#ai-less whumptober day three

[th3sp4rr0w]

A03 Link <- Starts at Chapter/Day One for those just joining us :))

Prompts for Day Three; Sensory Deprivation/Overstimulation/Isolation

Alt. Prompt for Day Three; Separated From Loved Ones

Prompts Used; All

Tw; Emotional Manipulation, Violence, Injury, Autistic Meltdowns, Meltdown-Based Self Harm/Self Induced Injury, Internalized Ableism

Disclaimer; I have autism. The meltdown Danny has closely resembles a bad one for me. Autism looks different to different people, and I don't want to say that my experience is the only valid one bc obviously that's not true. People experience it in all different ways. Please don't make fun of his meltdown or make fun of anyone that may share their experiences in the comments. Just be nice to me and to others okay thank you <33

Link is to the A03 story for those seeing this for the first time and wanting to check it out and the chapter is under the cut :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Talking with Sheila over the next week was like a dream that had come true.  

Like Jason had predicted, it hadn’t healed the wounds his mom’s passing had left. He hadn’t expected it would and wasn’t disappointed it didn’t, in the same way that he hadn’t expected being adopted by Bruce to heal the hurt Willis Todd had left somewhere inside him through the years. Though neither could heal the wounds the people that raised him had left, they both soothed it in ways he couldn’t seem to understand.  

He hadn’t called Sheila ‘mom’. He felt like that title would always belong to the woman who sang to him when he was small and gave him his love for reading. One day, though, he could see himself giving Sheila a different title of affection. Maybe ‘mama’, he hadn’t really decided yet, but the thought was similar enough to the couple times he had slipped and called Bruce ‘papa’.  

He still didn’t know how to process it when she told him she loved him a day into messaging back and forth. It was somewhere between elated and nauseous. He could count on one hand the number of times Bruce had told him he loved him in the last year, yet here Sheila was, giving it out like it was candy. He felt something weird curl in his stomach, but ignored it, assuming that it was a good weird, or something he’d picked up living with Bruce. Living with that nut case could make anyone extra paranoid. He still didn’t say he loved her, and how could he? He still hadn’t said those words to Bruce.  

Through their messages late at night (For him, he reminded himself- Ethiopia was seven hours ahead of them, and she often times could only message early in the morning or midafternoon her time), he found out she had left both of “her” boys with Willis, and was extremely concerned to hear that her little Daniel wasn’t with him... which was weird, because the file Bruce had clearly stated that she had taken his twin? He chalked it up to a miscommunication error Bruce didn’t have communication errors .  

He’d also learned about the crime that had caused her to flee to a different country. Apparently, the girl's parents had begged her to do some operation on her that they couldn’t afford. She would’ve died without it and was too far gone to save. It, admittedly, contradicted the information he had found in the bat-cave, but Bruce had dropped the case for a reason, right?  

Batman would never make that big of a mistake on a case like that.  

She wrote out stories of her life for him to pour over, from her current life at the horn to when she and da- Willis. To when she and Willis had met and fell in love. She said that she had hoped that, when they were old enough, her boys (and wasn’t that something, being one of her boys) would contact her exactly like Jason had. It had started looking grim, whether his twin was still out there in the world or not. He didn’t dare voice that to Sheila just yet, hoping for her sake that he was okay. She seemed like she was so worried about them over the years, especially now that she knows they were separated.  

She asked him about himself, how he had gone into Bruce’s custody, how he liked living with Bruce, how his adopted brother was, how school was going. It was everything he had imagined her doing.  

She was also wicked smart. You had to be to go into medicine, but especially since she had been living in Ethiopia, where hardly any English was spoken. Her area mostly spoke Amharic, she said, but living in the capital of the country she saw all sorts of people that spoke all sorts of languages. He started learning so he could visit her one day, even if the alphabet of the language did intimidate him just a little bit.  

She had so much to say to him, it made his head go a bit fuzzy. Getting to know her, telling her things about his life, getting a nickname from her (ሰማያዊ ጄይ ወፍ -she refused to tell him what it meant, stating it would give him a little extra motivation to learn). There was really only a couple of things that Jason hadn’t... loved about the whole thing.  

First; Bruce had tracked the Joker to around her area in Ethiopia. It was still unclear how exactly he’d gotten out of the country, but he had. The clown was way too close to her for his comfort, and there was no way to warn her without telling her everything.  

The second thing was that, after Bruce had found an excuse to visit Ethiopia “for a meeting” so they could stay for a while without too much fear of the media finding out and causing a ruckus, Jason had wanted to tell him so they could go see her. Dick was going to space for a Titan’s mission, so if he just told him about it when he got back, then he would probably be too excited on Jason’s behalf to get mad at Bruce that much, right? Except, when Jason went to tell Sheila the good news, she had all but begged him not to tell Bruce about her yet.  

He hadn’t known what to make of that.  

Her reasoning had been that she was worried Bruce would take it as a threat. Big ol’ goofball Brucie Wayne would take one look at her and assume she was attempting to steal away the precious boy he had loved and cared about for over a year. Except, when he tried to tell her there was absolutely no way he’d ever think like that, would be overjoyed even on Jason’s behalf, she had outright dismissed him. When he pushed it, she got annoyed and more defensive.  

He guessed he could understand where she was coming from. He’d probably be a little nervous in her position, too, but she was so vehemently against Bruce even knowing he knew about her...  

He didn’t know what to do.  

He sat through his classes, distracted and dazed. What if he couldn’t introduce them before Bruce found out Jason had gone behind his back? Then Dick would be mad at both of them for keeping something important from him, even if it was none of his business. He didn’t even know how Alfred would react. He was pretty sure the man would probably be on his side...? Then again, he had been pretty sure Sheila would want to meet his family.  

He felt a harsh poke to his shoulder. He looked over at the tiny boy next to him.  

He raised his eyebrows, looked over to the teacher then back at the older boy in silent conversation. He had a way of doing that; making you feel scolded without ever opening his mouth. Most days Jason isn’t sure if the boy is on par with or better at it than Alfred . It was inspiring and terrifying all at once. Jason didn’t know if he wanted to learn how to do it or if he never wanted the other boy to do that again.  

He shrugged, eyes flickering to the abandoned sheet on his desk before settling back on the boy next to him.  

He rolled his eyes, looking back up to the board as the teacher droned on.  

Jason returned to his thoughts. He wondered briefly if he could get away with going on his phone, but decided against it. Even if the teacher didn’t notice, the little stalker next to him would. He was reasonably sure he wouldn’t snitch, but he would ask uncomfortable questions. It was hard to deny the boy anything, his big owl eyes boring into his soul and making him want to cater to the kid’s every need.  

He wasn’t fully sure that the baby bird wasn’t a meta.  

The moment the bell rang, the boy had grabbed Jason’s wrist to prevent him from hiding out in a bathroom to see if Sheila had emailed him yet. When Jason attempted to protest, he glared at him. Jason followed obediently after him.  

He allowed the boy to take them to their regular empty classroom in the back of the library. They’re pretty sure everyone forgot about it since they changed librarians again, since they never see any sign anyone else ever uses it. He started pulling food from his lunchbox as the other boy started talking.  

“You need to tell me what’s going on with you, Jason,” he started. “You’ve been acting so weird, and you’re avoiding me-”  

“I’m not avoiding you!” Jason protested immediately. “If I was avoiding you, I’d be doing a damn better job at it,” he muttered.  

The other boy looked about as intimidating as a baby chihuahua as he glared at him. “You may not realize it yet, but you absolutely are. You always get like this when you have something on your mind that you haven’t figured out how to say, so say it. What happened? Did you get in another fight with Dick?” his voice was gentler than it had been previously by the end of it.  

Jason sighed. “No, baby bird, it’s just... I found something out last week. Something Bruce definitely knew about. And I don’t know what to do about it.”  

“So spill. We can workshop it together, okay? We can figure this out, Jace.”  

And he did. Jason spilled everything, from finding out Catherine wasn’t his bio mom, to contacting Sheila, to Ethiopia (though, he kept Joker out of it; as far as the baby bird knew, Bruce had a business trip and decided to give Alfred a break for the weekend).  

The kid had looked at him afterwards. “So, Sheila-” he looked at Jason questioning, and when he gave a nod he went on, “-Sheila is the one who gave birth to you, and wants to meet you on your dad’s-”  

“Bruce isn’t my dad,” Jason denied.  

“Fine, Mr. Wayne’s-”  

“Call him Bruce!”  

“ Mr. Wayne’s ,” he emphasized, ignoring Jason’s groans, “Business trip, but she doesn’t want you to tell Mr. Wayne you know or that you’re going to meet her?”  

“Pretty much,” Jason replied miserably.  

“Well, you know what you have to do, right?”  

“What’s that?”  

“You listen to her,” he said seriously, beginning to take some of the celery sticks and peanut butter Alfred had packed them.  

Jason looked at him a minute. “What do you mean?”  

“Well, she’s an adult,” he started, crunching on his celery, “She must have a reason she doesn’t want him to know. Just trust her, okay? It’ll all work out.”  

Jason shrugged, finally grabbing a sandwich and chewing on it thoughtfully, “Yeah, probably. I just...”  

He trailed off. The child looked at him expectantly.  

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up. Alfie knows something’s up, I think, and it’s tearing me up to keep quiet about it.”  

He heard a hum. “Yeah, but this isn’t just about you. It’s Sheila’s life, too, and she’s the adult. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”  

Jason sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, birdie.”  

The other boy beamed at him, “You’re welcome, Jayjay.”  

Jason smiled back at him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d believe anything that little menace tried to convince him of as long as he had that faux innocent grin.  

Hell, he did know better, and some part of him still believed the little shit.  

The baby bird had made a good point. Sheila did already have a reason to keep this from Bruce, and there was probably one she couldn’t tell him. He’d hadn’t told her he was Robin; they’d only been chatting for a week. On the other hand...  

He felt guilty for not telling his family. He could tell Alfred was worried sick, and Bruce had started catching on. Dick was too busy to notice anything yet, but it was only a matter of time that he’d be home and Jason would have to start lying to him , too...  

He tried to throw himself in his schoolwork the rest of the day, worrying at his lip all the while. When Alfred picked him up at the end of the day, he didn’t know what to say. Finding her had been a dream come true, but sometimes, it felt like he was dirty. Like he was doing something he knew he shouldn’t be during patrol and Batman was right behind him, watching him screw up and boring his disappointed gaze at him all the while.  

He went to his room, barely saying ‘hi’ to Bruce in his study. He did his homework, texted the boy next door about notes he missed being zoned out through the day, helped him with his questions, took his hour-long pre-patrol nap, and got ready.  

When he was Robin, his problems were supposed to go away. They did, for the most part. As Robin, he was invincible, he could hop from roof top to roof top without a care in the world and just... let loose. Jason Todd wasn’t supposed to exist in the suit. He was Robin. But not tonight.  

No, tonight seemed worse, somehow. No matter how hard he tried, or how focused he pretended to be, he couldn’t stop thinking about her and the gnawing feeling that something was wrong, wrong, wrong-  

Maybe that’s why, when Batman and Robin ambushed that trafficking ring they’d found in its early stages, he was distracted. It was such a blur; one second, he was fighting bad guys and kicking butt like Robin does, and the next he was blindly clawing at his own face, actively trying to get his mask off.  

This had probably happened too many times to count, especially in the early days. When you’re a vigilante, sometimes, people do messed up things to you, like pour strange chemicals on your body. The league (and Batman... mostly Batman-) designed suits specifically for when bad guys poured strange chemicals on it, to keep them from hurting you too bad so you can keep fighting. When that skin is exposed, say, on your face, that’s a different story.  

They hadn’t wanted anything too abrasive on the face, since that would rub the sensitive skin raw and make mask-shaped red rings against it, and that’s bad for the secret identity. If Bruce Wayne had Batman-cowl shaped red marks on his face every day, eventually someone would put two and two together and make four. Before he and the team developed the right combo, he apparently got really good at make-up, but then the bat had gotten a certain little bird. 9 yr old Dick Grayson hated the way it felt, but he couldn’t go to school every day with marks on his chubby baby cheeks.  

So, Batman spent months perfecting the best mix of protective and comfortable. He had designed the mask so, while not as soak-proof as the rest of the outfit, you had some time to get it off should anything happen. In addition, the lenses suctioned to the skin, gently enough not to create lasting marks but well enough that nothing should enter and get into the wearer’s eyes in most situations.  

The lenses were enforced, but not unbreakable. They absorbed as much of the impact as possible without completely shattering, but they would crack so they wouldn’t break your eye socket when you got hit in the face. So, if someone were to, say, punch you real hard near both of your eyes while wearing brass knuckles, then pour chemicals on your face, you’d be in some deep trouble.  

The stars had aligned tonight for the worst possible scenario to become reality.  

Jason was screaming, he thought. He clawed at the mask, trying his hardest to get it off with his gloves on as the noise of the fight surrounded him. He wasn’t sure what happened, but when he felt strong arms try to grab him, he fought with all he had left.  

A voice flickered in and out of his adrenaline-fueled stupor, “Ro-… Okay, you... ‘in, Shhh, Robin, it’s me.”  

He finally realized it was just Batman and relaxed. He thought he was crying, it was hard to tell anymore.  

“Papa- papa, I can’t see,” he cried out as he started sobbing. He felt the strong arms around him start to pick him up.  

“Relax, I got you,” he murmured, then- “Agent A, I need you to prepare the med bay with saline and sterile syringes, prepped for flushing. We have a Robin with a clipped wing.” Papa adjusted his hold, starting to run towards where Jason was pretty sure they parked the bat-mobile.  

“Oh, dear,” he heard the butler reply in the comm. “What’s happened?”  

“I’ll fill you in at the Batcave.”  

He couldn’t hear Alfred’s reply over the rush of blood in his ears. He felt papa adjust him to open his door, leaning in the back seat to set him down and gently peel off his mask, rubbing under his right eye for a moment before buckling him in and closing the door. Moments later, he heard the door in front of him open and shut quickly, feeling it roar to life and tear down the road.  

Papa produced a bottle of water and talked him through opening it to pour onto his face. They were still going to flush when they got to the cave, he claimed, but getting as much of it off as early as possible was important. Jason did as he was told, tilting his head back and not bothering to close his eyes as he let the water pour down his burning cheeks. It felt cool against his skin, mixing with the sweat and grime.  

It was humiliating. He felt like he was in his early days again, messing up at every corner and leaving pap-, Batman, to clean up the mess.  

“What happened out there, Robin?” he heard the gruff voice ask from the front seat.  

“He- he had brass knuckles,” he gasped. “Hit me in the face a couple times and broke both my lenses,” if he knew the bat, he probably looked up at that, searching for any sign of bruising, “Then, someone poured the chemicals. Don’t know what they were, they had them stored in an unmarked glass bottle. Brown.”  

“Hn.”  

Jason cringed. It had felt right in the moment, but any time either he or Dick had called out for some version of “dad” in battle, it brought out the worst version of Batman. Overprotective, obsessive, and violent (always towards others, never towards them. Never them, even if sometimes they might deserve it). This version of Batman, who barely wants to let them go live their lives in fear of having them out of his sight. Jason wasn’t going to be patrolling by himself for the rest of the week, if he was allowed to patrol at all.  

His eyes stung. The vision was slowly starting to come back, but it was blurry. He could see some blocks of color; the dash looked like a solid black thing with specs of blue. If he tried to squint, he could barely make out the little ears on Bruce’s cowl for a couple seconds before he the pain was too much and he had to close his eyes again.  

The rest of the night was a blur. He remembered Bruce holding his head gently in his lap as Alfred flushed out his eyes, examining them carefully. Bruce used his mask to find what chemicals were used and, thankfully, they weren’t too potent. They had flushed his eyes in time, and tonight shouldn’t have any lasting effects.  

Sometimes, after a harrowing patrol, either of his little birds could show up in their pajamas by the elevator and wait. Somehow, Bruce always knew. He’d be there within 5 minutes, freshly showered and dressed comfortably with his pink robe, and take them into his room. He’d hold them protectively until they fell asleep. They’d often wake up, still in his embrace in the morning.  

Jason had only participated in this ritual with Dick, could count on one hand the amount of times he had. But tonight was just...  

Well. It was a lot.  

So, after a shower with still-blurry vision and fumbling his way through getting dressed, he went to stand by the elevators to wait for his... for Bruce.  

Instead, he found Bruce standing there waiting, hair already damp in his usual bedtime attire. His pink robe was tied loosely around his waist. He was wearing sweats with a Gray Ghost t-shirt. He held out his arms for Jason to slot into.  

Maybe he was too old for this, but that didn’t matter. Right now, sitting in Bruce’s arms as he carried him into the one room in the house he felt he could sleep in comfortably tonight, he couldn’t care less about it.  

As Bruce laid him down to hold him gently, rubbing his thumb pad over his brow and smoothing down his hair, he felt safe. That’s all that mattered.  

As long as he was with his papa, he was safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Danny cringed as he heard another bang from the basement. His parents had decided to stay home to prep for an upcoming convention and he was going nuts .  

He had done all the work Jazz brought home. He’d burned through the majority of her book collection.   

Tucker and Sam had worked together to customize a phone that he could actually use- he normally fried any electronic device he came into contact with for more than a couple weeks. The phone was one of those new, annoying ones that had no headphone jack. It was also a new-enough development that they hadn’t finished customizing a pair of Bluetooth headphones for it. He had lost the headphone adapter nearly immediately after getting it.  

He flinched again as he heard the clang and screech of metal on metal. If he had to listen to this much longer, he was going to start screaming.  

Arguably the worst part of the whole week was the fact that the wound he’d gotten hadn’t healed, like, at all . Ghosts kept coming, they kept fighting him, and they kept aggravating the wound with their own ectoblasts and throwing him into the ground. Not to mention when Maddie herself reopened it throwing a whole harpoon at him . Thankfully it hadn’t gone through, just scraped the absolute heck out of his side, but still! Ow!   

His side burned. Sounds were starting to bug him more. His parents put more ectoplasm in the fridge and hadn’t replaced anything that went sentient yet and his stomach ached with hunger. He hadn’t seen Tucker and Sam in forever and he actually wanted to go to school just to get away from this hell house -  

His head flew backwards and hit the wall. The sound reverberated in his ears, taking over the sounds of downstairs for a few seconds. He did it again, and again, and-  

He was crying. Breathing was weird and it felt vaguely like death. It wasn’t enough, it was never enough.  

His hands rolled into fists and he used his wrists to beat his temples. The pain was grounding, in a way. He could feel hot tears stream down his face and it made him all the more desperate to just make it stop, why wouldn’t it stop -  

The way his shirt was twisted around him was wrong, the sheets were the wrong texture, he could still taste the terrible mint of his toothpaste, the sounds from the basement kept getting louder. Every nerve in his body was on fire and his head ached. He could feel bruises forming on his wrists and temples. It wasn’t enough.  

He grabbed a pillow and screamed . He hadn’t slept more than 10 hours in almost two weeks, he was seeing spiders, he hadn’t had any zesti in days and everything was too much. He took a shuddering breath and screamed again, brain focused on the screeching metal.  

CLANG! CLANG! SCREEEEE-  

His voice raised in pitch to screech with it. He vaguely felt something shaking. His hands came up to tug on his hair. His shirt stuck to his neckline as tears soaked the hem. His throat burned and it was almost a mercy as the migraine he’d created for himself throbbed.  

The metal clanging finally stopped. The screams that had turned into hoarse little sounds calmed in favor of sobs.  

Over the next few minutes, the tears slowed. He carefully pried his hands away from his hair and attempted to soothe himself. He almost wished Jazz was here, but was eternally grateful she hadn’t witnessed his, uh, lapse in judgment.  

He... he should’ve just left, or found an old device or another they had floating around. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks. He threw a fit like a toddler and for what? Because of a few noises? How old was he again?  

He tore his shirt off before another round could start over the fabric. He shuffled over to his drawers, pulling out a soft hoodie and his favorite bottoms. He changed quickly.  

When he was little and these things happened, he went to his parents. They once soothed his aching wrists and checked his head. They would workshop whatever had pushed him this far, making sure he had the tools he needed to prevent it next time. Jazz helped a lot in that regard. But now, they cared more about their career.  

Jazz was at school still. She would help him through these, now, but she wouldn’t always be there for him. He grabbed the fluffy pillow she had given him, pressing his face to it.  

He wanted his mom. He wanted her to rub his back the way only she knew how. He wanted the smell of his dad’s fudge as he did what he could to soothe his son. He never knew what to say, and his hands felt like fire, but he’d always offer fudge and that was enough. He knew his dad was trying to comfort him the best way he knew how and it was enough .  

Jazz would’ve had the space documentary on right now. Tucker and Sam, who always somehow knew exactly what was wrong without asking, would’ve been there with noise cancelling headphones and soft things and would know if it was a time for hugs or hand holding or staying six feet away from him. They knew him. They were perfect .  

He missed them. He was so alone and he still had another week of this. The tears had his face sticky and he was dehydrated so all he was doing right now was that stupid dry sobbing that made him feel like he was faking the whole thing. He started gagging at some point.  

He could feel his teeth and every one of their sockets being stretched grotesquely to fit them. He could feel as his mouth filled with saliva and could hear it swish around every time he moved his tongue. Every little thing someone could tune out normally felt like it was setting him on fire; his breathing in his ears, the mucus in his nose, the inseam of his sock, every little stitch of his clothing, every eyelash scraping against his eye.  

