Welcome to Whumpay 2026! Up above you will see the basic prompt list and down below the cut you will see it written out in a list as well the rules and the mini challenges/alternate prompts!
Rules are the same as usual -
You only have to use one prompt of the prompts for each day! But youâre welcome to use multiple if you want to. You can also combine days and it counts for both.
I know the description of the blog says itâs a writing event, but if you want to draw or make other kinds of content, thatâs cool too.
Have fun, tag content warnings (such as noncon, graphic violence, etc) and try not to be crushed by the mortifying ordeal of posting your writing.
The mini challenges this year also function as your alternate prompts, you can replace a day with one of them if none of the prompts that day work for you.
This is a pretty chill event so you can start posting whenever but Iâll be reblogging posts made to the #Whumpay2026 tag throughout May.Â
If you have any questions or need ideas, send an ask!
If you use Ai Iâll hunt you for sport.
and an extra special thanks to everyone who suggested prompts.
MAIN PROMPT LIST:
Day One - Accidentally Hurting A Friend / âNothingâs wrong, stop asking!.â / PTSDÂ Â
Day Two - Sole Survivor / âPlease donât leave me.â / Trapped UndergroundÂ
Day Three - Blackmail / âDonât make me do this.â / Suicide Attempt
Day four - Stockholm Syndrome / âStop fighting it.â / Touch Starvation
Day Five - Came Back Wrong / âWhat have you done to me?â / Body Horror
Day Six - Rescued Too Late / Unable To Speak / Mouth Sewn Shut
Day Seven - Gaslighting / âWhy did you lie to me?â / Incest
Day Eight - Chemical Restraint / âItâs for your own good.â / Caretaker Burnout
Day Nine - Excessive Drinking / âYouâre going to kill yourself doing this.â / GriefÂ
Day Ten - Hiding An Injury / âItâs not as bad as it looks.â / Reopened Wound
Day Eleven -Â Protecting An Injury / âLook at me. Deep breaths.â / Internal Bleeding
Day Twelve - Whumper Turned Whumpee / âYou thought I wouldnât notice?â / Trauma Reveal
 Day Thirteen - Anger Born Of Worry / âNever do that again.â / AppendicitisÂ
Day Fourteen - Shared Pain / âThis is all your fault!â / Broken RibsÂ
Day Fifteen - Forced To Watch / âNo one is coming to save you.â / Waterboarding
Day Sixteen - Crying Wolf / âWhy wonât you believe me?â / Hallucinations
Day Seventeen - Self-Defense Killing / âDoes it ever get easier?â / Adrenaline Crash
Day Eighteen - Fingers in Wound / âWait, what are youâdonâtâ!â / Arterial Bleeding
Day Nineteen - Makeshift Weapon / âDonât come any closer!â / Backed Into A Corner
Day Twenty - Living Weapon / âI know youâre in there somewhereâ Fight /Â Head Injury
Day Twenty-One - Sadistic Choice / âPlease, Iâll do anythingâŚâ / Deathbed Confessions
Day Twenty-Two - Feed A Cold, Starve A Fever / âHow long have you felt like this?â / Stress-Induced Illness
Day Twenty-Three - Last-Minute Rescue / âOh god, thatâs a lot of blood.â / Loss Of Extremity
Day Twenty-Four - Hurting To Help / âI swear, I wouldnât do this if I didnât have to.â / Bone MalunionÂ
Day Twenty-Five - Betrayal / Collapsing In The Middle Of A Sentence / Self-Surgery
Day Twenty-Six - Villain Whumpee / âWhy are you doing this to me?â / Contrapasso
Day Twenty-Seven - Mental Breakdown / âIâm sorry, I canât help it.â / Withdrawal
Day Twenty-Eight -Forced Transformation / âThis isnât what I wanted.â /Â Dehumanization
Day Twenty-Nine -Â Field Medicine / Using Real Name For Impact / Barbed WireÂ
Day Thirty - Enemy To Caretaker / âIf anyone touches you, Iâll kill them.â / Failed Escape
Day Thirty-One - Time Loop / âI canât do this anymore!â / Character Death
MINI CHALLENGE #1 : FIVE DAYS
Day One - Hanahaki DiseaseÂ
Day Two - âI donât remember the last time I saw you smile.â Â
Day Three - Overworked
Day Four - Chronic Pain
Day Five - Fever-Induced DeliriumÂ
MINI CHALLENGE #2 : NINE DAYS
Day One - Caught In An Explosion
Day Two - Passing Out From Pain
Day Three - Loss Of Sense(s)
Day Four - Coughing Up Blood
Day Five - âWhy wonât you just leave me alone?!â
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Summary - Leon wants to get a bit more frisky in the bedroom but doesn't tell Reader this. As in some communication that needed to happen beforehand didn't happen
x gn! reader // ao3 link đ
tw/cw - under-negotiated kink + dubcon where consent is then rescinded
_~_ ⢠_~_ ⢠_~ ⢠~_
Younger!/RE4R! Leon who wants to get a little more frisky in the bedroom with Reader. Wrongfully thinking he could forgo communication and just ease them into it. The assumption that they'd cast him aside as being too naive to know what he wants. That and he had seen Reader positively react in the past when he degraded them. But that was after Reader had explicitly asked for him to do so. Having to coax him into it.
