blood, blood, gallons of the stuff

you can call me phase/23/he/my ao3/my bthb card

[set-phasers-to-whump]

Day 15: Dizzy

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi here is the continuation of my fic from day 9! it's two chapters technically but for ease they're together in one post. hope you like it!!

Illya was never supposed to find out about this. It should’ve been so easy, so simple, a momentary detour, a quick deception. 

He hadn’t known there’d be a silent alarm. 

Illya’s angry with him. As angry as Napoleon has ever seen him. He knows, logically, that he can’t blame his partner for this reaction. Knows that, if their positions were reversed, he’d be furious.

But their positions aren’t reversed. He’s where he is, and Illya’s where he is. 

And where he is–where he had been–is between a rock and a hard place. 

What it boils down to is this: a thinly-veiled threat from his handler (not Waverly, who’s a decent boss, all things considered, but Sanders, who, despite everything, still has his balls on that damned leash), a perhaps-coincidental-perhaps-intentional accident that had injured one of his old colleagues, and an opportunity that had practically been put on a plate before him. 

It all would’ve gone off smoothly if it hadn’t been for that stupid alarm. 

Even then, it could’ve been fine. After all, Illya’d dealt with the two men easily enough, while Napoleon had protected the painting. The presence of the men could’ve been a coincidence or an accident. It could’ve been fine. 

But Illya’s too nosy for his own damn good. He’d barged into Napoleon’s room–and here it’s the safehouse that’s at fault, on account of its interior doors not having locks–and Napoleon had, of course, been in the process of getting the piece out to examine it, to make sure it’d survived unscathed. 

And, well, there’s really no way to explain it short of telling the whole truth. 

Illya’s angry but he’s also crying a bit, and when he says please something inside of Napoleon cracks. 

He doesn’t want to lose this. He doesn’t want to lose himself, his freedom, but he doesn’t want to lose Illya either. He’d been trying to avoid exactly these things when he’d done what he’d done, in fact.

Look where that’s gotten him. 

The whole truth, then.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

He knows exactly what Illya’s thinking. Can practically read it on his face. 

His partner is, fundamentally, a rule-follower. He likes structure and order and he believes, damn him, in the causes he serves. He believes in the KGB and he believes in UNCLE and he believes that the only way to keep these organizations alive is by following the rules. 

More or less. Napoleon’s seen him grow a little more comfortable with stepping outside of the lines, courtesy of working with Napoleon himself, but this–

If he takes a step back, he can see how it must look. He’s angry himself, but he knows there’s real logic behind Illya’s anger.

After all, if Illya’d made off with a painting in the middle of a mission, and then concealed this fact, Napoleon would not be best pleased. Not because of the theft itself–he supposes he’ll never quite get what makes a little theft seem so terrible to people–but because of the secrecy. This crosses a line.

They’re partners. Their entire relationship is built on a trust which has taken a long time and a lot of work to develop. 

Bending the rules to let a terrified civilian go back to his family rather than attend a tortuously long debrief is one thing. Killing someone who’s got your partner backed to the wall, gun to their head, disobeying a direct order to bring the guy in alive, is one thing. 

Deceit is another. 

“I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know you think I deserve to be reported for this. But please, just listen to me.” Trust me, he doesn’t say, because he doubts that’s worth much right now. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” he reiterates. “And I’ll explain exactly why, if you’ll let me.”

Illya nods, skeptical but willing, and that’s all he needs. 

He explains the whole thing, barely stopping for breath. Explains how he’d been afraid of getting hurt, of being sent back to prison, of something happening to him. Demonstrates the links he’d made between Sanders’ comments and a need for money, obtained quickly and at any cost. The opportunity had practically presented itself. He hadn’t counted on the alarm, on those men. That shouldn’t have happened. 

“You were never supposed to find out. And I know that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth. I didn’t want to involve you. I thought this could just be my business. I was thinking about myself, first and foremost. I won’t lie, I will always think about my own safety. I have to. But I should’ve thought about the trust I was breaking with you.”

Illya sniffs, and for the first time since this whole thing had started, Napoleon looks at him and really sees him. 

