#every whumpees needs

[frozenrose105]

Whumptober Day 5

Prompt: Every Whumpee's Needs

Characters: demon!Author, human!Host

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

======================

Upon waking the second time, the Host had no memory of what happened to Bim. He supposed that was a good thing, considering all of the things he did remember.

There had been more killing. Some days, slow, torturous deaths done by his hand. On other occasions, it was a massacre. The Author would start and not stop, losing himself in a frenzy- too powerful for anyone to stop him, including the Host himself.

That was the fucked thing, the Host realized as he once again pushed himself out of bed. He hadn't wanted to stop him, even if he was able to. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking about the Author's thrill at hurting people- about how it had become his own in those moments, in place of his normal apathy towards the deed. He did what he had to do when he needed to, he had never done such things for fun.

Regardless, the Host diverted his attention back to the task at hand. He needed to rid himself of the Author. But even as he thought that, he realized how very awake the Author was in his head. He was being watched almost curiously by the demon possessing him, and he felt himself tense. It was akin to being an animal in a zoo, unable to escape but very aware of the eyes upon you. The Host waited a long moment, prepared to fight the Author if he was intent on taking back control. Still, the Author only watched.

"What is your end here, Author?" The Host asked aloud. In response he felt the Author's amusement- and then he felt the Author's urge to narrate, to bend reality with his words, as though the other was willing it on him. The power hadn't worked when he'd tried it last time, but the compulsion to try had him speaking the same words as before. "...The Host's vision returned to him." This time, the Author seemed to guide him, and he could feel the power in his words. There was a relief to using his power, though he wasn't sure if it was the Author's or his own. He wasn't sure if there was still a difference.

The Host also felt blood fall down his face like tears from his eyes as his vision did indeed return to him- though not in the traditional sense. It returned to him in brief images of the room as he narrated the scene around him. It confirmed his suspicions that the room was his own, but the images faded as his narration stopped, his voice choking up involuntarily.

Can't lose too much blood. The Author's voice in his head was quick to remind him of that in a singsong tone, as if the thought of it amused the demon. The Host growled lightly and stood from his bed, moving to his adjoining bathroom to clean his face of blood. The Author also guided him that way, able to see much better than the Host. But the Author only had so much patience for mundane things- that, the Host knew from experience- and as soon as he was done the Author was nudging at his mind. He didn't take control entirely, but it was clear what he wanted.

He wanted to kill. He wanted the Host to kill for him. ...And the Host wasn't sure where the Author's desire ended and where his began.

He knew subconsciously that he should be resisting, but he felt the Author's compulsion to kill as his own.

So he let the Author direct him.

The demon still wouldn't take control of him entirely, but the Host heard his whispering in his head telling him where to go, feeding him increasingly violent scenarios that only had the Host moving more desperately to follow.

He followed these whispers out of his home, able to see his surroundings via narration, which came more smoothly as time went on. He could hear the whispers in his head of the Author's narrations, keeping him from bleeding more with the use of the power. When the Host stopped, he found himself in a graveyard. The place was unfamiliar to him, but he moved expertly through it until he came to a hole in the ground.

Six feet deep. A coffin at the bottom. The panicked shouting of someone within, accompanied by the pounding of fists on hardwood. The Author had set up the perfect scene while the Host was a prisoner in his own body. And now, the Host was unchained.

He was unchained and the Author had shown him how to use his power. The Author wanted him to finish the job. It took only a moment of narration for gasoline to appear in his hand.

You know what to do. A wooden coffin burns nicely.

The whispers only got louder the longer he delayed, coupled with the shouting of the person in the coffin- though their voice was clearly growing hoarse.

Hurry. You want to hear them scream.

It took another moment to set the coffin ablaze.

And he did hear the scream. He heard the scream and then the coughing as his victim began to run out of air, and he heard it devolve into pained sobs. He felt the heat of the flames and the visceral satisfaction as his narration told him of the fruitless struggling from within. And his head was his own again, the Author's voice quiet- for the time being, anyways.

It wouldn't be long until the whispering started again, urging the Host to kill more and more. He chased the quiet it gave him, unaware that the voice in his head driving him to do so was none other than his own.

-----

Meanwhile, the Author lurked in the shadows, stalking the Host for a long time. He was no longer possessing him, like the Host seemed to think, but he didn't correct the man. In fact he moved on quickly, in search of a more permanent vessel.

For now, though he was still bound in a less physical form, his job as the god of corruption was done.

[letitbehurt]

A Whumpee kept in isolation long enough to fear that they’ve been forgotten there.

