writing-whump

[writing-whump]

Hey there

You know it was your account that makes me like " o yeah i love whatever it is"

So i learned about whump and all from you

And my favorite whump scenario?????

You and your migraine fic, they are awesome , godddddd i love them

I really love the kind of father figure both issaia and hector are for our dear arni

And aldo our dear arny is a migrainable-person

So ,pretty please????????

Doesn't matter which older brother , just someone taking care of whimpering miserable arni while being in do much pain and rub their back while throwing up and massage his head and neck

No pressure though

Have a good day and thanx for sharing

BTW english is not my first language so im sorry if there's any mistake

You learned about whump from me?? Omg I'm honored! <3

Migraine Weather

Hector was fed up, and the week wasn't over yet.

First, his grand weekend plans to ask Olive to move in with him got ruined by Isaiah's sudden catastrophe. First time in 100 years that Isaiah needs help, and it had to be that day—during their first year anniversary dinner slash celebration night.

Of fucking course.

Then, for some reason, the most useless of Isaiah’s adopted pups ended up on his doorstep, soaked to the bone and crying.

Hector stared at Dylan’s dripping form and hiccuping explanation the same way he would at a duck that suddenly started talking.

They had a fight with Rip, blablabla, Rip ran off, Dylan got worried, followed him, got lost, realized how useless and weak he was...and ended up at Hector's place.

Not just any place, but at that place.

Hector was known to have safety apartments across the city, stationed at strategic access points around Wolfson territory. This one was closest to Isaiah, large, quiet, remote—perfect for stashing Olive and Arnie out of the pack’s nosy sightlines.

No patrol scents. No packmates nearby. Not supposed to be easy to find.

Dylan just shrugged. "You weren’t at the Wolfson building or at Isaiah’s. I figured you’d be somewhere close by but on your own turf, so I googled places delivery drivers avoid—dead-end streets, no Amazon boxes, nothing near a mall. Then I just walked around until I saw your car."

Just like that. Well. Hector hasn't thought of that.

Before he could come up with a reply, Olive was already rushing Dylan inside, alarmed by the wet clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Hugging him. Offering soup. Handing him Hector’s clothes.

The blond wolf could only grit his teeth in annoyance. His human girlfriend chose that moment to breach all wolf protocol and offer gestures of deep sympathy, hospitality and protection...overriding all of Hector's instincts.

Now he was stuck, arms crossed, back pressed against the wall in the living room while his girlfriend fussed over the foreign pup like he was a prince.

Hector detested Rip, but Dylan wasn't even worth the emotion. A wolf who suppressed his shadow to the point of acting and feeling human—that was the lowest of the low. Maybe still above mad wolves, but not by much. A complete disgrace to his bloodline, instincts, soul. No self-respect.

He was this close to tossing the kid back out into the rain and letting him solve his problems the human way.

Except he couldn't exactly ridicule the kid for being human in front of Olive.

Jesus, this was a mess.

Any other day, he’d have dialed Isaiah and dumped the problem back where it belonged. This was Isaiah's pup. Seline's brother.

Not on Hector’s to-do list.

And the more pitiful Dylan became—sniffling under borrowed blankets, voice breaking with apologies—the more invested Olive got.

An endless, infuriating cycle.

To be honest, now that he was more settled, Hector expected glassy-eyed gratitude or full-blown sobbing. But what he saw instead stopped him for a beat—Dylan staring past the wall, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the blanket. Not grief. Not shame. Something tighter. Something that looked a lot like intent.

Then his soft brown eyes met Hector's. Etiquette or not, that look made the older wolf freeze for a second.

Whatever the kid was here for, it wasn’t just shelter. Not if he looked at Hector like that.

A sudden tug on his sleeve broke the moment.

Arnie pulled him toward the kitchen, already muttering, "You can’t send Dylan back now. Isaiah is over his head as it is, Gray wolves are crawling everywhere, the city’s in emergency mode… you kick him out, something happens to him—Isaiah’s pack is as good as dead."

"It's just one boy."

"One important boy. Stop acting oblivious," Arnie said with a frown, rubbing his temples. "I can't believe we are even discussing if we are helping Isaiah or not."

Hector flinched, closing the kitchen door. "Of course, we are helping."

Arnie gave him a seething look, his eyes concerningly green like Isaiah's. "You didn't sound so sure in front of Isaiah and Oscar when we talked. There can't be any doubt where you stand. Isaiah needs you like salt."

Hector gestured towards the living room. "How is that helping?"

"One distraught wolf less on Isaiah's shoulders in this situation is plenty," Arnie said flatly.

It was hard to argue when Arnie got like this. He always acted like Hector’s conscience—dragging out the best parts when Hector wanted to lean on the hard edges.

How could he let the kid go?

They had put the dorm idea on pause during the Italy trip, but now Hector had the solution. He’d live with Olive here, in this off-the-grid safety apartment. Arnie would stay next door. Separate space, same location.

A sense of independence—but no distance.

Arnie leaned against the counter again, rubbing a slow circle into his temple with the heel of his palm. His eyes had narrowed to thin slits, and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his upper lip.

"You win," Hector said with a sigh. “You can stop with the sulking."

No snappy response.

Hector cocked an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Fine," Arnie muttered. His jaw was tight. Too tight. The word came out warped.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not."

"Don’t make this about my nerves," Arnie snapped. "It’s just the air pressure. From the storm. I can feel it behind my eyes."

Hector watched him. That wasn’t how Arnie looked under stress. This was physical. His shoulders were locked too high, his fingers twitching against the edge of the sink like he needed an anchor.

"You’re getting a migraine."

Arnie blinked hard like he could blink the pain away. "I always get them when the weather turns like this—when it’s heavy, wet, and hot."

He pressed both hands to the back of his neck now, as if trying to hold his head up from the base. Hector could see the tension in his arms. The slow, deliberate breathing. The way he kept swallowing, like his stomach was starting to lurch in protest.

"You need to lie down," Hector said, already stepping closer.

"No, I—I want to stay upright. It’s worse if I lie down too fast. My head’s pulsing."

And it was—his voice was trembling around the edges now, like the rhythm of it was off. Not from panic, but pain.

Then his posture shifted. One arm darted out, catching the counter just in time as his knees buckled slightly.

"Arnie—"

"I’m fine," he choked, but the word was a lie and they both knew it.

"You’re going to be sick."

"I’m not—" He gasped and turned away, the rest of the protest disappearing as he bolted from the room.

Hector was already moving.

He found Arnie hunched over the toilet in the small hallway bathroom, one hand gripping the edge, the other pressed over his eyes as he breathed in shallow, pained bursts.

Not throwing up yet. But on the edge.

Hector crouched behind him, placed a hand lightly on his back. Arnie twitched but didn’t push him away.

"I said I’m fine," he whispered hoarsely.

"You’re not," Hector said gently, fingers ghosting up to the base of his skull. "You’re clenching so hard you’re shaking. When did it start?"

"Since before dinner. It got bad when the thunder started. My vision’s tight—I can’t focus on anything too bright."

"You should’ve said something."

"You were too busy hating Dylan to notice," Arnie chuckled, then winced at the sound. His voice cracked like it hit a spike of pain.

Another sharp breath. Then a spasm in his shoulders. He doubled forward and gagged once, dry and sudden.

"Okay," Hector murmured, steadying him by the ribs. "Okay, just breathe through it."

The second time was worse—his body folded into the sink, and the sound that came out of him was raw and painful. Hector didn’t flinch. Just knelt down, braced Arnie with one arm and began rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with the other.

"It’s not from stress," Arnie managed between breaths, like it was very important that Hector understood that part. "It always happens when the air feels like this. I just didn’t expect it to hit now."

"It’s okay,” Hector said softly. Likely that it was both, the emergency and the storm combined. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve kicked everyone out."

"How? You want to start living with her, you can't kick her out."

Hector patted his back a little harder. It coaxed out a burp and a groan. "Shut up."

The nausea came in waves. It wasn’t violent now—just drawn-out and miserable. Arnie’s body trembled with each breath, like it didn’t know if it wanted to collapse or fight.

Hector rubbed his back until the spasms eased, until Arnie was just panting over the toilet bowl, eyes wet and face pale.

"You're alright. Breathe. It will pass soon."

Arnie didn’t answer. He just leaned back slightly, shifting into the touch like he couldn’t stop himself, too wrung out to pretend anymore.

Hector stayed there, solid and quiet, one arm bracing Arnie’s side, the other still working knots from his shoulders. The bathroom smelled like Olive's rose soap and bile. The storm was starting to rattle the shutters, the humid air coming through the cracked window.

"Mint tea and ibuprofen?" Hector offered, quietly.

"Yeah,” Arnie whispered. "I’ll come out in a minute."

Hector rolled his eyes and didn’t move. These independence moods were so annoying.

He just kept one hand on the back of Arnie’s neck and waited until the tremors stopped.

[writing-whump]

Salem's Current Character Roster

I figured it might be helpful to have a collective roster of which characters I am currently writing featuring the basics of their information.

Below is a collection of characters I am currently working on. This list is subject to change but will be reblogged when changes are made.

Memento Vivere

Lyca: Hot-blooded and unflinching, Lyca is a young werewolf and alpha-in-training, her spirit forged from fire, ferocity, and fierce loyalty. She burns brightest in defense of her pack—those born wolf and those chosen by love and circumstance. Her temper is a blade always halfway drawn, but beneath it lies a marrow-deep instinct to protect. Every room she enters seems to bristle with kinetic tension, as though the air itself dares not cross her. Despite her brashness, she understands pain intimately, and she is no stranger to soft moments in hidden corners—especially when it comes to Juniper, her favorite non-werewolf. She is the snarling warmth of a hearth, the protective growl before the storm, and the embodiment of belonging, earned and defended.

Everest: Blind from silver poisoning yet seeing more than most ever will, Everest is Lyca’s brother and the quietly observant backbone of the pack. His senses are honed, not just physically but emotionally—he is a reader of rooms and of hearts. Calm where his sister is chaos, Everest is a steady hand and a quiet force, moving through the manor like moonlight over water: unhurried, silent, inevitable. He doesn’t shift into wolf form, much like Lyca, but the wolf is always present in him—how he listens, how he waits, how he strikes only when necessary. Despite his limitations, or perhaps because of them, he has become something sacred among their group: the embodiment of endurance and the proof that stillness can be just as wild.

Juniper: A half-phantom girl still learning to stand in the skin between worlds, Juniper is a soft blur of lavender mist and anxious heartbeat. She straddles the threshold of death and life—never fully anchored, never fully gone—and her presence is always just a little colder than the room around her. Sweet, unsure, and deeply loyal, she clings to found family with quiet desperation. Her bond with Lyca roots her, gives her gravity, while the manor teaches her how to wield her gifts without fear. She has a talent for oils, scents, and gentle magic—subtle things with a powerful impact. Underneath the uncertainty is a girl with a spine like steel wire, trying to believe that she deserves to take up space.

Amancio: Timeless and dignified, Amancio is the patient hand behind the manor’s protective magic and its role as a haven for supernatural youth. A vampire of great power and greater restraint, he sees his calling in mentorship and guardianship, offering stability to those fractured by their pasts. Once married to Seraphina in a lifetime forbidden to them both, he bears the sorrow of memory without letting it crush him. He is a master of stillness and structure, his presence as vast and shadowed as the manor itself. Every word he speaks is deliberate, laced with layered meaning, but beneath the composed exterior is someone who mourns deeply and loves fiercely. He’s the bedrock beneath their feet—and the shield between them and the world that would devour them.

Seraphina: A blade in a velvet sheath, Seraphina is elegant, lethal, and deeply protective. Once Amancio’s wife in a world that couldn’t tolerate their love, she now walks beside him as his equal and as her own power in full. She is same-sex oriented and unflinchingly proud, her protectiveness manifesting in sharp glances and softer actions—cleaning up a child’s wounds without blinking, standing between her people and harm without hesitation. She has centuries of experience honed into maternal ferocity, a tactician’s mind, and a lover’s gentleness. Seraphina’s devotion to her found family is absolute, and her wrath is something only the foolish would test. To be loved by Seraphina is to be kept—unconditionally, irrevocably, and without apology.

Cassius: Chronically ill and quietly brilliant, Cassius is a warlock whose power is shadowed by fragility. Every breath he takes is borrowed from the sacrifices of his twin, and he carries that weight with equal parts guilt and gratitude. His magic is subtle, threaded with careful control and unspoken boundaries, as though he fears each spell might cost someone something. Cassius moves gently through the manor, a quiet observer with trembling hands and sharp eyes. He has a dry wit and a quiet stubbornness, and he finds safety in structure. His past, trapped in a forced illusionist act, left scars he still flinches from, but in the manor, he is healing—slowly, tenderly, fiercely.

