#and the word whump which practically no one uses anymore

[leondegranced]

Remember when early fandom called Kilgharrah the slash dragon cause he kept going on about two men being each other's destiny

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

Not So Invincible After All

Whumpuary 2023: Prompt 3. Shot

2023 Year of Whump: Jan 1. Whispered Reassurances

Fandom: DC, Batman, Jason Todd, Red Hood, f!reader, Superman/Lois Lane's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Tired of living in your father's shadow, you move to Gotham where you meet Jason Todd. As the two of you become an unstoppable team (in love and crimefighting), everything seems perfect. Until something goes wrong…

Word Count: 3417

TW: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Gun Shot, Blood, Loss of powers, Pain, Ambiguous Ending, Language

Notes: Thank you to @icarusthefoolish for this request!

Moving to Gotham City is not a hard decision to make. You need to get out of your father’s shadow in Metropolis and the heroes of Gotham could use some extra help after Bruce’s death and Dick taking over the mantle as Batman. So, it seems like the perfect spot for you to start your solo career as a superhero. However, it is only right to get permission from those already protecting the city first.

To your utter embarrassment, your father sets up the meeting for you and insists on coming. Though you are an adult, he still treats you like a child. But, as much as you try to argue against it, once your mother steps in and says he is going, all arguments are over. Not even you argued with Lois Lane when she took that tone.

Which is how you find yourself standing outside Wayne Manor with your arms crossed over the S emblem on your chest, staring down the remaining members of the Batfamily. You had known Bruce extremely well, you had never met any of his wards before, though you knew who they all were.

Damien seems unimpressed by you and quickly turns his attention to other things after his introduction. Tim is the complete opposite, practically bouncing up and down as he shakes your hand and tries to ask you a million questions. Luckily, Dick gently pushes him to the side, reminding him there will be time for that later. The new Batman is so different from Bruce and yet you can still see flashes of his late guardian in the way he holds himself and addresses the situation at hand. Which just left Jason. The formerly dead vigilante didn’t say anything while you were introduced, but his eyes never leave your face the entire time your dad is explaining the situation. There is a playful twinkle in his eyes that you can’t quite understand, but you push it to the back of your mind as your dad finishes up and lifts up into the sky, drifting back a few dozen feet to give you some space for once.

Your eyes quickly flicker across each of the heroes in front of you and you clear your throat. “So, basically what Dad said. I want to leave Metropolis, you guys seem to need an extra set of hands around here– it seems like a win-win.”

For the first time, Damien speaks up. “Who says we need ‘extra hands’? We are protecting the city just fine without assistance.”

You lock eyes with the young Robin, completely unfazed by the death stare he is giving you. “Listen, kid. You guys are doing fine, but don’t think you are living up to The Bat’s legacy, at least not yet. I might not be living in Gotham at the moment, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been keeping an eye on things. Dick is doing an admirable job of being Batman, but it’s pretty obvious he’s just one of the birds playing dress up. And I’m not the only one who's noticed. The criminals in this city are getting bolder and sooner or later, one of them is going to do something the four of you can’t handle. So, if you don’t want my help, that’s fine. There are a million other cities I can move to. But then don’t come crying to me when you get your asses handed to you and you need someone to save you, because I might not be interested anymore.”

Damien continues to stare you down for a moment, then slowly nods, breaking eye contact. And with that, you know you have earned the respect of the one person who you really needed to win over tonight.

Elbowing Tim in the ribs, Jason grins as he mutters, “Wow. I never expected to hear something like that coming from the boy scout’s daughter.” 

One side of your mouth quirks up in a sly smile as your superhearing picks up on what he said. Turning your gaze so you are staring directly into his eyes, you say, “Then you’ve never met my mother. I might get my powers from my father, but I get my spirit and my wicked tongue from her.”

You can see the gears working in Jason’s head as the response forms. The way his heartbeat speeds up slightly, the slight dilation of his pupils, how his jaw tightens as he forces himself not to make the witty comment he desperately wants to but can’t with your father still hovering feet away. And that makes the smile on your lips widen.

The rest of the meeting runs smoothly. It is agreed that you can stay in Gotham and help protect its people as long as you don’t get in the Batfamily’s way. However, they do extend an invitation to team up with them whenever you want. You doubt it will happen, but it is nice to know that option is there.

You say goodbye to your dad and watch as he flies away. Once he is out of sight of even your advanced vision, you pivot sharply and strut straight up to Jason. 

He seems slightly startled by your brash confrontation, but he stands his ground. As you reach him, you lean over until your lips lightly brush the curve of his ear, and you whisper, “Maybe if you play your cards right, I can show you how wicked this tongue can get.” 

With your powers, you can sense the multitude of physical reactions your words send through his body and you chuckle as you pat his cheek before flying off into the night. 

As it turns out, Jason played his cards very right seeing as you end up waking up in his bed less than a week later. And you haven’t left since. Now, after almost five months of living in Gotham, you and Jason have become the ultimate team, in and out of your costumes. Despite both of your tempers, sarcastic natures, and constant desire to push back against the ideals of your fathers, the two of you balance each other out in some strange way. 

And Jason is never intimidated by your powers or your nigh invulnerability. In fact, he is nothing but supportive of them. In fights, you quickly find a rhythm where you go after the strongest opponent while Jason covers you or takes out the weaker opponents. It’s a system that never seems to fail, and the two of you seem unstoppable.

Until one night….

Jason is chasing two men through the streets. They just robbed Gotham National Bank but for some reason, ditched the bags of money fairly quickly as they tried to lose Jason. But he just let you gather up the forfeited money and fly it back to the bank while he continued his chase. 

By the time you return and spot him, he has chased the men onto the roof of a building. Just as the men realize they are trapped and this will be a fight, you land next to Jason with a grin.

“Hello, boys. What seems to be the trouble here?”

The men exchange angry glances and one of them hisses loudly to the other, “What do we do? We wanted Superman, not Superbitch.”

“Hey! Watch your fucking mouth!” Jason growls, taking a step closer, but you place a hand on his chest, halting him.

“Well, you shitheads are in the wrong city then. Superman doesn’t come here. This is my turf. So, does that mean you want to just give up now, or are we going to have a little fun tonight?” The men exchange glances then pull out their guns. You nod. “Okay, then. Fun it is.”

Before they can react, you have crossed the distance between you and grab one of the men by his jacket and soar up into the air. The man immediately drops his gun as he frantically clutches at your arms, trying to hold on as tightly as he can. But it makes little difference. With a cheeky grin, you release your grip. The man only has a fraction of a second to realize what is about to happen before he plummets towards the ground. 

You continue to hover in the air as you watch him fall farther and farther, his screams of terror slowly growing fainter. Finally, when he is just a few dozen feet from the ground, you sigh and soar downward. You reach him just before he hits the ground, wrapping your arms around his chest and holding him about a foot in the air. 

He continues to scream even once you set him back on the sidewalk, his legs giving out from under him as he collapses in a heap. Bending over to peer down at him, you ask, “Now, are you going to be a good boy and stay put until the cops show up, or do we have to try that again?”

He pales at the very thought and clutches your leg. “N-n-no! Please! N-not again!”

Patting his head, you say, “Good boy. Now, let’s see if your friend is as agreeable.” And you launch yourself back into the air towards the top of the building. 

When you reach the roof, you see Jason has dealt with the other man who is lying face down on the far side of the building. Jason looks up as you land and even through his helmet, you can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “Did you catch this one in time?”

“One time! I missed one time! And I still stopped him before he was permanently injured. Are you ever going to let me live that down?”

“Nope.” He starts to cross the roof to you.

But just then, you both hear a sound behind him, and turn to look. The man Jason had knocked down has climbed back to his feet, and before Jason can react, the man raises his gun and fires three shots straight at his chest.

“Nice try,” you smirk as you streak forward at superspeed, stopping just in front of Jason as the bullets soar toward him.

However, the smirk drops from your face as the bullets don’t bounce harmlessly off you as expected. Instead, they drive deep into your chest, just above your heart. The force of the impact causes you to stumble backward into Jason, who flinches slightly in surprise at your sudden appearance and collision with him. 

Instantly, it feels like all of your strength is being sapped from your body and you collapse heavily against Jason’s chest. Luckily, he has a firm grip on your waist and keeps you from falling completely. Drawing you in, he lowers both of you to the ground and allows you to lean against him with your legs out in front of you.

Neither of you saw where the gunman disappeared after you collapsed, but at the moment, it is the least of your concerns. Glancing down, you can see three distinct holes in your suit, each one gushing blood. Normally, that should be the most worrisome part of the problem. However, your breath catches in your throat as you notice the faint green sheen mixed with your blood.

But Jason hasn’t realized that yet. Ripping off his helmet to get a better look at your wound, he asks, “What’s going on? How did this happen?”

“I think– I think they were made for my father. Kryptonite bullets.”

The realization of what this means slowly passes over Jason’s face. “That’s why they didn’t just bounce off you. You have Kryptonite buried in your chest?”

“Not just there. It’s some sort of poison bullet that’s releasing it into my system. I can feel it like acid in my veins. Spreading throughout my body.” You cry out as a fresh wave of pain hits you. “God! It hurts so much.”

“I’m calling Supes. Maybe he can–”

“No, Jay, don’t you get it? Even just being near me right now will weaken him. And those guys could still be around waiting for that. I can’t d–do that to him.” You shudder again at the pain and Jason uses his hands to cover your wound in a desperate attempt to slow the bleeding.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna be okay,” he whispers softly into your ear. But you can clearly tell that he doesn’t fully believe the words he is saying.

Jason helps you shift slightly against his chest, trying to make you as comfortable as possible. Looking down, you can see blood still spilling from between his fingers, the crimson puddle tinted with a faint green glow as it grows beneath you. 

“What can I do? There has to be something I can do,” Jason pleads.

“I don’t think there is.” Suddenly, you realize everything seems different, muted. You can no longer see or hear anything clearly beyond this rooftop. Your body feels weaker than it has ever felt before, and not just from the pain or your injury. And when you put all the concentration you can muster into lifting yourself even half an inch off the ground, you can’t even manage to make yourself twitch. Everything that made you special, everything you had inherited from your father is just… gone.

Leaning your head back against Jason’s neck, you ask, “Is this…. Is this what it feels like?”