He hadn’t eaten in a few days he could feel his stomach cramp around nothing . Jazz had an important test to study for so he wasn’t going to bug her about food. His parents had eaten out since the ectoplasm incident, so they didn’t feel the need to get more food. They hadn’t gotten anything for Danny since they “didn’t want to reward him for bad behavior while he was suspended”. He was so sick of being suspended.  

His body convulsed as he calmed down. He felt a cold build in his lungs.  

He cursed his luck. The frost blew out of his mouth, sticking to his cheeks. He was going to start screaming again.  

He transformed, shakily starting to fly. He went intangible and went through the wall, trying not to let the way it felt against his body make him go back into a full meltdown. His ghost form was slightly more tolerable, but he could still feel every molecule of being buzz with ectoplasm and it consumed him whole.  

He flew around for a bit before finally finding the thing that had set off his senses.  

Skulker. Jazz had finally convinced him to release the bastard and he was already back. Danny felt his anger levels rise and he was briefly tempted to throw himself at the bricks without going intangible. Instead, he charged.  

He rammed into Skulker full forced as he cackled. They tumbled through the air until they landed on a roof.  

“WHELP!” he cried as Danny started laying into him. “WHAT- HEY! TIME OUT!”  

He grasped the boy by the shoulders and threw him. Danny felt his previous wounds get jostled and his head hit the corner of the building. Even though most of the damage by now was gone because of his ghostly healing, it still hurt. He hissed in pain.  

“What ever happened to the wit! Honestly, whelp, at least put some effort in, it won’t be satisfying to hang your pelt-”  

Danny threw an ecto-blast at him. Skulker narrowly avoided it, his facial expression between impressed and annoyed.  

“You pest! I never thought you’d have it in you-” he grinned, going to attack Danny back. “It’ll be a pleasure to skin you slowly!”  

Danny growled, dodging Skulker and attacking with his ecto-blasts. “DO IT!” he yelled.  

Skulker stuttered for one second, allowing Danny to get him pinned down to the roof.  

The ghost pulled the glowing blade out of his suit, swinging at where he knew the half-boy should be sitting. “I’ll do it!” he threatened, swinging around.  

“DO IT!” he yelled again, shaking the ground around him. “SKIN ME! DO IT!”  

Skulker paused. He... was beginning to feel this was bigger than he first considered it would be. He almost felt like he needed to leave but pressed on.  

“I’m not playing around, half-breed!” he roared. He swiped at the boy, clipping his cheek. He only grinned at him, his fists starting to glow green. He started towards him, shouting again.  

“Good! If you don’t skin me, I might just do it myself !”  

The shaking of the building grew stronger. His voice carried itself in green rings, reverberating around the buildings and shaking the earth. Skulker could feel his armor start to shake like it did whenever Ember did this around him. The child’s words hit him afterwards in the shock of it all.  

Yeah, he probably should’ve tried retreating earlier.  

And besides, just how many powers did this kid have again? He felt like halfas got it all at this point, it was ridiculous.  

Instead of gaining common sense, he picked himself up and launched himself at the boy. Said boy punched him with green fists, screaming- no, wailing at the top of his lungs. Could he even control this?!  

The metal suit came apart with clangs and screeches of metal. The boy whined loudly, his wail once again shaking the buildings around them.  

Skulker was stuck in the helmet as he listened to the boy whimper for a few minutes before he composed himself. He felt the boy pick his helmet up and shake it vigorously as he flew.  

The boy said nothing as he turned intangible and went through a wall. The small ghost in the helmet sat there in silence as he listened to the boy crying. He heard the tell-tale sign of him going back to his human form.  

He had been pointed at the ceiling, so all he saw was snippets of things being thrown over top of him. He didn’t dare speak, but it was weird that the little whelp had been silent this long.  

Normally it was making noise and being annoying. Snarky comments and witty anecdotes, but today... nothing.  

He heard noises from other parts of the house. He thought he could make out the sound of those ghost hunters voices, but that was weird. If this was the little ghost’s haunt, why would ghost hunters...?  

Realization slammed into him like a ton of bricks. The little half-breed was still human. It still had parents. Its parents were the hunters that they had learned to avoid within the last year or so of having the portal in the basement.  

Ohhh, this was bad. This was so, so bad. He remembered every time he had been captured and had a new appreciation for the little whelp never turning them over to its parents. He... also realized just how dangerous this all was for it.  

He listened to the boy as he pulled things from places, ripping noises and grunts of pain.  

Skulker found himself wondering just how the half-breed worked. If he got injured. If he knew this was just playing around for them.  

He heard the boy start whimpering again, starting to jump around desperately. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but it did it with an almost manic edge to it. The distress of the creature was palpable in the room.  

The thing eventually collapsed onto its bed. He could hear its panting from where he lay on the floor.  

He wasn’t sure how long they staid like that before the thing's sister entered the room. He heard her voice attempting to soothe as smells filled the space they resided in. He could hear agitation in the thing’s voice as it responded.  

The, what was it called again? ‘Fenton Thermos’ didn’t provide anything except darkness and silence. That was arguably the worst part of it, not being granted the passage of time, or companionship while being stuck, unless there were multiple ghosts there at once. But this? He wasn’t sure this was better. This somehow felt more wrong than trying to skin the whelp alive, for ancients’ sakes.  

He couldn’t even do anything to help. Or to hurt, whichever came first. Being stuck in his helmet gave him the perspective he never had, and stripped him of being able to use it at all. This was probably the worst he had felt after getting a beatdown from the half-breed.  

He heard shouting next. Between the thing and its sister. Something about never giving it space and how it never came to her with its problems. It felt too... ‘absolutely not his business’ for his taste.  

Eventually, he heard more screaming. He felt the room shake and he almost said something, then decided against it.  

When it stopped, he felt his helmet get snatched up and thrown up against the wall. He didn’t make a sound as the thing raged.  

All at once, he felt the whelp race down the stairs. Watched through the lenses of his helmet as he went through the portal and started flying. He saw glimpses of territories in the Zone as they flew by.  

He saw through the lenses, but mostly felt it when they reached his territory in the Zone. It was something every ghost felt when they entered their haunt. He also mostly felt it when the little whelp threw his helmet into his haunt . It could be so rude sometimes!  

No matter. He had already made up his mind.  

He started rolling the helmet towards the center of his haunt. He needed to rebuild first, but this was too big of a thing to keep to himself.  

He needed to tell someone of the boy’s situation.  

After dropping off Skulker (emphasis on drop ), Danny was... hesitant to go home. He could normally spend days in the Zone and never face an issue. He wanted to stay in the Zone, until his skin felt like his and his mind stopped buzzing.  

But fighting with Jazz wasn’t an excuse. That was mostly his dumb fault. If he wasn’t such an oversensitive crybaby, he wouldn’t have snapped at her. She was just trying to be nice, and he blew it.  

He couldn’t handle it anymore. The only reason he could even go into the Zone was because she had told their parents of the rumor that Skulker’s suit had been found (the same suit that Tucker and Sam had already cleaned up following reports of a freak ‘earthquake’). His parents were driving him nuts and he was starting to fear he’d never be okay again.  

He could blame the accident for a lot. It took away his chances of ever becoming an astronaut. It took away his security in the world. It took away his ability to feel invincible in the way that kids do. But this wasn’t the accident’s fault.  

He was born broken. He was born with his skin too tight, too-large teeth, and something bubbling in his throat, begging to get out. He was born wrong.  

There was... there was just no fixing that. He was going to be broken forever.  

He would always have to live with the fact that everything that was wrong with him was purely something he did. Jazz could say whatever she wanted about it.  

Daniel Fenton, even before the accident, was broken. Not even Jazz could fix that.  

He could never fix himself.  

[ailesswhumptober]

Prompts for AI-less Whumptober 2024

As promised, we're bringing you the official prompt list of AI-less Whumptober 2024 today!

We have 31 days of excellent whump prompts, with three prompts per day to pick from, fun themes, and 10 alt prompts to play around with. We hope you enjoy! Additional info + plain text versions of the prompts can be found under the cut.

FAQ and Rules

What sort of content can I create for this event?

You can create whatever you want (fic, art, edits, etc). Any fandom is allowed, as well as OC stuff. NSFW is allowed, but please tag your content accordingly! The only thing not allowed is AI-generated content.

Do I need to make 31 things to participate?

Oh heavens no! You can make as much or as little content as you like, skip days when desired, or combine prompts (so for example, write something that covers a prompt from day 1, 2, AND 3). You don't have to do the days in order either, go wild! To be considered a 'completionist', you only have to make sure that at the end of the month, you've covered 31 prompts from 31 different days, but whether you do that in 31 works or just 1 is up to you.

What are these alts about?

If none of the three prompts of a particular day are your cup of tea, you can swap them out for an alt prompt of your choice.

What are these themes about?

Just a little bit of extra fun for the mods. Like last year, we'll be handing out various badges for people participating in the event. A full list will be posted later (and linked here once that happens), but perhaps there will be a special badge or two for people who can't be completionists but who do manage to finish every single day of a specific theme ;)

How do I tag and is there an AO3 collection?

It suffices to tag your work with #AIlesswhumptober2024 for us to see and reblog it! Please also tag nsfw, since we'll be using that tag too. Tagging the day is optional but does help the mods along.

There will be an AO3 collection for the writers to share their works in, this will be made available once we're closer to October (and linked here once that happens).

That should be all. If you have any additional questions, check our pinned or hit us up in the ask box. Or join our discord maybe, whumping can be a great group activity!

---

Plain text versions of the prompts:

October 1 - Torture Tuesday

public torture/public use, stress position, “If you cry, we’ll go easy on you.”

October 2 - Whumperless Wednesday

Unfortunate fall, car accident, “Don’t move. You’ll be okay.”

October 3 - Trauma Thursday

Shared trauma, survivor’s guilt, “It’s not your fault.”

October 4 - Fright/Freaky Friday

Painful transformation, non-consensual body modifications, “You’re a monster.”

October 5 - Sensory Saturday

Overstimulation, migraines, “I can’t take this anymore.”

October 6 - Surprise Sunday

Multiple whumpees, self sacrifice, “I’m the only one who can do this.”

October 7 - Medical Monday

Field medicine, running out of supplies, “Hold on, we’re going to have to improvise.”

October 8 - Torture Tuesday

Rope burns, gagged, “You’re so much prettier this way.”

October 9 - Whumperless Wednesday

Hypothermia, heatstroke, “You look pretty pale.”

October 10 - Trauma Thursday

Self worth issues, pushing away a loved one, “You don't need to earn this.”

October 11 - Fright/Freaky Friday

Hallucinations, truth serum, “Why would you even say that?”

October 12 - Sensory Saturday

Isolation, sensory deprivation, “Can you feel me? I’m right here, whumpee.”

October 13 - Surprise Sunday

Whumpee using themself as bait, defiance, “Take me instead.”

October 14 - Medical Monday

Seizures, concussion, “See if you can follow my finger with your eyes.”

October 15 - Torture Tuesday

Waterboarding, removing body parts, “Don’t break down on me yet.”

October 16 - Whumperless Wednesday

Drowning, hostile environment, “I don’t know how anybody could survive that.”

October 17 - Trauma Thursday

Abandonment, misunderstanding, “Why did I even think you cared?”

October 18 - Fright/Freaky Friday

Mind control, possession, “Everybody will end up despising you.”

October 19 - Sensory Saturday

Disassociation, losing a sense, “I wish I could get you back.”

October 20 - Surprise Sunday

Enemy/Stranger to caretaker, accidental de-aging, “I’m absolutely not qualified for this shit.”

October 21 - Medical Monday

Drugged, ambulance ride, “This will make you feel better, okay?”

October 22 - Torture Tuesday

Forced (to kneel/watch/hurt somebody else), whipped, “Do not look away.” October 23 - Whumperless Wednesday

Fever, passing out, “Hey?! Stay with me, okay?!”

October 24 - Trauma Thursday

Deconditioning, relapse, “It’s normal that you need more time.”

October 25 - Fright/Freaky Friday

Humiliation, betrayal, “How could you?!”

October 26 - Sensory Saturday

Electrocution, burning, “This is going to sting.”

October 27 - Surprise Sunday

Before vs after, Alternate universe, “Well, there’s a first for everything.”

October 28 - Medical Monday

Internal bleeding, needles and stitches, “I didn’t think the wound was that bad…”

October 29 - Torture Tuesday

Ownership, branding, “Everybody will know that you’re mine.”

October 30 - Whumperless Wednesday

Poison, delirium, “You’re not making sense.”

October 31 - Trauma Thursday

Panic attack, facing a phobia, “You need to get out of here!”

Alt prompts:

1) Pistol whipped

2) Co-dependency

3) Animal bite

4) Zombies

5) White room torture

6) Shock collar

7) Pulling teeth

8) Kidnapping

9) “You always make everything worse!”

10) “If you weren’t around, I’d be long dead by now...”

[whumpsday]

Sep-Oct 2024 Whump Events

autumn is approaching! 🍂 here's a long one, since october is the big month for creation events, and september has a lot going on this year too! so much to choose from!

i've also made a post detailing upcoming g/t events here on my g/t blog. you can check that out if you wanna do something for that community!

September events starting this month:

🔤 Alphabet of Whump (@alphabetofwhump), prompts here, a 26-day whump event

🧸 Sicktember (@sicktember), prompts here, a 30-day sickfic event (this is its last year)

💀 Whumptember (@whumptember), prompts here, a 30-day whump event

🎶Seven Songs of Suffering (@snakebites-and-ink), prompts here, a 1-week whump event taking place the second week of September

🐉 HTTYD Whump Week (@httyd-whump-week), prompts here, a 1-week HTTYD fandom whump event

😱 Horrortember (@horrortember), prompts here, a 30-day horror event

Single-day September celebrations:

🎊 International Whump Day is September 12th. Celebrate however you like!

💬 Comment Day is September 15th, info here: @comment-day. Leave some nice comments on your favorite creations! (Not whump specific)

October events starting next month:

🎃 Whumptober (@whumptober), prompts here, a 31-day whump event. this is also the most-participated-in whump event of the year, often attracting people outside the whump community.

🌩️ Voltober (@voltober), prompts coming soon, a 31-day whump event

💧 Angstober (@angstober), prompts here, a 31-day angst event

🔮 31 Days of Horror (@31-daysofhorror), prompts potentially coming soon, a 31-day horror event

📼 Halloween Horror Bingo (@halloweenhorrorbingo), signups coming soon, a horror bingo-prompt event

🫀Goretober is a flexible gore event where people traditionally create their own prompt lists. If you don't want to make your own, there are many floating around in the Goretober tag already. Here's a few: one / two / three / four

📵 AI-less* Whumptober (@aiIesswhumptober), prompts here, a 31-day whump event

*Note to clear up any confusion brought on by the name: Neither Whumptober event includes or promotes the use of AI-generated works, the latter event is just more intense about it. Whumptober's AI policy is "We will not reblog or promote any works we know to be generative AI-created" and AILWT's AI policy is "No AI content of any kind is allowed".

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

One Bad Day....Jason's Death

AI-Less Whumptober 2023: 8. Panic Attack, 12. Character Death, 23. Begging, 31. Crying, Alt. 13. Grief Fandom: Batman, Batfam, Batmom, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd Summary: Before Red Hood rescued her, before she was in prison, before she killed The Joker, Batmom experiences one of the most devastating losses of her life. Word Count: 5587 TW: Canon Character Death, Mentions of Torture, Brief Description of Injuries, Grief, Breakdown, Tears, Anger, Character Picks Up Reader Note: This is part of the One Bad Day.... series but can be read as a one-shot (though best to be read after Part 3)Part of @ailesswhumptober's whumptober event.

Series Masterlist

It has been three days since you have heard from either Bruce or Jason and you are starting to get worried. Actually, you are way past worried—you are terrified. Something is wrong, you can feel it in your gut. A gnawing queasiness deep in your stomach that has you unable to eat or sleep while you wait for some sort of news.

Usually, you wouldn’t give this radio silence a second thought. While Bruce tries to send some sort of word as often as he can while out of town, it just isn’t always possible. Especially when he is away on this kind of work. Batman is a force of secrets and mystery. He can’t always risk finding a way to call his wife to tell her he is alright. 

You pull the blanket that is draped over your shoulders tighter around you and continue pacing. Alfred had placed it there a few ago, the last time he had come to check on you. When you had first begun to worry, the butler had remained by your side providing constant reassurance and support. But after a while, once it became clear you wanted to be alone, he retreated upstairs. Occasionally, he returned to the Batcave to bring you some food, water, or something to keep you warm, but otherwise, he had been keeping his distance. However, you know the second you call for him, he will instantly be there to get you whatever he possibly can. If only he could get you the one thing you truly wanted right now….

As if summoned by your silent wish, you suddenly hear the distant roar of a familiar engine growing louder by the second. Whirling around, a huge smile of relief on your face, you turn just in time to see the Batmobile burst into the cave and come to a stop in its usual spot. For the first time in days, you feel like you can breathe again as the driver-side door opens up and you catch a glimpse of Bruce, still in his Batman costume though he has removed his cowl and gloves.

Throwing your arms open wide as you approach the car, you exclaim, “There’s my boys!” Bruce doesn’t look at you as he climbs out of the Batmobile and walks slowly over to the passenger side. “I was just about to send out a search party. How was Ethiopia? Did you find–”

You stumble to a halt, your smile slipping from your face. An icy vice clamps down on your heart as you see Bruce lift something out of the Batmobile: a small limp figure wrapped in a torn yellow cape that reveals small glimpses of the red suit underneath through the holes and tears. Though the cape is also draped across the person’s face, you know immediately who is under it.

“No….” you gasp as your blanket slips from your shoulders to pool at your feet. “No, no, Bruce, no. Please, no.” 

As you wait for Bruce’s response, you cling to that last fragile shred of hope that it’s not what you think, that maybe he’s just hurt under there or sleeping or…or…….

But as your husband silently walks past you and lays the body on one of the nearby tables, the drawn, pained expression on his face coupled with the tender care he takes carefully arranging it is the final confirmation you need. 

Dropping to your knees, you let out an almost inhuman wail as the truth of the situation slams into you like a nuclear blast. Your baby’s gone. Jason is dead. And you have lost yet another child. 

You collapse forward, your forehead pressing hard against the cold cave floor as another wail tears through your chest. No. It can’t be true. Jason has to be alive. He has to be. Oh please, God, please don’t tell me you’ve taken my baby from me. Not again. Please.

As you continue to sob—worldless howls of grief and pain—you feel Bruce drape himself over you as if trying to shield you from this agony….but it’s too late. The damage has already been done and you have been irreparably broken.

In what seems like hours later, once you have exhausted yourself to the point you no longer have the energy or tears left to cry, Bruce sits back and pulls you carefully into his lap. As you lay curled in his arms with your head resting on his chest, you can feel his heart beating beneath you—so strong and steady—and it hits you that you will never again feel Jason’s heartbeat or hear him take a breath. All of those little signs of life you take for granted are just gone…and so is he.

Lifting your head to gaze up at your husband, you force your words through your aching throat, torn raw from all your screaming, and you ask, “What happened?” 

“The Joker,” Bruce says as he brushes a tear off your cheek. “He used Jason’s birthmother to lure him in, then he placed both of them in a warehouse that was rigged to explode. I arrived just as the bomb went off. I….I was too late to save him.”

The sound of Bruce’s voice breaking and the tears in his voice sends another jolt of pain into your heart and you nuzzle your head into his neck as you squeeze his hand. He silently squeezes back and you have to stifle a groan as you feel the bones in your hand shift and crack in his grasp, but you don’t say anything. You just let him continue to squeeze your hand long after the point it turns numb. 

You haven’t seen Bruce fall apart since the two of you lost the baby. Regardless of what heartbreaks or fights had come your way in the years since, Bruce had remained calm and stoic through it all. It’s just who he was. He was your rock, your lifeline in the roughest of waters, your source of comfort when you needed it the most—so the sight of him breaking adds another layer of grief to your own.

When he finally loosens his grip and you can tell he has regained some of his composure, you whisper, “Did he…. Did he hurt him before…?”

Bruce hesitates for a moment before murmuring, “You don’t need to know the details.” 

Which means yes. The Joker had probably tortured and beaten your baby bloody before blowing him up. Another sob threatens to tear from your lips, but you manage to quell it so it is just a whine deep in your throat. You had cried enough for the moment. Right now, you need answers and to come up with a plan. But first…you need something else.

Untangling yourself from Bruce’s arms, you unsteadily get to your feet and begin walking over to the table. Bruce leaps up when he sees what you are doing and he gently grabs your shoulders blocking your path. “Don’t. Sweetheart, just…just don’t. Trust me.”

“Let me go. I need to see him.”

You try to shrug him off but he holds you firmly in place. “No. You don’t. Don’t let that be the last image you have of him—I wish it wasn’t mine. He’s gone and seeing him like that won’t bring him back. So, I’m begging you, don’t.”

“Get out of my way, Bruce,” you growl as you glare up at your husband. “I need to see our son. I need to see what that monster did to him.”

For a moment, you aren’t sure what Bruce is going to do. His eyes flit across your face, trying to find the slightest hesitation he can grasp onto. But when he doesn’t find any, he sighs and slowly lowers his hands as he bows his head and whispers, “Please…Don’t look.”

But you have already pushed past him before he finishes his sentence.

