging from one hand.

“I was asking him,” Ari said. She turned to Kili. “I don’t think I ever actually got your name last night.”

Kili opened his mouth to answer, but he had to lunge for the toilet again. Ari rubbed his back when he was done.

“It’s Kili.”

“I’m Ari.”

“Tauriel.”

“Thanks for doing this. I know you have better ways to spend your Friday mornings. I can just go, actually,” Kili started to stand.

“Stay.” Ari’s hand on Kili’s shoulder prevented from rising.

Tauriel shrugged. “It’s not like I was going to my 9:40am philosophy class anyway.”

“What one are you taking?” Kili asked, deflecting. “I was thinking about taking one next fall.”

“Philosophy and the Modern Drama. I do not recommend it.”

“Noted.” Kili picked up the cup of water and took another stip.

“So, is it fun?” Ari reiterated her question.

“You’ll have to excuse her; she doesn’t drink,” Tauriel said before walking off again to clean up some more.

Kili shrugged and stared and his legs and the pink ‘70s tile that the University had never seen fit to remove from its student houses. “Sometimes?” he offered. “There’s a point where it is fun. I’m more relaxed, I’m not worrying, I’m laughing, I’m making other people laugh, but it’s hard to stay at that sweet spot. If I get too sober then the feeling goes away and I just feel out of place, but if I keep drinking it always tips over into more drunk, feeling out of control, sometimes blacking out. And that always ends with hangovers like this.”

“Then why do it?”

“Why does anyone do it?”

“I do it for the social aspects,” Tauriel said loudly from the other room. “Most people on the archery team drink, so I drink to fit in. And I don’t drink so much that I’m stuck on the floor the next day. Plus I have a system. If I always had to deal with hangovers like that,” she was in the doorway again pointing at Kili, “then I would ot drink. The bad would outweigh the good at that point.”

“Why don’t you drink?” Kili asked. He turned the plastic cup between his fingertips.

“I just don’t like it,” Ari said. “I did try it, but I did not like the way it felt, how it felt when I woke up, and I just never wanted to do it again. I don’t mind if other people drink, and I’m happy to make sure my friends are safe if they do.”

Ari and Tauriel did not say anything, clearly waiting for Kili to answer the question.

“I…” Kili trailed off, not sure what he wanted to say. “I guess I want to forget stuff, and drinking makes that easier?”

Ari and Tauriel shared a look. Ari brushed a curl behind one ear. “Forget what?”

Kili started to speak but stopped. He drew his knees up. “I screwed some stuff up before I came here. Actually by coming here.”

“Okay…? I’m listening.”

“I was seeing this guy. We’d grown up together, we were best friends, and then we were more. I wanted to stay there and be with him, but I just couldn’t and there was no way that he was going to come to Chicago with me.”

“Why not stay in California? They have a lot of schools?” Ari asked gently.

Kili wiped his nose. He had not noticed that he had started crying. “My dad. We were cool together when I was little, but then he started drinking a lot after my mom died. And then when I told him I thought I was gay… things just got a lot worse. At first he just yelled, but then he started using his fists.”

Ari covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide.

“And then the same week I got my acceptance letter with my financial aid package with its full funding, Fili and my father almost fought each other in the front yard of my dad’s place. I knew then that I couldn’t stay there anymore. I had finally realized that nothing could make me stay. And then I just clammed up and didn’t share that with Fili… so we didn’t even get that last summer together. I ended up working a lot and watching a lot of crap television until it was time to move here. And I think I made a huge mistake. I think I should have stayed. I think about him all the time still. I miss him.”

Ari placed a hand on Kili’s knee, “Kili…”

“Can I kick your dad’s ass?” Tauriel interrupted.

Kili snorted in surprised laughter. “What? Yeah. Sure.”

“Good. What a douchenozzle.”

Kili smiled despite himself.

“Your dad and my dad can get beers together and then get some matching black eyes from my lovely girlfriend here,” Ari said. “And it sounds like it was an impossible decision. If you had stayed you might be thinking that it was a mistake too.”

“I know. It just… It sucks.”

“It does,” Tauriel agreed. “Do you think you could handle some eggs? I’ve got a few left and some breakfast meats if anyones hungry.”

“Omelet, but hold the ‘breakfast meats’,” Ari said.

“I already know your opinion about breakfast meats, but what about our new friend.”

Ari rolled her eyes and stood.

Kili looked from one to the other. “I get the feeling like there is some innuendo with that question.”

“Have to find out now if you’re going to be a good fit if you stick around,” Tauriel shrugged. “So, do you like sausage for breakfast?”

