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drabbles-mc · 1 year

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I Said I'm Fine

JJ Maybank x F!Reader

For Day 14 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: false smile / holding back tears / "I said I'm fine"

Warnings: 18+, language, angst

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: I've been wanting to write for JJ again for a while now and these prompts just seemed to good to pass up for him. Hope you enjoy!

OBX Taglist: @garbinge @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

The pogues all getting back to the Outer Banks was the biggest news on the island since they’d all gone missing. It was funny to you how much people had switched up about them once they were missing. People that you knew for a fact had never said a kind word to any of them were suddenly saying how worried they were, how they hoped that they were all okay wherever they were. It was all bullshit, and you knew it, but it wasn’t worth fighting with them over.

You almost wished that any of it had been sincere, because at least then it wouldn’t have felt like you were suffering alone. But, as it stood, you had no one. The more time that went by, the less people even pretended to care, and the more alone you felt.

But then they all came home.

There was nothing else in your life that could’ve compared to the feeling of relief that came when you found out that it was true, that they really were all back on the island. All of those weeks with absolutely no news, and now you were going to be able to see them all again. It felt like your heart was going to leap clean out of your chest.

You didn’t really know what you expected, but when you stopped by the chateau to see everyone, the only person that you saw there was John B. It made sense that everyone would’ve gone off in their different directions, but part of you was hoping that you would be able to see them all together before they split off.

It didn’t stop you from hugging John B tight enough to you to risk cracking his ribs. “I’m so glad you guys are okay,” you said, tears welling up in your eyes.

He laughed but you could hear the heaviness in it as he said, “Yea, me too.”

Pulling back, you quickly wiped the tears from your face. “Where…where is everyone?”

He shook his head, looking as bewildered as you felt. He didn’t know what else to do besides shrug. “Not sure. I think that everyone went…went home. Sarah went to get some stuff from Tannyhill but then she’ll be back here.”

“What about JJ?”

John B shrugged again. “He didn’t say where he was going exactly. Just figured he was going back to his house.”

Your heart sank at that. His house. His house that you knew for a fact was now taped off and slated to be seized by the bank. His house that he had been dying to get out of for years before all of this, and now it was only going to be worse.

Trying to get your feelings under control, you nodded. “Right. I’m, um, I’m gonna go see if I can catch up with him. I’ll try to track down Pope and Kie tomorrow.”

John B nodded. “Sure thing.”

Pulling him into another hug, you told him, “I’m so fucking glad you guys are home.”

He eased into the hug, squeezing you back for a moment. “Thank you.”

Without wasting another minute, you took off from the chateau back to your car and started towards JJ’s. You’d been stopping there on your rounds while everyone had been gone. You’d been stopping by the chateau too, on the off chance that they all appeared again and were just trying to lay low like the last time they dropped off the radar.

Practically jumping out of your car, you started making your way towards the front door. You saw the tape across it, but you also saw the way that the front door had been opened anyway. A heaviness settled in your chest as you realized that JJ had to come home after so many weeks away, to this. You’d been spending all of those weeks alone, but JJ had to come back to loneliness. That was an entirely different kind of pain.

Letting yourself in the house, you called out for him. “JJ?”

There was the sound of something clattering to the ground followed by the heavy footsteps that let you know that while a lot of things might have changed, JJ still hadn’t lost his boots. Any of the comfort that you found in that realization, however, was lost when JJ emerged from where his bedroom used to be. The lost look on his face broke your heart, but what made it worse was the fact that he tried to paint a smile on over it as he said your name.

“What’re you doing here?”

You wanted to step in closer to him, but it felt like your feet were glued to the floor. “I just, um, I wanted to come and see you.”

He held his arms out, the fake smile growing sadder by the second. “Here I am.”

Something about the sadness in his face got your feet to finally cooperate with the rest of you. Crossing the room in what felt like two long strides, you landed yourself right in front of him. “I missed you.”

“I—” his sentence was cut short for a moment as you wrapped him up in a hug. He settled into it, but you could feel the way that he was beginning to shake as he said, “I missed you too.”

The two of you stood like that for a long time, wrapped up in the middle of the dirty living room of Luke’s abandoned house. You were making up for lost time, all the days and nights that you’d spent worrying about him, about all of them. Every day that went by it felt less and less likely that you’d ever get the chance to hug JJ like this again. But he was here now, and you didn’t want to let him go.

JJ, on the other hand, was holding you tight in the hopes that if he held you tight enough, held you long enough, that the world around him would somehow change. As long as your arms were squeezing around his middle, and his eyes were shut tight as he buried his face into your shoulder, the sad reality of all that he had to come back to on the island wasn’t something that he had to deal with.

You could feel it as he started to shake more, could feel how he was trying desperately to hold back his tears. Running your hand up and down his back, you said, “You can talk to me, you know.”

That snapped him out of the sad but wishful state that he’d been in. Pulling away from you, he sniffled and shook his head, trying to blink his tears back into submission. “Talk? What’s,” he forced a laugh, “what’s there to talk about?”

“JJ—”

“No, no,” he waved you off, taking a step back, “I’m fine. Really. Why,” he let out a sad laugh as he held his arms out, gesturing to the room around you, “why wouldn’t I be good? I’m home! All those weeks away and I’m finally fucking home!”

You felt your bottom lip starting to quiver. “I’m sorry.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck—he could feel the anger threatening to roll over him. It wasn’t about you. None of this was your fault. But the longer he stood there, looking at you and the sad, sympathetic look in your eyes, the more he felt like he was going to take it out on you anyway. It wasn’t fair. But nothing about any of this really was.

“What do you have to be sorry for? I said I’m fine. I’m back,” he kicked an empty beer can to the side, “back in paradise.”

You knew that there was nothing to say that was going to soothe the pain he was feeling. Everyone else was coming home to things that were theirs, coming home to families of some kind. But not him. He had an empty, foreclosed house and that was it. John B had the chateau, Sarah had John B, Kiara had her parents, and Pope had his. Everyone had someone to lean on, something that was waiting to welcome them home. JJ had you, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t what he was looking for.

“You don’t gotta stay,” he said after a long stretch of silence. “I’m all good here, if you couldn’t tell.”

“I want to stay,” you told him, hoping to make him realize that he wasn’t as alone as he felt.

He scoffed. “No one wants to stay here. I don’t want to stay here, that’s for damn sure. Luke didn’t wanna stay here either! Hell, I didn’t even want to come back at all!”

The tears that were lingering at the edges of your eyes finally started to spill over. “JJ…”

“No, no,” he waved you off, “don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that, say my name like that.”

“I’m not—”

“What are you even doing here, anyway?”

Wiping at the tears on your face, you asked, “Is it not obvious?” You could tell by the look on his face when he opened his mouth that he was going to have another sarcastic comment for you, so you cut him off before he could start. “I’ve been worried sick about you for well over a month, JJ. You were missing. I, I was worried that you were dead.”

“Well,” he threw his hands up, “I’m not. I’m good. So you can—”

“You’re not good, JJ! Stop saying that!” You took a step towards him, erasing the distance that he’d tried to put there. “You’re not good. Nothing…nothing about this situation is good. I, I get that.”

You didn’t get it fully. But you were at least in a place where you could see it more than anyone else had been capable of. That’s why you were standing there with him while everyone else was gone. You were expecting JJ to throw it back in your face, though, the way that you couldn’t possibly understand it all. You braced yourself for a tirade, but it never came. The anger that was beginning to flood his eyes slowly started to drain, the sadness and loss creeping back in its stead. You saw the way he tried to keep his tears at bay as he shook his head at you, trying to figure out what to say next.

All you wanted to do was pull him out of that god forsaken house and never let him go back. Your mind was already racing, trying to come up with a plan for it all. But you also knew that the best plan in the world wasn’t going to matter if JJ didn’t agree to it. It all hinged on him being willing to let his guard down, let someone help.

“Please come stay with me,” you finally said.

He froze, clearly not expecting that to be the next thing you said. “What?”

“Come stay with me. At least for a little while, until we figure out what to do next.”

He shook his head. “No, no I can’t…you’re just…no. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He stepped back and started to pace. “Just because you feel bad, doesn’t mean—”

“This is just as much for me as it is for you,” you said, cutting him off.

It wasn’t a lie, either. You didn’t want JJ to be squatting in Luke’s house for a multitude of reasons. You knew that nothing good was going to come of that. However, you would’ve been lying if you tried to say that convincing him to stay with you and your family didn’t have some selfish ulterior motives to it. All those weeks of not knowing where he was, it would be nice to know that he was just down the hall.

He could see the sincerity in your eyes. Part of him knew that he wasn’t going to end up winning this argument, but another part of him wasn’t going to let him give in without a fight.

“What about your parents?”

You laughed and shook your head, wiping at the tears on your face. “I’ve been telling you for years, JJ, my parents actually like you.”

He never believed it when you said it. You didn’t exactly blame him—most people on the island didn’t like JJ simply because they knew his last name. That, and he had a hard time not feeding into the animosity of it all once he found out that people didn’t particularly trust him. But your parents hadn’t ever treated him poorly, hadn’t ever made him feel less-than. You knew that some of it came from pity, but it was better than them treating him poorly.

It'd been a long enough stretch of silence to allow him to think when you finally spoke up again. “Please?”

He hesitated for another moment longer, but then gave in with a nod. “Okay.” He wiped at the tears on his face. “Just, just until I figure out something else.”

Relief flooded through you as you nodded. “Of course.”

Stepping in, JJ wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug, finally allowing himself to fall apart for a moment. “Thank you.”

You held him tight. “Of course.” Hooking your chin over his shoulder, you let your hand trail up and down his back. “I love you, you know.”

You felt the way he nodded as he kept you clung close to him. “I know.” He let out a sigh of relief. “I love you too.”

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday14 #false smile #holding back tears #i said i'm fine #obx #outer banks #outer banks netflix #obx netflix #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank #outer banks fanfiction #obx fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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whump-about-it · 19 days

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Can I Stay Here Tonight?

@whumpril Day 8: Bloodshot

CW: injuries, implied beating, implied torture, implied captivity, exhaustion, implication that Whumpee may be in hiding and/or unhoused

It wasn't unusual for Whumpee to go missing for days or even weeks at a time. No one ever really knew where they went when they disappeared, But they always came back, and usually in one piece. So everyone had long since stopped worrying.

Caretaker had barely even noticed Whumpee was missing again. Only just realizing they hadn't seen them in nearly a week the same night Whumpee showed up again.

It had been raining cats and dogs all day, and Carertaker was having a pleasent evening in, watching trash tv with their roommate and playing a game of cards when the window that lead onto their fire escape eeked open and Whumpee came tumbling in.

"We have a door you know." Roommate told them, barely fazed by Whumpee's random appearance. Whumpee had a talent for slipping in and out of places unnoticed. And considering the late hour, they had probably assumed the roommates would be a sleep.

Whumpee stood up and closed the window again behind them before so much as acknowledging the apartment owners, who stayed on the couch watching them curiously. They were soaking wet. Unsurprising considering they had just climbed three stories on an outdoor stairway. Their usually baggy clothing clung to their skin, reminding Caretaker nauseatingly of just how small Whumpee actually was. It also didn't escape Caretaker's notice that Whumpee was wearing the same clothing that they had been in the last time the two had seen each other; some five days before.