You approach the table with a determined stride, yet you hesitate once you reach it. Jason was always a slight kid, even verging on scrawny, but he had never seemed smaller or more vulnerable than as your hand hovers over the cape still draped over him. Even that first night Bruce brought him home to you, he had so much fire and spirit in his little twelve-year-old body that his presence filled the room. Now, three years later, that fire and spirit had been extinguished and it hits you all over again how young he truly was—how young he would always be.

You feel Bruce come to stand just behind you but he doesn’t say a word. He has tried his best to stop you so now all he can do is wait for you to live with your decision and be there for the aftermath. Knowing he is right there for you gives you a renewed sense of strength and as you take a deep breath, you pull back the cape to look at your son. 

Bruce was right. You shouldn’t have looked.

Some of the damage you are expecting based on what Bruce told you. Burns litter Jay’s face and neck as well as his hands. In some places, they are light, almost invisible unless the light catches them just so. However, in other spots, the burns are so severe you can almost see down to the bone. His hands are the worst, so charred and blackened that you fear touching them despite the longing in your chest to hold his hand once more in yours. Looking at the burn patterns, it seems heartbreakingly clear that Jason had tried to protect himself from the blast by throwing his hands in front of his face…he had seen it coming.

Yet as horrible as that realization is, far worse is the damage you weren’t expecting to see on your son.

Beneath the burns and debris from the bomb, Jason’s body is broken, bruised, and bloody in ways that an explosion couldn’t have caused. One arm and leg jut out at odd angles and there are dark bruises all over his face, neck, and the parts of his torso you can see through his ruined suit. One eye is swollen and black, his nose is bent sharply to one side, and his lip is split open wide. You have seen enough blunt-force trauma up close and personal to understand what had to have caused all of this. 

Casting one last longing look at your son, you turn to face Bruce. You are visibly shaking, and when you speak, your voice is dripping with venomous fury, “Where is he?”

“Clark is tracking him down and he’ll alert me the second he finds him.”

“And then?” Bruce glances away, unable to look at you. Disbelief washes over you and you step closer to your husband. “Bruce, don’t tell me you are thinking of letting him live.”

“It’s not our place to–”

“He killed our son!” you hiss as you point to the body of the child you both loved. “Jason is—Jason is dead because of that maniac! We can’t let The Joker get away with this!”

“We won’t.” Bruce takes your face between his hands and bends over so his forehead is almost touching yours. “I swear to you, we will find him and throw him back into Arkham where he belongs.”

Wrenching from his grasp in disgust, you snarl, “For how long? A few weeks? A month if we’re lucky? Then he’ll just find another way to escape like he always does and he’ll hurt more innocent people, more people we love. How can you not see that this has to end? That it should have ended years ago.”

“My heart—” Bruce tries to take your hand but once again you snatch it away from him. “I know you don’t always agree with it, but we have a code. A code you agreed to follow when you joined me. And that code means that no matter what The Joker or anyone else does, We. Don’t. Kill. Otherwise, what makes us any better than them?”

“Maybe I don’t care about being better than them anymore. We’ve done things by the book, followed your rules, and where has that left us? Two dead children and a third who barely survived being shot. And you still talk about trusting the same system that allowed it to happen in the first place. Well, who’s next, Bruce? Who will be the next victim in your moral war? Alfred? Dick?....Me? Whose death will it take for you to realize that this won’t end unless we make it end?”

Bruce stares at you as if he is looking at a stranger and not his wife of ten years. Shaking his head slightly, he says, “I understand you’re hurting right now and you’re not thinking clearly. But once some time has passed and the feelings aren’t as raw, you’ll—”

“I’ll what? Forget my son is dead?” you snap.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, what did you mean? Give it time and things will just go back to normal? That this pain will fade and I won’t care that my son was murdered?”

“Our son.”

“What?”

“Our son,” Bruce says. His voice has a sharp edge to it that momentarily takes you aback. “You keep saying ‘my son’ like you’re the only one who lost him. I know what you and Jay had was special but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him too, or that I’m not in agony right now. I had to watch, helplessly, as that warehouse exploded knowing I was too late to save him. Then, I dug with my bare hands for almost an hour through the wreckage praying for a miracle only to find—” Bruce presses his hand over his eye as he takes a long, slow, shaking inhale then continues “And then I had to fly home watching vigil over our son’s body, all the while dreading this moment. Knowing I was coming home to shatter the woman I love. But the only thing that made that thought bearable was knowing we could mourn together and lean on each other for comfort. Yet all you can focus on is revenge and murder!”

“No, Bruce. I’m focusing on keeping the family I still have safe. I’m focusing on protecting this city just as you swore to do. I’m focusing on ending terror and chaos in the streets. And if that means one psychotic clown has to die to make that happen, then so be it.”

“We do not cross that line. Ever. No matter who we think deserves it. That’s just how things have to be.”

“Don’t you get it! Jason would still be alive if you had just—” All of your fury evaporates instantly and you inhale sharply as you realize what you were about to blurt out. Bruce’s expression hardens into a stone-cold mask usually reserved for the most lowsome of criminals and, stumbling back, you stutter, “I-I mean…I—”

“If I had what? Say it. Say it!” Now it is your turn to not meet his eye yet he pushes on. “You were going to say that if I had just killed The Joker years ago, Jason would still be alive!”

“I didn’t mean it. It just slipped out,” you whisper. “I know this isn’t your fault, Bruce. You told him not to go but I encouraged him to do what he thought he had to do. That I would support whatever decision he made.” Your voice cracks as you choke out, “I sent our baby off to his death, not you.”

It is the thought that has been nagging at the back of your head since you saw Bruce lift Jason’s body from the Batmobile. The unbearable truth you’ve been unable to face. Bruce had known something felt off about the situation and he insisted Jason stayed home. But when Jason came to you saying he had found his birthmother and needed to go see her, you put your foot down and forced Bruce to take him. If you had just listened to Bruce, if you had just really examined the facts instead of wanting to show Jason you were supportive, your son would still be alive.

Suddenly, it felt like the walls of the Batcave were closing in on you and you couldn’t catch your breath. Stumbling back a few steps, you say, “I-I can’t do this. I have to get out of here.”

The anger in Bruce’s face disappears as quickly as it appeared. He reaches out to you with a soft, “Sweetheart—” but you continue to back away.

“No. No, I need to go. I-I need to be alone.”

Bruce nods slowly. “Alright. That’s okay. Why don’t you go take a long shower and lay down and I’ll take care of things down here. I’ll come check on you when I’m done.”

You nod back and hurry over to the stairs leading up to the manor. But just as you begin to climb them, you pause and mumble, “I’ll be in Jay’s room.” then flee up the stairs before Bruce can stop you.

Once back in the manor, you move in an almost trancelike state towards the bedrooms. As you pass the kitchen, you hear a soft sniffling and you realize Alfred must have come down into the Batcave at some point and seen what happened. You have been so preoccupied with your own grief, you completely forgot about the butler who loved Jason almost as much as you and Bruce did. 

Part of you wants to go back and join him. After all, Alfred always knows how to fix anything and everything and maybe, somehow, he can fix this too. Yet as much as it pains you to admit, there are just some things even Alfred Pennyworth can’t do. So you continue walking.

When you reach Jason’s room, you don’t even pause before opening the door and shuffling in. In one fluid movement, you collapse onto your son’s bed and roll over, dragging his comforter with you until you are cocooned beneath the blanket. 

It seems impossible that just three nights ago you were sitting on this very bed with Jason next to you as he told you about how he had been tracking down his birthmother. He had been so scared to tell you for fear he would hurt your feelings. But you had just gathered him into your arms and pressed your lips into his hair as you promised him you would always be his “Ma” regardless of what happened on his search. That you would always love him….

Tears you did not think you could still cry began slipping silently down your cheeks. What would you have done differently if you had known that was the last time you would see your son? What else would you have said to make him understand how much he meant to you? How he had saved you from your grief once before and how you still needed him now?

You bury your face deeper into his pillow as you finally allow yourself to ask the question that you know will haunt you the rest of your life:

Could I have saved you if I had been there?

For the next twelve days, little changes. The only time you leave Jason’s bed is to go to the bathroom, but otherwise, you lay curled in the center of his bed wrapped in his blankets and staring at his wall. Bruce and Alfred take turns coming to check on you several times a day, usually bringing food or drinks and trying their best to coax you into consuming something. You take a little nibble here and there or take a few sips of water, but it isn’t long before you return to your near catatonic state. 

Even when Dick arrives a few days after you learned of Jason’s death, it doesn’t make much of a difference. You do allow him to climb into the bed with you where you wrap him in a bone-crushing embrace, afraid if you let go you’ll lose him just like your other children. But eventually, he has to leave and you resume your solitary existence.

On day seven, Bruce slips into bed behind you and wraps his arms around you. For a long time, the two of you just lay there in silence. Then, softly, his lips brush against your ear as he whispers, “Please, sweetheart, please come back to me. I know you’re hurting. So am I. But I just lost Jason and I can’t….I can’t lose you too. Please, let me in. Let us help each other through this….Together.”

You know he’s right, and it kills you to know you are only adding to his heartbreak, but you just don’t have the strength or the will to be what he needs right now. So, you remain motionless in his embrace, your eyes never shifting their unseeing stare at the wall.

Eventually, Bruce accepts nothing is going to change. Pressing his lips to the nape of your neck, he whispers, “I love you. Please never forget that. And I’ll be waiting, as soon as you’re ready.” Then he slips from the bed and you are alone once more.

The next major change in your routine comes exactly two weeks after Jason’s death when Bruce and Alfred walk into Jason’s room holding a simple black dress. Silently, you allow them to put it on you before they lead you downstairs where Dick is waiting with the car. No one has to tell you where you are going. You already know.

For the short drive, Bruce sits next to you in the backseat, holding your hand tightly as he presses his lips against your temple with whispers of encouragement and love. You squeeze his hand back but make no other acknowledgment of his presence or support. You catch Dick glancing back at you in the rearview mirror a few times, concern etched on his face, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. That thought makes you withdraw even further into yourself in shame.

As Alfred pulls to a stop, you make no move to exit the car. Alfred and Dick both glance at Bruce for some sort of guidance as to how to proceed, and he motions for them to get out. Once you are alone, Bruce pulls you into his arms. “If I could spare you from this, you know I would. But we have to make some sort of public show or it’s going to look suspicious. And people are already asking questions. But I promise, the second we’re done, I’ll take you back up to the house. Okay?”

You nod, knowing he is right however much you despise it, and he smiles softly. Placing his finger under your chin so he can tilt your head back, Bruce kisses your forehead as he whispers, “That’s my girl.”

Then sliding his hand into yours, he opens his car door and steps out before helping you out. Immediately you are met with flashing lights and the whirring click of hundreds of cameras all pointed in your direction. You try to ignore them as Bruce leads you down the path lined with photographers and reporters, your face a blank mask void of any emotion. 

But that mask becomes harder to maintain as you hear the slight tittering of whispers passing through the crowd. And though you have over a decade of experience being the subject of Gotham’s rumor mill to get used to the kinds of things people say about you, these reach a new level of cruelty: 

“Look at the heartless whore. Can’t even spare a single tear for that poor boy Bruce so kindly took in.”

“I heard she didn’t even want to come today but Bruce insisted. Can you imagine? He deserves so much better.”

“She wasn’t even there when he died. Bruce planned a family trip overseas and she refused to go. She would rather stay here to be waited on hand and foot by that butler of theirs than spend time with her supposed family.”

“I bet she had something to do with the boy’s death. Probably didn’t want to share the Wayne fortune with anyone else. Bruce and the older boy should watch their backs. They could be next.”

You remember a time when you would have gone off on these people. Snapped back about how they didn’t know anything about you or your relationship with your family. Caused such a scene Bruce would have had to sheepishly drag you away while his face glowed bright red. But not today. Today all you want to do is curl up in a ball in front of them as you sob, asking how they can be so cruel or heartless to not see your pain or the devastation at your loss. How they could come here—here of all places—just to add to your suffering.

But you don’t. Instead, you allow Bruce to continue leading you forward until you stop in front of the freshly dug grave with the casket placed beside it.

Bruce (well, probably Alfred) had worked out all the details while you were locked in Jason’s room. A plot had been selected in the small graveyard on the edge of the Wayne estate, right next to where Bruce’s parents were buried. The casket is closed so you can’t see how they dressed Jay, but Bruce had promised you in the car that he tucked Jason’s Robin mask into his pocket like you asked. It was the only input you had given on the whole ceremony but it did make you feel a little better knowing he had it with him. 

To the world, this may just be the funeral of Jason Todd, but in reality, today you are burying two people, and you wanted to honor that.

Dick comes to stand next to you so you are sandwiched between him and Bruce. Though you don’t as much as glance in his direction, you are grateful to have your remaining son beside you. It is a calming reminder that not everyone has been taken from you. At least…not yet. 

As the ceremony starts, you hold your head high and stare straight ahead. It is harder than you thought, the weight of a hundred eyes boring into the back of your head, but you manage to remain calm and composed throughout the sermon.

It isn’t until they begin lowering the casket into the ground that everything goes wrong.

Unable to take your eyes off of the box containing your son as it disappears into the dirt, your body begins trembling violently as your knees give out underneath you. Luckily, Bruce catches you before you hit the ground but his touch does little to ease your trembling. 

Still staring at the casket, you begin repeating, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” 

Bruce pulls you tight against his chest, allowing you to bury your face into his jacket to muffle to sound. You claw desperately at the back of his suit, your chanting becoming more frenzied by the moment despite no longer looking at the grave. It’s just too much. All of it’s too much. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” 

Mercifully, Bruce gently lifts you into his arms and carries you back to the car. You cling tightly to him, your arms around his neck, even as you continue shaking and babbling, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

“Shhh….” Bruce coos gently. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You did so good. I know he’d be proud of you, just like I am. But it’s over now, and I’m taking you back to the manor just like I promised. It’s going to be okay.”

You nod into his neck as you finally manage to quiet down some. The words are still swirling in your head but at least they are no longer spewing from your lips. You thought you were stronger than this. You thought you could at least hold it together for an hour for your family’s sake, but you were so wrong. 

Even though it had been a closed casket funeral, knowing Jay was in there, seeing it disappear into the ground forever…it finalized everything in a way you hadn’t felt yet. All those days laying in Jason’s room, numb and disconnected from the world, you had distanced yourself from the reality of the truth. But there was no escaping it now. Jason was gone and there was nothing you could do to change that.

When you reach the manor, Bruce once again lifts you into his arms though you half-heartedly tell him you can walk on your own yet part of you is glad when he ignores you and continues to carry you up the stairs. You are somewhat surprised when Bruce returns you to Jason’s room without even asking. For some reason, you had assumed he would try to take you to the master bedroom to be with him.

You expect him to climb into bed or kneel down beside it, but once again he shocks you as he simply turns and walks to the door. He only pauses a moment to say, “I had Alfred put a fresh change of pajamas on the dresser.” Then he walks out and closes the door behind him.

You aren’t sure what to think about this. Has Bruce finally given up trying to reach you? Was he more embarrassed about your behavior at the funeral than he admitted? Or has he finally accepted you need time alone to deal with your loss? 

Still pondering his behavior, you climb out of bed and slip off the black dress you are wearing. Tossing it to the side, you walk over to the dresser to look for the clothes Bruce mentioned. The sooner you get them on, the sooner you can return to your blanket cocoon and lose yourself to your fog of grief once more. 

But as you spy the pajamas and you reach for them, your eyes land on something on the wall. Despite the fact today is May 11, Jason’s calendar is still turned to April. Since he left for Ethiopia on April 25th and was killed on the 27th, he never got the chance to change it. He would never know which classical author’s picture had been selected for May. Instead, Jason ran out of time and now it will forever be stuck on William Shakespeare.

Time….If only you had more time….

Three and a half years. That’s all the time you had with your son. It seems insane that someone who was in your life for such a short amount of time could leave such an impact on you, but there is no denying it. You know deep in your soul that you could not have loved Jason more if you had given birth to him or known him since the day he was born. He is your son just as much as Dick is, as much as the baby you had lost is, and now he’s gone too.

And it’s all because of The Joker.

For the first time since you had crawled into Jason’s room that first night, something besides sorrow stirs in your gut. The red-hot burn of vengeance that you have let your grief extinguish suddenly flares to life in your veins and your hands clench tightly on the edge of the dresser. 

Memories begin flashing through your mind: Sitting next to the bed, begging God to save an 18-year-old Dick as he clung to life after being shot by The Joker while on patrol; Monitoring the Batcomputer in horror as The Joker released his laughing gas throughout the streets of Gotham; Listening to Lt. Gordon’s sobs as he told Bruce what The Joker had done to Barbara;  Watching Bruce lift Jason’s lifeless body out of the Batmobile as your heart shattered in your chest.

He is responsible for all this death and this pain, year after year after year. He is the reason other villains think they can get away with whatever deadly scheme they have up their sleeves. He is why Arkham Asylum has become a swinging door deterrent that no one fears. He is the one who killed your son.

And he’s not going to get away with it any longer. 

Every cell in your body knows what has to be done, yet you also know the consequences if you do it. Is stopping this lunatic really worth destroying what’s left of your family? Can you really give up everything to ensure no one else ever feels this pain you are feeling?

You think about if your places had been reversed and it had been you who had been killed instead and there is absolutely no doubt in your mind that Jason would have burned the world down if it meant stopping The Joker. And if that’s true, how could you do anything less for your son?

With a newfound purpose driving you and a clear goal in your sights, you flip the calendar to May and pin it in place. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stares back at you as you press your finger to May 27th; 16 days from now and exactly one month after Jason’s death. That will be the day. The day you do what you should have done long ago. The day you will kill The Joker.

Taglist: @juliaarwj, @calsjack, @theclassicvinyldragon, @zebralover, @megumimind, @freerangesweets, @@lapidaverunt-scriptor, @kiryoutann, @charmellaposts, @imperialabysssins, @dawnwriterimagines, @avitute

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

One Bad Day....Jason's Death

AI-Less Whumptober 2023: 8. Panic Attack, 12. Character Death, 23. Begging, 31. Crying, Alt. 13. Grief Fandom: Batman, Batfam, Batmom, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd Summary: Before Red Hood rescued her, before she was in prison, before she killed The Joker, Batmom experiences one of the most devastating losses of her life. Word Count: 5587 TW: Canon Character Death, Mentions of Torture, Brief Description of Injuries, Grief, Breakdown, Tears, Anger, Character Picks Up Reader Note: This is part of the One Bad Day.... series but can be read as a one-shot (though best to be read after Part 3) Part of @ailesswhumptober's whumptober event.

Series Masterlist

It has been three days since you have heard from either Bruce or Jason and you are starting to get worried. Actually, you are way past worried—you are terrified. Something is wrong, you can feel it in your gut. A gnawing queasiness deep in your stomach that has you unable to eat or sleep while you wait for some sort of news.

Usually, you wouldn’t give this radio silence a second thought. While Bruce tries to send some sort of word as often as he can while out of town, it just isn’t always possible. Especially when he is away on this kind of work. Batman is a force of secrets and mystery. He can’t always risk finding a way to call his wife to tell her he is alright. 

You pull the blanket that is draped over your shoulders tighter around you and continue pacing. Alfred had placed it there a few ago, the last time he had come to check on you. When you had first begun to worry, the butler had remained by your side providing constant reassurance and support. But after a while, once it became clear you wanted to be alone, he retreated upstairs. Occasionally, he returned to the Batcave to bring you some food, water, or something to keep you warm, but otherwise, he had been keeping his distance. However, you know the second you call for him, he will instantly be there to get you whatever he possibly can. If only he could get you the one thing you truly wanted right now….

As if summoned by your silent wish, you suddenly hear the distant roar of a familiar engine growing louder by the second. Whirling around, a huge smile of relief on your face, you turn just in time to see the Batmobile burst into the cave and come to a stop in its usual spot. For the first time in days, you feel like you can breathe again as the driver-side door opens up and you catch a glimpse of Bruce, still in his Batman costume though he has removed his cowl and gloves.

Throwing your arms open wide as you approach the car, you exclaim, “There’s my boys!” Bruce doesn’t look at you as he climbs out of the Batmobile and walks slowly over to the passenger side. “I was just about to send out a search party. How was Ethiopia? Did you find–”

You stumble to a halt, your smile slipping from your face. An icy vice clamps down on your heart as you see Bruce lift something out of the Batmobile: a small limp figure wrapped in a torn yellow cape that reveals small glimpses of the red suit underneath through the holes and tears. Though the cape is also draped across the person’s face, you know immediately who is under it.

“No….” you gasp as your blanket slips from your shoulders to pool at your feet. “No, no, Bruce, no. Please, no.” 

As you wait for Bruce’s response, you cling to that last fragile shred of hope that it’s not what you think, that maybe he’s just hurt under there or sleeping or…or…….

But as your husband silently walks past you and lays the body on one of the nearby tables, the drawn, pained expression on his face coupled with the tender care he takes carefully arranging it is the final confirmation you need. 

Dropping to your knees, you let out an almost inhuman wail as the truth of the situation slams into you like a nuclear blast. Your baby’s gone. Jason is dead. And you have lost yet another child. 

You collapse forward, your forehead pressing hard against the cold cave floor as another wail tears through your chest. No. It can’t be true. Jason has to be alive. He has to be. Oh please, God, please don’t tell me you’ve taken my baby from me. Not again. Please.

As you continue to sob—worldless howls of grief and pain—you feel Bruce drape himself over you as if trying to shield you from this agony….but it’s too late. The damage has already been done and you have been irreparably broken.