Kili’s cheeks turned a bit pink before he spoke, “All sausage is good sausage.”

Ari crinkled her nose. “You can have all the sausage then.” She helped Kili to his feet.

Tauriel grinned wickedly, “This is generally a meat / sausage free household, except for the occasional artificial meat product.”

“You’re horrible,” Ari accused.

“But you love me.”

“So you assume.” Ari kissed Tauriel’s cheek as she brushed past her.

They set up camp at the round kitchen table that had seen better days having been passed from student accommodation to student accommodation since it was discarded by its original owner. Tauriel turned on the radio, and started the busy work of making breakfast, and they went through the preliminary conversations of getting to know one another. By the time the omelets were gone and Kili had been half-bullied into eating all of the proffered sausage (he just felt bad eating all of their food, and he was worried about getting sick again) they had exchanged phone numbers, friended each other on Facebook, and made plans to meet up later in week to do some studying.

And slowly Kili started telling people that he was not “fine.” He told his professors when he needed more time on assignments rather than just working himself into an anxious mess and turning in subpar work that left him with a bad taste in his mouth, and the poor grade he received as a result did nothing to help anything.

He made an appointment with the school’s counselor.

And he stopped drinking enough to black out on a regular basis, which meant that he no longer woke up on strange floors or with strange people. He more often than not woke up on the futon in Ari and Tauriel’s campus apartment hungover on too many carbs (in the form of pizza and garlic bread bites) and Mountain Dew.

And eventually he wasn’t lying when he said he was fine.

But sometimes he wasn’t.

And he knew that was okay.

Everything @silvermoon-scrolls @metztliluaa-blog @i-am-pinkie

Fili/Kili @dubhlachen

If your tag is not working, you may have to adjust the searchability of your blog.

#whumptober2023 #no. 15 #I'm fine.#the hobbit #fic #bb writes #fast car au #dead batteries au #fili/kili #fiki

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one-piece-aus · 2 years

Text

Whumptober Day 15

Kid x Reader

There's another part to this that you can read HERE

"You've been avoiding." Kid narrowed his eyes.

"I've just been busy-" you attempted to tell him only to be cut off by his fist slamming against the wall.

"Cut the bullshit!" Kid demanded. "Why have you been avoiding?"

"I..." You hugged your books closer to your chest, not knowing how to answer.

Kid may have grown on you and you'd call him a friend by now. In fact, you had been finding yourself hanging around him and his gang a few times during class. Ironic considering you thought you were never going to even make yourself acquainted with him, yet you did, and it surprised you and your friends Hawkins and Apoo.

Everything had been going well, until...

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

"Let hell you'll stop me!"

You flinch, hearing Kid yell at someone. Deciding it was best not to be seen, you hid behind the row of lockers. You were just going to wait it out.

"I'm not saying I will," Hawkins said. "But I think you should reconsider."

"What do you mean?" Kid questioned.

"Knowing [Y/n]'s past, it's clear that you're not suited for her."

"And what? You are!?"

"No, our relationship is as she once stated 'loners who stick together', but you, on the other hand, are a bit more complicated now that you've developed feelings for her."

"That's none of your business!"

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

You didn't need any more information to know Kid has a crush on you.

You try to look at Kid but his glaring eyes stared at your smaller form. You bow your head down, a dog tucking its tail between its legs.

"I... I'm sorry," you apologized. It's always easier to dodge hostility when you try to be polite. "It... it won't happen again. I- I didn't mean to upset you. It won't happen again-"

"I didn't ask for an apology, I want to know why you're avoiding me," Kid repeated, beginning to lose patience. You felt yourself grow cold feet. Your anxiety leaked from beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. Fear sent chills down your spine when you heard Kid growl. "Did Hawkins say something?"

"No."

"You sure, cuz it sure seems like he did."

"He didn't say anything."

"What about Scratchman?"

"No." You sensed the cold air growing thicker.

"Why were you avoiding me then?" Kid took a step closer to you, you flinched back. Looking into his eyes, you weren't able to read his expression. "Are you scared of me?"

"No," you lied but your expression gave it away. Fear gazed at Kid.

"What did he say?! That I beat up girls?"

"He didn't say anything!"

"Is it because I fight gangs?"

"No!"

"Then what? Why are you acting like this?! Why are you avoiding me!?"

"I-"

"Speak up!"

"iT'S BECAUSE YOU HAVE FEELINGS FOR ME!"

Silence let you catch your breath after you finally let out the truth before continuing.