Calypso: Every spell Calypso casts comes at a personal cost—and she’s willing to pay it all if it means Cassius survives. The more assertive of the twins, she’s protective to the point of recklessness and would rather burn herself out than see someone she loves suffer. Calypso’s magic is potent and wild, her body bearing the toll of each spell she unleashes. She rarely complains; her pain is just the tax of love, a cost she tallies in silence. There’s a fierce intelligence behind her eyes, an artist’s soul carved into a soldier’s frame. Her past left her with a hair-trigger fuse and deep wells of compassion, and in the manor, she’s learning that being powerful doesn’t always mean self-destruction.

Caelum: A night-aligned vampire with clipped fangs and scorched dignity, Caelum is a chaotic maelstrom of fire-forged rebellion and fragile hope. Once heir to a noble vampire bloodline, he was disowned, defanged, and nearly destroyed for being too volatile, too emotional, too much. He lives now in the margins—rebellious, sarcastic, adorned in charcoal sigils and half-healed rage. His rare affliction makes feeding a painful ritual: his body rejects any blood not freely offered. His relationship with Solène is sharp-edged and magnetic; her magic calms his storm, though he’d never admit it aloud. He chews ice, draws protection runes on himself when overwhelmed, and hoards soft things like bandages and floral candies. Caelum is all cracked mirrors and jagged teeth, but there is tenderness beneath the ash—hidden, aching, waiting to be believed in.

Solène: Day-aligned and luminously gentle, Solène is a contradiction to Caelum’s chaos—warmth made flesh, a soft-spoken balm in a world of thorns. Her magic is sunlight filtered through linen, her demeanor sweet and disarming, though she hides a stubborn strength behind her kindness. She can freely offer her blood for Caelum to feed, her power stabilizing his, though it comes at a cost to her own magic when overdrawn. Her role in the manor is both grounding and nurturing: a peacemaker among storms, someone who listens without judgment. Though often underestimated for her softness, Solène’s resilience is quiet and unshakable. She carries her pain like morning dew—barely visible but always present. With Caelum, she is thorn and balm, light and shadow, her presence a tether he clings to in spite of himself.

I Think I'm Lost Again

Lex: A seasoned musician turned reluctant mentor, Lex is the embodiment of “I’ve been where you are, kid.” Gruff, dry-witted, and emotionally intelligent in a way that sneaks up on you, Lex has carved out a second chance at life after nearly destroying himself in his prime. Now he channels that hard-earned wisdom into watching over kids like Vale. With a chronic stomach condition of his own, Lex is no stranger to nausea, emesis bags, or gut-level empathy. He’s fiercely loyal to his polycule (Soren and Ksenia), quietly resourceful, and always prepared—emotionally and practically. Lex won’t sugarcoat things, but he’ll stay with you through the worst of it, cracking jokes and anchoring you with sheer presence.

Soren: Lex’s partner and an unfazed, dry-humored realist, Soren is the kind of person who’s seen it all and reacts with a raised brow and a steady hand. He’s the guy who jokes about Lex’s fainting spells while holding the emesis bag, cool under pressure and sharp as a whip. Soren’s affection comes through in sarcasm and acts of service—he’ll tease you and also warm your heating pad without being asked. He’s a quiet grounding force, especially when Lex is exhausted from wrangling half the industry’s emotional gremlins. To Vale, Soren’s presence is an unshakable stability: not indulgent, not coddling, but dependable in the way gravity is dependable.

Ksenia: The final star in Lex’s polycule, Ksenia is elegance and grit in equal measure. A dancer with a spine of steel and a heart big enough to gather all the broken pieces around her, she knows how to hold space for others without letting herself be consumed. Her role in the group is often nurturing, but she’s nobody’s doormat—she can cut through nonsense with a single look. She’s intuitive, emotionally attuned, and capable of softening Lex’s sharper edges or calling Soren out when he’s being too glib. To Vale, she’s a quiet source of support and warmth, someone who offers kindness without strings and who recognizes the weight behind his performative shine.

Vale: A human inferno of glitter, stage sweat, and cracking porcelain, Vale is a rising star with a voice that could tear through heaven and a body that keeps threatening to collapse beneath him. On stage, he is untouchable—charisma incarnate, loud and alive and breathtaking. Offstage, he’s a patchwork of chronic illness, spiraling anxiety, and a stomach that stages its own melodramatic rebellion at the worst times. He hides behind eyeliner and red boots, using stage presence like armor, but underneath it all, Vale is deeply afraid of disappointing those who love him. He has a bad habit of pushing himself too far and trying to laugh through it. Mentored by Lex, loved by Elias, Vale is all vulnerability dressed in noise, desperate to be seen and terrified of being understood.

Elias: Vale’s boyfriend and well-meaning emotional tornado, Elias is all heart and impulse. He means well—so deeply and earnestly—and would throw himself in front of a train for Vale, even if he doesn’t always understand what Vale needs. He reacts big: protective, anxious, loving in crashing waves. He tries to be helpful without hovering, and though he sometimes falters, his heart never wavers. His presence is grounding in its own chaotic way—a constant, unwavering force of affection. Elias is the kind of person who will sit up with you all night just to make sure you’re breathing evenly, and he’s learning, slowly, how to offer comfort that soothes instead of smothers.

[writing-whump]

ROWYN: Why on Earth Didn't You Go Home?!

Part 2 of Rowyn sick at the café, but he's home now :)

------

While Rowyn’s the night owl in their relationship, he’s now been asleep for a couple hours, while Colin finds himself wide awake.

The events of the night have his mind reeling, something he’s not too fond of. He’s generally a pretty easy going guy, but things haven’t felt particularly easy lately.

Rowyn hasn’t seemed quite himself; between his more snappy attitude, his long shifts at the café, and his immediate and unrelenting dislike of Julie, he feels like he’s hardly talked to him lately. And he didn’t even think about calling Colin, or coming home earlier when he was clearly sick.

Yeah, something’s going on.

So he finds himself lying next to Rowyn, who’s sound asleep, face smooshed into a pillow. He watches him sleep, breathing steadily, and even though he’s still sick, with a raging fever, he’s at least reasonably peaceful and restful at the moment. And after the evening he had, that’s good enough for now.

Eventually, after ensuring that Rowyn’s not going to wake up anytime soon, Colin creeps from the room. Apple weaves past his legs into the room, and he watches her fondly as she hops onto the bed and curls up between Rowyn’s legs.

Colin wanders through the apartment, not sure what he’s looking for, before finding himself outside Max’s door.

He knocks on the doorframe as he peeks his head in, worried Max is already asleep. They’re not, and they wave him in.

“Thought you’d be with Roywn,” they comment gently, eyes tracing their friend’s tight expression.

“He’s sleeping,” Colin replies, biting his lip and hesitating just inside the door, before he sighs and flops heavily onto Max’s bed. They stretch out beside him, and poke him until he looks at them, and then it’s their turn to sigh.

“Is this just normal ‘Colin dramatic’, or is something actually wrong?” they ask, trying to get a laugh, but he gives only a half smile, bringing a hand up to scrub his face as he groans.

“I don’t know, I can’t tell if I’m making things into a big deal, or if something’s actually going on.”

Max guesses, “Is this about Rowyn?”

“Okay, so I’m not going crazy?! There is something weird about him lately, right?”

“You are crazy, but not for that.” Colin laughs, muffling it in the blankets, and Max grins, glad they can help with that at least.

“So what’s up with him?” Colin asks with a frown.

“Oh. You’d have to ask him that, I’m not sure.”

For a few minutes, they both fall quiet, the only sounds of their breathing, before Colin sighs again, and explains, “He didn’t even look at his phone today. I mean, he’s been texting me less lately anyway, but he didn’t even think about texting, or calling for a ride, or anything. He just kept working.”

“I mean, that’s not too surprising is it? That seems like something he’d do…”

He frowns, “Does it? He’s usually so… I don’t know, ‘emotional’ is not the right word, but… definitely not himself, when he’s sick.”

Max shrugs, not sure how to answer that. They have a feeling Colin just needs to talk himself dry right now, so he can be more responsive when talking to Rowyn later. Plus, most of these questions they can’t answer.

“I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t even consider coming home before things got that bad.”

“And what the hell is this thing he has with Julie?!”

“Okay, woah, change of topics,” Max chuckles, “I don’t know. That one doesn’t make sense to me either.”

“I just, she’s so just, um not ‘literal’, that’s not the right word, but like up front, that’s a better word. She’s up front, and doesn't lie about who she is, or what she thinks. And Ro hates double meanings and having to infer and you’d think he’d appreciate having her lay out exactly who she is. So I don’t understand what’s not to like!”

“She can come across kind of harsh, if that bluntness is directed at you…” Max trails off at Colin’s frown, “But I agree, he’s been very against her. Although…” they start, then reconsider, and Colin nudges them, wanting to hear their thoughts.

“Although, I get the feeling…” they hesitate again, not wanting to stir up any more issues between their friends, “It’s not exactly her he has a problem with.”

“What? But then what is?”

“I think it might have more to do with you-and-Julie, rather than just-Julie.”

“But, then wh- Why?! Th-that’s, that doesn’t make any sense!” he splutters.

Max winces, and shrugs, “That’s just the feeling I’m getting, but I don’t know for sure.”

“She’s one of my best friends! I’ve known her forever!”

“I know, I didn’t say it-” they cut off when they hear footsteps in the hall, and the door swings open.

—

Rowyn rolls over, awake and feeling awful. His head is still pounding with a headache that pulses behind his eyes, and he feels that familiar fever flush lighting him from the inside. The nausea has receded to a manageable queasiness, deep in his stomach. He expects to find Colin there, a warm lump that he can cuddle up to, but all he finds is cold empty space. He frowns, pouting even though he’d never admit it.

Apple squeaks when he moves, disrupting her, and she glares at him as she stands and repositions, tail flicking behind her. He huffs out a laugh, and she stands again, coming to nudge his hand. He gives her a few pets, her purrs rumbling through the silence of the room.

He sighs, nudging her away, and scratching her chin in her favourite spot until she curls back up. He pulls himself off the bed, and pauses when he feels for a moment like he might pass out, but the dizziness clears, and he starts his slow search for Colin.

“Colin?” he tries to say, but his voice comes out gravelly and almost whisper-quiet. He’s not in the living room, he’s not in Jamie’s room, or the bathroom. Oh, there’s voices from Max’s room.

“-known her forever-” he hears Colin say, and the rest fades away. Julie. Of course.

He pushes open the door, more frantic than he’d usually be, without knocking. Max looks at him as if he’s a ghost, and Colin’s gaze darts to his face immediately, half guilt, half concern.

His stomach drops, perhaps from newly reformed nausea, but moreso from the heartbreaking lurch of fear that washes through him. His hands find each other in front of him, fingers twisting around each other in a nervous tick, as his fevered mind scrambles through the idea that Colin left him, sick, to go talk about Julie of all people.

Colin’s hand is warm, pulling his own apart, and reaching for his forehead. Yeah no, he ducks away and turns back to his room, tears pricking behind his eyes. Overreaction, his mind supplies unhelpfully, but it’s too late, a tear traces its way down his cheek, as he reroutes to the bathroom, when the nausea tickles the back of his throat and flips his stomach in warning.

He feels a presence in the doorway, and without looking he knows it’s Colin.

“Hey,” he says, leaning into the room, as Rowyn stands undecidedly near the toilet, “What’s wrong?” he asks a little more forcefully, when he catches sight of Rowyn’s deathly pale face. Instead of a verbal answer, he leans over the toilet with a gutteral heave, that sounds like it’s being dredged from the bottom of his stomach, even as it produces no vomit.

Gags continue to tear up his throat, not helped by the fact that he can’t get his head to stop spinning, or his emotions to calm, tears continuing to fall from his eyes, blurring his vision further.

When he gets a second of relief, he gasps in a breath of air, before hitching forward when his stomach spasms again, this time pushing up a splash of bile that lands mostly in the toilet, and he spits out a tendril of sticky saliva, pushing away from the toilet.

He careens backward, having underestimated how weak he would be now, and when two large warm hands catch him before he can hit the ground, all he feels is relief.

His eyelids flutter as he desperately tries to stay awake, and he groans low in his throat, at the sour stinging feeling that follows throwing up, at the renewed pulsing of his headache, at the remaining wisps of fear and grief swirling in his gut.

“-kay, okay… -ve got you now,” Colin’s voice rumbles behind him. Rowyn just sinks into his arms, energy spent, even as his brain tumbles through thoughts.

Colin’s thumb comes to swipe across his cheek, drying the tears, and humming gently against his temple.

—

Colin shifts Rowyn in his arms, leaning forward carefully to see his face. He’s not crying anymore, so that’s fortunate, but his face is still pinched in a frown, and he can’t tell if it’s purely from the illness, or if it’s also from emotion.

Rowyn groans weakly, squirming, and it’s enough for Colin to gently push him forward enough to stand up behind him. He leans down and easily picks him up. He’s suddenly very glad for his training at the pool that prepared him for moments just like this.