In what seems like hours later, once you have exhausted yourself to the point you no longer have the energy or tears left to cry, Bruce sits back and pulls you carefully into his lap. As you lay curled in his arms with your head resting on his chest, you can feel his heart beating beneath you—so strong and steady—and it hits you that you will never again feel Jason’s heartbeat or hear him take a breath. All of those little signs of life you take for granted are just gone…and so is he.

Lifting your head to gaze up at your husband, you force your words through your aching throat, torn raw from all your screaming, and you ask, “What happened?” 

“The Joker,” Bruce says as he brushes a tear off your cheek. “He used Jason’s birthmother to lure him in, then he placed both of them in a warehouse that was rigged to explode. I arrived just as the bomb went off. I….I was too late to save him.”

The sound of Bruce’s voice breaking and the tears in his voice sends another jolt of pain into your heart and you nuzzle your head into his neck as you squeeze his hand. He silently squeezes back and you have to stifle a groan as you feel the bones in your hand shift and crack in his grasp, but you don’t say anything. You just let him continue to squeeze your hand long after the point it turns numb. 

You haven’t seen Bruce fall apart since the two of you lost the baby. Regardless of what heartbreaks or fights had come your way in the years since, Bruce had remained calm and stoic through it all. It’s just who he was. He was your rock, your lifeline in the roughest of waters, your source of comfort when you needed it the most—so the sight of him breaking adds another layer of grief to your own.

When he finally loosens his grip and you can tell he has regained some of his composure, you whisper, “Did he…. Did he hurt him before…?”

Bruce hesitates for a moment before murmuring, “You don’t need to know the details.” 

Which means yes. The Joker had probably tortured and beaten your baby bloody before blowing him up. Another sob threatens to tear from your lips, but you manage to quell it so it is just a whine deep in your throat. You had cried enough for the moment. Right now, you need answers and to come up with a plan. But first…you need something else.

Untangling yourself from Bruce’s arms, you unsteadily get to your feet and begin walking over to the table. Bruce leaps up when he sees what you are doing and he gently grabs your shoulders blocking your path. “Don’t. Sweetheart, just…just don’t. Trust me.”

“Let me go. I need to see him.”

You try to shrug him off but he holds you firmly in place. “No. You don’t. Don’t let that be the last image you have of him—I wish it wasn’t mine. He’s gone and seeing him like that won’t bring him back. So, I’m begging you, don’t.”

“Get out of my way, Bruce,” you growl as you glare up at your husband. “I need to see our son. I need to see what that monster did to him.”

For a moment, you aren’t sure what Bruce is going to do. His eyes flit across your face, trying to find the slightest hesitation he can grasp onto. But when he doesn’t find any, he sighs and slowly lowers his hands as he bows his head and whispers, “Please…Don’t look.”

But you have already pushed past him before he finishes his sentence.

You approach the table with a determined stride, yet you hesitate once you reach it. Jason was always a slight kid, even verging on scrawny, but he had never seemed smaller or more vulnerable than as your hand hovers over the cape still draped over him. Even that first night Bruce brought him home to you, he had so much fire and spirit in his little twelve-year-old body that his presence filled the room. Now, three years later, that fire and spirit had been extinguished and it hits you all over again how young he truly was—how young he would always be.

You feel Bruce come to stand just behind you but he doesn’t say a word. He has tried his best to stop you so now all he can do is wait for you to live with your decision and be there for the aftermath. Knowing he is right there for you gives you a renewed sense of strength and as you take a deep breath, you pull back the cape to look at your son. 

Bruce was right. You shouldn’t have looked.

Some of the damage you are expecting based on what Bruce told you. Burns litter Jay’s face and neck as well as his hands. In some places, they are light, almost invisible unless the light catches them just so. However, in other spots, the burns are so severe you can almost see down to the bone. His hands are the worst, so charred and blackened that you fear touching them despite the longing in your chest to hold his hand once more in yours. Looking at the burn patterns, it seems heartbreakingly clear that Jason had tried to protect himself from the blast by throwing his hands in front of his face…he had seen it coming.

Yet as horrible as that realization is, far worse is the damage you weren’t expecting to see on your son.

Beneath the burns and debris from the bomb, Jason’s body is broken, bruised, and bloody in ways that an explosion couldn’t have caused. One arm and leg jut out at odd angles and there are dark bruises all over his face, neck, and the parts of his torso you can see through his ruined suit. One eye is swollen and black, his nose is bent sharply to one side, and his lip is split open wide. You have seen enough blunt-force trauma up close and personal to understand what had to have caused all of this. 

Casting one last longing look at your son, you turn to face Bruce. You are visibly shaking, and when you speak, your voice is dripping with venomous fury, “Where is he?”

“Clark is tracking him down and he’ll alert me the second he finds him.”

“And then?” Bruce glances away, unable to look at you. Disbelief washes over you and you step closer to your husband. “Bruce, don’t tell me you are thinking of letting him live.”

“It’s not our place to–”

“He killed our son!” you hiss as you point to the body of the child you both loved. “Jason is—Jason is dead because of that maniac! We can’t let The Joker get away with this!”

“We won’t.” Bruce takes your face between his hands and bends over so his forehead is almost touching yours. “I swear to you, we will find him and throw him back into Arkham where he belongs.”

Wrenching from his grasp in disgust, you snarl, “For how long? A few weeks? A month if we’re lucky? Then he’ll just find another way to escape like he always does and he’ll hurt more innocent people, more people we love. How can you not see that this has to end? That it should have ended years ago.”

“My heart—” Bruce tries to take your hand but once again you snatch it away from him. “I know you don’t always agree with it, but we have a code. A code you agreed to follow when you joined me. And that code means that no matter what The Joker or anyone else does, We. Don’t. Kill. Otherwise, what makes us any better than them?”

“Maybe I don’t care about being better than them anymore. We’ve done things by the book, followed your rules, and where has that left us? Two dead children and a third who barely survived being shot. And you still talk about trusting the same system that allowed it to happen in the first place. Well, who’s next, Bruce? Who will be the next victim in your moral war? Alfred? Dick?....Me? Whose death will it take for you to realize that this won’t end unless we make it end?”

Bruce stares at you as if he is looking at a stranger and not his wife of ten years. Shaking his head slightly, he says, “I understand you’re hurting right now and you’re not thinking clearly. But once some time has passed and the feelings aren’t as raw, you’ll—”

“I’ll what? Forget my son is dead?” you snap.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, what did you mean? Give it time and things will just go back to normal? That this pain will fade and I won’t care that my son was murdered?”

“Our son.”

“What?”

“Our son,” Bruce says. His voice has a sharp edge to it that momentarily takes you aback. “You keep saying ‘my son’ like you’re the only one who lost him. I know what you and Jay had was special but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him too, or that I’m not in agony right now. I had to watch, helplessly, as that warehouse exploded knowing I was too late to save him. Then, I dug with my bare hands for almost an hour through the wreckage praying for a miracle only to find—” Bruce presses his hand over his eye as he takes a long, slow, shaking inhale then continues “And then I had to fly home watching vigil over our son’s body, all the while dreading this moment. Knowing I was coming home to shatter the woman I love. But the only thing that made that thought bearable was knowing we could mourn together and lean on each other for comfort. Yet all you can focus on is revenge and murder!”

“No, Bruce. I’m focusing on keeping the family I still have safe. I’m focusing on protecting this city just as you swore to do. I’m focusing on ending terror and chaos in the streets. And if that means one psychotic clown has to die to make that happen, then so be it.”

“We do not cross that line. Ever. No matter who we think deserves it. That’s just how things have to be.”

“Don’t you get it! Jason would still be alive if you had just—” All of your fury evaporates instantly and you inhale sharply as you realize what you were about to blurt out. Bruce’s expression hardens into a stone-cold mask usually reserved for the most lowsome of criminals and, stumbling back, you stutter, “I-I mean…I—”

“If I had what? Say it. Say it!” Now it is your turn to not meet his eye yet he pushes on. “You were going to say that if I had just killed The Joker years ago, Jason would still be alive!”

“I didn’t mean it. It just slipped out,” you whisper. “I know this isn’t your fault, Bruce. You told him not to go but I encouraged him to do what he thought he had to do. That I would support whatever decision he made.” Your voice cracks as you choke out, “I sent our baby off to his death, not you.”

It is the thought that has been nagging at the back of your head since you saw Bruce lift Jason’s body from the Batmobile. The unbearable truth you’ve been unable to face. Bruce had known something felt off about the situation and he insisted Jason stayed home. But when Jason came to you saying he had found his birthmother and needed to go see her, you put your foot down and forced Bruce to take him. If you had just listened to Bruce, if you had just really examined the facts instead of wanting to show Jason you were supportive, your son would still be alive.

Suddenly, it felt like the walls of the Batcave were closing in on you and you couldn’t catch your breath. Stumbling back a few steps, you say, “I-I can’t do this. I have to get out of here.”

The anger in Bruce’s face disappears as quickly as it appeared. He reaches out to you with a soft, “Sweetheart—” but you continue to back away.

“No. No, I need to go. I-I need to be alone.”

Bruce nods slowly. “Alright. That’s okay. Why don’t you go take a long shower and lay down and I’ll take care of things down here. I’ll come check on you when I’m done.”

You nod back and hurry over to the stairs leading up to the manor. But just as you begin to climb them, you pause and mumble, “I’ll be in Jay’s room.” then flee up the stairs before Bruce can stop you.

Once back in the manor, you move in an almost trancelike state towards the bedrooms. As you pass the kitchen, you hear a soft sniffling and you realize Alfred must have come down into the Batcave at some point and seen what happened. You have been so preoccupied with your own grief, you completely forgot about the butler who loved Jason almost as much as you and Bruce did. 

Part of you wants to go back and join him. After all, Alfred always knows how to fix anything and everything and maybe, somehow, he can fix this too. Yet as much as it pains you to admit, there are just some things even Alfred Pennyworth can’t do. So you continue walking.

When you reach Jason’s room, you don’t even pause before opening the door and shuffling in. In one fluid movement, you collapse onto your son’s bed and roll over, dragging his comforter with you until you are cocooned beneath the blanket. 

It seems impossible that just three nights ago you were sitting on this very bed with Jason next to you as he told you about how he had been tracking down his birthmother. He had been so scared to tell you for fear he would hurt your feelings. But you had just gathered him into your arms and pressed your lips into his hair as you promised him you would always be his “Ma” regardless of what happened on his search. That you would always love him….

Tears you did not think you could still cry began slipping silently down your cheeks. What would you have done differently if you had known that was the last time you would see your son? What else would you have said to make him understand how much he meant to you? How he had saved you from your grief once before and how you still needed him now?

You bury your face deeper into his pillow as you finally allow yourself to ask the question that you know will haunt you the rest of your life:

Could I have saved you if I had been there?

For the next twelve days, little changes. The only time you leave Jason’s bed is to go to the bathroom, but otherwise, you lay curled in the center of his bed wrapped in his blankets and staring at his wall. Bruce and Alfred take turns coming to check on you several times a day, usually bringing food or drinks and trying their best to coax you into consuming something. You take a little nibble here and there or take a few sips of water, but it isn’t long before you return to your near catatonic state. 

Even when Dick arrives a few days after you learned of Jason’s death, it doesn’t make much of a difference. You do allow him to climb into the bed with you where you wrap him in a bone-crushing embrace, afraid if you let go you’ll lose him just like your other children. But eventually, he has to leave and you resume your solitary existence.

On day seven, Bruce slips into bed behind you and wraps his arms around you. For a long time, the two of you just lay there in silence. Then, softly, his lips brush against your ear as he whispers, “Please, sweetheart, please come back to me. I know you’re hurting. So am I. But I just lost Jason and I can’t….I can’t lose you too. Please, let me in. Let us help each other through this….Together.”

You know he’s right, and it kills you to know you are only adding to his heartbreak, but you just don’t have the strength or the will to be what he needs right now. So, you remain motionless in his embrace, your eyes never shifting their unseeing stare at the wall.

Eventually, Bruce accepts nothing is going to change. Pressing his lips to the nape of your neck, he whispers, “I love you. Please never forget that. And I’ll be waiting, as soon as you’re ready.” Then he slips from the bed and you are alone once more.

The next major change in your routine comes exactly two weeks after Jason’s death when Bruce and Alfred walk into Jason’s room holding a simple black dress. Silently, you allow them to put it on you before they lead you downstairs where Dick is waiting with the car. No one has to tell you where you are going. You already know.

For the short drive, Bruce sits next to you in the backseat, holding your hand tightly as he presses his lips against your temple with whispers of encouragement and love. You squeeze his hand back but make no other acknowledgment of his presence or support. You catch Dick glancing back at you in the rearview mirror a few times, concern etched on his face, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. That thought makes you withdraw even further into yourself in shame.

As Alfred pulls to a stop, you make no move to exit the car. Alfred and Dick both glance at Bruce for some sort of guidance as to how to proceed, and he motions for them to get out. Once you are alone, Bruce pulls you into his arms. “If I could spare you from this, you know I would. But we have to make some sort of public show or it’s going to look suspicious. And people are already asking questions. But I promise, the second we’re done, I’ll take you back up to the house. Okay?”

You nod, knowing he is right however much you despise it, and he smiles softly. Placing his finger under your chin so he can tilt your head back, Bruce kisses your forehead as he whispers, “That’s my girl.”

Then sliding his hand into yours, he opens his car door and steps out before helping you out. Immediately you are met with flashing lights and the whirring click of hundreds of cameras all pointed in your direction. You try to ignore them as Bruce leads you down the path lined with photographers and reporters, your face a blank mask void of any emotion. 

But that mask becomes harder to maintain as you hear the slight tittering of whispers passing through the crowd. And though you have over a decade of experience being the subject of Gotham’s rumor mill to get used to the kinds of things people say about you, these reach a new level of cruelty: 

“Look at the heartless whore. Can’t even spare a single tear for that poor boy Bruce so kindly took in.”

“I heard she didn’t even want to come today but Bruce insisted. Can you imagine? He deserves so much better.”

“She wasn’t even there when he died. Bruce planned a family trip overseas and she refused to go. She would rather stay here to be waited on hand and foot by that butler of theirs than spend time with her supposed family.”

“I bet she had something to do with the boy’s death. Probably didn’t want to share the Wayne fortune with anyone else. Bruce and the older boy should watch their backs. They could be next.”

You remember a time when you would have gone off on these people. Snapped back about how they didn’t know anything about you or your relationship with your family. Caused such a scene Bruce would have had to sheepishly drag you away while his face glowed bright red. But not today. Today all you want to do is curl up in a ball in front of them as you sob, asking how they can be so cruel or heartless to not see your pain or the devastation at your loss. How they could come here—here of all places—just to add to your suffering.

But you don’t. Instead, you allow Bruce to continue leading you forward until you stop in front of the freshly dug grave with the casket placed beside it.

Bruce (well, probably Alfred) had worked out all the details while you were locked in Jason’s room. A plot had been selected in the small graveyard on the edge of the Wayne estate, right next to where Bruce’s parents were buried. The casket is closed so you can’t see how they dressed Jay, but Bruce had promised you in the car that he tucked Jason’s Robin mask into his pocket like you asked. It was the only input you had given on the whole ceremony but it did make you feel a little better knowing he had it with him. 

To the world, this may just be the funeral of Jason Todd, but in reality, today you are burying two people, and you wanted to honor that.

Dick comes to stand next to you so you are sandwiched between him and Bruce. Though you don’t as much as glance in his direction, you are grateful to have your remaining son beside you. It is a calming reminder that not everyone has been taken from you. At least…not yet. 

As the ceremony starts, you hold your head high and stare straight ahead. It is harder than you thought, the weight of a hundred eyes boring into the back of your head, but you manage to remain calm and composed throughout the sermon.

It isn’t until they begin lowering the casket into the ground that everything goes wrong.

Unable to take your eyes off of the box containing your son as it disappears into the dirt, your body begins trembling violently as your knees give out underneath you. Luckily, Bruce catches you before you hit the ground but his touch does little to ease your trembling. 

Still staring at the casket, you begin repeating, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” 

Bruce pulls you tight against his chest, allowing you to bury your face into his jacket to muffle to sound. You claw desperately at the back of his suit, your chanting becoming more frenzied by the moment despite no longer looking at the grave. It’s just too much. All of it’s too much. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” 

Mercifully, Bruce gently lifts you into his arms and carries you back to the car. You cling tightly to him, your arms around his neck, even as you continue shaking and babbling, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

“Shhh….” Bruce coos gently. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You did so good. I know he’d be proud of you, just like I am. But it’s over now, and I’m taking you back to the manor just like I promised. It’s going to be okay.”

You nod into his neck as you finally manage to quiet down some. The words are still swirling in your head but at least they are no longer spewing from your lips. You thought you were stronger than this. You thought you could at least hold it together for an hour for your family’s sake, but you were so wrong. 

Even though it had been a closed casket funeral, knowing Jay was in there, seeing it disappear into the ground forever…it finalized everything in a way you hadn’t felt yet. All those days laying in Jason’s room, numb and disconnected from the world, you had distanced yourself from the reality of the truth. But there was no escaping it now. Jason was gone and there was nothing you could do to change that.

When you reach the manor, Bruce once again lifts you into his arms though you half-heartedly tell him you can walk on your own yet part of you is glad when he ignores you and continues to carry you up the stairs. You are somewhat surprised when Bruce returns you to Jason’s room without even asking. For some reason, you had assumed he would try to take you to the master bedroom to be with him.

You expect him to climb into bed or kneel down beside it, but once again he shocks you as he simply turns and walks to the door. He only pauses a moment to say, “I had Alfred put a fresh change of pajamas on the dresser.” Then he walks out and closes the door behind him.

You aren’t sure what to think about this. Has Bruce finally given up trying to reach you? Was he more embarrassed about your behavior at the funeral than he admitted? Or has he finally accepted you need time alone to deal with your loss? 

Still pondering his behavior, you climb out of bed and slip off the black dress you are wearing. Tossing it to the side, you walk over to the dresser to look for the clothes Bruce mentioned. The sooner you get them on, the sooner you can return to your blanket cocoon and lose yourself to your fog of grief once more. 

But as you spy the pajamas and you reach for them, your eyes land on something on the wall. Despite the fact today is May 11, Jason’s calendar is still turned to April. Since he left for Ethiopia on April 25th and was killed on the 27th, he never got the chance to change it. He would never know which classical author’s picture had been selected for May. Instead, Jason ran out of time and now it will forever be stuck on William Shakespeare.

Time….If only you had more time….

Three and a half years. That’s all the time you had with your son. It seems insane that someone who was in your life for such a short amount of time could leave such an impact on you, but there is no denying it. You know deep in your soul that you could not have loved Jason more if you had given birth to him or known him since the day he was born. He is your son just as much as Dick is, as much as the baby you had lost is, and now he’s gone too.

And it’s all because of The Joker.

For the first time since you had crawled into Jason’s room that first night, something besides sorrow stirs in your gut. The red-hot burn of vengeance that you have let your grief extinguish suddenly flares to life in your veins and your hands clench tightly on the edge of the dresser. 

Memories begin flashing through your mind: Sitting next to the bed, begging God to save an 18-year-old Dick as he clung to life after being shot by The Joker while on patrol; Monitoring the Batcomputer in horror as The Joker released his laughing gas throughout the streets of Gotham; Listening to Lt. Gordon’s sobs as he told Bruce what The Joker had done to Barbara;  Watching Bruce lift Jason’s lifeless body out of the Batmobile as your heart shattered in your chest.

He is responsible for all this death and this pain, year after year after year. He is the reason other villains think they can get away with whatever deadly scheme they have up their sleeves. He is why Arkham Asylum has become a swinging door deterrent that no one fears. He is the one who killed your son.

And he’s not going to get away with it any longer. 

Every cell in your body knows what has to be done, yet you also know the consequences if you do it. Is stopping this lunatic really worth destroying what’s left of your family? Can you really give up everything to ensure no one else ever feels this pain you are feeling?

You think about if your places had been reversed and it had been you who had been killed instead and there is absolutely no doubt in your mind that Jason would have burned the world down if it meant stopping The Joker. And if that’s true, how could you do anything less for your son?

With a newfound purpose driving you and a clear goal in your sights, you flip the calendar to May and pin it in place. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stares back at you as you press your finger to May 27th; 16 days from now and exactly one month after Jason’s death. That will be the day. The day you do what you should have done long ago. The day you will kill The Joker.

Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @mayhem24-7forever, @hjgdhghoe, @dazaisleftballsack, @simp027, @animefan3223, @mysticchopshop, @eternalharry, @edgycatx, @lanatheawesome, @yandere-batfamfan, @zsalvatore-mikaelson, @constantshitposter, @lauramb7, @thedumbgirl, @leonielaufeyson, @ultraxavbo, @chrismarium, @joceymoo, @shanksfav, @leyleyinpijamas, @notwonderlandsworld, @redsakura101, @outdated-titty-milk101, @lariclifford, @seoulnights5, @makhaia, @tardisin221bst, @imurdaddypromlems, @kesskirata, @roro707-blog, @scrappybear89, @homosexualjohnwayne, @dweeb-central, @sunshineflowerchild789, @happinessricardotapia, @nefariousghostbabe, @mikyapixie, @angelicadiabolus, @hotleaf-juice, @saltedcoffeescotch, @hermosavidagg, @iveofficiallylostmymarbles, @avengersftspn, @pantasticalcat, @staynctzen127, @yunho-leeknow, @blue-aconite, @leyleyinpijamas, @y-napotat, @jadynchronicle, @redrydersrequiem, @violet2507, @venomsvl, @time-shardz, @kimmib13, @sapnapbitches, @thedazzlingburglar, @yunho-leeknow, @nina-isabelle, @melancholicmooosic, @rayofsarkasm, @deppresseddyslexic

[hyperfixat]

AI LESS WHUMPTOBER DAY THREE ISOLATED

support and engagement would really motivate me to help post and work on the rest of this stuff!