[ofwhump]

<3 if you see this can you do me a huge favour & prettiest please reply/reblog/drop by my ask box do whatever you want or need to do & let me know your favourite trope of all time please <3

what is the common denominator in everything you create or consume ?? what haunts the stories you think about more than write ?? what do you seek out when you���re looking for something to read ?? what do you think we need more of ?? what makes you weak at the knees ?? what makes you foam at the mouth ??? bare your teeth ??? bark ????

prettiest please let me know <3 im doing some fancy research 🧐

[geminihurt]

Whumptober 2022 | Day 05

Every whumpee's needs | Running out of air

"Peter, I trust you"

White Collar 1x08 | Neal Caffrey - Matt Bomer

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

The Whumper knows exactly where Whumpee is hiding, but they pretend they have no idea.

The thrill of the chase is half the fun, to catch Whumpee scrambling from one place to another out of the corner of their eye, to see the traces left behind in the form of open vents and bloody smears that create the perfect path to them. Whumper always makes sure to linger just in front of where they've tucked themself away, calling out to them, checking every nook and cranny except the one they know contains Whumpee.

And as soon as they leave, as soon as Whumpee dashes out of the compromised room for a new hiding spot, the hunt is on again to be as prolonged as Whumper desires.

[one-piece-aus]

Whumptober Day 5

Brook x Reader

"Brook... I'm getting cold," you whisper, pulling your jacket closer together.

"Here, take my coat," Brook offered, placing the garment around your shoulders. "I don't need it, after all, I am just a skeleton, yohohoho."

You laugh at his skull joke, it might have been annoying at other times, but you'll take the light heart laugh. Brook kept you in high spirits despite your situation, you only lasted this far thanks to him.

"Mmmmm, I feel warmer already," you told as you snuggled into his coat. "Any luck finding the exit to the cave?"

"No, I keep getting lost and have to go through the walls to come back." Brook shook his head.

"It would be easier if we didn't have actually walk through the tunnel to get out. Er, I guess I'm the only one doing the walking..." You glance down at Brook's broken leg.

It had broken when the two of you fell into the caves, yours were only bruised. You had been carrying him around and he has been using his spirit to find the correct path. You've avoided dangerous traps and animals that could've killed you. You two made a great team, yet time wasn't on your side.

"Let's get some sleep for now," you suggested and yawned. 

You push your back against the stone wall, trying to get cozy. You use Brook's coat as a blanket, though your eyes couldn't help but notice some holes. He must've not noticed the holes since the attire didn't exactly hug his bones. You sigh, knowing it won't provide much warmth for you but your eyes tear off the jacket when you notice Brook using your thighs as a pillow.

"Just getting comfortable, yoho," Brook sheepishly told you.

You break into a fond smile and pet his lash afro. "Just wake me up when you do alright."

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

"I think that was the best sleep I ever had," Brook yawned and stretched his bone arms. 

He rubbed his nonexistent eyes, still waking up. He became puzzled when he felt something cold that wasn't made of stone. Glancing at the source, he noticed your hands were holding onto his, they were freezing. His eyes grazed over the rest of your form and saw you were shaking in your sleep, small clouds coming from your nose.

"[Y/N]!" Brook cried alarmed and started to shake you awake.

"Hm?" You stirred, fluttering your eyes open. You sat up and a wave of freeze glossed over you. Instantly you brought your knees up to your chest, shaking like a leaf. "Why- why is it so c-c-cold?"

"The night's wind must've blown into the cave last night," Brook theorized and tried to use his coat to cover you better, that's when he realized how useless it was. He felt your fingertips, they were beginning to discolour. This wasn't good. "Uh, here I'll warm you up with my own heat."

Brook wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. You let him but still shivered in his arms. A realization cracked in Brook's mind and for the first time, he hated how he was just a skeleton. You look up at Brook, hearing sniffles, and saw him crying.

"What's- what's wrong Br-Brook?" you stutter with your chattering teeth. You place a hand on his cheek, trying to wipe away the tears.

"It's no use," Brook sobbed and cupped your cold hand in his. You felt the dryness of the bones and you felt them get colder as he held your hand. "I can't make you warmer. I have no heat to give to you. All I have are these useless bones that can't bring you any warmth. What kind of person can't bring warmth to the one they love?"

"Brook..." You slowly hugged the skeleton despite your shivering state. You rubbed his back, trying to reassure him.

"If only I had flesh. If only I were alive then I could provide you with the warmth you need," Brook cried on your shoulder. "I wish was human again."

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee wasn’t supposed to be alive- after all the whumper had killed them in front of everyone. The team had already grieved and moved on, it had been years after all, but all of a sudden the whumpee is found deep within the whumper’s lair, completely disheveled and injured beyond what’s humanly possible, but somehow alive. A majority of the team doesn’t even believe it- surely this must be some kind of trap, right?

[whump-is-love-whump-is-life]

Thinking about a speedster (or anyone who can make themselves intangible) whumpee being forced to phase into their own restraints

[of-wounds-and-woes]

Whumptober 2022 | no. 5: Every Whumpee’s Needs

Blood Loss | Running out of Air | Hyperthermia

From the Brazilian series Além da Ilusão episode 166

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[ichoosechoasandbeingqueer]

Your Good Boy

This is Day 5 of Fili whumptober!