"Sorry to intrude." Whumpee said in a dead pan voice when they finally turned to look at Caretaker and Roommate. They had dark circles under their eyes and a cut next to their left ear. Caretaker thought they looked paler than usual, but it could have just been the way their water-darkened hair stuck to their face.

"I just need to borrow your bathroom."

It was the only explanation Whumpee gave before they walked past Caretaker and Roommate towards their bathroom down the hall, water dripping them their sopping clothes as they went. Caretaker's eyes followed Whumpee as they disappeared. There was a tired slump to their shoulders and an unevenness to their gait that made Caretaker think they were concealing a limp.

"First aid kit's under the sink!" Caretaker called after them, but Whumpee gave no indication of having heard. As soon as Caretaker heard the sound of the bathroom door click shut they turned back to Roommate and frowned. Roommate didn't look too pleased about Whumpee's sudden appearance in their apartment. Those two were not each others biggest fans, but they put up with one another for Caretaker's sake, so Roommate seemed to have decided to keep their mouth shut for now.

"I should go check on them."

Roommate nodded in agreement.

"I'll put a kettle on."

Caretaker went to their room and grabbed a clean pair of sweat pants and a fresh t-shirt they didn't think would be too baggy on Whumpee before giving the bathroom door a courteous knock and entering. They knew Whumpee would have preferred their privacy, and probably would have locked the door if they could. But as it was, the lock on the bathroom door had been broken as long as Caretaker and Roommate had been lived in the place, and it was Caretaker's place after all, so they refused to feel bad about inviting themselves in.

Inside the bathroom Whumpee had stripped down to their underwear and was sitting perched on the edge of the bathtub, the first aid kit sitting open on the lowered toilet lid next to them. Mostly nude, it was obvious Whumpee had been in some kind of trouble. They had bruises all up their torso and arms. There was another scabbing over cut on their collar bone similar to the one by their ear, and shredded up skin on the outside of their left leg from mid-calf to upper thigh that looked like they had lost a fight with a cheese grater. Their knuckles were scabbed and bruised and there were concerningly dark purple bruises around their wrists. The worst of their injuries however seemed to be a series of deep gashes on their forearm that Whumpee was currently picking glass out of with a pair of tweezers.

"I'm fine." Whumpee said defensively, barely looking up at Caretaker as they walked in.

"Yeah, you look fantastic." Caretaker set the clothes down on the vanity and went to crouch next to Whumpee. It was by no means the worst condition Whumpee had ever stumbled into their apartment in, but they didn't look good either. Up close, Caretaker could tell that Whumpee was indeed paler than usual. And their eyes were deeply bloodshot. In fact their whole body language screamed at exhaustion, and Caretaker wondered if they had slept at all since they'd last seen them.

Caretaker knew better than to ask what had happened. Or where Whumpee had disappeared to. Whumpee had never lied to Caretaker, but they would down right refuse to answer such questions. The two had spent days worth of time arguing about it. Caretaker wanted to help. Of course they did, and they'd rather prevent Whumpee from getting hurt than patch them up after the fact. But Whumpee had their secrets, and as they often liked to point out during their fights, Caretaker had known that when their lives had first become intertwined with one another. Caretaker knew Whumpee thought they were protecting them by keeping so many secrets from them. But they also knew Whumpee could disappear and Caretaker would never see or hear from them again if they tried to dig to deep. So they resigned themselves, as they always had, to helping Whumpee where they were permitted too, and praying they knew their limits otherwise.

They watched Whumpee for a few seconds as they tried to pick the pieces of dark colored glass out of their own weeping arm. They weren't doing a very good job of it. Their hands were shaking violently. Whether from cold, or pain, or tiredness, Caretaker didn't know.

"Here, let me." They finally said and plucked the tweezers from Whumpee's trembling hands before they could refuse. It was a testament to just how awful Whumpee must have been feeling that they in fact didn't refuse Caretaker's help, and even turned their arm to give Caretaker a better angle on their wound.

They didn't flinch as Caretaker plucked the tiny pieces of glass from their skin. They almost never did. Caretaker did however pretend not to notice the way their eyes were getting waterier and more bloodshot as they worked. Soon enough all the glass was out of the wound and Caretaker was cleaning it with an alcohol swab and taping a gauze pad over it. Whumpee gave an audible hiss when the alcohol made contact with heir broken skin, but still didn't move. Afterwards, Caretaker insisted that they be aloud to clean the road rash on Whumpee's leg as well before they put clothes back on. Whumpee gave in oddly easily and leaned their head against the wall as Caretaker worked, their red eyes slipping closed slowly.

It must have been the exhaustion that was making them so malleable. Whumpee was never this easy.

"You were hoping Roommate and I wouldn't catch you breaking in didn't you?" Caretaker poked gently as they worked, wondering if Whumpee may just be tired enough to let something slip.

Whumpee hummed in response and nodded vaguely, still not opening their eyes.

"Done it before." They mumbled after a second. The only surprising thing about that was that they admit it.

"Were you in handcuffs?" Caretaker decided to poke a little deeper. They were almost finished with Whumpee's leg, and those bruises on their wrists did look very painful. Even half asleep though Whumpee knew better than to let their guard slip, and the two remained in silence with the unanswered question hanging between them, until Caretaker was finished working and the kettle was whistling in the kitchen.

"There," Caretaker said resolutely when they'd finished. "Now put on the dry clothes, and where ever you want to disappear too tonight, you're at least staying for a cup of tea first."

Caretaker stood to leave, considering where they should situate themselves outside the bathroom to make sure Whumpee didn't slip out any windows without making it look like they were hovering. Before they could make it more than two steps however, Whumpee had reached out a hand and weakly grabbed Caretakers wrist.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Whumpee asked in a meek tired voice. They looked up at Caretaker with what they could have only describe as puppy eyes. If puppies eyes were usually glassed over and bloodshot that is. It was still enough to crumble any resolve Caretaker might have had about the situation, if there had ever been any in the first place. Whumpee rarely asked Caretaker for anything, and they had never asked to spend the night. Whatever had happened to them this time, it must have been worse their physical injuries let on.

"Of Course you can. You never have to ask that. You're always welcome here."

#whump drabble #whumpee x caretaker #whump #whumpril #whumpril2024 #whumprilday8 #bloodshot #stoic whumpee #tw injuries #tw implied torture #tw implied captivity #tw implied unhoused whumpee

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narcolini · 1 year

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biting truth

frank castle x gn!reader, angst/whump, 2693 words

warnings for mentions of violence & injury, canon typical events

for day 9 of whumpril: pinned down | bruises | “who did this to you?”

a/n: just an fyi the fic contains some roughhousing that i would nevverrrrrr tolerate or think was suitable in an irl relationship but... its fiction and hes frank so . we ride

tagging: @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa @drabbles-mc

He’s moved it, he must have done. Probably thinks he’s protecting you, too, thinks that you wouldn’t even miss it. Like this is any safer, rooting around blindly for the touch of metal. He’s forgetting, obviously, that being with him is as much of a fucking threat as being him. That the target on his head reflects right back onto yours, red dot between your brows. All he’s done is strip away the one certainty you had. It’s okay, you thought, if someone comes, because it’s right there in the drawer.

‘Frank,’ you shout, pawing through the clutter in your bedside, ‘I swear to God, if you’ve touched my shit again.’

If shouldn’t even be in that sentence, because he has. He definitely has.

You abandon the pens and wires in the drawer, and reach for the laundry hamper, upturning a weeks worth of dirty clothes onto the floor. Nothing heavy falls out, so you don’t bother rifling through it afterwards. He’s not dumb enough to stash it in there, anyway, desperate as you are.

The bed is your next target; you grunt, lifting the mattress from the frame and shoving it diagonally. Opening up any hiding places that might lie beneath, but there’s no luck there, either. Just slats of wood and old shoe boxes. Fuck.

Before you can put it back and begin fixing the mess you’ve made, the war zone in your own bedroom, there’s a cough at the door—a forced one. Frank clearing his throat to get your attention. When you look up, he’s standing slanted against the doorframe, watching you scramble, arms crossed and waiting.

You can’t help but glare in return. ‘Where is it, Frank?’

He exhales, head tilting, like his day’s been any harder than yours has. ‘Where’s what?’

‘My fucking gun,’ you snap, because surely he knows, regardless of his ignorance to the rest of it—what happened, what you endured—that, he knows.

But he says nothing. He just continues to look at you, arms crossed, gaze steady. Forced patience like every father has. So, you carry on searching, moving around the wonky mattress to root through his bedside instead, which is despairingly empty. Un-lived in. He’s still not been in one place long enough to gather clutter like you have.

‘Now’s not the time to be precious,’ you snark, slamming the drawer shut again. ‘I want it back.’

You get a sigh instead of an answer. ‘You gonna tell me what happened?’ he asks. ‘To your face?’

It was only a matter of time before he noticed that. Probably clocked it as soon as you got home, really, despite the efforts you made to hide it. You’d hurried into the bedroom before he had time to ask, head down, face to the floor, but that was a doomed tactic to start with. Too unlike you to go unchallenged by him.

Now that he’s standing there, parallel, you can hardly hide the bruises on your neck, the dried blood under your nose. Can hardly convince him that it’s anything other than what it is—because he knows, he knows what a fight looks like—but you can play his game in return. You’re just as good at biting your tongue as he is.

‘No,’ you tell him, definite.

He nods, standing out of his lean. ‘Alright,’ he says, as if that’s the end of it.

But it isn’t, because you’re still at a disadvantage. You put your hand out, palm up, and step forward until you’re directly in front of him. Fingertips to his chest. The hall light sits behind the crown of his head, shining onto your face, highlighting the bruises. The blood. It doesn’t matter. ‘Give me the gun,’ you demand.

‘No.’

‘Frank.’

He shrugs, inviting the stand-off to settle. Head hard and jaw set. He could do this all day.

‘Fine.’ You’ll strip the apartment bare until you find it. He can even watch, if he likes.

When you try to move around him, he blocks you, his arm going up to grip a palm to the doorframe. You push against it, but he tenses. Pause to look at him, brow raised, and he just looks back at you, stubborn.

Really? That’s what he’s fighting you on, after everything, your right to own firearms? If it wasn’t so maddeningly annoying, you’d laugh. If you weren’t still running on adrenaline, and pain, and deep, untouched fear, you’d tell him so. You’d make him see how absurd he’s being, given the weapon that he is himself.

Instead, you duck under his barrier before he can stop you, and ignore the way he calls your name afterwards—like a curse—to hot-foot into the living room. It has to be in here somewhere. Even he wouldn’t dispose of it entirely.

‘Will you just talk to me?’ he complains, boots heavy on the floorboards. He’s hounding after you, of course, through the short hallway, between the couches, into the kitchenette.

Where is it? Where would he put it?

You open the cabinet under the sink, then slam it shut again.

‘You come home,’ he says, hovering behind, ‘with that shit all over your face, and you expect me to just ignore it?’

‘I expect you to trust me,’ you quip back. ‘The only person you ever trust is…’

You spin, piece slotting into the puzzle at last. It’s on him still. He hasn’t hidden it at all, because he’s the only one he trusts to use it.

‘Give it to me.’

He sniffs, stalling, then nods a fraction, hands propped on his waist. ‘When you tell me what you need it for.’

