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seldomscilence16 · 6 months

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Whumptober day 29:

"I only sink deeper the deeper I think."

Scented candles | troubled past resurfacing | "What happened to me?"

Fandom: Voltron

Prompts used: all

Oof so this ones a little rough, but it was what I could come up with. Yell at me if you will :)

TW for implied abuse, injuries, blood mentions but not major.

…

The candle is oddly shaped- though he couldn't tell you what he thought it was supposed to be shaped like- and sat innocently in the center of the dining table. It was a gift, for some reason, and Lance felt like it was a test of some kind. It wouldn't be first.

Lance doesn't lite it, not today, he'll wait until HE says it's okay. Just to be safe.

The candle is lit, HE is gone again, and Lance has just awoken, the smell is new and fills the space so fully it's suffocating. He feels a headache building and turns to bury his face in his pillow.

"Leandro! Don't go too far! Pequeño bribón, Lancito!" The voice is worried but fond. (Little rascal)

"I'm fine mama! I'm gonna-" a shriek, cuts off the sentence, blurred view of tumbling down a rocky hill.

"LEANDRO!"

Something snaps, and pain erupts up his arm, there's blood- his arm?

Lance wakes from the light doze confused, a phantom ache in his arm. He sits up, cautiously dragging his sleeve up, he stares like he'd never seen it before, and wonders if he had. Scars litter the tan skin, old and newer, healing bruises doing little to hide them.

He presses on one-

The boy beside him holds his arm tenderly beneath cool sink water,

"Hermano, it's not that big a deal, I burn myself all the time, so do you!"

"But I burned you! I didn't-"

"Didn't mean to? I know, I was in the way and the pan was bigger than I thought. Give me a cookie and we're all good."

He gasps, the teen burned into his eyelids. His heart aches and his head pounds, as he tries to place where he knows him from. He'd looked like Lance, not like HIM, or the weird people on TV, he looked like Lance-

Human.

He had been human, like Lance. Lance was a human, who knew other humans at some point. He stumbles to his feet, dizzy as he makes his way to the bathroom, he splashes water on his face and meets his own eyes in the mirror. One Brown, one Blue.

"Think the team will notice, beautiful?"

Perhaps, if they can look up for a moment.

"Ha! You are not wrong there… maybe I can find contacts, switch back and forth and see who notices first…"

Amusing, they do claim to be observant.

The mocking in her mental voice makes Lance chuckle again.

"Don't worry Blue, I'll always appreciate you even if they don't."

And I you.

He stumbles back, hands in his hair as his head seems fit to burst with how harshly it pounds-

Cub, breathe.

"I shouldn't be c-cold. Why is it s-so c-c-cold?"

I have raised the temperature, you are within the safety of my walls, I will not let any harm come.

"R-red, why m-me? W-why is i-it always m-me?"

I wish I knew cub… you do not deserve it. I am here.

Blue, Red, voices, presences in his mind, how could he forget about two whole presences in his MIND! What is going on?!

He struggles to dress himself, the clothes ill fitting- HE likes them loose- but he manages, he doesn't have shoes- he doesn't leave this place- but the cloth on his feet resembles socks. SOCKS how did he forget what SOCKS were!? He slides into the main part of the building, his eyes fall on the candle and the purple flame-

Seventh wheel.

Too many paladins.

Leave the math to Pidge.

Not now Lance!

I told you to stay out of this!

Lance! Don't ever scare me like that again!

Lance, I'm sure you can find something to do without getting into trouble hm?

Mighty paladin, fallen before my feet, mine I shall make you, my quite the feat!

"What happened to me?" He's curled up on the floor, tears tracking down his face.

His heart thumps heavily in his chest, longing for something, he needs to get out of here. He had a life before this- however complicated it seemed- but if he stayed, he may not have a life after.

The Alien that had been parading around here, talking about some life they had together, making up quiznaking BS about life long mates, was a phonier phony than he thought.

Lance had not lost his memory in some weird accident, it had been on purpose! Maybe…. he still didn't know, but HE would be back eventually, and HE would surely be mad again. Lance needed a way out.

"Alright memories… I only sink deeper the deeper I think. So chill out for a minute, bueno? Bueno…"

He drags himself over to the table, snuffing the candle-

Burning.

Burned flesh.

It fills his nose.

Everything's bURNING!

HELP!

"Mierda!" Blood dribbles down his chin, lip sore and throbbing where teeth had bitten through skin.

Out. A way out. Come on Lance, you've been cleaning this place as long as you can remember- ha- there's gotta be a way out!

He starts with the front door; biometric lock, Lance can't find a panel to open.

The windows; thick, tinted, none openable, does not break with a chair, no ground in sight.

No back door. No laundry chute, no neighbors he can hear, no skylight, Garbage chut-

Garbage chute!

Disgusting, but his only option.

The thing is large, to fit the large bags he assumes, it does not smell, it seems pretty clean considering, but Lance can only assume what's at the bottom. Rotting food, alien bugs, an incinerator!? This could be a terrible idea.

But… it's his only one. He grabs the biggest knife from the kitchen, wraps it up to hopefully avoid stabbing himself, and stares at the chute. He sits in it awkwardly, his brain niggling on the idea of a 'slide' but Lance doubts this will be fun.

His scream is a squeaky breathy thing, to remain as quiet as possible and still release his terror as he goes down into the dark unknown. Falling for several long moments before a light appears and he slows his descent with protesting skin burning all the while.

His chest heaves as he stares at the opening, a pile of trash bags, no heat, he sends a prayer to whoever's listening, and falls.

He must look like a loonatic, running around as he is with no idea where he is or why. But he stops for no one, no rushing memories coming to him at anything he registers before him. He runs, he doesn't look back, everything aches, but he pushes, he's been through worse-

Gods he's been through worse.

He only slows as he reaches some sort of port, spaceships coming and going. He has no money, but he will be leaving this place, if it's the last thing he does.

He doesn't see the screen beside him light up with his face:

Missing:

Paladin of Voltron

*image*

"What happened to me?"

Tips or info sent to xxxxx

He doesn't look back.