He sets Rowyn on their bed, and he curls up, hand fisting in the blankets.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he asks himself, figuring Rowyn is too out of it to hear.

“Don’ don’ breakupp wisss-me,” his broken voice mumbles, and Colin’s head snaps over, look of pure shock on his face.

“Oh, babe. I’m not gonna break up with you. Not gonna happen. And never over this!”

He expects Rowyn to relax at the reassurance, flabbergasted that he would think this was break-up worthy.

Instead of relaxing, however, he curls up more, playing with the edge of the sheet, and not looking at Colin. To be fair, he’s not really looking at anything, with the way his eyes are half-closed.

“Go to sleep,” Colin says gently, sitting next to his still form, and taking his hand, partly to stop him from fiddling, and partly because he needs some contact between them.

He feels Rowyn start to finally relax, body sinking into the bed just a little more, and his breath slowing, but just before he can fall asleep, he mumbles something so quietly that Colin’s sure he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“D’you like herr more ‘en mme?”

[writing-whump]

COLIN: When Lifeguard Helps Lifeguard

Okay this one is insane. It got long and there's no emeto in this part. There will be a part 2 but I couldn't stare at this any longer.

I'm honestly really happy with this one even though the tone is drier and there's a lot of buildup. I wanted to introduce the pool properly, with programs and kind of bring in the lifeguarding piece a bit more, the stress and intensity of the job, and the training they take part in.

Inspired by a true story on multiple levels :)

------

Pushing through the guard office door, Julie meets a waft of warm, humid air, and she sighs. She walks past the staff changerooms and kitchen, into the common area, and finds Abbie and Madelyn. With their summer programming, most of their guard team is present, Julie being the last to join them.

“They didn’t fix the ventilation yet?” she asks, her annoyance clear.

“Nope,” Abbie answers, and Madelyn explains in her quiet way, “They’ve had guys wandering around all day, but so far no luck.”

Julie sighs again, clunking her water bottle onto the counter, and putting her phone next to it.

She goes to get changed, shimmying into a bathing suit as the humidity already makes it stick to her. Her hair feels frizzy, her bathing suit feels like a second skin, and she feels thirsty despite having just walked in. This shift is going to be hell.

She pulls on a guard pack, making sure it has gloves, a pocket mask, bandaids, and gauze. Grabbing her guard tube, she glances across the deck, finding Kai guarding the wading pool, Colin watching the lap pool, and Mel guarding the hot tub.

Glancing at the clock, she finds it’s 12:55, 5 minutes before the start of the public swim; their busiest, most chaotic time, and the reason 7 guards are present.

Walking out to the pool deck feels like walking into a sauna, and she winces, glad she has her water bottle. She helps pull out toys and move lane ropes around to get ready for the onslaught of children and their parents.

Patrick comes out of the changeroom just in time to rotate, and the four of them divide to their different guard posts, Julie coming to the shallow end of the lap pool to rotate Colin.

“Hey,” he greets her quietly, “Welcome to the painfully hot pool deck!” he continues with fake enthusiasm as he climbs down from the guard chair.

“Ha ha,” she says sarcastically, quickly climbing up and situating herself, eyes scanning the pool for any new additions.

“How long until they fix this?” she asks him, mostly rhetorically.

He just shrugs, frowning slightly.

“You good?” she asks, but he walks away without answering. She has no time to think about it, because the doors are unlocked and crowds of people come onto the deck, and she has to be counting, watching, and thinking for the next two hours.

Public swims are always one thing after another. Even when you get a rotation off, where you’re not actively guarding, you have to be paying attention, and doing other tasks, and helping everything run smoothly.

Swimmers who come during a public swim always wear wristbands, colour coded to show who has passed the swim test or minimum age. Kids with red wristbands must always be paired with an adult wearing a green wristband. Keeping track of everyone is hard enough, but when you have to make sure everyone remembers this and practices this is stressful, and Julie always finds that parents are not as rigorous about staying with their kids as she’d like.

Her eyes flick from kid to kid, making sure they are all with a parent or adult and that none of them try to go to the deep end.

The 15 minutes of the rotation go faster than she expected and then she’s walking down the length of the pool to the deep end, when she swaps with Colin, who continues to guard the slide.

By the halfway mark of the public swim, she has to whistle at least five times to shout at kids and remind them of the pool rules, and when anyone else whistles she snaps her eyes to each of her fellow guards to make sure everyone’s good. Someone has tried to dive off the wrong wall, and she barely caught them before they left the wall. She had to argue with three parents about why their five year olds aren’t allowed to use the waterslide. She has drunk almost her entire water bottle, and she is beyond relieved to get a break in the guard office.

The ventilation has been broken for almost a week, and this is the hottest and most humid day they’ve had yet, so even with the doors open and fans blowing, there’s basically no air flow and the temperature is soaring.

Just as she’s relaxing into a chair, two kids come to the office door, and she pushes open the door, glad when they just ask to borrow a pair of goggles.

During her break, she has just enough time to fill up her water bottle, complete a pool test for the hot tub and call maintenance when the chemical readings aren’t what they should be, and help a kid with a small cut on his leg, giving him a bandaid and filling out the paperwork.

Then it’s back to the pool deck and back to guarding. Abbie and Patrick close the slide, and open the diving board, prompting a rush of older kids to move into the deep end to play with that.

Finally, Julie and Colin get a break together, both stepping into the guard office, and Colin sinks into a chair immediately, and drops his head to the table with a sigh.

“Jeez, what’s up with you?” she says, “I know it’s hot, but you’re Mr 'Heat doesn’t bother me’.”

“I’m fine,” he grunts.

“Bullshit,” she sings, “Seriously, you good?”

“Tired, hot, headache.”

“Cranky,” she adds, and he glares at her.

“Alright, backing off,” she raises her hands in surrender, and just passes him a glass of water.

Public swim finishes, less eventful than the first half, but Julie still feels a headache starting behind her eyes. A combination of the hot work environment, the stress and intensity of guarding, and the cacophony of shrieking children splashing and shouting from parents and guards.

At least there’s a break between the public swim and the evening’s lessons.

All the guards congregate in the guard office, and she leans against the counter listening to the chaos. Patrick disappears to the kitchen, and Abbie leaves the office to the main area of the complex for the break. Madelyn settles in a chair and just observes, not participating in the nonsense, but enjoying it nonetheless.

Mel and Kai bicker back and forth the whole time, joking and generally being ridiculous. They seriously radiate sexual tension, she thinks to herself, stifling a smile.

As much as she's enjoying the nonsense, she's also getting properly concerned about Colin. For one, usually he'd be in the center of the chaos. He might be their primary supervisor, but that doesn't stop him from being in the middle of their antics. Normally that would be true, but today he's been silent virtually the entire time.

I'll bet he still has a headache, she realizes, knowing the heat will be making that worse.

Before she can get a moment to actually try talking to him, he excuses himself from the office with a mumbled excuse, and when he returns, it's time to set up for lessons. Everyone sets off to accomplish their tasks, and then Colin calls a team meeting.

"Alright, this is Week 6 of lessons. You should be working on fine-tuning skills, and working on your feedback from last week. Remember report card rough drafts are due to me for next week."

Usually that's where the pep talk would end, but he pauses for a moment, before talking again, "And remember, the deck is hot tonight, so even if you feel fine in the water, make sure you're drinking water, and if you need a break, just let me know, that's totally possible."

Julie glances at her fellow instructors, glad to find everyone with a water bottle, except, she's unsurprised to find, Colin. Rolling her eyes, she sidles up to him.

"And where's your water, idiot?" she asks, somehow managing to imbue her voice with both sarcasm and affection.

He hums noncommittedly, before actually turning his attention to her, "Oh, um. My water? In the office."

She rolls her eyes again, groaning at his dumbassery before pushing him towards the office.

"Go get it then, genius. The water rule applies to you too. Especially to you."

"You realize you've called me an idiot and a genius within a 30 second span, right?"

"It's called sarcasm."

She returns to her spot to meet her first class, greeting the swimmers as they come, but she makes sure Colin actually returns with his water. Idiot, she fondly reiterates in her head.

Julie sinks into the cool water with a sigh, the contrast to the heat of the deck sharp and relieving. Lessons are always relaxing for her. While she finds guarding stressful, teaching is something she's very comfortable with. She follows her lesson plans like it's second nature, guiding swimmers through various skills, offering feedback, and revelling in their improvements.

Her favourite thing about tonight's lessons is that she was given a set of more advanced classes, including an adult class, which she always enjoys. That's one of the perks of being such a close-knit guard team; they know each other's strengths, and preferences. Colin's very good at supervising, in the sense that he can really cater to areas of strengths, while supporting areas of weaknesses. Speaking of Colin, she glances over to where he was sitting a moment ago, only to find that he's no longer there.

There he is, talking to parents.

All night, he never sits still, moving the whole time, whether it's helping with crying kids, checking in with instructors, responding to whistles, or talking to parents.

Her previous concern for him starts to fade, seeing him in his element and acting as energetic and enthusiastic as ever. False alarm, she thinks, That's more like it. She refocuses on her last class of the day with renewed vigor, pleased that Colin's in a better mood than earlier.

When lessons finish, she lifts herself out of the water, waving her last class away, and she starts to gather up noodles and toys and tidy up the deck. She makes sure to stop and take a drink of water, looking for Colin just to rub it in his face that she's following his instructions, but he's talking to a parent.

When the parent leaves, she takes the long way to the storage room, walking towards Colin, planning to give a good-natured jab to him for how grumpy he was earlier, but when she actually looks at him, he's just standing there, not moving, and the concern from earlier returns, with a new intensity.

As she's debating the next course of action, he physically wavers, as though his limbs aren't solid anymore, and her stomach drops, along with the noodles that she lets fall to the ground, quickening her steps towards him.

He blinks dazedly, and his face goes ghostly pale. He seems to realize something's wrong, because he fumbles for his whistle, attached to his uniform, but before he gets it to his mouth, his fingers go limp, and his body crumples to the pool deck.

Julie lets out a strangled cry, and rushes forward. When she reaches him, she sinks to her knees, and a strange wash of calm rushes through her. She knows what to do. Practiced and intentional, she follows through the steps ingrained in her through many years of first aid and lifeguard training.

Tweet! Tweet! she blows her whistle twice, attracting the immediate attention of every guard still on deck and those in the office.

She crouches down next to him, "Hey, you okay?" she asks, knowing he, in all likelihood, will not respond, but still going through the steps.

She pinches his ear gently, like she's been taught, to check for responsiveness to pain. His fingers twitch slightly, and his face pinches a little more, but he doesn't wake up yet.

Alert, Verbal, Pain, Responsive, she intones in her mind. He's responding to pain, not verbal stimulants, not alert.

With a deep breath, she focuses on his ABCs: Airway, Breathing, and Circulation.

The other guards start to crowd around them, but she can't take her eyes off him, so when Kai starts taking charge, she lets his instructions wrap around her as she focuses on the next steps.

Yes, all the guards know what to do, but they're not used to the victim being a fellow lifeguard, so when Kai sends Melissa to get an incident report, and Abbie to get the first aid kit, they hurry to comply.

Julie, with Kai's help, repositions Colin, stretching him out from how he landed, making sure his airway is open and he's breathing okay.

Abbie arrives with the first aid kit. Circulation is next, so she checks his pulse, two steady fingers against his neck, feeling the rapid heartbeat against her fingers.

Together, they lift his legs, elevating them to help improve his blood pressure, figuring that's probably what made him pass out.

Okay, she thinks, ABCs, done.

At this point, he should be waking up, unless there's something else going on, and Julie feels the first bit of panic, that something more sinister is going on.

She finally unzips her guard pack, pulling out nitrile gloves that she snaps on, before moving onto her secondary assessment. She starts a head-to-toe check, taking the time to properly look for bumps, bruises, blood, disfiguration, anything that indicates why he passed out, and why now.

She starts at the head, making sure he didn't hit it when he fell, because that could have serious complications, but she doesn't find anything to indicate that's the case.

What she does find, however, concerns her for a different reason. He's burning up. She can feel the firey heat through the gloves, and she winces, hiding a gasp, and then mutters to Kai, "He's got a fever".

"Shit," he responds, but any further conversation is interrupted by Colin, groaning weakly, and raising a weak hand to rub his face clumsily.

He starts straining to sit up, and Julie puts a firm hand on his chest, keeping him down.

"Colin, Colin hey, it's okay. Stay still. Look at me?" she tries to comfort. He slowly peels his eyes open, blinking harshly, then his eyes widen as he takes in what's happening.

"Wha- Wha 'appened?" he asks, slurring.

"You fainted." Julie replies, without preamble, and his eyes shoot open again and he mumbles, "Sh't. Can'… can't believe it a'tually happ'neď."

Kai and Mel stand to the side, working through the incident report, but Julie stays seated by him, watching it dawn on him.

His eyes clear of some of the remaining fogginess, and his body seems to properly wake up.