(@ailesswhumptober)

You stretch your arms up in the air as you yawn, rolling out of your bed on the Astral Express. The memories of last night are hazy, but you don’t linger on it as you head to your ensuite bathroom to freshen up for the day.

When you make to step out into the passenger car, pulling on the door handle, it doesn’t budge.

Odd.

Maybe March was playing a prank on you or something?

You call out for March, Dan Heng, PomPom, Mr Yang, Himeko, to no avail. You try the handle once again, before trailing back to your bed, picking up your cellphone to message the Astral Express group chat.

Your phone turns off with a click and you let out a frustrated sigh. Walking back to the door you rest your ear against the panel and listen for any signs they’re out and about.

Nothing.

With not much to do you plop back onto your bed, clicking open your phone to doom scroll until something happens.

You hadn’t known the express had docked. Though why Pompom would land at a planet hostile to… your kind?, humans?, or perhaps something to do with just discrimination. They claim you’re their favorite passenger, so it had to have been an emergency for them to stop… at whatever this planet is.

Your blinds had been closed for the night, and you think better of opening them, but you peek out from the bottom.

It looks like any other planet’s railway. Nothing looks odd or out of place; no ‘humans dni’ signs or posters. You wonder how they’re getting by, your crew, they’re all human-oid, no?

There’s a long period of waiting, maybe an hour, maybe more. Then there’s footsteps, heavy and en masse. Not just the Astral Express crew. These are the sounds of heavy boots, those of soldiers. You can hear March’s distinct tone, so it’s not a raid or something uncouth, she’s at least somewhat calm.

“—and these are the sleeping quarters! They’re all empty at the moment.” They’re getting closer. When they’re outside your door, strangers, hostile on sight to you specifically, “this room is empty. We can’t let you check his one room, sorry!” March giggles.

“We keep unstable synthesis materials in there.” Dan Heng explains levelly. “It would take too long to safely have you search it, we’ll be gone before you’d be finished suiting up.”

There’s a feminine voice replying in a language foreign to you.

“There’s no need for that, we’re leaving within the hour.” Welt.

Your heart stutters and you hold your breath as a hand jiggles your door handle.

“Let’s move along,” Dan Heng’s voice is firm and the shadows peering in from under your door disappear. His voice commands the enemy soldiers away from your door and you let out a quiet sigh of relief.

The soldiers soon file off the ship and your door unlocks with a click and Dan Heng opens it. His body fills in the door frame, stopping March 7th from running in.

“Dan Heng,” she whines, shoving him inside your room so she can bound over to your bed and jump next to you.

Himeko peeks her head inside, “Pompom says we’re taking off soon. Settle down you three.”

“Yes, Ms. Himeko~!” March giggles.

“Sorry about not warning you, we hadn’t prepared to land here.” Welt says from the hallway, looking at you. “We needed an emergency refuel before we could stop at the Xianzhou Luofu. I apologize for any alarm this extrusion may have caused you.”

“Thank you Mr Yang, I’m fine now. It was a little scary at first.” You laugh a little.

“Excuse me!” Pompom shoves past Himeko and Welt’s legs, waddling their little body into your room. They clamber up your bed and smother you in a hug. “Pompom is so sorry for landing here!”

“Aw, it’s okay Pompom. No harm no foul,” you pat their fluffy ears.

Their large eyes seek yours for a moment before they nod and hop off your bed, heading to the captain’s chamber.

“We’re leaving now. You all,” they deliberately look at all the passengers gathered around your room. “Get seated.”

[questionableratatouille00]

𝖮𝗇 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖲𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖣𝖺𝗒 (𝖶𝖾’𝗅𝗅 𝖬𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖠𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

Summary: In another reality, perhaps you and Bucky had a chance.

Warnings: Fluff ending in angst, major character death, non-happy endings, talks of death. Mentions of murder.

A/n: Highway to Hell is still being worked on, but the updates might be less frequent as I get ready for whumptober. (I intend to do all 31 days of the ai-less whumptober. All x-readers, with all the Avengers I have the motivation to write for. Mainly Bucky lmao.) I was inspired to write this, so here we are! Enjoy!

---------------------------------------------

“Do you think,” you paused, gathering your thoughts, “in another life, it could’ve been different?”

“Different?” Bucky questioned, looking at you. It had been a fun day of helping fix Sam’s family boat. After the blip, or really, after Steve left, Bucky wasn’t ever really the same. It was good seeing him smile and joke and laugh like he did today. The two of you now stand together at the water's edge, watching the sun set.

Your love story, if you could even call it that, only really started after the battle at the German airport. Whenever Steve would go to Wakanda to see Bucky, you’d go with.

“For backup,” you’d reasoned. You were lucky that nobody ever questioned why he’d need back up to go to Wakanda, one of the safest places in the world. Still, Steve had let you tag along.

You and Bucky had bonded quickly. You were an easily trustable person, and you never asked inappropriate questions. When Bucky needed silence, just to process his thoughts, you didn’t try (and fail) to read his mind, like Steve did. When Bucky craved human interaction but was too scared to ask for it, you’d always be there, willing to try and explain to him that they did, in fact, make three The Hobbit movies. You’d waited a little while longer to tell him about the Lord of the Rings.

His steel blue eyes brought you back from your thoughts. “Different.” You repeated. “None of this…world-ending bullshit. Like…you know how the wizar—sorcerer guy just told us all that the multiverse was real?” You recalled the day. You also remembered Bucky complaining about Sam calling Strange a wizard.

“Yeah?” Bucky nodded, remembering it too.

“Do you think..in another life, we’re eating spaghetti together? And the biggest worry on our minds as we do so is who’s going to do the dishes?”

Bucky thinks about it for a minute. He’s making that one face he makes whenever he’s annoyed. You know him well enough to know that he’s not annoyed, but he’s considering what you’ve just said.

“Maybe.” He murmurs after a moment.

“We could be folding laundry right now. Or brushing our teeth together.”

“You want us to brush each other's teeth?” He questions, confused. He considers the idea, you can basically see the gears turning in his head.

“No—I mean—whatever.” You kick a pebble into the water, before you feel him press his right shoulder into your left one.

“I’m kidding.” He smiles softly. “I mean, I’m all for brushing your teeth if that’s what this day and age’s romance customs include.” He teases further.

“You know, you’re technically old enough to be my great grandpa." You mumble out, keeping your eyes focused on the setting sun.

"Are you kidding me?" It's like you can hear his eyes roll just from his voice.

You begin to laugh a little. "106 year old man. You weren't married or anything, right? No grandkids running around? Damn, that would be awkward. Imagine calling someone who's the same age as you 'grandma'."

Bucky grumbled something, and you tapped his shoulder with yours. "I love you. Even if in a couple years people will think I broke you out of the nursing home."

"I still age at a normal rate." Maybe even slower, you added in your mind. "I love you too." He slips his hand into yours.

"Maybe it's super sunny that day. In the other reality. And we're having a picnic."

"I'd love to have a picnic with you. We can do that in this reality, too, y'know." He reminded you.

"We've really got all the time in the world." You lean against him as he puts his arm over your shoulders.

"We do." He agrees.

---------------

Your eyes flutter open in the same familiar sequence. Every night, it's like you dream the same dream. And yet, every morning, it's the same nightmare.

You pull yourself out of bed, no matter how much you don't want to. The hallways of your apartment are cold, lonely now. The lights are almost always off. It's easier to not notice the pictures on the wall like this.

You pour a cup of coffee, sitting alone on your couch. Flicking on the TV, the first channel that pops up is the news.

"It's the official one year anniversary of the death of James Barnes, the former Winter Soldier. On December 20th, 2024, Mr. Barnes was found murdered in his Brooklyn apartment--" The man on the television screen begins. You immediately shut the damn thing off, sitting in silence for what seems like hours.

Nobody even knew what had happened. That was the worst part. The attacker was there, and then they were gone. Just like Bucky. He was there. Alive, breathing. Safe.

Then he was gone.

And with him, your heart was gone, too.

So much for that picnic.

[foap-enjoyer]

Little sneak peak of my inclusion in 'AI-less whumptober' 2023!

CoD edition ;)

This is the day four prompt; Hiding an injury. I've got many more in the works of course, I plan to do all 31 days!

~

“Well, that went to shit.”

“Nicely put, Sergeant.”

At least Price agreed with him. Then again, it’d be weird if he didn’t; the mission had most definitely gone ‘to shit’. Out of an assigned twenty, three hadn’t made it home, and another fifteen had been injured. The literal, figurative, documented definition of shit.

Even Ghost. The lieutenant Ghost, had been among those injured. A minor wound, compared to some of the others, but at the end of the day, it was still a bullet to the leg. Soap had watched him fall. Hell, he’d been personally responsible for taking out the prick dumb enough to even consider aiming at him.

He would’ve been the idiot to have to drag Ghost out of the fray, but luckily, Gaz was there. He had been quick to charge forward, hooking his hands through Ghost’s shoulder straps and yanking, hard. They’d tumbled off out of view, into the brush surrounding the battle field. An embarrassing feat, and yet Soap never called him out for it.

He found out later Gaz had been shot too, reaching for their lieutenant. Shoulder, right besides his neck- way too close for comfort. Way too close. 

Like he said. The mission went to shit. 

He felt bad for the doctors, too- and the nurses, and field medics, and anyone during those grueling four hours out on the field who had any single drop of medical training. They’d been strained, and if he was honest, were still strained now. Injuries don’t heal magically once you step off of the helo and onto base, after all. Four of the fifteen had collapsed upon arriving, seven had needed surgery, and yet another had died along the way. It had been pure chaos.

So why would he bring up that he was hurt?

There had been no point. A couple of bruises is what he had, and that’s all they were. Deep, purple, ugly bruises that marred the entirety of his left arm, but simple bruises nonetheless. Nothing compared to what he had seen today, and by God had he seen a lot. 

Sure, his arm ached, burned, even, but not as much as he imagined Corporal Ellias’ legs felt after being violently torn to shreds by a grenade in the field. He’d seen the man screaming as they wheeled him into surgery, where he sat in the waiting room with Price. There was no way they could save the legs, given the severity. He couldn’t compete with that. His bruises didn’t even come close to that. 

So he did the next best thing; shut the fuck up. 

Contrary to popular belief, Sergeant Soap Mactavish was very good at shutting up. An impressive feat for any soldier, let alone one who worked with explosives. They had a nasty stereotype of being crazy. Madmen. A stereotype that many of his fellow specialists happily filled in with no cares in the world. But him? 

Being a member of 141 didn’t give him that privilege. He’d learnt to be quiet as his time as a rookie, because being quiet got him further than opening his trap and yapping. You sit, nice and quiet, like a little dog, and you’re rewarded. That was the game the military played, and a game he was very, very good at. 

This was no different.

Sit like a good, quiet dog.

Price sighed from beside him. A heavy, achingly tired sound.

Soap blinked away the fog building in his eyes, glancing over at him. “You alright, Cap?”

Price looked at him, “Four men are dead, Soap.” He leaned forward onto his knees, holding his head in his hands, rubbing fingers stiffly against the bridge of his nose. “They don’t think Ellias will make it either.”

Soap leaned back into his chair, ignoring the way his arm screamed at him as he brought it up, crading it idly to his chest. “It doesn’t surprise me.” He thought back to the injuries on the corporal. Even if he did survive, he would be without legs, most definitely no longer a soldier. Mutilated beyond ‘repair’, according to the army. He could still live a good, happy life though. If he pulled through. “Have the nurses called his family yet?”

Price sighed again, “They’re gonna wait, see if he survives the night. Don’t want to put all that stress on them for nothing.”

He nodded. It made sense, after all. “You speak to the receptionist, then?”

“For a moment, before she shoved me out here.” Out ‘here’ was their waiting room. Outside of the actual medical ward their base owned. He wouldn’t even consider it a waiting room. More like a glorified corridor. “They’re over-run in there, poor sods.”

Sit like a good, quiet dog. “Yeah, no kidding.” He rubbed a thumb gently over his sleeved-injury, massaging the fabric over the bruises. It sent a shockwave of fresh agony through his body, causing him to jolt violently in his seat. Price didn’t seem to notice. Somehow. “Any news on, um-” Fuck, that hurt. “Gaz ‘n’ Ghost?”

“Ghost is doing fine. Bullet didn’t pierce anything major. He’s awake and moving, last I heard.”

“And… Gaz?”

Price inhaled sharply. “Gaz is in surgery. Bullet…” He exhaled, softer, this time. “Something about it is upsetting the doctors.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed, son. Fuck indeed.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Soap had no doubt that his Captain was thinking about Gaz. He couldn’t blame him, now, he was too. Until a clog in his mind clicked. “Have you been checked out yet, Price?”

His captain blinked, opening his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. Soap chuckled, prodding the older man’s shoulder with his good arm. “Go get checked out.”

“I’m fine.” Price found his voice, furrowing his brows. “Just a few scrapes.”

“Always better to get checked out, aye?”

Price’s eyes fell on him. “Have you?”

 Soap smiled awkwardly, meeting his gaze. He watched as the man glared into his soul, studying every inch of him available to the eye. “I’m all good, Price.” He promised, “I got checked out on the plane.”

It technically was true. A half-truth. He’d gotten a nasty cut on his head, and a field medic had offered to close it up for him during their journey back, when she had had the time to take her gaze away from the grievous wounds of his teammates. 

He sported the beige, sad, half-sticky plaster as a token of his truth.

“Go on.” He encouraged with a wave of his hand when Price jostled slightly, uncertain. “Get lost, go get looked at.”

“Alright.” That one word was filled with doubt. Soap smiled harder, a grin that bared his teeth. A defensive smile. “Stay here, will you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving you, Cap.”

-

To be continued, look out for my oneshot AI-less whumptober book coming out on my AO3 :)

Tsukuyomi_Ravioli | Archive of Our Own

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Lies Late at Night

Summary: Written for AI-less Whumptober Day 4. Canon Divergent AU. Hiccup won the honor to kill the Nightmare, but before he could, the Nightmare mysteriously disappeared. Now it’s been three years and his father still doesn’t know about Toothless and the Dragon Riders.

Warning: /

Rating: General

Characters: Hiccup, Stoick

Pairing: /

Words: 1 011

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon, Race To The Edge

Prompt: Hiding an injury, Betrayal, Lying

Whumpee: Hiccup, Stoick

Author’s Notes: Thought of this AU, don't have a name for it yet, but I can see the potential for a lot more fics for this one.

Enjoy!

@ailesswhumptober

XOXOX

As quietly as he can, Hiccup tries to open and close the front door to his home. It's late. Much later than he told his dad he'd be. And as luck would have it; his father sits at the fire. He’s been waiting for him, stoking its dying embers.

A pot hangs above it. Hiccup wonders if whatever used to be in it is still edible. He hasn’t eaten since this morning, but he doesn’t hunger for a hearty dinner.

Stoick knows he’s there, he knows he does. Even so, Hiccup tries to sneak past him up the stairs.

Unfortunately, he’s limping and that means he doesn’t get very far without drawing attention. His prosthetic is quite loud on the wooden floor. He can hear the stool under his father creak as the mountainous man rises.

Hiccup freezes just shy of walking up the stairs. His face is in a grimace, bracing himself for what could possibly turn into a lecture.

“You’re late,” his father starts, hands on his hips. It’s a very father-like way of standing and Hiccup can’t look at him.

“Uh, yeah. I, uh… I got held up,” Hiccup explains briefly.

“You got held up? While fishing?” Stoick asks. His son doesn’t need to look to know that at least one eyebrow is raised in suspicion. Not only did he return with no fish to show for his efforts, but the gear he has is not one would usually take with them on a trip to the nearest lake. Not unless his way of catching fish is by clubbing it over the head with the hilt of a sword.

He knows it’s a collapsible sword. Stoick doesn’t understand how it is in any way a reliable weapon.

“Uh, yea-yeah? Anyway, gotta go to bed. Need to get up bright and early tomorrow for work, right?” Hiccup chuckles awkwardly as he tries to cut this conversation short. He’s so tired. He’s tired and in pain and he wants to go to bed.

His father might’ve actually let him go with that one. Hiccup once earned the right to kill the Nightmare, but the dragon mysteriously disappeared and with it disappeared any hope of a connection between father and son.

Not because of Stoick, however. He assured him that they would catch another Nightmare to prove his worth with. It was Hiccup who suddenly pulled away and distanced himself from his father as far as he could go. It no longer feels like they even live in the same house anymore and Stoick has absolutely no idea why.

In a way, it broke the man and that’s why- three years later- he won’t question his son’s whereabouts anymore.

The rest of the village might complain to him about their lackluster heir, but he has lost the will to fight with his son. Hiccup is 18, if he couldn’t change to be one of them earlier, he’s not going to now. At least he still has his friends, for however long they’ll stick around. At least for the time being Astrid seems fond of him. Hiccup won’t let either of them cross this distance between them, but at least he doesn’t have just him and Gobber in his life.

Unfortunately for the both of them, however, he’s limping and his father is still his father.

“Son? Are you hurt?” Hiccup winces at the question.

He and Toothless made a bad fall, dislocating his weak knee. Astrid reset it, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still hurting and his knee isn’t still swelling.

But he can’t tell his dad that. He doesn’t know about Toothless or the missions they do together. No one in the village knows about the Dragon Riders and it’s for the best. If they did... He refuses to imagine what would happen to their dragons if they told anyone. It’s the one thing keeping Snotlout and the twins quiet about their secret.

“Uhm, I-I slipped. It was muddy out there and-and you know how clumsy I am, dad,” Hiccup makes an excuse and one his dad doesn’t believe. He sighs heavily and Hiccup’s chest constricts, he aches knowing that his dad is disappointed in him. They both know he’s lying.

From the corners of his eyes, he dares to look at his old man. Stoick rubs in his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can see the migraine growing.

But just like they both know he’s lying, they also know that neither of them are trying anymore.

“Did you at least visit Gothi?” Stoick asks.

“Of course!” He responds eagerly.

Hopefully, it’ll ease his father’s heart. He hasn’t forgotten yet how he responded to his friends returning him to the village with a terribly mangle leg. The limb was nearly lost in an attempt to rid the Archipelago of the Red Death, but it was in vain. She’s still in that volcano, ruling with an iron fist and bringing death to the Barbaric Archipelago. He and the rest of the Dragon Riders almost lost their lives fighting this behemoth only to find out that she was quite untouchable. And so, the only alternative was to help dragons escape the nest.

“It’s, eh, a minor injury, so,” Hiccup gives him a thumbs up. He hopes to at least assure his father that he’s okay.

But his father sighs and walks back over to the stool to drop down onto it. He should be glad that his son is okay, he should be relieved, but all he can think of is how Hiccup is still lying to him and how he would’ve hidden his injury if Stoick hadn’t caught him.

Hiccup’s guilt grows, he looks away.

“Hiccup… son… When will you finally tell me the truth again?” The question is asked so quietly, he’s not even sure if Stoick meant for him to hear it.

“I don’t know, dad,” Hiccup responds even quieter and limps up the stairs. He heads up to his loft to drop down onto his bed and hopefully leave this day far behind him.

[aprocessionofthoughts]

All the Little Aches

ai-less whumptober 2023 day 16- chronic pain fandom- Danny phantom TW- chronic pain summary- The portal leaves him with more negative consequences than just killing him

ao3 ailesswhumptober masterlist part 2 of DA

Danny rubbed his left hand. It ached. 

He could only be glad he was right handed because he still had several more class periods where he would be expected to take notes.

Sam and Tucker were good about giving him their notes when he needed it.

But he didn’t want to need it.

It had been three months already. Why wasn’t he getting better? Why wasn’t the pain going away? 

His hand pulsed in pain again, and Danny winced as the pain shot through his arm and his back. His whole left side felt tingly like it had fallen asleep.

He just had to get through the school day and hope there weren’t any big ghost fights. He just wanted to lay in bed and try to ignore everything.

If only his stupid ghost half didn’t make taking pain medication impossible.

If he could just have a couple days where it didn’t hurt, or feel tingly, or numb…

Then his ghost sense went off.

He dropped his head onto his desk and groaned.

Danny stood. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Mr. Fenton wait just a–”

Danny let the door close and made his way to an empty hallway before transforming and flying off. 

He grimaced. The pain was always worse in this form, his lichtenberg scars feeling like they were on fire, but thankfully not glowing through the suit like when he had a seizure. He had thankfully not seen Johnny since that incident.

“Beware!”

Oh, thank all the Ancients! It was just Boxy.

“Hey! Boxy! Over here!” Danny said, stopping over the park.

The Box Ghost floated out of a recycling bin. “I am the Box Ghost! Beware.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I get it, you’re the recycling ghost.”

“No. I am the Box Ghost! Beware!”

The pain in Danny’s shoulder flared again and he grimaced. “Look, I can’t really do this whole thing right now. So why don’t you go ahead and just stay still so I can put you in soup time?”

Danny had just gotten the thermos out when a beam of energy blessed him in the shoulder and crashed to the pavement. 

