29/F. Whump blog with a lot of feverish bois and OC writing. Prompts always open! Please note that I do not tag/TW reblogs. 18+ only. Header by @kotyonoksnz!
Hello! I go by Shion. Late 20s/she/EST. I love whump and have a particular fondness for illness, fevers and caretaking, which I bestow constantly on my characters. Tag for my modern OCs is #ishverse - stories not tagged may have some AU elements, I’m currently reworking my stories and modifying the masterpost as I go! [*] notes AO3 link. Stories are in chronological order, all are sickfic (colds, flus, fevers, emeto, snz, coughing, chronic illness) and all relationships are LGBT. I use the tag #Shionwrites for my writing/art in general. Prompts, requests and asks welcome!
My favorite fics/authors!
What my guys look like/short character bios
#ishverse stories [read more]
Shu early years (Pre-2007)
Sparks (Shu in his 20s, Mathias, mono)
Overworked (Shu, Mathias, passing out)
Ryo, Alex and Shu HS years (2007-2012)
The Visit (Shu has the flu during an early CPS visit, Alex is not making it easy)
Not Your Fault | Part two | Part three (Alex cold, then Shu)
Ice Cream for Dinner (Alex chicken pox)
Working Through It (Shu being extremely sick at work, sneezing, contagion, passing out)
On Thin Ice (Ryo, appendicitis)
Birthday Cold (Alex, cold)
Summer Flu (Alex and Shu both flu, Fulu caretaker)
Drabbles: Sirens | Nausea | Overindulgence
Head Injury | Broken Bones | Squeeze My Hand | Cardiac Arrest (Shu, Alex, Julian, domestic abuse story that’ll eventually become one rewritten story)
Just The Two Of Us* (Shu, Paul, nightmares, PTSD)
Main TL (2010s onward)
First Time (Cliff and Elliot meet, both drunk and emeto)
Club Fair (Al tables outdoors with a cold and meets Elliot, Cliff joins Theo's soccer team, sickie Al, coughing)
Sick (and Gay) (Elliot is grumpy with a cold and they talk about the gay thing. Cliff anxiety puking.)
Hold Him While You Can (Cliff flu, Elliot caretaker, emeto)
Running Laps (Cliff pushing too hard, Elliot and Theo caretaker, emeto)
The rest of the Cliff/Elliot TL pre-rework
Other Writing/Fanfiction
Sick Love AU Masterpost: Shu/Julian, medical abuse, rated M for kink content
Rey and Felix Masterpost: Fantasy, kidnapping, captivity, experimentation, PTSD, magical whump, and of course illness. Includes Out of the Woods (2 parts, best stand alone story)
A Single Organ Sacrifice* (Gilmore Girls, Jess sickfic)
For the snz folks… this old allergy book is insane. The ladies must always talk about their allergies!
“By now all the ladies in the room are interested in your case. Tradition has it that in former times when two or more ladies were gathered together they adored talking about their operations. Today they adore talking about their allergies… It is a delightful subject for general conversation. First, you can talk about yourself. Second, you can be mysterious, saying, "I knew someone who_." Third, some of the experiences of allergic patients are extremely interesting; some are fantastic. Some are true while others have been exaggerated in the telling.”
Max was floating on his feet, as he walked inside the store. It was bright out, a nice day, not the type of day he'd pick to go shopping, but he had had little to no say on this, simply following Leo's directions.
It was a local Goodwill and he had been to the one in Doveport enough times to know how to navigate. Welton's was more well packed, though. Less religious cheap trinkets and a whole lot more wood.
Leo was standing on the far left aisle, inspecting a twin set of pots, crouching slightly so he could glare at them.
"Found you," Max said, sneaking on him, and causing Leo to jump just a little.
His, normally sunny, friend squinted at him, scoffing, "hi, Max."
Oh?
Max immediately perked up at the change of attitude and sour tone to Leo's voice. Not that the guy couldn't be a major bitch, but generally Leo kept that part of him private and normally he was annoying, but not sour. This was new.
"Hi," Max smiled, staring at him intently as he tried to piece together what was different about the guy, "did you wait too long?"
"No, just got here," Leo shrugged, planted the pots back on the shelf with a dejected sigh, "I drafted you a list," he rubbed his face, fishing out his phone and Max stepped closer so he could inspect him a little better.
"A list?"
"Yeah, of all the shit we gotta find for your place," Leo drummed his fingers on his phone screen, where he had written down a couple words on the notes app, "lamps, at least three. Curtains, one gotta be black out-"
"I can order all of that online..."
"It's not the same as thrift shopping and you told me, and I quote, you didn't wanna spend money on this decorating bullshit," he mimicked a deeper tone, which was meant to be Max's voice and the guy scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"I don't sound like that, you gave me an accent."
"You sound like you chain-smoke, oh, which you do," the little shit insisted, leading the way. Max did not chain smoke, "how was the date with Vin?"