Warnings: past relationship abuse, bruising, kidnapping, flirting

Word count: 2097

You kidnap Fili in an attempt to ransom him back to the royal family for gold. The ransom is quickly forgotten when your prisoner begs you to let him stay.

Please refer to the warnings of this story.  If you go past this point you are consenting to reading this content. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

You let the chuckle rumble through your chest as you watched the blond dwarven prince before you. He had tucked himself into the corner of his tiny cell and looked up at you with wide eyes, a storm of emotions flashing amongst the sea of cerulean blue.

“Hush now darling,” you cooed, watching him shiver as you ran your gentle fingertip down his cheek, “this nightmare is almost over. Just a few more days, you can be a good boy just a few more days, can’t you?”

“When Thorin finds you-”

“Oh yes,” you cut him off with a roll of your eyes, “when Thorin finds me I’ll be sorry, I’ll be killed, I’ll regret it. Yes, you’ve told me before,”

“He’ll have you executed for this you know,”

You let out a sigh. If you knew kidnapping and keeping the dwarven prince for ransom would be so boring you might have kidnapped his mother instead. At least she would have fought back by now, screwed up your plans enough for you to fall behind schedule, added a little excitement to this nefarious plot of yours, not just sat in the corner of her and glared at you from afar. If it weren’t for the beads in his hair, you might have feared you captured the wrong dwarf. Three straight days you have had him in your control and not once has he tried to escape. You didn’t even have him tied down to anything. How was this miserable creature the famous ‘lion heart’ Durin prince?

“This might be human of me asking, but I though dwarves were supposed to be more daring than this? I’ve had elves with more fight in them than you,”

That particular comment earnt you a growl, but as he opened his mouth to spit something back at you, he paled and looked to the ground with his lips drawn thin.

“See, you almost had it there kitten,” you cooed again flicking the end of his braid, his face flushing at the action, “don’t you want to bite back? To claw at your chains? To growl and roar in defiance?”

“I- I don’t-”

“Don’t what kitten?”

“I don’t-”

“That’s it honey, tell mommy,”

His blue eyes widened and a look of shame crossed his face, “Fuck off,” he spat again, turning his head away and pulling his legs up to his chest.

You giggled at his reaction, leaning back to let him have some space. Remembering the reason you had wondered over to him in the first place, you gently put down a plate of food at his feet, “Fair enough love, but you have to eat,”

“Right,” he rolled his eyes, a bit of bravery in his form, “like I’m going to do that,”

“Look, I don’t know what other dickheads might want to do to you if they had you in chains, but I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to gab the money and go, but to do that I need you happy and healthy. Well… mainly healthy. You haven’t eaten since you got here so your either going to eat, or I’m going to pin you down somewhere nice and soft and force you to swallow,”

A blush as red as fire spread across his face and down his neck and your own eyes widened at the unintentional inuendo. You decided to ignore it and kept your face straight, pushing the plate towards him again.

“I- I can’t trust you…”  he tried to reason with himself, but the growl of his stomach defied his words.

“What have I done so far to make you not trust me?”

He gave you an unamused look, “you did kidnap me?”

You blinked and reluctantly nodded, “Ok smartass, but other than that. Have I not given you food, water and somewhere to sleep? Have I not been courteous? Have I not been gentle?”

“You have… but how can I know you haven’t just played the part? Looked gentle and sweet while on display but really want to hurt me behind closed doors?”

He looked up at you with a look you couldn’t pick, and something in your stomach twisted. You frowned at the prince and tilted your head slightly as you watched him start to tremble again.

“Easy now kitten, peace. Use your head. The king won’t pay for a body, will he?”

“You don’t have to kill me. You could just make me sick. Make me suffer the same way you have,”

Again a quiver in his voice made you pause. You sat before him in silence for a moment, questioning how you were going to convince the skeptical dwarf.

“Who exactly do you think I am preforming for kitten? The only one here is you. If I really wanted you to suffer, would I not have done so already?”

He stuttered for a moment, stumbling over his words and you gave him an amused look. You nudged the plate again, the tapping of your nail making a tinking sound.

He shot you a glare but grudgingly slid the plate closer to him. He used his fingers to press the rice together and scoop up the thick broth. He was hesitant as he brought it to his lips, his eyes flicking between the food and you before his hunger won him over and he shoveled it into his mouth with a moan. His eyes lit up as he swallowed and he dived back in for more.

“Good boy,” you encouraged, “See? It wasn’t hard, was it? How does it taste?”

“So good,” he muttered as he shoveled it in as fast as he could.

“Bloody rivers, there is a fork Fili,” you chuckled, stopping when he froze and drew back with his head down.