You dive at him, too sick of bickering to bother with anything other than action now, reaching for the back of his jeans. When your arms aren’t quite long enough to get there, you hook his belt loops instead, twisting him toward you. And that’s as far as you get, because, well, it’s Frank. You can never out-step him.

He grabs your biceps before you can try to reach it a second time, which—God—which triggers something you didn’t expect, a reaction like you’re there again, like you’re in between buildings downtown, struggling to get free, and you slap him. Not hard, but palms flat and directionless. Panic swatting to get away from him, his chest, his arms, anything besides working toward the gun; for a moment, you’ve forgotten about the gun.

You catch his face once before he makes any firm efforts to stop you, his head turning from the impact.

Then you’re against the wall behind, not roughly, but in a controlled way. Walked back and put there, with his grip on your arms light enough to leave wiggle room still.

‘Get off me,’ you bark, shaping guilt into anger. Too high to come back down yet, to realise it’s Frank, your frank, that you’re fighting against.

‘Not until you—hey. Hey!’ He drops his hold to your wrists, pinning them to the wall by your sides. Arms forced straight and motionless at last. ‘Stop,’ he instructs, voice taut in his effort not to shout, ‘stop it. Tell me what’s going on.’

You try him again, curving under his hold. Hips to his, spine arching, fists bumping the drywall. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even look mad.

‘Get off me, Frank.’

‘Who did this to you?’ he asks, looking more concerned than annoyed, despite the situation. His heavy brows sink together, his eyes scan your face like you’re something to be ret-conned. Worry printed behind the dark of them. ‘Tell me.’

‘I won’t.’

He hasn’t even seen the worst of the bruising, doesn’t really know what you’re protecting him from yet. You aren’t doing it to be stubborn, or mysterious, or to give yourself power over something he can’t reach. You won’t tell him because it’ll make things worse, because it’ll possess him beyond rationality and then you’ll have nothing left, just aches and an empty apartment.

‘Please just leave it,’ you try, attempting to soften him. ‘It’s dealt with.’

Again, he doesn’t budge. He adjusts his hold, bringing your hands up, elbows bent. ‘We can stay like this as long as you want.’

Your nostrils flare, and you know you’re looking at him with venom, because the plea didn’t work, and he’s a mule that won’t budge, and it doesn’t matter, right now, that you love him still, under it all, because he’s winning. He’s winning. You don’t have the same unwavering patience that he does—when it comes to you. His lungs are scooping in breaths, as riled up as you are, but his hands are firm, his grip steady. His jaw flexes as he waits you out. And he wins.

‘Fine,’ you concede, ‘alright. Just—get off me. I’ll tell you.’

He considers it for a moment before deciding you aren’t lying, then breaks free. Palms open, boots back. You rub your wrists, though they aren’t hurting, and flick him a sour look.

‘Well?’ he prompts.

‘Jesus, okay.’ It’s concern, you know, that’s drawn the urgency out of him. It’s the bruise under your eye, and the blood on your nose, staring back at him, but, God, if it doesn’t feel like a punishment. Like you’ve done wrong yourself, instead of being the victim in the first place. ‘It was Billy,’ you admit, and your voice pinches at the end like it might break. If you could give him a different name, any other name, you would do it happily. Easily. Saying Billy’s is like tugging the pin from a grenade and holding onto it afterwards. Waiting.

He frowns, speaking carefully around the word, ‘Billy?’

‘Yes, Billy.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, Frank, he tried to snatch me to use as bait.’ You walk past him, aimless, and pause again once you’re by the kitchen island. ‘But he forgot to account for the fact I’m not easily fucking abducted.’

All that special, super secret, military service, and he didn’t even bother to look into your own history. Your training. You aren’t military standard, but you know how to fight well enough to have caught him off-guard. Which was all you needed, apparently.

‘He hurt you,’ Frank says. A statement, not a question, said to help him process it. You watch him chew it over in his head, and you know where it takes him. You had tried to avoid it.

‘No more than I hurt him,’ you reply, attempting to sound reassuring. ‘Was like fighting a fucking clone of myself.’

It’s not entirely true, because he had the up on you in terms of height, weight, intent—he wanted you to go with him, for the sake of his cause. For the sake of Frank. You just wanted to make enough of a scene that he couldn’t succeed. But it isn’t entirely false, either. You had got a swipe of nails cross his cheek, a knee to the soft of his groin. It was like cats, by the end, slapping paws at each other, biting ears. No rules and no tact, either. He couldn’t do anything once you’d found a crowd to push into, wouldn’t do something insane enough to get the advantage again, so you went.

‘I got into the Subway before he could stop me,’ you add.

You’d watched him from the safety of the carriage, doors shut firmly between the two of you, feeling victorious. Now, looking at Frank, it’s obvious your win was just a pause in the fight, a moment to catch your breath.

He’s flexing his hands, curling them in and out of fists. You watch him lick his lip, nodding, watch his expression change like he’s talking to himself. Working it all out behind his skull and you’re not invited.

‘You can relax, Frank. You’ve officially go the upper hand.’ Billy’s plan to get at him, to draw him out of the cracks, has failed. He can’t try it again now that it’s laid bare, spelled out for Frank to work around.

‘He tried to—’

‘But he didn’t, did he?’ You flap your arms, gesturing to yourself. ‘I’m fine. Crisis averted.’

The look he gives you in return makes you falter. Tugs your heart from under all the stress, the print of adrenaline, and reminds it of itself. What it beats for. He looks seconds away from darting out of here, like the moment of misjudgement before a deer leaps across the highway. Your gun is in his waistband already. His boots are on. It’d take him less than a minute to ruin everything, to be gone before you could stop him.

When you speak again, it’s with half the bite and conviction of before. More of a bargain, a plea, than anything else. ‘Don’t make all of this for nothing by walking into his trap anyway.’

It’s not your life you were fighting for, it was his. If Billy got you to where he wanted, you know how it would’ve gone down. A life for a life. Frank would’ve agreed to it without a thought, in a heartbeat, would have sacrificed himself before Billy even got a knife to your throat. Before a threat was even laid.

He’s thinking about it still. Wants to end this now, instead of waiting for the next play.

‘So what was your plan?’ he asks suddenly, half-scoffing. He can barely look at you as he says it. ‘You were gonna go out there, and kill him yourself?’

You don’t know what stings more, the doubt in his voice that you could, or the idea that you’d be dumb enough to try, knowing what he’d do in return if it all went wrong.

‘All I’m ever doing, Frank, is trying to protect you from yourself.’ You’re hissing the words out at him, forcing them through your teeth. ‘Forgive me, if I want to protect my own life every once in a while.’

You don’t want to kill Billy, you don’t even have the mental space to imagine it. You just want a weapon that would stop him the next time he tries, if he tries. You won’t be lucky a second time around. Billy wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating you twice, especially now that you’ve left your mark on him.

Frank is breathing heavy enough for you to hear it, his chest up and down under the black of his shirt. It’s not frustration anymore, but fear. Control slipping out from beneath him. He can’t expect you to hide, or live in the shadows like he does. He knows not to ask it of you.

‘You shouldn’t have to do that,’ he says.

You sigh. You don’t need to answer him, don’t need to remind him that, well, yes. You do have to do it. And you’re far too deep into the mess of it all to step out of range now.

‘Billy won’t,’ he starts, though you both know he’ll be lying by the end of it. ‘He won’t come near you again. Alright? You don’t need to…’

You put your hand out again. Your voice is soft now. ‘It’ll make me feel better,’ you say, ‘please.’

He pauses, for a drawn out moment, with his gaze somewhere on the ground in front of him. Then he reaches behind, to pull the gun from his jeans, and passes it to you.

Billy won’t, he said, he shouldn’t. But he might, and that’s a truth that neither of you can try to hide from each other. A reality that sits in the room already.

‘Thank-you,’ you breathe, relieved now that it’s in your hand, and soon it’ll be back by the bed where it belongs. A safety net you hope you’ll never bounce in.

Frank nods, running his tongue over his gums. When he finally connects again, his eyes on yours, expression tired more than anything else, you smile. Or try to. He doesn’t match the gesture, turning to leave instead.

‘I’ll run a bath,’ he says, ‘get you cleaned up.’

‘Alright.’

You know how it goes. Clean, soothed, and back to argue about it all over again.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x you #whumpril2023 #whumpril #im getting brave now adding frankie to my blorbo writing wheel #this reader character is such a firecracker i almost feel bad for frank LMAO #he doesnt need the stress

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federaliszt · 11 days

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Brain Fog

personally i LOVE this trope sm seeing as how I live with it on a daily basis.

love when a character's brain fog interferes with their ability to do certain plot-critical things, thus causing a major setback in the good guys' plans that the character then gets blamed for not preventing.

medic character who is still getting over a bad illness, swaying woozily when no one is watching, forgetting to stitch up their own wound or someone else's. forgetting HOW to stitch up a wound, even.

concussed hero character who knows that villain monologued the conditions of their surrender to them, but forgetting what exactly those terms were when someone asks them to repeat what villain said.

detective whumpee or lawyer whumpee who just knows they have all the pieces they need in order to put together a solid case against the perp, but whose brain is just not cooperating with them as they review the case files for hours on end, chugging coffee and losing hours of sleep and too proud to call up their partner at 3:30am and admit that they need help.

brain fog that makes an otherwise responsible whumpee forget important events and assignments. makes them late to birthday celebrations or time-sensitive things like picking up young kids from school or activities. now not only have they got their guilt to deal with, but they've also got a tiny person very angry with them too.

brain fog that subtly slides into the realization that things are just not right in their mind or in their body. things that might or might not be solved with a good night's rest. things that they need to solve in order to go on with their lives and not fuck up everyone else's in the process.

i love every iteration of this trope, I just eat it right up and it says nothing about me

#whumpril #whumpril alt prompt #brain fog #whumpril2024 #whump #whump writing #h/c prompts #whump prompts

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losthavenmine · 1 year

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Whumpril 2023 Day 30: Holding Hands

L.A. Confidential (1997)

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its-my-whump · 25 days

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Whumpril 2024 - Day 2

Sweat

@whumpril

Tw: illness, fever, unconsciousness

They told him, he had a fever. They told him, that's why he was freezing. But that didn't make any sense. A fever means burning up, but he was feeling like his body was numbing from the cold all around.

His arms and legs were thrembling. He was so cold. Even his teeth were chattering.

His vision was blurry, his fingers actually were tingling with numbness as he tried to store them under his armpits. He needed another blanket or he would freeze to death. The sweat on his body made him believe, he broke through the ice and was certainly dying from the cold.

He was trapped in a daze. His head wasn't able to keep him in the present.

A hand, out of nowhere found its way on his forehead. It was heavenly cool. That was making no sense at all. He was lifted, his extremities were so heavy. Yet, he wouldn't have been able to move by himself, he realised, when he tried to lift his head from the shoulder it was tucked against. His feet just dangling... somewhere. A moan slipped out of his lips, he believed.

The body right there was cool. He got aware of his own sweat soaked self through the difference to dry clothes and cool skin from the other body.

Maybe, he was really burning up. But he wasn't sure. The awareness slipped away. The smoke in his head too thick.

The realisation, that he was carried somewhere was gone, until suddenly he was ripped from his daze and pulled back to a painful reality.