#whumptober 2023 #no.29 #I only sink deeper the deeper I think #lyric #scented candles #troubled past resurfacing #what happened to me?#voltron legendary defender #fic #implied abuse #blood mentions #injuries #cliff hanger #angst #langst

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f1-disaster-bi · 2 years

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Emmy no don't share whumptober lite, now I wanna do it for summer job au

Curse you for making it grow so much and consume my brain <3 ~ SJ anon

Do it

Don't be a coward, do it

Start even more google docs 😂

#summer job anon

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warpinator · 7 months

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✨ for the fic writer asks

✨What's a fic you've posted you wish you could breathe life into again and have people talking about it? (or simply a fic you wish got more credit)

probably first: do no harm! I put a lot of thought into Izuku's quirk and each interaction with the chosen characters. I had a lot of fun with it. I wish I had some idea of something else in that 'verse, because I had a lot of fun with it.

I forgot it was a Whumptober fic too haha. It's whump-lite, but I think there's enough of it that it ended up balanced.

Thank you!

#asks

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riversofmars · 3 years

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Here we go with Day 2!

Whumptober Day 2: “Talking is overrated"

Fandom: Happy Valley + Collateral

Ship: Catherine Cawood/Jane Oliver

Rating: G

Summary: Catherine has had a shitty week at work and she visits her daughter's grave for some peace and quiet. The trip turns out more interesting than expected when she realises Sowerby Bridge has a new vicar.

Talking Is Overrated

Catherine dropped onto the grass in front of Becky’s grave. The grass was damp but at least it wasn’t raining anymore and her heavy-duty uniform trousers should be alright for a while. She took a deep breath and rested her head against hands, looking across to her daughter’s grave. It had been an exceptionally shit week. She had come straight from work as she often did these days. Whenever things threatened to get on top of her and she couldn’t face her obligations at home just yet, she took a breather and visited her daughter. It wasn’t comfort as such, not when it served to remind her of her own failings, but it was what she needed.

“Sergeant Cawood, isn’t it?“ A voice pulled Catherine out of her thoughts and she looked up, surprised. People don’t usually talk to you when you’re visiting a grave and Catherine considered herself even less approachable than most. And yet: a short, middle-aged woman came to stand beside her, glancing at Becky's grave briefly. Catherine didn’t recognise her but the white dog collar gave her profession away, if not her name.

“Reverend…“ Catherine said, her voice non-committal as she looked up at her for a moment. “Didn't realise we had a new vicar…“ She averted her eyes and focused on her daughter’s grave instead. “You have me at a disadvantage.“

“Jane Oliver,“ the vicar responded and Catherine found herself nodding in acknowledgement.

“How come you know who I am? We didn’t have a drunken fling that I don’t remember, or anything?“ The police sergeant chuckled though joylessly.

“Nah, I’d like to think that’s not something you’d forget about,“ the vicar retorted and Catherine looked up at her, impressed by the quick comeback. “Lucky guess,“ Jane carried on to clarify with a kind smile. She touched her hand to the stripes on Catherine’s shoulder. “Sergeant stripes and…“ She gestured to the grave and Catherine huffed.

“Right…“

“But I’ve also seen your picture in the paper. Queen’s Police Medal for Bravery?“ The vicar added and clasped her hands in front of her.

“That was a while ago,“ she hummed. Jane Oliver wasn’t an imposing figure and Catherine surprised herself in the fact that she hadn’t told her to do one yet. Perhaps it was a vain attempt at not pissing everyone off the moment they first met her. She did wish she would state her business though or at least sit down; she was making her nervous by hovering. “Are you just going to stand there?“

“Might have done a bit of research about this place before I came here. I wanted to know what sort of community I was coming into,“ Jane carried on and knelt down next to Catherine. The policewoman watched her for a moment, surprised that that was her reaction to her question.

“Shitty one, I’d say,“ Catherine answered at last and returned her attention to her daughter’s grave. The last few weeks had been rough… no, last few years , Catherine corrected herself. Since Becky’s death, everything in life had become a struggle. There had been ups and downs but her most recent downs, her experiences with Tommy Lee Royce, the influence he continued to have over her life and the damage he had done continued like a never ending valley of dread and despair. These days, she was barely coping.

“Things are not exactly easy around here, are they,“ Jane commented though without judgement in her soft melodic voice.

“That’s one way of putting it…“ Catherine gave a bitter sort of laugh as she contemplated the state of Calder Valley. “How do we compare?“

“Hm?“ Jane glanced over to her questioningly, a frown knitting her brow.

“To where you were before, surely this is not your first parish?“ The sergeant clarified.

“About average,“ Jane replied and Catherine huffed:

“Really…“

“Shitty end of average but average nonetheless, sadly…“ the vicar confirmed with a thoughtful nod.

“So where were you before?“ Catherine had already placed her accent as London but she thought it polite to ask anyway.

“Central London,“ came the prompt confirmation.

“You’ll be laughing at our small city problems then,“ Catherine mused.

“Not a laughing matter,“ Jane retorted sincerely and the calm comment cut deeper than the policewoman had anticipated. Things were bad in the Valley. When a copper had been identified as a killer, right under Catherine’s nose, she had lost what little hope she had for this place.

“Yeah I suppose it’s not…“ she mused. “But if you don’t laugh about it, you’d just be crying all the time…“

Silence fell. It wasn’t unpleasant but it wasn’t exactly light either.

“You know we can… talk,“ the vicar said at last, shooting her a glance.

“Thought we were talking…“ Catherine huffed in response and Jane chuckled:

“You know what I mean.“

“Talking is overrated…“

“Or I can just sit here,“ Jane offered, she shifted, sat down properly and crossed her legs to sit more comfortably. Catherine caught sight of her trousers and shoes. A priest in jeans and converse? She was bemused.

“Have you not got anything better to do?“ She asked and refrained from commenting on her choice of attire, though she couldn’t help but think that her jeans would soak through in the damp grass.

“Other than trying to support someone that looks like they could do with it? No, nothing better to do,“ Jane answered mildly.

“People are usually more scared of me,“ Catherine said, after brief consideration.