“I- I’m sorry, please- please don’t take it away,”

“Take it-,” you frowned, that twisting in your stomach coming back, “I’m trying to get you to eat, why would I take it?”

The prince stayed silent as he curled in on himself even more, flinching back when you moved to take a handkerchief from your pocket. His fear was apparent and you moved slowly and softly as you hushed and soothed him. You held out the piece of material to prove you had nothing to hurt him, and you took up his hand in yours.

His hands were bigger than yours, his fingers thick and rough, carrying scars and burns you could only assume came with crafting in his forge. You had not seen many dwarves in your life, but you thought the other races rather mad for not finding their beauty. Their skill and passion of crafting alone made you weak, and if Fili’s passion was the same as the love and care he showed for the many knives you had confiscated from his body before you brought him here, you could admire each and every mark upon his flesh.

He watched you carefully as you traced his fingers, wiping away the mess from his skin with the cloth.

“Eat Fili,” you mumbled to the prince, “I will not take your food from you. I was not mad that you used your hands, I merely though it would be easier for you,”

He hummed in acknowledgment and let his attention linger on you for a little longer before returning to the plate of food, this time using the fork to scoop up the food. He was so hungry he didn’t seem to mind you still fiddling with his left hand despite it being his dominant, to busy balancing his food from the plate to his mouth, and didn’t notice you pull his sleeve up his arm to keep it out of the way.

He certainly did notice the sharp inhale you took when you noticed the bruises on his forearm however.

He made a move to tug his arm away but you tightened your grip and kept his in place, your eyes not leaving his marks. One or two bruises you could excuse as an accident. How many walls have you walked into this week alone? But this… this made you feel sick. You could count twelve marks on this arm alone, most turning a dull yellow and fading, others fresh and still a deep purple and none of them small. In fact, the largest was bigger than your whole hand.

Fili whimpered again, trying to pull away from your grasp but you wouldn’t move. You were no doubt scaring him but you felt frozen in your place.

“Are there more?” you whispered quietly, letting your other hand roam careful over each and every mark, testing those that still hurt, and where you could brush without bringing him pain. When he didn’t reply you looked him in the eye and asked again.

“I- please. No there’s not,”

“Fili Durin do not lie to me,” you growled, you voice making him shake, “Are there more?”

He opened his mouth to speak but ended up nodding yes instead.

“Show me,”

It was not a question and he knew that. As best he could with one hand he undid the top two of his buttons, already showing off another mark on his collarbone, before pulling the tunic off. You moved to get a better look at him. The pale skin of his back and torso were stained with marks of purple and green, the golden curls on his chest doing nothing to hide them. Some were straight like he had been hit with a pole, some curved and thin like they had been made with a strap. Tears welled in his beautiful blue eyes and you gently pulled him close. He didn’t fight you this time, his fingers wrapping onto the collar of your shirt and his face tucked into the crook of your neck. You could hear the sobs he was trying to hold in.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you held him, threading you fingers through his hair and rubbing soothing circles on his back where the marks could not be seen.

“Who?” you demanded in a low voice, “Who did this to you?”

“I couldn’t stop her… she was always so perfect… no one would believe me if I tried to tell,” he muttered miserably into your throat, his lips tickling the soft skin there. Your very soul felt like it had been ripped apart when you heard him mutter, “Please don’t make me go back. I won’t argue. I’ll eat. Just… please,”

“Who Fili?”

“My wife,”

You took a deep breath to steady yourself. It was no secret that he had been forced to marry a darrowdam from the Iron Hills, everyone knew it was an arranged marriage, even the humans that lived in Dale knew, but since their wedding day the couple had been nothing but infatuated with each other. Or so the rumors had said.

You couldn’t imagine the pain and terror he must have been put through to be in this position, to beg his captor to keep him there. Is that why he hadn’t fought back? Is that why he tucked himself away and flinched at your every movement?

A fire built up in your chest as you looked down at the tired dwarf in your arms.

“Change of plans,” you hummed as you slid off your cloak and wrapped it around his bruised body, “No more hostage situation,”

He looked up at you with pleading eyes, “No please. You must keep me! Please, I-I’ll be good, your good boy. That’s what you want right? Please, don’t take me back. Not yet,”

“Hush now kitten,” you soothed nudging him to stand. Like an eager puppy desperate to prove himself, he obeyed, and you moved him to the soft bed you had made for him in his cell. You pulled away the furs as he sat and you tucked him in its warmth as you handed him the plate of food he still had left, “I’m not taking you back. The money can wait. This can’t,”

“I-”

“No one,” you growled, taking his chin in your hands to face you, “is ever going to touch you like this again, do you hear me? No one, touches what is mine,”

“What are you going to do?” he asked nervously, fiddling with one of his braids. You took the strand from his fingers and ran a calming hand through his hair again.