He wasn't aware, that his burning body was gently set into a bath tub filled with cold water. Yes, his boxers became wet, but actually he wasn't sure, if he may had wet himself. But he was too weak to care anyway.

The shirt, that was already clinging to his body through wetness seemed to lift away from his chest. Breathing had been difficult, but suddenly it was impossible.

Suddenly, he was trapped in ice. For a second there, he realised, that his body was on fire from the fever and then it was drowned. Not his head, but his body. The heaviness on his whole was suddenly something touchable, but it wasn't something bearable.

His eyes flew open, a desperate inhale, the air kept stuck somewhere in his throat. His hands and feet exploded away and water splashed everywhere. Big hands on his shoulders kept him where he was.

"You're all right, buddy." The calm voice slowly came through, as his sudden fight ebbed away with the last of his strength. The realisation, that he was sitting in a bath tub to bring down the fever, that was eating him alive, slipped through for a brief moment, just to vanish into darkness again.

Everything was still so uncomfortable, but just too straining. His eyes fluttered close and the tension left his shivering body.

A hand from his shoulder went to his jaw, that it wouldn't slip under the surface and dipped his head back carefully against the rim. Than it gently brushed through his sweaty hair.

"You're alright, buddy. I got you."

My masterlist

#whumpril #whumpril2024 #whumprilday2 #sweat #whump writing

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pandoramoments · 15 days

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Cobb fell to the ground as the citizens of Freetown looked on with fear in their eyes.

The Duros turned coolly and walked away, despite the midday heat as Jo made her way over to their Sheriff.

"Still breathing." She acknowledged under her breath, but her fears weren't exactly alleviated; Cobb had a weak pulse as his body dropped into shock from the injury.

She lifted her head to see her own fear reflected back in the eyes of Taanti. "Alive, but..." she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence as she shifted back. Beside her, the town's medic took over, but her grim expression failed to provide any hope.

"We fightin'?" Taanti asked, in a voice that clearly stated that it wasn't really a question.

She nodded silently, forcing herself to stand and leave Cobb on the ground. Cobb had wanted to fight, always easily charmed by the Mandalorian, so she would take up his fight. The effects of any instability in Mos Espa would billow out towards their little oasis too.

If Cobb died, she didn't want it to be for nothing.

#my art #star wars #the mandalorian #book of boba fett #cobb vanth #whumprilday12 #whumpril #whumpril2024 #weak pulse

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cuddlepilefics · 10 days

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Three mistakes

Fandom: P1Harmony

Sickie: Keeho

Caregivers: P1Harmony

Prompt 'bloodshot' @whumpril

No one’s POV.:

He should’ve expected this, Keeho scolded himself, lightly palming at his middle to try and soothe the angry churning under his palm. As the leader of P1Harmony, he had been stuck in a meeting with their management for most of the afternoon, while the rest of the group was practicing. He hadn’t even really had the time to eat his meals over the course of the day, hurriedly forcing down a granola bar while they had a bathroom break. It always sucked attending meetings without any of the members present because it meant that he had the full responsibility to defend the members needs, which felt like an uphill battle for a single person versus a multiple people management team but he had known that this was what awaited him in his position as the leader. Still, he was exhausted and to say he felt starved once the meeting finally ended. That was also why he grabbed some takeout as soon as it was over, hurriedly digging in. Checking the time, Keeho realized that his group was probably already heading back to the dorm by now, while he finally ate dinner but he couldn’t afford to go home yet.

Having missed the group practice session in order to attend the meeting and represent his group, Keeho had already decided to stay back at the company building and practice by himself for a while. He barely took the time to really chew his food, mainly swallowing bite after bite, so he could head to the practice room faster and hopefully get to go home soon too. That was his first mistake. He occasionally struggled with indigestion when the group wasn’t given enough time to eat during busy schedules and he forgot to chew his food properly, so yeah, he should’ve known that shoveling down a full meal after barely eating all day would give him a stomach ache but that ship had sailed. All Keeho could do now was to try and slowly sip some water while stretching to warm up for practicing his dance moves.

Since Keeho really wanted to go home soon, he only went through a short warmup before selecting the song and playing it on speaker. That was his second mistake, Keeho thought bitterly as he doubled over after only the third run through. Bracing himself on his knees, he breathed hard and swallowed against the rising queasiness. He should really give his hastily eaten dinner a chance to settle before dancing but he so badly wanted to go home. The day had already been so long and he knew he couldn’t leave before polishing up some of his dance moves. Gosh, how badly he wanted to be back at the dorm. Keeho had barely seen the members all day and since they were so used to being around each other close to 24/7, it was weird practicing by himself, especially while knowing that everyone else was united and he was the odd one out.

With his stomach growing increasingly unsettled, Keeho was pretty close to caving and just calling it a day. If only there wasn’t that small voice at the back of his head reminding him that he needed to catch up on the practice time he had missed. Plopping down next to his bag, he pulled out his phone and slipped one hand under his shirt. As he read over their group chat, he felt how tight his abs felt despite his middle seemingly swollen. Apparently, the rest of the group had decided on having movie night and asked whether he’d be home soon to join them. Patting his chest, Keeho forced a burp and winced when it brought a rancid taste to his tongue. He had hoped it’d relieve the pressure a little but it had barely helped. Sighing, the leader accepted that with the way he was feeling at the moment, he wouldn’t make progress nearly as fast as he had thought, so he replied that he would still need a while and to start movie night without him.

Putting his phone down, Keeho struggled back to his feet and tried to give the choreo another try but his stomach cramped up so badly, all he could do was drop into a crouch barely able to breathe as he broke into a cold sweat. His hands trembled when he shakily pushed himself back up, only to limp back to his bag. There was no way he could keep practicing. He should’ve just gone home when he had still been able to walk properly. By now, every step was agony, the pain in his stomach so intense, it made him sweat like crazy.

“Oh, hyung! You’re back already?”, Intak exclaimed when the front door opened and Keeho tiredly kicked off his shoes. If he hadn’t felt so miserable, the leader would’ve laughed at the phrasing. ‘already’… As if it hadn’t taken him ages to drag his sorry ass back to their dorm. Slowly trudging to the living room, Keeho sighed: “Yeah, it wasn’t going so well and I wasn’t making any progress, so I decided I’d just work harder to catch up during our next group dance practice.” – “Are you okay”, Jiung asked, brows furrowed when he noticed the leader’s pinched expression. Nodding, Keeho have his stomach a quick rub and admitted: “I was really starved when I got out of that meeting and wanted to quickly practice, so I could join you. There was no way I would’ve had the energy to dance without eating something first but I also couldn’t waste any time. Forced down some takeout as fast as I could before dancing. Yeah, please congratulate me on my amazing life choices. I got a stomach ache now.”

Keeho had managed to downplay his current struggle well without having to lie to the members. They had asked him if he still wanted to join them in watching a movie although they were already halfway into the storyline. The offered cuddles and heating pad had sounded nice but all Keeho really wanted was his bed. Apologizing to the members for his stupidity, he said as much before shuffling to the bathroom to get himself ready for bed.

“Hey, I brought you tea. You really holding up alright?”, Taeyang asked softly, slipping into Keeho’s room while the leader was sorting out his blankets, “You look awful, honestly. Like, really pale and… are you sure you’re not running a fever? You look sweaty. Might be from dancing still but….” Dropping his head into his hands, Keeho sighed: “Feel awful too but it’s not right to complain when I brought this onto myself.” – “Awful how?”, the eldest pressed, handing his friend the cup. “My stomach’s killing me, so much that I keep sweating but I don’t feel warm in the slightest”, Keeho mumbled, shuddering a little as he clutched the warm cup, “Also feel really shaky but I don’t think I’m sick-sick ‘cause it only started after my rushed dinner.” Taeyang’s cold hand on his forehead sent a shiver down his spine, the older frowning: “You don’t usually run fevers like this from indigestion. Maybe you just really pushed yourself today and will feel better after a good night’s sleep. Can I get you anything?” – “Thanks, I think I’ll just try to sleep this off”, Keeho muttered, shifting a little in an attempt to get comfortable despite the pain.

He had fallen asleep not long after Taeyang had told him to get some rest, which had been a true blessing because he had feared he wouldn’t be able to sleep due to the pain. Sadly, he didn’t manage to sleep through the night, waking up drenched in sweat to a dark dorm. The other’s had long since gone to bed and it took Keeho a moment to realize what had woken him. The cramps in his stomach had eased, the pain almost completely gone only to be replaced with unbearable nausea. His mouth already watered, so there was no denying it. He was going to be sick and soon.

With his adrenaline surging, Keeho rolled out of bed. The movement triggered an empty gag and he was glad that he made it out of the room without waking his two roommates, who were sleeping peacefully. Already feeling the acidic burn in his throat, Keeho’s heart started to race. Almost there! Relief washed over him when his hand reached the bathroom door. He would not make a mess! With barely a second to spare, Keeho yanked on the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. There came a muffled ‘occupied’ from the other side of the door just as the leader’s stomach lurched, hot sick rushing up his throat. Registering the splatter and that he had in fact made a mess, Keeho burst into tears. Why couldn’t anything go right today?! His cries weren’t loud but the hitching sobs still messed with his already bubbling stomach.

Luckily, the door swung open before Keeho got sick again and he pushed past Jongseob in a panic. The maknae startled, watching his hyung crash to his knees in front of the toilet. Weakly clutching the toilet seat, Keeho heaved up a large wave of barely digested takeout. “Um, can I get you anything? Water maybe?”, Jongseob mumbled, feeling a little lost. Squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to hold off a gag, the leader drew a deep breath. “Taey-“, he managed to choke out before losing the fight, getting sick again. Glancing at the puddle by the door, chunky sick still trailing down the door, Jongseob promised: “Be right back.” No sooner than the maknae left, taking a large step over the mess at the door, Keeho stopped holding back his sobs.

It didn’t happen often that he cried this hard but he was feeling miserable and the day had already left him drained. Though it felt like forever, it had barely been a minute before a steady hand appeared on Keeho’s back. Crouching next to the leader, Taeyang soothed: “You’re okay. Deep breaths.” A harsh sob tore from Keeho’s throat, making him gaga again. “Ssssh. Try to calm yourself down”, the eldest shushed, “You’ll only upset your stomach more if you get worked up like this.” Drawing a shuddering breath, Keeho looked up at Taeyang and winced when the bright ceiling light stung his bloodshot eyes. “What happened? I see you weren’t able to sleep it off but did you get any rest at all?”, the eldest hummed, running his hand up and down Keeho’s back when the leader crossed his arms over the toilet bowl and rested his head on them. Closing his eyes, the younger rasped: “Been asleep for a while but woke up like this.”

“Are you sure this isn’t a stomach bug?”, Taeyang asked when Keeho hadn’t thrown up in two minutes. The leader flushed the toilet and hummed: “I felt fine before dinner, so I don’t think so though it’s worse than my usual indigestion when I eat too fast. Honestly, I swallowed my food so fast, I wouldn’t have been able to tell if something tasted off about it, so… could be food poisoning, I dunno.” Apparently, not paying attention to the condition of his food was Keeho’s third mistake. Feeling the back of Keeho’s neck Taeyang nodded despite his dongsaeng not able to see it. “That’d explain the mild fever you’re running. It can’t still be from dancing. Like, you’re not burning but it’s definitely there”, he observed, “Do you think you’re done? We should get you cleaned up and back to bed.”