“What does what feel like, baby?” he asks, stroking your hair gently.

“To be human?”

The question catches Jason off guard. “Um, I–I don’t know. I guess so.”

“I don’t think I like it very much.” Another shiver of pain washes over you and you bury your face in Jason’s neck, hoping to muffle the moan that rumbles in your throat.

But Jason still hears it. “That’s it. I’m calling your dad.”

“No,” you mutter weakly. “I told you–”

“We don’t have a choice. I don’t know enough about Kryptonite or Kryptonian anatomy to help you, but he does. Don’t you think he would want to help you even if it meant feeling the effects of the Kryptonite?”

You are silent for a moment, but you know that he is right. Your dad would have wanted to be here the second you were hurt, regardless of the danger it might put him in. So, reluctantly, you nod. 

Jason removes his hand from your chest – it hadn’t been doing much to stop the blood flow anyway – and he pulls a phone from his pocket. You allow your eyes to drift closed as you listen to him quickly explain what happened and just moments later, there is a loud thud on the other side of the roof.

Peeling your eyes open, you see the familiar red-and-blue suit reflecting in the dim light. Your dad takes a step forward into the light and you can see the concern and fear etched onto his face as he stares at you, his eyes watery and his breathing uneven. He starts to walk towards you, but he stumbles slightly as the first effects of the Kryptonite hit him. 

He tries to take another step, but you mumble, “Please. Don’t. I don’t want you to get hurt too.” Your words are just barely more than a whisper but even across the distance, you know he hears you clear as day. The reluctance is evident on his face, yet he follows your wishes and remains where he is at.

Jason stares at the Man of Steel, the desperation in his voice as he asks, “What do we do? How do we help her?”

“I-I don’t know,” your dad admits, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. “If there is Kryptonite all through her body like you said, I don’t know how we get it out. Normally, Kryptonite by itself isn’t lethal, but no Kryptonian has been exposed this intimately to this amount. And from what I can see, she’s fading fast.”

“But she’s not just Kryptonian….” Jason whispers, as he gazes down at you. Then his head snaps up, and in a stronger voice says, “Clark, she’s just as human as she is Kryptonian. I don’t think it’s actually the Kryptonite in her veins that’s killing her. It’s the bullets. The Kryptonite just made her lose her healing abilities. So, if we just treat this like any old bullet wound, I think she might be okay.”

Your dad considers for a moment before nodding. “It’s possible, and let’s pray it’s true because it’s her only hope. We need to get those bullets out and then get her to a hospital as quickly as possible.”

Jason nods. “Okay. How do we do that?”

“We get help from the quickest person we know.” He pulls out a device and speaks into it. After only a few words, the rooftop shakes slightly as a gust of wind roars past and when you blink, you see Barry standing there with his usual grin on his face.

“You called?” But the smile slips as he takes in the scene before him. “Oh my god! What happened? Is she alright?”

“No, but we’re hoping you could help with that,” your dad explains. “She was shot three times with Kryptonite bullets, and we need to get them out of her. I can’t do it, but can you?”

Barry nodded. “I think so.” Crossing the rooftop, he kneels down beside you. Even in his bright red suit, you are having trouble focusing on him as your vision begins to blur. But you feel the light pressure as Barry places his hand on your arm. “Hey, Kid.”

“Hey, Skidmark,” you mumble weakly.

Barry chuckles. “I’ll let that slide this time since you’re hurt.” His face turns serious as he adds, “And because what’s about to happen isn’t going to feel great.”

Turning towards Jason, he says, “I need you to hold her as still as possible in case she squirms. It might take me a minute to locate all three bullets and the more she moves, the longer I’ll have to keep searching.” Jason nods and his grip on your shoulders tightens.

Barry positions his fingers just above your wound but hesitates as he glances at your face. You nod slightly and he turns his focus back to your chest. His hand begins to move so quickly, it becomes nothing more than a blur. Then, he moves it lower, phasing it through your chest. 

Instantly, you seize up. The intense vibrations reverberate through your entire body, but the proximity of his fingers to your heart and lungs causes them to freeze. Your eyes roll back in your head as you silently gasp for air. Jason is trying to hold you down but it is difficult when your entire body is spasming violently. You vaguely hear Barry, your dad, and Jason yelling at each other, but you can’t make out a single word they are saying. 

Then, mercifully, the vibrations are gone. All your muscles relax and your head falls limply against Jason’s shoulder as you try to catch your breath. Jason rubs his hand over your hair as he whispers that it’s over and how good you did. You aren’t really sure you did anything, but you are too weak and light-headed to correct him. 

From the other side of the roof, your dad calls out, “Barry, get her to the med bay on the Watchtower. They should be able to treat her there. Then, destroy those bullets.”

Barry nods before holding out his arms and Jason helps to ease your broken form into them. However, just as Barry is about to take off, you feebly stretch your fingers towards Jason. He takes your hand and squeezes it tightly. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

You swallow heavily and force the words to spill from your lips. “I need you to know… if I had known what those bullets were… I still would have taken them for you…No regrets…”

Your hand goes limp in his grasp as the last of your energy is depleted. Leaning forward, Jason gently places your hand on your chest before kissing your forehead. Then, with his lips still hovering just above your skin, he whispers, “I love you. No regrets.”

Stepping back, he nods at Barry. The speedster tightens his hold on you and says, “Hold on.” Then he takes off.

As you feel that familiar initial whoosh of moving at super speed, you finally allow yourself to succumb to the darkness.

Taglist: @nik2blog, @dumb-fawkin-bitch, @zebralover, @lolzghost, @thefictionalcharacterssimp, @venomsvl, @sugarysweetsandpainfulteeth, @your-friendly-neighborhood-al, @hellfire-fan-club, @blue-aconite

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 2: The Exile

Chapter 2 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order.

Contains: fantasy setting, male whumper, royal whumper, whumper POV, no onscreen whump (we’re doing a slow build here)

---

Kezul

In a land where the earth was bare of snow for more than half the year, Kezul didn’t know how the palace could feel so damnably cold.

There were no fires, for one thing. Of course there were none—they didn’t need it, not at the dawn of summer, when the sun alone graced this land with enough warmth to make Kezul sweat under his fur cloak. But a home without a hearth fire was nothing more than a ruin. A palace without a fire was worse. It was a home without a family, a body without a soul.

A fitting place, then, for one who had no family anymore—or wouldn’t before long, at any rate. And if he had a soul, it was a withered thing, unworthy of the body in which it resided. Or so his father believed.

No, the palace wasn’t cold at all. The halls were stuffy with heat, and summer hadn’t even come into full bloom yet. The cold lived inside him.

The hallways were tall and cavernous, with practically enough room for an entire squadron of Wolves to march side by side. Columns carved in the shape of beautiful but maddeningly modest women held up the high ceilings. Everywhere, light poured in from high windows to throw intricate latticework patterns across the broken mosaic of the floor tiles—as if this place needed more sunlight. No doubt all the windows were half the reason for the sweat dampening his chest.

The tattered ruins of bloodstained tapestries littered the floor, along with the occasional finger or eye or unidentifiable chunk of rotting flesh no one had bothered to clean up. The stink of blood was everywhere, and it was the most pleasant of the smells that filled the palace. Kezul supposed he should be grateful the Wolves had bothered to drag the bodies away.

The empty halls echoed with the distant shouts of Kezul’s Wolves. A soul without a body, indeed—all the souls had vacated this body at once, leaving a hollow husk full of warm but empty light.

Of course, they hadn’t departed without help.

All the shouting made Kezul’s head hurt. The Wolves sounded as if they thought this was their victory. In reality, the blood was long since cold, the stink of it almost unnoticeable on the air. His Wolves could play conquering warriors if they liked, but Kezul wasn’t in the mood to pretend. He hadn’t won this battle, and neither had the Wolves his father had sent here with him—the dregs of his father’s army, no doubt. They hadn’t been sent to Danelor until word had come to his father that the war was won and there were no more enemies left to fight.

One final humiliation.

He turned away from the raucous voices and strode down the cavernous halls without a destination in mind. He found himself at a set of thick wooden doors that stretched from floor to ceiling. Strips of gold worked into the wood formed an intricate design of flowers and vines. Abstract shapes curled and twined between the vines, patterns within patterns. It made Kezul’s eyes hurt. Why had anyone wasted their time on this? Had their monarch had no better use for them?

He pushed open the doors.

If the door had been unnecessarily fussy, this room was worse. Every inch of space, from the floor to the walls to the ceiling that was curved like a fish’s eye, was taken up with intricate mosaics made of pieces of chipped tile no larger than his thumbnail. A circular skylight filled the room with light and heat, exposing the glints of gold worked through the floor mosaic.

The sticky smears of blood across the floor spoiled the effect somewhat. The bloodstains led to the far corner of the room, where they spread up the wall. Although corner was the wrong word for it, since rather than joining at a right angle, the walls there formed a gentle curve that served as a backdrop to the low dais and the wooden throne that sat atop it.

The throne room. His father’s gift to him.

His footsteps echoed hollowly on the tile as he walked to the throne and sat. It felt fragile under him. As fine as the wood was, as intricately as it had been carved, it was plain compared to his father’s massive stone seat at the center of his fortress. It felt no different from sitting on any other chair. It wasn’t as if he could look down on his country from here. All he could see was an empty room.

His country. He let out a sharp bark of a laugh. An empty palace with floors washed in blood. A little nothing country full of poets and artists, all with smooth hands and stone faces and sticks up their asses. And it was all his. Lucky him.

His father never had been a thoughtful gift-giver. Then again, this wasn’t a gift. Nor was it a test, no matter what his father said. A test designed to be failed was no test at all.

Test was a more pleasant word than exile. But changing the name of a thing didn’t change the thing.

It made sense that his exalted father—the Unmaker, the Midnight Scourge, Commander of Wolves—would have chosen this place for him, so carefully tucked away from anything of real importance. His father had claimed it was a test—a way to prove himself and wash away his shame. If he ruled the conquered land with a firm and steady hand, if he turned this worthless patch of dirt into something worthy of his father’s empire, he would be allowed to keep his birthright.