"Let me check your heart rate again, okay?" He nods, and she counts his pulse again, finding it slower, but only a little.

He sighs, eyes closing again as he frowns and his hands twitch at his sides.

"Hey! Hey, you do not get to pass out on me again." she says forcefully, tapping his cheek.

"Would'n dream of it," he mumbles, rolling his head to look at her properly.

Now that he's awake, she can continue the secondary assessment. She starts working through the SAMPLE acronym, glad she knows him as well as she does, as it makes this step a little easier.

Signs and Symptoms. Signs are easy, she can see those.

Fever

Skin, previously pale and clammy, is now approaching flushed, clammy, and sweaty

Temporary loss of consciousness

Symptoms are harder. You can't observe those.

"Alright, talk to me. What are you feeling?" she asks, leaning down to be more on his level.

He rubs his eyes with his hands, groaning weakly, then, catching her eye, he sighs and describes his symptoms.

"Headache. Fuzzy but not as bad, stomach kind of hurts."

"Are you hot or cold?" She knows he has a fever and is overheating, but she wants to know what he's feeling, because that might help her know if this is a heat-stroke induced fever, or something else.

"Kind of cold," he mutters, then frowns, as if something doesn't make sense.

Julie runs her hand through his hair, relaxing the frown and also letting her check his temperature again, confirming that he's still noticeably feverish. Okay, so maybe not heat stroke, if he's not feeling the oppressive heat.

Next, is A for Allergies. Yes, he has them, but they're irrelevant here.

Medications. No, he doesn't have… Actually, she should maybe confirm that.

"Hun, you're not on any medications, are you?"

He shakes his head, wincing as the room spins a bit.

Past Medical History. "Has this happened to you before?" she asks, pretty confident the answer will be 'no' (she has guarded with him for years, after all), but it can't hurt to ask.

"Nu-uh," he answers, "Haven't passed out in yearsss," he adds, slurring just a little bit, but enough that Julie still notices it.

Last Ins and Outs. Ah, this is an important one right now. "When was the last time you ate something, dude?" She knows he's been drinking water, and his bathroom habits really aren't important right now, but food, that's an important one when someone passes out.

"Um," he closes his eyes, thinking, "10:00? Maybe more like 11:00. I wasn't hungry at the break."

She closes her eyes, Idiot running through her thoughts again. After all the nagging about drinking water and not overheating, he forgot to mention that he wasn't looking after himself. And she forgot to check.

Events Prior. She knows exactly what he was doing before this happened.

"Can I get up yet?" She frowns at him, pleased to see a bit more colour in his face, but not ready to risk it yet. To stall, she glances around at the other guards.

Kai's quietly talking to Madelyn a little way away. Good, she thinks, she's new enough this might be her first rescue/emergency.

Mel still has the clipboard with the incident report paperwork, clearly having listened to Colin's questions, as she's carefully filling in the questions.

Abbie's cleaning the deck, finishing the job Julie abandoned when she ran to Colin.

Patrick is walking back towards them, water bottle in hand, and she smiles, grateful that he interpreted exactly what was needed.

Slowly, she lets Colin bring his legs back down, and start to sit up. She sets herself up on a knee, so she can use the other one to brace Colin. He leans gently against her leg, as if he's trying not to rely on her support, but he needs it anyway.

She wraps her arm around his shoulders, using it to anchor him while giving the semblance of a hug. Patrick passes him the water, and he sips it enthusiastically.

"Okay," she starts, and Colin glances at her, "What happened? You're burning up. Is this some variation of heat stroke, or what?"

He sighs. "Guess I might be sick."

"Yeah? You were moving a lot in the last hour, and as much as you were bugging us to drink water, I don't know that I saw you drinking much."

Wincing, he answers, "Yeah… Rowyn was down last night with a stomach flu, I prob'ly caught that."

"Plus the heat and dehydration… Fuck." she pieces the rest together.

[writing-whump]

Hey there

You know it was your account that makes me like " o yeah i love whatever it is"

So i learned about whump and all from you

And my favorite whump scenario?????

You and your migraine fic, they are awesome , godddddd i love them

I really love the kind of father figure both issaia and hector are for our dear arni

And aldo our dear arny is a migrainable-person

So ,pretty please????????

Doesn't matter which older brother , just someone taking care of whimpering miserable arni while being in do much pain and rub their back while throwing up and massage his head and neck

No pressure though

Have a good day and thanx for sharing

BTW english is not my first language so im sorry if there's any mistake

You learned about whump from me?? Omg I'm honored! <3

Migraine Weather

Hector was fed up, and the week wasn't over yet.

First, his grand weekend plans to ask Olive to move in with him got ruined by Isaiah's sudden catastrophe. First time in 100 years that Isaiah needs help, and it had to be that day—during their first year anniversary dinner slash celebration night.

Of fucking course.

Then, for some reason, the most useless of Isaiah’s adopted pups ended up on his doorstep, soaked to the bone and crying.

Hector stared at Dylan’s dripping form and hiccuping explanation the same way he would at a duck that suddenly started talking.

They had a fight with Rip, blablabla, Rip ran off, Dylan got worried, followed him, got lost, realized how useless and weak he was...and ended up at Hector's place.

Not just any place, but at that place.

Hector was known to have safety apartments across the city, stationed at strategic access points around Wolfson territory. This one was closest to Isaiah, large, quiet, remote—perfect for stashing Olive and Arnie out of the pack’s nosy sightlines.

No patrol scents. No packmates nearby. Not supposed to be easy to find.

Dylan just shrugged. "You weren’t at the Wolfson building or at Isaiah’s. I figured you’d be somewhere close by but on your own turf, so I googled places delivery drivers avoid—dead-end streets, no Amazon boxes, nothing near a mall. Then I just walked around until I saw your car."

Just like that. Well. Hector hasn't thought of that.

Before he could come up with a reply, Olive was already rushing Dylan inside, alarmed by the wet clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Hugging him. Offering soup. Handing him Hector’s clothes.

The blond wolf could only grit his teeth in annoyance. His human girlfriend chose that moment to breach all wolf protocol and offer gestures of deep sympathy, hospitality and protection...overriding all of Hector's instincts.

Now he was stuck, arms crossed, back pressed against the wall in the living room while his girlfriend fussed over the foreign pup like he was a prince.

Hector detested Rip, but Dylan wasn't even worth the emotion. A wolf who suppressed his shadow to the point of acting and feeling human—that was the lowest of the low. Maybe still above mad wolves, but not by much. A complete disgrace to his bloodline, instincts, soul. No self-respect.

He was this close to tossing the kid back out into the rain and letting him solve his problems the human way.

Except he couldn't exactly ridicule the kid for being human in front of Olive.

Jesus, this was a mess.

Any other day, he’d have dialed Isaiah and dumped the problem back where it belonged. This was Isaiah's pup. Seline's brother.

Not on Hector’s to-do list.

And the more pitiful Dylan became—sniffling under borrowed blankets, voice breaking with apologies—the more invested Olive got.

An endless, infuriating cycle.

To be honest, now that he was more settled, Hector expected glassy-eyed gratitude or full-blown sobbing. But what he saw instead stopped him for a beat—Dylan staring past the wall, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the blanket. Not grief. Not shame. Something tighter. Something that looked a lot like intent.

Then his soft brown eyes met Hector's. Etiquette or not, that look made the older wolf freeze for a second.

Whatever the kid was here for, it wasn’t just shelter. Not if he looked at Hector like that.

A sudden tug on his sleeve broke the moment.

Arnie pulled him toward the kitchen, already muttering, "You can’t send Dylan back now. Isaiah is over his head as it is, Grey wolves are crawling everywhere, the city’s in emergency mode… you kick him out, something happens to him—Isaiah’s pack is as good as dead."

"It's just one boy."

"One important boy. Stop acting oblivious," Arnie said with a frown, rubbing his temples. "I can't believe we are even discussing if we are helping Isaiah or not."

Hector flinched, closing the kitchen door. "Of course, we are helping."

Arnie gave him a seething look, his eyes concerningly green like Isaiah's. "You didn't sound so sure in front of Isaiah and Oscar when we talked. There can't be any doubt where you stand. Isaiah needs you like salt."

Hector gestured towards the living room. "How is that helping?"

"One distraught wolf less on Isaiah's shoulders in this situation is plenty," Arnie said flatly.

It was hard to argue when Arnie got like this. He always acted like Hector’s conscience—dragging out the best parts when Hector wanted to lean on the hard edges.

How could he let the kid go?

They had put the dorm idea on pause during the Italy trip, but now Hector had the solution. He’d live with Olive here, in this off-the-grid safety apartment. Arnie would stay next door. Separate space, same location.

A sense of independence—but no distance.

Arnie leaned against the counter again, rubbing a slow circle into his temple with the heel of his palm. His eyes had narrowed to thin slits, and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his upper lip.

"You win," Hector said with a sigh. “You can stop with the sulking."

No snappy response.

Hector cocked an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Fine," Arnie muttered. His jaw was tight. Too tight. The word came out warped.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not."

"Don’t make this about my nerves," Arnie snapped. "It’s just the air pressure. From the storm. I can feel it behind my eyes."

Hector watched him. That wasn’t how Arnie looked under stress. This was physical. His shoulders were locked too high, his fingers twitching against the edge of the sink like he needed an anchor.

"You’re getting a migraine."

Arnie blinked hard like he could blink the pain away. "I always get them when the weather turns like this—when it’s heavy, wet, and hot."

He pressed both hands to the back of his neck now, as if trying to hold his head up from the base. Hector could see the tension in his arms. The slow, deliberate breathing. The way he kept swallowing, like his stomach was starting to lurch in protest.

"You need to lie down," Hector said, already stepping closer.

"No, I—I want to stay upright. It’s worse if I lie down too fast. My head’s pulsing."

And it was—his voice was trembling around the edges now, like the rhythm of it was off. Not from panic, but pain.

Then his posture shifted. One arm darted out, catching the counter just in time as his knees buckled slightly.

"Arnie—"

"I’m fine," he choked, but the word was a lie and they both knew it.

"You’re going to be sick."

"I’m not—" He gasped and turned away, the rest of the protest disappearing as he bolted from the room.

Hector was already moving.

He found Arnie hunched over the toilet in the small hallway bathroom, one hand gripping the edge, the other pressed over his eyes as he breathed in shallow, pained bursts.

Not throwing up yet. But on the edge.

Hector crouched behind him, placed a hand lightly on his back. Arnie twitched but didn’t push him away.

"I said I’m fine," he whispered hoarsely.

"You’re not," Hector said gently, fingers ghosting up to the base of his skull. "You’re clenching so hard you’re shaking. When did it start?"

"Since before dinner. It got bad when the thunder started. My vision’s tight—I can’t focus on anything too bright."

"You should’ve said something."

"You were too busy hating Dylan to notice," Arnie chuckled, then winced at the sound. His voice cracked like it hit a spike of pain.

Another sharp breath. Then a spasm in his shoulders. He doubled forward and gagged once, dry and sudden.

"Okay," Hector murmured, steadying him by the ribs. "Okay, just breathe through it."

The second time was worse—his body folded into the sink, and the sound that came out of him was raw and painful. Hector didn’t flinch. Just knelt down, braced Arnie with one arm and began rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with the other.

"It’s not from stress," Arnie managed between breaths, like it was very important that Hector understood that part. "It always happens when the air feels like this. I just didn’t expect it to hit now."

"It’s okay,” Hector said softly. Likely that it was both, the emergency and the storm combined. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve kicked everyone out."

"How? You want to start living with her, you can't kick her out."

Hector patted his back a little harder. It coaxed out a burp and a groan. "Shut up."

The nausea came in waves. It wasn’t violent now—just drawn-out and miserable. Arnie’s body trembled with each breath, like it didn’t know if it wanted to collapse or fight.

Hector rubbed his back until the spasms eased, until Arnie was just panting over the toilet bowl, eyes wet and face pale.

"You're alright. Breathe. It will pass soon."

Arnie didn’t answer. He just leaned back slightly, shifting into the touch like he couldn’t stop himself, too wrung out to pretend anymore.

Hector stayed there, solid and quiet, one arm bracing Arnie’s side, the other still working knots from his shoulders. The bathroom smelled like Olive's rose soap and bile. The storm was starting to rattle the shutters, the humid air coming through the cracked window.

"Mint tea and ibuprofen?" Hector offered, quietly.

"Yeah,” Arnie whispered. "I’ll come out in a minute."

Hector rolled his eyes and didn’t move. These independence moods were so annoying.

He just kept one hand on the back of Arnie’s neck and waited until the tremors stopped.

[writing-whump]

Hey there

You know it was your account that makes me like " o yeah i love whatever it is"

So i learned about whump and all from you

And my favorite whump scenario?????

You and your migraine fic, they are awesome , godddddd i love them

I really love the kind of father figure both issaia and hector are for our dear arni

And aldo our dear arny is a migrainable-person

So ,pretty please????????