Getting up on shaky legs, Keeho paled fast as his stomach churned. Only when he looked up did he spot Shota at the door, the younger having woken up when Jongseob came to wake Taeyang. Keeho’s bloodshot eyes met his dongsaeng’s worried ones and he mumbled: “I’m okay. Sorry for waking you up. You can go back to bed.” Shota only shook his head, watching the leader rinse his mouth and wash his face before following the two eldest to the room Taeyang shared with the two maknaes. The three of the were all up already, so why risk waking Jiung and Intak. “Alright, you lie down and try to get some rest”, Taeyang instructed, “I’ll go clean up and fetch a bucket really quick.” Nodding in defeat, Keeho couldn’t help but feel guilty for making a mess but a tap on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts. Jongseob handed him a glass of water and encouraged him to have a few sips before Shota pulled the leader to bed and climbed him behind him. “I don’t think you want that”, Keeho slurred tiredly, “I’ll probably be up puking again soon.” The younger only commented that with a Minecraft sound while curling up against the leader’s back, shyly slipping a hand under his hyung’s shirt.

Under Shota’s light touch, Keeho relaxed and felt himself sink further into the mattress. With how drained he had been, was already asleep when Taeyang returned und placed a bucket next to him.

#whumpril #fanfic #fluff #comfort #fanfiction #sickfic #sick #emeto #p1harmony #whumpril2024 #whumprilday8

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thewhumpcaretaker · 27 days

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🖤 Whumpril Prompt I - Limp 🖤

Poems from the perspective of Caretaker.

This is no death, this is a levitation, bidden by my tenderest command. Rise, you bloodless, boneless, rise, you kitten-soft. Chest-first, and trailing towards the Earth, all limp against the downpull, be aloft.

This is no death, this is an inspiration. Thine is the passion, where the passion ebbs, thine is the power, whose neck and soul loll back, who fainting, fading, sparkles with dark stars. Thine is the sight, whose eyes are clouded black.

This is no death, this is a coronation. Be easy, none oppose you while I stand. Tired warrior, I was busy - all your enemies are dead. You’ll soon awake to find me bowing, and a crown upon your head.

#whumpril #whumpril 2024 #whump poetry #original poem #original art #whump caretaker #whump writing #limp

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idek-anymore-what-the-heck · 7 days

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Whumpril Prompt #20

Touch Starved

TW:

Whumpee was alone.

Whumpee was nearly always alone now. Before, they had a life. They had friends. They even had a lover. But now, they were alone.

Unfortunately, there were times when they were not alone. It is unfortunate because the only times whumpee is not alone is when whumper is with them, and that is worse.

Whumper is a torturer. For fun. Who does that?

Whumper does the normal torture things, like cutting, and burning, and all the typical stuff. But their favorite is psychological torture. Whumpee is learning that the hard way.

In all the time that whumper has had whumpee, they have never touched, skin on skin. Whumper has always had a pole, or a whip, or something else similar. If they had to touch, whumper would wear thick, cold gloves.

And whumper never spoke. Whumpee found that out the hard way too. Speaking is not allowed. If whumpee speaks, they don’t get food for a week, and they are left in solitary. This happened so often in the beginning that when whumper finally came to let them out, whumpers face was like a terrible angel. Whumpee had never been so glad to see someone they hated so much.

All of this meant that when caretaker finally found whumpee, they didn’t believe it.

Whumpees door creaked open, and they looked blearily up from the floor. The light was bright behind the person, and all they could see was a silhouette.

The shadow walked slowly towards them, and their eyes adjusted to the light. This was not whumper.

Whumpee shrunk back into the corner, desperately afraid. They hadn’t seen someone other than whumper since before they were taken. They must be dead.

“Hey there,” the shadow said. Their voice was loud and grated against Whumpees ears. “I’m caretaker, what’s your name?”

Whumpee shook their head, eyes wide and frightened.

“That’s ok, you don’t have to tell me. Is it alright if I sit next to you?” Caretaker advanced.

Whumpee shrunk even further back, but caretaker was undeterred. They plopped down right in front of them, criss-cross-applesauce.

“I need to ask you some questions, but it’s ok if you don’t want to talk. Just nod yes or no, ok?” Caretaker assured.

Whumpee nodded.

“Have you been here a long time?”

Whumpee nodded.

“Have you been hurt?”

Whumpee nodded.

“Can we help you get out of here?”

Whumpee started. Get out of here? What do they mean, get out of here? That’s impossible. They tried. But… maybe these people knew how to? Speaking of that, how did caretaker even get in here in the first place? Who are these people? Maybe they aren’t with whumper after all; maybe they really do want to help them!

Whumpee slowly nodded. Caretaker smiled.

“Lovely. Can you stand?”

Whumpee shook their head. They hadn’t been able to stand up since whumper broke both of their legs.

“That’s ok, I can help you. Can I help you?” Caretaker was being awfully nice.

Whumpee nodded, and caretaker leaned over and took their hand.

Oh my. Caretaker was holding their hand. It was warm, and soft, and inviting. Whumpee was going to be sick. They pulled their hand back swiftly as if it had been burned, and cradled it to their chest.

“Oh, are you alright? Did I hurt you?” Caretaker was worried. For whumpee. Caretaker took their hand. And it felt good.

What was whumper going to do? Would they put them in solitary for weeks? Months? How much food would they get? Touching is definitely not allowed.

But before whumpee could keep stressing, they felt strong arms wrap around them.

Whumpee immediately tensed, freaking out. But it was so warm, and comforting, and soft.

Whumpee couldn’t do anything but melt into the feeling and allow caretaker to gently lift them up off the ground and carry them away.

#whump #whump writing #whumpee #writing snippet #whump prompt #whumper #whump community #whump scenario #whumpblr #whumpril #whumpril 2024

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whumpril · 1 year

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Whumpril 2023 approaches!

Rules:

Anyone can participate.

Any media form is allowed (art, fic, gifs, music, whatever).

You can participate however much or as little as you want, no pressure to complete every single day.

You can post your work anywhere on the internet, Tumblr, Ao3, etc.

Tag potential triggers and NSFW accordingly.

If you want to be counted as an official participant and have the chance to be featured on the blog, post your content during the month of April. You can still use the prompt list after April ends.

I can’t guarantee that every single work will be featured but I’ll try to reblog as many as I can.

To increase your chances of being featured here, tag your post with the event name and the prompt of the day that you used (For example: #whumpril2023, #whumprilday1, #red alert)

You can also @ the blog, @whumpril.

Full write-up of the prompts can be found under the cut!

Whumpril 2023 Prompts:

1. Red Alert | Distress Call | Panic Attack

2. Stress | Insomnia | “Get some rest.”

3. Rope Burns | Knife to Throat | “Hold still.”

4. Ache | Massage | Needle

5. Defiance | Dragged | Stifled Scream

6. Salve | Painkillers | Bad Coping Mechanisms

7. Numbness | Unsteady | “You look pale.”

8. Nausea | Comfort Food | Dehydration

9. Pinned Down | Bruises | “Who did this to you?”

10. Shiver | Breathless | “I’m scared.”

11. Nightmares | Bedside Vigil | “I’m right here.”

12. Friendly Fire | Toxic | “Get away from me!”

13. Blurry Vision | Support | “I think I need to sit down.”

14. False Smile | Holding Back Tears | “I said I’m fine.”

15. Isolation | Flinching | “Do you trust me?”

16. Guilt | Shock | “I’m so sorry.”

17. Cry For Help | Self-Treatment | “I can’t do this.”

18. Abandoned | Escape Attempt | “Take me instead!”

19. Choking | Muffled Sobs | “I’m worried about you.”

20. Disoriented | Sensory Deprivation | “Where am I?”

21. Scars | Fracture | “It’s just a scratch.”

22. Sponge Bath | Infection | “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

23. Smoke | Bloodstains | Sharing Clothes

24. Secrets | Under Duress | “What have you done?”

25. Heart Racing | On the Run | “We’re being watched.”

26. Explosion | Short on Time | “I won’t leave you!”

27. Forced To Kneel | Grabbed by Collar | Stepped On

28. Bedridden | Semiconscious | Light Sensitivity

29. Surrender | Punishment | “Final warning.”

30. Holding Hands | Human Shield | “Don’t let go.”

Alternative Prompts:

If there’s a prompt above you don’t feel inspired or comfortable doing, you can switch it out with one of these alternatives!

1. Ice Pack

2. Ransom

3. Gaslighting

4. On the Edge

4. Waiting Room

5. Un/Forgiveness

6. Food Poisoning

7. Heat Exhaustion

8. Forced To Crawl

9. Mandatory Leave

10. Search and Rescue

11. “Don’t push me away.”

12. Words That Can’t Be Taken Back

13. “Let me know if you need anything.”

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whump #whump event #whump community #rules #writing prompts

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drabbles-mc · 1 year

Text

Collateral Damage

Angel Reyes x GN!Reader

For Day 16 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: guilt / shock / "I'm so sorry"

Warnings: 18+, angst, language, blood/injury, hospitals

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: Angel was overdue for a good whumping. Love this for him. 😌

Angel Reyes Taglist: @buckybarneshairpullingkink @lilacyennefer @justreblogginfics @rosieposie0624 @queenbeered @littlekittymeow @thesandbeneathmytoes @garbinge @kelpies-shed @beardburnsupersoldiers @louisianalady @gemini0410 @frattsparty @yourwonkywriter @amorestevens @withmyteeth @winchestershiresauce @nessamc @narcolini @mijagif @choochoo284 @fanfic-n-tabulous @passionatewrites @artemiseamoon @justazzi @camelia35 (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Moving into the new house with Angel was supposed to be something reminiscent of a fresh start. It was still Santo Padre, still the border, but it was a place that was going to be something that was just for the two of you. You were thrilled to leave your tiny apartment behind, and Angel didn’t seem too upset about ditching the glorified bachelor pad that he’d been living in for the last few years. It was supposed to be something new, something good.

The two of you hadn’t even gotten all of the boxes unpacked yet before someone came after Angel, but ended up giving you the scare of your life instead.

In the back of your mind, you knew that that was part of the risk. Being with him was always going to have lingering dangers. That was the price of him being an outlaw. Intellectually, you knew that. When the threat wasn’t right in front of you with a gun pointed at your chest, it was easy to say that you were willing to accept that type of responsibility, that you were cut out for being part of the life that he’d chosen. But when he’d gotten home a few hours later to find you curled up on the floor behind the couch, still crying, still shaking, it became apparent to both of you that maybe you should stop and take a beat to reconsider it all.

You weren’t quite sure if you were refusing to leave because you couldn’t handle that kind of change after what had happened to you, or if you were really trying to rally and prove to yourself, prove to Angel, that you weren’t going to quit on what the two of you had. Your reasons for staying changed depending on the day, and how hard it was to get yourself out of bed in the morning.

The two weeks following the incident, you saw Angel more than you had in months. It was admirable, the way that he was pulling out all the stops. He was home as much as he could be, and when he couldn’t be he always made sure to check in on you, calling and texting almost as much as he had when the two of you first started seeing each other. All it took was a break-in and someone threatening to kill you.