But more than that, it was a way for Vorhullin the Unmaker to hide away his embarrassment of a third son. The son who hadn’t earned himself a title, unlike Gatalh the Victorious who had inherited his father’s strength, or Szorrol the Cunning who possessed his father’s keen mind. All Kezul had earned himself was failure, and a scar that would never allow him to forget it.

He absently rubbed the thick band of scar tissue halfway down his abdomen. Never mind that he had ridden twenty miles with a wound that should have been fatal. Never mind that he had killed the man who had given it to him. No, all that mattered was that a son of the great Unmaker had lost the first and only battle he had commanded—and had shed his exalted blood where others could see. Of course his father needed a place to hide him away after that. Kezul wouldn’t have been surprised if his father had conquered this useless little country solely for that purpose.

He glanced out the window to his right. The patterned metal across the glass, worked into a design that matched the doors, made him think of prison bars. In the distance, a few slim fruit trees swayed in a light breeze. Kezul wished he could feel that breeze against his skin. He wished he was on his horse, riding nowhere in particular, for the pleasure of feeling the sun on his back and the brisk air against his cheeks. They hadn’t even let him ride here; one of his Wolves had handled his horse, while Kezul rode in the damned carriage.

Maybe he would do just that. Maybe he would climb on his horse and never look back. He was, technically, the ruler here—who was going to stop him? He could leave this mess to someone else. Someone stupid enough to think it was an honor to sit on this throne.

All of Kyollen Naskor would tell the story, of course, from here to his father’s fortress. And that story would not paint him in a flattering light. But considering the stories they already told about his failure, what was a reputation for cowardice on top of that? Only the sauce that rounded out the meal.

Footsteps outside of the throne room made him straighten his shoulders. He shifted on the wooden seat, trying to approximate a posture of command.

A team of five Wolves came into view, their faces creasing in relief when they saw him. Their wolf-head hoods were pushed back, their thick fur cloaks unfastened or abandoned entirely. For such a show of disrespect, his father might have tied them to a pole and slowly unspooled their guts for all to see. But apparently no one expected Kezul to be capable of enforcing that sort of discipline.

That made him want to do it, just to prove them wrong. But after the long and tiring ride here, he couldn’t find it in himself to pretend he cared about a few cloaks and hoods. Besides, in this heat, he could hardly blame them.

The Wolves stopped short at the throne room doors, as if waiting for permission to enter. Kezul recognized them now. His father had assigned them as his Fangs, his personal guard, to go along with the rest of this dubious gift. They had looked about as excited about this supposed privilege as he had been at the thought of taking this throne. Now that the Unmaker wasn’t watching, and Kezul was seated on his throne, they no longer showed their contempt on their faces. They had that much respect for him, at least.

He didn’t want to invite them in. Filling the room with slobbering, panting Wolves wouldn’t do anything to lessen the heat. But they were going to stand there until he did something, and he could hardly hide away from his own army forever.

“One of you may enter,” he said. “But only one. Whatever you have to say, I’m sure you don’t need five voices to do it.” He nodded to the man in the center, who had seemed in charge on the journey here. “Gyoras, was it?”

Gyoras walked in. The others stayed put, watching with wary eyes, like dogs waiting to see whether their new master would toss them a scrap of meat or kick them in the ribs. Or maybe waiting for their chance to catch their weak master off guard.

“Close the door behind you,” Kezul ordered Gyoras. Gyoras did. The heavy wooden doors creaked shut, then slammed into place with a bang.

Gyoras dropped to his knees on the bloodstained, head bowed. He laid his notched sword on the floor in front of him with the point toward him, as if he planned to gut himself with it. “I pledge my service to you, Kezul the… er…” He audibly stumbled at the lack of a suitable title. “Kezul the son of the Unmaker. May the blood of your enemies flow like water under your hands.”

Kezul sighed through his teeth. “What is this?”

“Only the respect you are due. You have taken your throne by force and by right, and my life is yours to command.”

“I have taken my throne as a gift from my father’s hand, and we both know it,” Kezul said irritably. “Get up, and get on with what you came here to say.”

Gyoras dared to look up, uncertainty plain in his face. His eyes avoided Kezul’s.

“Yes, I mean it,” Kezul said, motioning him up. “Stand up. How am I supposed to talk to you when all I can see is the sun reflecting off your scalp through your thinning hair?”

Gyoras’s hand went to his head. He lowered it a second later with a slight flush. “The exalted Unmaker would have his Fangs killed if they dared to stand in his presence.”

“Then it’s a wonder they can fight for him at all, with the ruin they must have made of their knees. Get up.” An edge crept into his voice.

The man stood, casting a nervous glance at Kezul’s sword arm as if he thought Kezul might run him through here and now. He still wouldn’t look Kezul in the eye. Well, Kezul supposed there was only so much he could hope for.

“Well?” asked Kezul. “You came here to tell me something. What is it?”

“We lost track of you in the palace,” he said. “We feared perhaps an enemy had survived to take revenge. We were relieved to see that you had only come to claim your throne.”

“You came to tell me you were glad to have found me,” Kezul repeated. There was a saying: Don’t judge the strength of a dog’s loyalty by the size of its brains. Kezul hoped that adage applied here.

“Well, here I am,” Kezul said, spreading his arms and twisting one side of his lips at the corner. “You can rest easy—my father won’t be taking off your head for letting me die on your watch. Not that you have much to fear in that regard anyway, I suspect. I suspect he wouldn’t be too upset if it happened. Who knows—he might give you a promotion.” He let his hand drift toward his weapon, and watched Gyoras’s eyes grow wide with poorly hidden fear. “But don’t take that as license to take matters into your own hands. You won’t like where that ends.”

Gyoras looked seasick. Kezul couldn’t blame him. In the space of a minute, he’d been forbidden from offering the fawning deference he was accustomed to performing in order to keep himself alive. He had been forced to hear the great Unmaker slandered by someone he couldn’t afford to contradict. And he had been obliquely accused of plotting treason. “What are your orders?” he asked faintly.

“Do what you were sent to do, and guard me, I suppose,” Kezul said with a shrug. “But I’d prefer you do it from outside the door. It isn’t as if there are many threats to worry about here, not if my father’s army did their job clearing this place out. Unless, of course, he’s too impatient to wait for me to fail his tests, and slipped an assassin into the ranks.”

For an agonizing moment, Gyoras opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish as he visibly struggled to figure out how to respond. In the end, he made the best possible choice, and ignored the last sentence entirely. “I don’t mean our personal orders,” he said. “I mean your orders for the rest of your warriors. As the leader of your Fangs, I am your weapon, your shield… and your voice. If you wish to contemplate your new position in solitude, tell me how you would like me to direct your Wolves, and it will be done.”

Kezul’s irritation at the man’s presence fell away as he took in the words. He was beginning to see the advantages of having a team of Fangs assigned to him. Perhaps they would serve as more than his father’s spies after all.

If only he knew what orders to give. Surely there were dozens of things that needed attending to. The ruler of a country had to do more than sit on his throne all day contemplating patterns of light on the floor. But he hadn’t been trained to rule. Which was what made it such an effective test—or rather, an effective way for his father to set him up to fail.

His middle brother, who had been almost grown by the time Kezul had been born, had objected to any attempts to train Kezul in leadership. Afraid of turning the two-way struggle to succeed his father into a three-way struggle, perhaps. His father hadn’t objected, because keeping Szorrol happy gained him more than training a third heir would have. He had two sons well-suited for leadership already. He didn’t need a third fighting for scraps and making things messy.

So instead, he had decided Kezul would take the role of a great military hero, a living example of Naskori strength and military prowess. A fine destiny for any child—as long as the child had a gift for such things. Kezul, unfortunately for both his father and himself, did not.

His early skill at combat obscured the unfortunate truths that he didn’t have a head for military strategy, and that having an army hanging on his orders made his wits fly right out of his head. But his father had tried. Once Vorhullin the Unmaker had made up his mind, there was no changing it. He had squeezed Kezul into his intended role until something broke—that something being Kezul and the Wolves under his command.

“This is my country now,” Kezul said, too emphatically, “and I’d like it to feel like one. Finish cleaning this place up. Light some fires.” He scowled at the thought of more heat in this already stifling place. “No, forget the fires. But make this place feel like more than an empty ruin. I don’t care how.”

Gyoras drew back, curling his lip. “You want me to order your Wolves to clean?”

“Would you rather live in blood and filth?”

For the first time since the conversation had begun, Gyoras showed some sign of developing a backbone. “Wolves do not clean. That kind of work is for slaves and prisoners.”

“Well, find some, then. We’ve just conquered an entire country, haven’t we? There should be no shortage. Make the people who lived here clean it up. They’re the ones who built it to be so big and drafty, with all those cursed tapestries hanging all over the place.”

“They’re dead,” Gyoras said, as if surprised Kezul might think otherwise.

“What, all of them? My father’s army didn’t take any prisoners?”

“Prisoners with a reason to resent you are liable to stick a knife in your back at the first opportunity.” Gyoras’s tone said Kezul should already have known this.

“Then don’t give your prisoners knives.”

“Would you like me to send a few of your Wolves out to gather slaves for you?” Gyoras offered. “A few hours’ ride should bring them to a town that has some survivors left.”

“My father’s army does like to be thorough, don’t they?” Kezul muttered. “No, we can work it out later.” Had it been his father’s intention to humiliate himself further by making him, the son of the Unmaker, concern himself with how to clean his new palace? It would have been petty to expressly forbid the taking of prisoners purely to stick Kezul with the job, but Kezul wouldn’t have put it past him. Or maybe the idea had come from one of his brothers. That was even more believable.

He cast another longing look out the window, and wondered how soon he could make his excuses and saddle his horse.

No. He set his jaw. His father intended him to fail this test. That meant Kezul had the chance to spite the old demon. And for that reason alone, he intended to win. He would bring this miserable country to heel if it killed him.

“Cleaning can wait,” he said, straightening on his throne. “Your first priority is to find me people who understand Danelor’s political situation.”

Gyoras’s thick eyebrows creased. “Its political situation is that we’ve conquered it.”

“I know that,” Kezul said impatiently. “I mean its history. Its trade partners. What it produces. Its people’s strengths and weaknesses.”

Gyoras let out a low chuckle. “They won’t be producing much of anything after what we did to their farms.”