“You aren’t getting away this time, ghost boy!”

Danny picked himself up from the pavement. “Look, Red, can we reschedule? I’m really not feeling up to this today.” He dodged a pink blast meant for his head. “I guess that’s a no then.” He turned around. Aaaaand of course the Box Ghost got away.

He flew up, dodging blasts and flying towards Valerie. 

They grappled as Danny tried to get her newest weapon away from her, and as she tried to end him. 

He had finally gotten ahold of the weapon and landed on a roof. He was just about to phase it into the roof when his left hand spasmed and pain shot through his whole left side. The gun dropped from his fingers and Danny gritted his teeth waiting for the pain to ebb. 

He didn’t realize he had closed his eyes till he heard a familiar blaster power up. He sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. And oh. He had apparently also fallen on his knees. That was probably going to hurt later.

His eyes were watery as he looked up at Valerie. 

She wasn't firing. Why hadn’t she fired? I mean, don’t get him wrong. He was grateful to still be among the mostly alive. But she had had plenty of opportunity to shoot him.

“What’s wrong, Red? Run out of ammo?” And okay, that came out wobblier than he would have liked.. He probably shouldn’t have said anything.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Apart from being a ghost?”

“Why’s your arm glowing like that? A new power?”

Danny glanced down at his arm. Ah shoot, two times in one week. His life sucked.

“What? This old thing, it’s just cosmetics.”

Valerie glared at him. Or at least he assumed she was glaring at him. It was hard to tell with the tinted visor.

“It looks like lightning.”

Danny flinched, he couldn’t help it.

“What’s it from?”

Danny couldn’t help it. He snarled, his eyes glowing. “None of your business.”

Val had taken a step back, but her weapon was now pointed at his chest.

“Is that how you–”

“I’d watch how you finish that sentence, Valerie,” she flinched, “most ghosts would kill you for mentioning such sensitive topics. Be grateful I have more restraint.”

They stood staring at each other before Valerie lowered the gun an inch.

“Why did you drop the gun?”

“Dying doesn’t fix everything.” Danny said, turning away. “I’m going to go. Got ghostly things to do, ghostly places to be.” 

He flew off, expecting a beam to hit him at any moment. When none did he turned over his shoulder to look back. Valeire was staring after him, her gun pointed at the ground.

AN: while everyone's experience with chronic pain is different, this is modeled after some of my own experiences with chronic pain

[whump-me-all-night-long]

Midsummer Nightmare

AI-less Whumptober Day 6: Mind Control

Masterlist

TW: fae whumper, human whumpee, mind control, captivity, a bit o' pet whump

---

Arne rose to consciousness slowly, as if he were wading through a thick pool of mud. Darkness seemed to cling to him, reluctant to let him go from its grasps. His memory was hazy, his thoughts indecipherable, his mind resistant to awareness.

Vaguely, he could tell his head was lying on something soft, a thick, fluffy pillow. Had he overslept again? If he was late again, he could very well lose his work. And then how could he take care of his family?

That thought sent his eyes wide open, his body bolting upright in the large canopy bed he found himself in.

Blinking groggily, Arne frowned, looking around. What was he doing here? And where exactly was ‘here’?

He found himself in a large, elegant bedroom. The head of his bed was pressed against the middle of one wall, a large vanity with a gilded mirror and ornately carved backless chair was on the wall opposite him, a couch that seemed to be made of velvet was pressed against another wall, with a bookcase filled with leather-bound tomes next to it. There were three separate doors that Arne could see: one was on the same wall with the couch that appeared to lead into a washroom, if the white marble and claw-foot tub were any indication, one was opposite that door and it seemed to be a small balcony, the door cracked open slightly allowing sunlight to filter in as gauzy curtains swayed slightly from the breeze. The final door was the only one that was closed and it was made of a rich, dark wood with golden gilding marking out intricate designs.

As he looked around, Arne wracked his brain for what could have possibly led him here. He remembered the woods, attempting to hunt, his bounty being pitifully small.

The doe.

That golden-haired stranger.

Ikalos.

Eyes widening and throat constricting, Arne rapidly scrambled out of the bed, struggling to get out due to the number of sheets and blankets atop him and the thick mattress sinking beneath his weight. Finally, he made it to the edge, all but tumbling out.

As he stood on shaking legs, Arne noticed that his clothes had been… replaced? Although he was not sure that what he was currently wearing could even be considered clothing. A thin white shift hung on his bony frame, with a wide neckline, showing his protruding collarbones, and ending a little above his knees. His feet were bare.

As Arne looked around, bewildered, the glint of the door handle turning caught his eyes, and he scrambled back against the far wall, imagining he did not look unlike that doe that he had shot.

The door swung open on silent hinges, and the sunlight reflected off that golden hair as Ikalos stepped inside, smoothly shutting the door behind him.

Arne stiffened, distrust evident in his eyes. “Where am I? What did you do to me?”

Ikalos let out a low chuckle, the sound sending goosebumps down Arne’s spine. “Relax, my dear,” he said, in that same strange lilt. “All will be answered in due time. Please, don’t worry yourself over such trivial matters.” He glided forward, until he was only inches away from Arne, who felt his back straightening almost impossibly more. Ikalos raised a single hand, his fingers unnaturally long and thin, and gently rubbed in between Arne’s eyebrows with two fingers. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles if you keep frowning like that. And you’re such a young beauty too, it would be a shame to throw that away prematurely.”

“Please,” Arne said softly, weakly. “Just let me go. I- I don’t have anything valuable, I’m not worth this sort of effort. Please, just let me go home.”

Ikalos moved his hand downward, so that he was cupping Arne’s cheek softly, rubbing circles with his thumb in what was presumably a comforting manner. “Oh, my dear, you are truly something valuable. You are most definitely worth this effort, and more. And now, my sweet free bird, that I’ve caught you, you won’t be going anywhere for quite some time.”

Shaking his head slightly, Arne shifted, futilely trying to put space in between them. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Chuckling softly, Ikalos dropped his hand and took a step back. “Why?” he repeated, arching a brow. “Because I could. Because I wanted to. Because I was bored and you, oh, you just looked so… delectable, out there in the forest.”

Arne’s breath caught in his throat, and he desperately lashed out, shoving Ikalos away with all his strength before making a mad dash towards the balcony door.

He wasn’t quite sure what he was planning to do, once he got there. Maybe he could jump, if he wasn’t too high up. Anything was better than being trapped against the wall with that, that creature.

Behind him, Ikalos straightened, running a hand down the imperceptible wrinkles in his clothing. “Arne,” he called, voice shifting, “Arne, stop.”

Midstep, Arne’s body did as commanded and froze, leaving him stuck with one foot hanging in the air and both his hands stretched out wide to the side. All Arne could do was dart his eyes frantically around as his chest heaved.

Soft, smooth footsteps warned him of Ikalos’ approach, but he was utterly helpless, unable to move in even the slightest way.

As Ikalos stood in front of him, Arne could tell there was something different about him. Everything about him just seemed… sharper, somehow. Arne couldn’t really explain it. Most notably, though, was the way his golden irises seemed to be liquid, shifting and spilling over within itself. Arne highly suspected that if he were capable of movement right now, his legs would most likely give out from under him, pure fear soaking into his bones.

Ikalos clicked his tongue, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “Tsk, tsk, Arne. I thought you were smarter than that. How stupid are you, that you thought you could outrun me?”

Arne felt tears swelling in his eyes, causing him to blink hastily, which only sent salty droplets dripping down his face. His tongue felt as though it had an anvil pressing down on it, rendering him mute.

Ikalos ran a light hand through Arne’s hair, in a mockery of comfort. “You really are just another stupid, pathetic human, aren’t you?” His grip turned cruel as he fisted a chunk of Arne’s hair, bending his head at a near-painful angle. “Aren’t you so fortunate to have someone as kind as me to take care of you? Aren’t you?”

Arne could only stare up into those otherworldly golden eyes, tears continuing to pour down his face.

Ikalos wrenched his head to the side. “Aren’t you?!” he repeated. “Thank me! Now!”

All of a sudden, Arne’s tongue felt as if it were light as a cloud, but before he could control it, his mouth was already moving. “Thank you, Ikalos, for taking care of me.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears, lifeless and dull, no inflection in it.

Ikalos rolled his eyes in disgust before tossing Arne carelessly away from him, sending him tumbling into the corner, knocking the breath out of him and leaving him sprawled out on the floor, gasping heavily. “You may move again,” Ikalos said, almost bored, and with his words, Arne’s body came back under his control, and he curled up into the fetal position, staring up at the creature before him with loathing burning in his eyes.

Squatting before him, Ikalos chuckled, roughly petting his head, only frowning when Arne flinched away from him. “Pet, you are not allowed to move away from me.” He sighed. “I really ought to start training you right away, shouldn’t I?” He smiled down at Arne, who had frozen at the command, although this time, he could tell it was from his own will, not from the otherworldly compulsion Ikalos appeared to possess.

Swallowing, Arne looked up at him, relieved to see his eyes had returned to their normal appearance, no more swirling gold in them. “Please,” he begged, allowing all the desperation and fear he had to shine through. “Please, sir, good sir, just let me go. I will pay whatever ransom you desire. I will do whatever you request of me, just allow me to lea-”

His words were abruptly cut off as a painful slap sent his head cracking to the side, causing his neck to immediately begin to ache. A throbbing, burning pain flooded his cheek, slowly traveling to encompass his whole face. He gasped, reaching up one hand to cup his beet-red skin, eyes once again flooding with tears.As if nothing had happened, Ikalos resumed his methodical stroking of Arne’s hair. “Aw, pet,” he said condescendingly. “You’re mine now. There’s nothing that will cause me to let you go. You are mine.”

---

Taglist: @thelazywitchphotographer @whither-wander-whump @theelvishcowgirl @deckofaces @badluck990 @whumperofworlds @cupcakes-and-pain @misspelledwitch @winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts

[ailesswhumptober]

AI-less Whumptober 2024 Themes

The prompts are dropping in five days, so it's time for a Theme Reveal! This year, we're going to do a different theme for every day of the week. The prompts (of which there will be three, including a quote prompt) will follow that theme. Themes for AIless Whumptober 2024 Medical Monday: all whump medical/lab Torture Tuesday: all whump torture-related! Whumperless Wednesday: situational whump, environmental whump, ect Trauma Thursday: h/c, the aftermath of trauma Freaky Friday: scary and unnerving-centered whump Sensory Saturday: whump surrounding sensations or the deprivation of them Surprise Sunday: its a surprise :3

[spookyboywhump]

AI-Less Whumptober Day Three- Sensory Deprivation

Originally this was supposed to be done with Zander and Vanessa but for some reason it just wasn't working out. Zander and one of the most annoying pairs of people to exist instead (Cain and Nicholas).

Fandom: OC's/Original Work

Word Count: 1,310

CW: pet whump, sensory deprivation, mentions of claustrophobia

***

 Nicholas was starting to get creative. If beatings and whippings weren’t going to work, then he’d have to try other methods, and Cain had given his permission for this, he told Nicholas that it had quieted him down for at least a couple of days in the past. Zander had fought the entire time he was dragged to the basement, it took both Cain and Nicholas working together to pull him downstairs, all while he tried to claw his way out of their grasp, yelling at them to fuck off and let him go. 

 Nicholas kept a tight grip on his collar, his other hand holding a fistful of his hair, despite Zander’s best attempts to get free. He kept him kneeling by one of the wooden posts in the basement, if he tried to get up he’d just get kicked back down.

 “Darling, I think we should use rope this time.” Nicholas told him, his tone light and upbeat, as though this was just a game to them.

 “I was thinking the same thing.” Cain said, searching through Nicholas’ supplies and coming back with more than enough rope. It took both of them to keep Zander in place, including Cain slapping him across the face a few times, hitting the back of his head against the post. “Quit fighting us, if you didn’t want to get punished then you shouldn’t have misbehaved!” He told him, but he didn’t even sound angry anymore, just amused. Really, misbehaving was a strong word for what he’d actually been doing, he’d say he’d just been acting annoying.

 “If being a bit annoying gets me tied up in a fucking basement then shouldn’t you be left down here too?” He said to Cain, only to get slapped again, even harder than before. He was bound so tightly he was forced to stay on his knees, sitting up straight, rope even wound around his neck to keep him from pulling away too far. His back already ached from the position. 

 Cain and Nicholas seemed to be in a great mood now that he was restrained, Cain pulled a blindfold over his eyes, and Nicholas muzzled him for snapping at Cain when he did so. He pulled against the rope holding him in place but they knew how to tie knots secure enough to keep him down, struggling was no use.

 “We’re going easy on you, mutt.” Nicholas laughed at him. “Teaching you a real lesson would take up so much of our time. Think of this like a time out, you can sit and think about what you’ve done wrong.” Nicholas said. The pair laughing at him and mocking him was the last thing he heard before headphones were placed over his ears, instantly blocking out all noise. It made him shudder as the abrupt silence settled over him, he knew he should consider himself lucky he wasn’t being whipped or beaten, but knowing this was his punishment, he was absolutely terrified. 

 He assumed they went back upstairs, leaving him down there alone. It’s not like it mattered, he couldn’t see or hear anything other than his own heart pounding in his chest and his attempts to take deep breaths through his nose. He didn’t know how much time had passed before he started to feel lightheaded and sick, he pulled against his restraints again but he was stuck there until they finally decided to come back for him.

 Much to his own annoyance, he did think about what he’d done wrong. He knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut, he should’ve stayed quiet and stopped making jabs and taunts at them. He thought it was funny though, and it was making Wren laugh. He probably would’ve stopped if one of them had just slapped him hard enough, he would’ve found some other way to entertain himself. This really wasn’t all that necessary. He worried about Wren being left up there with them, particularly with Nicholas, but he hoped Cain would keep him occupied. He hoped they wouldn’t decide to hurt Wren now that Zander couldn’t protect him. 

 It was hard to tell how much time was passing. It could’ve only been an hour or it could’ve been much later into the night already and he wouldn’t know. It was cold down there in Nicholas’ basement, he kind of wished that he’d been quieter just so he could be in the warmer part of the house. He briefly wondered if Cain intended to stay the night there, if they were going to leave him trapped down there all night long, and he was thankful he was alone because he couldn’t stop himself from whimpering. 

 He got more desperate as time went on. There were raw spots on his arms where he’d struggled against the rope, the muzzle sat uncomfortably against his face, part of him too hot and part of him too cold. He was shaking, he didn’t know if it was from the cold or from just how scared and miserable he was. Having only some of his senses cut off made everything else feel overwhelming, it made him feel claustrophobic. He was struggling to breathe again when he was startled by the first change in what felt like forever, finally the headphones were pulled off his head. At first he was tense and on edge, ready to be grabbed or hit again, he expected the worst, but he was quickly put at ease. 

 “H-hey, don’t worry, it’s just me.” Wren said softly. Zander relaxed instantly, he knew he was safe as long as it was Wren. “I’m sorry about all this…” He said, getting the muzzle off first and then the blindfold. Zander took a shaky deep breath, and if Wren noticed that he was still blinking back tears, he didn’t say anything. 

 “Th-thanks…” He murmured, struggling to speak from how dry his mouth was after that.

 “Of course.” He told him, turning his attention to the knots in the rope now.

 “You aren’t- you won’t get in any trouble for this, right? I-I don’t-”

 “It’s okay, they told me to do it.” He said, carefully working his way through the knots. “They were going to bed so we uh, we’re stuck down here tonight. They said I could free you.” He told him. 

 “Okay…” Wren finally got through the last knot and Zander was able to relax and slouch down again, his back and knees aching from holding that position for so long. “How long was I down here? They- they didn’t hurt you, did they?”

 “It’s been a few hours, at least.” Wren said, he seemed unsure of exactly how long it had been himself, but knowing it was hours was enough to make Zander feel a little less bad about how distraught it made him feel. “They didn’t hurt me though, they were pretty obsessed with each other.” He looked almost grossed out by whatever he’d seen up there. “I’d much rather be down here, as long as it’s away from them.”

 “Agreed.” Zander sighed. “I could’ve done without… all of that, though.” He said, stretching his arms over his head to try and deal with the pain of being still for so long. Now that he wasn’t worrying about if or when he’d be freed, all he could think about was how exhausted and hungry he was. He’d have to hope one of them would think to feed them in the morning.

 Until then, the two of them would have to spend their night down there. It was probably better than being anywhere near Cain and Nicholas, and when Wren sat close to him and pressed up against his side, he didn’t feel as cold as he did before. This was so much more bearable, despite the less than ideal conditions, he found that he finally felt perfectly relaxed.

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

The Job (Part 2)

AI-Less Whumptober 2023: 2. Exhaustion, 8. Panic Attack, 18. Vomiting, 21. Shock, Alt 6. Crying to Sleep Fandom: Peaky Blinders, Tommy Shelby, f!reader, prostitute!reader Summary: After being forced to witness the bloodbath at the stables, you are left shaken to the core. So when Tommy comes to visit you a few days later, you demand answers leading to a revolution you never expected. Word Count: 4266 TW: Steamy Situations/Soft Smut, Non-sexual Nudity, Shock, Trauma, Vomiting, Tears, Mentions of Prostitution, Smoking, Language Notes: A HUGE thanks to @loverhymeswith who not only sent me the ask that inspired this fic and helped me perfect this part, but also for getting me into Peaky Blinders in the first place! Part of @ailesswhumptober's event

Masterlist (coming soon)

Part 1, Part 2

As you hurried from the stable and the nightmare within, you saw Arthur, John, and a handful of others you recognized as Peaky Blinders pulling up out front. No one looked at you directly as they climbed out of their cars—Arthur the only one to even acknowledge you with a small nod—before silently heading into the stables and drawing their pistols. You increased your pace but you were still within earshot when the cacophony of gunfire sounded behind you. Even though it was too late, you pressed your hands over your ears as you fled down the street, tears blurring your vision as you went. 

Yet no matter how quickly you ran nor how much distance you put between yourself and the bloody massacre you had just escaped from, you felt as if you were still there. Trembling behind the hay bales as the world exploded in blood around you. It was the stuff of nightmares you had heard about in whispers behind closed doors, but the reality of experiencing it first-hand was far more horrifying than you could ever have imagined.

After what seemed like an eternity, you finally stumbled up the front steps of your lodging. Your hands were trembling so badly that it took you three tries to finally get the key in the lock to open the door and, once inside, you rushed quickly to your room. 

Despite it being the middle of summer, you were shivering uncontrollably and there was a chill deep in your bones. After much trouble, you got a fire started in your fireplace and you huddled next to it as closely as you could stand. And yet, the chill persisted. 

Looking down, you saw that small flecks of blood had landed on your new dress and you immediately ripped it off and threw it into the fire. Even if it could have been cleaned, the events of the night had stained the dress in ways that could never be washed off. You would never be able to forget what you witnessed no matter how hard you tried—you didn’t need a reminder of it hanging in your wardrobe as well. 

Standing before the fireplace in only your undergarments, you watched as the once beautiful gown blackened and burned, slowly falling apart as it turned to ash. You wished there was a way to rid yourself of your memories as easily as you had the dress. The sounds of the screams, the metallic bite of blood in the air, the way Tommy’s blue eyes peered at you from a face stained red. All building up to the thunderous booms of gunfire as you fled the stable.

And it was all your fault. 

You had led those men to their deaths. Even if Tommy hadn’t explicitly told you what was to happen once you lured them to the stable, you should have realized what he planned to do. You knew his reputation for dealing with threats to his empire and yet, you had agreed to do what he wished with only the slightest of hesitations. If not for you, those men would be home with their wives or children at the moment instead of lying in a heap in an empty stable waiting for a handful of Peaky Blinders to come to dispose of their bodies.

That thought was the final straw. You dropped to your knees as you emptied the contents of your stomach across your floor. Over and over you retched, even past the point of having anything left in your stomach to expel. Every time you thought the nausea had settled, the memory of the blood-soaked stable would flash in your mind and you would gag once more.

Finally, once your body physically could not take anymore, you rolled over and curled up next to the fire. With tears streaming down your face and a weak whimpering in your burning throat, you slipped into unconsciousness only to find the horrors of the night were waiting to torment you there as well.

The next few days were some of the worst of your life. At first, you tried to push what had happened to the back of your mind and move on as you attempted to continue about your days as normal. However, that was much easier said than done. The feeling of nausea failed to leave you and all you could manage to hold down was broth or a little bread. 

After the initial horror of the experience settled a little in your mind, you realized it wasn’t even the fact that all those men died that was really bothering you. Yes, the taking of any life was a tragedy but they were gang members who voluntarily chose this life. They knew the dangers involved with it and the potential consequences. And it wasn’t as if you weren’t used to witnessing violence after spending your entire life in Birmingham. It was just a way of life here.

No. What was really making you sick to your stomach was Tommy and how he had involved you in his feud. You were used to him using your body on a weekly basis—you gladly offered it up—but this? This was something completely different.  

He had made you an unwilling, unknowing accomplice to his dastardly deed. Then he had forced you to stand there and witness every last horrifying second of it. The image of his pale blue eyes boring into you from a crimson-drenched face, his outstretched finger pinning you in place from across the room, was burned into your soul. 

Why had he forced you to stay? You had done everything he had asked of you, so why did he want to punish you so? Why did he feel the need to curse you with these images that would haunt you for the rest of your life?

The dread in your chest only grew stronger with each passing day as Tommy’s scheduled visit approached. Wednesday simultaneously came too quickly and seemed to take an eternity to arrive. 