So not expecting it, they gasp when Leon manhandles them onto their stomach. Haphazardly yanking off their shorts and trousers. It's disorienting. How rushed it all feels. It wasn't that they didn't have enough time and all they could manage was a quickie. Rather, it feels out of character; sharp and abrupt.
âHey, hey, Leon. Slow down, thereâs no need to rush,â pleading at this point. He was deep into an unfamiliar headspace. Letting the agitation from his day at the police station guide him. âDonât deserve it,â is all Leon gruffs out. He had barely said a word since they had started. Too stern, too cold. Reader tried to wiggle away from himâan awkward sort of army crawl. âDidnât say you could go anywhere.â Emphasizing the words with a series of blows against their ass.
âSee, knew you could follow directions,â Leon retorted smugly when they froze. Suddenly unable to breathe. Leon didnât realize it but he had crossed a hard limit of theirâs. But they didnât have a safe word set up. âCount,â came the command.
âI donât hear counting.â It was a few smacks later when Reader was finally able to catch a breath.
âLeon, stop it! I donât want this! Didnât fucking agree to this!â Shouting to make sure he heard them loud and clear. Angry tears streaming down their face. When Leon finally recognized he had fucked up, he immediately pulled away from Reader. âShit, IâmâIâm so sorry.â In the moment, they were still pissed. Getting up to force some space between them, they grabbed their clothes. Redressing themselves, Reader left the apartment to get some air.
It was into the evening when they returned. Unlocking the door and toeing off their shoes. Leon had sat on the couch, brooding over what he had done. Cursing himself for assuming that itâd be fine to just jump off into the deep end. âWanna talk?â Reader gingerly asked him.
âYes,â Leon sighed out. Wanted wasnât the best word for it but he definitely needed to make amends. Refusing to let himself be the one to fuck over this relationship theyâd so carefully built. Reader sat on the recliner across from the couch. âI canât do spanking, have never been able to. Iâm not one for pain and my brain for some reason, has never been able to understand it.â That caught Leonâs attention.
Instead of questioning it, Leon nodded. He could inquire more about that later. âOkay, wonât do that again.â He let the silence grow uncomfortable before gathering his thoughts. Scratching at his stubble. âIâm sorry. Made a bunch of assumptions and got way too in my head. I just wanted to try something new.â
âWhy didnât you?â Reader asked.
âI donât know. Thought youâd might laugh at me or think it was stupid.â Trying to express that he didnât know how it had first started. That it had somehow morphed into a molehill thanks to a good dose of spiralling.
âThat I might judge you?â They offered. Seeing him nod, they continued, âLeon, the worst I wouldâve said is no. Not here to judge you, we both get enough of that at work and in the outside world.â
âBut next time you get any ideas like this again, please talk to me first.â
Tw/Cw - objectification, unconsensual body modification, & obsessive behavior
Whumper who tattoos their name along whumpee's hip or side. In thick black ink as a form of ownership. Paying the tattoo artist extra to make it as painful as possible.