Kezul didn’t return the laugh. Gyoras’s mirth trailed off into nothing. He lowered his eyes to his feet and gave a vaguely apologetic grunt.

“I want that information,” Kezul said, in the best imitation of his father he could manage. It was not a good imitation. His father’s voice was a force of nature, a roll of thunder over mountains. Kezul suspected his own voice just then was more like a hiccup in the clouds after the storm had passed.

Nonetheless, his anger must have been plain, because Gyoras flung himself to the floor again.

“I offer my deepest regrets,” he said, his voice muffled by his posture and the way he insisted on addressing the floor instead of Kezul, “but I wouldn’t know where to begin to find that information. Neither would the rest of your Wolves, I suspect. None of them were chosen because they have a head for politics.”

“Get up,” Kezul ordered. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

With clear reluctance, Gyoras got to his feet. He kept his eyes stubbornly lowered. “We will prepare you a lavish feast to celebrate your conquest,” he said in a conciliatory tone.

So cleaning was unthinkably demeaning for Wolves, but cooking was not. Were these the finer points of leadership that Szorrol had blocked him from learning? If so, maybe he was better off. He could think of many more valuable things to store in those portions of his mind.

Like, for example, the political situation of Danelor.

“A feast,” he repeated flatly. “Didn’t you just say you burned the farms?”

“You can’t begin your rule on an empty stomach.”

“Better to begin on one than to end on one. Forget the feast. I’ll eat like a soldier in the field. If anyone objects, I’ll remind them why it’s not wise to question the orders of the son of the Unmaker.”

“Maybe you’d like to visit the dungeons,” Gyoras offered. “You might find a suitable target for your anger there.” A target other than me, his tone pleaded.

Kezul blinked. “I thought you said there were no prisoners.”

“Only one,” said Gyoras, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He’s not fit to scrub our floors. The only thing that one is fit for is the death one would give an animal. When your father’s army invaded his palace, he didn’t fight to defend his home. He hid.” Gyoras spat on the floor at his feet.

“We can hardly afford to be choosy,” Kezul pointed out. “At this point, I would hitch a mop to a goat if it meant getting this place clean. Put him to work. The Wolves can have their fun with him after—”

He stopped.

“A prisoner from the palace,” he said slowly. “What did he do in the palace, exactly?”

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg @halloiambored @whump-in-the-closet @whump-cravings @gala1981 @sunshiline-writes

Ask to be added or remove from taglist.

[defectivehero]

I want to start a writing blog kind of like this one, do you have any advice for starting out/gaining followers?

Sure thing! Here are some tips I can think of. (And, as always, remember that my word is not law and you are free to take or leave this advice!)

Reflect on your desires for a writing account and evaluate which platform will be best suited for that purpose. Investigate AO3, Wattpad, and even apps like Instagram to see if you have a specific preference. Each of these platforms come with their own advantages and disadvantages, and their own regulations on content & copyright. Furthermore, different types of content will do well on different types of platforms. Longer pieces are typically better suited for AO3, for example—although Tumblr's "keep reading" tab has certainly helped to breach that gap. Wattpad will be better for multi-chapter stories, typically about romance or self-insert pieces... You get the idea.

On that note, if you're decided on Tumblr, then try to get familiar with the platform. Chances are, if you've used the app before and have been a reader/viewer, then this step will be pretty easy and intuitive for you! But, try to observe how the writing communities in particular function on this app. Tumblr relies on things like hashtags and reblogs, so I'd say it's important to have a solid understanding of them. Hashtags will be very helpful in getting your content to the proper audience, so it's imperative that you get to know the tagging system that the writing community (and any relevant subsets) use to share their work. For example, since I write about heroes and villains a lot, I use tags like "hero x villain" and "heroes and villains"; I also use broader tags like "writers on Tumblr" and "spilled ink," which are more general tags for writing about fiction. Get familiar with the fandom lingo (terms like whump, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, etc.)

2. Next, try to determine what you want out of the blog. Do you want to write because you enjoy it, or do you want to write to build a platform and gain followers? There's nothing wrong with the latter, but keep in mind that growth can often be slow—and you don't want your expectations to be unrealistic. I had the fortune to be writing on this platform a few years ago, back when hero/villain was a new concept and there was a small, tight knit group of users that contributed to the idea (@creweemmaeec11 , @nuttynutcycle , @the-modern-typewriter, @kactus-loves-writing, @gingerly-writing, and other honorable mentions <3) and contributed to its growth. Now, there are writing blogs all over Tumblr—and while that is far from a bad thing, that means it will be more difficult to gather and maintain a following.

With that in mind, if you're dead-set on gaining followers, here are some tips:

Try to network. Networking, in this sense, just refers to interacting with other writing accounts. Follow the accounts you like, interact with their posts, reblog & comment on their works. This will help, because other users will see your blog in the reblogs. I did this back when I was a smaller blog, and I am forever grateful to the accounts listed above and countless others for helping me get here. (I have struggles with social media, so I unfortunately don't have mutuals anymore, but know that I endlessly appreciate all my old mutuals!!!)

Have a consistent upload schedule. I think this was a super important contributor to my blog's growth. Back in my beginning days, I was posting nearly every day. This was hardly a requirement, and that's not necessarily what I'm suggesting either—it's not practical to expect that kind of activity every day, especially if you have school, a full-time job, a family to provide for, etc. But! When you *do* upload, try to pick a time and day and stick to that. Test this out, too. See what time and day your content gets more interactions and then stick to that time & day.

Fill out prompts. It can be difficult to get your writing out there, even with all these tips. Check out some good prompt blogs, reblog their prompts (giving them credit!!!!! and reading through their rules!!!!!) and add your writing in the reblogs. Users will see your writing in the reblogs, and that can sometimes be a better way of assuring your posts get more attention.

Create prompts. This is another simple, easy way to get more interactions. Prompts are nice because they typically don't require lengthy posts, and they literally encourage people to reblog, comment, and add their own writing! Just make sure that you're comfortable with the idea of people adding on to your writing (and the potential for them to take it and not credit you properly) before doing this. I learned that lesson the hard way... Prompts are practically designed for community interaction!!!!

Other blog tips:

Contemplate what you want to write about. There are topics on Tumblr that, in my not so humble opinion, have already been thoroughly explored (cough, cough) and topics that have some intriguing, exciting potential. This is going to be very "marketing" of me to say, but evaluate the current market, see what the supply and demand is, and go from there. Try to combine what you want to write with what the community seems to desire. Don't be afraid to embrace uniqueness. The more quirky and unique, the better. (But try to have at least some universal appeal. Too much quirkiness will ostracize your content.)

Make sure your blog is filled out, layout-wise. Have an eye-catching profile picture and banner, a thorough bio, and a relevant pinned post. Think of your blog as your brand, in a way. You want people to recognize your profile from the first glance. And, if they're new, you want to intrigue them with your profile—show them something that they feel they can't look away from.

Be courteous to others. This one's pretty much already implied, but it can't be overstated. Half of Tumblr's magic is that the writing community here is pretty polite (and I can only hope that I'm a shining example of that /s). If you see something you don't like, keep scrolling. If you see content that really bothers you, go to your display settings and make sure you have filtered tags/themes on so that you can avoid seeing that content in the future. If something isn't your cup of tea, that's okay—it could very well be someone else's. I hate to say it, but the world could always use more positivity. We're all constantly learning more, so don't shit on anyone for wanting to be more knowledgeable!

Those are just a few tips that I have. Hope these help, and good luck with your blog!

Best,

Hero

<3

(not me signing this like an email, plssss)

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

Not So Invincible After All

Whumpuary 2023: Prompt 3. Shot

2023 Year of Whump: Jan 1. Whispered Reassurances

Fandom: DC, Batman, Jason Todd, Red Hood, f!reader, Superman/Lois Lane's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Tired of living in your father's shadow, you move to Gotham where you meet Jason Todd. As the two of you become an unstoppable team (in love and crimefighting), everything seems perfect. Until something goes wrong...

Word Count: 3417

TW: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Gun Shot, Blood, Loss of powers, Pain, Ambiguous Ending, Language

Notes: Thank you to @icarusthefoolish for this request!

Moving to Gotham City is not a hard decision to make. You need to get out of your father’s shadow in Metropolis and the heroes of Gotham could use some extra help after Bruce’s death and Dick taking over the mantle as Batman. So, it seems like the perfect spot for you to start your solo career as a superhero. However, it is only right to get permission from those already protecting the city first.

To your utter embarrassment, your father sets up the meeting for you and insists on coming. Though you are an adult, he still treats you like a child. But, as much as you try to argue against it, once your mother steps in and says he is going, all arguments are over. Not even you argued with Lois Lane when she took that tone.

Which is how you find yourself standing outside Wayne Manor with your arms crossed over the S emblem on your chest, staring down the remaining members of the Batfamily. You had known Bruce extremely well, you had never met any of his wards before, though you knew who they all were.

Damien seems unimpressed by you and quickly turns his attention to other things after his introduction. Tim is the complete opposite, practically bouncing up and down as he shakes your hand and tries to ask you a million questions. Luckily, Dick gently pushes him to the side, reminding him there will be time for that later. The new Batman is so different from Bruce and yet you can still see flashes of his late guardian in the way he holds himself and addresses the situation at hand. Which just left Jason. The formerly dead vigilante didn’t say anything while you were introduced, but his eyes never leave your face the entire time your dad is explaining the situation. There is a playful twinkle in his eyes that you can’t quite understand, but you push it to the back of your mind as your dad finishes up and lifts up into the sky, drifting back a few dozen feet to give you some space for once.

Your eyes quickly flicker across each of the heroes in front of you and you clear your throat. “So, basically what Dad said. I want to leave Metropolis, you guys seem to need an extra set of hands around here– it seems like a win-win.”

For the first time, Damien speaks up. “Who says we need ‘extra hands’? We are protecting the city just fine without assistance.”

You lock eyes with the young Robin, completely unfazed by the death stare he is giving you. “Listen, kid. You guys are doing fine, but don’t think you are living up to The Bat’s legacy, at least not yet. I might not be living in Gotham at the moment, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been keeping an eye on things. Dick is doing an admirable job of being Batman, but it’s pretty obvious he’s just one of the birds playing dress up. And I’m not the only one who's noticed. The criminals in this city are getting bolder and sooner or later, one of them is going to do something the four of you can’t handle. So, if you don’t want my help, that’s fine. There are a million other cities I can move to. But then don’t come crying to me when you get your asses handed to you and you need someone to save you, because I might not be interested anymore.”