“First I’m going to patch you up,” you purred, stroking his face as he leaned into you, “Then I’m going to kill your wife,”

✨✨✨✨

See full 31 day whumptober 2022 Master List here

[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee watches the Whumper pierce the top of a small glass bottle with a syringe. They are a black silhouette in front of the single lightbulb casting a dim glow in the basement where the Whumpee sits tied to a chair. Something about the way the Whumper tips the bottle upside down and extracts the liquid makes the Whumpee start to laugh. The Whumper sets the bottle down and clinically flicks the air bubbles out of the needle, but cast a few glances at the laughing Whumpee as they do. “Now you know I’m going to need to ask what’s so funny,” the Whumper says in their usual detached tone. The Whumpee tries to stop but just ends up letting out hitched high pitched moans that devolve back into laughter. The Whumper waits as the Whumpee’s mad laughter quells. Eventually the Whumpee gathers themself enough to speak. “My father was in the hospital when I was a kid. And I was watching the doctor do just what you’re doing in front of this bright window, like some kind of Hitchcock rerun I seen. And that’s when he asked everybody to leave the room so he could talk to me.” The Whumpee’s chest heaves as they gather their breath, and their face, still smiling, starts to turn angry. “And you know what he said? He said he was disappointed in me. Death was knocking at his door, and he told him to wait - not to love me for a moment longer, but to tear me down one last time.” The Whumpee’s smile has completely faded and they spit out these last words. “The funny part being?” the Whumper asks. The Whumpee stares fiercely through blackened eyes at their captor. “It’s just funny what people choose to do to me in the moments before they die. That’s all.”

[letitbehurt]

Language barriers in Whump are still on my mind. Specifically, during or right after Whumpee is rescued by Caretaker.

When Caretaker tries to dress their wounds, Whumpee thinks it’s another attempt to harm them. So, Caretaker tries to calm them down using slow gestures, or demonstrating their actions before they get anywhere near Whumpee. They try to introduce themself, or to learn Whumpee’s name, and they have to hope all of this is enough to get the message—I’m trying to help you—across.

[whumpish]

No.5-Every Whumpee’s Needs

Blood Loss

The thing about blood is that it looks like a lot more than is actually is. That’s what Whumpee tried to explain to the team when they eventually found them lying half conscious in a puddle of their own blood. Medic and Caretaker severally beg to differ

[rookthorne]

Battle Worn | ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋʏ

Pairing; Stucky (post!TWS) Word count; 1.5k Warnings; hurt/comfort, disordered eating, cibophobia, reference to past torture and medical procedure, reference to WS!Bucky, swearing, petnames A/N; WELL, WE'RE DIVING RIGHT INTO THE DEEP END WITH THIS ONE! What Bucky goes through in this is what I deal with on the daily with my cibophobia, so it was very fucking difficult to write, but also cathartic. Please, please, please, heed the warnings on this one.

WHUMPTOBER MASTERLIST

Sometimes battles should not be fought alone. A Sergeant needed his Captain, after all. 

It was a strange burn; coiling itself around his stomach like a live wire while he sat at the table silently, on his own. 

Bucky was no stranger to pain - hell, he was no stranger to suffering - but this, this was different. 

He could vaguely recall the time he spent under the illusion that what Hydra was doing to him was normal; a demented definition of health. The memory of being strapped to a chair, the acrid taste of plastic, and the way his throat constricted and gagged around the intrusion of a tube, caused a savage bubble of nausea to pop in his stomach and coat his insides like poison.

There was no way in hell that what they did was healthy, Bucky thought bitterly. 

He was eyeing the bowl sitting before him with the highest level of mistrust and suspicion anyone could look at a bowl of soup with. If Steve were awake, and the situation wasn’t so fucked up, he would have probably laughed with Bucky over how outlandish this all was. 

Only a fool, an idiot, would be afraid of food, right? Right?

Bucky shook his head quickly, defiantly stopping those thoughts in their tracks. He was no fool, and he was not an idiot. He is a survivor. A survivor of the worst kind of depraved torture anyone could dream up - sane, or insane. 

Steve, for all his grace and goodness, explained that what Bucky was feeling was hunger. For the entirety of the 70 years he was under Hydra’s control, Bucky had never felt hunger; there was no burn this strong and this intense that he could recall. It was safe to assume that whatever drugs they had pumped him with kept him chemically suppressed and satiated. 

The tube was only a tool to keep him alive, to keep him functional. It was of utmost priority and importance that his ability to maim and kill remained unhindered, and that was all that mattered. 

“Sick bastards,” he muttered resentfully, toying with the spoon like he would a blade.

It was still quiet in the kitchen, and the silence was beginning to press against his eardrums.

A sudden sharp pang of hunger tore its way through his stomach making him inhale sharply and groan quietly as he exhaled. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself to just eat, it did not work. 

“Buck?” Speak of the devil. “Are you alright?”