Days came and went without incident. There hadn’t been so much as a sketchy vehicle even driving by the house, let alone someone stopping and bursting into it like they had before. If you hadn’t already known better, you almost would’ve thought that what had happened was an isolated incident. But you’d seen the kutte on the man’s shoulders. You knew that whatever it was, wasn’t over.

You were still working through your first cup of coffee, cross-legged on your bed with your computer in your lap, when you saw Angel materialize in the doorway. You’d been observant before, but now that you found yourself on-edge most of the time, hardly anything got past you. You didn’t take your eyes off the screen in front of you, not wanting to look over and see the same look of pity in Angel’s eyes that had been there for weeks. He never seemed to be able to shake it, and considering the state that you were in, that you were still electing to work from inside the four walls of your bedroom instead of actually going to work, you supposed that you couldn’t blame him. It didn’t mean that you wanted to be faced with it all the time, though.

“Hey,” he spoke up, hoping it would make you face him.

Something about his tone made your stomach knot. Still, you looked over at him. “Yea?”

“Got a sec?”

You saw the way that he shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet, trying to decide if he was going to lean against the doorframe or not. It made you shift nervously as well. Setting your laptop to the side, you nodded. “What’s up?”

Stepping through the doorway, he walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. He sat close enough to you so that he could reach out and toy with the loose strings of the comforter right next to your legs. He kept his eyes trained on the stitching as he tried to pull together what it was that he wanted to say.

“It’s about the club.”

A knot immediately formed in the back of your throat. No matter how hard you tried to keep a neutral expression, you knew that you weren’t going to succeed. You gave one slow nod. “Okay. What’s…what’s going on?”

Angel let out a small sigh, head tilting back as he looked up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at you again. “Got a run coming up. Bish said that he needs me on this one.”

You knew that it was only a matter of time before he would have to actually leave to do things with the club again. Running with the MC wasn’t exactly the kind of job that he could do from home, no matter how badly you wanted him to stay with you as much as possible. Still, the thought of him being gone for a few nights made your hands start to shake.

“How long?” you asked, hating how weak your voice sounded.

It hurt him to look at you, how scared you were when he hadn’t even left yet. “Couple days. Not…not long.”

You nodded. There was no point in starting an argument about it—it wasn’t going to change anything. Realistically you knew that you were going to have to get used to being alone again. Angel was your partner, not your babysitter. The nervous heat creeping up your neck was telling you that you weren’t ready yet, but you knew that if you told Angel that all it would do was make him feel guilty. It wouldn’t make circumstances anything other than what they were.

“Okay,” you said, your voice just above a whisper.

His lips curled down into a frown. He knew that it wasn’t okay—that was half the reason that he didn’t want to tell you about it. But he also knew that trying to hide it from you was only going to put off the inevitable for a few days. There was no getting away from it.

“I’ll make sure EZ stops by.”

It was an attempt to reassure you, one that you appreciated. And for as much as you loved EZ, you and Angel both knew that it wasn’t going to be the same. Even if EZ camped out on your couch for the entire time Angel was gone, it wasn’t really going to make you feel any more at ease.

“You don’t have to do that.”

He shrugged, trying to smile and lighten the mood. “He’s a prospect—gotta keep him busy with something when we leave his ass behind.”

It got a tiny chuckle out of you. “Right.”

The silence that followed brought the heavy feeling back over the two of you full-force. Angel shook his head, more at himself than you. “I’m sorry.”

You sniffled, trying to pull yourself together in hopes of alleviating some of the guilt. “I’ll…I’ll be fine, Angel. Really.”

He knew you were lying, to him and to yourself. Reaching out, he rested his hand over yours, interlocking your fingers together. “It’s been quiet since all that shit went down, right?” He paused, and when you nodded silently in agreement he continued, “And I’m only gonna be a couple days. Trust me, I don’t wanna spend any more fuckin’ time in Yuma than I have to. I’ll get these motherfuckers back on the road to SanPa ASAP.” He offered a weak smile.

You tried to mirror the expression, knowing that you were coming up short on it by the look in his eyes. “You better.”

He could feel the tremor in your hand still, despite the reassurance he was desperately trying to give you. “It’s gonna be alright. Those guys…they’re not gonna come back. They’re not gonna try and hurt you again.”

That was the most that he’d spoken directly about the break-in in a long time. The two of you talked around it, alluded to it. He was never good at talking about those sorts of things head-on, not when he didn’t have a solid solution to the problem.

“Promise?” It was an unfair ask, but the word came out before you could stop it.

Angel had always been an expert at guaranteeing more than he could hope to deliver. He gave your hand a light squeeze. “I promise.”

The day that Angel left for the run came sooner than you wanted it to. If it had been a few weeks before, you would’ve gone to the clubhouse with him to see him off, to tell the rest of the guys to be safe and to take care of themselves. You would’ve been joking with them about not having enough bail money to get all of them out of fail so they needed to be careful. This time, though, you simply stood on your front step as Angel shouldered his duffle bag. Neither of you looked like you wanted to go through with what was about to happen.

“EZ’ll be by in a bit, alright?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“You can make him stay if you want. He’s got nothin’ better to do. Promise,” he tried to joke.

You managed a smile that was a little more convincing than usual. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Cupping the side of your face, he pulled you in for a kiss. “I love you.”

You wished that you could stay right there in that moment forever. It’d make life so much simpler if you could. “I love you too.”

Usually Angel would pepper you with a million promises to call and text that he undoubtedly would never keep. He would tell you that he’d be back before you even started to miss him, which was never true. But there was none of that this time. The weight that was slung across both your shoulders, something that the two of you were each forced to carry against your will, snuffed out all of the banter-filled rituals of saying goodbye. You wished that it didn’t.

“I’ll let you know when we get there,” he said, and for once you almost believed him.

“Be safe,” you said with a small nod.

He kissed you again. “We’ll be good.” One more kiss. “Both of us.”

You could’ve dragged out saying goodbye on that front step for hours, could’ve made him miss the window to leave with the rest of the club. Hell, part of you wanted to do just that. You couldn’t quite force it, though. Much sooner than you wanted, he was heading off towards his bike, one long stride after another taking him farther and farther away from you.

True to Angel’s word, EZ showed up hardly an hour after Angel had left. You hadn’t seen EZ since he’d come over to help clean up some of the mess left behind by the break-in. You had no clue what Angel had said to him about any of it, what he’d said to any of the men in the club about any of it. Truthfully, you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Out of the two Reyes Brothers, EZ was the one who had been gifted with a convincing poker face. You had no idea what he was really thinking or feeling about you, about the entire situation. He kept it light, pleasant. He hung around long enough to eat, long enough to give a mild sense of security and that he had fulfilled his duty for the evening.

“Want me to stay?” he asked as he sat at your dining room table. “I brought my stuff.”

It was tempting. You really did want him to stay. You didn’t want to admit that, though. If you set the precedent now that you were always going to need someone to stay with you, when was it ever going to stop?

You studied his face for a moment. You wondered if you would get a different answer to your questions from EZ than you did from Angel. EZ wouldn’t feel as obligated to placate you, to protect you from the monsters under the bed and outside the windows. If you asked him for his honest opinion, you wondered if he would actually give it.

“You think you need to stay?” you asked tentatively.

He didn’t miss a beat. “If you want me to, I will.”

You shook your head. “No, I mean,” you huffed, staring down at the floor for a moment, “do you think that something is gonna happen if you don’t?”

“Those guys want Angel, the club. Not you.” He watched the shift in your expression for a moment before saying, “I’ll stay if—”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice still uncertain in the gesture. “I’ll be fine. I’ll…I’ll call you if I need anything.”

He gave you a nod, his movements easy. He had such an air of certainty around him that neither you or Angel had had in weeks. There was something reassuring about it, even if he was only able to be so confident because he hadn’t been living in the mess the same way that you had. He could handle it all in small doses just fine and not crack, while Angel had to be steeped in it with no break.

Standing up, he started to walk towards the door, grabbing his bag along the way. You followed him, intent on saying goodbye but more importantly doing the locks behind him once he left. He pulled you into a hug when he reached the door, promising you that his phone would be on and close by if you needed anything from him, if you changed your mind. You believed him. You believed most things that he said in a way you didn’t with most of the other men from the club.

You watched from the window until his bike was well down the street. Pulling the curtains closed, you started to set about cleaning up. There wasn’t much to do, but any little task to help keep you busy until you were tired enough to at least attempt to get some sleep was better than nothing.

The sound of screeching tires had barely hit your ears when bullets started flying through the windows and from wall of your house. You screamed, instantly dropping to the floor. Trying your best to stay as low as possible, you made your way back towards the very same couch you’d hid behind before. It wasn’t the best buffer, but it was the only one that was close to you at the moment.

Your hands were clamped down over your ears, knees pulled to your chest and eyes shut tight. The gunfire was fast, incessant. You had no idea how long it had really been going on for, but it felt like an eternity. The guns were going to have to run out of ammo eventually, right?

Then they finally did. The silence felt manufactured, like someone had made a call on a set and they were about to yell action to kick it all off again. You didn’t know if you should get up and try to go out the back of the house, or if you should stay put in case they all opened fire again. The right choice didn’t matter much since you didn’t think that you were going to be able to get your legs to move.

You eventually managed to pry your eyes open. You still felt like you couldn’t quite pull in a proper breath, but at least you could see now. Although, the mess you were surrounded by wasn’t a particularly comforting sight to open your eyes to. You took a quick scan, moreso just to make sure that people hadn’t also entered the house along with the bullets. It all happened over the span of just a few seconds but it felt like so much longer.

It'd been quiet for just long enough to make you think that someone was either about to barge into the house, or they were going to drive off. You were about to try and force your legs to hoist you up when you heard more gunfire. It was different than what you’d heard before. Singular shots, longer breaks between. But it went from just a few to the sounds of an actual exchange and you felt yourself freeze up again.

There was the sound of a few loud thuds against your front door and you couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped out of you. You clamped your hand over your own mouth, trying to stifle the sounds, not that it would do you much good. A few more thuds and suddenly you heard the cracking of the door frame breaking, followed by heavy footsteps.

You were crying now, not even attempting to quiet the sound. Your body was shaking more than you thought it was capable of, heart pounding so hard in your chest you thought for sure it was going to crack one of your ribs. The footsteps kept getting closer and you wished that you had it in you to get up and run, but you couldn’t. The floor may as well have been pulling you down.

Then you heard it, the sound of your name. It was quiet, but intense. It took a few seconds for you to realize that it was EZ who was saying it. He must not have gotten so far away that he didn’t hear the gunfire.

Suddenly he was crouching down in front of you, blood splattered across his clothes. “Let’s get you out of here.” You watched him as he looked you over, his expression steady as ever. “Can you walk?”

“When the panic subsides enough to let me stand,” you thought. You couldn’t get the words out, though, so instead you just nodded. Reaching for EZ, you grabbed onto his shoulder in an attempt to use him as a means to push you up onto your feet. Your fingers dug into the leather of his kutte, arm and shoulder tensing in preparation for the lift, but then you didn’t move. Nothing happened.

Instead of looking at yourself, you looked at EZ. He always had answers. When you took in the look on his face, your heart started to speed up all over again. The frown he had on hadn’t been there earlier. Whatever the situation was now, it must’ve been worse.