Damien continues to stare you down for a moment, then slowly nods, breaking eye contact. And with that, you know you have earned the respect of the one person who you really needed to win over tonight.

Elbowing Tim in the ribs, Jason grins as he mutters, “Wow. I never expected to hear something like that coming from the boy scout’s daughter.” 

One side of your mouth quirks up in a sly smile as your superhearing picks up on what he said. Turning your gaze so you are staring directly into his eyes, you say, “Then you’ve never met my mother. I might get my powers from my father, but I get my spirit and my wicked tongue from her.”

You can see the gears working in Jason’s head as the response forms. The way his heartbeat speeds up slightly, the slight dilation of his pupils, how his jaw tightens as he forces himself not to make the witty comment he desperately wants to but can’t with your father still hovering feet away. And that makes the smile on your lips widen.

The rest of the meeting runs smoothly. It is agreed that you can stay in Gotham and help protect its people as long as you don’t get in the Batfamily’s way. However, they do extend an invitation to team up with them whenever you want. You doubt it will happen, but it is nice to know that option is there.

You say goodbye to your dad and watch as he flies away. Once he is out of sight of even your advanced vision, you pivot sharply and strut straight up to Jason. 

He seems slightly startled by your brash confrontation, but he stands his ground. As you reach him, you lean over until your lips lightly brush the curve of his ear, and you whisper, “Maybe if you play your cards right, I can show you how wicked this tongue can get.” 

With your powers, you can sense the multitude of physical reactions your words send through his body and you chuckle as you pat his cheek before flying off into the night. 

As it turns out, Jason played his cards very right seeing as you end up waking up in his bed less than a week later. And you haven’t left since. Now, after almost five months of living in Gotham, you and Jason have become the ultimate team, in and out of your costumes. Despite both of your tempers, sarcastic natures, and constant desire to push back against the ideals of your fathers, the two of you balance each other out in some strange way. 

And Jason is never intimidated by your powers or your nigh invulnerability. In fact, he is nothing but supportive of them. In fights, you quickly find a rhythm where you go after the strongest opponent while Jason covers you or takes out the weaker opponents. It’s a system that never seems to fail, and the two of you seem unstoppable.

Until one night….

Jason is chasing two men through the streets. They just robbed Gotham National Bank but for some reason, ditched the bags of money fairly quickly as they tried to lose Jason. But he just let you gather up the forfeited money and fly it back to the bank while he continued his chase. 

By the time you return and spot him, he has chased the men onto the roof of a building. Just as the men realize they are trapped and this will be a fight, you land next to Jason with a grin.

“Hello, boys. What seems to be the trouble here?”

The men exchange angry glances and one of them hisses loudly to the other, “What do we do? We wanted Superman, not Superbitch.”

“Hey! Watch your fucking mouth!” Jason growls, taking a step closer, but you place a hand on his chest, halting him.

“Well, you shitheads are in the wrong city then. Superman doesn’t come here. This is my turf. So, does that mean you want to just give up now, or are we going to have a little fun tonight?” The men exchange glances then pull out their guns. You nod. “Okay, then. Fun it is.”

Before they can react, you have crossed the distance between you and grab one of the men by his jacket and soar up into the air. The man immediately drops his gun as he frantically clutches at your arms, trying to hold on as tightly as he can. But it makes little difference. With a cheeky grin, you release your grip. The man only has a fraction of a second to realize what is about to happen before he plummets towards the ground. 

You continue to hover in the air as you watch him fall farther and farther, his screams of terror slowly growing fainter. Finally, when he is just a few dozen feet from the ground, you sigh and soar downward. You reach him just before he hits the ground, wrapping your arms around his chest and holding him about a foot in the air. 

He continues to scream even once you set him back on the sidewalk, his legs giving out from under him as he collapses in a heap. Bending over to peer down at him, you ask, “Now, are you going to be a good boy and stay put until the cops show up, or do we have to try that again?”

He pales at the very thought and clutches your leg. “N-n-no! Please! N-not again!”

Patting his head, you say, “Good boy. Now, let’s see if your friend is as agreeable.” And you launch yourself back into the air towards the top of the building. 

When you reach the roof, you see Jason has dealt with the other man who is lying face down on the far side of the building. Jason looks up as you land and even through his helmet, you can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “Did you catch this one in time?”

“One time! I missed one time! And I still stopped him before he was permanently injured. Are you ever going to let me live that down?”

“Nope.” He starts to cross the roof to you.

But just then, you both hear a sound behind him, and turn to look. The man Jason had knocked down has climbed back to his feet, and before Jason can react, the man raises his gun and fires three shots straight at his chest.

“Nice try,” you smirk as you streak forward at superspeed, stopping just in front of Jason as the bullets soar toward him.

However, the smirk drops from your face as the bullets don’t bounce harmlessly off you as expected. Instead, they drive deep into your chest, just above your heart. The force of the impact causes you to stumble backward into Jason, who flinches slightly in surprise at your sudden appearance and collision with him. 

Instantly, it feels like all of your strength is being sapped from your body and you collapse heavily against Jason’s chest. Luckily, he has a firm grip on your waist and keeps you from falling completely. Drawing you in, he lowers both of you to the ground and allows you to lean against him with your legs out in front of you.

Neither of you saw where the gunman disappeared after you collapsed, but at the moment, it is the least of your concerns. Glancing down, you can see three distinct holes in your suit, each one gushing blood. Normally, that should be the most worrisome part of the problem. However, your breath catches in your throat as you notice the faint green sheen mixed with your blood.

But Jason hasn’t realized that yet. Ripping off his helmet to get a better look at your wound, he asks, “What’s going on? How did this happen?”

“I think– I think they were made for my father. Kryptonite bullets.”

The realization of what this means slowly passes over Jason’s face. “That’s why they didn’t just bounce off you. You have Kryptonite buried in your chest?”

“Not just there. It’s some sort of poison bullet that’s releasing it into my system. I can feel it like acid in my veins. Spreading throughout my body.” You cry out as a fresh wave of pain hits you. “God! It hurts so much.”

“I’m calling Supes. Maybe he can–”

“No, Jay, don’t you get it? Even just being near me right now will weaken him. And those guys could still be around waiting for that. I can’t d–do that to him.” You shudder again at the pain and Jason uses his hands to cover your wound in a desperate attempt to slow the bleeding.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna be okay,” he whispers softly into your ear. But you can clearly tell that he doesn’t fully believe the words he is saying.

Jason helps you shift slightly against his chest, trying to make you as comfortable as possible. Looking down, you can see blood still spilling from between his fingers, the crimson puddle tinted with a faint green glow as it grows beneath you. 

“What can I do? There has to be something I can do,” Jason pleads.

“I don’t think there is.” Suddenly, you realize everything seems different, muted. You can no longer see or hear anything clearly beyond this rooftop. Your body feels weaker than it has ever felt before, and not just from the pain or your injury. And when you put all the concentration you can muster into lifting yourself even half an inch off the ground, you can’t even manage to make yourself twitch. Everything that made you special, everything you had inherited from your father is just… gone.

Leaning your head back against Jason’s neck, you ask, “Is this…. Is this what it feels like?”

“What does what feel like, baby?” he asks, stroking your hair gently.

“To be human?”

The question catches Jason off guard. “Um, I–I don’t know. I guess so.”

“I don’t think I like it very much.” Another shiver of pain washes over you and you bury your face in Jason’s neck, hoping to muffle the moan that rumbles in your throat.

But Jason still hears it. “That’s it. I’m calling your dad.”

“No,” you mutter weakly. “I told you–”

“We don’t have a choice. I don’t know enough about Kryptonite or Kryptonian anatomy to help you, but he does. Don’t you think he would want to help you even if it meant feeling the effects of the Kryptonite?”

You are silent for a moment, but you know that he is right. Your dad would have wanted to be here the second you were hurt, regardless of the danger it might put him in. So, reluctantly, you nod. 

Jason removes his hand from your chest – it hadn’t been doing much to stop the blood flow anyway – and he pulls a phone from his pocket. You allow your eyes to drift closed as you listen to him quickly explain what happened and just moments later, there is a loud thud on the other side of the roof.

Peeling your eyes open, you see the familiar red-and-blue suit reflecting in the dim light. Your dad takes a step forward into the light and you can see the concern and fear etched onto his face as he stares at you, his eyes watery and his breathing uneven. He starts to walk towards you, but he stumbles slightly as the first effects of the Kryptonite hit him. 

He tries to take another step, but you mumble, “Please. Don’t. I don’t want you to get hurt too.” Your words are just barely more than a whisper but even across the distance, you know he hears you clear as day. The reluctance is evident on his face, yet he follows your wishes and remains where he is at.

Jason stares at the Man of Steel, the desperation in his voice as he asks, “What do we do? How do we help her?”

“I-I don’t know,” your dad admits, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. “If there is Kryptonite all through her body like you said, I don’t know how we get it out. Normally, Kryptonite by itself isn’t lethal, but no Kryptonian has been exposed this intimately to this amount. And from what I can see, she’s fading fast.”

“But she’s not just Kryptonian….” Jason whispers, as he gazes down at you. Then his head snaps up, and in a stronger voice says, “Clark, she’s just as human as she is Kryptonian. I don’t think it’s actually the Kryptonite in her veins that’s killing her. It’s the bullets. The Kryptonite just made her lose her healing abilities. So, if we just treat this like any old bullet wound, I think she might be okay.”

Your dad considers for a moment before nodding. “It’s possible, and let’s pray it’s true because it’s her only hope. We need to get those bullets out and then get her to a hospital as quickly as possible.”

Jason nods. “Okay. How do we do that?”

“We get help from the quickest person we know.” He pulls out a device and speaks into it. After only a few words, the rooftop shakes slightly as a gust of wind roars past and when you blink, you see Barry standing there with his usual grin on his face.

“You called?” But the smile slips as he takes in the scene before him. “Oh my god! What happened? Is she alright?”

“No, but we’re hoping you could help with that,” your dad explains. “She was shot three times with Kryptonite bullets, and we need to get them out of her. I can’t do it, but can you?”