“Are they?“ Jane raised her eyebrows and despite her best police instincts, Catherine couldn’t tell whether she was genuinely surprised or that was something she already knew about her, too.

“Yeah, I’ve got a reputation,“ Catherine stated, figuring the priest might as well know what she’s letting herself in for.

“As someone who stands up for law and order. Don’t see anything wrong with that.“ Jane shrugged and again, her response surprised the policewoman. Reverend Oliver knew how to steer a conversation.

“You know you have quite the way with words, Reverend,“ Catherine hummed, realising she wouldn’t be able to get one over her that easily.

“Good,“ Jane smiled and it was most dazzling, warm and bright on a grey autumn day.

“And you’re not like any vicar I’ve ever met,“ Catherine decided to carry on.

“Good. Again.“ The vicar nodded approvingly. “Means you won’t measure me against my predecessor… or whatever else put you off the Church.“

“Is it that obvious,“ Catherine chuckled to herself. She was not only quick with words, she was observant too.

“It’s that look, when people see the collar, tells me everything I need to know,“ Jane answered, gesturing to the white plastic on her neck.

“And yet, you spoke to me,“ Catherine commented, a little impressed. She could only imagine what sort of face she had pulled upon realising her profession.

“I’m not scared off that easily,“ Jane stated lightly.

“The old vicar…“ Catherine took a deep breath and fixed her gaze to her daughter’s grave. “He told me suicide was a sin… that’s how Becky died, she…“ She paused for a moment and Jane didn’t jump in, she waited patiently. “She killed herself after some awful things happened to her… You can see why that might not exactly… prompt a positive response to the Church…“

“Miserable bastard…“ Jane huffed and Catherine nodded.

“That’s what I thought, too…“ The vicar’s words took a moment to sink in but when they did, Catherine’s head flew around: “Sorry, did I just hear you right? You called him a bastard? You’re a priest, you’re not meant to talk like that!“

“I like saying things how they are,“ Jane shrugged but a little smile betrayed her amusement at her reaction.

“Right, you really are not like any vicar I’ve ever met,“ Catherine laughed in disbelief. Then she extended her hand to her. “I’m Catherine by the way. Not Sergeant Cawood. I’m here to see me daughter, not make an arrest.“

“Jane,“ the vicar responded in kind and took her hand. “Though, I am the vicar here, this is my church, so I am at work, sorry,“ she added with a chuckle.

“Do you get time off work too or is it an all-day thing?“ Catherine surprised herself with the question.

“Depends on how you look at it. It’s a vocation, not a profession but I suspect you understand that very well yourself…“ Jane replied with ease and let go of her hand.

“Only, we could grab a drink if there ever were a time when neither one of us is on duty,“ Catherine gave a non-committal shrug. “I like knowing what’s going on on my patch.“

“Not completely off duty then,“ Jane gave back, her quick wit resurfacing and Catherine held up her hands defensively.

“Just thought it might be a good chance to talk.“

“I hear talking is overrated,“ the vicar hummed and Catherine shook her head to herself.

“Wise-arse,“ she chuckled and Jane feigned affront:

“Language!“

“You get to swear and I don’t?“ Catherine grinned, incredulous.

“Well, you insulted me, that was personal. I was just insulting my incompetent predecessor,“ Jane pointed out with a smile of her own. “But I suppose you could buy me dinner to make up for it.“

#Whumptober 2021 #no.2 #Talking is overrated #Happy Valley #Collateral #fic #catherine cawood #jane oliver #general #mild whump #whump lite #femslash #nicola walker #sarah lancashire #crossover #fic fusion #fanfiction #whumptober

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that-gal-kay · 5 years

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Whumptober 2019: 01- Shaky Hands

I wrote something on the plane! And now, bed.

***

Winter comes, and Hamilton finds his hands tremble more. The cause, he supposes, could stem from any number of things; the cold, the lack of food, endless work and exhaustion that inevitably accompanies the shaking. It does not go unnoticed either.

"Fine. I'm fine," He insists any time he's asked. He doesn't need a break. He doesn't. The shaking will pass.

The cold is sharp, biting, unrelenting, but Hamilton pushes himself through his work. Occasionally he takes a break to sit on hands, lest he find himself too numb to write. When he finds his hands too cold, he recites aloud what he means to write to memorize it for later. Surely the cold won't last forever.

"Hamilton…"

"I'm fine."

There is a shortage of food before winter even arrives. Rations are lessened, even among General Washington's aides. Hamilton hasn't known hunger like this since he was a boy. Meals are meager, rarely enough to fill the stomach. Some evenings Hamilton finds himself dizzy. His stomach roils. He stumbles. His hands shake and it's not from the cold. This is different and aching and even after he crawls into bed the trembling does not cease.

"Hamilton."

"Fine, I… I'm fine."

Hamilton works to take his mind off of the cold and hunger. He rises and starts his work before the sun comes up, and continues until late in the night. Even if he'd consider sleep, there are piles of work to be done. Hamilton works without any hope of ever catching up. Any attempt at sleep, compounded by cold and hunger, makes for even more miserable circumstances, so he stays awake and works. There are times when he could fall asleep at his desk, but he pushes on as long as he can.

"How long has this been going on?"

"M'fine."

"Alexander."

When Hamilton opens his eyes everything is hazy at first. A figure sits across the table from him, also hard to make out. He squints and- oh, it's General Washington.

"Did I fall asleep?"

"You could say that," Washington responds. His expression is a mask of utmost calm, but there's something about the words.

Hamilton pushes himself up in his seat and pretends not to notice the way his hands tremble against the wood. "What does that-"

"You lost consciousness in the middle of a conversation, my boy. How long have you been ill?"

"I'm not."

Washington leans forward and places a hand over Hamilton's, and he realizes just how frigid his own fingers are.

"I'm not ill, sir, it's just the cold."

"The cold doesn't make you faint while speaking with your commanding officer, son."

Chill or no, Hamilton feels his face turn red. "I suppose I didn't eat much today. It won't happen again."

The General squeezes his fingers a moment, as if trying to impart his own warmth, and then, slowly, he draws his hand back. "I'm concerned about you."