"It wasn't a date," Max groaned, although his stomach filled up with butterflies at the memory of their little intimate dinner, "he just cooked me dinner because he says I can't live on a beige diet."
"Honestly," Leo agreed, gloomily, "all you eat is rice, potatoes and the occasional avocado. That cannot be healthy."
"I have steak sometimes!" Max cried out, speeding up to keep up with Leo, "and I'm perfectly healthy."
Leo looked pointedly at his stomach, "yeah, except for the Curse," he snorted, then let out a weird choking noise and braced against the shelves as he started coughing.
Max jumped back, raised his hand to smack his friend on the back in case he was choking, but those were deep. chesty coughs. Leo whimpered at the tail end, clutching his throat.
"Urgh, fuck."
"Are you sick?" Max guessed, squinting at Leo. The other guy had a bright pink splotch in the middle of his cheeks, but other than that he was pale as a ghost.
"Probably," Leo groaned, walking ahead as if leading the way, "it's just a cold, don't worry about it."
"Why the hell are you thrift shopping when you have a cold?" Max rushed to keep up, just as Leo beamed as he found a big lava lamp.
"This is cool-"
"Leo," Max scoffed, "why are we shopping if you're sick? Shouldn't you be in bed? Did McDreamy even allow you to leave home if you're sick?"
Leo huffed out a chuckle, which quickly morphed into a cough and he had to shove the lamp into Max's arms in order to turn around and fold in the middle. It sounded painful.
"Sh-she-et," Leo whined, grabbing onto a shelf to straighten up, and pretending Max wasn't seeing it, "I'm fine. I wanna shop, I'm excited. Besides, I don't need Jon's permission to leave home, he's not the boss of me."
"He doesn't know, uh?" Max grinned, rolling his eyes, "sneaky little shit."
Leo blushed, but shrugged, "leave me alone," he mumbled and kept walking, "help me pick a rug."
Max sighed, rubbing his forehead in a frustrated manner and following the guy around, "do you have siblings?" He asked, as Leo continued to pile random items on his arms, unbothered.
He froze on his tracks, eyebrows up and looking around as if Max had been talking with anyone else, "Uh- me?"
"Yes, you," Max rolled his eyes impatiently, procuring a basket to dump all the trinkets he was carrying.
"No," Leo snickered, cheeks turning pink slightly, "none that I know of, anyway."
Max narrowed his eyes at the cryptic answer, "your parents aren't together anymore?" He guessed, already imagining Leo as the child of a nasty divorce. It would explain why they got along so well, damage recognized damage.
"You could say that," Leo mumbled to himself, not as an answer to Max, rubbing his chest and then holding up a finger, as he turned around to cough mercilessly. They were turning really nasty, wet and deep, obviously painful.
Max finally managed to find a basket and got rid of the items — a lava lamp, a welcome mat, a bathroom rug, a black and white biker poster and an assortment of containers for shit like dish soap — and moved so he could pat Leo's back. His hand hung in the air for a split second before he made up his mind and planted it on the guy's back, putting force into the pats and rubs.
Leo spluttered for air, face pink and eyes teary, bracing against a wall as he took difficult breaths, "fuck," he whined, pitifully, clutching his throat. Max pursed his lips, now he was close enough to be able to tell Leo had a fever.
"Yeah, that's enough, I'm driving you home," Max decided and Leo raised a hand in the air and shooed him away as if he was an inconvenient dog.
"Not yet," he said, or rather, whispered, his voice shot. Leo groaned, a hand clutching his throat, a grimace on his face, "the quicker you help me, the quicker we leave."
Max rolled his eyes dramatically, Leo was such a prick. Dying, but still being stubborn, "fiiiine, what do you need me to look for?"
"Uhm-" Leo squinted at his phone screen, the glare of it bothering him enough he reduced the brightness to nearly dark. He tapped on the screen for Max to see and he had to step closer in order to see what was written.
"Curtains, okay- Uh, why the fuck is there cat written here?" Max chuckled, taking the phone from Leo's hand in order to make sure he hadn't read it wrong. Sure enough, the word "cat" was written under curtain and above "lava lamp", "I don't think Goodwill has those, buddy."
"You need a kitten," Leo said, defensively, stretching and snatching his phone back with a bit of a pout, "cute and cudd-Aw," he hissed, hand curling around his throat. He gulped down, then gestured as if locking his mouth, meaning he wasn't planning on speaking further.
Max groaned, dramatically, "I'm gonna end up killing it! I'm not fit for a pet!"
"Jon said the same," Leo grinned, his eyes sparkling with fever, "c'mon, curtains."
It took them fifteen more minutes before they finished Leo's list and a whole lot more bitching from Max as he paid for all of it, then they were off.
Leo was sneezing now, the tip of his nose red, as well as his cheeks and he looked miserable. On his way out he had grabbed a box of tissues and he sniffled as he walked side by side with Max.
"Are you finally gonna go home?"
"Nuh-huh," Leo gulped down, shuddering. His voice had grown really hoarse, "pet store."