Doesn't matter which older brother , just someone taking care of whimpering miserable arni while being in do much pain and rub their back while throwing up and massage his head and neck

No pressure though

Have a good day and thanx for sharing

BTW english is not my first language so im sorry if there's any mistake

You learned about whump from me?? Omg I'm honored! <3

Migraine Weather

Hector was fed up, and the week wasn't over yet.

First, his grand weekend plans to ask Olive to move in with him got ruined by Isaiah's sudden catastrophe. First time in 100 years that Isaiah needs help, and it had to be that day—during their first year anniversary dinner slash celebration night.

Of fucking course.

Then, for some reason, the most useless of Isaiah’s adopted pups ended up on his doorstep, soaked to the bone and crying.

Hector stared at Dylan’s dripping form and hiccuping explanation the same way he would at a duck that suddenly started talking.

They had a fight with Rip, blablabla, Rip ran off, Dylan got worried, followed him, got lost, realized how useless and weak he was...and ended up at Hector's place.

Not just any place, but at that place.

Hector was known to have safety apartments across the city, stationed at strategic access points around Wolfson territory. This one was closest to Isaiah, large, quiet, remote—perfect for stashing Olive and Arnie out of the pack’s nosy sightlines.

No patrol scents. No packmates nearby. Not supposed to be easy to find.

Dylan just shrugged. "You weren’t at the Wolfson building or at Isaiah’s. I figured you’d be somewhere close by but on your own turf, so I googled places delivery drivers avoid—dead-end streets, no Amazon boxes, nothing near a mall. Then I just walked around until I saw your car."

Just like that. Well. Hector hasn't thought of that.

Before he could come up with a reply, Olive was already rushing Dylan inside, alarmed by the wet clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Hugging him. Offering soup. Handing him Hector’s clothes.

The blond wolf could only grit his teeth in annoyance. His human girlfriend chose that moment to breach all wolf protocol and offer gestures of deep sympathy, hospitality and protection...overriding all of Hector's instincts.

Now he was stuck, arms crossed, back pressed against the wall in the living room while his girlfriend fussed over the foreign pup like he was a prince.

Hector detested Rip, but Dylan wasn't even worth the emotion. A wolf who suppressed his shadow to the point of acting and feeling human—that was the lowest of the low. Maybe still above mad wolves, but not by much. A complete disgrace to his bloodline, instincts, soul. No self-respect.

He was this close to tossing the kid back out into the rain and letting him solve his problems the human way.

Except he couldn't exactly ridicule the kid for being human in front of Olive.

Jesus, this was a mess.

Any other day, he’d have dialed Isaiah and dumped the problem back where it belonged. This was Isaiah's pup. Seline's brother.

Not on Hector’s to-do list.

And the more pitiful Dylan became—sniffling under borrowed blankets, voice breaking with apologies—the more invested Olive got.

An endless, infuriating cycle.

To be honest, now that he was more settled, Hector expected glassy-eyed gratitude or full-blown sobbing. But what he saw instead stopped him for a beat—Dylan staring past the wall, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the blanket. Not grief. Not shame. Something tighter. Something that looked a lot like intent.

Then his soft brown eyes met Hector's. Etiquette or not, that look made the older wolf freeze for a second.

Whatever the kid was here for, it wasn’t just shelter. Not if he looked at Hector like that.

A sudden tug on his sleeve broke the moment.

Arnie pulled him toward the kitchen, already muttering, "You can’t send Dylan back now. Isaiah is over his head as it is, Grey wolves are crawling everywhere, the city’s in emergency mode… you kick him out, something happens to him—Isaiah’s pack is as good as dead."

"It's just one boy."

"One important boy. Stop acting oblivious," Arnie said with a frown, rubbing his temples. "I can't believe we are even discussing if we are helping Isaiah or not."

Hector flinched, closing the kitchen door. "Of course, we are helping."

Arnie gave him a seething look, his eyes concerningly green like Isaiah's. "You didn't sound so sure in front of Isaiah and Oscar when we talked. There can't be any doubt where you stand. Isaiah needs you like salt."

Hector gestured towards the living room. "How is that helping?"

"One distraught wolf less on Isaiah's shoulders in this situation is plenty," Arnie said flatly.

It was hard to argue when Arnie got like this. He always acted like Hector’s conscience—dragging out the best parts when Hector wanted to lean on the hard edges.

How could he let the kid go?

They had put the dorm idea on pause during the Italy trip, but now Hector had the solution. He’d live with Olive here, in this off-the-grid safety apartment. Arnie would stay next door. Separate space, same location.

A sense of independence—but no distance.

Arnie leaned against the counter again, rubbing a slow circle into his temple with the heel of his palm. His eyes had narrowed to thin slits, and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his upper lip.

"You win," Hector said with a sigh. “You can stop with the sulking."

No snappy response.

Hector cocked an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Fine," Arnie muttered. His jaw was tight. Too tight. The word came out warped.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not."

"Don’t make this about my nerves," Arnie snapped. "It’s just the air pressure. From the storm. I can feel it behind my eyes."

Hector watched him. That wasn’t how Arnie looked under stress. This was physical. His shoulders were locked too high, his fingers twitching against the edge of the sink like he needed an anchor.

"You’re getting a migraine."

Arnie blinked hard like he could blink the pain away. "I always get them when the weather turns like this—when it’s heavy, wet, and hot."

He pressed both hands to the back of his neck now, as if trying to hold his head up from the base. Hector could see the tension in his arms. The slow, deliberate breathing. The way he kept swallowing, like his stomach was starting to lurch in protest.

"You need to lie down," Hector said, already stepping closer.

"No, I—I want to stay upright. It’s worse if I lie down too fast. My head’s pulsing."

And it was—his voice was trembling around the edges now, like the rhythm of it was off. Not from panic, but pain.

Then his posture shifted. One arm darted out, catching the counter just in time as his knees buckled slightly.

"Arnie—"

"I’m fine," he choked, but the word was a lie and they both knew it.

"You’re going to be sick."

"I’m not—" He gasped and turned away, the rest of the protest disappearing as he bolted from the room.

Hector was already moving.

He found Arnie hunched over the toilet in the small hallway bathroom, one hand gripping the edge, the other pressed over his eyes as he breathed in shallow, pained bursts.

Not throwing up yet. But on the edge.

Hector crouched behind him, placed a hand lightly on his back. Arnie twitched but didn’t push him away.

"I said I’m fine," he whispered hoarsely.

"You’re not," Hector said gently, fingers ghosting up to the base of his skull. "You’re clenching so hard you’re shaking. When did it start?"

"Since before dinner. It got bad when the thunder started. My vision’s tight—I can’t focus on anything too bright."

"You should’ve said something."

"You were too busy hating Dylan to notice," Arnie chuckled, then winced at the sound. His voice cracked like it hit a spike of pain.

Another sharp breath. Then a spasm in his shoulders. He doubled forward and gagged once, dry and sudden.

"Okay," Hector murmured, steadying him by the ribs. "Okay, just breathe through it."

The second time was worse—his body folded into the sink, and the sound that came out of him was raw and painful. Hector didn’t flinch. Just knelt down, braced Arnie with one arm and began rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with the other.

"It’s not from stress," Arnie managed between breaths, like it was very important that Hector understood that part. "It always happens when the air feels like this. I just didn’t expect it to hit now."

"It’s okay,” Hector said softly. Likely that it was both, the emergency and the storm combined. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve kicked everyone out."

"How? You want to start living with her, you can't kick her out."

Hector patted his back a little harder. It coaxed out a burp and a groan. "Shut up."

The nausea came in waves. It wasn’t violent now—just drawn-out and miserable. Arnie’s body trembled with each breath, like it didn’t know if it wanted to collapse or fight.

Hector rubbed his back until the spasms eased, until Arnie was just panting over the toilet bowl, eyes wet and face pale.

"You're alright. Breathe. It will pass soon."

Arnie didn’t answer. He just leaned back slightly, shifting into the touch like he couldn’t stop himself, too wrung out to pretend anymore.

Hector stayed there, solid and quiet, one arm bracing Arnie’s side, the other still working knots from his shoulders. The bathroom smelled like Olive's rose soap and bile. The storm was starting to rattle the shutters, the humid air coming through the cracked window.

"Mint tea and ibuprofen?" Hector offered, quietly.

"Yeah,” Arnie whispered. "I’ll come out in a minute."

Hector rolled his eyes and didn’t move. These independence moods were so annoying.

He just kept one hand on the back of Arnie’s neck and waited until the tremors stopped.

[writing-whump]

Hey there

You know it was your account that makes me like " o yeah i love whatever it is"

So i learned about whump and all from you

And my favorite whump scenario?????

You and your migraine fic, they are awesome , godddddd i love them

I really love the kind of father figure both issaia and hector are for our dear arni

And aldo our dear arny is a migrainable-person

So ,pretty please????????

Doesn't matter which older brother , just someone taking care of whimpering miserable arni while being in do much pain and rub their back while throwing up and massage his head and neck

No pressure though

Have a good day and thanx for sharing

BTW english is not my first language so im sorry if there's any mistake

You learned about whump from me?? Omg I'm honored! <3

Migraine Weather

Hector was fed up, and the week wasn't over yet.

First, his grand weekend plans to ask Olive to move in with him got ruined by Isaiah's sudden catastrophe. First time in 100 years that Isaiah needs help, and it had to be that day—during their first year anniversary dinner slash celebration night.

Of fucking course.

Then, for some reason, the most useless of Isaiah’s adopted pups ended up on his doorstep, soaked to the bone and crying.

Hector stared at Dylan’s dripping form and hiccuping explanation the same way he would at a duck that suddenly started talking.

They had a fight with Rip, blablabla, Rip ran off, Dylan got worried, followed him, got lost, realized how useless and weak he was...and ended up at Hector's place.

Not just any place, but at that place.

Hector was known to have safety apartments across the city, stationed at strategic access points around Wolfson territory. This one was closest to Isaiah, large, quiet, remote—perfect for stashing Olive and Arnie out of the pack’s nosy sightlines.

No patrol scents. No packmates nearby. Not supposed to be easy to find.

Dylan just shrugged. "You weren’t at the Wolfson building or at Isaiah’s. I figured you’d be somewhere close by but on your own turf, so I googled places delivery drivers avoid—dead-end streets, no Amazon boxes, nothing near a mall. Then I just walked around until I saw your car."

Just like that. Well. Hector hasn't thought of that.

Before he could come up with a reply, Olive was already rushing Dylan inside, alarmed by the wet clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Hugging him. Offering soup. Handing him Hector’s clothes.

The blond wolf could only grit his teeth in annoyance. His human girlfriend chose that moment to breach all wolf protocol and offer gestures of deep sympathy, hospitality and protection...overriding all of Hector's instincts.

Now he was stuck, arms crossed, back pressed against the wall in the living room while his girlfriend fussed over the foreign pup like he was a prince.

Hector detested Rip, but Dylan wasn't even worth the emotion. A wolf who suppressed his shadow to the point of acting and feeling human—that was the lowest of the low. Maybe still above mad wolves, but not by much. A complete disgrace to his bloodline, instincts, soul. No self-respect.

He was this close to tossing the kid back out into the rain and letting him solve his problems the human way.

Except he couldn't exactly ridicule the kid for being human in front of Olive.

Jesus, this was a mess.

Any other day, he’d have dialed Isaiah and dumped the problem back where it belonged. This was Seline’s brother. Isaiah’s witch’s brother.

Not on Hector’s to-do list.

And the more pitiful Dylan became—sniffling under borrowed blankets, voice breaking with apologies—the more invested Olive got.

An endless, infuriating cycle.

To be honest, now that he was more settled, Hector expected glassy-eyed gratitude or full-blown sobbing. But what he saw instead stopped him for a beat—Dylan staring past the wall, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the blanket. Not grief. Not shame. Something tighter. Something that looked a lot like intent.

Then his soft brown eyes met Hector's. Etiquette or not, that look made the older wolf freeze for a second.

Whatever the kid was here for, it wasn’t just shelter. Not if he looked at Hector like that.

A sudden tug on his sleeve broke the moment.

Arnie pulled him toward the kitchen, already muttering, "You can’t send Dylan back now. Isaiah is over his head as it is, Grey wolves are crawling everywhere, the city’s in emergency mode… you kick him out, something happens to him—Isaiah’s pack is as good as dead."

"It's just one boy."

"One important boy. Stop acting oblivious," Arnie said with a frown, rubbing his temples. "I can't believe we are even discussing if we are helping Isaiah or not."

Hector flinched, closing the kitchen door. "Of course, we are helping."

Arnie gave him a seething look, his eyes concerningly green like Isaiah's. "You didn't sound so sure in front of Isaiah and Oscar when we talked. There can't be any doubt where you stand. Isaiah needs you like salt."

Hector gestured towards the living room. "How is that helping?"