"All due respect, Your Excellency, but your concern is misplaced."

"You're to take extra rations the rest of this week, Hamilton. You'll rest when you're told to and you're not to venture outside."

"But, sir! I-"

"Do not argue with me, Colonel Hamilton. It will get you nowhere. Do you understand?"

Hamilton slumps further into his chair. "Yes, sir."

"Good," Washington stands, and belatedly Hamilton does too. "To bed with you then." And then he turns and ascends the stairs.

Hamilton is left lingering for a moment in the workroom. He watches the General until he disappears. When he turns to extinguish the candle, his hands are shaking, breath short.

It's nothing. He'll be fine.

#hamilteaser #whumptober #whumptober 2019 #no. 1 #shaky hands #fluffy whump #exhaustion #hunger #cold #Alexander Hamilton #George Washington #washingdad #or maybe some lite Whamilton if ya like

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neonpinkfeels · 1 year

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#encanto #bruno madrigal #la familia madrigal #encanto prompts #encanto fanart #the madrigals #pepa madrigal #felix madrigal #julieta madrigal #agustin madrigal #antonio madrigal #camilo madrigal #mirabel madrigal #luisa madrigal #isabela madrigal #dolores madrigal #encantober #whumptober #whumptober lite

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stereopticons · 1 year

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I posted 6,195 times in 2022

That's 5,593 more posts than 2021!

736 posts created (12%)

5,459 posts reblogged (88%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@ramonaflow

@maxbegone

@plainest

@rmd-writes

@damndarrenineedacigarettenow

I tagged 2,662 of my posts in 2022

#thanks for asking! - 288 posts

#schitt's creek fic - 102 posts

#schitt's creek - 96 posts

#patrick x david - 81 posts

#david rose - 81 posts

#david x patrick - 75 posts

#patrick brewer - 69 posts

#fic rec - 54 posts

#wip ask game - 37 posts

#sweater weather - 36 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#if your automated phone system asks me to describe what i want to talk to someone about i will just yell person at it until it connects me

My Top Posts in 2022:

Schitt’s Creek Characters as Disney Princesses

So given that Schitt’s Creek is moving to Hulu next week, and as @mr-writes pointed out, Hulu is owned by Disney, this makes several SC characters Disney Princesses. Consider:

Patrick:

Patrick has big, loud Disney eyes. If Dan had allowed us to have Patrick with curls, he would have had luxurious Disney princess hair. “The Best” is an “I Want” song (for those unfamiliar, i.e., non-theater nerds, “I Want” songs are songs that express a wish for something or dissatisfaction with their current life). Patrick isn’t dissatisfied with his life, but he wants more with David. He sings “each time you leave me, it’s like I’m losing control, like you’re walking away with my heart and my soul.”

See the full post

55 notes - Posted September 27, 2022

“tired of believing I wasted my formative years” hits hard some days (most days)

56 notes - Posted January 5, 2022

wish i was the moon tonight

David suffers from insomnia after moving to Schitt's Creek and turns to the sleep stories on Calm to help him fall asleep. Brewer's Baseball History is the only thing that helps, but what happens when the voice behind those stories shows up in town?

An SC MediaFest fic

[david/patrick, T, 7k]

67 notes - Posted April 6, 2022

you know what thing I love? david and patrick learning about things the other likes just because they like them. david learning baseball? patrick learning fashion? give it to me. david learning excel? patrick watching rom coms? yes please. i will read this one million times.

75 notes - Posted March 1, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Whumptober Lite 2022

For when you want to be sad, but you don’t want people to get stabbed!

Looking over the Whumptober 2022 prompts, I was struck by how dark they are, and I think being in a fandom like SC where in canon, characters are not in physical danger all the time (as opposed to wee-woo shows, for example, and Alexis’s past notwithstanding), it’s hard to connect with prompts like that. So I created this list of Whump Lite prompts for your Whumptober writing pleasure.

This isn’t a formal challenge or anything, so there’s no rules, but do tag me if you use one of these, just because I want to read it! Feel free to share this!

216 notes - Posted September 13, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #first of all i need to chill #second of all i'm so sorry i am so bad at tagging

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hullomoon · 2 years

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day one: bruises

part of @stereopticons whumptober lite 2022

read on ao3

Carson couldn't avert her eyes from Greta's thighs. Everyone hated the skirts and the damage it did to their bodies. The strawberries were a few days old, moving from a mottled red rash to scabbing, angry bruises surrounding it.

Every part of her wanted to press her lips against the bruises, soothe them with her touch. But they rarely had time or privacy for anything more than making out. She wondered what it would be like to soothe Greta's aches and pains without worry.

Instead, she watched as Greta slipped her uniform on and the bruises disappeared from her sight.

#whumptober lite 2022 #carson shaw #carson shaw/greta gill #a league of their own #hullomoon writes

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icecubelotr44 · 6 years

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Tucked In (Whumptober/Inktober Day 31)

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Wow, I didn’t think I’d actually get through all of these, but here we are at the end of the month and there’s been plenty of whump and angst to go around. Here’s one last piece to round out the set.

Continuation of Gagged

Killian should be in a hospital.

That was the one thought running rampant through Emma’s mind as she lowered him into the backseat of the Bug, trying to ignore the grunts and bitten-off moans every time he moved. Hades had done a number on him in that warehouse. His face was bloody and bruised, one eye swollen completely shut, and Emma didn’t want to think about what the rest of him looked like.

He should be in the back of an ambulance with painkillers and antibiotics and an oxygen mask to muffle the sounds of his hurt that tore through her.

She wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him.

It had been just another case. One that would put her name on the map, so to speak, but still just another case. He was just another detective, an anonymous source she was supposed to use for information and then send back to his own career.

She wasn’t supposed to fall in love.

But she had. He’d tunneled under her walls or scaled them or maybe just blown them all to Hell and crawled into the rubble next to her.

So now what was she supposed to do?

Who could she trust?

Who would trust her?

Internal Affairs wasn’t a glorious position. She was reviled in most precincts and outright scorned nearly everywhere she went within the boundaries of her jurisdiction. But someone needed to call men like Gold and Hades to task and she was good at what she did.