He could see that you were about to look at the state of yourself and he spoke up, distracting you as he slid his arm around you to help you to your feet. “You’re good,” he said, a convincing lie. “You’re good. C’mon.”

He got his feet underneath himself enough to help you to your feet. Once you were upright, you were so distracted by the disheveled state of your house that you hardly noticed the way that he was practically dragging you towards the front door. He was shouldering more of your weight than you were, but you couldn’t even feel it happening.

Despite all of the chaos and destruction and mess, your car keys were still somehow resting on the table just inside the front door. EZ swiped them on the way out, knowing that there was no chance in hell that you would be able to get on the bike.

As he maneuvered you down the front steps and towards the car, that was when you saw the destruction that was outside, too. You felt your stomach tighten, feeling dizzy at the sight of the blood and the shot-out car windows. EZ was talking to you, attempting to distract you from the carnage that he’d created in the process of getting to you, but it was too late.

“EZ,” you didn’t even recognize your own voice as you repeated his name over and over, unable to get any other words out, “EZ. E…EZ.” Despite his best efforts you almost sank to the ground anyway. “Oh my god.”

“Look at me,” he kept his voice level, calm. He pulled the passenger door of the car open, sliding the seat back with no grace at all before going to help get you into the seat. “Just look at me.”

You tried. You tried to focus on him, on the way he needed you to move so that you could get into the seat of the car so that he could get the two of you out. But your eyes kept straying back to the mess.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, EZ was in the driver’s seat, slamming the keys into the ignition of the car. You were finally able to watch what he was doing. “Where,” you swallowed hard, “where are we going?”

You assumed he was going to take you to the clubhouse, maybe to Felipe’s—somewhere that you’d be safe while he cleaned up the mess. He didn’t say anything at first, one hand reaching and gripping onto the headrest of your seat as he looked over his shoulder to reverse out of your driveway.

The longer he went without answering your question, the harder you stared at him. A million scathing comments and a thousand other questions were racing through your head as you stared at him, but for some reason you couldn’t seem to force any of them out. You were trying to get yourself to take a couple deep breaths, thinking that if you got your breathing under control, the words would come.

Leaning back in the seat, you rested your hands in your lap as you started to shut your eyes. It was only a couple seconds after you closed them when you heard EZ saying your name again, this time with a little more of an edge to his voice.

Prying your eyes open, you looked over at him. Picking your hand up off your lap, you went to rub the side of your face when you saw that your skin was covered in red. Confusion washed over you for a moment as you stared at your hand, like your brain was willfully not connecting the dots. You could see EZ in your peripheral, looking back and forth between you and the road as he waited for the fallout.

“Where are we going?” you repeated your question from earlier.

He knew that there was no more avoiding it, no more letting you have your denial. “Hospital.”

You felt your brain trying to rouse you into a panic, but you just couldn’t seem to do it. Your heart sped up but you couldn’t make yourself move any quicker. Even if you could, there wasn’t really anywhere that you could go.

“You’re okay,” he said, trying to reassure you despite the evidence stacking up proving just the opposite.

Your eyes widened. “Angel.”

“He’s already on his way back.” He looked at you for a moment, and when he saw the look on your face he elaborated just enough. “Called him when I heard the shots.”

You forced yourself to look out the windshield, your brain caught between thinking about everything that had happened, and trying to distract yourself by thinking about literally anything else. Luckily, it wasn’t much longer until the two of you reached the hospital. EZ managed to help you get to the door, where you were met by a team of doctors and nurses who seemed more ready than you could ever hope to be. You remembered them taking you off in the wheelchair, and telling them that they couldn’t send EZ away because you needed him, but after that everything got fuzzy, and then everything went dark.

All you could see was blinding light when you came to, and for a moment, you thought that maybe you’d actually died. Heaven was a lot harder on your eyes than you thought it would be.

But then you heard the sound of a chair scraping across tile. After a couple long, hard blinks things slowly started to come back into focus. You felt someone’s hand wrap around yours, the familiar coolness of metal rings letting you know that it was Angel. Within seconds you felt his forehead pressed against yours, the feeling of his breath on your skin as he let out a sigh of relief. He squeezed your hand, the compromise for not being able to hold you.

“You’re awake,” he said it like he was reassuring himself that it was true.

You gave a small nod, your voice still not sounding like your own as you said, “You’re here.”

“EZ called—I turned right around. I’m,” he sucked in a short breath to keep himself together, “I’m so sorry.”

The apology made tears spring into your eyes. Hardly awake for a minute and all of the emotions that you’d been drowning in for weeks came flooding right back to you. Your hand trembled in his. “You said I’d be okay.”

He flinched at the statement even though you were speaking softly. He didn’t pull away, his head still resting against yours as he nodded slightly. “I know.”

“You and EZ. You both,” your voice was slowly starting to come back with each word, “you said that I would be okay. That there was nothing to worry about.”

“I didn’t think—”

“You left me,” the words came out strained, fighting with the sob that was trying to dislodge itself from your throat.

Pulling back so that he could look you in the eyes, Angel could see how tired, how broken you were. You could see the tears in his eyes as he looked at you, neither of you still the same people you were when you met those few years ago. Everything was different now. Worse, in some ways.

“I know,” he conceded with a nod. “I know I did.”

Your bottom lip was trembling as you watched him run his thumb over your knuckles. “I don’t think I can do this, Angel.”

He froze. “What?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think I can do this. I…I can’t go through this again.”

“We’re gonna handle—”

“And then what?” you cut him off, talking despite the pain that was starting to radiate throughout your body now that you were fully awake. “We wait until the next guy who has a problem with you comes and shoots our house up again?” You shook your head. “No. I, I can’t. I thought I could, but,” you shifted slightly on the bed and felt the pull of multiple bandages beneath your hospital gown, “I can’t. I’m, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, clasping your hand tighter in his as he plead, “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you again. I won’t. I promise.”

The tiniest, saddest smile curled your lips. Angel Reyes, always so full of promises. “I know you think you mean that, but…” you trailed off.

“I do mean it,” his words sounded so earnest.

Despite everything that had happened, all that you’d gone through the last few weeks and the fear that had settled so deep into your bones, it was the most sure of yourself that you’d felt in a long time. It didn’t feel good, but underneath it all you knew that it felt right.

“Angel…”

He shook his head. “No, no. Don’t say it like that.”

Tears trickled out onto your cheeks. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

The sadness on his face broke your heart. You knew that on the tip of his tongue were a thousand things he wanted to say to try and make you change your mind. But you could see it in his eyes that he knew that it wasn’t going to happen. He knew that this was too much, that things had gone too far. He knew that this was it.

“I love you,” he said, lips twitching as he tried not to let his own tears escape.

You managed a soft smile. “I love you too.” That hadn’t changed.

Dragging his hand down over his mouth and his chin, he got himself together enough to ask, “Can I still stay here? With you?”

You nodded. “That’d be good.”

He nodded in return, going back to the chair that he’d been in while he was waiting for you to wake up. There was more to say, more questions to ask, but all of that could wait now. You laid in the hospital bed, staring over at Angel while he sat in a chair that looked too small for all of his height, staring right back at you.

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday16 #guilt #shock #i'm so sorry #mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #angel reyes #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x you #mayans mc fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #drabblesmc

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whump-about-it · 18 days

Text

Someone You Deserve

@whumpril Day 9: Self Doubt

CW: angst, empathy fatigue, conditioned whumpee

Whumpee was already asleep when Caretaker got home from work. Curled up on the couch in a nest of blankets and pillows and a tear stained face as they snored softly in contest with the low drone of the tv show they'd fallen asleep watching. They had a bed, but they preferred to sleep anywhere else. Too comfortable they had told Caretaker, I don't deserve it.

Caretaker sighed and took their shoes off quietly, so as not to disturb Whumpee's slumber. If they woke up they would be a mess of apologies for not being awake to greet Caretaker at the door, and Caretaker wasn't in the mood to talk them off another metaphorical ledge tonight. Anyway, Whumpee almost never slept this soundly.

A cold meal Caretaker had asked Whumpee not to make sat on the kitchen table. Caretaker realized with a pang that they had forgotten to tell Whumpee they would be home late tonight. No wonder they were on the couch. No wonder their face was tear streaked and splotchy from crying themselves to sleep.

Caretaker slumped in a kitchen chair and put their head in their hands. How could I be so stupid? They shivered at the thought of Whumpee cooking for them, cleaning, getting ready for the two of them to eat together once Caretaker had gotten home. Had they been excited? Did they hum to themselves as they cut the carrots? Dance around the kitchen while they waited for the oven to preheat? How long had they waited before they realized Caretaker wasn't coming home? Had their food gone cold too? Had they cried at the kitchen table? Wondering if it was something they had done that was keeping Caretaker away?

After a minute Caretaker stood up and went back to the living room, intending to wake Whumpee up and apologize, but they paused in the doorway realizing they didn't even know what they wanted to apologize for. Coming home late? Forgetting to call? For being the worst possible person for Whumpee to rely on?

The doctors had said that it wouldn't be easy. Whumpee's recovery would be slow, and Caretaker needed to have patience, for both of them. But this couldn't have been what they meant. It had been months and Whumpee had barely made any progress. They still rarely spoke if not asked to. They jumped at the slightest moves. And had even called Caretaker "Master" a few times, which made Caretaker's blood run cold just to think about.

Surely Whumpee deserved better than this. Caretaker was falling woefully short of providing what Whumpee needed and they were so far behind they didn't even know what they were doing wrong. Apologizing wasn't going to solve any of that.

Caretaker sighed again and turned back into the kitchen. Tears pricking at their eyes from their anger about their own woeful inadequacy at caring for their friend. They were exhausted, and in a bad mood. It was probably best that Whumpee didn't see them like this. Instead Caretaker scrapped their cold meal into the trash and poured a glass of water, bringing it into the living room and placing it on the coffee table in front of Whumpee as a peace offering for when they woke up. Finally Caretaker placed a small kiss on the top of Whumpee's head before going to their own bedroom, resolving to call in sick tomorrow and spending the day trying to be the person Whumpee deserved.

#whump #whumpril #whumpril2024 #whumprilday9 #self doubt #whumpee x caretaker #whump drabble #tw angst #empathy fatigue #recovering whumpee #conditioned whumpee

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narcolini · 1 year

Text

open wounds

frank castle x gn!reader, ex dating, hurt/comfort, 2404 words

for day 6 of whumpril : salve | painkillers | bad coping mechanisms

warnings for burns, implied suicidal intentions, terrible first aid probably

a/n: yknow when you love a character so much that you dont even know where to start with writing about them?? no?? just me?? im shaking in my boots... also huge shout out to @ashlingiswriting for helping with this!!

tagging: @drabbles-mc @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa @cositapreciosa @cositapreciosa @cositapreciosa @cositapreciosa (five times as requested)

He’s dripping wet. Frank, back at your door, for the first time in half a year, and dripping wet from head to toe. His jeans, his hoody, his boots—which must weigh a tonne, if they’re as full of water as the rest of him. He’s scrubbed his face dry, clearly, because the front of his hair is sticking upright, brushed up by the rough of his fingertips, and his cheeks are cleaner than the rest of him. Bare of the grime he’s covered in. If it wasn’t so obviously a bad thing—him being here, him being anything other than his usual self—you might’ve laughed. Might’ve joked about him choosing the worst church for an over-due baptism.