Barry nodded. “I think so.” Crossing the rooftop, he kneels down beside you. Even in his bright red suit, you are having trouble focusing on him as your vision begins to blur. But you feel the light pressure as Barry places his hand on your arm. “Hey, Kid.”

“Hey, Skidmark,” you mumble weakly.

Barry chuckles. “I’ll let that slide this time since you’re hurt.” His face turns serious as he adds, “And because what’s about to happen isn’t going to feel great.”

Turning towards Jason, he says, “I need you to hold her as still as possible in case she squirms. It might take me a minute to locate all three bullets and the more she moves, the longer I’ll have to keep searching.” Jason nods and his grip on your shoulders tightens.

Barry positions his fingers just above your wound but hesitates as he glances at your face. You nod slightly and he turns his focus back to your chest. His hand begins to move so quickly, it becomes nothing more than a blur. Then, he moves it lower, phasing it through your chest. 

Instantly, you seize up. The intense vibrations reverberate through your entire body, but the proximity of his fingers to your heart and lungs causes them to freeze. Your eyes roll back in your head as you silently gasp for air. Jason is trying to hold you down but it is difficult when your entire body is spasming violently. You vaguely hear Barry, your dad, and Jason yelling at each other, but you can’t make out a single word they are saying. 

Then, mercifully, the vibrations are gone. All your muscles relax and your head falls limply against Jason’s shoulder as you try to catch your breath. Jason rubs his hand over your hair as he whispers that it’s over and how good you did. You aren’t really sure you did anything, but you are too weak and light-headed to correct him. 

From the other side of the roof, your dad calls out, “Barry, get her to the med bay on the Watchtower. They should be able to treat her there. Then, destroy those bullets.”

Barry nods before holding out his arms and Jason helps to ease your broken form into them. However, just as Barry is about to take off, you feebly stretch your fingers towards Jason. He takes your hand and squeezes it tightly. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

You swallow heavily and force the words to spill from your lips. “I need you to know… if I had known what those bullets were… I still would have taken them for you…No regrets…”

Your hand goes limp in his grasp as the last of your energy is depleted. Leaning forward, Jason gently places your hand on your chest before kissing your forehead. Then, with his lips still hovering just above your skin, he whispers, “I love you. No regrets.”

Stepping back, he nods at Barry. The speedster tightens his hold on you and says, “Hold on.” Then he takes off.

As you feel that familiar initial whoosh of moving at super speed, you finally allow yourself to succumb to the darkness.

Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @babblydrabbly, @11thstreetvigilante, @merlehs,@mayhem24-7forever, @sunshineflowerchild789, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @schaarfyx, @happinessricardotapia, @wildbornsiren, @whumpuary

[presumenothing]

whumptober #15: new scars

(except with like, minimal whump? also basically post-NE)

ART was working on something out of my sight.

This was hardly notable in itself. Practically expected, even. ART’s ability to process multiple highly intensive inputs at once made my own capabilities seem incomparably basic, even after Milu.

But this was different. Its presence in the feed beside me felt… distracted, almost, if that word could even apply to it. Restless to a higher extent than was warranted by being in an Alien Infestation Hellscape without a usable wormhole drive (which, to be fair, was a very high extent of restlessness).

I didn’t pause the media, just poked ART hard enough to be annoying. Give it up before I hack my way over. You know I could.

Only because I’d let you, ART sighed, long-suffering, because it was allergic to letting anyone else have the last word, but at least that confirmed it wasn’t keeping whatever-it-was away from me because it thought I was still mad.

Which I wasn’t, not anymore. It was hard to stay even baseline-level angry when I knew very well that ART hadn’t intentionally orchestrated all this, and wanted this entire clusterfuck to have not-happened just about as much as I did.

Even then I was still surprised when it actually did push an unlabelled folder into the shared workspace, and went back to steadfastly watching media with far too much attention while I rifled through them curiously.

It didn’t take long to figure out, once I recognised some of the inputs I’d queried earlier while we were trying to reconstruct the timeline. Probably would’ve been even faster, if not for an entire moment of surprise – the files were an absolute mess compared to what I’d gotten used to seeing from ART, jagged edges and gaping holes that looked a lot more like the kind of emergency hodgepodge I had to put together for Hostile With Really Overkill Security scenarios.

Only not quite, because you could see where ART had already started stitching things together with every single other bit of data available. Which was still nowhere near enough detail, stickler for accuracy that it was.

Weren’t kidding about those holes in your data, huh, I muttered before I could think better of it, because I still hadn’t gotten around to patching in that one-second delay filter. Not that I would’ve remembered to turn it on in here with ART, anyway.

ART paused. I’m not accustomed to missing memories, it said.

I snorted. Welcome to the club.

Valid but unhelpful. It had stopped pretending to watch media, and turned its attention back on the reconstructed timeline now. Even my ability to interpolate is… rather limited, given the sheer size of the gap.

I resisted the urge to suggest editing in some of Sanctuary Moon (episode 256, which – yes, did even feature alien contamination) because that would probably garner the ship-sized equivalent of Amena’s least-impressed expression, and instead prodded at the closest bit of memory. I could probably help you fill in this bit.

You hadn’t even yet arrived then, ART pointed out. Obviously so, since the parts of everything I was present for had already been incorporated further down the thread.

Yeah, but I’m pretty sure I also have more experience with this kind of thing than you do. Debris deflection system aside, it wasn’t like ART ran into hostiles all that often, and especially not getting its ass kicked while doing it.

It probably still wouldn’t stop the entire event sticking out like a rusty part in what I imagined to be the shiny library of ART’s archives, but hopefully it’d be something, at least.

[radarsteddybear]

Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by @rose-of-pollux. Thank you!

(I tag everyone and anyone who wants to do this!)

How many works do you have on AO3? 74

What's your total AO3 word count? 222,374 words

What fandoms do you write for? A lotta DuckTales (2017), a good deal of Hogan's Heroes, some Singin' in the Rain, and a smattering of other stuff. Though I'm not really writing DuckTales anymore (nor am I writing the smattering of other stuff).

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Ducktober 2017 (DuckTales 2017)

Numb (DuckTales 2017)

An Old Letter (DuckTales 2017)

A Phone Call and a Visit (DuckTales 2017)

It All Fades to Black (Encanto)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? I try to reply to comments left on AO3. Since you have to respond to reviews on ff.net via PM, I find it a lot harder to keep track of which I've responded to and which I haven't, so I usually don't anymore.

What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Most of my angst comes with a happy ending, and on top of that, I don't have the greatest perspective of how angsty my angst is, but I'm going to go with Exchange (Scrooge has to pay a price to get Lena back from Magica).

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Jeez, I don't know. Most of them have happy endings. The two that come to mind are:

Things My Heart Used to Know (Louie has discovered who he is and not only found his family but also put it back together again)

Ashes (Cosmo gets to live out his happily-ever-after with the two loves of his life, Don Lockwood and Kathy Seldon)

Do you get hate on fics? Not quite hate, but I have gotten complete non sequiturs, people who don't seem to understand that I like to write scenes over full stories, and a couple of arguments over my chosen characterization of a character in one specific story (which I stand by).

Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? I've never written any, though that doesn't stop me from thinking about them. Lately I've been thinking about Captain Carter visiting the 4077th.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I know of.

Have you ever had a fic translated? No.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? The closest I've ever come to co-writing a fic was when @eggs-arent-real wrote me a one-shot and I wrote her a sequel. We didn't post it, though.

What's your all-time favorite ship? Probably Cosmo/Don/Kathy from Singin' in the Rain. I'm also partial to Stucky and Aziraphale/Crowley.

What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will? Good question. I've not given up on any of these, mind you, but my Darkwing Duck plot bunnies may fall into this category; it's just that I have to rewatch a significant portion of the show to pull them off, and I have no idea when that's going to happen.

What are your writing strengths? Back in high school, I was told by multiple people that I was really good with imagery. I also tend to like my dialogue, and I've had a lot of practice writing whump and hurt/comfort scenes, so I'd like to think I'm pretty good at those, too.

What are your writing weaknesses? Coming up with full plots (as opposed to random, out-of-context scenes). And also endings. And getting characters from point A to point B without any/much dialogue.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? If that's how a character speaks, then that's how a character speaks. Personally, I try to avoid it unless it's a canon piece of the character and/or it's plot relevant. I think I've only done it for Panchito and Jose of the Three Caballeros. And also Mark Beaks, who canonically peppers his speech with Spanish when talking to Fenton because he is awful.

First fandom you wrote for? Liberty's Kids. There's a good chance I still have it, too, though I'll never post it (I never finished it, anyway).

The first fandom I wrote for and posted was Iron Man: Armored Adventures, which is also the only fic I've ever deleted off the internet.

Favorite fic you've ever written? I've gotta go with these two:

Things My Heart Used to Know

“We’ll meet up in Duckburg,” he heard Scrooge say. “I’ve got a Bin there, and…” Another explosion, the biggest one yet, shook the Bin, and large chunks of plaster fell around them. “We have to go,” Donald said. Scrooge turned to Louie and pressed something small and solid and round into his hand. “Guard it well,” he told him before disappearing into the smoke. Or, Louie gives a new meaning to the nickname “Captain Lost.”

Ashes

Cosmo drinks his sorrows away after Kathy discovers that he and Don are more than just friends.

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

Sobbing rn. I have written something too cursed. This is based off the fic idea I had here. I have no idea what to title this.

Context (not that there is anything really to explain this.): British government did an oopsie. Werewolf soldiers are a thing now. They're tying to fix the issue by making it someone else's responsibility (NHS).

Characters: König, Horangi and chronically exhausted medical staff

Warnings: Pain... that's really it, just a lot of mentions of characters being in pain, this is kind of a whump but more like a whump with adrenaline

Word count: 2, 625

Let me know if you guys want more chaos like this <3

Stiff upper labia, right?

Military hospitals aren’t really a thing in the UK anymore. Well, that was Kaalika’s understanding anyways. Although, frankly, she didn’t care all too much about that.

What she did care about though was getting her arse cheeks through the doors before 8.00 am, which she was already failing at… terribly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She whispered under her breath, the strap of her handbag digging into the crook of her elbow joint.