"I was afraid you were going to confess to me..." you admitted, looking down. "I... I accepted your friendship, heck I even found it fun hanging around you... and I don't want to break your heart... but I just can't... I can't- I can't be with you..."

You were shaking, at your limit. You felt your brain burn and tears streaming down your face, when it started you can't remember. You saw Kid's hands move towards you and you stepped back, hugging the books tighter.

"I just can't..." You weren't able to finish before you turned tailed and ran from the scene, your noisy thoughts blocking out Kid's calls to come back.

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spirit-whump · 6 months

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whumptober2023 No. 15: “I don’t need you to help me, I can handle things myself.” | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

fandom: X-Men First Class (OC-centric)

Marianne couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t been exhausted.

It felt like she had been born that way. The eldest daughter of five children, raised during the Depression, with both parents struggling to make end’s meet - of course she had stepped up and looked out for her siblings. It was what she was meant to do. Her parents had to focus on supporting the family, and to do that, Marianne had to take care of the family. It was the only way.

Then she had started dating Lawrence, and a while after, Henry had come along. That’s when she and Lawrence became the parents struggling to make end’s meet. They had managed somehow, but it was a lot of work, especially with Marianne being the one at home with the baby even as she kept the bookstore running. She was lucky if she could manage a ten minute nap in the afternoons, even when Henry was taking his own naps. There was always something to do, something to fix around the house, and her powers being what they were, it was easy enough, so she didn’t see the harm in doing what she could.

Lawrence disagreed. He was always taking over for her, taking Henry out of the house when he could to let her get some rest, taking over the little projects she found to fix the house with the insistence that he could handle at least half of what she wanted to do. He made dinner most nights, even after a long day of work. He insisted that they were meant to take care of each other and she needed to let him take care of her as much as she took care of everyone. So she let him.

And then he was gone, and suddenly everything fell back on her shoulders.

And she managed. More than that, Marianne did a damn good job if she said so herself. She raised a child alone, made sure he was safe and healthy and loved. She kept her store running and well cared for, a safe place for anyone who wandered in. She took care of the home and her store and her child all by herself for years and she did fine.

She was fine.

And then Charles Fucking Xavier and Erik Fucking Lehnsherr and Moira Fucking MacTaggert walked into her life and fucked it all up.

They were always there, asking her how she was. How she was feeling after this or that. It wasn’t their fault they hadn’t been at the facility for Shaw’s attack, but really, they didn’t need to be constantly asking her if she was alright. The kids had been through it too - surely they needed more attention than her. She had handled it all just fine. The kids were safe. That was enough.

Or they were giving her concerned looks when she happened to mention Lawrence, or alluded to something about her family or childhood. Marianne knew what her life had been like. She didn’t need pity over it. She had lost her husband. She had been all but abandoned by her family. And she had made it on her own after all of that.

Look - Marianne hadn’t suffered the same way they had. Not even the same way the others on the team had. She hadn’t been abandoned or tortured or orphaned or neglected or imprisoned or any of that. Her past had been rough, yes, but she had gotten through it. The worst of it was over. She didn’t need their pity or their help or their concerned looks when she absentmindedly mentioned things like the one time as a 14-year-old she hadn’t seen either of her parents for three days in a row because they left for work early and came back late.

That was the life she’d been given and she didn’t need pitying over it. It wasn’t worse than anything they’d been through.

It was embarrassing on every level when she woke up one morning and remembered getting drunk with them the night before and realizing she was a much bigger lightweight than she remembered when she was only two glasses of wine in and suddenly started telling them everything she had kept locked away for years.

Everything from the grief she had suppressed since Lawrence had died, to the sadness of missing her siblings ever since she had run away from home, to the anger and grief over her parents all but throwing her away when she got pregnant. Everything she had never said to anyone but Lawrence, she told all of them.

It was Charles, of course it was Charles, who approached her the following morning when she was suffering from a violent hangover and gently started probing her for a follow up conversation about everything she had said. Marianne had told him kindly but firmly that she had been drunk and they didn’t need to worry about her. They didn’t need to talk about it ever again, honestly, and she preferred it that way.

Charles tried again, and then again, to get her to stop dismissing it, until she snapped at him to leave her alone. It was none of his business. And finally he did, but not without a sad look and a reminder that they were allowed to care about her as much as she cared about them. She could come to them whenever she wanted.

And she appreciated it. She did, really. But she didn’t need that.

Because she was fine. She was tired all the time and she always felt a thin ribbon of grief running through her very being, but she had been living with that for years now. So she was fine, and she would be fine.