Sees the blood, the sweat-slick hair, the way he’s heavily favoring his right leg. The tears that still track down his reddened cheeks. 

“And I’m sorry you got hurt. I’m sorry you got hurt for something that was my own doing.” It’s by far not the worst Illya’s been hurt, and not even the worst Illya’s been hurt because of Napoleon, but this is different. He knows that. 

Taking a bullet for someone because you made the absurdly loyal and stupid decision to jump in front of them is not the same as being subject to a beating for reasons you aren’t even aware of. 

He continues, because now that the words have started it seems there’s no stopping them. “I do hope you can understand why I did this. Why I didn’t want to tell you. I know that I should have, but I thought I could handle it. And I was worried that if I did tell you, you’d try to stop me and it’d ruin our partnership, or you’d go along with it and get dragged down with me, or Sanders would find out I’d told you and come after us both. I’m sorry that I broke your trust, and I’m sorry that I made you feel like I didn’t trust you. I trust you completely. I just didn’t want to drag you into this. I didn’t want things to change. I didn’t want to risk losing this. Risk losing you.”

Illya is silent, and shaking, and for a moment Napoleon thinks that this is it. The moment that everything disappears from him. 

And then Illya just collapses.

--

He’d heard what Solo had said. About the painting, about Sanders, about not meaning for any of this to happen, about not wanting Illya to get caught up in it. 

He can understand this. He does not understand precisely why Solo had come to the exact conclusions he had–why he’d needed to steal a painting, why he couldn’t have trusted Illya to make his own choices about it all–but he understands the situation. 

He’s more than willing to forgive his partner. It’s all he really wants. 

It’s just that, at the moment, all he really wants, more than anything at all, is to sit. 

His ankle hurts and his body feels impossibly heavy and over the last minute or so he’s been growing increasingly more dizzy, such that he can only just focus on what’s being said. 

Solo says something about losing him, and Illya’s body gives in. 

His ankle folds beneath him and at the same time, the dizziness gets so bad that he can barely see. 

And then he’s on the ground and everything hurts, and he’s still so dizzy, but at least the weight is off his ankle. 

Solo is beside him, kneeling, and he’s saying something but Illya’s ears are ringing too much for him to be able to hear it. 

And then Solo’s hands are on him, on his face, and they’re really cold, and Illya hadn’t thought that he’d been hot but they feel so incredibly nice, as though he’s been burning alive this whole time and has only just now realised it. 

“–really warm,” he hears Solo say. The ringing in his ears is going away now that he’s on the ground. He feels a little less dizzy, too, which is good. 

“Hm?” he asks, not sure that he can manage to string together the words in order to ask his partner to repeat what he’d said.

“You’re really warm,” Solo repeats. “Are you sick?”

Illya shrugs. “Don’t think so.”

Is he sick? He thinks that he would have noticed. Sure, before and during the mission he’d felt tired, and a little achy, but he’d been fine. It is not as though they can postpone missions every time someone feels slightly worse than normal. 

Solo’s cool hands are on his cheeks again, and then on the back of his neck, his forehead, his own hands. 

“I think I’m going to have to disagree with you there. You’re definitely sick.”

“Oh.”

“And I saw you favoring your right leg. Are you hurt?”

This, he does know the answer to. 

“Yes.”

Solo sighs. He doesn’t sound irritated or angry. He looks sad. Illya does not like it. 

“I’m sorry. This is my fault. Can I–I mean, I understand if you don’t want me to help, considering. But if you do. I can help.”

It takes a minute for Illya to parse this statement. It is, he concedes, Solo’s fault that his ankle is hurt. Or, at least, it’s Solo’s fault that those men had shown up. Perhaps it is the fault of those men that Illya’s ankle is hurt. 

But these kinds of details are not so very important. And now that there has been an explanation, now that Illya understands what had happened and why, he thinks that everything is more or less okay. There had been a reason for his partner’s actions. A reason that Illya can understand, even if he is unclear on some of the details.

There is no reason for any break in the trust between them. 

There is no reason for anything to change. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and when Solo does nothing, realises he could be a bit more clear. Maybe he really is sick. 

“You can help.”