She didn’t even want to check her phone, despite its incessant ringing in her pocket. Her eyes darted about as she looked for the sign indicating the building her unit was situated in. Seeing as they were blue panels splashed with white text, Kaalika was hoping she’d be able to distinguish which one was which through her ability to read and the fact that her department was new and shiny, and so would therefore, have a new and shiny sign… a stark contrast to the slightly worn appearance of the signage she was currently looking at.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She hurried through the carpark, powering through with her handbag swinging in tow. The poor woman swallowed down her panic, praying that whatever bollocking she knew was coming from Faith when she’d arrive would at least be done in a somewhat hushed voice. Kaalika hadn’t had any breakfast and she hadn’t had anything to drink, she had done her commute and was currently powerwalking on an empty stomach… as well as a pounding headache.

Maybe if she took the more covert route, via the fire exit, she’d avoid the bollocking altogether.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The doctor saw a pair of doors not too far from where she was. Alas! Finally! She breathed a sigh of relief, picking up the pace. The finish line was in sight!

And so was a man, leaning against the wall, groaning in pain.

Oh no. Was it bad that her first thought was to remark at how tall he was as opposed to him clearly being ill? And then her second thought being: ‘could this be ignorable?’

Kaalika often wondered that if the GMC could see into her mind, would they revoke her license based on the not-so-doctorly thoughts which occasionally bounced around her head?

Anyways, she should probably see to the clearly sick man. Especially as he had made eye contact with her.

“Hi!” She approached, albeit with caution.

He turned around to face her. The man was pale with a slight shine of sweat on his forehead.

“I’m Kaalika. I’m one of the doctors.” She pointed to him, “And you are?”

“König.” He managed to get out between groans.

“Okay, König. Let’s get you inside, this is the shortcut. You’ve done the hard part already, which is finding this bleeding place.”

Where she worked was practically a second emergency department… which meant she had a few strong feelings about placing it at the far end of the hospital, where it was practically hidden from view and out of reach.

Kaalika gestured for him to rest some of his weight on her as they began their hobble indoors. However, she would soon regret having 6ft 10” of man leaning on her as he began to cling to her tightly, the pain obviously on the rise. 

“That’s it. You’re doing great.”

He nodded, breathing heavily. König then let out a howl of agony as something snapped.

Kaalika could never get used to that sound, despite having heard it many times this year. It was gory. Bone crunching.

“Okay! That was a big snap. We’re nearly there, though, we’re almost at the doors.” She tried to get him to keep moving.

Shit. That’s not good. Now the clock’s started ticking.

“Where’s the pain, love?” Kaalika eased him back onto her.

He gestured to his torso.

“Is it your chest or your tummy?”

“Tummy. Lower abdomen.”

Hmm… okay.

“Is the pain rising? Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”

He shook his head.

“What kind of pain is it?” Kaalika did her best to make he could hear her over his own cries, “I’m sorry, I know you’re already distressed but it’s going to help if you can tell me.”

“Like…” He strained, clenching his teeth, “Burning. Burning and twisting.”

“Deep pain? Or close to the surface?”

“Burning. Stabbing under my skin.”

Damn it. This is bad. On the bright side, if he said ‘deep’ that would mean disaster. Stage 1. This is stage 1.

They needed to spring into action ideally now or as soon as possible.

Thank God Kaalika was taking the shortcut.

“Right, let’s go through these fire doors. That’ll get us to the theatre quicker.”

Back entrance was less busy but the only mode of getting up would be either stairs or the maintenance lift.

Not ideal.

But you hardly ever have ideal circumstances.

Kaalika flung the doors open, pressing her back against one to get König in as quickly and as comfortably as she could.

She rummaged round her coat for her phone, pulled it out and began hunting for the right contact. Soon enough, she found it. Kaalika brought the phone to her ear.

“Is this the SHO? Yeah? Great. I need a hospital bed and a weighted blanket. ASAP. I’m gonna be at the lifts soon.”

Konig watched her, somehow managing to hold him to her with one arm, have her bag open and not spill out its contents as it hung precariously on the other, all while trying to close the conversation with the med student.

“What stage? We’re Stage 1, bordering 2, which means I need you to get a shift on. Okay, see you then. Notify Faith too! Great. Bye!”

She shoved the phone back in her bag and continued to ease König down the corridor.

However, he stopped suddenly, wincing. Kaalika tried to unhook his fingers from the grating of a metal basket he was clinging to.

“Come on. Come on. You can do it.”

She managed to get him to let go of the basket.

To Konig’s absolute horror they stopped at a pair of Paternoster lifts. He watched the two compartments move in opposite directions, one up and one down… on their own accord.

“We’re going to have to hop on,” Kaalika explained, “I’ll help you, don’t worry.”

 “This is a lift?” He whimpered.

“Yeah. It’s safe, though, you’ll be okay.”

One was starting to make its ascent. The window of opportunity had opened and would close very, very soon.

“Okay, ready? Go!”

König tried to get his leg up onto the platform, only to watch the carpeted floor of the lift slip away before he could get a solid footing.

“No!” He sighed, shaking his head, “I can’t… I can’t…”

Kaalika rubbed his back, hushing him.

“You can do it. There’s another one coming up.”

“Here it comes! Three, two, one!”

THUD!

He cried out as he landed, slamming against the wall. She hopped up behind him. They both had made it over the first hurdle. This was good. This was progress.

“Right, so when I say so, we have to jump out of the lift. Yeah?”

“No…” Konig shook his head.

“We have to. You’re in safe hands, don’t worry. I’m here.”

“Are you a real doctor?”

Kaalika nodded and rummaged through her bag for her lanyard. Once she found it, she pulled it out and presented it to him.

“See?”

He nodded and flapped his hand, gesturing for her to put it back.

“Now we’re going to jump!”

He did his best.

“Jump! Come on!”

Missed.

Konig muttered an apology.

“It’s alright,” Kaalika assured, “It’s okay, we’ll have another chance.”

They were enshrouded in darkness as the lift made its way up. It clacked and let out metallic groans, adding to the orchestra of pained noises which was most certainly not the ideal morning soundscape you’d want to hear whilst your body was still waking up… like Kaalika’s was.

Konig let out another wail.

“Something’s wrong!” He cried, pointing to his sternum shakily.

“Is the pain moving up?”

He nodded, doing his best not to hyperventilate.

Please don’t vomit on me. I couldn’t cope.

The lift let out another creak. They could feel it was moving down now.

 She could see his body was incredibly tense, the muscles in his neck jutting out. Time was really running out and Kaalika knew she couldn’t stop the process from running its course, but she could slow it down. Konig clutched his throat, wheezing.

“I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”

Kaalika tried to speak to him, but he was ignoring her, slowly getting more and more absorbed by his own panic.

“Hey!” She raised her voice.

That caught his attention.

“Look at me. In,” she took a big gulp of air, “Out,” and she audibly exhaled.

“In,” she repeated, gesturing for him to follow, “Out.”

“In. Count to four in your head. And out. Count to six.”

He followed, watching her fingers count up to four, and then, on his exhale, watching them count to six.

“In.”

Deep breath.

“Out.”

A long exhale.

Kaalika watched as his shoulders lowered, his body relaxing a little.

“Good.”

She looked to the side and saw their floor was coming up.

“Right, we need to get off, now. Ready?”

They almost tumbled out. Luckily, our doctor managed to catch König before he fell face first onto the floor. Although, she was pretty certain her hand lotion had dropped out her bag as a result, but she didn’t have time to retrieve her E-45.

“Okay.” She smiled, “Let’s keep going. You’re doing so well, König.”

Konig nodded and pushed on, even though it was clear the agony was progressing. He was following her advice though, taking big breaths, almost huffing and puffing.

Soon enough, they came to the double doors and the lifts just beyond. Kaalika kicked the door open and hauled him in, the various items in her handbag jingling and clattering about.

A young woman in blue scrubs came through, clumsily pulling along a hospital bed.

Yes, Aisha!

Kaalika silently cheered as she watched the girl bring the bed round so it was parallel to the two of them.

“Fab!” Kaalika smiled, “Okay, let’s ease him onto the bed. That’s it.”

They both heaved as they aided König in getting onto the creaky mattress. Then, to Aisha’s surprise, Kaalika began walking away.

“Get him into the knee-elbow position and start a deep tissue massage to the lower abdomen to maintain blood circulation. Oh! Also put another hand on his sternum. Make sure he keeps rhythmically breathing. I’m gonna get into some scrubs. Remember to consent him!”

As she was about to disappear through the doors, Aisha called her.

“When you say knee-elbow, do you mean-”

She let out a sigh.

“Right. Sorry. I’ll do it. You get us to the theatre.”

“Got it.”

They switched round and Kaalika got onto the bed, behind König. She hooked her bag onto the front, its fluffy pompom keyring swinging about like a rear-view mirror charm in a car.

“Right, König, what I have to do is keep your blood circulating and prevent you from getting muscle knots.” Kaalika did her best to be heard over his screams, “So that means I have to really press down on your lower abdomen is that okay?”

He nodded.

“Okay, get moving, Aisha! We’re bordering stage two now.”

Aisha nodded and pushed. They didn’t move. She pushed again. They didn’t move.

“He’s a bit heavy.”

 “Shit.”

“What do we do?”

Kaalika looked around to see if anyone was around.

No one.

“HELP!”

Silence.

How could there be no one?!

You could picture the tumbleweeds rolling by.

“Right, I’ll help you get us moving and then once we’ve got some speed, I’ll hop on and start again, yeah?”

“Okay!” Aisha nodded.

Kaalika got off the bed and scooted Aisha a little to the left so she could get some gripping on the handle. Then, together they pushed with all their might. Wheels squeaked back to life and soon enough they were gaining ground, even if it was little by little. Once they had a bit more speed going, Kaalika parted from the bed and ran parallel to it. Then, with more effort than this really warranted, she leapt onto the bed, clawing at the sheets as she tried not to get chucked off the other side. The doctor got back into position and back to actually treating the patient.

Only to get jolted forward, along with König, as the bed hit the corner of a wall.

They both yelped in surprise.

“Jesus!”

“I’m so sorry!”

A nurse came through the doors to their right, looking very disgruntled.

“Hiya, Faith!” Kaalika smiled.