The tattoo takes up so much room that getting a coverup is damn near impossible. Extremely readable even from afar. Oriented upside down from Whumpee's perspective, looking down at their body.
Whumper picking a pretty, ornate font as a form of adornment. Seeing Whumpee as another one of their belongings instead of a person.
Or making it seem like Whumpee chose it during a drunk bender or simply a stupid tattoo by getting a more gaudy font type. Which only draws more eyes to it.
With Whumper paying extra, it turns out to be more a scratcher tattoo. With the tattoo artist going too deep, the lines end up extremely blurry. Giving it more of a hazy double-vision sort of look. Making it take long to heal.
During it, Whumpee had bit his tongue hard enough that they tasted blood. Mouth filling with that familiar taste of copper. It was pure agony sitting in the chair. If Whumpee has no tattoos, they're like "surely, not all tattoos feel like this." Assuming that their pain tolerance had lower with how long they've been in Whumper's "care"
There's a scar like quality to it with raised it ends up being. Eventually healing but not without infection. Not like Whumper kept Whumpee's enclosure all that clean or sterile to begin with. Caked in a mix of Whumpee's bodily fluids that reeked. It'd been that long since Whumper has last cleaned.
The lines become heavily raised, noticeably swelling. Whumpee whimpers when fabric brushes against it. The area of skin feels so warm. Like molten lava had been injected there, it hurts to touch. Itâs only when the yellow pus appears that Whumper gets them any help. An expired pill bottle of antibiotics. The scabs that form steals some of the black ink, making the design patchy as hell.Â
If Whumper is the 'I should be the only one to see Whumpee's body' type of obsessive, they give Whumpee a more symbolic tattoo. Something that only the two of them would get. Something that makes people ask the meaning behind it. Even when they escape and are securely with Caretaker, Whumpee can't forget the time they spent with Whumper.
People think it's something very sentimental when Whumpee gets all choked up as they attempt to answer. Usually Caretaker is the one to evade the question. Always finding a way to wave off the question.
Caretaker eventually saves up enough to pay for a coverup. Trying to save it up quick when they see Whumpee try to carve it off their body. Not able to go through with it as the pain proves to be too much.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Project Hail Mary - Andy Weir
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Ryland Grace & Eva Stratt
Characters: Ryland Grace, Eva Stratt
Additional Tags: Ryland Grace Needs a Hug, POV Ryland Grace, Ryland Grace Has a Bad Time, Ryland Grace Whump, Whump, Whumpay 2026, Whumpay Challenge, no beta we die like the rest of the crew, Eva Stratt is the Switch Operator in the Trolley Problem, Canon - Book, Ryland Grace loves the Earth, Crying Ryland Grace, Ryland Grace is Non-Consensually Sent to Outer Space, Ryland Grace is Down Bad, Baikonur Cosmodrome (Project Hail Mary), Handcuffs, But really not like THAT
Series: Part 7 of Whumpay 2026
Summary:
Whumpay 2026 Day 7: "Why did you lie to me?"
Book canon compliant rather than movie. Stratt visits Grace on the second day he is held in the cell at Baikonur, and Grace gets to touch the Earth one last time on his own terms. You might think that might help make this whole sequence easier? It does not.
Whumpay 2026 day 1: Accidentally hurting a friend / PTSD
Hey remember when I said you should never grab Atlas from behind?
Also DISCLAIMER I'm referring to Thomas with he/him pronouns here because this was the very early days of her and Atlas' relationship (since by now she's very familiar with nearly all of Atlas' traits), and therefore years before she figured herself out.
Day 2: Trapped underground
ŕ¨âŻâââŻŕ§
Angst
TWs
âž choking
âž trauma
ŕ¨âŻâââŻŕ§
Atlas knew Thomas had entered the roomâ even before they learned to attune it for danger, their hearing had always been keen. While they were too focused to lift their pen from parchment, a fond little grin twitched at the corners of their mouth. The heir had taken to spending more time at their apartment, as modest as it was, and that fact pleased them as much as what was beginning to bloom between the pair of them.