Here, finally, is that care that he’s grown to expect. That he’d wanted, if he can admit that to himself. That he still wants. 

Solo helps him sit up with his back to the wall, lets Illya lean his head forwards onto his shoulder when the dizziness returns, and helps him. 

He brings Illya cool water to drink, cleans away the blood, prods at Illya’s nose (thankfully not broken, is the verdict), wraps his ankle and finds some ice for it, and manages to convince him to take a bit of medicine for the fever. 

Illya would normally never let anyone give him medicine. It is just not something he does. 

But he feels bad, not horrible, but bad enough, and he trusts Solo to not harm him. 

He takes the pills and lets his partner help him into bed. They lie down together, Illya’s head pillowed on Solo’s chest and Solo’s fingers in Illya’s still-sweaty hair. 

In the morning, he will still be ill and hurt. They will still have to decide how to sell the painting, how to get the money to Sanders, how to make sure that they are both protected.

But for now, they are okay, and Illya falls asleep quickly, feeling as safe as he ever has.

thanks sm for reading!!!! i had suchhhh a good time writing this and i have so many thoughts about these two and trust and misunderstandings...yeah. i went crazy thinking about and writing this fic and i really hope this part comes off well. please do yell at me about it if you want cause i am sooooo hype about it lol. love ya!

[set-phasers-to-whump]

Day 14: What is a recent whump obsession of yours?

as far as media goes, my latest whumpy obsession is the pitt!! I haven’t written anything yet but I loveeee reading fics, I’m particularly enamored by langdon and this leads me into one of my recent trope obsessions which is drugging!! especially when it happens to a character who has struggled with addiction before…there’s a couple characters I’m rotating in my mind when it comes to this trope with langdon currently being the main one. also i wanna add one more thing, which is a trope i never thought I’d get into - sexual assault. it’s something i avoided reading and writing about for a long time but lately I’m finding it very compelling and intriguing!

[set-phasers-to-whump]

Day 13: Give a sneak peak at something you're working on

to the shock of everyone i for once have a) something I’m working on and b) something that isn’t exclusively whump. well ok there’s gonna be plenty of whump eventually, assuming i finish the thing. so this here gives me a little accountability in that regard and also allows me to ask you lovely folks out there for a contribution :) the sneak peek (of a tmfu au) is here:

“The team is doing well. They’ve got some new blood, much of it promising, and the leadership–Gaby herself included–is solid. They’re already running trick plays during training, and Gaby feels optimistic. The [fitting team name]s are going to have a hell of a season, she just knows it.

Well, half of them are, anyway.”

and the question is here: what should the team name be? I don’t wanna give away many details bc I loveee a little mystery but obv gaby is on this team…it’s based in germany and that’s all I’m sharing ;) if anyone wants to shout possible team names at me please go crazy!!

[guiltfactory-moved]

i would like if something horrible and invasive was happening to him and his boundaries were violated and he was uncomfortable and scared

[set-phasers-to-whump]

Day 12: Falling

whumpee: gereon rath

fandom: gereon rath mysteries (/babylon berlin kinda)

hi! i'm in the middle of rereading this series so i've got this little thing. it's set shortly after the end of the silent death (has anyone else read these? idk lol) and if you've only seen the show then we can say it's sort of post s3 area. i'm rewatching but haven't finished s3 yet :) hope you like!!

He is at the top of the Funkturm again. He has been here far too many times recently. 

Has dealt with far too many unpleasant incidents and deaths here recently. 

He’d have been perfectly happy to never return to this place again, to never see this view of Berlin again, and yet, he is here again. 

It’s windy. The sky is clear and brilliantly blue. The city spreads out below, glimmering and so alive.

It is beautiful from here in a way that it is not from any other angle. 

This beauty does not make him any less afraid. 

His legs are shaking. He wishes they were not, wishes he was braver, but this fear is one he is never in his life going to conquer. He knows that. 

He is here all the same. 

He does not know why. 

He must have come here for a reason, but he cannot figure it out. No one has died. Charly isn’t here. Nor is Weinert. Nor Paul. Nor anyone at all. 

It is him, and him alone. 