If it meant she had very few people she could call friend, then that was just a side effect of the job, wasn’t it?

She hadn’t minded. Not until now.

Now, when Jones needed to be in the back of an ambulance and she couldn’t risk it - the call over the radio that she’d nearly made on instinct had almost signed his death warrant as it was. If Hades got wind of where Killian was, unprotected and vulnerable, it would be the end of him.

Him, and her case, but Emma was rapidly figuring out how little the second one mattered to her in light of the threat to the first.

So here she was, driving across town and out of the bustle of the city limits to an old, beat up cabin that Jones had told her about once. The coordinates (seriously, Jones, there’s not even an address?) input into her GPS told her she had nearly an hour to figure out who to call for help and supplies.

And help.

God, she needed help.

Killian needed help.

He was nearly silent in the back, crammed onto the too-small seat she’d never thought too much about before. His knees were bent up to his chest, just within reach of her hand if she wanted to touch him. Emma probably should have gotten him into the front seat, at least so he could stretch out, but he’d bitten out “in the back” when she’d opened the door and she’d nearly lost her grip on him when Killian had tried to grab the seat lever.

So the backseat - and the illusion of hiding from prying eyes - it was.

Emma hit a frost heave in the road and Killian whined pitifully, letting Emma know he was still somewhat awake in the back seat and sending her hand backwards to soothe over his knee cap without conscious thought.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I couldn’t avoid it!” she begged his forgiveness, her hand tracing frantic circles over the torn denim. His skin underneath was clammy.

“‘Sok,” Killian grunted somewhat unintelligibly, his fingers tangling in hers. “Jus’ keep goin’.”

Emma’s fingers tightened around his and refused to let go.

Even twenty minutes later when his went completely limp, the backseat now silent save for his even breathing.

Thank God, she thought as she turned off the main road at the GPS-lady’s insistence.

The road wasn’t paved.

Ten minutes - and Emma was sure, part of her engine lost to the ‘road’ - later, and the GPS chimed her arrival.

They were in the Goddamned middle of nowhere and there wasn’t anything resembling a cabin in sight.

“What the hell, Jones?” she muttered, cutting what was left of the engine and unfolding herself from the driver’s seat.

The road didn’t continue, and she was surrounded by trees.

But she smelled smoke.

Hoping beyond hope that there was someone who could help her, Emma locked Killian in the car and followed her nose.

Through the trees and up a hill and Emma was just about to turn around and curse Jones out and then drive him to a hospital and hope that an alias would be enough to keep him safe. Then she saw it.

The tiny little cabin with smoke coming out of the chimney and a wrap-around porch and a snowmobile parked outside. There was an honest-to-God lumberjack to the left of the porch, flannel shirt stretching across his shoulders as he split wood.

If there wasn’t the idiot bleeding out in her back seat (stop being dramatic, Emma, that’s Jones’s job) she’d think that she’d wandered into a dream.

Or a postcard.

It was perfect.

Hoping beyond hope that she was in the right place, Emma slip-slid down the hill towards the mountain man (don’t call him that if you want his help, Emma) and called out so she wouldn’t startle him.

He jumped anyway.

“Can I help you, lass?”

God, the accent matched Jones’s and if this man wasn’t related to Killian, Emma would turn in her badge.

“I… I have Killian.”

The ax slipped off his shoulder and thudded in the snow at his boots.

“I… he needs help.”

Blood drained from the man’s face as he stared at her. “Where’s my brother?”

Liam. This was Liam Jon-

“Where is my brother?” he shouted before Emma could process the question the first time.

Emma pointed up the hill. “Here. In my car. I didn’t… I ran out of road.”

Liam shot past her, climbing the hill in record pace and leaving Emma holding the keys, a little shell-shocked.

And then she realized that if Liam was anything like his brother, he’d likely break one of her windows rather than waiting for the keys.

“Hey! Wait for me!” she shouted at his back, scrambling up the incline after Liam.

When she got to the car, Liam hadn’t broken the window. He was staring inside with one hand clenched around the door handle, trembling a little.

“Is he…” he whispered, apparently aware that she was behind him.

Emma reached around him to unlock the door. “He passed out about half an hour ago. But he’s all right”---Emma shrugged at Liam’s sharp look---“more or less.”

Liam wrenched open the door and knelt near Killian’s head. His fingers carded through his brother’s hair and Emma felt as if she were intruding.

“I’ve got you now, little brother. Just rest.”

Liam reached into his pocket and dragged out a set of keys. “There’s a path around the back of the cabin that will bring you around here with the snowmobile.”

It was clearly a dismissal, and Emma tried not to hiss her dislike of his orders. Killian was hers, and Emma didn’t share her toys well.

But this was Killian’s brother, and he likely didn’t want to share his brother, either.

And the two of them squaring off wouldn’t get Killian inside and warm any time soon.

So Emma snatched the keys from outstretched fingers and clomped back to the cabin.

It took longer than either of them would have liked, but Killian was secure in the sled and Liam took over maneuvering the machine back around to the cabin and the promise of warmth and help.

Emma was off the back before the engine cut out, kneeling at Killian’s head and relieved to see one eye slitted open and watching her.

“Hey there,” she whispered, a silly little grin on her face. “Welcome back.”

Killian tried to shake his head. “Didn’t go anywhere. Safe?”

“You’re safe, little brother,” Liam cut in, undoing the straps over Killian’s chest and hips. “Let’s get you inside and warm, aye? Then you can tell me all about this mess you’ve found yourself in.”

Killian whined audibly, but reached out for Liam’s arm and tried to lever himself up.

Emma and Liam leapt forward to support him when he cried out and fell back into the metal sled.

“You wanna try the less stubborn route this time, Jones?” Emma chided.

Liam laughed.

He sobered up quickly when Killian didn’t have a quick retort.

“Let us do the heavy lifting this time, little brother.”

Killian’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t try to move again. “I think you mean younger”---he whispered and then paused---“and I thought you said I wasn’t heavy?”

“Not what I meant and you know it,” Liam argued.