‘What the fuck happened?’ you scoff, bypassing all other greetings. You don’t even spare the thought to be annoyed at him, to tell him to go away, get out of here, before someone sees you. You just balk, and frown, and hang off the door as you look him over. ‘You look like you went free-diving in the river, Frank.’

He doesn’t respond, just sighs and tilts his head as if to say—

‘Oh my God.’ He did. He jumped into the fucking river. ‘That explains the stink, then.’

‘Yup.’

It’s pouring off him. Stale water, oil spill.

‘Look, I gotta ask you a favour,’ he says, awkward about it, though you’d thought as much already. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.’

And you wouldn’t let him in, either, if you didn’t have to.

‘Come in.’ The less time he spends in the corridor, the better. ‘Do I even want to know what you…’ The words fizzle out once you’re behind him, door closed and facing his back.

The material of his hoody has been singed away, not entirely, but across his shoulders and in patches down his spine, the t-shirt beneath in a similar state. He’d been set alight, somehow, long enough for it to burn all the way through. Two layers of cloth and then skin. Red, raw, skin.

‘Jesus, Frank.’

‘Had to put it out somehow,’ he shrugs, ‘seemed like the quickest option.’

‘Do you even realise how much shit is in that river?’

But he must do, of course, because he’s here. He’s not at home, self-medicating, slapping soap and water on it and hoping for the best. He’s here because he’s smart enough to realise bacteria will kill him easier and faster than any bullet would. Which isn’t usual, for most, but he has a knack for surviving no matter how many holes they put in him.

‘Bathroom, please,’ you tell him. You remember where it is.

You watch him nod in front of you, hands tucked in the sodden pockets of his hoody. He’s holding himself rigid—tense arms, straight shoulders—to hide the shakes, you realise. The wet has gotten into the bones, chilled him deep enough to send shivers through the muscles. Why he’s bothering to try and cover it, you don’t know. You’ve seen him in worse shapes.

When he reaches the bathroom, you in tow, he turns and waits. In front of you, on the curling blue bath matt beneath. It’s been a long time since you’d done him a favour. A long time, since you’d been alone with him, for reasons other than why this doesn’t work, why the two of you won’t work.

You sigh, close your eyes. He knows as well as you do what’s coming.

‘Am I in danger,’ you ask, feeling the sick twist of regime in your stomach, the edge of familiarity in the question, ‘by you being here? Is it putting me in danger?’

‘No, no, I promise.’ His head shakes. ‘No-one knows I’m here.’

‘You’re sure?’

He pauses, swallows. Nods. ‘It’s just me.’

‘And is it only the burns? Nothing else?’

‘I’d do it myself, but I,’ his teeth chatter, ‘I can’t reach.’

‘Okay.’ No surprise gunshot wounds, no broken bones. You can handle it, as long as you know what to expect. ‘I’ll do my best,’ you tell him, now you know it isn’t at your detriment, and turn to look through the cabinet above the sink.

‘Thank-you,’ he begins, which you try to wave off. ‘No, I mean it, I—I know you must hate…’ The words get away from him. A drop of water shakes from the peak of his hair onto his cheek. ‘Yeah, just, thank-you.’

You know what he’s implying. He’s as wrong about it now as he was then.

‘I don’t hate you, Frank.’

‘Well, you don’t like me much,’ he grumbles. ‘Not that I blame you.’

You don’t like his choices. You don’t like his instincts. You don’t like his susceptibility to getting himself in trouble, once a fucking week. ‘Take this off,’ you tell him, tugging at the sopping wet of his sleeve. ‘You’re shivering.’

He complies, jaw-setting as he pulls both the hoody and t-shirt over his head, no doubt having to rip the burnt-fibres from the edges of his wounds. He does well to hide it—if that’s the case—removes them without a hiss of pain, or any hesitation. The wet lump of them lands on the tiles with a slap, water splattering over your socks.

You fill the sink, making sure it’s lukewarm, cool. It’d be better to douse him with hot water, really, to stop the shivers and get rid of the smell, but the burns are more pressing. The very last thing they need is more heat.

‘Jeans and socks too. Then sit on the bath,’ you instruct before leaving the room. It isn’t for privacy’s sake, but to get your blanket from the couch and a clean towel from the closet. Get him warm, get the site disinfected, then cover it in Saran wrap and hope for the best. It isn’t as good as real, authoritative, medical treatment, but it’s better than he could manage by himself.

When you’re back, he’s done as you said again, and is sitting on the edge of the bath in just his boxers. A sorry sight, long past the invitation that it used to be. You’re sure there’s scars there that you aren’t familiar with, across his chest, below his naval, but there isn’t time to inspect them. He’s shaking still, and looking up at you like he’s sorry to occupy the space at all.

‘You ever treated burns?’ he asks, as you hand him the blanket.

‘Nothing like that,’ you admit. ‘Spin.’

He does. You put the towel on the floor beneath his back, where the drips will be, as he drapes the blanket over his lap. He isn’t shy about it now, how cold he is. He pulls the edge of the throw up to his chin, tucking his arms inside it, and gives a bigger, exaggerated shiver afterwards. Like he’s purging it, and inviting warmth to take it’s place now that it’s out.

Without the clothes, the burns look dangerous. Red and angry, almost the print of a cross over his back, with the worst of them sitting in a thick strip along his shoulder blades.

‘What even…?’ You brush a thumb by the edge of it, bending down to get a closer look; it’s not just a burn, but a scrape too, a layer of skin torn off like he’s been dragged over tarmac. ‘What happened, beyond the fire?’

You don’t mean the order of events that led to it, or the reasoning behind him shouldering fire in the first place—you’re long past caring or asking about his endeavours. Anything that ends in a list of dead bodies, people he’s killed, is none of your business. That stopped being your problem, the same time he did. But the longer you look, the less it seems like a simple, standard burn. The less you know about how to treat it.

Frank grunts, head dipped. ‘Over-estimated a jump. Slipped off a, a wall, going into the river.’

You wince. ‘Yeah, looks like you left a bit of your back attached to it.’

He puffs out through his nose. ‘That bad?’

Not by his standards, you’re sure. ‘Well. I think it’s saved you from the worst of the blistering, at least.’ The smaller scalds will, no doubt, tonight or tomorrow, but the wide abrasion across the top might have saved him from something more severe. ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to put cream on them,’ you say, ‘but I’ve got an antiseptic spray that I think will be worth the risk.’ And the pain. ‘Okay?’

‘Yeah,’ he agrees, without hesitation, ‘do what you gotta do.’

When you start at it with the water, poured slow from a mug and onto his back, he hisses. Sucks breaths in and out between the clench of his teeth, regulates the pain for your sake alone, you’re sure, and you can bare that. You can work while he does that, quiet and dedicated.

But when you move onto the spray, he swears, low and rasping, like he hates you for a moment. Like he’s angry at you, the antiseptic, the base of the bath that he thumps with his heel.

‘I’m sorry,’ you put quickly, unable to ignore it. ‘This is the worst part.’

Maybe bad enough, really, that you shouldn’t be doing it at all. In the grand scheme of things, agitated burns are better than infection, right? Better than leaving whatever germs live in the Hudson, to fester in the scrapes of his skin.

‘Keep going,’ he insists, through the clench of his jaw—so you do, grimacing each time he swears and flinches under you.

By the time it’s done, dried and wrapped, you’re both exhausted. Him more than you, that you can admit. He sits quietly on the bath now, waiting for the painkillers you’d promised. It’s the first time he hasn’t tried to convince you that he doesn’t need them.

‘Here.’ You hand him the pills, the glass of water. Watch him swallow them both, before sitting beside him, facing the opposite way. Shoulder to shoulder. ‘I think that’s about all I can do for you,’ you say, glancing at his waiting gaze.

He’s got his head turned towards you, dark eyes only inches away. You can’t match them for long. You’re looking back at the pile of wet clothes on the floor before you speak again.

‘If it shows any sign of infection, Frank.’

He puts the glass down, head shaking in the edge of your vision. ‘I’m not going to a hospital. I can’t.’ He’s dead already, he means, and waltzing into the ER would ruin the only leg-up he has.

‘Then someone who knows more than me, at least,’ you insist. ‘You can’t do any of your righteous, vigilante bullshit with sepsis, you know.’

‘I know,’ he says, and he means it. Sounds sore about it too, regretful, even. Not because of his health, but because of what it would take from him.

You let him sit with that for a moment, watching him drop the blanket from his shoulders and put his hands over the top of it instead, pooling in his lap. The shaking’s stopped now; without the wet clothes, and in the warmth of your home, it didn’t take long to scare them away. After the ordeal you put him through, he’s sweating instead. Damp across his brow.

‘Why d’you do it?’ you ask, though you’d told yourself long ago that you would stop asking him that. Stop wasting your breath on something that would never change.

‘Do what?’ He looks like he might laugh, glancing sideways at you, like he’s itching to say, you think I toasted myself on purpose? But it’s over-compensation, really. He knows what you mean.

‘Put yourself in these fucking situations, every time…’ You sigh. ‘You had a chance to get out, Frank. To start fresh.’

But why bother saying it to him? You know the answer as soon as it comes from your lips. You know what makes him do it. You know he can’t function otherwise. If bad coping mechanisms had a poster boy, he would be it. If self-hatred and self-pity was a competition, he’d win. He would lap everyone before they’d even got off the mark.

‘You’ve got to retire at some point,’ you tell him, which sounds like a plea you hadn’t aimed to give.

He scoffs, shaking his head. His thumbs toy with the edge of the blanket. ‘You know it doesn’t work like that.’

Not for him, that’s the truth, and it snowballs in your head until you say, ‘You’re gonna keep going until something kills you, aren’t you?’

He doesn’t answer, because he can’t do that either. Admitting it aloud, to himself or to you, would make it real. Undeniable.

‘Well,’ you start, bending the conversation into something liveable again, ‘you’re lucky your ex is so good at first aid.’ You shoulder him, lightly, smiling until he smiles back. Just enough.

‘Yeah,’ he breathes, ‘yeah, I am.’ He considers you for a moment, before tucking his chin and looking to his hands. ‘I didn’t think you’d be so,’ he hesitates, searching for the word.

‘Willing?’

He nods. ‘Thought I’d have to talk you into it.’

You snort, a real smile creeping onto your lips. ‘Would you have begged if I asked you to?’

‘I don’t know.’ His brows pinch together, thick and sorry-looking. ‘Would you have turned me away if I didn’t?’

‘No,’ you realise, because you had patched him up too often to let him suffer now. The blood on your hands has to have been worth something. ‘But I’d have taken an extra pass with that spray.’

He laughs weakly. ‘Yeah, that, I’d probably deserve.’

Because that’s his answer to everything, isn’t it? Every ounce of pain he endures, is nothing but a coin in the never ending debt that he owes himself. The only person that would ever expect it of him. The only one that thinks he deserves this, burns and wounds that he can’t fix for himself.

‘I think you should go,’ you say quietly, as your heart tugs in the opposite direction. ‘It’s late.’

Late, and approaching the longest time you’ve spent with him since the two of you broke up. Any longer and you might forget why.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle fanfiction #whumpril2023 #whumpril #the way i am shakinggggggg at this being my first frank fic every omg #i dont even know if its frank like at all but it certainly carries the name #LMAO

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