He inches closer to the railing, drawn there by a force he cannot explain. His legs press against it now, but do not stop shaking. 

The door opens behind him. It’s unexpected, and he spins around, and it’s his father standing there, stern and almost angry, and Gereon is going to approach him, really, but suddenly the railing he’s been leaning against simply isn’t there. 

It isn’t there and he’s falling, falling, the brilliant blue sky above him, the glimmering city below him, heart pounding out of his chest, fear flooding his system, falling, falling–

He hits the ground hard and with a scream. 

And then takes a deep, gasping breath, opening his eyes. 

He’s panting and sweaty and it’s dark and he’s confused and then a light turns on, his bedside light, flooding the room with a brightness so intense that he covers his eyes for a second. 

And then uncovers them. 

There’s the sound of movement in the bed above him, and then Charly’s face is peeking out at him. 

“Gereon?”

He blinks hard. Looks up at her face. Looks down at his body, tangled in the sheet and lying on the floor. 

“Sorry,” he manages, untangling himself. 

“Bad dream?”

He nods, tossing the sheet aside and sitting up more fully. He draws his knees to his chest and takes a shuddering breath. 

He’s fine. He suffers nightmares all the time, although this fact never makes them feel any less real. His heartbeat is still pounding far too quickly, and he feels exhausted. 

What would have been his first full night of sleep in close to two weeks, and this just has to happen. 

“Come here.”

Gereon pushes himself off the floor, wavers a little, then sits down in the bed beside Charly. 

She hands him a glass of water. His hand shakes slightly when he lifts it, but it’s worth it for the cool sensation that flows through his body, replacing a bit of the sweatiness. 

Heedless of this sweatiness, Charly wraps her arm around him, and he sets the glass aside. His breathing is slowly becoming more regular, and his heartbeat is returning to something like a normal speed. 

They lie back down. She guides him so that his head rests close to her shoulder and lightly scratches her nails against his scalp. 

He does not exactly sleep, not fully, but he manages to rest, as comfortably as he has ever done. 

A few hours later, he is climbing out of bed, carefully extricating himself from the warmth and comfort of Charly’s arms, and the realisation comes to him, as naturally as anything. 

Even with the nightmares, and despite his own fears, he is perhaps the luckiest person in this entire city. 

He loves Charlotte Ritter, and Charlotte Ritter loves him.

thanks for reading!! don't like, love this but it is what it is lmao. love ya!

[set-phasers-to-whump]

Day 11: Where did you find your place within the whump community?

i think for me, one of the first subcommunities that really made me feel like i found my place was the gifmakers! especially those that had been around for longer than me and felt very established and big-name, because it turned out they were a lot of incredibly kind and approachable people. even though I don’t really make gifs myself, gifmakers were super foundational to my love for whump, I’ve been introduced to the vast majority of my favourite whumpy fandoms through gifs!! truly idk where this community would be without our gifmakers, they’ve always made me feel like this is my place and these are my people <3333 and I also wanna shout out my fellow fans of more obscure medias because truly there is no community like the dedicated fans of a show like five people have seen. and when you all want to see the same character get hurt….truly beautiful things happen. y’all know who you are. love youu <3333

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

febuwhump 2022 - day 3              ↳ blood loss

Gereon Rath, Babylon Berlin 3x07

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

whumptober 2021 - day 20 (part 2)                         ↳ trapped under water

Gereon Rath & Charlotte Ritter, Babylon Berlin 2x08

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

whumptober 2021 - day 20 (part 1)                          ↳ trapped under water

Gereon Rath & Charlotte Ritter, Babylon Berlin 2x07

[of-wounds-and-woes]

“I did not ask for the things that I’ve been through, and I certainly did not ask my mind to paint and repaint the pictures in flashback form.“ -Michael Groth

One of Gereon’s many PTSD episodes from the German series “Bablyon Berlin”

[of-wounds-and-woes]

Giving our Julio a little break here… Introducing Gereon (Volker Bruch) from the German series Babylon Berlin, a veteran from WW1 who became an investigator once back home. He goes through a severe case of PTSD here after witnessing someone getting shot… 
From episode 1x02 (also available on Netflix, subbed or dubbed!) 
What’s amazing is that the guy looks whump’d without the need to actually get whump’d, not that he doesn’t not get whump’d… Wow good luck figuring that out lol. 
Stay tuned for more of this guy #evil grin
A MAJOR thanks to @scatterbraineileen for the rec!