It took longer than Emma would have liked, and with a lot more cursing on everyone’s parts, but they eventually got him standing. One arm over Liam’s shoulders and Emma’s fingers snagged in his belt loops, Killian almost looked like he was able to stand on his own.

“One step at a time, Jones,” she reminded them both when Killian staggered forward. “We’ve got you.”

“He should be in a hospital,” Liam seethed.

“I can hear you, brother.”

“Yes, well you’re clearly incapable of making smart decisions right now, so you don’t get a vote.”

Emma felt the way Killian bristled and explained the situation as best she could.

“Safe here, Liam,” Killian cajoled, limping up the steps to the porch.

Liam growled, but stopped arguing. “Aye, little brother. You’re safe here. Let’s get you inside.”

The inside of the cabin was just as rustic as she’d imagined. A wood-burning stove in one corner of the kitchen and a fireplace ringed by well-loved furniture and bookshelf after bookshelf in the living room. There were a couple doors off the main room, the wooden beams decorated with garland that had seen better days.

“This first door’s my room, but the back one’s his.” Liam nodded his head towards the tightly closed door as they moved carefully past the couches.

Killian whined.

“Bed, little brother. I don’t want you falling off the couch.”

Killian glared.

Emma lifted the latch on the door and let it swing inwards, taking in the dark blues and the light wood that filled Killian’s room. They sidled through the doorway and Liam transferred Killian’s weight to her as he moved to turn down the well-worn quilt and thick blankets.

Killian groaned as he was lowered down onto the mattress but then flopped down onto his side and was nearly unconscious again before they could get him settled.

“I’ll get the medical kit we keep on hand if you can get him all the way in bed?” Liam asked gently.

Emma nodded silently.

“There’s more blankets in the closet if you’re chilled, lass.”

“Emma,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off Killian.

“Pleased to meet you, Emma,” Liam whispered back before leaving the room.

Killian’s eye fluttered open as she unlaced his boots and swung his feet up under the sheets. “‘M all bloody,” he complained, trying to rise again.

“Don’t worry about it,” Emma scolded, her hand on his shoulder. “Liam and I will get you all cleaned up.”

He mumbled something, but it was lost as he drifted off.

Hours later, the burns and lacerations and bruises swathed in gauze and the clothes he’d been worried about long gone, Killian rested comfortably under a mountain of blankets and pillows. His head canted to one side, soft snores coming from his mouth as he slept. Liam was sitting on the far side of the bed, one hand resting on Killian’s shoulder as he, too, dozed in the late evening’s peace.

Emma worried.

This wasn’t the end of things. Killian was still in danger. Liam was in danger, now, because Emma had brought Killian here. Hades wouldn’t take this lightly.

But there was nothing to do at the moment but keep the Jones brothers safe. And that started with getting Killian to heal.

When a shiver coursed through Killian, shaking her hand as it carded through his hair, Emma reached out to tuck the blankets more tightly around his shoulders.

Hades hadn’t counted on one thing - Emma Swan protected those she loved, and she’d never failed.

He didn’t stand a chance.

#cs ff #brothers jones #liam jones #whumptober #inktober #whump #angst #angst-lite?#I mean #for me anyway #my fic #one shot #whumptober ff #it's DONE!#all 31 prompts

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mangoofthesea · 3 years

Text

Whumptober day 23 - Pursuit

continued from day 22 - obsession

part 1

ao3

There hadn't been anything particularly interesting about the day it happened. He had been out, it was the weekend and his mom hadn't stopped screaming down the phone for him to visit for weeks so he had finally given in. Now it was dusk and he was making his way back to UA and the dorms so he could do what remained of his homework and get some fucking sleep. Maybe take a painkiller for the way his head was ringing a bit from the way she'd smacked him in greeting for not paying enough attention to his 'poor kind parents'.

He had turned down one of the quieter streets when suddenly someone darted out and grabbed him arm tightly with a wide hand.

Katsuki looks up sharply, preparing to blow whoever it was sky high, but he has to stop himself when he sees it isn't a villain. Instead, it's a man with sharp eyes and light brown hair dressed in a shirt and blazer.

"Bakugou Katsuki right?"

Katsuki feels his hackles rise and he tries to pull his arm away, but the guy is holding on tightly. Tight enough to make adrenaline start his adrenaline pumping. As happy to cause a scene as Katsuki always is, he doesn't want to end up with assault charges on top of all the other bullshit he's dealing with right now, so he tries talking before he ripping the arm off for touching him.

"You wanna keep your arm, you better get the fuck off me asshole."

The man, with apparently no self preservation instincts, just tightens his grip as he grins, wide and unnerving in that way those perfect white, straight toothed smiles often are. Katsuki can suddenly guess who this guy is when he couples that with the lanyard he now sees swinging in place around his neck. A fucking reporter, and going by that face, one with goals of being an anchor or some similarly face first TV asshole.

"It is you! How would you feel about answering a few questions for my magazine?"

A hand slips in and out of his pocket quicker than Katsuki can see and he suddenly has a recording device held to his own mouth. "Bakugou, how do you feel about being responsible for the loss of the Symbol of Peace?"

Suddenly the recorder was being shoved in Katsuki's face and he tries to step back, but that only makes the guy hold onto him tighter. He realises now that the guy is bigger than him, taller by nearly a head, and the grip on Katsuki's arm feels stronger than he expected from a reporter. But that predatory glint in his eyes is all Katsuki needs to know this guy has done this before, probably to plenty of other people he's decided he needs to get a story from more than he values their ability to say no.

"Get the fuck off me!" He tries to pull away again, but the grip tightens, bordering on painful, and Katsuki is getting slowly convinced that the only way he's getting out of this will be by using his quirk.

"Did All Might tell you he blamed you for destroying his career?" The guy says loudly into the recorder then shove it back towards him.

Katsuki can feel the swell of emotion and guilt that's been under his skin since Kamino bubbling at his questions. He grits his teeth against it and decides he can have reasonable excuse for what he does next after all this bullshit.