Usually just before he was set to appear, you would put on your finest dressing gown and style your hair just the way you knew he preferred. Then you would wait by the entrance with a cigarette and a glass of whiskey ready for him. However, this time when Thomas Shelby walked through your door, you were seated on the edge of your bed in a simple shift dress that laced up the front. As he entered, your shoulders folded in on themselves as you shrank slightly away from him. Hesitantly, you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eyes. 

If he noticed anything was different, Tommy did not address it. He simply strolled over to the table, took off his coat, and began unbuckling his belt as he asked, “Shall we get to it then?”

You made no move to stand or begin removing your clothes. Instead, you wrapped your arms across your chest, and with a slight quiver in your voice, you whispered, “H-how can you just walk in here as if nothing happened? As if this were just any other Wednesday and nothing has changed?"

He paused as he pursed his lips and gave a slight shrug. "Nothing has changed. I'm here for your services just as I am every week."

"Tommy, I watched you murder an entire room full of men right before my eyes. And I-I helped you do it. I mean, I know I agreed to help you but you never told me I would be leading them to you like lambs to the slaughter.”

His icy blue eyes took on an extra chill as he took a few steps towards you. With a slight bite to his words, he said, “You are neither foolish nor naive. You knew what would happen once you got to the stable.”

“I thought you would talk to them! Give them a warning, maybe send a message! Yes, I knew violence would probably be involved but I didn’t expect you to massacre every single one of them!”

A cunning, almost bordering on cruel, smile spread across his face. “Oh, but I was sending a message. Now anyone else out there who thinks they can fuck with the Peaky Blinders will see what will happen if they come for us.”

“But why did you have to involve me? What did I do to displease you to the point you would—” Tommy’s face dropped as the first tears spilled from your eyes and you took a wet, shaky breath, looking to the ceiling as you blinked rapidly and tried to maintain your composure. You had to know. This question had been haunting you almost as much as what you had witnessed. “I haven't been able to eat or sleep since that night. I feel as if I’m going mad. Every time I close my eyes all I can see is blood and I hear the howls of pain as those men died. Tommy, I have to know why you made me stay. What was the point? I tried to leave but you….Why did you make me witness that?”

For a moment, the room was still as the suffocating silence filled the room. Why wasn’t he answering your question? Maybe he didn’t have an answer. Maybe it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision in the heat of battle. Maybe to him, it meant nothing at al—

“You had to stay because I needed you to see the man I truly am.” 

Your eyes snapped to his face as you looked at him directly for the first time, your brow furrowed in astonishment. “W-what?”

Reaching into his pocket, Tommy pulled out a cigarette. However, unlike usual, he didn’t light it. He just rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully. Then he tapped the end on the table before looking back at you. “The last time I was here you spoke of the Peaky Blinders as if I was not part of them. As if I was not the one in charge of them. Just because I don’t talk about that business with you does not mean it isn’t my life. That I am not as guilty if not more of their ‘transgressions’ as you put it. And I needed to remind you of that.”

“I have never had any misconceptions of who you are or what you do. Even before the first time you came to me, I knew the name Thomas Shelby and I knew the stories. And though the man I have come to know here in this room is far different from what I expected from those stories, they were never far from my mind.”

“But knowing and seeing are two very different things, eh?” Tommy asked. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you are keeping your distance? The way you are too afraid to even look at me directly?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Tommy.”

“Is that right?” He placed his cigarette down on the table and began slowly strolling over to the bed. “Then if it isn’t fear, what is it? Disgust? Loathing? What is it that you see when you look at me now?” He stopped as he reached the foot of the bed. 

Shaking your head, you said, “Tommy, please—”

He stepped closer until he was less than an arm's length in front of you. You dropped your eyes to the floor as he towered over you. 

“Look at me.” When you continued to avoid his gaze, he firmly grabbed your chin between his fingers and forced your head up so you had no choice but to look into his startling blue eyes. “Look at me! And tell me what you see.” You opened your mouth to speak, but he added, “The truth.”

Trembling, you gazed into his eyes and whispered, “I… I see a man capable of unspeakable horrors. One who has washed in the blood of other men, and will readily do so again.”

Tommy stared back at you without the slightest reaction to your words. Then he nodded softly and released your chin. You slid closer to the head of the bed and wrapped your arms around yourself as he turned. Silently, he walked across the room, grabbed his coat, and began to put it on. 

However, you weren’t ready for him to leave. Maybe it was his explanation and reasoning as to his actions or maybe it was the idea that if you let him walk out that door you may never see him again, but something deep inside you had shifted as you answered his question. What you had said was your honest answer, but the truth was so much more complicated than that. And you couldn’t let him leave without hearing the rest of your response.

Taking a deep breath, you stood off the bed, walked over to him, and placed your hand on his forearm. He paused, one brow raised as he waited for you to explain your action.

Wetting your lips, you softly said, “But I also see a man who only does these things for the sake of his family and their interests.” Tommy’s face remained emotionless, but you felt some of the tension ease out of him under your touch so you continued. 

“I don’t think I can ever support your actions that night and it still makes me sick that you made me a part of it and then forced me to watch. You should have at least warned me or let me leave because I didn’t need the lesson you tried to teach me. I hate what you did, but I understand why it was necessary. And as much as I’m loath to admit it…. There is a sort of honor in it. Those men posed a threat to the lives of every member of the Peaky Blinders as well as their loved ones. And you shed their blood so the blood of your people wouldn’t be.” 

Your hand slowly trailed up his arm and across his chest until it rested just over his heart. Feeling it drumming steadily against your palm, you softly added, “The Peaky Blinders are lucky to have someone like you watching out for them.”

As usual, Tommy maintained his mask of indifference, but not even he could control his heart. You felt it jump underneath your hand as the drumming began to pick up its tempo. He blinked, long and slow, before gazing at you once more and it seemed as if some of the ice in his eyes had melted ever so slightly. 

He placed his palm over top of where your hand still lay on his chest. “I hope you know that you are one of the people under my protection. I swore I would never let any harm befall you, even that by my own hand.” His other hand reached up to cup your face, his thumb gently tracing the dark bags that had formed this past week under your eyes. “And yet it seems that is exactly what I did. I thought by making you see me for who I really am I would be protecting you. But I was so blinded by that thought I did not see the hurt I would cause instead. I am truly sorry.”

You were utterly speechless. As long as you had known him, you had never once heard Tommy admit fault or apologize for any of his actions. He only ever brushed off these incidents and changed the subject, but for him to tell you he was sorry? He must honestly regret his poor decision.

“I-I forgive you,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering as his thumb continued to caress your face. “Just don’t ever put me in a situation like that again. Please.”

“I promise.” His hand slid down your cheek slightly until his fingers brushed against your lips. “Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

Faintly, you nodded, your head spinning with anticipation for what was to come. Tommy bent over until his lips lightly grazed yours, the feeling no more than a whisper. For a moment, your heart dropped in disappointment and you figured you had misread the situation. However, when Tommy’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he pulled you into him, the kiss became something else entirely. 

You sometimes kissed Tommy during your weekly appointments but even then, at the peak of pleasure, it never felt like this. Now, there was a heat, an urgency, a need behind his lips that made your knees grow weak. It was something you had never experienced with any man, let alone Tommy.  But the fact that it was him kissing you like this made everything more intense and overwhelming in the best way. You never wanted it to stop.

As you began kissing him back with the same intensity, Tommy’s hands came to rest on your hips and he guided you over to the table. Dropping into one of the chairs, he pulled you onto his lap, your legs spread on either side of his waist. You could feel him already hardening in his slacks and you wrapped your legs around his hips to draw yourself in even closer. 

He buried his face in your hair, his long eyelashes fluttering against the edge of your face for a moment until he turned his head. Slowly, his lips slipped across your jaw, breathing ghostlike kisses in their wake as his mouth traveled along the curve of your throat. When he reached your shoulder, he bit down lightly. This drew a soft gasp of pleasure from your lips and you felt him buck against you in response. 

Yet before his mouth could dip any lower, you tilted his chin so you could see his face. 

His usually pale blue eyes had darkened with lust and the hunger you saw there made you ache deep within your core. This was a different side to Tommy, a side that you had never seen before. While your time together was always pleasurable, you were providing him a service and that was always apparent in his actions. But now…it felt about you just as much as about him. It felt like something deeper than just his regular weekly appointment. Yet before you lost yourself completely to him, before you let yourself believe it could be more, you had to know for sure.

Holding your breath, you murmured, “What is this, Tommy? Business or pleasure?”

Brushing his fingers across your cheek, he responds in a low, husky whisper. “For me, it stopped being business long ago.”

A brilliant smile spread across your face as you surged forward to recapture his lips. Kissing you back with the same fervor, he stood, his strong arms supporting you so you remained wrapped around his waist, and carried you over to your bed. Without breaking your kiss, he laid you down and settled above you. 

Your eyes drifted shut and you could feel his nimble fingers begin fiddling with the laces across the front of your dress, even as his tongue slid past your lips. You arched your back to allow him easier access to the ties as the aching between your legs intensified. But after a moment, he froze and then suddenly pulled back. At first, you were worried you did something wrong, but as you opened your eyes, you saw all of his concentration had shifted to the laces still perfectly fastened in place.

As he continued his futile attempt to untie your dress, he cursed softly and muttered, “Damn you woman for wearing this infernal thing."

Leaning forward, you smiled into his neck before teasing, your lips brushing across his skin, “Come now, Tommy. One might think you’d never undressed a woman before.”

He paused, his head tilting until he locked eyes with you. Then, without breaking eye contact, he curled his fingers into the fabric of your bodice and gave a firm pull, causing the dress to rip open down to your waist. You let out a gasp of surprise but Tommy swallowed the sound as his mouth found yours once again.

With your legs still encircling his waist, you pulled him in closer until his hips were flush with yours and you could feel him straining for release against your clothed core. Slowly, you began rolling your hips to rub against him and you were rewarded with a deep rumble deep within his chest. 

“Not so fast, you little minx,” Tommy growled, nipping at your lip. “There’s no rush tonight. You wanted to know what this was between us? Well, I’m going to show you. Over and over and over, until you never again doubt that this is all about pleasure.” A soft shudder of pleasure shivered down your spine at his words and he smiled. “Now, let me watch you take off what’s left of that dress then our night can begin.”

You had serviced Thomas Shelby more times than you could count. But that night became the first time you and Tommy made love….over and over and over and over, just like he promised. 

Remarkably, you slept like a babe that night—the first real sleep you had had since the night in the stable. Even though you hadn’t opened your eyes yet, you could tell you had slept through the rest of the evening and well into the next morning by the warmth of the sun trickling in through your window onto the bed. The sunbeams felt heavenly on your bare skin and you hummed contently as you basked in the glow. 

Stretching to help wake up your sluggish limbs, you opened your eyes and found yourself staring directly into a pair of familiar glacial eyes. 

“Tommy!” You were instantly wide awake as you scrambled out of bed, dragging the bedsheet along with you to wrap around your naked body. “Wha-what are you still doing here? I mean, you don’t stay afterward. You never stay afterward.” You felt your face grow hot as you realized now that you had stolen the sheet, he was lying bare in your bed, fully on display. It took all of your willpower to keep your eyes locked on his face and not let them drift down the muscular planes of his body or linger on the hardness between his legs.

Completely unfazed by your reaction or his naked state, Tommy propped himself up on one elbow. “You said you hadn’t been sleeping this past week yet you looked so peaceful last night I didn’t want to disturb you.”

You blinked several times in quick succession as you tried to process that information. “So you stayed….for me?”

He shot you a coy grin. “Yes, I stayed for you. Though my motives may not have been as selfless as you make it seem.” His expression softened and he opened up his arms inviting you back to bed. “The truth is, I too found myself more at peace with you by my side than I have in a long time.”

You relaxed slightly, the motion causing the sheet to slip down until your breasts were almost completely uncovered. Tommy’s eyes shifted down to them and you had to bite your lip to keep from smiling. Apparently, for once you had more self-control than the great Thomas Shelby. But that feeling of superiority didn’t last long as your nerves once again gripped you as you faced the situation at hand.

“So, if that’s true….What do we do now?” you hesitantly asked as you worried the sheet between your fingers, afraid his answer might have changed now in the bright light of day. “Do we resume our business as usual or has this become something else? Something more?”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” Tommy reached over to the small side table where his pack of cigarettes and lighter were waiting and pulled one out. Once it was lit, he took a long drag, held it, and slowly let the smoke stream from his lips. “I told you last night that this has not been business to me for a long time. I’ve respected what you do but if I had my way, you’d be mine and mine alone.”

This time, you didn’t even attempt to mask the smile spreading across your face. In fact, you embraced it until it was shining almost as brightly as the dancing across the room. “And what would you do with me, Thomas Shelby? If I was yours and yours alone?” you teased, leaning forward to show off even more of your exposed breast.

“I’d give you the fucking world.”

All of your playfulness evaporated with your sharp intake of breath. You scanned Tommy’s face for any indication he was joking or teasing you back, but there was none. As you locked eyes with him, all you saw was sincerity. It was truly how he felt. 

Trying to project the same level of honesty back at him, you whispered, “I don’t need the world, Tommy. As long as I have you…that’s all I’ll ever need.”

“Well, you are in luck, love,” he said as he stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the table. His eyes swiveled back to yours and he added matter-of-factly, “Because you’ve got me.”

You nodded, tears slightly blurring your vision. “And you’ve got me too. For forever. Starting right now.”

You dropped the sheet to the floor, pausing for just a moment to let Tommy take you in. Then you climbed back on the bed and into his waiting arms. 

I am toying with an idea for a Part 3 so let me know if you would be interested!

Tag List: @lucien-calore, @zebralover

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

The Job (Part 2)

AI-Less Whumptober 2023: 2. Exhaustion, 8. Panic Attack, 18. Vomiting, 21. Shock, Alt 6. Crying to Sleep Fandom: Peaky Blinders, Tommy Shelby, f!reader, prostitute!reader Summary: After being forced to witness the bloodbath at the stables, you are left shaken to the core. So when Tommy comes to visit you a few days later, you demand answers leading to a revolution you never expected. Word Count: 4266 TW: Steamy Situations/Soft Smut, Non-Sexual Nudity, Shock, Trauma, Vomiting, Tears, Mentions of Prostitution, Smoking, Language Notes: A HUGE thanks to @loverhymeswith who not only sent me the ask that inspired this fic and helped me perfect this part, but also for getting me into Peaky Blinders in the first place! Part of @ailesswhumptober's event

Masterlist (coming soon)

Part 1, Part 2

As you hurried from the stable and the nightmare within, you saw Arthur, John, and a handful of others you recognized as Peaky Blinders pulling up out front. No one looked at you directly as they climbed out of their cars—Arthur the only one to even acknowledge you with a small nod—before silently heading into the stables and drawing their pistols. You increased your pace but you were still within earshot when the cacophony of gunfire sounded behind you. Even though it was too late, you pressed your hands over your ears as you fled down the street, tears blurring your vision as you went. 

Yet no matter how quickly you ran nor how much distance you put between yourself and the bloody massacre you had just escaped from, you felt as if you were still there. Trembling behind the hay bales as the world exploded in blood around you. It was the stuff of nightmares you had heard about in whispers behind closed doors, but the reality of experiencing it first-hand was far more horrifying than you could ever have imagined.

After what seemed like an eternity, you finally stumbled up the front steps of your lodging. Your hands were trembling so badly that it took you three tries to finally get the key in the lock to open the door and, once inside, you rushed quickly to your room. 

Despite it being the middle of summer, you were shivering uncontrollably and there was a chill deep in your bones. After much trouble, you got a fire started in your fireplace and you huddled next to it as closely as you could stand. And yet, the chill persisted. 

Looking down, you saw that small flecks of blood had landed on your new dress and you immediately ripped it off and threw it into the fire. Even if it could have been cleaned, the events of the night had stained the dress in ways that could never be washed off. You would never be able to forget what you witnessed no matter how hard you tried—you didn’t need a reminder of it hanging in your wardrobe as well. 

Standing before the fireplace in only your undergarments, you watched as the once beautiful gown blackened and burned, slowly falling apart as it turned to ash. You wished there was a way to rid yourself of your memories as easily as you had the dress. The sounds of the screams, the metallic bite of blood in the air, the way Tommy’s blue eyes peered at you from a face stained red. All building up to the thunderous booms of gunfire as you fled the stable.

And it was all your fault. 

You had led those men to their deaths. Even if Tommy hadn’t explicitly told you what was to happen once you lured them to the stable, you should have realized what he planned to do. You knew his reputation for dealing with threats to his empire and yet, you had agreed to do what he wished with only the slightest of hesitations. If not for you, those men would be home with their wives or children at the moment instead of lying in a heap in an empty stable waiting for a handful of Peaky Blinders to come to dispose of their bodies.

That thought was the final straw. You dropped to your knees as you emptied the contents of your stomach across your floor. Over and over you retched, even past the point of having anything left in your stomach to expel. Every time you thought the nausea had settled, the memory of the blood-soaked stable would flash in your mind and you would gag once more.

Finally, once your body physically could not take anymore, you rolled over and curled up next to the fire. With tears streaming down your face and a weak whimpering in your burning throat, you slipped into unconsciousness only to find the horrors of the night were waiting to torment you there as well.

The next few days were some of the worst of your life. At first, you tried to push what had happened to the back of your mind and move on as you attempted to continue about your days as normal. However, that was much easier said than done. The feeling of nausea failed to leave you and all you could manage to hold down was broth or a little bread. 

After the initial horror of the experience settled a little in your mind, you realized it wasn’t even the fact that all those men died that was really bothering you. Yes, the taking of any life was a tragedy but they were gang members who voluntarily chose this life. They knew the dangers involved with it and the potential consequences. And it wasn’t as if you weren’t used to witnessing violence after spending your entire life in Birmingham. It was just a way of life here.

No. What was really making you sick to your stomach was Tommy and how he had involved you in his feud. You were used to him using your body on a weekly basis—you gladly offered it up—but this? This was something completely different.  

He had made you an unwilling, unknowing accomplice to his dastardly deed. Then he had forced you to stand there and witness every last horrifying second of it. The image of his pale blue eyes boring into you from a crimson-drenched face, his outstretched finger pinning you in place from across the room, was burned into your soul. 

Why had he forced you to stay? You had done everything he had asked of you, so why did he want to punish you so? Why did he feel the need to curse you with these images that would haunt you for the rest of your life?

The dread in your chest only grew stronger with each passing day as Tommy’s scheduled visit approached. Wednesday simultaneously came too quickly and seemed to take an eternity to arrive. 

Usually just before he was set to appear, you would put on your finest dressing gown and style your hair just the way you knew he preferred. Then you would wait by the entrance with a cigarette and a glass of whiskey ready for him. However, this time when Thomas Shelby walked through your door, you were seated on the edge of your bed in a simple shift dress that laced up the front. As he entered, your shoulders folded in on themselves as you shrank slightly away from him. Hesitantly, you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eyes. 

If he noticed anything was different, Tommy did not address it. He simply strolled over to the table, took off his coat, and began unbuckling his belt as he asked, “Shall we get to it then?”

You made no move to stand or begin removing your clothes. Instead, you wrapped your arms across your chest, and with a slight quiver in your voice, you whispered, “H-how can you just walk in here as if nothing happened? As if this were just any other Wednesday and nothing has changed?"

He paused as he pursed his lips and gave a slight shrug. "Nothing has changed. I'm here for your services just as I am every week."

"Tommy, I watched you murder an entire room full of men right before my eyes. And I-I helped you do it. I mean, I know I agreed to help you but you never told me I would be leading them to you like lambs to the slaughter.”

His icy blue eyes took on an extra chill as he took a few steps towards you. With a slight bite to his words, he said, “You are neither foolish nor naive. You knew what would happen once you got to the stable.”

“I thought you would talk to them! Give them a warning, maybe send a message! Yes, I knew violence would probably be involved but I didn’t expect you to massacre every single one of them!”

A cunning, almost bordering on cruel, smile spread across his face. “Oh, but I was sending a message. Now anyone else out there who thinks they can fuck with the Peaky Blinders will see what will happen if they come for us.”

“But why did you have to involve me? What did I do to displease you to the point you would—” Tommy’s face dropped as the first tears spilled from your eyes and you took a wet, shaky breath, looking to the ceiling as you blinked rapidly and tried to maintain your composure. You had to know. This question had been haunting you almost as much as what you had witnessed. “I haven't been able to eat or sleep since that night. I feel as if I’m going mad. Every time I close my eyes all I can see is blood and I hear the howls of pain as those men died. Tommy, I have to know why you made me stay. What was the point? I tried to leave but you….Why did you make me witness that?”

For a moment, the room was still as the suffocating silence filled the room. Why wasn’t he answering your question? Maybe he didn’t have an answer. Maybe it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision in the heat of battle. Maybe to him, it meant nothing at al—

“You had to stay because I needed you to see the man I truly am.” 

Your eyes snapped to his face as you looked at him directly for the first time, your brow furrowed in astonishment. “W-what?”

Reaching into his pocket, Tommy pulled out a cigarette. However, unlike usual, he didn’t light it. He just rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully. Then he tapped the end on the table before looking back at you. “The last time I was here you spoke of the Peaky Blinders as if I was not part of them. As if I was not the one in charge of them. Just because I don’t talk about that business with you does not mean it isn’t my life. That I am not as guilty if not more of their ‘transgressions’ as you put it. And I needed to remind you of that.”

