#whoopfics

[whoophoney]

A snippet of what I'm working on to celebrate today 🥳🥳🥳

The only thing louder than Nicholas crashing into the catacombs was the sound of his scream when he landed.

Sprawled awkwardly on his back, light flooded down on him as if the gates of heaven had opened—ready to welcome a new Angel—and with the pain Nicholas was in he was willing to accept the invitation. Alas, the gossiping mutters of the NWA brought him back to Earth, and he blinked to find the light just to be their torches.

Vague concerns and snide remarks fell over each other as he laid there. Embarrassed, he tried to push himself up but immediately fell back down, his teeth gritted and eyes squeezed shut as a hissed “shit!” escaped him. His pain earned a chorus of empathetic “oohs”, and a lone chuckle he narrowed down to one particularly smug supermarket owner.

Panting heavily, he tilted his head so his chin touched his chest, and looked down at his body. He was already pale, so it was impressive how his face managed to turn even more white.

His leg was mangled.

Torchlight unkindly highlighted the bloody tibia that was sticking out of his skin, snapped in half like a dry twig. He loudly gulped for breath, struggling to cope as he stared at the damage. He was fucked. There was no chance in hell he was moving from that spot; even if he dragged himself along the carpeted floor he wouldn’t get a meter away before he was caught and killed.

His hands brushed harshly along the floor and stung with the friction. Why was it carpeted? He turned his head then stilled, inhaling sharply. Eyes wide, his jaw hardened to stop himself from crying out. His broken leg was no-longer the only bone he could see. Memories of hate-filled slurs raced through his mind as he stared at the skeleton— skeletons. He wasn’t the only trouble-maker the NWA had forced down there.

Dizzy, his vision started to blur, and his head slumped back in defeat. He could hear them talking above, but the words were indiscernible over the static in his ears.

He closed his eyes, well aware that they may never open again.

[whoophoney]

Oh Yes, There Will Be Blood. — II

[whoophoney]

Hard Soil

"A sweet smell drifts into the air, but instead of distracting his thoughts about Danny, it only seems to intensify them. Usually they just talk, but there’s been a few times where he’s come round for more than just a chat…"

Continue on ao3...

Nicholas tries to do some gardening.

[whoophoney]

The Knight

It doesn’t take him long to realise why chess is suddenly so popular. It’s not Mrs Wells teaching as he’d assumed; it’s Sergeant Angel. His face goes hot with embarrassment and he tries to calm himself, of course people don’t care about chess, he’s still a bloody loser. But wait. His anger is quickly replaced by a thought: ‘Sergeant Angel likes chess too?’

Continue on ao3!

Gabriel Weaver goes to chess club.

[whoophoney]

❖ fatal familiarity and aaaaany of the benji whump fics, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseple

❖ pick 2 fics and I’ll combine them somehow

I wanted to have a little bit of fun with this one so here's a non-canon (in my strange little whump universe) crossover.

(The first bit is all copy and pasted for context)

Although he can’t see him, he can hear Lane’s footsteps echo through the room as he presumably walks back to that desk. The possibilities of what that may entail are so worrying that Benji sneaks a glance at him, needing to know his fate. However this time around, Lane makes no effort to hide what he’s selected.

Pliers.

Benji whimpers and turns as far away from Lane as physically possible, squeezing his eyes shut like a scared child who naively thinks that will make everything go away. His breaths turn laboured and loud, unable to hide behind spread lips. He recoils as Lane stalks towards him, letting out a frightened yelp when his hair is roughly grabbed and his face is forced upward.

His eyes stay closed, but the small sounds Lane makes as he prepares his equipment convince him otherwise. Somehow, being in the dark, not knowing what is happening, is worse than having to watch. Cautiously, he cracks them open, but immediately regrets his choice when he’s met with the pliers. Lane’s holding them right in front of his face, taunting him — a reminder that there’s nothing he can do to stop this.

Tears fill his eyes, then fall when the tool moves to his mouth.

He chokes on a sob when freezing steel hooks onto a bottom incisor. Instinctually, his body jerks in one last desperate attempt to get away, but it’s futile — Lane just holds his head steady, completely undisturbed.

The burn of cold metal becomes an awful ache as the strain on the tooth increases. He prepares himself for the horrific sensation of it being ripped from his gums: his eyes squeeze shut and the rest of his body violently trembles in anticipation.

Unfortunately for him, his tooth isn’t pulled. Rather, Lane pushes on it.

It’s a different sort of pain, although it still makes him groan — an unbearable pressure that keeps mounting, and growing, and getting worse and worse until it’s entirely overwhelming and it won’t stop—

BANG

Benji jolts at the sudden noise. Stiff, he keeps his eyes locked shut and stays quiet — unwilling to draw attention to himself. He's not sure what just happened, but there's a few things he does know: the pliers aren't on his tooth; Lane isn't holding him anymore; and the full-body thump that echoes through the room hopefully gives the reason why.

Tentatively, he opens his eyes. It takes a moment, but as soon as he recognises the man standing in the doorway — hands shaking around the gun pointed towards him — Benji crumbles.

Evan...

The relief is instant; his whole body deeply exhales as he slumps into the chair. He hardly takes any notice of Evan approaching, only able to focus on catching his next breath. He doesn't know why Evan came for him, but if he hadn't... Benji shudders and takes a quick glance at the floor to his left — if he didn't have the gag on, he'd smile at the blood pooling around Lane's blown-open head.

Good fucking riddance.

Gentle fingers rush to the back of his own head, fiddling with straps and buckles until the pressure on his skull is released. Evan, so, so carefully, guides the metal out of his mouth and lets it slowly close. Wincing, Benji bites down; opens up; then repeats until the ache in his jaw begins to wane.

"Ben." Evan sounds serious. His fingers brush lightly over his cheek, clearly desperate to not hurt him, but now the soft touch only reminds Benji of Lane. "Are you okay?"

"As I can be."

Evan runs his fingers through his hair and smiles reassuringly. "I told you I'd kill him."

"That you did," Benji replies weakly.

"Why the fuck was he doing that to you?"

The question makes him still. His lips pull together, and he smiles sardonically, but it doesn't quite reach his watering eyes. "I don't know."

He takes one last look down at Lane, his expression darkening as he recounts everything the vile man has done to him.

"I've never known."

Fatal Familiarity

Taking The Light From Your Eyes, And The Glint From Your Smile

[whoophoney]

May His Head Be Struck From His Shoulders

“You made a mistake.” Skinner's breath ghosts over his ear as he talks low — the charm that’s captured the rest of Sandford beginning to work on him. “You were just doing your job.”

Nicholas’ own breaths are extremely hard to find — impossible even, when a gentle hand falls on his hip. It’s like fire, and he’s mortified to discover that he doesn’t mind being burned a little.

Continue on ao3...

After Nicholas watches through Somerfield's security tapes, Lurch isn't the man to escort him out.

Please heed the tags 🙏

[whoophoney]

Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me.

[whoophoney]

Finishing Business

After the plutonium incident, it’s rare for Benji to be enlisted on deals, and if he’s being honest? He’s happy with that arrangement.

Although it was exacerbated in London, he always has a feeling during trades — one deep in the pit of his stomach that something will go horribly wrong. It’s the mistrust; the deception; the ear-splitting silence as everyone sizes each-other up…

The knowledge that one wrong move can turn a friend into an enemy, and an enemy into his mortician.

Continue on ao3...