âAtlas?â
They began to turn, drew in air to respond-
There was a hand grabbing their shoulder from behind. Alien fingers twisted into the fabric of their waistcoat. They did not wait to find out if they were about to be dragged someplace or attacked.
In hindsight, Thomas could not even remember why he wanted to get Atlasâ attention. One moment his hand was on their shoulder, the next he was on the ground beside their fallen chair, head throbbing and a forearm pressed to his throat. He choked on limited air, feet spasming below Atlasâ taut form, head spinning from how quickly he had been taken down.
His mind reeled with alarm, thoughts racing to and fro attempting to reconcile what was happening, why it was happening, only for his eyes to catch on those of Atlas.
Thomas had seen that expression once before, years ago, as a boy. On the face of a wealthy colonel, one of the few officers that chose to be on the ground with his men in the Campaign of â88, after a member of the waitstaff at a gala accidentally dropped a tray. The man had gone into a panic and began calling out orders to men who were not there, reaching for a cutlass that was actually a decorative sword accompanying his formal uniform. Not to harm, mind, but to raise it with a rallying cry. Any remaining details were lost to his motherâs skirts, behind which he hid for the rest of the evening. One of said lost details was how, exactly, the colonel had been calmed.
He opened his mouth, maybe to say something reassuring, only for naught but the weakest of sounds to make it past his compressed throat.
Atlas held steady, mind stumbling to catch up to their vision as it frantically cycled through possibilities of what or who came for them in their own home. Theirs and hopefully soon-
Oh. It was Thomas beneath them.
The moment they realized this, Atlas let up and scrambled back, heart wrenching itself in twain. Phantom feelings of hands vanished, replaced with a vice around their lungs and ice in their veins.
Thomas shot into a seated position, legs askew on the ground as he wheezed, color and relief flooding to his face. Unsteady fingers came to delicately brush against his neck, sore but undamaged (he was fairly certain).
âWhyâŚâ He could not finish his question through a sudden coughing fit.
âI- am sorry. I am so, so sorry, I wholly did not mean it, I- I would never hurt you, I-â
The growing bruise on Thomasâ throat proved otherwise. Atlasâ hands shook along with the rest of them, and they stopped themself from reaching out to comfort. They could not imagine it being accepted. They could not imagine anything of theirs could be accepted by Thomas, now, but they still owed him an answer.
âI thought⌠I do not know what I thought. That you were a gaoler, come to hurt me. A fighter. A beast. A⌠a physiology professor pulling me down onto a table. Danger. I do not know.â Their speech was rushed. âBut I would have never done such a thing had I realized-!â
âSo you were somewhere else, and not yourself.â Despite how weak it was, Thomasâ voice halted Atlas in their tracks.
âBut I⌠did this. I hurt you.â Tears pooled upon Atlasâ lower eyelids, but they swallowed them back. It was not their right.
âDo you know how- gentle you are?â Thomas asked, voice raspy between lingering coughs. âI would never- think this is you.â His head throbbed, his throat ached, and he was not entirely certain of why he was not as frightened as he imagined he should be. Even so, all he could think about was the look in Atlas' eyes when they knelt over him, the look in the colonel's eyes those decades ago.
Fear.
ŕ¨âŻâââŻŕ§
I may add to this but for now I like the tone of its ending.
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Summary;Â The winter in St. Petersburg is merciless this year
â ď¸Â content advisory: intimate whumper, vampire whumper, carewhumper, old man whumpee, captivity, sickfic (fever)
Fandom: original work |Â WRITING MASTERLISTÂ |Â RETAIL THERAPY MASTERLIST
Notes: fill for day 1 of Whumpay - âNothingâs wrong, stop asking!â
Victor stopped counting days months ago.
He used to scratch the wall, but now the marks have faded into nothing more than discolorations. Some nights he simply forgets to add another mark. The only way to tell time is by meals. Three meals means a day has passed.
He has limited freedoms now. He chooses what he eats from the carefully curated menu the cook prepares. Somehow Zima has already informed the staff about his high blood pressure; every dish that arrives is thoughtfully low in salt and rich in vegetables. He can ask for books and Zima almost always indulges him, though the selections are limited: Dostoevsky, theological texts, and a few contemporary novels. On rare clear days when Zima is in a generous mood, he is allowed a supervised walk in the garden.