"Dude!" Max cried out, finishing shoving his bags on Leo's backseat. Now he regretted not having driven there, because he felt like he was in a hostage situation, but on the other hand there was no way Leo could drive himself back. So whatever, "I cannot keep a pet alive, I can barely keep myself alive-"
"Exactly the reason you need one," Leo jiggled the car keys and Max considered manhandling him for it. He wasn't as tall, nor did he frequent a gym half as often, he definitely couldn't win in a fight on a good day, but Leo looked sick enough he might just get lucky.
Or he could call Jonah, Max thought smugly, but gave up on the idea immediately. Him and Jonah weren't friends, it felt awkward calling him about anything that wasn't an emergency.
"Lessgo, Max!" Leo jumped ahead of him, way too much energy for someone who was sick, entering the driver's side and slamming his door. Max sighed, heavily.
"You're like a toddler," he declared, entering the passenger side and glaring at his friend. The car started before he even managed to put his seat belt on, "such a pain in the ass."
"You're just sooo much fun to rage bait," Leo beamed at him, then ducked his head to sneeze loudly, rubbing at his nose, "aww'sfycks," he reached blindly for the tissue box and Max handed it to him with a judgemental glare, watching as he blew his nose and it triggered a coughing fit.
"You're in no state to drive," Max scoffed, as soon as they stopped on a red light and Leo lowered his forehead to the steering wheel, coughs harsh enough Max was half convinced he was gonna bring up his lunch, "pull over."
"Nuh," Leo shook his head, grabbing three different tissues and pressing it to his mouth as he shuddered, spitting into it. Gross, Max thought with a grimace.
"I'm serious, pull over, you're gonna end up crashing," Max gestured for him that the light had turned green, "I'll drive."
"To the-" Leo sniffled, his nose starting to run, so he pressed a tissue under it, voice coming out muffled, "pe'sfore?"
"Leoo-"
A stubborn, feverish glare answered him and Max sighed, loudly, "Fine! To the fucking pet store so I can pick the animal that will end up killing!"
Leo squinted at him, from the corner of his eye, the car going so slow that they received a honk and a swear. His shoulders dropped, "M'kay..."
Max had half a mind to just ignore his promise and take Leo straight home, but he decided against it because he was about 50% sure this might cause Leo to cry and he really wouldn't know how to fix that.
There was a pet store near the Wagner-Banks building anyway, one where Leo was apparently a regular, because the guy behind the counter perked up at seeing him and said, "Leo! Where's JD?"
Max shifted uncomfortably, looking around the place. Rows and rows of canned pet food, all sorts of trinkets... There were birds in the back and Max abandoned Leo with his acquaintance, in order to go inspect it.
He thought birds were cute, but too noisy and, honestly, too fragile. The chances of him killing it were exponentially higher than a cat, and they were already pretty high for the cat.
On the opposite wall there were three large tanks, with fishes and Max grinned. He should get one of those, they seemed easy enough-
"You're not getting a fish," Leo spawned next to him, as if reading his mind, "they're boring."
Max rolled his eyes, "they're fine-"
Leo grabbed him by the elbow, guiding him further inside, grumbling like an old man. Max ignored his bitching in favor of trying to gauge just how high was his fever. Seemed higher than it had been in Goodwill and he seemed more pale now, sweaty.
"Are you nauseous?"
Leo did not dignify him with a response. Max groaned, dragged his feet.
They passed by a tank with snakes and he perked up, "those are cool-"
"You need something you can cuddle," Leo shook his head and then nearly walked straight into a shelf as the movement made him dizzy. He braced a hand against the nearest wall, taking measured breaths through his mouth.
"Sorta looks like you're gonna hurl," Max egged him on, deciding if Leo did puke in the store, maybe he could walk away pet-free. Though the snakes had looked truly really fun.
"M'not," Leo gulped down, coughing in the crook of his elbow and finally managing to get Max where he wanted him, in front of a playpen with four little cats inside of it, for donation.
Two of them were tabbys, with blue eyes and stripes all over. One seemed to be wearing a tuxedo and the other one was a very fluffy ginger.
"Pick'em up," Leo shoved his arm in a friendly way, then collapsed against the fire exit, glaring at the floor as he very clearly was fighting nausea. Max rolled his eyes, bossy motherfucker.
They were wriggly and yeah, adorable... Just not enough, Max decided, inspecting a kitten that tried to swat at his face. Meowing pitifully.
"Eh, they're fine," he shrugged, "I don't know, Leo..."
"Are you more of a dog person? You don't seem like one," Leo seemed genuinely puzzled by not knowing Max inside out. Which was crazy, because as this day had made clear, Max didn't even know if he had siblings. How did Leo decide he just knew him so well, uh?
"No, I'm not a dog person..." He put the cats back down, crossing his arms... Then glanced back to the enclosure with the repetiles, leaving Leo behind as his friend hacked up a lung. Stubborn idiot.