"One distraught wolf less on Isaiah's shoulders in this situation is plenty," Arnie said flatly.

It was hard to argue when Arnie got like this. He always acted like Hector’s conscience—dragging out the best parts when Hector wanted to lean on the hard edges.

How could he let the kid go?

They had put the dorm idea on pause during the Italy trip, but now Hector had the solution. He’d live with Olive here, in this off-the-grid safety apartment. Arnie would stay next door. Separate space, same location.

A sense of independence—but no distance.

Arnie leaned against the counter again, rubbing a slow circle into his temple with the heel of his palm. His eyes had narrowed to thin slits, and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his upper lip.

"You win," Hector said with a sigh. “You can stop with the sulking."

No snappy response.

Hector cocked an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Fine," Arnie muttered. His jaw was tight. Too tight. The word came out warped.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not."

"Don’t make this about my nerves," Arnie snapped. “It’s just the air pressure. From the storm. I can feel it behind my eyes."

Hector watched him. That wasn’t how Arnie looked under stress. This was physical. His shoulders were locked too high, his fingers twitching against the edge of the sink like he needed an anchor.

"You’re getting a migraine."

Arnie blinked hard like he could blink the pain away. "I always get them when the weather turns like this—when it’s heavy, wet, and hot.”

He pressed both hands to the back of his neck now, as if trying to hold his head up from the base. Hector could see the tension in his arms. The slow, deliberate breathing. The way he kept swallowing, like his stomach was starting to lurch in protest.

"You need to lie down," Hector said, already stepping closer.

"No, I—I want to stay upright. It’s worse if I lie down too fast. My head’s pulsing."

And it was—his voice was trembling around the edges now, like the rhythm of it was off. Not from panic, but pain.

Then his posture shifted. One arm darted out, catching the counter just in time as his knees buckled slightly.

"Arnie—"

"I’m fine," he choked, but the word was a lie and they both knew it.

"You’re going to be sick."

"I’m not—" He gasped and turned away, the rest of the protest disappearing as he bolted from the room.

Hector was already moving.

He found Arnie hunched over the toilet in the small hallway bathroom, one hand gripping the edge, the other pressed over his eyes as he breathed in shallow, pained bursts.

Not throwing up yet. But on the edge.

Hector crouched behind him, placed a hand lightly on his back. Arnie twitched but didn’t push him away.

"I said I’m fine," he whispered hoarsely.

"You’re not," Hector said gently, fingers ghosting up to the base of his skull. “You’re clenching so hard you’re shaking. When did it start?”

"Since before dinner. It got bad when the thunder started. My vision’s tight—I can’t focus on anything too bright."

"You should’ve said something."

"You were too busy hating Dylan to notice," Arnie chuckled, then winced at the sound. His voice cracked like it hit a spike of pain.

Another sharp breath. Then a spasm in his shoulders. He doubled forward and gagged once, dry and sudden.

"Okay," Hector murmured, steadying him by the ribs. "Okay, just breathe through it."

The second time was worse—his body folded into the sink, and the sound that came out of him was raw and painful. Hector didn’t flinch. Just knelt down, braced Arnie with one arm and began rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with the other.

"It’s not from stress," Arnie managed between breaths, like it was very important that Hector understood that part. "It always happens when the air feels like this. I just didn’t expect it to hit now."

"It’s okay,” Hector said softly. Likely that it was both, the emergency and the storm combined. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve kicked everyone out."

"How? You want to start living with her, you can't kick her out."

Hector patted his back a little harder. It coaxed out a burp and a groan. "Shut up."

The nausea came in waves. It wasn’t violent now—just drawn-out and miserable. Arnie’s body trembled with each breath, like it didn’t know if it wanted to collapse or fight.

Hector rubbed his back until the spasms eased, until Arnie was just panting over the toilet bowl, eyes wet and face pale.

"You're alright. Breathe. It will pass soon."

Arnie didn’t answer. He just leaned back slightly, shifting into the touch like he couldn’t stop himself, too wrung out to pretend anymore.

Hector stayed there, solid and quiet, one arm bracing Arnie’s side, the other still working knots from his shoulders. The bathroom smelled like Olive's rose soap and bile. The storm was starting to rattle the shutters, the humid air coming through the cracked window.

"Mint tea and ibuprofen?" Hector offered, quietly.

"Yeah,” Arnie whispered. "I’ll come out in a minute."

Hector rolled his eyes and didn’t move. These independence moods were so annoying.

He just kept one hand on the back of Arnie’s neck and waited until the tremors stopped.

[writing-whump]

Hey there

You know it was your account that makes me like " o yeah i love whatever it is"

So i learned about whump and all from you

And my favorite whump scenario?????

You and your migraine fic, they are awesome , godddddd i love them

I really love the kind of father figure both issaia and hector are for our dear arni

And aldo our dear arny is a migrainable-person

So ,pretty please????????

Doesn't matter which older brother , just someone taking care of whimpering miserable arni while being in do much pain and rub their back while throwing up and massage his head and neck

No pressure though

Have a good day and thanx for sharing

BTW english is not my first language so im sorry if there's any mistake

You learned about whump from me?? Omg I'm honored! <3

Migraine Weather

Hector was fed up, and the week wasn't over yet.

First, his grand weekend plans to ask Olive to move in with him got ruined by Isaiah's sudden catastrophe. First time in 100 years that Isaiah needs help, and it had to be that day—during their first year anniversary dinner slash celebration night.

Of fucking course.

Then, for some reason, the most useless of Isaiah’s adopted pups ended up on his doorstep, soaked to the bone and crying.

Hector stared at Dylan’s dripping form and hiccuping explanation the same way he would at a duck that suddenly started talking.

They had a fight with Rip, blablabla, Rip ran off, Dylan got worried, followed him, got lost, realized how useless and weak he was...and ended up at Hector's place.

Not just any place, but at that place.

Hector was known to have safety apartments across the city, stationed at strategic access points around Wolfson territory. This one was closest to Isaiah, large, quiet, remote—perfect for stashing Olive and Arnie out of the pack’s nosy sightlines.

No patrol scents. No packmates nearby. Not supposed to be easy to find.

Dylan just shrugged. "You weren’t at the Wolfson building or at Isaiah’s. I figured you’d be somewhere close by but on your own turf, so I googled places delivery drivers avoid—dead-end streets, no Amazon boxes, nothing near a mall. Then I just walked around until I saw your car."

Just like that. Well. Hector hasn't thought of that.

Before he could come up with a reply, Olive was already rushing Dylan inside, alarmed by the wet clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Hugging him. Offering soup. Handing him Hector’s clothes.

The blond wolf could only grit his teeth in annoyance. His human girlfriend chose that moment to breach all wolf protocol and offer gestures of deep sympathy, hospitality and protection...overriding all of Hector's instincts.

Now he was stuck, arms crossed, back pressed against the wall in the living room while his girlfriend fussed over the foreign pup like he was a prince.

Hector detested Rip, but Dylan wasn't even worth the emotion. A wolf who suppressed his shadow to the point of acting and feeling human—that was the lowest of the low. Maybe still above mad wolves, but not by much. A complete disgrace to his bloodline, instincts, soul. No self-respect.

He was this close to tossing the kid back out into the rain and letting him solve his problems the human way.

Except he couldn't exactly ridicule the kid for being human in front of Olive.

Jesus, this was a mess.

Any other day, he’d have dialed Isaiah and dumped the problem back where it belonged. This was Isaiah's pup. Seline's brother.

Not on Hector’s to-do list.

And the more pitiful Dylan became—sniffling under borrowed blankets, voice breaking with apologies—the more invested Olive got.

An endless, infuriating cycle.

To be honest, now that he was more settled, Hector expected glassy-eyed gratitude or full-blown sobbing. But what he saw instead stopped him for a beat—Dylan staring past the wall, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the blanket. Not grief. Not shame. Something tighter. Something that looked a lot like intent.

Then his soft brown eyes met Hector's. Etiquette or not, that look made the older wolf freeze for a second.

Whatever the kid was here for, it wasn’t just shelter. Not if he looked at Hector like that.

A sudden tug on his sleeve broke the moment.

Arnie pulled him toward the kitchen, already muttering, "You can’t send Dylan back now. Isaiah is over his head as it is, Gray wolves are crawling everywhere, the city’s in emergency mode… you kick him out, something happens to him—Isaiah’s pack is as good as dead."

"It's just one boy."

"One important boy. Stop acting oblivious," Arnie said with a frown, rubbing his temples. "I can't believe we are even discussing if we are helping Isaiah or not."

Hector flinched, closing the kitchen door. "Of course, we are helping."

Arnie gave him a seething look, his eyes concerningly green like Isaiah's. "You didn't sound so sure in front of Isaiah and Oscar when we talked. There can't be any doubt where you stand. Isaiah needs you like salt."

Hector gestured towards the living room. "How is that helping?"

"One distraught wolf less on Isaiah's shoulders in this situation is plenty," Arnie said flatly.

It was hard to argue when Arnie got like this. He always acted like Hector’s conscience—dragging out the best parts when Hector wanted to lean on the hard edges.

How could he let the kid go?

They had put the dorm idea on pause during the Italy trip, but now Hector had the solution. He’d live with Olive here, in this off-the-grid safety apartment. Arnie would stay next door. Separate space, same location.

A sense of independence—but no distance.

Arnie leaned against the counter again, rubbing a slow circle into his temple with the heel of his palm. His eyes had narrowed to thin slits, and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his upper lip.

"You win," Hector said with a sigh. “You can stop with the sulking."

No snappy response.

Hector cocked an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Fine," Arnie muttered. His jaw was tight. Too tight. The word came out warped.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not."

"Don’t make this about my nerves," Arnie snapped. "It’s just the air pressure. From the storm. I can feel it behind my eyes."

Hector watched him. That wasn’t how Arnie looked under stress. This was physical. His shoulders were locked too high, his fingers twitching against the edge of the sink like he needed an anchor.

"You’re getting a migraine."

Arnie blinked hard like he could blink the pain away. "I always get them when the weather turns like this—when it’s heavy, wet, and hot."

He pressed both hands to the back of his neck now, as if trying to hold his head up from the base. Hector could see the tension in his arms. The slow, deliberate breathing. The way he kept swallowing, like his stomach was starting to lurch in protest.

"You need to lie down," Hector said, already stepping closer.

"No, I—I want to stay upright. It’s worse if I lie down too fast. My head’s pulsing."

And it was—his voice was trembling around the edges now, like the rhythm of it was off. Not from panic, but pain.

Then his posture shifted. One arm darted out, catching the counter just in time as his knees buckled slightly.

"Arnie—"

"I’m fine," he choked, but the word was a lie and they both knew it.

"You’re going to be sick."

"I’m not—" He gasped and turned away, the rest of the protest disappearing as he bolted from the room.

Hector was already moving.

He found Arnie hunched over the toilet in the small hallway bathroom, one hand gripping the edge, the other pressed over his eyes as he breathed in shallow, pained bursts.

Not throwing up yet. But on the edge.

Hector crouched behind him, placed a hand lightly on his back. Arnie twitched but didn’t push him away.

"I said I’m fine," he whispered hoarsely.

"You’re not," Hector said gently, fingers ghosting up to the base of his skull. "You’re clenching so hard you’re shaking. When did it start?"

"Since before dinner. It got bad when the thunder started. My vision’s tight—I can’t focus on anything too bright."

"You should’ve said something."

"You were too busy hating Dylan to notice," Arnie chuckled, then winced at the sound. His voice cracked like it hit a spike of pain.

Another sharp breath. Then a spasm in his shoulders. He doubled forward and gagged once, dry and sudden.

"Okay," Hector murmured, steadying him by the ribs. "Okay, just breathe through it."

The second time was worse—his body folded into the sink, and the sound that came out of him was raw and painful. Hector didn’t flinch. Just knelt down, braced Arnie with one arm and began rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with the other.

"It’s not from stress," Arnie managed between breaths, like it was very important that Hector understood that part. "It always happens when the air feels like this. I just didn’t expect it to hit now."

"It’s okay,” Hector said softly. Likely that it was both, the emergency and the storm combined. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve kicked everyone out."

"How? You want to start living with her, you can't kick her out."

Hector patted his back a little harder. It coaxed out a burp and a groan. "Shut up."

The nausea came in waves. It wasn’t violent now—just drawn-out and miserable. Arnie’s body trembled with each breath, like it didn’t know if it wanted to collapse or fight.

Hector rubbed his back until the spasms eased, until Arnie was just panting over the toilet bowl, eyes wet and face pale.

"You're alright. Breathe. It will pass soon."

Arnie didn’t answer. He just leaned back slightly, shifting into the touch like he couldn’t stop himself, too wrung out to pretend anymore.

Hector stayed there, solid and quiet, one arm bracing Arnie’s side, the other still working knots from his shoulders. The bathroom smelled like Olive's rose soap and bile. The storm was starting to rattle the shutters, the humid air coming through the cracked window.