[of-wounds-and-woes]

This will replay in my head for a very very very long time…

Another one for Gereon (Volker Bruch) from the German series Bablyon Berlin S01E08. Expect a bunch of posts for him over the next few days :)                 

Previous post for Gereon going through a severe case of PTSD [x]

@scatterbraineileen, I will be forever in your debt because of this..

[of-wounds-and-woes]

Latest Carnival post reminded me of this glorious scene… Still owe you for this @whumpappreciation! 

[pain-in-the-everywhere]

I love it when Whumpee is leaning on things. They're dizzy, nauseous, in too much pain to stand, or just plain tired, and they can't get by without some kind of support.

Leaning on cabinets and against walls in people's houses. Propping their head up with their hands at the dining table. Steadying themself against a banister on the stairs. Holding on to the post of the traffic light for dear life while they wait to cross the road because if they stand still unsupported they will fall to the ground.

It's such a small display of I am not feeling good, but once another character notices it becomes so obvious. This person is weak and vulnerable. Either I can help them, or I can hurt them further. It's not like they're in any position to stop me.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

Day 9: "That's not what I meant"

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi here's another fic which is part 1 of a 2-part thing. hope you like!

He knows it is the wrong thing to say before he even finishes saying it. It is rash and it is unkind and it is not even fully true. 

But the words had been pushing and clawing and begging to be unleashed and there is this aching and irritation and hurt and so what else can he even do, really, without resorting to his fists?

He never wants to resort to his fists with his partner again. 

He almost wishes that this were not the case. It would be easy, and in a way satisfying, to fight. But he wants to be better than that. Better than what he was made to be. And so he yells. 

Yells that Solo does not care for anyone but himself. Yells about how he is willing to put the entire mission in danger. That it would have been better for Illya to do the entire thing on his own. 

If it had just been the sort of thing that occasionally happens on a mission, it would have been different. If Solo had missed the presence of an alarm system. If there’d been a person there who wasn’t supposed to be there. If they’d split up and Illya had ended up in the worse situation. 

These kinds of things happen. If such a thing had been the reason for the blood and bruises covering his body, the slight ringing in his ears, the looseness in his ankle, he wouldn’t have been upset. It’s a hazard of the job. 

But this. This willful ignorance of the mission in favor of his own objectives. It is something else entirely. 

Illya had already been feeling tired and sore and run-down, although the mission hadn’t been very strenuous thus far, and then in the middle of it–literally in the middle of planting bugs in the apartment of their target’s mistress–Solo had disappeared into the dining room, where they had already been. 

He’d returned a minute later, claiming that he’d forgotten to put a bug in a prime location. And Illya had believed him. Why wouldn’t he have?

They’d been finishing up when the men arrived. Just two of them, but unexpected and armed. 

Solo had stepped back, protecting his case, and if Illya had had time to think, he would’ve realised even then that something was strange, but he’d been a little preoccupied. 

They’d arrived back to their safehouse perhaps ten minutes ago after an utterly silent drive, and Solo had immediately taken his case into his bedroom. 

It’s not like Illya had needed him there. But over the past year, he’s grown accustomed to his partner’s presence. His fussing over even the most minor of injuries. His care.

His nose and knuckles had been bloody and he’d been limping and his head hurt and still that whole-body ache had been present and he’d expected–maybe even wanted–his partner’s attention. 

And Solo hadn’t even looked at him. Hadn’t said a word. Just disappeared into his room with his case. 

Illya had followed, as if in a daze. 

He hadn’t even locked the door. He’d been sitting there, on the bed, retrieving the fancy painting that had hung on the wall of the dining room from his case. 

And everything had slid into place. 

Solo had lied about forgetting a bug to steal this painting. He’d triggered some kind of alarm, and those men had shown up, and then he hadn’t even helped fight them off. Illya’d taken everything willingly, and had gotten hurt–not much, but he’d felt miserable enough anyway–and all the while it hadn’t been an accident at all. 