“I have never had any misconceptions of who you are or what you do. Even before the first time you came to me, I knew the name Thomas Shelby and I knew the stories. And though the man I have come to know here in this room is far different from what I expected from those stories, they were never far from my mind.”

“But knowing and seeing are two very different things, eh?” Tommy asked. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you are keeping your distance? The way you are too afraid to even look at me directly?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Tommy.”

“Is that right?” He placed his cigarette down on the table and began slowly strolling over to the bed. “Then if it isn’t fear, what is it? Disgust? Loathing? What is it that you see when you look at me now?” He stopped as he reached the foot of the bed. 

Shaking your head, you said, “Tommy, please—”

He stepped closer until he was less than an arm's length in front of you. You dropped your eyes to the floor as he towered over you. 

“Look at me.” When you continued to avoid his gaze, he firmly grabbed your chin between his fingers and forced your head up so you had no choice but to look into his startling blue eyes. “Look at me! And tell me what you see.” You opened your mouth to speak, but he added, “The truth.”

Trembling, you gazed into his eyes and whispered, “I… I see a man capable of unspeakable horrors. One who has washed in the blood of other men, and will readily do so again.”

Tommy stared back at you without the slightest reaction to your words. Then he nodded softly and released your chin. You slid closer to the head of the bed and wrapped your arms around yourself as he turned. Silently, he walked across the room, grabbed his coat, and began to put it on. 

However, you weren’t ready for him to leave. Maybe it was his explanation and reasoning as to his actions or maybe it was the idea that if you let him walk out that door you may never see him again, but something deep inside you had shifted as you answered his question. What you had said was your honest answer, but the truth was so much more complicated than that. And you couldn’t let him leave without hearing the rest of your response.

Taking a deep breath, you stood off the bed, walked over to him, and placed your hand on his forearm. He paused, one brow raised as he waited for you to explain your action.

Wetting your lips, you softly said, “But I also see a man who only does these things for the sake of his family and their interests.” Tommy’s face remained emotionless, but you felt some of the tension ease out of him under your touch so you continued. 

“I don’t think I can ever support your actions that night and it still makes me sick that you made me a part of it and then forced me to watch. You should have at least warned me or let me leave because I didn’t need the lesson you tried to teach me. I hate what you did, but I understand why it was necessary. And as much as I’m loath to admit it…. There is a sort of honor in it. Those men posed a threat to the lives of every member of the Peaky Blinders as well as their loved ones. And you shed their blood so the blood of your people wouldn’t be.” 

Your hand slowly trailed up his arm and across his chest until it rested just over his heart. Feeling it drumming steadily against your palm, you softly added, “The Peaky Blinders are lucky to have someone like you watching out for them.”

As usual, Tommy maintained his mask of indifference, but not even he could control his heart. You felt it jump underneath your hand as the drumming began to pick up its tempo. He blinked, long and slow, before gazing at you once more and it seemed as if some of the ice in his eyes had melted ever so slightly. 

He placed his palm over top of where your hand still lay on his chest. “I hope you know that you are one of the people under my protection. I swore I would never let any harm befall you, even that by my own hand.” His other hand reached up to cup your face, his thumb gently tracing the dark bags that had formed this past week under your eyes. “And yet it seems that is exactly what I did. I thought by making you see me for who I really am I would be protecting you. But I was so blinded by that thought I did not see the hurt I would cause instead. I am truly sorry.”

You were utterly speechless. As long as you had known him, you had never once heard Tommy admit fault or apologize for any of his actions. He only ever brushed off these incidents and changed the subject, but for him to tell you he was sorry? He must honestly regret his poor decision.

“I-I forgive you,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering as his thumb continued to caress your face. “Just don’t ever put me in a situation like that again. Please.”

“I promise.” His hand slid down your cheek slightly until his fingers brushed against your lips. “Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

Faintly, you nodded, your head spinning with anticipation for what was to come. Tommy bent over until his lips lightly grazed yours, the feeling no more than a whisper. For a moment, your heart dropped in disappointment and you figured you had misread the situation. However, when Tommy’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he pulled you into him, the kiss became something else entirely. 

You sometimes kissed Tommy during your weekly appointments but even then, at the peak of pleasure, it never felt like this. Now, there was a heat, an urgency, a need behind his lips that made your knees grow weak. It was something you had never experienced with any man, let alone Tommy.  But the fact that it was him kissing you like this made everything more intense and overwhelming in the best way. You never wanted it to stop.

As you began kissing him back with the same intensity, Tommy’s hands came to rest on your hips and he guided you over to the table. Dropping into one of the chairs, he pulled you onto his lap, your legs spread on either side of his waist. You could feel him already hardening in his slacks and you wrapped your legs around his hips to draw yourself in even closer. 

He buried his face in your hair, his long eyelashes fluttering against the edge of your face for a moment until he turned his head. Slowly, his lips slipped across your jaw, breathing ghostlike kisses in their wake as his mouth traveled along the curve of your throat. When he reached your shoulder, he bit down lightly. This drew a soft gasp of pleasure from your lips and you felt him buck against you in response. 

Yet before his mouth could dip any lower, you tilted his chin so you could see his face. 

His usually pale blue eyes had darkened with lust and the hunger you saw there made you ache deep within your core. This was a different side to Tommy, a side that you had never seen before. While your time together was always pleasurable, you were providing him a service and that was always apparent in his actions. But now…it felt about you just as much as about him. It felt like something deeper than just his regular weekly appointment. Yet before you lost yourself completely to him, before you let yourself believe it could be more, you had to know for sure.

Holding your breath, you murmured, “What is this, Tommy? Business or pleasure?”

Brushing his fingers across your cheek, he responds in a low, husky whisper. “For me, it stopped being business long ago.”

A brilliant smile spread across your face as you surged forward to recapture his lips. Kissing you back with the same fervor, he stood, his strong arms supporting you so you remained wrapped around his waist, and carried you over to your bed. Without breaking your kiss, he laid you down and settled above you. 

Your eyes drifted shut and you could feel his nimble fingers begin fiddling with the laces across the front of your dress, even as his tongue slid past your lips. You arched your back to allow him easier access to the ties as the aching between your legs intensified. But after a moment, he froze and then suddenly pulled back. At first, you were worried you did something wrong, but as you opened your eyes, you saw all of his concentration had shifted to the laces still perfectly fastened in place.

As he continued his futile attempt to untie your dress, he cursed softly and muttered, “Damn you woman for wearing this infernal thing."

Leaning forward, you smiled into his neck before teasing, your lips brushing across his skin, “Come now, Tommy. One might think you’d never undressed a woman before.”

He paused, his head tilting until he locked eyes with you. Then, without breaking eye contact, he curled his fingers into the fabric of your bodice and gave a firm pull, causing the dress to rip open down to your waist. You let out a gasp of surprise but Tommy swallowed the sound as his mouth found yours once again.

With your legs still encircling his waist, you pulled him in closer until his hips were flush with yours and you could feel him straining for release against your clothed core. Slowly, you began rolling your hips to rub against him and you were rewarded with a deep rumble deep within his chest. 

“Not so fast, you little minx,” Tommy growled, nipping at your lip. “There’s no rush tonight. You wanted to know what this was between us? Well, I’m going to show you. Over and over and over, until you never again doubt that this is all about pleasure.” A soft shudder of pleasure shivered down your spine at his words and he smiled. “Now, let me watch you take off what’s left of that dress then our night can begin.”

You had serviced Thomas Shelby more times than you could count. But that night became the first time you and Tommy made love….over and over and over and over, just like he promised. 

Remarkably, you slept like a babe that night—the first real sleep you had had since the night in the stable. Even though you hadn’t opened your eyes yet, you could tell you had slept through the rest of the evening and well into the next morning by the warmth of the sun trickling in through your window onto the bed. The sunbeams felt heavenly on your bare skin and you hummed contently as you basked in the glow. 

Stretching to help wake up your sluggish limbs, you opened your eyes and found yourself staring directly into a pair of familiar glacial eyes. 

“Tommy!” You were instantly wide awake as you scrambled out of bed, dragging the bedsheet along with you to wrap around your naked body. “Wha-what are you still doing here? I mean, you don’t stay afterward. You never stay afterward.” You felt your face grow hot as you realized now that you had stolen the sheet, he was lying bare in your bed, fully on display. It took all of your willpower to keep your eyes locked on his face and not let them drift down the muscular planes of his body or linger on the hardness between his legs.

Completely unfazed by your reaction or his naked state, Tommy propped himself up on one elbow. “You said you hadn��t been sleeping this past week yet you looked so peaceful last night I didn’t want to disturb you.”

You blinked several times in quick succession as you tried to process that information. “So you stayed….for me?”

He shot you a coy grin. “Yes, I stayed for you. Though my motives may not have been as selfless as you make it seem.” His expression softened and he opened up his arms inviting you back to bed. “The truth is, I too found myself more at peace with you by my side than I have in a long time.”

You relaxed slightly, the motion causing the sheet to slip down until your breasts were almost completely uncovered. Tommy’s eyes shifted down to them and you had to bite your lip to keep from smiling. Apparently, for once you had more self-control than the great Thomas Shelby. But that feeling of superiority didn’t last long as your nerves once again gripped you as you faced the situation at hand.

“So, if that’s true….What do we do now?” you hesitantly asked as you worried the sheet between your fingers, afraid his answer might have changed now in the bright light of day. “Do we resume our business as usual or has this become something else? Something more?”

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” Tommy reached over to the small side table where his pack of cigarettes and lighter were waiting and pulled one out. Once it was lit, he took a long drag, held it, and slowly let the smoke stream from his lips. “I told you last night that this has not been business to me for a long time. I’ve respected what you do but if I had my way, you’d be mine and mine alone.”

This time, you didn’t even attempt to mask the smile spreading across your face. In fact, you embraced it until it was shining almost as brightly as the dancing across the room. “And what would you do with me, Thomas Shelby? If I was yours and yours alone?” you teased, leaning forward to show off even more of your exposed breast.

“I’d give you the fucking world.”

All of your playfulness evaporated with your sharp intake of breath. You scanned Tommy’s face for any indication he was joking or teasing you back, but there was none. As you locked eyes with him, all you saw was sincerity. It was truly how he felt. 

Trying to project the same level of honesty back at him, you whispered, “I don’t need the world, Tommy. As long as I have you…that’s all I’ll ever need.”

“Well, you are in luck, love,” he said as he stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the table. His eyes swiveled back to yours and he added matter-of-factly, “Because you’ve got me.”

You nodded, tears slightly blurring your vision. “And you’ve got me too. For forever. Starting right now.”

You dropped the sheet to the floor, pausing for just a moment to let Tommy take you in. Then you climbed back on the bed and into his waiting arms. 

I am toying with an idea for a Part 3 so let me know if you would be interested!

Tag list: @loverhymeswith, @heart-0n-fire, @that-sarcastic-writer, @eternallyvenus, @writercole, @deppresseddyslexic, @confetti-cakemix, @flamingdisputes, @callsign-phoenix, @slightly-psycho-multifan, @skydisneylover

[mwolf0epsilon]

The Umbaran Pathogen - Day 24: Hunted Down

Summary: Kix and Twitch make an extremely upsetting discovery, but also find out that there is a way to safely deal with the parasites. They just have to set a trap to ensnare some very big prey without getting caught in the act...

Warning: N/A

Twitch belongs to @gaeasun Pitch belongs to @lost-on-kamino

Here's what Tup and Dogma currently look like!

Prev / Next

[In which the events on Umbara are worsened by an unknown pathogen taking hold of both the 501st and 212th. These series of drabbles will follow a non-linear timeline based on the AI-less Whumptober prompt list for 2023.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

---

Even though Kix could see that the kid was just about ready to collapse from pure exhaustion, Twitch surprised him by keeping up with the group on their way down to the basement.

It was a remarkable feat of resilience on the rookie's part, considering he was walking with a limp and barely keeping his head up. It was also a show of pure stubbornness, since Twitch obviously refused to not see this whole mess through to the end.

Despite being in such rough shape.

They had begun the journey downwards once Coric had been brought out of shock and tended to. The older medic having had to endure an excruciating amount of pain, as Kix and Twitch had both done their best to clean the horrific wound on his shoulder. Only after the injury was clean enough and tightly bandaged, was he anywhere near ready to make the trek down the hatch, and along the corridor that led to the basement's separate lift system.

The CMO was, of course, lagging behind while visibly staggering with each step. Rex keeping a close eye on his fellow veteran trooper while he stood nearest to Sponge, who'd since woken up confused and heavily concussed. But at least both were on their feet. Unlike Pitch who, even though he was no longer paralyzed by Dogma's venom, was unable to walk at all due to the sizeable hole in his thigh.

It was very likely he'd need some extensive physio-therapy to regain use of the leg, once he'd healed enough to put any weight on it. That is, if he did not need to completely relearn how to walk... The vein Dogma had hit had been a direct pathway to the heart, and was thusly incredibly sensitive to damage. They couldn't be sure he hadn't been crippled for life. Not without their scanners at hand, and they couldn't stop to go a few floors above to search for any.

They were thusly short three medics in the end. Two of which needed supervision while they walked because they were so unsteady on their feet, and the third who was dependent of Fives carrying him to get anywhere at all.

It honestly made sense why Twitch felt the need to push himself to help. Even if it made Kix's heart twinge with both pain and guilt. But, as much as he would like it for his kih'vod to rest, they couldn't spare the amount of time he'd need.

They had already waited too long...

"How deep did they think they needed this basement to be?" Fives grumbled as they settled in the lift for the long way down, finding at least one tiny mercy in the form of built-in seating.

"Deep enough to avoid attracting unwanted attention." Rex shrugged, letting both Coric and Sponge lean against his shoulders as they sat down. "At least there's no obnoxious music..."

"Thank goodness for the littlest of kindnesses, am I right?" Fives snorted, leaning his head back against the lift's paneled walls. Eyes closing as he tried to relax. "If I hear that stupid soap commercial's jingle any sooner than I have to, I'll kill everyone in this lift and then myself..."

"Which one? The Nabooian beaches one with all the bikini babes, or the one about Jakku's beautiful white sands and guided luggabeast tours?" Rex asked sarcastically.

"Doesn't matter." Fives huffed in response. "Both should be classified as psychological torture..."

The banter was comforting in a way. Almost normal, in the face of such stressful events like the ones that had transpired not even a a full hour ago. It made Kix feel a little more like himself (a little more human), just hearing his brothers attempt some idle chatter.

Stars only knew they all needed the brief respite...

He noticed that Twitch was running his fingers through his messy hair, wincing anytime they got caught in the clumps that had gotten stuck together with dry blood.

Before they'd left the lobby he had asked for Kix's canteen so that he could clean his face with some water, despite it being so cold that it might be dangerous to do so. But Kix hadn't denied him that chance.

Not when Twitch had looked so stressed out.

He looked a little better, now that his face wasn't covered in blood. But he was still shaky and very clearly tired. Yet that determined little spark didn't leave his eyes. He would rest only when this was all done and dealt with, Kix could tell.

Twitch wanted to help put an end to all this misery and terror.

"Lift's starting to slow..." The Captain calmly pointed out. "We're almost there."

"Yeah... Just hope we get what he came here for." Fives sighed, running a hand over his face and trying to shake himself out of the sudden bout of apprehension. "What am I saying? Of course we will. We didn't come this far for nothing."

Sometimes Kix really envied Fives's confidence. Even if it made him a bit of a hopeless dreamer. But then again, if all of them were realists then morale would have tanked long ago...

Eventually the lift did come to a stop, the doors opening up to reveal a slightly less frigid room full of server towers and shelves stacked to the very top with equipment. As well as all kinds of high powered fans and liquid nitrogen tanks. Likely the cooling systems keeping everything from overheating.

On first glance, they could immediately tell the entire place was a maze where one could easily get lost in. Lucky for them they had a map. One which easily led them all the way to the main console.

Twitch immediately settled next to Kix, taking up one of two available chairs and beginning to search up the terms they needed. Behind them Rex and Fives both focused on the three injured medics, keeping them tightly wrapped up in their blankets and letting them rest for the moment.

Kix had to make sure Twitch's own blankets stayed on while the younger medic tapped away furiously on the console. His eyes darting from one line of information to the next, as he concentrated on his task.

"How's it looking over there?" Fives asked, which earned him a slightly frustrated growl from their kih'vod.

"Working on it... I'm running a translator while I search." Twitch pointed out. "Even with all the extra memory and cooling systems, this entire setup is slower than our old datapads..."

"I'm not surprised. The databanks are extensive..." Kix hummed in thought as he watched the screens. What he couldn't do if he had all this medical knowledge at the tip of his fingertips. Just one search away from the perfect treatment plan, instead of having to guess based on basic modules he'd studied ages ago...

"Got it!" Twitch exclaimed, looking relieved as he finally found what he'd been looking for. Then, after a few minutes of reading through, the little smile he'd had on his face began to drop.

"...You good kid?" Fives asked.

Scrolling back up, Twitch reread what was on the screen. Kix did the same, a pit forming in his stomach as he began to process what he was reading. A horrid realization dawning on him.

"....The changes are permanent..." He whispered to himself, but the ARC must have heard him all the same.

"Kix?"

"There's no way to cure them... The changes are permanent." The medic hid his face in his hands and let out a muffled scream of frustration. Of course it wouldn't be that easy, not when the parasites had essentially rewritten their vode's DNA in such a drastic manner...

The moment they left orbit with any of their transformed brothers in the state that they were now, they were as good as dead. The natborns would send them away, back to Kamino, to be dissected or worse...

They'd been foolish to hope for anything less.

"So they're stuck like this forever? Acting like... Like monsters?!" Fives was clearly upset by the news. So were Rex, Coric, Sponge and Pitch who looked as equally distraught.

"Not necessarily..." Twitch responded. "Their bodies are altered beyond repair... But there's a way to at least get rid of the parasites that are controlling them."

He scrolled back down, pointing to the only treatment plan available for the Umber Blight. Reading through it, Kix's anxieties did not lessen in the slightest. It was incredibly risky.

"We have the equipment we need here." Twitch continued. "We just need... We just need to find a way to get one of them in here to make sure it works on them..."

"What do you mean IF it works? I thought you just said there was a way to do it?" Rex frowned, looking towards Twitch with both confusion and concern.

"It's only been done on Umbarans, sir." The younger medic explained, bringing up several images to further make his point clear. "The alterations done to them are similar to what we saw with Tup and Dogma. But, because we are biologically not the same, there's clearly some key differences..."

"Which means re-calibrating the operation theater and all the equipment to the right specs..." Coric groaned loudly, understanding the risks. "We need one of them to try it out on, and there's no guarantee we'll get it right..."

"....So there's a risk we could kill them with this procedure?" Fives asked, sounding incredibly disturbed by that prospect.

The silence that followed more than answered his question...

-

Tup had fallen asleep which had helped to further relax Dogma. Despite his failure as a Drone, the current injuries that made him useless to his Hive-Leader and Hive, he'd been forgiven and held closely. Shown mercy he did not deserve because he was a bad Drone and a bad brother.

It warmed his heart.

Made him feel all nice and fuzzy knowing that Tup wasn't angry about his obvious deficiencies as a servant. Maybe he'd done enough in the beginning to prove his worth? Maybe he could still make amends...

But the question was how.

Looking at his sleeping Hive-Leader, Dogma couldn't help but let his antennae droop slightly. He needed to make it right, to show Tup that he could do this. That he could get him those monsters that had dared to attack them. Starting with the fluffy haired one. The one who'd bitten his Hive-Leader and caused him such terrible pain, that it had knocked him out of the sky.

He just needed a chance!

The door to the medical facility opened. Perking up, Dogma looked towards it in surprise before looking back down at his sleeping brother. Tup was so deep in slumber that he hadn't noticed the change at all. And Dogma wouldn't dare disturb his Hive-Leader's much needed rest. Not when he too had a healing wound.

A thought crossed his mind which got the Drone to slowly wiggle his way out from his brother's side. Careful so as to not wake him. So as to not ruin the surprise he had in store for him. He'd ambush the pests all by his lonesome, sting them before they knew what hit them, and drag them all to his Hive-Leader wrapped up in a silken bow.

He'd make Tup proud of him! Make him happy! That's all Dogma really wanted! What he most craved.

With this all-consuming desire to serve and to please ignited and fueling him, Dogma sneaked forward. Keeping an eye on the medical facility's open doors. His antennae twitched as he took in the scents of sterile cleanliness and clone alike.

He was being careful so as to go unnoticed. They'd picked a spot where they remained hidden while still being able to carefully watch the hospital for movement. So far he hadn't seen anyone come out, but surely they must be near the doors to set off the automated opening system...

That said, the closer Dogma got the less sure he felt. He couldn't see anyone... Which made no sense. If no one was near the doorway, then why had the doors opened?

Something didn't feel right...

Getting as close as he could before the crippling cold that billowed out of the building made it near impossible to do so, the Drone squinted inside at the well lit lobby. It was completely empty... Taking a deep breath and sticking his head inside, he found that his targets weren't hiding by the threshold either.

What he did see was a damaged panel with sparking wires.

It clicked too late what this actually was. So late in fact that he never even saw the attack coming, nor did he have the time to cry out for help. All that really registered was hands pinning his limbs down, including his injured wings which hurt like hell at the contact. Then something sharp piercing the side of his neck in a gap between armored scales.

And then Dogma knew nothing...