She had made it this far on her own, after all.

#whumptober2023 #no. 15 #i don't need you to help me i can handle things myself #suppressed suffering #i'm fine #xmen #fic #emotional whump #my ocs #marianne #marianne Ouellet #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #moira mactaggert #xmen first class #spirit whump #spoiler alert things go drastically wrong for her later and she is very much not fine

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rpf-bat · 6 months

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WHUMPTOBER DAY 15

Pairing: none - Middy Cruz’s POV

Prompt: “I’m fine.”

Word Count: 553

Summary: It’s the night of the 2022 Emma Gaala. Middy should be happy, just to fucking be there….right?

#whumptober2023 #no. 15 #‘I’m fine.’#santa cruz rpf #middy cruz

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keeper-of-all-the-random-things · 6 months

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13. THINK WE CAN MAKE IT

Whumptober | No. 15 Makeshift bandages | No. 26 You look awful | No. 30 Bridal carry

In which Sam really wants a nap.

*****

Everything was on fire.

Every movement, no matter how small, shot pain from his center to his extremities. Each breath burned.

Sam decided to stop.

…..

Someone was screaming. Sam couldn’t tell who.

He was aware that he was awake and really wished he wasn’t. He was also aware that he was on the ground now. Thomas knelt nearby and kept prodding his side.

Only then did Sam realize he was screaming.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Thomas muttered as he pressed a wad of cloth against the wound.

Sam definitely did not feel okay.

There was a tearing sound, and Thomas secured the cloth with long strips of duct tape.

“Have to stop the bleeding,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Sam groaned. He wanted to sleep.

“Hey.” Thomas slapped his cheek lightly. “Don’t do that. Stay awake.”

“M’not dying,” Sam said.

“Good.”

Thomas sat back on his heels and stared at the door. After a minute, he said, “I have to end this now.”

“Okay.” Sam didn’t want Thomas to leave, but he knew it was necessary. “I’ll be right here. Don’t die.”

“Yeah. You too.” Thomas stood. “I’ll be back. Stay awake, okay?”

Sam hummed in acknowledgement and promptly ignored the command.

…..

A few seconds passed, or possibly a small eternity, before Sam woke to an insistent shaking.

He opened his eyes to find Thomas, looking worse for the wear, kneeling over him again and gently moving his head around. The movement made him dizzy.

“Please stop,” he said.

“Jesus Christ.” Thomas stopped.

“Close, but no.” Sam smiled weakly. “You look awful.”

“I look - you look like a wet blanket. I thought you were dead.” Thomas gestured vaguely at the air and added as an afterthought, “Then all of this would have been for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Sam said quietly. He stared up at the ceiling. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Yeah.”

Sam looked back at Thomas, who appeared lost in his head. “What happened?”

Thomas was silent for a long time then shook his head as if to bring himself back to the present. “I … Nora … we … nevermind. It’s done. She won’t come after us anymore. The Agency is dead.”

“Okay.”

“What do we do now?” Thomas seemed to ask more to himself than to Sam.

Sam answered anyway. “Let’s go home. And then sleep for six years. And also fix this hole,” he gestured to his duct taped torso, “before it leads to structural damage.”

“Yes! Yes. Can you walk?”

Sam shifted, trying to sit up, and a bolt of fire shot through his body.

“That would be a no,” he said, panting from that small exertion.

Thomas nodded decisively. He moved into a crouch, placing an arm under Sam’s knees and the other under his back.

“I’m sorry. This will hurt.” He stood, holding Sam against his chest.

Sam laughed and winced. “I haven’t been held like this since I was little. I used to pretend to be deathly ill so my parents would have to carry me to bed at night.”

“It was probably easier when you were small and uninjured,” Thomas said without malice.

Thomas carried Sam through the Agency compound until they found the little green car. The keys hung neatly in a row with the various van keys.

Sam settled in the passenger seat and watched the building fade away in the rearview mirror as Thomas drove them away.

“How are you feeling?” Thomas asked, staring resolutely at the road ahead.

“I think I’ll make it,” Sam replied. “And you?”

“Yeah. I think we’ll make it.”

#whumptober 2023 #no. 15 #makeshift bandages #no. 26 #you look awful #no. 30 #bridal carry #writing #oc #aftermath of stabbing #inaccurate medical stuff #that's it folks #a little late but i made it to the end

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whumpworld · 2 years

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Emotional Damage

As expected, I have not kept up with Whumptober each day, but by god, I am going to finish it, even if out of order and late. I’ll make a masterlist at the end of the month.