Victor cherishes those moments more than he cares to admit. The cold air on his face, the crunch of snow under his boots⌠It is still a cage, but a softer cage nonetheless.
Zima left for Australia a week ago. âSummer down under,â the vampire then said with that boyish grin, adjusting his glasses as he packed. âDonât look so devastated, darling. Iâll call.â
Victor hadnât responded. He had only watched in silence as Zima disappeared through the door.
He is glad now that Zima is not in the estate. The winter in St. Petersburg is merciless this year, with heavy snow and days so short they feel like prolonged twilight. Victor spends most of his time locked in the guest room, wrapped in layers of blanket. Somehow he is always cold.
His health has been deteriorating slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. It began with the tiredness that never quite lifted. Then came the paleness. Some mornings he wakes up feverish. He told himself it was nothing. Just the winter. Just the accumulation of stress, lack of sunlight, and meaningful movement.
He never misses his blood pressure medication when Zima is present. The vampire makes sure of it. But when Zima is away, Victor occasionally skips it. Not out of deliberate rebellion; he simply forgets. Or is exhausted. Some nights he is already half-asleep when the tray arrives. On those nights the pill remains untouched on the nightstand until morning.
Tonight his fever creeps higher.
It does not crash over him all at once. It rises gradually. Victor lies curled on his side under a thick blanket, shivering violently despite the sweat beading on his forehead. His body aches in deep, bone-weary waves. Every breath feels slightly labored. The room spins whenever he tries to sit up.
His tea sits untouched, long gone cold. When the staff brings dinnerâa chicken broth and soft breadâVictor gives him snappish, irritable responses. Victor tells them he is not hungry.
He cannot even smell the food properly anymore. The fragrant aroma of coffee now turns his stomach. His lips are cracked and dry. His reaction time has slowed. Reaching for the glass of water takes conscious effort. He feels like he is moving through honey or jelly.
The phone on the nightstand buzzes. Victor stares at the screen for several long seconds before he finally answers Zimaâs video call. He keeps the angle unflattering, hoping that it hides how pale and drawn he looks.
Zima appears against a backdrop of bright Australian sunshine, his dark curls tousled by ocean wind, linen shirt open at the collar. He greets Victor, "Darling. You look terrible. What's wrong?"
Victor steadies his voice, âIâm fine.â
He gives the shortest answers possibleâyes, he ate something earlier; no, he doesnât need anything special. He doesnât want to talk. Not really. Every word feels like effort, and he has no interest in entertaining Zima across half the world.
When Zima presses for details, Victor spits noncommittal replies, âNothingâs wrong, stop asking!â
The vampire finally ends the call with a promise to check in again tomorrow.
Victor lets the phone slip from his fingers and curls tighter under the blankets, teeth chattering softly. He refuses to ask for help. Not from the staff. Certainly not from Zima.
The next day, Zima returns to the estate. The vampire steps into the guest room without knocking. His gaze lands immediately on Victor, who is once again buried under layers of blankets, shivering hard.
Zimaâs pale eyes narrow behind his glasses, "You have a fever." It's not a question. âSince when?â
Victor cracks his eyes open. His teeth click together as another violent shiver runs through him. He hates how weak he sounds when he answers, âFew days agoâŚâ
Zima crosses the room in a few smooth strides and sits on the edge of the bed. Cool fingers press against Victorâs forehead, then slide down to cup his flushed cheek. The contrast between Zimaâs unnaturally cold skin and Victorâs burning heat is stark.
The vampire exhales slowly, a quiet Russian mutter slipping from his lips. His expression is unreadable for a moment.
"Stubborn man," Zima says, though there's no real heat in it.
Victor wants to snap back, wants to say something about Australia and summer and how easy it must be for Zima to forget the man he keeps locked away. But another wave of chills wracks his body, leaving him trembling too hard to form the words. He pulls the blankets higher instead, trying to disappear beneath them.