There were three snakes inside of the tank, all skinny and tiny, like freaking zip ties. Max immediately lowered himself to get a better look, unable to stop himself from smiling when he got a clear view of their derpy faces and long, darting tongues.
"Oh, they are cute," he sighed, dreamily.
"Wanna pick 'em up?" The store clerk asked and Max nodded, eagerly.
One of them was red, with orange markings all over its body, the other one was plain brown and the third one was yellow. He had never held a snake in his life, so he was surprised by how friendly they were and stiff, holding themselves up in his hands.
"This one is really cute," Max decided, bringing the red snake up to his face, to the point they were almost nose to nose. They were babies, he could tell by how skinny and tiny they were, "how big does it get?"
"Eh, no bigger than 4 feet," the clerk shrugged, "they're corn snakes, they're not large."
"How much is he?" Max carefully petted the head of the snake who was watching him curiously. It's whole head was about the size of his thumb, a little bigger.
The pet was only 60 bucks, but he needed a bunch of extra crap, so Max ended up spending more in the pet store than he had in the previous one... Not that he minded, feeling like a kid as he cradled the snake in his palm and wondered what the hell to name him.
Leo had, at some point, slipped outside the store and Max met with him as he loaded up the trunk of his car with his new pet's enclosure and a box of frozen pinkies.
"I can't believe you're getting a snake," Leo groaned, glaring in the direction of the animal, as he pressed his overheated forehead to the cool metal of Max's car.
"Aw, c'mon, he's super cute!" Max cried out, circling the vehicle so he could hold it up to Leo, "look at him!"
Leo squinted, eyes rimmed red and nose too, looking about ready to collapse. Max lowered the snake, "okay, you're done for today," he said, strongly, "c'mon, get in the car, Leo."
"What- What are you gonna name him?" Leo collapsed on the passenger's seat, flinching as Max put the snake inside of a styrofoam carriage he had been given and planted it on his lap.
"I don't know," Max shrugged, "Snake?"
"What the fuck, you can't name your snake snake," Leo glared at him, flabbergasted.
"How about Serpent?"
"Absolutely not," Leo waved him off.
Several minutes passed and they were in a comfortable silence when Leo groaned, "I'm getting carsick."
Said point blank and deadpan like that, Max took a minute to process it, "you- What?"
"Speed up," Leo bossed, wrapping an arm around his stomach, "don't feel well..."
"Goddammit, Leo," Max scoffed, pressing on the gas pedal, "do I have to pull over? I think I gotta-"
"Urrk-UURK-" Leo heaved, grabbing the snake box at the last second as he leaned forward, to avoid puking on its head.
"LET ME PULLOVER!" Max squealed, blindly reaching to grab his pet while his eyes scanned the street for a spot to park. Leo's back convulsed with another empty retch.
There was a parking spot a meter away-
"Max-" Leo warned him, voice clipped, pressing a hand to his mouth as his whole body shook. Max ignored him, driving a little manically in order to stop the car and then clicking the release button of Leo's seatbelt, shoving the passenger door open, just as Leo leaned to the side and brought up a stream of his lunch.
"Aw, dude..." Mx cooed, heart racing from the little adrenaline spike, planting a hand on Leo's trembling back as the guy coughed and ended up vomiting even more.
"Did I..." Leo groaned, then sneezed loudly, body lurching. He gasped for air for a couple minutes, not seeming to realize he was making a breathless, whining sound, before he tried again, "did I puke on him?"
Max took a second too long to realize Leo meant the snake, who was still in the styrofoam box clutched in his other hand. He snorted, looking at it. Sure enough, there was a disgusting dot of orangey saliva on top of the white box and he wrinkled his nose, using the hem of Leo's sweater to clean it, because fuck this kid.
"Almost," he grimaced, opening the box and beaming when the snake immediately poked his head out, clearly curious about what all that jostling around had been, "I think you just startled him."
"Should..." Leo spat and straightened up, falling against the seat's back with a laborious breath, clutching his chest, "name him Barfy."
"Absolutely not," Max glared at the side of his head, closing the lid of the snake's enclosure again, "how are you holding up, Leo?"
"Awful," he wheezed, voice all croaky, "think I got a fever..."
Without hesitating, this time around, Max pressed his hand to Leo's forehead and groaned out loud, "yeah, you're burning up... Are you done? We're about a block away from your place..."
Leo gulped down, seeming to think it over, then ducked his head quickly as three rapid sneezes overcame him. He let out a loud, long groan, "fuuuuck- Yeah, led'sjustgo..." his words slurred together and he sniffled, pitifully.
Max smiled, "If I put him back on your lap you promise not to puke on him again?" he said, already planting the little box on Leo's lap. The other guy let out a huff, a smile breaking in his pained face.
When Character A is from the enemy side (or misunderstood side). They meet B, team up, and become close. B needs to get back to their people, and A will help them. Hesitant at first, but B promises to vouch for them, and then it will be fine. They can even bring change to A's people.