Katsuki brings up his other and and wraps it around the recorder, wrenching it from a grasp far less tight than the one on his arm. The man exclaims as it's tugged away, but Katsuki ignores him and lights up his hand around the tightly held device, blowing it into pieces that he then drops on the floor in between them. He glares as fiercely as he can at the man as he speaks.

"If you don't let fucking go of me that's gonna be you next, got it fuckface?"

The man was looking at his demolished recording device with despair, but at Katsuki's words his eyes snap up with a different fire in than there was before.

"You lite brat! How fucking dare you!" He gives Katsuki a shake with the arm still in his grasp. It jolts Katsuki enough that he feels the first real prickle of fear, and suddenly he wants to be fucking anywhere but here.

Uncaring of the consequences he throws his hand up and uses his palm to hit him square in the chest as he ignites his sweat.

The guy let's go of him as he flies backwards, throwing his arms out to save himself. Once he lands on the ground a few meters away, he looks up and screams something at Katsuki. But Katsuki doesn't stick around to decider his garbled anger. Instead he bolts away, using his quirk to give himself a push further away and starts running in the direction of UA. He doesn't look back even when the shouts fade out of hearing range, and doesn't stop until he hits the gates.

Getting back to school, he only stops in his room long enough to grab his gear before he's out again and heading for the smaller training area.

It's Saturday, so he doesn't expect anyone to be there, but when he gets there he finds Shinso using his capture weapon to swing between the short fake buildings, occasionally launching himself high enough that he looks like he could tap the ceiling if he tried.

"Hey!" He shouts upon entering. "Get the fuck out hypno bastard!"

Shinso lands on the top of one of the buildings and Katsuki hates that he's looking down on him so easily from there.

"Uh, no? You don't control the training room Bakugou?"

And that's all he gets before he throws out the capture weapon again and jumps, effectively ending the conversation.

"Fuck you!" Katsuki yells, loud and echoing, but all he gets is a faint chuckle in return. Fucking finez that bastard wanted to stick around he could, it would be his fault if he got caught in Katsuki's blast radius. He didn't care. All he wanted was to absolutely wreck all of this shit. He'd raise it to the ground. Show why fucking happened when asshole reporters decided to grab him on the street and make him feel all the guilt he's been shoving down for the last few weeks.

He knows he should warm up, he could severely fuck up his body if he doesn't, but all he manages is a couple stretches and some flexing of his wrists before he's strapping his gauntlets on and jumping at the nearest fake tower with a yell, propelling himself upwards with his quirk.

He can see Shinso around some other towers, continuing his aerial practice and decides to stick to where he is, happy with the amount of space allowed him with only one other person here.

He goes all out. Smashing, throwing, demolishing; Katsuki practices every single one of his moves he can until he's panting and sore and then he keeps going. Phantom feeling of the hand on his arm and the vicious glee in that reporter's eyes when he had Katsuki in his grasp making him double down and hit harder, blast bigger. He throws everything he has into it, distantly aware of Shinso in the background avoiding his path of demolition or jumping gracefully around it with all the skills he's picked up from Aizawa.

He's so lost in the act of destruction he doesn't realise he's picked the wrong area to land until his feet hit the top of one of the towers of rock and it gives way. His arms are aching, everything is sore, and he's exhausted. He can't think quickly enough and he's going to fall.

Suddenly a capture scarf snaps out and snags him, swing him around as he yells in shock, and dropping him on the floor a few meters away from where the pile of rocks he'd been standing on crashed down.

"What the fuck asshole!" He screams as soon as he catches sight of Shinso, re gathering his capture scarf that has retracted from around Katsuki.

"You were gonna fall, idiot. I saved you, no need to thank me."

He says it sarcastically, not looking at Katsuki.

"Huh?! I was fucking fine! You got in my way!"

Shinso rolls his eyes and walks up to Katsuki with an unimpressed look. "Uh huh, okay, sure. Cos the way you've been wrecking this room for the last hour like it personally insulted you, All Might and your mother certainly says 'fine'."

"Fuck off, hypno bastard." Katsuki goes to shove him, but as he does Shinso grabs his arm and twists, until he has Katsuki pinned, with a knee on his back and leg pressing down Katsuki's.

"Bakugou, shut the fuck up and calm down, I'm not dealing with your bullshit right now. Either you tell me what the fuck has got you so wound up or I tell Aizawa and make him take you back to the dorms, cos you're not training anymore like this."

"Get off me you purple haired bastard!!"

"Fucking original." Even so, Shinso stands up off of him, after another couple moments of both of their heavy breathing being the only sound in the room.

"Don't ever do that again!"

"Don't try and shove me with your fucking explosion hands then."

Katsuki rolls his eyes. "Fuck off, jt wouldn't have done anything you idiot."

"Uh huh," Shinso says sceptically. "Excuse me for not trusting you to have complete control of fucking nitroglycerin when I just watched you try to murder the training room."

Katsuki takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair, at a loss for what to bite back with. He normally enjoys his little scraps of sarcasm and biting back and forth with Shinso, but right now his brain and emotions feel far to frayed and now he's stopped moving his energy is quickly crashing.

"Seriously, what was up with all that?"

Shinso asks, and Katsuki swears he hears something actually curious in the question. More than just the exasperation and annoyance of the last few minutes.

"'S'nothing. Mind your own business, hypno," he says, body half turned away from the other boy, staring at the expanse of the floor covered with rubble.

"You keep calling me that any more I might just start using it for my hero name," Shinsio says thoughtfully. "Not gonna lie, I kinda like it."

Katsuki looks back to him, eyebrow cocked over his frown as he tries to distinguish if Shinso is serious. The slight smirk on his face does nothing to clue Katsuki in so he sighs and gives up. Instead he slumps on the floor, sitting down where he had been stood, and rests his head in his hands.

"Just fuck off already."

But instead of leaving, Shinso sits next to him.

"You got shitty hearing too or something? I said fuck off."

"Shut up."

It's said so blandly, like Katsuki isn't even worth getting mad over any more. Shinso then stretches out his legs in front of him and leans back on his hands, staring at the demolished training area.

They sit in silence a while. Katsuki too tired to argue and Shinso unwilling to just get up and fucking leave, seeming content to stay just to annoy Katsuki.