Light footsteps echoed off the stark white cabinets of the shared kitchen, but Bucky didn’t look over his shoulder to greet Steve - he was still staring at the bowl of soup like it would pull out a knife and hold it against his throat at any second. “Steve.” 

Please help, Bucky almost pleaded, but this was a battle to fight on his own. He was determined to get better, for Steve. 

A true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him. 

“Chicken noodle?” Steve questioned while smiling lightly. Bucky nodded stiffly, still staring determinedly down and into his bowl. Steve’s gentle grip to his shoulder didn’t make him flinch away and Bucky counted that as at least one win for the night. “Feeling peckish myself, I’ll grab a bowl,” a squeeze to his shoulder and Steve was gone. 

There was a quiet clatter in the kitchen and Steve reappeared a moment later, bowl in hand, and Bucky watched carefully from the corner of his eye as he approached and sat down on the bench across from him. 

“We didn’t have anything this good back in the day, Buck,” Steve grinned and gestured to his bowl.

“You keep talkin’ like that and people will start to believe you’re an old man.”

Steve barked a laugh and Bucky felt his mouth twitch into a small smile, unable to manage much more when panic was keeping a tight vice-like grip around his chest. He could feel the silver strain against the tight grip of his hand, and Steve noticed. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y,” Steve called to the ceiling. “Can you please play some soft jazz or something for us?” Not even a second later a melodic tune carried through the speakers in the corner of the ceiling. “Thank you,” Steve looked back to Bucky and smirked. Bucky could not fathom how Steve could smile so much. “Beats having a phonograph, doesn’t it?” 

Bucky only stared back into Steve’s face, frozen with fear over some damn soup. “Yeah,” he gritted out against the rise of bile in his throat and he quickly looked back down at his bowl. It wasn’t uncharacteristic of him to be quiet - a man of few words, Nat had said - but every word he managed came out strained. Bucky hated it.

Showing any sign of weakness would get him beaten or killed. 

No, it wouldn’t, Bucky forced back against the torrent of thoughts that crowded his mind. He was safe. Steve was here. 

The clatter of a spoon against a bowl made his eyes snap up to find Steve bringing the utensil full of steaming soup to his mouth. Bucky had seen people eat before, more often than not perched on the edge of a building and looking through the scope of his rifle as his targets always rushed - finishing their meals with such haste. 

Steve wasn’t rushed. He was content. A small smile graced his features when he finally tasted the first spoon of soup. 

“Give it a shot, Buck,” Steve encouraged, lowering his spoon to gesture to Bucky’s own bowl. 

“What if-” Bucky hesitated, flinching slightly at the memory that played on a loop. “What if I don’t like it?”

Steve smiled sadly. “Well, then we’ll find you a soup that you do like.” Another clink of his spoon sounded as he moved to swallow another mouthful. The bowl between Bucky’s elbows suddenly seemed more inviting as he stared down at it. 

But the relief he felt at Steve’s answer that he wouldn’t be beaten to a pulp was short lived when another memory took its place. 

“What if it,” Bucky paused when he felt Steve staring at the crown of his head. There was no way for Bucky to ask while holding Steve’s gaze. “What if it hurts, Steve?”

He hated how scared he sounded, and he cursed quietly when Steve placed his own spoon gently down on the table. There was a shuffling sound and suddenly there was a presence beside him - not imposing or overpowering, but soft and caring. 

“Then I’ll be here to help you through it, sweetheart,” Steve’s hand was warm on Bucky’s back as it rubbed small circles, and it was all Bucky could do to suppress a small sob of fear. “C’mon, I’m right here.”

Maybe he didn’t have to fight this battle on his own. 

The spoon shook in Bucky’s hold but Steve placed his own steady hand over Bucky’s, and it was all the encouragement he needed. Slowly, but surely, Bucky swallowed his first mouthful of soup. 

It was a strange texture against his tongue and the roof of his mouth, but it tasted good; a thousand times better than the slop he had endured for decades on end when the tube failed. Encouraged, Bucky swallowed another mouthful with a much steadier hand. Steve’s hand never left his back and the hand that covered Bucky’s moved to rest on his thigh. 

“What d’you think?”

Bucky smiled nervously and nodded. “S’good.”

The beaming smile Steve gave him was brighter than the sun, and it was more than enough encouragement to keep going. 

Four mouthfuls later, the knot in Bucky’s stomach tightened with a vengeance against the weight of an unknown substance. Panicked, he slammed the spoon down and hugged his arms to his stomach with a whimper, desperate to alleviate the ache that had started to bloom. 

“Hey, hey,” Steve rushed, throwing one leg over the bench so he could scoot closer. “Talk to me, what’s wrong?”

Bucky wanted to speak but the threat of opening his mouth and losing all of the progress he had fought to make - it was too much. A small hiccup sounded before he could suppress it and Bucky could feel himself begin to shake. 

“All right, it’s all right,” Steve whispered while pulling Bucky close, one hand resting against Bucky’s waist and the other cradled his head to Steve’s shoulder. “I need you to breathe with me, sweetheart, I know you can do it.”

The rhythmic rise and fall of Steve’s chest was easy to follow and Bucky persisted through more hiccups and whimpers of pain to breathe. “That’s it, Buck, you’re doin’ so good,” Steve soothed, his hand gently rubbing up and down Bucky’s side. 

A sudden pressure on top of his head made Bucky tense for a split second until he realised Steve had nuzzled against him. Stomach be damned, Bucky thought, forcing his body to relax into Steve’s arms.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. So damn proud.” 

Bucky couldn’t help but weep quietly at Steve’s words, and Steve only held him tighter. Chicken noodle soup quickly became Bucky’s favourite, symbolising much more than the comfort it brought; a story of recovery, and of strength.

I want to thank @d-desrosiers for helping me through this one. I wouldn't have been able to do it without you and I can never, ever express my gratitude adequately for you being my best friend and seeing me deal with what Bucky goes through in this one, and you still hang around. I love you so much.

Graphics & Header made by yours truly.

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[quietlyimplode]

leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 5 - Every Whumpee’s Needs

Warnings: medical procedures or medical talk/seizures

Word Count: 1.6k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: in which we find out what’s wrong with Natasha, forgive my medical speak, it’s not my first language. Or second (suspend medical realities for a little bit).

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Whumptober Masterlist

———-

Natasha hates it here.

She hates that they’re going to know just how fucked she is. She can’t hide it now.

She’s going to have to tell them about Irina, and Sana.

They’ve got her blood.

They’re going to do scans.

They’re going to know.

She wishes she could disappear.

Her attention wavers and she sees Bruce standing at the door talking to the doctor that was in before.

Tony joins them and there seems to be an argument. She’s too tired to read their lips, instead she closes her eyes and sighs internally.

Clint, Tony and Bruce are the only ones that have read her whole file.

Tony because he’s a nosy prick with all the technology and no boundaries, Bruce because of the mission in Bolivia and Clint, well that was a gift; and he knew it was too.

The three men know the workings of her body, the simple changes that make her different and now, the stranger of a doctor will too.

There’s a reason she doesn’t get sick, why she churns through medication quickly, why little cuts; not matter how deep, will heal without scars.

There’s nanites in her blood.

There’s still Red Room poison in her, but up until this point it’s saved her, kept her alive.

Like all her memories, it’s not something she could ever get rid of. It’s part of her.

The doctor looks over to where she sits, then back to Bruce, anger on her face as she says something.

It’s got Clint on alert, and clearly it’s nothing good. He squeezes her hand in reassurance.

She’s not above killing the doctor, Natasha thinks, fists clenching unconsciously, if it would eliminate another person knowing all of her.

Clint might even agree.

Her teeth bite hard into her cheeks.

She’s not running because she knows what this might be.

Death.

The beginning of the end.

She feels it, the dread that washes over her.

Pain spikes as she shivers to cover the flinch.

The headache is dulled comparatively to the morning but the day of tests has been exhausting. More emotionally than anything else.

She can feel her mind slipping.

Clint hasn’t left her side and keeps his hand in hers; even when she tries to pull away. Maybe because he thinks she’ll pull out her IV.

She won’t.

If anyone can fix her, the three people arguing outside her room can.

.

Tony paces.

Bruce is steady.

The doctor frowns.

“What do you mean?”

Tony feels anger, restlessness and thoroughly inept; but he pushes it down, trying to get his head around what her blood work and scans have revealed.

He read her file, but seeing the way it works, the way it’s affecting her makes it real.

Her past is a horror story, to him maybe, to her, it’s real life, and now the horrors are back.

Like they ever really left her alone.

Natasha looks up from her chair in the room and they make eye contact through the door. Tony tries to hold it but she closes her eyes instead.

His anger boils at the unfairness of what he knows.

“Her nanites are failing, they’re dying,” Bruce explains in layman’s terms; trying to make sure they’re all on the same wavelength.

The doctor refers to her pages and nods.

“Why now?” Tony understands most things but he’s not a doctor, this is all so far out of his comfort level of knowledge.

“They’re old,” the doctor says bluntly.

“She wasn’t supposed to live this long.”

They’re all silent in that realisation that the upgrades that came with being a Black Widow meant that they didn’t expect them to live past a certain age.

Bruce crosses his arms, face gaunt with a twinge of green around the ears.

Ignoring it, Tony continues.

“So they’re in her blood?”

He doesn’t understand. If the nanites make up everything, in her blood for repair, healing, he’s sure there can be a simple fix.

���Give her a blood transfusion,” he rationalises.

The doctor shakes her head.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

Bruce is the one to explain further.

“It doesn’t treat the cause,” he says, slowly. “They’re in her, everywhere, even if we gave her a blood transfusion, they’d still be with her, and if we try and get rid of them, her body will shut down, she’s lived to long with it, to not live without it.”

The doctor hands Tony her scans to further the point. There’s grey and blacked parts, and she points to all the places the nanites are.

Everywhere.

Infecting every part of her.

The doctor looks to Natasha.

“Do you know anyone from her past? Anyone that could have programmed the nanites? That could essentially preform a system upgrade?”

Tony understands that, like a computer.

He appreciates the analogy.

“We can do it then?” he asks hopefully. He preforms system upgrades all the time. How different can this be?

“What, you’re experts on nanorobotics and molecular homeostasis?” the doctor shakes her head.

“Not yet,” he says fiercely. For her he will. How hard can it be?

The doctor sighs, a loud heaving of breath.

“I don’t doubt you’d both, but it’s a specialised field, specialised fields…”

Tony scoffs and gestures to the tower. He can do it, he knows he can.

“I’m not saying you can’t..”

But that’s what he’s hearing.

“To save her, we will,” he says defensively.

“I understand, you might, but it just won’t be in time,” the doctor tells him.

“You might kill her.”

Sighing, the doctor rubs her face, tucks all the paperwork under her arms and looks to Bruce.

“Find someone who was there, find someone who understands now and they might be able to reverse it.”

Appealing to Tony, she tries to tell him as it is. He can’t save her. Not this time.

“She’s going to die before you figure it out, tailor it to her, and figure out what works for her.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Tony says fiercely, anger on his face.

“Tony…”

But he pushes past her, entering Natasha’s room, welcome or not, unwilling to hear more.

Bruce wears a face of acceptance and the doctor appreciates his calm. It’s ironic given his reputation.

“Do you want me to tell her?” he asks.

Someone has to. Maybe Natasha can tell them who they can contact.

The doctor looks to Bruce and then Tony who’s sitting on his computer, that’s appeared from nowhere.

“I think we should,” she decides, “I want to run a few more tests.”

Bruce nods.

“What other tests?”

“Maybe a PET scan. It might tell us where the nanites are attacking, what’s been damaged, if anything, find a way to slow it down.”

She starts to walk away, and appeals to him one last time.

“Bruce; find someone who can help, anyone, this isn’t going away, and we don’t have the current technology. Convince Tony. We’ll do what we can, and I suspect that Natasha will trust you more, ask her, she might know more than she’s letting on.”

.

Natasha feels it coming, she doesn’t have time to alert Clint.

She’s gone and back and none the wiser of time that’s passed, except wide eyes looking at her saying her name.

“Mmok,” she tells him, wishing she could take the worry away.

“Do you want some water?” he asks, holding up a straw.

The disorientation on waking has her vision blurred, but as it’s cleared she sees Tony on his laptop in the corner.

“Hey,” he acknowledges, and although he covers it, she can see she scared him.

“You had another one, but this time we caught it.”

He points to the EEG that Natasha is still attached too.

“They’re going to do a PET scan, which isn’t as fun as what it sounds,” he continues.

“Your body is trying to kill you,” he says bluntly.

Overwhelmed, Natasha falls silent.

Her head hurts, it’s thumping and she’s so tired.

“Go’way”

Clint glares.

“They want me to find someone from Russia to fix you,” he starts, “they think I can’t.”

It’s like it’s a personal assault on his intelligence.

“But I don’t know everything,” he turns his screen around, and Natasha is assaulted with an image of her own body.

From what she can see, the Nanites are everywhere, but not integrating like they usually are.

They’re stationary, moving slow.

“Tell me the story of Irina,” he asks.

She doesn’t know where he’s got the name from.

“It’s this, or Russians,” he threatens.

Clint frowns.

Her head hurts so much.

“Wrong,” she bites out, sitting up a little straighter, taking a deep breath, pushing all pain down.

“Sana,” she sighs.

“Sana is the one you want to look up.”

This all costs. Spilling her secrets, talking, knowing that he won’t find anything, that she’ll have to say it.

“Sana, got sick. Seized. We tried to hide her. Hide when it happened. But they knew. Punished us. Took her. We thought. We thought they’d kill her. Like Irina. Defective, they said. But. They didn’t. They fixed her. She came back. Not sick.”

Clint squeezes her hand.

“So it can be done,” concludes Tony.

“That was then,” Natasha replies.

She closes her eyes.

“Go away Tony,” but it’s not unkind.

He leaves, with Clint following behind.

Natasha trusts that he’ll fill her in on everything they’ve found, or not found.

She closes her eyes and forces herself to sleep.

.

[girlsjustwannadrawwhump]

Starting to get a lil cranky bout the fact that every time I overcome a major obstacle in my life I just get,,, another one. Like "congrats you healed from that, now onto the next Sad Life Event" like can I plz just have One Happy Thing That Lasts A Long Time Without Interruptions? ????