"Mint tea and ibuprofen?" Hector offered, quietly.

"Yeah,” Arnie whispered. "I’ll come out in a minute."

Hector rolled his eyes and didn’t move. These independence moods were so annoying.

He just kept one hand on the back of Arnie’s neck and waited until the tremors stopped.

[writing-whump]

Sickie hiding and pushing themselves cause they are too proud or too stubborn to rest or admit they feel off and crashing down dramatically. Or the moment when they finally admit it to someone cause it's just too much. I love sickies in denial and others helping them anyway

Reluctant caretakers. Like the OCs just had a fight. Or the person is not ideal, is an enemy, rival, someone younger or older or in disagreement. Give me the tension in an awkward vulnerable moment. Give me people suffering from expectations and biases against each other, but can't help being kind and staying to help. Give me angry rough characters folding when someone says "please".

Sensory overloads or stress sick sickie. Love this during the night, but also during an event, when everyone is busy, when everything should be fine but isn't, under pressure, during a visit, meet, conference. They are not sick but their mind is too heavy with something. Just sickness manifesting as pain, as nausea, and stomachache and bathroom troubles. Top.

Give me the emotional caretaker being physically sick and the emotional sickie having to caretake physically. One is crying and the other is throwing up, one has a migraine while the other just got a nightmare freakout/panic attack. Let them break at once, in different ways, pushing through for the other.

Caratekers being sick, while trying to caretaker and be the most responsible and unstoppable ones. Until someone notices and forces them to rest.

One OC sick and being taken care of by a whole group of eager caretakers, showing them how important they are. Overwhelming and touching at once.

Just quiet sickroom intimacy. One is sick and the other sits with them and is more affectionate and sweet than they allow themselves to be otherwise. Forehead touches, brushing hair back, whispered comforts, holding hands, belly rubs, hugs...

Sunday Sickness Prompt 7/27/25

What are your favorite sickfic/whump scenarios? For writers and readers!

[writing-whump]

Tearful

Short fic. Melissa distraught at night + Dominick for comfort.

"What are you doing up?"

Dominick's thoughts interrupted her staring into the bathtub filled with cold water.

"Did I wake you?" Melissa said instead. Dominick had been staying over at her apartment at Isaiah's building for the last week.

It was confusing, because it was not in his plans. He still went to change clothes to his place, busy for most of the day. But always came to sleep over at the couch. At her couch.

They didn't set up the second bedroom cause it was supposed to be Marcie's...and Melissa couldn't touch it, remove it or change it. Even if Marcie couldn't come there now, even if she never could, it just felt wrong.

Dominick didn't have PJs, he slept in a shirt and boxers, suit discarded on the sofa, light brown hair tousled from sleep in the cutest way.

For a second all the world's weight on her shoulders disappeared, cause her husband-to-be looked so sleepy and the bad light from the bathroom made his cheekbones and eyes stand out in almost breathtaking way.

Dominick waved off her question, rubbing his eyes. "Why are you up?"

She shrugged. Was she supposed to explain she couldn't sleep more than an hour at a time since her mother tried to kill her?

That she had bet everything on this plan to save her sisters from her mother and the pack, but she had separated them, scattered them across the continent in doing so?

That being here without Meredith and Maddie was like cutting her hand and a leg off and expecting her to hobble forward anyway?

That not having Marcie here hurt, like a physical knife in her chest twisting, but it was still safer than if her 11-years old sister was with her?

Because she had just ruined everything for everyone?

"It's hot," Melissa managed instead. She was sitting on the bathtub in her short PJs, legs inside the bath filled to the brim with freezing cold water.

Dominick squinted at her. "I'll see about installing a AC here tomorrow."

Melissa watched him, hugging one leg close to her chest.

You should see about making a room here for yourself.

Or even better, you should see about installing a new wife.

Dominick switched weight from one leg to another. Obviously he was tired, just solved the practical problem and wasn't sure what else to do to be allowed to go back to sleep.

She felt another stab of guilt at not remaking Marcie's bedroom so he could sleep in the bed. Or not offering him the single-bed there, even with the pink bedding.

"You don't have to stay, you know?" Melissa blurted out.

Dominick blinked. "What?"

"This is not what you wanted to achieve, isn't it? You wanted a trophy and an ace, instead you got the Black Peter. Marcie will stay with the Greys as a bargaining chip, my sisters are safe with Matt...you don't need me."

What was she doing? Internally all alarms were screaming at her. Do you want to end up on the street? Do you want him to kick you out, break off the engagement, never see you again?

But that's what she was now. Inconvenient. A burden. The oldest sister, the doctor, the responsible one with all the solutions now being the cause of all trouble. The one nobody would miss, nobody could use, yet stubbornly refusing to die.

Hell, her savior would be trailed for defending her from a murderer.

Melissa chuckled a bit hysterically at the thought. "I'm sorry I couldn't have just disappeared."

"What are you going on about?" Dominick must have been sleepy, cause usually he caught on quicker.

She shrugged again, the movement like a flinch. "You could have used me more dead than alive. With a bit of work, you could have ruined Margaret with my death and as a bonus, saved yourself the trouble of being around me."

Long silence stretched between them. When she couldn't take it anymore, she looked up.

Dominick was staring at her, eyes wide, then slowly narrowing them as he brushed his bangs away from his face. They wouldn't stick.

"You must think so poorly of me to say that."

He stepped closer, towering over her with his almost two meters height, too big for the small bathroom.

"I told you. We teamed up, we would be in this together. You would be my ally and I would be yours, and nothing could change that anymore."

She had to tilt her head back to see his face, pressed to the wall with her back.

"You chose me. You chose me to help you, to be my card, to go with my plan. And plans get wrecked sometimes, that's nothing new."

He crouched next to her, offering her a hand with a small smile. "I have gone bankrupt a couple times before I learned how to do it right. You don't get to know things without failing."

When she didn't take his hand, he knelt all the way, reaching out slowly to her face to push one strand of fire-red hair behind her ear. So gingerly as if she was made of glass.

Melissa took a shaky breath. "I wouldn't fault you for leaving," she whispered. She wouldn't fault anyone, even a man that actually loved her, for leaving with such a mess.

He shook his head a little. "Believe in me a little longer. The game isn't over."

"What are you going to do? The Greys would already be satisfied with Marcie, you don't have to-"

"I'm going to throw my lot in with Isaiah," he said as if he was telling her a winning secret.

"That's risky."

"He's got good cards, he is just a bit hopeless at the game. But I'm an excellent player." He put a hand on her knee. Careful, tentative, teasing if she would mind or not.

"So please," he continued, "please don't say you would be better off dead than alive. Nothing is over if we are still breathing."

A blurry film went over her eyes. It angered her, cause she wanted to see him smiling like that a little longer. With eyes hard with determination, but the expression and tone so gentle she could melt.

It didn't surprise him when she started to cry. But she expected him to be worse at emotions. To run away from them like a wolf would in face of being overwhelmed.

But Dominick pulled her into a hug instead.

An awkward clumsy hug that made him grunt as she slipped her weight into him, but a decisive one nonetheless.

She let herself cry, snotty and loud and with all the mess and he held her like a child, hugged close to his chest, hand at the back of her head. Whispering things into her ear she wished she could write down, but they slipped away as fast as they came.

All the frustration, all the fear, all the grief and confusion turned to endless tears.

And Dominick held her, pulling her up on top of the bathtub. Even when his elbow caught against the water and got wet, even when she almost pulled him over into the water with how much she was shaking.

He held her through it all.

[writing-whump]

Tearful

Short fic. Melissa distraught at night + Dominick for comfort.

"What are you doing up?"

Dominick's thoughts interrupted her staring into the bathtub filled with cold water.

"Did I wake you?" Melissa said instead. Dominick had been staying over at her apartment at Isaiah's building for the last week.

It was confusing, because it was not in his plans. He still went to change clothes to his place, busy for most of the day. But always came to sleep over at the couch. At her couch.

They didn't set up the second bedroom cause it was supposed to be Marcie's...and Melissa couldn't touch it, remove it or change it. Even if Marcie couldn't come there now, even if she never could, it just felt wrong.

Dominick didn't have PJs, he slept in a shirt and boxers, suit discarded on the sofa, light brown hair tousled from sleep in the cutest way.

For a second all the world's weight on her shoulders disappeared, cause her husband-to-be looked so sleepy and the bad light from the bathroom made his cheekbones and eyes stand out in almost breathtaking way.

Dominick waved off her question, rubbing his eyes. "Why are you up?"

She shrugged. Was she supposed to explain she couldn't sleep more than an hour at a time since her mother tried to kill her?

That she had bet everything on this plan to save her sisters from her mother and the pack, but she had separated them, scattered them across the continent in doing so?

That being here without Meredith and Maddie was like cutting her hand and a leg off and expecting her to hobble forward anyway?

That not having Marcie here hurt, like a physical knife in her chest twisting, but it was still safer than if her 11-years old sister was with her?

Because she had just ruined everything for everyone?

"It's hot," Melissa managed instead. She was sitting on the bathtub in her short PJs, legs inside the bath filled to the brim with freezing cold water.

Dominick squinted at her. "I'll see about installing a AC here tomorrow."

Melissa watched him, hugging one leg close to her chest.

You should see about making a room here for yourself.

Or even better, you should see about installing a new wife.

Dominick switched weight from one leg to another. Obviously he was tired, just solved the practical problem and wasn't sure what else to do to be allowed to go back to sleep.

She felt another stab of guilt at not remaking Marcie's bedroom so he could sleep in the bed. Or not offering him the single-bed there, even with the pink bedding.

"You don't have to stay, you know?" Melissa blurted out.

Dominick blinked. "What?"

"This is not what you wanted to achieve, isn't it? You wanted a trophy and an ace, instead you got the Black Peter. Marcie will stay with the Greys as a bargaining chip, my sisters are safe with Matt...you don't need me."

What was she doing? Internally all alarms were screaming at her. Do you want to end up on the street? Do you want him to kick you out, break off the engagement, never see you again?

But that's what she was now. Inconvenient. A burden. The oldest sister, the doctor, the responsible one with all the solutions now being the cause of all trouble. The one nobody would miss, nobody could use, yet stubbornly refusing to die.

Hell, her savior would be trailed for defending her from a murderer.

Melissa chuckled a bit hysterically at the thought. "I'm sorry I couldn't have just disappeared."

"What are you going on about?" Dominick must have been sleepy, cause usually he caught on quicker.

She shrugged again, the movement like a flinch. "You could have used me more dead than alive. With a bit of work, you could have ruined Margaret with my death and as a bonus, saved yourself the trouble of being around me."

Long silence stretched between them. When she couldn't take it anymore, she looked up.

Dominick was staring at her, eyes wide, then slowly narrowing them as he brushed his bangs away from his face. They wouldn't stick.

"You must think so poorly of me to say that."

He stepped closer, towering over her with his almost two meters height, too big for the small bathroom.

"I told you. We teamed up, we would be in this together. You would be my ally and I would be yours, and nothing could change that anymore."

She had to tilt her head back to see his face, pressed to the wall with her back.

"You chose me. You chose me to help you, to be my card, to go with my plan. And plans get wrecked sometimes, that's nothing new."

He crouched next to her, offering her a hand with a small smile. "I have gone bankrupt a couple times before I learned how to do it right. You don't get to know things without failing."

When she didn't take his hand, he knelt all the way, reaching out slowly to her face to push one strand of fire-red hair behind her ear. So gingerly as if she was made of glass.

Melissa took a shaky breath. "I wouldn't fault you for leaving," she whispered. She wouldn't fault anyone, even a man that actually loved her, for leaving with such a mess.

He shook his head a little. "Believe in me a little longer. The game isn't over."

"What are you going to do? The Greys would already be satisfied with Marcie, you don't have to-"

"I'm going to throw my lot in with Isaiah," he said as if he was telling her a winning secret.

"That's risky."

"He's got good cards, he is just a bit hopeless at the game. But I'm an excellent player." He put a hand on her knee. Careful, tentative, teasing if she would mind or not.

"So please," he continued, "please don't say you would be better off dead than alive. Nothing is over if we are still breathing."

A blurry film went over her eyes. It angered her, cause she wanted to see him smiling like that a little longer. With eyes hard with determination, but the expression and tone so gentle she could melt.

It didn't surprise him when she started to cry. But she expected him to be worse at emotions. To run away from them like a wolf would in face of being overwhelmed.

But Dominick pulled her into a hug instead.

An awkward clumsy hug that made him grunt as she slipped her weight into him, but a decisive one nonetheless.

She let herself cry, snotty and loud and with all the mess and he held her like a child, hugged close to his chest, hand at the back of her head. Whispering things into her ear she wished she could write down, but they slipped away as fast as they came.

All the frustration, all the fear, all the grief and confusion turned to endless tears.