Zima watches him for a long moment, then reaches for the bedside phone and says something in Russian. When he hangs up, he turns back to Victor and begins peeling away one of the heavier blankets.
âEnough of this. The doctor is coming. And you," he says firmly, âare going to take your medication properly from now on. No more skipping.â
Victor closes his eyes, too exhausted to argue. The fever pulls at the edges of his consciousness, making everything feel distant and heavy. He shivers again as Zimaâs hand rests against the back of his neck.
Within thirty minutes, the doctor arrives. He appears to be human, a man with a neat beard and heavy medical bag. Somehow Victor can sense that he's accustomed to being summoned at odd hours by the master of the estate.
Victor lies listless under the blankets, shivering intermittently. He watches through half-lidded eyes as the doctor sets up his equipment. Zima stands nearby, arms crossed, his pale gaze never leaving Victorâs face. He watches every movement with unnerving closeness.
The doctor works fast. He checks Victorâs temperature, listens to his lungs, takes his blood pressure, and shines a light into his eyes. Fingers press against Victorâs wrist, counting pulses. Victor remains mostly silent, answering questions in short mumbles. Thankfully the doctor knows how to speak English.
At one point the doctor glances toward Zima. âHis blood pressure is elevated, and he has a significant fever. Likely a respiratory infection worsened by exhaustion and⌠irregular medication.â
Zima looks at Victor and Victor stares at the ceiling. In the fog of his fever, a strange thought surfaces. He finds himself missing Arkady. The cold, indifferent doctor would have taken one look at him and said "You'll live" in a flat tone before walking away.
The doctor finishes his examination and speaks quietly to Zima in Russian. Victor catches only fragmentsâsomething about antibiotics, rest, fluids, and monitoring the blood pressure closely. Zima nods once, then dismisses the man with a polite gesture.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind the doctor, Zima returns to the bedside. He holds a small glass of water and two pillsâone for the fever, one for blood pressure.
âSit up,â Zima orders.
Victor shakes his head weakly, âI can do it myself.â
He tries to reach for the pills, but his hand trembles so badly that Zima simply catches his wrist and steadies it. The vampireâs touch is cool against his overheated skin.
âOpen your mouth.â
Victor wants to protest but he feels like he's pulled under. His thoughts are slow and heavy. His eyelids droop. When he finally parts his lips, the words that come out are drowsy and surprisingly blunt, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Zimaâs lips curve into a humorless smile, âI prefer you conscious and sharp-tongued, darling. This version is... not to my liking." He slips the pills onto Victorâs tongue and lifts the glass to his lips, âDrink.â
Victor swallows obediently, though a trickle of water escapes the corner of his mouth. Zima wipes it away with his thumb without comment.
The vampire then disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a basin of cool water and a soft cloth. He sits on the edge of the bed, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and begins gently wiping Victorâs fever-flushed face and neck. The cool cloth feels like heaven and torture at the same time.
Victor shifts restlessly. âStop⌠I donât need you to do this.â
âQuiet,â Zima says calmly, continuing his work. He moves the cloth down to Victorâs chest, unbuttoning the top of his pajama shirt with ease. âYouâre burning up. The doctor said to keep your temperature down.â
Victor makes a weak sound of protest, trying to push Zimaâs hand away, but there is no real strength behind it. He is being dragged deeper into drowsiness. His words come out slurred and unguarded, "I hate when you're nice. It's like you're playing house with your hostage."
Zima just chuckles in response. He wrings out the cloth and folds it again, placing it across Victorâs forehead, âYou think this is nice? Iâm simply protecting my property. If you die from something as silly as the flu, it will be very disappointing.â
He reaches for the glass again and holds it to Victorâs lips, âMore water. Drink.â
Victor turns his head slightly, stubborn even through the haze, âDonât want any.â
Zimaâs hand slides to the back of Victorâs neck, supporting his head as he brings the glass closer, âYou will drink, or I will pour it down your throat myself. Choose.â
With a tired sigh, Victor parts his lips and takes slow sips. Some of the water dribbles down his chin anyway. Zima patiently wipes it away.