But things go wrong, and B gets badly injured. A still gets them to their people. But when B is taken from them, A is left all alone with nobody to help them. When they realize who/what A is, they're taken captive.
A is not being treated well, and B is unconscious in the hospital/healers house.
When B wakes, they instantly ask about A. It takes a long time to figure what happened to them/what was done to them, and even longer to find them again/get them out.
sickie who is super insecure about being sick and looking and sounding gross x caretaker partner riddled with guilt at being so excited about getting to be the one to look after them in this state
I imagine this leads to constant misunderstandings where sickie assumes caretaker is acting shifty and making excuses to leave the room and flinching every time they sneeze because they’re put off by sickie, when really they’re trying to stay collected and not betray that they’re hopelessly turned on.
Culminating in sickie sneezing unexpectedly and uncovered directly onto caretaker, who gasps at the sudden sensation. The sick character feels so disgusting and guilty, compounded by being exhausted and a bit feverish, that they just break down crying and apologizing for being sick. And the only way caretaker can calm them down is by confessing exactly why they don’t find sickie disgusting.
A boy washed up on the shore of a sleepy village. You took him in, fed him, and gave him a home. When soldiers came through town looking for the lost prince, he started shaking, tearily requesting that you harbor him.
The sea gave the village most of what it owned and took back whatever it liked.
That morning, the tide left a boy among the weeds below the old net sheds. He was small enough that, at first, the gulls seemed larger than he was. They hopped near his heels and screamed into the wind, offended by the shape of him, by the fact that he was neither fish nor refuse nor safely dead.
Mara Fen heard the gulls from her kitchen, and knew from their harsh outrage they’d found something that out not be there.
She’d been cutting turnips with one hand braced hard against the table, because the damp always played ill with her knuckles. She wiped the knife on her apron, set it flat beside the turnips, and went out without fetching her shawl.
A dog nosed at a rain barrel and backed away when Mara passed. Down by the shore, the tide had gone out far enough to expose the black ribs of the old pier. It was there, below the sheds, that she saw him.
Mara was not a woman given to cries. She picked her way down the bank with her skirts clutched above the wet grass, cursing the loose shale beneath her boots. The boy was soaked through, but his clothes - though torn and fouled with sand - were not village cloth. The shirt had once been fine.
“Up, then,” she said, though he could not hear her. “If you’ve come this far, don’t make me drag a corpse.”
His eyelids trembled.
She turned him carefully, bracing his shoulder against her knee, and water spilled from his mouth. He coughed once, and it was a hard animal sound. His eyes opened without fixing on her. They were gray, or green, or perhaps only reflecting the sea. But that mattered little. A living child had no need of poetry.
By the time two men came down from the smokehouse, she had his head lifted and one hand pressed between his shoulders. He shook under her palm.
“Fetch blankets,” she told them. “And don’t stand there looking solemn. He’s not dead enough for that.”
They obeyed because people usually did when Mara Fen spoke in that tone, and because no one in Tarrow wanted responsibility for a drowned boy before breakfast. They carried him up between them with his bare feet dragging, and if any of them noticed the signet ring tied on a cord beneath his shirt, none of them said so in the wind.
Mara saw it properly when she stripped the wet clothes off him by the hearth.
Gold did not belong on children who washed up nameless on a village shore. That was a thing for fancy tales, not plain folk on plain days. Even so, it lay against his too-thin breastbone. It was heavy and bright in the firelight, and stamped with a crest she’d only seen once before on a tax seal nailed to the granary door. A rearing stag, crowned.
The boy was barely conscious. His lips had gone blue. Mara held the ring in her wet fingers for the length of one crackle from the hearth, then pushed it back beneath the blanket and tucked the wool tight under his chin.
“Well,” she said to the empty room, “that’s trouble with a face on it.”
Trouble slept (fitfully) for two days.
He swallowed down broth because Mara set the spoon against his mouth and waited with the grim patience of a woman who had outlasted storms, debts, two husbands, and three village priests. (Each one more pinch-faced than the last.)
On the second day came the fever. She tended her chores as he sweated through her spare sheets.
On the fifth day he woke properly, his hand flying to his throat before he knew where he was.
Mara caught his wrist.
“Still there,” she said.
The boy froze. His eyes found her, then the hearth, the drying nets hung from the rafters, the shelf of chipped cups, the small square window looking toward the lane.
“What’s your name?” she tried to make her voice soft, but she was a tough old thing and knew it well. Crackshell Bay didn’t breed softness, after all.
He swallowed. His voice came rough from salt and disuse. “I don’t know.”
That was the first lie he gave her, and not a skillful one. Her own brothers - gods keep them - could lie better than that when they were half his age. But no matter.
Mara nodded and dipped the spoon back into the bowl. “Then I’ll call you Rowan until you improve.”
He looked down at the blanket. His fingers curled into it where the ring lay hidden underneath. “I can’t stay.”
“You can’t stand, neither.”
His mouth tightened. Mara had raised no children of her own, but she had helped birth and bury enough nieces and nephews and cousins to know the look of a boy trying to make himself into an island.
“You can leave when you can walk to the well and back without falling into my cabbages,” she said. “Until then, you’ll eat.”
He did.
Days took shape around him. Sleep. Broth. Bread softened in goat’s milk. The scrape of Mara’s chair across the flagstones. Rainwater in the bucket. Smoke in the rafters. The village bell striking noon with no more ambition than it had shown the day before. Tarrow was a knockabout scrap of nothing on an unimpressive shore, and the boy began to breathe inside its dullness as if dullness meant safe.
Mara gave him old clothes from a chest under the bed. They’d belonged to a nephew who’d taken the kings shilling and never come back. They hung loose from his shoulders at first, though his strength returned faster than flesh. He learned where she kept the kindling. He carried water in two small trips instead of one large one after the first pail pulled him sideways in the yard. He mended a tear in a net with neat, quick fingers that had not learned the work from hunger, and when Mara noticed, he kept his head down until she moved away.
Mara asked no questions because answers had weight. In Tarrow, weight of that sort brought notice from their betters, which never meant well for plain folks. A nameless boy could sit at her table and burn his tongue on stew. A prince, if that was what the sea had thrown at her feet, belonged to men who would break down doors for fun and call it duty.
So the boy became Rowan because Mara called him Rowan. The village accepted it simply, just as it accepted the weather.
He grew less thin. Color came into his face. He learned to keep his sleeves rolled high when he washed dishes, and he stopped flinching every time a cart rattled over the stones outside.
Spring thinned into early summer. Nets dried faster. Children shouted in the lane until their mothers called them in. Rowan began to laugh quietly at small things. Then one evening Mara dropped an onion into the ash bucket, swore at it with such bitter precision that he choked on his bread, and the laugh came out of him clear and startled. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Mara pretended to inspect the onion.
“There,” she said. “Not dead after all.”
He looked down, but the corner of his mouth stayed lifted.
For three more weeks, they went on like that.
Then the soldiers came.
They rode in at midmorning, six of them in dark leather and road-stained cloaks, with the royal stag worked in dull thread on their shoulders. Their horses muddied the lane without apology. Dogs went silent behind fences. At the baker’s, a woman pulled her child back so sharply the little girl dropped the heel of bread she had been chewing.
Mara was at the market stall with a basket over one arm and Rowan beside her. He had insisted he was strong enough to carry the meal sack. He was stronger now, yes. Tall enough to look older from a distance. Still too young in the face when he forgot to guard it.
The first soldier unrolled a notice and nailed it to the post outside the alehouse.
The hammer blows carried across the square.
Rowan stopped breathing before he moved. Mara felt the change beside her, the meal sack slipping lower in his grip, the whole of him drawing inward while the village looked toward the soldiers. His eyes were fixed on the paper.
The soldier’s voice was plainly trained to fill yards and chapels and rooms where no one wanted him. “Boy of twelve years. Dark hair. Gray eyes. May be injured. May be traveling under false name. By order of the Crown, any person concealing him will be treated as a traitor to the realm.”
Rowan’s hand opened.
The sack hit the dirt with a soft, dusty thud.
Mara turned as if only annoyed by spilled meal, but she saw his face. The blood had left it so completely that the freckles across his nose stood out like grit. His lips parted. His right hand went to his throat, then stopped short when he remembered the ring beneath his shirt. He pressed his palm flat against his chest instead, too late to make the movement casual.
The soldier read the notice again.
Rowan began to shake.
It started in his fingers. Then his shoulders. Then his knees, a fine, helpless tremor that made the loose fabric of his borrowed trousers flicker against his legs. He looked smaller than he had on the shore. Terror now did what the sea had not managed: it stripped him of all the careful work he had done to seem ordinary.
Mara stepped in front of him.
Not quickly. Quickness would have been a confession. She bent, set her basket down, and slapped at the spilled meal with the flat of her hand as if the waste offended her more than royal business ever could.
“Pick it up,” she said.
Rowan did not move.
“Rowan.” Her voice stayed low. “Hands.”
He dropped to his knees beside her. Meal clung to his damp palms.
One soldier turned.
Mara heard the shift in the market before she saw him. Conversation thinned. A cart wheel stopped creaking. The butcher’s knife paused in mid-chop. Fear moved through Tarrow with the discipline of long practice. No one ran, no one spoke.
The soldier walked toward them.
His boots stopped beside the spilled meal. Mara could see the mud drying along the seams, the nick in one spur, the leather strap dark where sweat had soaked through. She kept her body between him and the boy as much as bending allowed.
“Old mother,” he said, “stand aside.”
Mara looked up slowly.
She had never liked being called mother by men who had not earned the right to be familiar. She liked it less from a man with a sword and clean gloves. But anger was useless here. She squinted as if a bit addled.
“What?”
“Stand aside.”
“My hearing’s poor when men mumble.”
Behind her, Rowan made a small sound. She shifted her heel back until it touched his knee.
The soldier’s eyes moved past her.
Mara reached for the sack, caught the torn seam, and shook it open between them. Meal dust lifted into the air. The soldier blinked once and drew his chin back.
“Careful,” she snapped. “You’ll track half my supper into the mud before you’ve even bought me a replacement.”
The soldier looked down at her, then at the boy crouched behind her. “You. Face up.”
Rowan’s hands flattened in the dirt.
If he ran, he’d be caught before the well. If he looked up, he might be known. If he stayed frozen, the soldier would drag his face into view and call that proof enough.
Mara slapped the sack against Rowan’s chest.
“Don’t sit there gawping, boy.” she said. “Get it inside before the hens find it.”
His eyes lifted to hers. For one thin instant, everything pressed into the space between them. He wanted her to tell him what happened next. He wanted, with the naked selfishness of a frightened child, for an old woman with flour on her sleeves to be stronger than the Crown.
Mara jerked her chin toward the lane behind the stalls.
Rowan grabbed the sack. He rose too fast and nearly stumbled, but Mara caught his elbow and made the stumble look like clumsiness with a sharp shove.
“Useless boy,” she said, loud enough for the soldier. “Can’t carry meal, can’t keep his feet, eats like I own a mill.”
Rowan ducked his head and went.
The soldier took one step after him.
Mara moved with the bitter economy of age, not blocking him outright, only putting herself where his next step would have to acknowledge her body. She lifted the basket back onto her arm.
“You owe me for what’s spoiled,” she said.
The square held still around them. The notice snapped against the post in a small gust, and the horse nearest the well stamped once, impatient with human ceremony. Down the lane, Rowan’s footsteps faded, uneven at first, then faster where the stalls hid him.
The soldier’s jaw tightened. He was young enough to dislike being made ridiculous and old enough to know that arresting an old woman over a sack of meal would make him even more so. He looked again toward the lane, but Rowan had vanished behind the cooper’s shed.
Mara waited with her basket digging into the crook of her elbow. Waiting was also a tool. The old knew this. So did hunters, debt collectors, and anyone who had survived the king’s men.
At last the soldier pulled a coin from his purse and threw it into the dirt.
Mara looked at it. Then at him.
“That’ll buy the sack,” she said. “Not what was in it.”
His face darkened, but one of the riders called his name from the alehouse, impatient and sharp. He left the second coin with less ceremony, dropping it so it struck a stone and spun before settling near Mara’s boot.
She did not bend for it until he had turned away.
Only then did the village resume its noises, carefully, one at a time: a knife coming down through bone, a bucket handle creaking, a child beginning to cry after holding it in too long. Mara picked up both coins and the empty basket. Her knees complained when she straightened.
She found Rowan in her root cellar, wedged behind the turnip bins with the meal sack clutched to his chest and his forehead pressed against the wall. The air smelled of earth and old apples. Light from the open hatch cut across the packed floor and stopped short of his boots.
He was still shaking.
Mara climbed down slowly, closing the hatch most of the way above her. The cellar dimmed. Outside, the soldiers’ horses shifted in the lane, leather creaking, metal ringing once against stone.
Rowan did not look at her. “They’ll come here.”
His voice was almost gone.
“Likely.”
“They’ll search.”
“Likely.”
He pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth, and when he spoke again, the words broke around it. “You should tell them.”
Mara stood among the bins with dirt under her fingernails and royal coin warm in her pocket. She could not see all of his face, only the edge of his cheek and one wide, wet eye in the cellar gloom. He had been a prince before the sea took him, and perhaps he would be one again if the world insisted hard enough, but just then he was a boy in borrowed trousers who had forgotten how to breathe without permission.
“No,” she said.
He shut his eyes.
Mara reached for the old potato sacking on the shelf and shook the dust from it. “Get behind the apple crates. Pull this over your legs. If a rat runs over you, you let him pass.”
A startled, miserable sound escaped him, almost a laugh and almost a sob.
“There,” Mara said, and pushed the crates aside with her hip. “Still not dead.”
Above them, a fist struck the cottage door. Once. Then again.
Rowan flinched so hard his shoulder hit the wall.
Mara took his chin in her hand before he could fold farther into himself. His skin was cold. His eyes opened and fixed on hers, too bright in the dark.
“Look at me,” she said. “You were given to the sea, and the sea made a poor job of keeping you. I don’t intend to do worse.”
The fist struck the door a third time.
Mara let him go, climbed the steps, and lowered the hatch until the cellar became a seam in the floorboards. Then she wiped both hands on her apron, crossed the room past the hearth where his bowl still sat unwashed, and opened the door to the Crown.
Imagining a sick character coming up to their friend/partner and, rather than announcing that they're sick, simply leaning against them like a cat. Cue the other's exclamation of "wow, you feel warm," and the sickie mumbling "I know" into their shoulder. Bonus points if they're not usually this touchy feely.