And Dominick held her, pulling her up on top of the bathtub. Even when his elbow caught against the water and got wet, even when she almost pulled him over into the water with how much she was shaking.

He held her through it all.

[writing-whump]

Tearful

Short fic. Melissa distraught at night + Dominick for comfort.

"What are you doing up?"

Dominick's thoughts interrupted her staring into the bathtub filled with cold water.

"Did I wake you?" Melissa said instead. Dominick had been staying over at her apartment at Isaiah's building for the last week.

It was confusing, because it was not in his plans. He still went to change clothes to his place, busy for most of the day. But always came to sleep over at the couch. At her couch.

They didn't set up the second bedroom cause it was supposed to be Marcie's...and Melissa couldn't touch it, remove it or change it. Even if Marcie couldn't come there now, even if she never could, it just felt wrong.

Dominick didn't have PJs, he slept in a shirt and boxers, suit discarded on the sofa, light brown hair tousled from sleep in the cutest way.

For a second all the world's weight on her shoulders disappeared, cause her husband-to-be looked so sleepy and the bad light from the bathroom made his cheekbones and eyes stand out in almost breathtaking way.

Dominick waved off her question, rubbing his eyes. "Why are you up?"

She shrugged. Was she supposed to explain she couldn't sleep more than an hour at a time since her mother tried to kill her?

That she had bet everything on this plan to save her sisters from her mother and the pack, but she had separated them, scattered them across the continent in doing so?

That being here without Meredith and Maddie was like cutting her hand and a leg off and expecting her to hobble forward anyway?

That not having Marcie here hurt, like a physical knife in her chest twisting, but it was still safer than if her 11-years old sister was with her?

Because she had just ruined everything for everyone?

"It's hot," Melissa managed instead. She was sitting on the bathtub in her short PJs, legs inside the bath filled to the brim with freezing cold water.

Dominick squinted at her. "I'll see about installing a AC here tomorrow."

Melissa watched him, hugging one leg close to her chest.

You should see about making a room here for yourself.

Or even better, you should see about installing a new wife.

Dominick switched weight from one leg to another. Obviously he was tired, just solved the practical problem and wasn't sure what else to do to be allowed to go back to sleep.

She felt another stab of guilt at not remaking Marcie's bedroom so he could sleep in the bed. Or not offering him the single-bed there, even with the pink bedding.

"You don't have to stay, you know?" Melissa blurted out.

Dominick blinked. "What?"

"This is not what you wanted to achieve, isn't it? You wanted a trophy and an ace, instead you got the Black Peter. Marcie will stay with the Greys as a bargaining chip, my sisters are safe with Matt...you don't need me."

What was she doing? Internally all alarms were screaming at her. Do you want to end up on the street? Do you want him to kick you out, break off the engagement, never see you again?

But that's what she was now. Inconvenient. A burden. The oldest sister, the doctor, the responsible one with all the solutions now being the cause of all trouble. The one nobody would miss, nobody could use, yet stubbornly refusing to die.

Hell, her savior would be trailed for defending her from a murderer.

Melissa chuckled a bit hysterically at the thought. "I'm sorry I couldn't have just disappeared."

"What are you going on about?" Dominick must have been sleepy, cause usually he caught on quicker.

She shrugged again, the movement like a flinch. "You could have used me more dead than alive. With a bit of work, you could have ruined Margaret with my death and as a bonus, saved yourself the trouble of being around me."

Long silence stretched between them. When she couldn't take it anymore, she looked up.

Dominick was staring at her, eyes wide, then slowly narrowing them as he brushed his bangs away from his face. They wouldn't stick.

"You must think so poorly of me to say that."

He stepped closer, towering over her with his almost two meters height, too big for the small bathroom.

"I told you. We teamed up, we would be in this together. You would be my ally and I would be yours, and nothing could change that anymore."

She had to tilt her head back to see his face, pressed to the wall with her back.

"You chose me. You chose me to help you, to be my card, to go with my plan. And plans get wrecked sometimes, that's nothing new."

He crouched next to her, offering her a hand with a small smile. "I have gone bankrupt a couple times before I learned how to do it right. You don't get to know things without failing."

When she didn't take his hand, he knelt all the way, reaching out slowly to her face to push one strand of fire-red hair behind her ear. So gingerly as if she was made of glass.

Melissa took a shaky breath. "I wouldn't fault you for leaving," she whispered. She wouldn't fault anyone, even a man that actually loved her, for leaving with such a mess.

He shook his head a little. "Believe in me a little longer. The game isn't over."

"What are you going to do? The Greys would already be satisfied with Marcie, you don't have to-"

"I'm going to throw my lot in with Isaiah," he said as if he was telling her a winning secret.

"That's risky."

"He's got good cards, he is just a bit hopeless at the game. But I'm an excellent player." He put a hand on her knee. Careful, tentative, teasing if she would mind or not.

"So please," he continued, "please don't say you would be better off dead than alive. Nothing is over if we are still breathing."

A blurry film went over her eyes. It angered her, cause she wanted to see him smiling like that a little longer. With eyes hard with determination, but the expression and tone so gentle she could melt.

It didn't surprise him when she started to cry. But she expected him to be worse at emotions. To run away from them like a wolf would in face of being overwhelmed.

But Dominick pulled her into a hug instead.

An awkward clumsy hug that made him grunt as she slipped her weight into him, but a decisive one nonetheless.

She let herself cry, snotty and loud and with all the mess and he held her like a child, hugged close to his chest, hand at the back of her head. Whispering things into her ear she wished she could write down, but they slipped away as fast as they came.

All the frustration, all the fear, all the grief and confusion turned to endless tears.

And Dominick held her, pulling her up on top of the bathtub. Even when his elbow caught against the water and got wet, even when she almost pulled him over into the water with how much she was shaking.

He held her through it all.

[writing-whump]

Tearful

Short fic. Melissa distraught at night + Dominick for comfort.

"What are you doing up?"

Dominick's thoughts interrupted her staring into the bathtub filled with cold water.

"Did I wake you?" Melissa said instead. Dominick had been staying over at her apartment at Isaiah's building for the last week.

It was confusing, because it was not in his plans. He still went to change clothes to his place, busy for most of the day. But always came to sleep over at the couch. At her couch.

They didn't set up the second bedroom cause it was supposed to be Marcie's...and Melissa couldn't touch it, remove it or change it. Even if Marcie couldn't come there now, even if she never could, it just felt wrong.

Dominick didn't have PJs, he slept in a shirt and boxers, suit discarded on the sofa, light brown hair tousled from sleep in the cutest way.

For a second all the world's weight on her shoulders disappeared, cause her husband-to-be looked so sleepy and the bad light from the bathroom made his cheekbones and eyes stand out in almost breathtaking way.

Dominick waved off her question, rubbing his eyes. "Why are you up?"

She shrugged. Was she supposed to explain she couldn't sleep more than an hour at a time since her mother tried to kill her?

That she had bet everything on this plan to save her sisters from her mother and the pack, but she had separated them, scattered them across the continent in doing so?

That being here without Meredith and Maddie was like cutting her hand and a leg off and expecting her to hobble forward anyway?

That not having Marcie here hurt, like a physical knife in her chest twisting, but it was still safer than if her 11-years old sister was with her?

Because she had just ruined everything for everyone?

"It's hot," Melissa managed instead. She was sitting on the bathtub in her short PJs, legs inside the bath filled to the brim with freezing cold water.

Dominick squinted at her. "I'll see about installing a AC here tomorrow."

Melissa watched him, hugging one leg close to her chest.

You should see about making a room here for yourself.

Or even better, you should see about installing a new wife.

Dominick switched weight from one leg to another. Obviously he was tired, just solved the practical problem and wasn't sure what else to do to be allowed to go back to sleep.

She felt another stab of guilt at not remaking Marcie's bedroom so he could sleep in the bed. Or not offering him the single-bed there, even with the pink bedding.

"You don't have to stay, you know?" Melissa blurted out.

Dominick blinked. "What?"

"This is not what you wanted to achieve, isn't it? You wanted a trophy and an ace, instead you got the Black Peter. Marcie will stay with the Greys as a bargaining chip, my sisters are safe with Matt...you don't need me."

What was she doing? Internally all alarms were screaming at her. Do you want to end up on the street? Do you want him to kick you out, break off the engagement, never see you again?

But that's what she was now. Inconvenient. A burden. The oldest sister, the doctor, the responsible one with all the solutions now being the cause of all trouble. The one nobody would miss, nobody could use, yet stubbornly refusing to die.

Hell, her savior would be trailed for defending her from a murderer.

Melissa chuckled a bit hysterically at the thought. "I'm sorry I couldn't have just disappeared."

"What are you going on about?" Dominick must have been sleepy, cause usually he caught on quicker.

She shrugged again, the movement like a flinch. "You could have used me more dead than alive. With a bit of work, you could have ruined Margaret with my death and as a bonus, saved yourself the trouble of being around me."

Long silence stretched between them. When she couldn't take it anymore, she looked up.

Dominick was staring at her, eyes wide, then slowly narrowing them as he brushed his bangs away from his face. They wouldn't stick.

"You must think so poorly of me to say that."

He stepped closer, towering over her with his almost two meters height, too big for the small bathroom.

"I told you. We teamed up, we would be in this together. You would be my ally and I would be yours, and nothing could change that anymore."

She had to tilt her head back to see his face, pressed to the wall with her back.

"You chose me. You chose me to help you, to be my card, to go with my plan. And plans get wrecked sometimes, that's nothing new."

He crouched next to her, offering her a hand with a small smile. "I have gone bankrupt a couple times before I learned how to do it right. You don't get to know things without failing."

When she didn't take his hand, he knelt all the way, reaching out slowly to her face to push one strand of fire-red hair behind her ear. So gingerly as if she was made of glass.

Melissa took a shaky breath. "I wouldn't fault you for leaving," she whispered. She wouldn't fault anyone, even a man that actually loved her, for leaving with such a mess.

He shook his head a little. "Believe in me a little longer. The game isn't over."

"What are you going to do? The Greys would already be satisfied with Marcie, you don't have to-"

"I'm going to throw my lot in with Isaiah," he said as if he was telling her a winning secret.

"That's risky."

"He's got good cards, he is just a bit hopeless at the game. But I'm an excellent player." He put a hand on her knee. Careful, tentative, teasing if she would mind or not.

"So please," he continued, "please don't say you would be better off dead than alive. Nothing is over if we are still breathing."

A blurry film went over her eyes. It angered her, cause she wanted to see him smiling like that a little longer. With eyes hard with determination, but the expression and tone so gentle she could melt.

It didn't surprise him when she started to cry. But she expected him to be worse at emotions. To run away from them like a wolf would in face of being overwhelmed.

But Dominick pulled her into a hug instead.

An awkward clumsy hug that made him grunt as she slipped her weight into him, but a decisive one nonetheless.

She let herself cry, snotty and loud and with all the mess and he held her like a child, hugged close to his chest, hand at the back of her head. Whispering things into her ear she wished she could write down, but they slipped away as fast as they came.

All the frustration, all the fear, all the grief and confusion turned to endless tears.

And Dominick held her, pulling her up on top of the bathtub. Even when his elbow caught against the water and got wet, even when she almost pulled him over into the water with how much she was shaking.

He held her through it all.

[writing-whump]

Rubbing a tummy when it's already exposed: Yeah. Fuck yes

Gently peeling off any layer of clothing before petting the tummy to reinforce the intimate bond: 👀❓️you wanna kill me with wholesomeness tbh

Rubbing the tummy under the clothing at any given time for casualness, discretion or because it's cold and leaving the tummy exposed would make it cold too, just sneaking a hand in their shirt and fondling their middle tenderly: I'm going To Snarl and Maul and Destroy Furniture /affectionate 🥰

[writing-whump]

Thinking about how vulnerable showing off your belly is.

It's one of the most sensitive parts of your body, containing some vital organs in there. One bad injury there and it might just be game over. That just makes it so special, then, when someone lies back and exposes the soft flesh of their belly. Especially if they're letting someone run their hands over it and feel it. It's such a quiet, tender moment of love between two people... and I kind of love that, y'know?

[writing-whump]

y’know I do really enjoy it when belly kink stuff spends a little extra time on the process of digestion itself. elements like indulgence and fullness and pampering often get most of the focus but I do love to hear about what’s going on in there. 💖 good or bad, as an additional guilty pleasure. noises are excellent as always. I adore a mention here or there too on how the belly in question is “handling” the food. someone eating too fast and feeling their insides struggle just a little bit more than usual because they didn’t chew well enough? or exhaustion from some kind of external exertion also making the digestion process more sluggish? a helping hand providing rubs not just to comfort, but also to relieve some of the strain of internal pressure? mmm 🔥 the stomach is a muscle, after all. it has to do a lot of work.

[writing-whump]

July is usually when I start going insane and thinking about autumn and Halloween, so I thought, what about a summerween sickfic list so I can think/write about all those things and call it ~an event~?

So here we are: