#febuwhump day 20

[serickswrites]

Truth

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, physical violence, bruises, truth serum, drugging, noncon drug use, video recording, hostage sitaution

"Please, don't," Whumpee begged. "Please, you don't have to do this." They shook in the restraints Whumper had used to bind them to the table. They watched Whumper with wide, terror-filled eyes, as Whumper advanced on them, syringe in hand.

Whumper back handed Whumpee hard. Whumpee whimpered with the pain. "Don't speak until I speak to you," Whumper growled. "And besides, I want to do this, Whumpee. You have what I want. And I always get what I want."

Whumpee could feel their lip swell from where Whumper had struck them. They knew their face was bruised from Whumper's rough handling of them. But still, they didn't want Whumper to inject them with whatever was in that vial. "Please," they tried once more. Surely, Whumper would be reasonable.

Whumper grinned wickedly as they stabbed Whumpee's arm with the syringe. "No," they said as they depressed the plunger.

Whumpee's veins were on fire. Every part of them was on fire. They couldn't breathe through the fire. Someone was screaming. It was them. They were screaming. Every single cell in their body was on fire.

Whumpee had no idea when the flames receded. They had no idea how much time had passed. They only knew that Whumper was speaking gently with them, stroking their hair, talking softly. They sobbed. It was all they could do. They were too weak to even turn their head towards Whumper.

"There, there, my sweet. I have one more little treat for you. Smile for the camera." Whumpee felt another needle in their arm. Felt a coolness wash over them. It was a welcome relief to the fire that had consumed them. "Now, you are going to answer all of my questions. And then we will send this video to the person who will actually give me what I want."

"Yes, Whumper," Whumpee heard their voice. But it wasn't their voice. It was dull, no inflection. And yet they felt their lips move.

"And remember, Whumpee," Whumper snickered, "the truth will set you free. So be honest."

"Yes, Whumper."

"Does Caretaker have what I want?" Whumper said from somewhere to their left. They heard Whumper take a step closer. Whumpee couldn't answer that question. They had to keep Caretaker out of this.

"Yes," Whumpee said against their will. They tried to turn their head, but couldn't. They were to weak. Whatever Whumper had given them, it hadn't given them energy. It just made them speak, though they didn't want to.

"Will Caretaker give it up for you?" Whumper said as they leaned over Whumpee, phone in hand.

Whumpee didn't want to answer. They couldn't answer. Because then everything Caretaker had worked for would be undone. "Yes." Whumpee closed their eyes against the tears. Though they hadn't wanted to speak. They had to. Whumper made them. Hopefully Caretaker would forgive them. If they lived long enough for Caretaker to find them.

Whumper climbed onto the table with them, pinched their cheek. "You hear that, Caretaker?" Whumper said as they flipped the camera so that both they and Whumpee were in the frame. "You'll give me what I want for Whumpee. So come get your Whumpee. Or you'll be picking up the pieces from here to kingdom come."

Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut once more. They had failed Caretaker. Failed and let themself become a hostage. Caretaker had to leave them. Caretaker couldn't come get them. It would be all for nought. "You have two days to collect what I desire and get here, Caretaker. Or Whumpee will face the consequences. Won't you, Whumpee?"

Whumpee nodded as tears flowed down their cheeks. "Yes, Whumper." They told the truth. However, this truth did not set them free.

[kabie-whump]

♡ Febuwhump Day 20: Truth Serum ♡

@febuwhump

Content: torture, waterboarding mention, blood in mouth mention, claustrophobia mention, burning mention

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Stoic Whumpee who is really good at hiding their reactions from Sadistic Wumper

It pisses Whumper off. They’re doing this for entertainment, but Whumpee refuses to do so much as whimper. It’s as if the torture doesn’t even effect them.

So Whumper feeds them a truth serum.

“Does this hurt?”

Whumpee coughs, freezing water dripping from the tips of their choppy hair. “Yes, but it’s bearable.”

Okay. New method.

“Does this hurt?”

Whumpee spits out blood before they answer. “Yes, but it’s bearable.”

New method.

“Does this hurt?”

Whumpee flinches slightly at the absent click of the lighter. But still: “Yes, but it’s bearable.”

There had to be something that Whumpee couldn’t find bearable. Something that shook them to their core.

“What’s your biggest fear?”

“Tight spaces give me panic attacks.”

Bingo.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[chaotic-orphan]

Febuwhump: Day Twenty

Truth serum— @febuwhump prompts

Is it Whump? If you squint, your honour.

TW: needles, fear of needles, needle phobia, being injected against will, restraints, kidnapping, grogginess, fainting, consent issues,

*~*~*~*~*

Journalist didn’t wake to their alarm or their phone ringing, both of which were the only things to rouse them from sleep. They groaned as they woke which, to be fair, was a usual thing because it meant they had to get up and work or meet a deadline or something equally groan worthy.

What was not usual was waking up strapped to a metal table. That was a new one, even for journalist.

I bet i am restrained, they thought, then tugged their arms for good measure. Oh, yep. Definitely restrained.

Cliché.

Which meant—

“You’re awake,” said Villain, a smile in their voice. Journalist craned their neck awkwardly trying to see Villain but groaned with the effort and the weight of their head like it was filled with lead. “Oh, yeah, no. Don’t move.”

“Got it,” Journalist groaned as their brain rattled in their head, making the room spin. “Uh, why am I here?”

“We need to have a little chat.”

“We had a little chat like — two days ago,” said Journalist with a groan. “It was far more civil and less dizzying.”

Villain finally came within view of Journalist and they had three heads. That was very different than last time they saw Villain, but alas, who was Journalist to judge.

“It’s actually about something we talked about,” said the Villains. Then they smiled coyly. “And Darling, get your facts right, we spoke three days ago.”

“Fuck,” Journalist whined and pulled at their restraints that clicked taut. “My boss is gonna be pissed—“”

“It’s fine,” said Villains with a shrug, now there was only two of them, the third having left the conversation. “Just tell them you were kidnapped.”

“Oh no, I mean pissed with you,” said Journalist. “You can so goodbye to any more favourable articles.”

Villain snorted then disappeared from view again.

“They will!” Journalist told them earnestly. Villain then reappeared beside Journalist’s left arm. Only one of them now thankfully, and a giant fucking needle.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Journalist shrieked, kicking their feet against the table trying to get away from whatever the fuck Villain was about to do. The sound of the restraints clacking against the table didn’t do anything to ease their panic. “Wait! Wait! Wait! Villain please, I’m— oh god, I’m terrified of— I can’t—”

Villain’s eyebrows furrowed as Journalist descended into a panic attack. They quickly lowered the needle out of sight but Journalist’s eyes were already rolling to the back of their head and their body went limp.

Villain stared, stunned. Then brought the needle up again and while Journalist was passed out injected them with the contents, thumbing down the plunger. Villain set the needle down on a table faraway from Journalist and sighed.

They should have known Journalist had a phobia of needles. Idiot, but… it had to be done. Villain had to know once and for all.

They walked back over to Journalist and lightly tapped their cheeks to wake them. Journalist moaned in protest, but then blinked up with bleary eyes at Villain.

“Relax,” said Villain softly when Journalist’s eyes widened again. “It’s gone. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Shit, I’m sorry for fainting on you,” said Journalist with a breath, relaxing back against the table. Villain chuckled lightly at Journalist.

“You’re such a polite hostage,” said Villain and basked as a red blush climbed its way up Journalist’s neck and spread to their cheeks. “You’re blushing!”

“Shut up,” Journalist said with a huff, with no real malice behind the words. Villain hummed and stepped closer, brushing the stray hairs from Journalist’s forehead. They loved the way Journalist’s eyes shuttered at the movement. When Supervillain said the truth serum made people putty in your hands, Villain wasn’t expecting this.

Villain ran their hand lightly through Journalist’s hair as they began their gentle interrogation.

“Journalist?” Villain asked. Journalist hummed in response. Villain smiled. “I need to ask you a question, and I need you to be 100% honest with me.”

Journalist hummed again. “Okay Villain.”

Villain licked their lips, suddenly nervous. Here it was. This was it. Journalist was right here in front of them, injected with truth serum ready to spill their secrets and Villain was hesitating?!

“Are you…” Villain began then cleared their throat. “Are you Hero?”

Journalist smiled dreamily. “No.”

Villain paled. “No?”

“No,” Journalist said again. Villain’s hands froze in Journalist’s hair. Journalist let out a small keen in the back of their throat, whining at Villain’s pause. Villain resumed more out of shock than anything.

“You’re not Hero?” Villain asked again. They were almost certain…

“No, I’m Journalist.”

Villain blinked. Okay, they weren’t expecting this. Hero wasn’t Journalist? Then—

“But our conversation, you said your source was 100% about Hero?”

“Yes,” said Journalist with a smile. “It was.”

“Your most trusted source?”

“Yes.”

Villain frowned, something like jealousy settling in their throat. “Is Hero… your lover?”

Journalist giggled, actually giggled at Villain’s question. “No.”

“Then who is your most trusted source?” Villain demanded.

“Me,” said Journalist. “The best person to validate facts is yourself, Villain. So I had it on good authority that my information was correct.”

Villain frowned. “But how did you—”

“I’m the Hero/Villain liaison for the city news, Villain, I don’t just have late night rendezvous with you.”

Villain deflated. They really didn’t expect this conversation to go like this, but this— they thought, they were a fool. They should have never done this, curiosity killed—

“But you are my favourite.”

Villain’s heart leapt in their chest. “I am?” Villain asked, their voice coming out in a whisper.

“Yes,” said Journalist. “You’re always kind with me. Hero’s too serious and annoying.”

Villain snorted again. “They are. So… you’re really not Hero?”

Journalist giggled. “Villain, don’t be so cliché. I’m not Clark Kent.”

Villain smiled softly at Journalist. “Though, I don’t like the way you kidnapped me. My boss is gonna be so mad at you.”

“I know, Journalist.”

“And stabbing me with a needle? Not a great look for you, you can’t just do that without consent.”

Villain laughed. “I didn’t even need to give you truth serum did I? You say whatever is on your mind anyways.”

“No time to think up lies, Villain. I’m a busy person.”

“You are,” said Villain.

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Febuwhump Day 20 alt: Last Man Standing

Content warning: murder, bad caretaker

Whumpee had never wanted to be a hero.

They’d wanted to help people, yes. They’d wanted to be a savior, swooping in to protect people from dager. And they had done that, dressed in their handmade costume that could barely be considered a uniform, no official name for themselves. They’d been nothing more than a local vigilante, and they’d been happy.

But Whumpee had never wanted to be a hero. They’d seen how the Agency was used as an extension of political interest, how punishing crime was prioritized over protecting civilians, how only certain people got the protection they needed. They’d seen how the heroes hurt people.

Whumpee never wanted to be Hero, but it didn’t matter what they wanted anymore.

Whumpee stumbled out of Villain’s hideout, only barely managing to keep themselves upright. Their Agency issued uniform was in tatters. The sleeves were burnt up to their elbows, the edges still sparking with lingering power. Cits littered the material, revealing bruises both old and new. They looked haggard as they forced themselves forward, like a puppet whose controller had grown tired.

They were covered in blood. It was splattered across their body, dripping from their hair and into their eyes. It stained their uniform, soaking it through, leaving a slick, warm weight against Whumpee’s skin. Red covered them like a layer of paint, filling their senses with the taste, the smell, the feeling of it.

It was the feeling that made Whumpee sick. They knew they’d never wash it away.

The world outside the building was so, so loud. Police surrounded the area, barking orders at the curious crowd that had gathered. The air was filled with shouts and sirens, all overlaid by a ringing in Whumpee’s ears that wouldn’t fade.

The world seemed to fall into a hush as Whumpee pulled themselves into the open. Hundreds of eyes turned to stare at them, judging. Some eyes widened in horror at the sight of blood, some pulled away in disgust, some leaned forward, looking excited.

“Hero!”

Whumpee flinched at the shout, knowing it was meant for them. Nobody called them Whumpee anymore, just “Hero”.

It was Caretaker who had shouted. They were fighting through the line of police, dashing towards them. Their eyes were wide, face paling at the blood dripping down Whumpee’s front. Their expression was contorted in something close to fear, something close to worry.

Whumpee knew it was probably fake. Caretaker was their handler, little more than another guard on the Agency’s payroll. They’d probably been trained to make that carefully constructed look of concern, like a personal cheerleader encouraging Whumpee to push through another day of hell.

And yet, when Caretaker reached them, when they grabbed Whumpee’s face without any regard to the blood staining their fingers, when they looked into Whumpee’s eyes as if they were an actual person, Whumpee found they didn’t care if it was a lie. They all but fell into their handler’s arms, strings cut.

“Are you alright? What happened in there?!” Caretaker’s eyes scanned Whumpee’s body, hands holding them still as they searched for injuries.

"I didn’t–I didn’t mean to–,” The words stuttered from their lips. It hurt to speak, their throat sore as if they’d been screaming. The ringing in their ears was fading, and in its place came the pounding of their own heartbeat. It felt like they were choking on their own words, drowning in them.

Caretaker pulled them closer, a hand rubbing soothing circles in their back.

"Shhh. It's okay. You’re okay Hero, I’ve got you,” they soothed. Without pulling away, they made some sort of gesture to the police, prompting a few officers to run off. “The medics are on their way, okay? I just need you to tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I swear–I didn’t want to,” The words came out as a plea, an apology to people too far away to hear.

Whumpee had never hurt anyone before. They’d never had to, not when they could talk or think their way out of it.

But the Agency had taken that from them. They’d beaten fear into Whumpee, forcing them into useless training that taught them nothing but to flinch at oncoming attacks. That fear stole their ability to think, leaving Whumpee so panicked that their mind now froze whenever someone even glared at them.

They felt like a beaten dog, biting at any sign of a threat, and they didn’t know how to stop. They couldn’t think under pressure, and so they lashed out with teeth and claws and powers they no longer felt in control of.

So when Villain looked at them with that smug grin, when they allowed their powers to spark at their fingertips, when they called their henchmen to attack, Whumpee had frozen. They hadn’t been thinking of strategy or how to negotiate. They’d only been thinking of Superhero looming over them, those cold eyes looking at them like they were nothing. They only felt a hand around their neck, silencing their begging, squeezing with inhuman force–

”With powers like yours, you can’t afford to be a civilian. You either start acting like a hero, or you die–”

—and then they’d blinked. And Villain was gone. Everyone was gone, reduced to nothing but blood and the smell of burning flesh.

Their power still buzzed painfully at their fingertips, burning. Whumpee wished it would keep burning until they burned out completely.

“It’s not–,” Whumpee choked, and tears finally began to pour from their eyes. “It’s not my blood.”

They felt Caretaker freeze. Whumpee’s heart clenched with the terror that they’d pull away. That Caretaker would look at them with the disgust and horror they knew they deserved.

But they didn’t. Caretaker relaxed an instant later, and when Whumpee looked into Caretaker’s eyes, they saw nothing but pride and relief.

Caretaker smiled. It was the most genuine expression Whumpee had ever seen on them.

“It’s okay Whumpee. You did great.”

[keldrakey]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Merlin (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin) Characters: Merlin (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon (Merlin) Additional Tags: Febuwhump 2024, "I love you", Post-Magic Reveal, Hurt Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Arguments, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Misunderstandings, Angry Merlin (Merlin), Angry Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling Series: Part 133 of Merlin, Part 19 of Febuwhump 2024 Summary:

After Merlin's magic is revealed, Arthur has a hard time believing anything they had was real

[arecaceae175]

Febuwhump Day 20: Knife Wound (Sky)

AO3 link. Warnings: blood, injury. What are swords if not really long knives? >:)

@wildsage00 this is part 1/4 of your birthday surprise! I hope you enjoy!!!!!!!

Part 1/5. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5.

Every step was agony, but stopping didn’t even cross Sky’s mind. Sky’s hand was clutching his side, warm blood trickling over his fingers with every step. Pain surged throughout his body, making him aware of every bruise and every cut, but none burned as much as the gaping hole in his side. 

He could hear the sounds of the camp from here. The light, joyous laughter of his brothers was normally like music to his ears. Now it barely reached him, and it only made his despair increase tenfold. 

Sky stumbled and fell roughly into a tree. He cried out in pain, both hands flying to his side. A tear made its way down his cheek, whether from pain, or guilt, or fear, he couldn’t be sure. Sky shook his head and pushed himself off the tree with a shaking arm. He nearly fell again, but he knew if he went down he wouldn’t be able to get back up. 

Sky surged onward. His steps were sluggish and his feet were dragging. He had been walking for what felt like an eternity and he was quickly losing stamina. His need to move was being slowly overrun by the all-encompassing pain. 

It felt like it took hours, but he finally made it to the edge of the clearing. He pushed the last branch aside and stumbled into the camp.

“Help,” Sky whispered weakly. 

Seven heads whipped in his direction. Twilight and Wind were on their feet before Sky could take another breath. The sight of the others, of safety and hope , drained everything he had left and Sky collapsed onto the dirt. Hands were on him before he hit the ground, cradling his head and pushing down on his wound. Sky couldn’t help the whimper of pain that slipped out.

“What happened?” Time asked. He had a comforting hand on Sky’s shoulder, but Sky wanted nothing more than to shrug it off. 

“It was an ambush,” Sky choked out. His lungs were never quite full of air on a good day, and now the short sentence left him gasping for breath. 

“We need a potion, now!” Warriors called from his position hunched over Sky, hands covering his wound. 

“You’re gonna be fine, Sky,” Twilight said. Sky’s head was on his lap, and Twilight had a bloody hand in Sky’s hair. Sky clenched his eyes shut as they filled with tears and he shook his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Sky said. 

“No, none of that,” Twilight said. “You’ll be just fine.”

“No, you don’t understand…” Sky said, but he had to break off to gasp for another breath. 

“Where’s Hyrule?” Legend asked. The camp went silent. 

“I’m sorry, I tried, but I couldn’t stop them,” Sky said. His voice shook so much it was barely understandable. Sky felt his grip on consciousness fading fast, but he had to tell them. They had to know, they had to do something .

 Legend pushed his way into the fray. “Sky, where’s Hyrule?”

“I couldn’t stop them,” Sky said, letting his eyes slide shut. “They took him.”

To be continued :)

[theshiaxartist]

How many times did Daxter have to patch his buddy up over the years?

[fanfictasia]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Bad Batch (Cartoon) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Hunter & Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Omega & Wrecker (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo & Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) Characters: Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Clone Trooper Hunter (Star Wars), Clone Trooper Wrecker (Star Wars), CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Omega Needs a Hug (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), POV Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Febuwhump, Febuwhump 2024, Prompt: Truth Serum

Summary:

In an universe where the Empire recaptures Omega and successfully takes her back to Kamino, after her brothers finally rescue her, they deal with the fallout.

Read on:

https://www.wattpad.com/1424071953-the-bad-batch-one-shot-collection-febuwhump-day

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14329597/1/Febuwhump-Day-Twenty-Truth-Serum

[popcorn-plots]

Febuwhump day 20: Truth serum

Title: tell me a truth, the truth of your heart

Words: 367

Summary: Stephen ingests a truth serum. The students of Kamar-Taj are curious, but some take it a bit too far.

I'm not dead, I'm just busy with finals and tech week lol

~~~

At first, the questions were mostly innocent. Normal things that weren't exactly secret, but Stephen never really talked about. Questions like, "Who was your first crush?" Lindsey Dale, 1st grade. "What's your middle name?" Vincent. "What did you want to be when you were little?" A Veterinarian. "What's your favorite color?" Dark purple.

Stuff like that. With these levels of questions thrown at him, Stephen figured it would be relatively easy to get through the rest of the day. Until the dirty-minded students got to him.

"Who tops, you or Master Wong?" Wong. (He said, his face bright red.)

"Is he any good?" (Stephen really didn't want to discuss this) Oh, yes. Very good. (Stephen was extremely grateful that he didn't have to elaborate on his and Wong's sex life.)

Once the brunt of the dirty questions had cycled through, Stephen finally allowed himself a moment's rest. It didn't last long.

He walked past a group of Apprentices, whispered about something. Someone called his name and Stephen turned to see a girl, no older than a teen, nervously ask him about how he hurt his hands. Stephen froze. He didn't want to answer, didn't even want to remember the crash. His mouth opened. "I got into a car crash."

The day flashed through his mind and he had to steady himself against the wall before he could continue on his way. Stephen should have known by now that the questions wouldn't end there. "How many times did you die in the Dark Dimension?" A young man asked. 

"I lost count after 3,000." He whispered hoarsely.

An older Master. "How did Dormammu kill you?"

"He..." Stephen couldn't help himself. He started talking and couldn't stop, watching his audience's faces go from awe to disgust to horror. Wong found him later, sobbing as words spilled from his lips. He couldn't stop them, he tried to explain. Wong understood.

Wong took him to their room, and distracted him with mundane questions, forcing him to answer others. Stephen cried himself to sleep that night, unwanted memories assaulting his mind. The next day, he cried in relief when Wong asked him a question and Stephen didn't feel the need to answer.

Ao3

[lady-wallace]

Life Lessons and Knife Wounds (JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure)

Another @febuwhump fic for today! Thanks again to @xxcntrs for helping me choose prompts! Hope you enjoy :)

This one is for the prompts: Day 20: “Knife Wound” | Day 11: “Fever” | and Alt prompt 6. “Limp”

~~~~~~~

Giorno neglects a wound and fails to see how bad it's gotten until he's on a mission with Abbacchio and everything comes to a head.

~~~~~~~

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Giorno bit back a wince as he pulled his pants on, careful over the bandage wrapped around his thigh.

He'd gotten on the wrong end of an enemy's knife a few days before while their team was on a drug ring bust and it still hurt more than it probably should.

But Giorno didn't have time to worry about it right now—there were too many other things he had to think about. The only reason it still hurt so much anyway was because of the way his trousers rubbed against the bandage whenever he walked.

He chose to ignore the fact that it still burned even when he wasn't walking.

Giorno sighed, finished dressing, and headed down to the kitchen where everyone was already having breakfast. Fighting the limp took quite a bit of effort, especially since his whole body seemed to decide it wanted to ache that morning but he was fine. He would endure.

"Morning! Narancia called to him as he caught sight of Giorno, then frowned. "Did you even sleep?"

Giorno frowned back. "I slept fine." Like a rock, actually. He had been so tired the night before he'd almost slept through his alarm.

Bucciarati looked up from where he was making eggs at the stove, a vague look of concern in his eyes as he too caught sight of Giorno. "You do have some dark circles under your eyes. It might be wise to get a little more rest."

Giorno refrained from sighing as he sank down at the table, barely hiding the wince that crinkled his brow as a fold of his trousers dug into his injury, the pain sharp and burning.

He gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Fugo passed him. Despite his deep sleep the night before, he felt more exhausted than usual.

"What's on the agenda today?" Abbacchio asked, taking a drink of his own coffee.

Bucciarati plated eggs and came over to the table. "The business with Carlotti needs to be taken care of. If he won't pay up, he needs to be made aware of the consequences."

Giorno had nearly forgotten about the club owner who had failed to pay protection for the past two months, begging expense issues and that he 'would have the full amount next time—with interest!' Giorno and Bucciarati suspected he had probably gambled the money away and still wouldn't have any to pay when the next collection period came around.

"I'll go," Giorno said even before his brain could catch up to what he was saying.

"Are you sure?" Bucciarati asked. "Collections aren't really something you are required to do in your position."

"Besides, we could use you to sign papers today," Fugo added.

"It won't take all day," Giorno said, and, honestly, the thought of sitting in the office all day made the nagging headache that had been hiding behind his eyes since he woke up even worse. He was afraid that if he were to spend the whole day sitting at his desk he'd simply pass out from this annoying exhaustion again. "Besides," he added, turning to Bruno. "Carlotti needs a reminder that he won't get away with failing to pay me another month. If I show up there myself he might get the picture."

"Are you sure you're recovered from that last fight?" Bucciarati asked, and the sudden scrutiny directed at him nearly made Giorno squirm in his seat.

"I'm fine—only a little sore," Giorno said—not exactly lying. "If it comes to a fight, my Stand does all the heavy lifting anyway."

Bucciarati pressed his lips into a thin line but nodded. "Alright then. Abbacchio, I want you to go with him."

Giorno and the goth both glanced at each other over the table. Abbacchio rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Fine. I could have just done it myself, though."

"No, Giorno's right," Bucciarati said. "It doesn't hurt to be more involved in business on the ground. And it's better there's two of you if there's trouble."

Abbacchio grunted, but Giorno actually didn't really mind being paired with the taciturn older gangster that day. At least Abbacchio tended to ignore him if at all possible, and Giorno didn't want anyone noticing too much about him that day.

Maybe he was stubborn, but it wasn't like he hadn't hidden injuries before—most of his life, actually. He knew what they felt like rubbing painfully against his clothes, poorly tended to. He would survive this too.

Never mind that his headache started to get worse the minute they began to drive to their destination and on top of that he was also feeling light-headed. The morning sun didn't help, making him a little too warm. He could already feel a sheen of sweat sticking his suit to his skin and stray strands of hair to his face.

He cleared his throat before he spoke up quietly. "Could you turn the air conditioning on?"

Abbacchio glanced over at him, lip curled in what was sure to be a snide remark before he frowned instead. The look passed in another instant, however and he huffed, reaching for the dial. "You can do it yourself, you know," he grumbled.

Giorno closed his eyes briefly as the cool air hit his face. It felt, honestly, a little too cold, but he wasn't about to complain and risk annoying Abbacchio even more.

It was a bit of a drive to their destination and with the morning rush hour traffic, even worse.

By the time they got there, Giorno's head was splitting, making him woozy as he climbed out of the car. He had to grab the roof to stave off a sudden wave of vertigo. It was so distracting that he forgot to watch his limp as he went to head toward the club with Abbacchio.

"Are you limping?"

Giorno froze, schooled his expression and glanced up at the older man. "No."

Abbacchio narrowed his eyes and jabbed a finger at Giorno. "You better not have lied to Bucciarati earlier. I don't need an injured kid, Boss or not, getting himself in trouble during a fight."

"It might not even come to a fight," Giorno responded, not answering Abbacchio's question.

Abbacchio clicked his tongue in annoyance and headed toward the club entrance, Giorno behind him, trying to hurry and keep up with Abbacchio's long stride without limping again. It hurt.

However, after several tries of Abbacchio pounding on the door and Giorno even opening the club up using Gold Experience to manipulate the locks, they found that the place was completely empty.

"Bastard must have known it was collection day and split," Abbacchio growled. "Either that or he's just not here yet."

"Should we wait for him?" Giorno asked half-heartedly. Earlier, the idea of getting away from the house instead of sitting around the office sounded good, but now it wasn't nearly as appealing. In fact, he kind of just wished he could lay down and close his eyes to see if that would help his aching skull.

Abbacchio looked around, seeming annoyed. "That would be pointless. He probably has eyes on the place and wouldn't show up if he knew we were here. I'm going to call Bucciarati and see if he knows of anywhere Carlotti might be."

"Alright," Giorno said tiredly as they headed back outside. The sun pierced his eyes and he felt dizzy again. It was too hot—all of him was too hot. Especially his leg which felt like it was on fire even after only being on it for a few minutes.

He tried to put as little pressure on it as possible as he attempted to concentrate on Abbacchio's one-sided conversation with Bucciarati, but everything just seemed to be getting fuzzier. Exhaustion pulled at his body, threatening to drag him down.

"Hey, I asked if you were ready to go?"

Giorno jerked, looking upward dizzily to see Abbacchio swimming before him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

"Bucciarati gave me his apartment address. Kid? Hey, Giorno!"

Everything tilted and Giorno suddenly flailed, realizing he was going to fall. Agony tore through his leg as the heat and pain crashed over him, blinding him until he was forced to fall into the darkness.

***

The next thing Giorno was aware of was nauseating movement, and the sound of swearing and keys rattling. He tried to make sense of any of it, but blinking his eyes open for even a second brought sharp pain with a stab of light and he swiftly shut them again.

The key jangling and swearing stopped, but the movement started up again, something hard digging into Giorno's hip and lower stomach and…

He was upside down—that's why he was so dizzy. He blinked his eyes open briefly again, and saw the swish of a black coat-tail and the heels of someone who was carrying him over their shoulder.

What the hell had happened?

Another dizzying movement had him falling backwards onto something soft. A bed? What was going on? He didn't even know where he was. Everything was blurry when he blinked, trying to make sense of any of this—of who the blurry figure looming over him was. Why was he so delirious right now? Had he been drugged, kidnapped?

New panic settled in when he felt someone's hands searching him until they found the tender spot on his thigh.

Giorno couldn't stop the strangled sound of pain that escaped him, trying to roll away.

More muffled cursing and then the hands moved to his waistband and started to tug his pants off.

Giorno finally had the wherewithal to pull himself into full consciousness, weakly pushing at the invasive hands.

"Don't," he growled in warning, reaching for Gold Experience.

"Don't flatter yourself. Need to see your leg," a familiar voice grunted and Giorno finally managed to focus on his purported captor. It was just Abbacchio.

Not that that was much better, because he was about to uncover the injury Giorno had been trying to hide all day.

He continued to struggle, until the movement crushed Abbacchio's hand against his wound and the pain that ripped down his leg because of it stole his breath away.

He lay limply against the bed as Abbacchio swore again.

"Dammit, kid, just stay still and let me look at this."

Giorno couldn't do much else at this point, resigned and mortified as Abbacchio peeled his trousers the rest of the way off and turned to the bandage that was sloppily wrapped around Giorno's thigh, halfway between his knee and the leg of his boxers. The rusty stain of blood was seeping through it and Abbaccio unceremoniously started unwrapping the bandage, the gauze sticking a bit which made the process even more uncomfortable.

"Shit," he swore again as he finally uncovered the wound, the air stinging it now that it was exposed. "Had a feeling it was infected."

Giorno blinked and finally looked down at the wound.

It…didn't look good. The area around it was inflamed and red, and on top of that, there was discolored discharge. He swallowed hard.

"Why the hell didn't you say anything?" Abbacchio demanded. "You've even got a damn fever!"

Fever? That would explain the delirium. Giorno didn't know what to say, just lay there in what he now figured must be some hotel bed. He felt awful, and honestly didn't have the energy to defend himself right now.

Abbacchio sighed, straightening up and pushing his hair back. "Listen, just stay here, don't try to move around. I'm gonna go get some stuff and when I get back I'm gonna clean that out properly. You better still be in that bed when I walk in the door."

Giorno nodded silently and watched as Abbacchio left the hotel room.

How embarrassing. He honestly hadn't thought the injury was that bad. Hadn't even bothered to fix it with Gold. But maybe he had neglected it a little too much. It wasn't like he could do anything about it now.

He folded an arm over his eyes tiredly. Of course it had been Abbacchio of all people to have found him out. Well, honestly, that was better than Bucciarati. Though he wasn't stupid enough to think that the capo wouldn't be getting the full failed mission report from Abbacchio.

He drifted, still pretty out of it, until Abbacchio came back, drugstore shopping bags rustling in his hand.

He seemed mildly pleased at least that Giorno hadn't moved and headed toward the adjoining bathroom. "I'm gonna clean the tub out and I'll be right back."

Giorno resigned himself to what he knew was coming, swallowing hard as Abbacchio returned.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

Giorno stiffly swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, gritting his teeth against the pain that shot up his leg. Abbacchio quickly stepped in and gave him an arm, helping him to the bathroom.

"Why don't you sit in the tub?" Abbacchio pointed to the small bathtub on one side of the bathroom. Giorno briefly slipped his suitcoat off, not wanting it to get wet and Abbacchio helped lower him into the tub, bad leg extended as far as it could go.

Abbacchio turned to wash his hands, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. "Alright, I'm gonna have to clean that thing out first."

Giorno nodded, leaning back against the side of the tub.

He watched as Abbacchio grabbed several things he had left out on the counter and came to kneel beside the tub.

"Gonna flush this first," he said, holding up some saline wash. "It's not gonna be pleasant."

"Yeah," Giorno acknowledged quietly, setting his jaw as Abbacchio wrapped a hand around his knee, tilting his leg at a better angle while keeping a firm grip on him and then unceremoniously pointed the squeeze bottle toward the wound.

The pain that resulted was so bad that Giorno felt the coppery taste of impending sickness in the back of his throat. He let out a strangled sound and tried to breathe through his nose so that he wouldn't throw up on top of everything.

Abbacchio swore quietly before redirecting the wash and going at it again. Giorno instinctively tried to pull away, but Abbacchio's grip was firm.

"Easy," he murmured. "This wound's a lot deeper than I thought. How the hell did you walk around on this for the last two days?"

Giorno didn't answer, simply bit back another groan and gripped the sides of the tub with white-knuckled hands. He glanced down, watching as the blood and yellowed discharge got flushed from the wound and washed down the drain, then finally squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stand looking at it anymore.

Abbacchio sighed as he finally pulled back, but only to grab an antiseptic wash. "This will probably feel worse, but I want to make sure it's actually clean this time."

Giorno braced himself, but was unable to keep from crying out when Abbacchio poured the antiseptic over his leg.

"Easy," he said again, tightening his grip as Giorno threatened to pull away, or kick him—he wasn't sure what his intention had been—it just hurt.

"I know it sucks, but that's what happens when you ignore your injuries. I swear you're as bad as Bruno."

Giorno furrowed his brow. "Doesn't he just use Sticky Fingers?" he asked to distract himself.

Abbacchio snorted. "Yeah, exactly. He tries to pass zippers off as valid first aid. All they do is close in all the bacteria. Believe it or not, I've had to do this for him too on more than one occasion and one was already too many. You can't just ignore injuries and expect them to get better. And you definitely don't agree to go on a job that could potentially be dangerous when you have a fever and a festering wound."

Giorno ducked his head, cringing again as Abbacchio made one more pass with the antiseptic before setting it aside.

"I don't care if you think it's showing weakness or whatever shit, if I have to find another one of my teammates collapsing from fever, because they were too damn stubborn to get proper medical help, then I'm going to be the one enforcing some rules around here."

"I'm sorry," Giorno said quietly, biting his lip as Abbacchio dabbed the wound dry with some gauze.

"Don't say you're sorry and then go and do it again," Abbacchio growled. "I know you and Bruno think you have some duty to the rest of us or some shit, but all I want is a little honesty. It's okay to admit you're hurting. Injuries happen—it doesn't make you weak."

Giorno looked aside. Maybe it was the fever, but Abbacchio's words affected him more than he wanted to admit. "I'll try to remember that. I just…that concept isn't really something I'm used to. I've only ever hidden injuries because if I didn't…" He trailed off, knowing he shouldn't even have said that much, but his head hurt, and he was exhausted and woozy, and honestly, he felt safe with Abbacchio.

The goth paused briefly at his words, seeming to contemplate something before he reached for more gauze and spread antibacterial cream over it. "Look, kid," he finally said. "I don't know what shit you went through before you joined the team, but you don't have to worry about stuff like that anymore. You have a support group. And we don't care if you get injured—not like that anyway. All I ask is that you admit it, especially when the wounds get infected."

Giorno ducked his head. "Okay. I'll…work on remembering that next time."

Abbacchio grunted, carefully placing the swatch of gauze across the wound and then wrapping it a lot better than Giorno had. When he finally taped it off, he sat back on his heels and pressed the back of his hand to Giorno's forehead.

"I got some meds for the pain and fever, but you might want to take some antibiotics once we get back home—think we have some lying around for this kind of thing."

Giorno nodded and wearily allowed Abbacchio to pull him out of the tub. His leg still hurt, obviously, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Probably because it wasn't sticking to the bandage again.

"Let's head home," Abbacchio told him after Giorno had carefully dressed and took the promised medicine.

Giorno nodded, exhausted. He really just wanted to lay down and sleep.

Abbacchio cleaned up a little and helped him back out to the car. Giorno sank gratefully into the seat, though still squinted against the sun. It must have been the fever making his head hurt so badly, he realized.

Abbacchio dug around in the car before coming up with a pair of sunglasses that he handed over. Giorno gratefully took them and closed his eyes.

"You can rest if you want to. It will be a little bit of a drive," Abbacchio said.

Giorno was already ahead of him though. Curling up against the window, he pretty much passed out by the time Abbacchio had pulled out onto the street.

***

Abbacchio pulled up in front of the house, glancing over at the sleeping teen in the passenger seat. He didn't have the heart to wake him and instead decided he was going to have to take a blow to his pride to carry the kid into the house.

He got out to do that but before he could, Bruno appeared, anger and worry clashing on his face.

"Where is he?" he demanded as Abbacchio opened the passenger door, careful to make sure Giorno didn't fall out. "Giorno, what the hell—?"

Abbacchio pressed a finger to his lips and Bucciarati stopped and thankfully quieted.

"Kid's exhausted, let him sleep off the fever," Abbacchio said quietly. "Don't worry, I already gave him a talking to. Not like you're in any position to accuse anyone of that sort of thing."

Bruno gave him an indignant look, but it quickly softened as he glanced into the car and saw Giorno fast asleep. "Thank you for looking after him."

"Isn't that my job?" Abbacchio asked blandly as he bent and carefully scooped Giorno up into his arms, pulling him out of the car.

He carried Giorno inside and settled him on the couch in the living room. As an afterthought, he grabbed a blanket from a nearby chair and spread it over him.

"Hopefully next time he'll have learned his lesson," Abbacchio said, and felt pretty confident that Giorno would. Or, at least, he would be ready to keep an eye out for the signs.

Bucciarati gave him a look, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Shut up," Abbacchio snapped.

"I didn't say anything," the other man protested.

Abbacchio sneered. He wasn't going soft—at least not too much.

Though he did adjust Giorno's blankets to make sure he was warm and covered. Just in case.

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Bleeding Through - Maggie Bell/Isobel Castille

A/N: Day 20 of @febuwhump​ .

“How long?” “A… a while.” Maggie’s voice shakes and Isobel moves instantly to scoop Maggie up, pressing a hand over Maggie’s own against the knife wound. She’s not going to risk Maggie walking any further. Later, the wound stitched closed, Isobel strokes a soft hand over the bandage, watching Maggie’s eyes close as she relaxes at last. “It really hurt.” She knows she sounds like a child, but Maggie doesn’t care. Isobel had saved her. She had lost track of how badly she was bleeding or how long but she’s healing and Isobel is here. “They always do.” Isobel’s sigh is soft and Maggie’s eyes shoot open, her head tilting a little to indicate a question, Isobel sighing and peeling her shirt aside, showing the slight marking across her collarbone, following the shape of it. “When…” “Right after I finished FBI training. Jubal… saved me.” “Well that explains why he’s so damn possessive.” Maggie mutters and Isobel laughs softly. “He likes you just fine Mags, he’s just a grumpy bastard.”

[serickswrites]

To Darkness

Warnings: blood, wounds, knife wounds, unconsciousness, unclear character status

Whumpee raced after Whumper. They weren’t going to let Whumper escape. Not when they had come this close. Not when Whumper was within their grasp. 

Whumper had whipped around a corner, just out of Whumpee’s sight. And though Whumpee knew Caretaker would warn them to be careful, they couldn’t wait. They hadn’t waited for Caretaker to meet them. Hadn’t waited for anyone. They had to catch Whumper. Right now. 

As Whumpee turned the corner, all the breath left their lungs as Whumper plunged a knife into their chest. Whumper’s arm wrapped around Whumpee, pulling them close. “Always so quick for the chase, Whumpee. Always running headlong into danger. Well,” Whumper whispered in Whumpee’s ear as they yanked the knife out, “you definitely deserve this.”

Whumpee sputtered and gasped as they struggled to breathe. Struggled to breathe through the pain. Struggled to breathe around the blood filling their mouth. 

“And I’m definitely going to enjoy seeing Caretaker find you.” Whumper plunged the knife in again. Whumpee’s knees buckled, but Whumper’s arm around them kept them upright. “Too bad you won’t get to see it. Or catch me. You were so close though.”

With a dark chuckle, Whumper released their grip on Whumpee, dragging the knife along Whumpee’s sternum as Whumpee dropped to the ground. Whumpee couldn’t breathe. Between the pain and their wounds, they couldn’t draw a good breath. 

They blinked against the call of darkness that threatened to suck them under. They were afraid that if they gave into the darkness, that they wouldn’t wake again. That the darkness would claim them forever. That they would belong to the darkness. 

But they couldn’t keep their eyes open. They couldn’t keep awake as they felt their blood pooling around them. Couldn’t keep awake as they grew colder and colder. And they couldn’t keep awake as Caretaker called for them. Couldn’t keep awake as Caretaker’s anguished cries pierced through the darkness. 

Whumpee couldn’t keep awake because they had gone to darkness. 

[staring-at-my-keyboard]

A Vendetta (FebuWhump Day 20: Knife Wound)

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

An academic rival is willing to go to extreme lengths for revenge (I was scrolling through monthly whump prompts and got inspired)

OC intro POV: Atlas

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

Hurt No Comfort

Angst

TWs

⇾ blood

⇾ death (impermanent)

⇾ trauma

⇾ violence

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

Atlas strode across the Benthic quadrangle, academic gown billowing behind him and heavy lead plaques bearing down his arms. The person could not help but feel a certain joviality, fresh from a successful lecture that did not directly result in a student or ten’s abrupt and violent descent into insanity. Not only that, but there had been no incidents of anyone’s eyes becoming ablaze, and there had in fact been senior staff supervising in order to be sure of his lessons’ reputability; Atlas was entirely certain they were impressed. The only minor impediment to his teaching was the Correspondence plaques corrupting beyond use towards the end of the lesson, necessitating a detour to the supply wing upon the hour’s end. Said wing was now where the person was returning from, quarry in hand.

Humming a tune from an opera they had witnessed at the Empress’ court, Atlas approached the door to the wing in which their laboratory was housed, eager to continue their work away from those more sensitive to its forbidden nature. As they reached for their keys, a strong hand ensnared itself within the fabric on their shoulder, violently turning them to face the assailant. Atlas startled violently, dropping their plaques and stumbling as far back as the harsh grip would allow.

Atlas disliked people putting their hands on him.

He disliked it substantially more when people put their hands on him from behind.

Before even properly regarding his aggressor, the person grabbed at the wrist of the hand seizing his robe and attempted to wrench himself free as his other hand shot forward in an instinctual punch. His fist was caught in wiry fingers and lowered, offering Atlas a view of the face he was finally able to acknowledge.

The woman’s countenance was young, twisted with malice. Her dark hair was undone and her strolling dress rumpled, her entire bearing held taught in an undisguised fury.

“That department was to be mine, damn you!” Her shrill voice clawed at Atlas’ hearing, and he attempted to wrap the arm in her clutch around her own in order to perhaps dislocate her shoulder, if not subdue her.

As he was mid-movement, and before he could comprehend what was happening, the woman let go of his fist and reached into a pocket of her dress, drawing out a serrated knife and forcing it through his soft midsection, all in the span of a breath.

The person gasped, then coughed, the cold of the metal and nigh unbearable stinging-burning-throbbing absorbing all capacity for thought as they fell back against their door. The woman followed him down, if only to rip out the knife and send a fresh wave of unadulterated agony thrumming through Atlas’ form, centered around their middle.

Out of a mingling horror and curiosity they looked down, finding a jagged hole in their rapidly darkening clothing. They weakly brought a hand to press against it, knowing it was essential to halt the bleeding, they needed to-

‘-just stop the bleeding, I simply need to stem the blood, it will be alright-‘

Atlas squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to force away the recollections against which he usually held staunch psychological barriers, but were relentless in his significantly weakened state. Rather than the darkness of the backs of his eyelids, however, his late brother’s slack face of a rapidly graying complexion was the sight he was met with.

Upon opening his eyes again, Atlas was alone, slumped against dark wood on a staining ground, and surrounded by discarded lead. 

Every breath was torment, every beat of their racing heart caused blood anew to press through their slick, trembling fingers. This was hardly the first time the person found themself to be mortally wounded, and was well aware of what would inevitably come to pass afterwards. Nevertheless, their human instinct to survive combined with the incredibly vivid, unpleasant reminder of the event that spelled the upending of their life caused an unfamiliar panic to scream through Atlas’ mind, through their very being. Pained gasps turned to choked heaves, and they used their free hand to frantically push themself back against the door. Their scarred palm slipped on the blood pooling on the cobbles (blood, blood, their blood, their blood-), but Atlas eventually managed to push themself to their feet by bracing against the wood. Their thoughts were beginning to lose coherence, and the person was unable to determine any course of action beyond getting into their lab. Keeping one soaked hand resolutely pressed against their wound, despite the pain forcing tears from the corners of their eyes, Atlas scrabbled at the doorknob, accomplishing little more than smearing a harsh red upon the brass. They looked down at it in confusion and agitation, attempting again but unable to obtain a proper grip without slipping off where the metal was now coated with glistening blood.

His vision beginning to blur and mind slipping from the present, Atlas was no longer able to manage enough strength to keep his wound staunched. He allowed his arms to drape at his sides, simply staring down at his saturated clothing. As the person’s legs lost their sensation, he idly wondered why his hands were sticky, and why everything reeked of copper. 

Finding himself on the ground with little knowledge of how he got there, Atlas stared at the Roof through a narrow tunnel of darkness, and fancied that a False-Star glowed a little brighter, just for him.

--

Atlas’ eyes flew open and the person bolted up from their bed, finding the familiar surroundings of their bedchambers and a noticeable lack of throbbing in their abdomen.

He distantly brought a hand to feel the new scar beneath his linens, knowing full well it would be faded within the week.

He brought his knees to his chest and cried.

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

This is supposed to take place before Atlas and Thomas meet but I may or may not write a part 2 of just comfort. Only time will tell.

@casualldehyde

[fletcherwilbury]

@febuwhump Day 20: Knife Wound

Warning for physical violence, physical fight, weapons, knives, stabbing, blood, police mention, and hospital mention.

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Febuwhump day 20: Knife wound

It felt like a punch in the gut. A pressure at their side, somehow simultaneously cold and burning. Instinctively, Whumpee pulled away, clutching at their wound. It was only when they felt the wet warmth against their hand, looked down to see the red blooming over their shirt, that they registered the pain. 

Whumpee wasn’t sure if they or Caretaker screamed when they fell backwards, hitting the forest floor with a gasp. Whumpee could only curl inward, hiding the wound away as nasua rolled over them. Their attacker simply stood there, watching them with indifference. What looked like a hunter’s knife was clutched in their hand, dripping blood.

Caretaker moved faster than Whumpee could register, blocking their view of their attacker. Caretaker stood before Whumpee, voice filled with a protective fury Whumpee’d never heard before. “I don’t know who sent you, but if you don’t leave us alone I-”

Their attacker cut them off. “You’ll what? We’re miles from civilization, I popped your tires hours ago, and I know you only have a basic medical kit. You kill me and Whumpee dies. A few bandages aren’t gonna stop internal bleeding,” They sounded almost bored, like this was little more than an inconvenience for them. “I’m taking your friend with me. I don’t care if you come or not.”

Whumpee’s heart pounded in their ears, the world growing dimmer with each pump. They wanted to call out, to put space between Caretaker and their attacker, but they were paralyzed with pain. They felt themself shaking despite the hot summer air.

Hours, or maybe seconds later, Caretaker responded. “Let’s go then.”

[uniquevoidflowers]

Summary:

Legend’s eyes widened as he searched his pockets and felt his back only to feel nothing at all. He swallowed thickly. “I brought some powerful stuff. If…”

“We’ll just have to pray to Hylia our captors don’t use them.” Warriors shrugged although he did seem worried.

“You think Hylia’s going to do any favours for you?” The sound of a young Time’s voice echoed throughout the cell.

______________________________________________________

Febuwhump 2024, Day 20: Truth Serum