This is an OC whump art exchange where artists can sign up via Google form found here, and will be assigned a partner at random to draw art for, similar to a Secret Santa. At the end of the event, participants post the art on their blogs with the required tags and it will be reblogged to the main event blog.
The form closes on May 1st 2026. You will receive your partner’s information on May 8th or 9th, either in your tumblr ask box, or dms. You’ll have roughly two weeks to complete the art, and you will post the art on May 22nd 2026 with all of the required tags included.
When you post your piece tag it #whump_art_exchange_2026, and tag @whump-art-exchange, as well as tagging the person you made the art for. I will reblog all of the finished pieces so that people can see everyone's creations.
This is a minor friendly exchange, do not submit sexual content for this event, even if you are an 18+ blog. If your blog is 18+ check that off in the form and I will assign you appropriately.
Sign ups are open to all skill levels, and partners are assigned at random with the exception of triggers, 18+ blogs, ect. All works must be a fully completed art piece with a clear image, and effort must be put into it. Do not submit AI art.
If you are unable to complete your gift, or need to drop out of the event let me know as soon as possible so that I can assign a new artist for your partner. If you need a time extension let me know so that I know you are still participating!
Harassment, or hostility of any kind will not be tolerated and anyone doing so may be blocked or asked to leave the event.
Inbox @whump-art-exchange or dm @mottinthemainpot if you have any additional questions.
Okay I am absolutely feral for someone being angry with a sick character and then immediately changing their tune when they find out the person is sick
BUT
What about someone being angry at the sick character and then when they send them a message like ,“We need to talk,” the sick person says, “Can we do it later? I have the flu.” So the angry one is just like, “Yeah,” and doesn’t say anything to them again for a couple weeks, just leaves them to recover alone.
Or they’re in an argument and the angry person notices the sick one is too unwell to pay attention or keep arguing. So they stop and say, “You know what, we’ll talk later.” And they leave, and the sick person just sinks into the couch, relieved that they can turn off now.
when you're getting married and they say "in sickness and in health" but you're lowkey getting turned on just by hearing "sickness" because you're a kinky bitch
This is an OC whump art exchange where artists can sign up via Google form found here, and will be assigned a partner at random to draw art for, similar to a Secret Santa. At the end of the event, participants post the art on their blogs with the required tags and it will be reblogged to the main event blog.
The form closes on May 1st 2026. You will receive your partner’s information on May 8th or 9th, either in your tumblr ask box, or dms. You’ll have roughly two weeks to complete the art, and you will post the art on May 22nd 2026 with all of the required tags included.
When you post your piece tag it #whump_art_exchange_2026, and tag @whump-art-exchange, as well as tagging the person you made the art for. I will reblog all of the finished pieces so that people can see everyone's creations.
This is a minor friendly exchange, do not submit sexual content for this event, even if you are an 18+ blog. If your blog is 18+ check that off in the form and I will assign you appropriately.
Sign ups are open to all skill levels, and partners are assigned at random with the exception of triggers, 18+ blogs, ect. All works must be a fully completed art piece with a clear image, and effort must be put into it. Do not submit AI art.
If you are unable to complete your gift, or need to drop out of the event let me know as soon as possible so that I can assign a new artist for your partner. If you need a time extension let me know so that I know you are still participating!
Harassment, or hostility of any kind will not be tolerated and anyone doing so may be blocked or asked to leave the event.
Inbox @whump-art-exchange or dm @mottinthemainpot if you have any additional questions.
I could work on a new story I have ideas do or I could once again stare at the WIP I’ve had in progress since OCTOBER and tell myself I just have to finish it first…
shane and ilya aren’t allowed to give dating advice anymore ever since the cens found out they were in a situationship for seven years before making it official. one of the rookies asked what he should do to turn his hookup into a relationship and ilya was like “well in my experience if you just keep hooking up with that person who won’t commit to you and never communicate your needs or desires it’ll all work out perfectly and you’ll fall in love and get married. so keep doing what you’re doing” and shane was like “have you tried getting a head injury in front of them”
ETA: @queen-calanthe has written this into a real fic: The Suit In One-Four-One-Zero
One day post TLG, Harris has the Cens doing a video for social media, it’s a competition for who can keep a straight face while the others try to make them break with a smile or a laugh.
Towards the end, only Ilya remains. No one can break him, so they go get Shane. He’s got a little smile while they explain and he starts thinking of what to say. Of what he can say for a video going on the internet.
He hesitates, because he knows what he wants to tell Ilya, but keep it their secret. No one else needs to know what this was about, but he’s saved this tidbit, waiting to play it at the right time. Ilya’s steeling himself. He loves Shane and usually would smile with him just in the room, trying do be earnest about anything, but he won’t let his husband break him for this. Finally Shane makes direct eye contact with Ilya -
‘The first time, after the commercial,’
Ilya tenses, eyes light up but he’s keeping his face neutral. He isn’t sure what he thought Shane would say but it wasn’t this.