Victor's eyelids flutter shut as another shiver rolls through him. Zima adjusts the blankets, tucking them more securely around Victorâs trembling frame, then resumes wiping the sweat from his skin.
âRest now, darling,â Zima says. âIâm not going anywhere.â
And true to his words, Zima does not leave.
After the doctor departs and the medication begins to take hold, he simply removes his glasses, sets them on the nightstand, and settles into the armchair beside the bed. The staff brings him a change of clothes and he changes his own clothes.
Victor just watches, too drained to shoo Zima away. His hatred has dulled under the weight of the fever and the drugs. Every time he tries to summon the familiar resentment, it slips away. He is simply too weak to maintain it.
Zima returns to the bed with a fresh basin of cool water and a clean cloth. He sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that Victor can feel the unnatural coolness radiating from his body.
âShirt off,â Zima says.
Victor makes a sound of disagreement, but his arms are heavy and clumsy. Zima does not wait for cooperation. He unbuttons the pajama top with gentle fingers and eases the damp fabric off Victorâs shoulders, leaving his upper body bare to the cool air of the room. The contrast against his fevered skin makes Victor shiver harder.
Zima dips the cloth into the water, wrings it out, and begins to wipe him down properly. The coolness soothes the burning heat, but it also makes Victor feel exposed in a way that goes beyond nudity. Every pass of the cloth feels too intimate, itâs not supposed to happen.
âYouâre trembling,â Zima murmurs. He folds the cloth and places it on Victorâs body. âThe fever is still high.â
âI know.â
Zima continues his work in silence for a while, occasionally refreshing the cloth. When Victorâs breathing grows too shallow, Zima lifts his head with one cool hand and brings the glass of water mixed with electrolytes to his lips.
âSmall sips.â
As the hours drag on into the deep night, the care becomes even more intimate.
Zima helps Victor to the bathroom when he needs it, supporting most of his weight when his legs threaten to buckle. Victor leans heavily against him, mortified by his own weakness but too drained to do anything about it. He wipes Victor down again after, removing the sticky sweat from his skin before dressing him in clean pajamas.
At one point, when Victorâs fever spikes and the chills become violent, Zima climbs onto the bed behind him, pulling Victor back against his chest. His cool body acts like a living ice pack. Zimaâs arms wrap loosely around Victorâs waist to hold him steady while the worst of the tremors pass.
For a brief moment, as Zima adjusts his hold, Victor catches a glimpse of the vampireâs face in the low lamplight.
There is genuine worry in Zima's visage. His pale eyes are darker than usual, focused entirely on Victor. It is fleeting, gone in less than a second as Zima schools his expression back, but Victor sees it.
He dismisses it immediately. Itâs not a worry for me, Victor thinks bitterly. Itâs worry for his property. His favorite toy. He just doesnât want me to break before heâs finished playing.Â
Victor should hate it. He should feel violated by the closeness, by how easily Zima handles his body. But the hatred will not come. He is too exhausted, too sick, too relieved by the steady coolness against his overheated skin.
Instead, a private panic begins to bloom in the back of his mind. Not about dying. He is not afraid of death right now. What terrifies him is how good this feels. How safe Zimaâs arms feel when his body is falling apart. How he no longer flinches when those depraved hands touch him.
What if I need this? the thought whispers in the fever haze. What if I stop fighting and just⌠let it be?
The realization sends a different kind of shiver through Victor. He tries to pull away slightly, but Zima only tightens his hold.
âStay still,â Zima says against his hair.
Victor closes his eyes. His throat feels tight. Fuck. He cannot voice his contempt toward Zima. He loathes being dependent like this. Fucking needy like this.
Zima continues the quiet vigil through the night. He refreshes the cool cloths, forces small sips of water, and keeps Victorâs body pressed against his own whenever the fever makes him shake uncontrollably.
In the morning, when Victorâs fever finally begins to break and his breathing evens out into something closer to real sleep, Zima brushes damp strands of hair from Victorâs forehead, âGet well soon, darling.â
Victor hears the words through the fog of exhaustion. He does not reply. He simply lets himself drift, held securely in the arms of the vampire who has taken everything from himâand who is now, terrifyingly, the only thing keeping him together.