Solo had stolen that painting, jeopardizing the entire mission, and had let Illya deal with the consequences alone. 

And so he’s yelling. He doesn’t like to yell. It reminds him of the person he does not want to be. But he is angry and hurting and it needs out. 

Solo shoots to his feet, also angry, as angry as Illya has ever seen him. “So you don’t trust me? You don’t trust your own partner?” 

The accusation hits him like a bullet to the chest, and he deflates slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

It isn’t. Solo is the person that he trusts the most. He’s proven his trustworthiness again and again. In Rome. Istanbul. Cairo. Manila. In the north of Spain and the south of Brazil. In London and New York. 

He trusts Solo, as much as he is capable of and more than anyone else, and what does his partner go and do with that trust?

Steals a painting. On a mission. Like the mission doesn’t matter. Like UNCLE doesn’t matter. 

Like Illya doesn’t matter. 

“Then what do you mean?” Solo asks, and the way he says it it’s like he’s looking for a fight. A real one. 

Illya does not want a fight. He does not want any of this at all. He feels suddenly small and upset and there’s a pressure behind his eyes that he does not at first register as tears. 

It is not that he does not trust Solo, but that Solo does not trust him. Why else would he do this right under Illya’s nose, letting Illya take the punches for it, without telling him about it first?

Or at all, because Illya is pretty sure that if he hadn’t come in here, Solo would not have told him anything at all. 

“Why did you do this?” Illya asks. His head is pounding and the drying blood is itchy and his ankle feels like it’s going to give out if he has to stand for much longer. “Why did you not tell me?”

His voice is quiet now. He’s tired. The anger is draining from him. He does not quite know what fills its place. 

Solo, for the first time, looks hurt. Illya wishes he could take some comfort in that, but he just feels worse. 

“I can’t tell you,” he says, and he sounds like he’s holding himself back from something. Punching Illya, probably. 

A laugh that tastes like blood tears its way from Illya’s throat. It’s almost painful. “So it is you who does not trust me.” 

The pressure behind his eyes is warm now, and threatening to break free from his control. 

“That is not true at all!”

“Then what?” To his horror, a few of the tears escape. He at least manages to choke down the sob that threatens to accompany them. 

“It’s complicated.”

Illya is so tired. He wants to sit. He wants to pretend that none of this ever happened. 

He does not want to lose his partner. 

But they have come this far now. 

“Please.”

Solo sighs. For a moment, Illya thinks that this is it. The moment that everything disappears from him. 

And then Solo starts talking.

thanks sm for reading!! i hope you liked, part 2 will be along shortly :)

[eldritchbauble]

How many blogs do you follow?

Less than 100

100-499

500-999

1k-1.9k

2k-2.9k

3k-3.9k

4k-4.9k

5k (maximum number)

Voting ended onJul 14

I'm starting to think maybe I followed way too many. Is over 4k too many?

[eldritchbauble]

For people who follow <100 blogs and I'm one of them, first of all, it's an honor.

Second of all, I'm starting to understand why my incessant posting annoys some of you so much.

I'm not going to quit doing it though.

[mteverestaaaaahh]

if the airlock (or just any of this) looks inaccurate, excuse me, I’m an idiot

warning: blood, and Grace frying the ever-loving heck out of his arm

[set-phasers-to-whump]

Day 8: What are your all time favourite pieces of whump media?

ok I think my #1 fave whump media has got to be karppi. just for like the ratio and quality of the whump bc. it’s so good. both main characters get hurt and suffer emotionally on the regular and ughh there’s particularly two water whump scenes in s2 which I absolutely adore. like they’re just so perfect. adding on to that I have both babylon berlin and slow horses/slough house for similar reasons, namely that the main characters are forever suffering kind of pathetically. I already talked about bb earlier but to reiterate: saddest wettest man alive. so much happens to gereon rath all the time and even when he’s not actively suffering there’s just this look about him. and then of course sh. river. I mean. my dear beloved failspy. he gets blown up beat up beat down. constantly. what more is there to say?