#n.1

Caproni Campini N. 1 #WWII #WW2

@WW2HQ via X

No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

1 – Swooning

Xelzaz's grip on the letter tightened as the words blurred before his eyes. His scales seemed to pale, as if all the Argonian's blood had disappeared. He clung to the wall for support. The news he had received had touched him deeply, completely upset him, leaving him stunned. He dropped the letter, his hands trembled so much. His breathing became shallow and he felt his pulse weaker. His eyes rolled back and Xelzaz slowly slid against the wall, much to the dismay of his friends who rushed to support him before he reached the ground. (97)

•••••

1 - “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Gore blinked, his vision slowly clearing as he found himself lying on the ground. Lucien's concerned face loomed above him.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Lucien asked, holding up two fingers. Gore squinted, trying to focus.

"Two, obviously.", he muttered. He attempted to sit up, only to be gently pushed back by Lucien.

"Just making sure !", Lucien replied, a little smile on his lips. "You had us worried there for a moment."

Gore groaned, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit lightheaded. The heat."

moodboard by @painkiller80​

whumptober day.1 let’s hang out sometimes - waking up restained + alt.9 memory loss.

fandom: Star Wars/The Clone Wars

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It was strange, his eyes hurted, he couldn’t move and his body felt dull while his body was hot all over...

No..no..no it wasn’t really happening, he was dreaming, right? He was still in battle..he was fine..

No, it had to be a nightmare...

Why were his eyes still closed? They felt heavy.

Why couldn’t he open them? Maybe he was just tired.

Was he sitting? It was too dark to tell.

Was it dark outside? Was he alone?

He didn’t know, he didn’t know anything. He tried to move his arms but couldn’t, they were restrained apparently and they were hurting.

Definitely not a nightmare...

Was he a prisoner?

Why didn’t he remember anything? How long was he there?

For a moment he thought..hoped that he was finally dying, because the prospect of being tortured wasn’t that great, even if he was sure he would never betray his brothers, he was too loyal but, deep down, was afraid that his mind wasn’t.

The scariest thing was that he didn’t remember how he got there, how he was captured or who had him there. Were the bounty hunters or the separatists he didn’t know, what he know was that he needed to be out of there.

He just hoped to do it while he was still alive.

Tags: Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Injury, Explosions, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Illya, Illya Whump, Protective Illya, Some Pining From Napoleon, Nightmares, Not Actually Unrequited Love

Summary:  For that matter, how long was he unconscious after the explosion? He can’t really tell, can he? His brain seems fine, though: he remembers what happened, he remembers his name and long list of crimes, he can come up with five different ways to annoy Illya off the top of his head, he knows how Gaby likes her coffee, he can clearly picture the look of British reprimand on Waverly’s face—regretfully, he even remembers Sanders and his ugly mug. So, yeah. All fine. Except for the unconscious Russian lying on top of him, of course.

Notes: Written for the "Waking up restrained" prompt from day 1 of Whumptober (better late than never LOL, this has actually been more or less ready for about a week but I hate titling things, so). I... have not exactly respected the spirit of the prompt, I think, but technically he is waking up and he is restrained by something, and it is whump, so... it should count LOL. What can I tell you, sometimes you just need to write 3k words of whump and a few overused tropes because why not. The title is from "Moral of the story" by Ashe, though the song has nothing to do with the fic LOL. Enjoy!

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He’s hardly even opened his eyes when he starts coughing, the dust grating against his throat and panic making its way under his skin when he feels something press hard down his chest, pinning him in place and not doing him any favours as he tries not to suffocate.

He instinctively turns his head to his right, tries to roll over in spite of the weight on him, and it’s when the fog in his head finally starts clearing that he comes back to himself, remembering what kind of situation he finds himself in: his ears are still ringing from the explosion, the dust hasn’t yet cleared and his back and head ache from getting tackled by a Russian giant with mother hen tendencies.

Speaking of which— “Peril?” he manages to get out, the attempt immediately resulting in another coughing fit, if brief. His nose is at the height of Illya’s neck, and Illya’s arm on his right his covering his view of the room, where the door is supposed to be, if he remembers correctly.

He takes a breath, coughs only a little, takes it as a good sign.

“Peril?” he tries again, still a little strained. “Now would be a great time to get off of me.”

There’s no answer, because of course there’s no answer, nothing can ever be easy—he can feel him breathing, so there’s that, not much to worry about, but Napoleon would really like to roll over and finally take a deep breath, instead of lying down crushed by his partner’s dead weight—

Alright, alright, just—one thing at the time. He can’t just push him off, if he’s hurt that would probably do more damage. And he should take a look at the room first, see if the exit at least is still there. Also, getting his hands on his radio would be wonderful, assuming it’s still whole.

He removes Illya’s arm from his face, his own arm thankfully easy enough to free, and yes, the door is still where it’s supposed to be, the explosion didn’t tear down the whole building. So, assuming that he can wake Illya up at some point or another, they should be able to walk out of there. Or be carried out. That’s good.

With some more coughing and muttered curses because god is he sore, he quickly tries to check Illya out for injuries, part of him still hoping that he can convince himself to roll him over without worrying too much, because he’d really like some room to breathe now—but no, he reaches for the back of his head and his fingers come back bloody, and he finds he was stabbed by something that Napoleon can’t see. Possibly some rod. It’s too low to have hit a kidney, so there’s that, but it still hammers home that moving him is definitely not the smartest idea.

“Okay, great—” he mutters, quickly realizing that he doesn’t even have any means to try and deal with the bleeding at the moment.

The only saving grace is that he can get his hands on his radio, which seems to have survived the whole ordeal.

“Gaby?”

The answer is pretty much instantaneous, and at too high volume for his tastes. “Where are you?! There was an explosion.”