After a while, the silent and unjudgemental presence seems to push on something in Katsuki's chest enough that he decides he wants to talk about it.

Sort of.

"Fucking reporters, man," Katsuki mutters, loud enough for Shinso to hear if he's paying attention.

Somehow, that seems to be enough, because Shinso hums in understanding, settling his weight back more firmly. Katsuki isn't sure if he's waiting for him to say more, or if that's just enough for him as an answer to why Katsuki had tried to include him in his less than controlled demolition project.

Apparently it is enough, because when Shinso talks next, what he says is not what Katsuki had expected.

"I get it."

"Huh?"

"I said I get it, moron. My quirk is brainwashing, you think I didn't get a fuckload of weird articles written about me after the sports festival too?" There's some heat to Shinso's voice finally. "You're not the only one people are desperate to cast as the villain."

Katsuki is left not really sure how to respond to that. For some reason it hadn't occurred to him there was someone else in his class that was getting some of the same treatment as him. Sure, it was different cos Shinso hadn't been the one who ended All Might's career, but still.

"What shit have you got?" Katsuki asks in lieu of any better conversation topics.

Shinso laughs, hard and bitter. "Just the same shit I've been getting since I was a kid. 'Wouldn't he make such a scary villain, I feel sorry for the other kids he's facing, how could UA have such a villainous quirk on the hero course.'" Shinso shrugs, but Katsuki can tell it's put on. He familiar with that kind of nonchalance. He's also pretty sure Shinso knows he can see through it, but neither of them say anything.

"That sucks." Katsuki says.

"Yeah."

The silence descends again. After a few minutes though, it's Shinso who breaks it this time.

"The media says some crazy shit about us, that's just how it is. You haven't even seen the weird shit they write about Tokoyami or Shouji or Mina. All the insane stuff they have against mutation quirks. Or...well yeah, let's just say don't search our class online or anything." He breaks off with his tone slipping into one of dark humour. "Everyone's got an opinion. And then the sports festival exposes all of it now instead of at our hero debut like the rest of them."

Katsuki doesn't take his eyes off the floor when he responds.

"Not everyone in our class destroyed the symbol of peace though."

"That wasn't your fault." Shinso says it blankly. Like he's stating a fact that everyone universally agrees on like the sky is blue or no one knows what Principal Nedzu is. It's a tone which brooks no argument. Katsuki wants to scoff, but right now Shinso's surety is something he desperately wants to believe, even as everything in him rebels against the comfort. He knows it's his fault, but for some reason hearing someone as angry and blunt as Shinso say it makes him maybe feel a little better. Mostly because he knows Shinso wouldn't say it if he didn't believe it.

He still refuses to say thanks though. Instead he settles on a nod, and using the toe of his boot to gently tap against Shinso's outstretched leg.

"Whatever hypno."

He sees Shinso smirk out the corner of his eye and he wants to take it back. Maybe he'll just punch him later. Things in the universe need balance after all, and he can't have word getting around that he's gone soft.

"Sure thing, Blasty."

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builder051 · 4 years

Text

Whumptober 2020 day 6: get it out

Chasing ghosts

__________________

Tasha’s been lounging on the couch for at least four hours, her eyes glazed over, and the empty bottle of cough syrup not even so much as concealed on the end table beside her head. James glances up at her every so often as he limps his way through a page of calculus, but largely leaves her be, taking the sweet giggles escaping her cherry lips as proof that she’s ok, on the inside of her dreamscape at least.

The doorknob to the apartment clicks, and Steve steps inside, his footsteps heavy. James looks over his shoulder to see the hunched shoulders and scowl that can only mean it’s been bad day.

“What happened?” James asks before Steve even has a chance to open his mouth.

“Nothing,” Steve mutters. “Stupid engineering.”

“Why are you still in that class?” James shuts his book and stands up. “It’s early enough to drop it. You could switch sections, even.”

“Yeah...” It’s the voice Steve uses when he doesn’t really mean it. He sits down heavily at the kitchen table, and his eyes fall quickly to Tasha. “She been there all day?”

James shrugs. “Since I been home.”

“Why do you still let her do it?”

“Let her? I don’t have any power over her. She’s 18.” James heads to the kitchen and pulls two beers from the fridge. “Plus, it’s Friday.”

“Fuck Friday,” Steve mutters. “I have to go work on that stupid project with Stark again tomorrow, ‘cause apparently that’s the only time he’s free.” He swills his beer. “So don’t get me too drunk.”

“Like you could ever get drunk on this cheap shit,” James laughs.

“Ca’I have one?” comes a weak voice from across the room. Tasha sits up as if in slow motion, holding out her hand even though she’s an entire room’s length too far away.

“Sorry, Tash,” James says. “You’ve got two and a half more years.”

“Even for Bud Lite? I was drinking schnapps at her age.” Steve grins. “And doesn’t she like vod--”

“Don’t let her get any ideas.” James cuts him off. “She listens when she’s stoned.”

“Mm-hm.” Tasha gets clumsily to her feet, using the arm of the couch for support. She takes a couple oddly militaristic steps, as if she’s in a marching band, then wobbles and fans out her arms comically.

“Jesus.” James leaves his beer and rushes to catch her.

“Jamie,” Tasha coos, fitting herself under his arm and leaning into his ribcage. Her tiny body is warm, verging on feverish. “Ca’I have one?” she slurs again.

“No,” James says gently. “Not today.”

“But-- but--” Tasha gulps. “I need--”

“You don’t need any alcohol. Not mixed with what you’ve already have.”

“Jamie--”

“You already sound like you’re gonna puke.”

Tasha puts on a sad face and nods. “I... time to... get it out...”

“Here, then, let’s get you some water.” James tries not to roll his eyes as he takes the cup Steve’s filled at the sink, then hauls his sister into the bathroom. “There,” he says, pushing the glass into her hands. “You’re gonna be fine.”

“If you say so,” Tasha mutters into the depths of the cup.

“I do,” James tells her, brushing a lock of hair off her sweaty cheek. “‘Cause you are. Every damn time.”

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