Prompt: Whumptober No. 15 EMOTIONAL DAMAGE [Lies | New Scars | Breathing Through the Pain]

CW: Self-harm, burns, burns describe in moderate detail, conditoned Whumpee post-rescue, New Whumper = Caretaker, stressed Caretaker, Whumpee realizing Old Whumper was just an asshole.

Whumpee starts losing count after a certain point, so they start counting to ten instead, before starting over again. And again.

It feels like it’s lasting hours, but punishment always feels like it takes forever. If they could focus enough, they think they’d already be at one thousand, but they can’t, so they aren’t.

They’re only at ten.

And then one, then two, then three…

Each breath they drag in is marked with a number, just to swirl around their chest, sucked free of its oxygen and loaded with waste, and then forced out in a quick pant, gone forever, to be recycled by the dying houseplants or to escape out a window, if it makes it that far.

This used to help Whumpee, or, they think they remember it having helped, but now it just feels like extra work, like something else to keep track of in addition to the searing pain.

Just another useless habit formed along the way.

They keep counting anway.

Even though it doesn’t lessen the pain in their hand.

The electric stove heats up slowly, but already it hurts, the smooth, modern, obsidian glass top, shifting to orange—soon to be red—and their palm sparks in pain.

They used to be better at this. They used to be able to handle pain like this. The counting and breathing helped, and they could zone out for as long as they needed to. But now….Well, now it’s different.

New Whumper is different.

And Whumpee is weaker.

So, when they broke New Whumper’s nice cup, they decided they would get ahead of things, punish themselves so they wouldn’t have to risk whatever punishment New Whumper decided.

They thought if they could pick their own punishment, they could handle the pain better.

But it hurts so bad.

The stove is red now, a bright, glowing spiral beneath their hand, their skin blistering and whitening against the surface.

How long should they hold it there?

Whumpee doesn’t know. They can’t focus enough to count above ten.

But at least New Whumper will be satisfied, when they find Whumpee’s penance is already paid. When they find—

“Whumpee!”

Whumpee startles at their name, but not enough to remove their hand. The stove hisses at the little teardrops landing on is red-black top. Whumpee hadn’t even realized they were crying.

Maybe the counting worked after all.

New Whumper lunges into the kitchen, stepping over the broken bits of cup on the floor, and grabs them by the wrist, yanking them away from the stove. As soon as they do, all the numbers, and air, and strength, rushes out of Whumpee all at once as they collapse backwards into their new master.

Their breathing comes in quick little gasps, and Whumpee speeds up their counting to keep up, because the pain is far from gone.

“Oh, oh, Whumpee, what happened?” New Whumper stutters, and they seem more upset than Whumpee as they hug Whumpee to them, still holding their hand aloft by their wrist.

New Whumper slowly turns over their hand and Whumpee can feel their body tense behind them as they both look down at bubbling skin.

“I–I need—needed p-punishing, so now, now Whumper does not have t-to.”

Whumpee’s voice sounds wet and weak. Weeping, like their bloodless wound.

Still gripped by the wrist, Whumper spins them around to face them, and Whumpee realizes New Whumper’s hand is shaking around their own.

“Look at me, please,” New Whumper asks, and Whumpee looks up from where their tears spatter on the floor, from the shard of porcelain that skidded under the counter’s edge.

“I am not Whumper. You will never be punished, here. A broken cup isn’t worth your harm.” New Whumper say the words like they’re true.

“T-that’s…a lie,” Whumpee says, before they can stop themselves from speaking the blasphemous acustation.

“No. No, I promise. I will never hurt you. You don’t have to be punished. Not anymore.”

But that has to be a lie. Because if a broken cup, an improper kneeling, an unfollowed command, isn’t worth Whumpee’s hurting, then why have they ever had to hurt? Why have they ever been hurt?

Why have they had to learn to count each breath through all the pain?

“B-but—”

It’s all Whumpee can manage, before their voice cracks, and they start to sniffle, and they have to focus on keeping their hand from curling into a tight, little ball.

And when Caretaker pulls them to their chest and lets Whumpee bury their face in their hoodie, shushing them softing, sliding fingers through their hair while holding their burnt hand up protectively, they break down and cry for what feels like hours.

And this time, they don’t count their breaths.

#whumptober2022 #whumptober 2022 #no. 15 #no. 15 emotional damage #lies #new scars #breathing through the pain #whump prompt #whump writing #self-harm trigger #self harm trigger #burns #conditioned whumpee #new whumper = caretaker

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