“You’re late.”

“Yeah, yeah… I know.”

Faith sighed and shooed Aisha away so she could help steer this shitty shopping trolley of a hospital bed. A porter, who had accompanied the nurse, had taken to manning the front.

“Why don’t I drive and you go find the anaesthetist?”

Aisha was left in the hallway, looking very confused as more people began running past her, following the hospital bed as it trundled down. Although, to König, it felt like his life was flashing before his eyes. The poor soldier’s vision was beginning to get blurry with his tears. He was starting to see stars, the pain making everything fall out of focus.

“We’re almost there, love! We’re almost there!”

“Am I dying?!” Konig whimpered.

“Probably feels like that! Not to worry, though, that feeling of doom is just because your heart’s about to stop which is what’s supposed to happen.” Kaalika reassured.

“Supposed to?!”

Faith studied König a little as she pushed on and spotted the Austrian flag emblazoning his uniform.

“Uh… Kaali… This man’s Austrian.”

“I thought he did have a bit of an accent! Couldn’t pin it, though.” Kaalika nodded, trying to find the next fibrous knot to break down.

Konig yowled as it jumped under the applied pressure.

“No, Kaali, he’s an Austrian soldier.”

“What?” She looked over to see the flag on his shoulder. “Oh my God! Who is this Austrian man!? Why have we got an Austrian man?!”

“I don’t know! I thought the international soldiers were coming next week!”

“I’m from… KorTac!”

“KorTac?” Faith asked, before looking over to Kaalika, “Is that one of the units registered with us?”

“Don’t look at me. I don’t fucking know. Everyday in this place is a goddamn fever dream.”

“Oh Christ, welcome to healthcare.” Faith muttered.

They rounded the corner, swerving into reception and out of it in a flash. König watched the front desk slowly fade into the distance as they hurtled towards the operating theatre. As they trekked on, a man could be seen from behind, jogging towards them.

“König!” He called as he ran, his voice dampened by the background commotion of the hospital.

Eventually, he caught up with them. Only to have a look of horror on his face.

“What is going on?! What are you doing?! König!” The man then tried to lean over the meet König’s blood-drained face, “Where were you?!”

“Horangi…” König said slurredly, “… Carpark.”

“We were inside! You didn’t come with us?!”

Faith tried to get him to not veer the bed off course.

“Sir, we’re taking him to theatre.”

“He’s with me! I was sent with him, we‘re KorTac and-”

“Hold this!” Faith interrupted him, handing the man Kaalika’s handbag.

“Wait, Faith! Faith!” Kaalika yelled.

“Sir, you have to go back to triage.”

“But-”

“DO AS THEY FUCKING SAY!” König blurted out in a bout of pain.

The doors parted and Horangi watched his teammate vanish into the operating theatre. He looked down at the handbag he was handed.

Keychain’s pretty cute. He supposed.

[sharkneto]

hi! could you perhaps give some writing tips for writing angst or short stories? i want to start writing and since i love tua i wanted to try some short stories about five during the apocalypse. tho i also kinda want to learn how to portray characters correctly <3

So, knowing me, this will probably get long. So Part 1: Short Stories and Angst and Part 2: Writing In-Character

Part 1: Short Stories and Angst

Idk how qualified I am for giving advice on writing short stories. I just, sit down to write and stop when it's done. Sometimes that's 1k words, sometimes that's 40k. A quick google says a short story is under 10k words, so that's what we'll work with. Writing a couple thousand word fic isn't actually all that much of a different process than writing a thirty thousand fic - it's just a question of scale. A short fic is going to have a simple premise, that's straightforward and you can set up in a couple hundred to a thousand words (the Umbrellas found a horse, Five is drunk and cut his finger, Klaus and Five are having a bad day and go to the zoo). Don't get hung up on if your premise is "big enough", is enough of a plot - slice of life is my bread and butter and is popular for a reason. None of the above premises are anything big or have particularly high stakes (come back to this in a second). Simple plot means simple structure which is how short stories stay short. Set up, problem, solution. Honestly, you don't even have to solve the problem as long as you still wrap it up in some way (in Lonely Drunk, Luther solves the problem of Five being Too Drunk by getting him to bed, but doesn't have any solution for the overall problem to stop future drunkness). Tell the scene/story you want to tell and get out (or don't, but then you're not telling a short story anymore, which is also fine and happens to the best of us).

Now, up there I hedged that short story = low stakes, which is not true and is where ~angst~ comes in. How much and which emotions you bring into a story is all about word choice and pacing. Take my Lend a Hand vs... Simple. Both are about 4.5k words. One is a fic in which Five destroys his hand to save Luther from vivisection. The other is Five and Diego walking in a park and talking about how to make friends. Different Vibes in the same number of words.

So, how do you use words and pacing to write angst, as that is what you're specifically asking about. For angst to work, you need your readers to 1) empathize with the character getting whumped and 2) hurt because of it. Fanfic helps with 1 because we already care about the characters coming in as we're looking to read more about them. You can help up the empathy in the Set Up by putting them in danger, giving them a difficult situation, etc. For 2, some of the best writing advice I ever got is from This Post on how to write pain - you don't just say "they hurt", you describe how they hurt. Ye old Show vs Tell. Write around the pain until we can see the shape of it anyway. Save hard-hitting synonyms for peak action/emotion so they hit harder in contrast to more subdued word choice before it. Play with pacing. Short, choppy sentences read faster and are good for fights, shock, and pain. Long, descriptive sentences are good to build tension and making those fast sentences faster by contrast. Alternatively, run-on sentences for effect work similarly to fast choppy ones - no periods and no commas mean readers don't get a chance to take a breath. Paragraph breaks slow your reader down, so use that to pace them. A series of short action sentences go fast in one big paragraph together. Single sentences in paragraphs by themselves slow the reader down for shock or realizations or emphasis on a particular action. Mix all these basics up to craft the exact speed and emotion you want to hit. It's a fun lil puzzle.

Part 2: Characterization

Writing characters is just practice. When we're reading, especially fanfic, we have an idea of when a character would or wouldn't say or do something they're doing in the fic. So, break down why you know that and you can start writing the character in the right shape on your own. When reading or watching the source material, pay attention to how a character talks, what motivates them, when they're nice versus when they're mean, how they interact with other characters, etc. You can't drop a character into a completely new scenario you made up and have them act in-character until you understand why they're going to do what they're going to do in that situation.

This takes practice, and there's not necessarily one correct way to write a character - different people pick up on different things, have different angles of emphasis for their understanding. There's also canon-interpretation of characters vs headcanon and fanon-interpretations. The older a show and the larger the fandom, the more prevalent the headcanons and fanon-interpretation is going to be. Personally, I prefer to stay as close to canon as I can, but I'm definitely not immune to fanon and I definitely have my personal headcanons. And, there isn't anything wrong with accepting fanon, just recognize it's a specific interpretation of the character. If you feel like you're falling more into a fanon-interpretation than you'd like, you can always take a dip back to the source material for a character and characterization refresher.

But, what does this breaking down of a character to understand them look like? Let's do it with Five, my favorite guy. Five is a fifty-eight-year-old man who's stuck looking thirteen. He lived for four decades alone in the apocalypse with his plastic wife and then became the Commission's best assassin. He's trying to stop the apocalypse. These experiences shape how he talks - he uses old-timey phrases, both because he's old and because he's not familiar with the modern world. He's not polite and he's quick to snap because he has little social practice and is under immense pressure to stop the apocalypse. How do they shape how he approaches problems? He resorts to violence relatively quickly, because he was an assassin and (again) has little experience in talking to diffuse situations, but he will choose trying to diffuse over violence when he can. What motivates Five? Stopping the apocalypse is the surface answer. Why does he want to stop the apocalypse? Because he found his whole family dead in it when he was thirteen years old. He is actually motivated by his family. Five is a genius but dumb (because lacking social and real-world experience and his ego). He loves an insane amount (chosen survival mechanism was to create a person to love, survived the apocalypse to save his family). Etc, etc, etc...

You just keep breaking characters down like this until you've hit the level you feel like you understand them. And then it just comes down to practice. It took me a good 15 fics before I was comfortable writing Klaus. Imagine characters saying your dialogue, doing what you're making them do, and see if it feels like they would do that. If it's out of character, it might still be in-character, depending on what pressures you're putting them under. If a character is acting out of character, it could be you have a hole in your plot you need to fix - the plot should be pushing the characters to get to the climax and resolution, they should not be walking there by themselves unprompted. If rewriting happens, rewriting happens. I had to rewrite the alley-dumpster fight in HIT because I forgot to destroy the briefcase in it and I realized if there was a briefcase floating around, Five would immediately break my plot (I have a grudging empathy for TUA writers in how easily Five can break plots - it just means you have to get more creative). It's a fun mental dance that I enjoy quite a bit.

At the end of the day, though, the whole point is to have fun. The best way to get better at writing and figure it out is to just do it.

Happy writing :)

[jedi-lothwolf]

A Month of Whump Day 6: Team Dynamic

Fandom: Star Wars The Clone Wars

Summary: Obi-wan and Anakin are captured by the Separatist.

    Anakin and Obi-wan spent most of their time together. After the boy left Tatooien he was Obi-wan's responsibility. Though it was a little much sometimes, practice raising a child, he wouldn't trade it for anything. Anakin gave him a reason to get up when life tried to force him down.

    Now he sat in a Separatist cell with him. Both men were heavily injured from torture. The two did their best to help each other. Nothing seemed to help their situation. It felt like they were just barely holding on.

    Dooku's footsteps could be heard and not soon after he stood in front of their cell. "Hello" he spoke menaceingly.  Neither Jedi spoke. "I'm going to cut to the chase, one of you is dieing today. You won't betray the Republic so I need you as an example."

    Fear struck into the men's hearts. They looked at each other with consurn. When the count walked in he started to walk towards Obi-wan. Then he stopped. The man turned slightly and ended right in front of Anakin.

    Anakin turned to face him. Fear was evident on the jedi's face. "Scared?" The sith antagonized. Anakin turned back to look at his brother. Then he was unchained and pulled from the floor.

    Dooku dragged Anakin out of the room. The man couldn't fight anymore. The injuries he had sustained were too much. He wanted to. Everything he loved flooded his mind and yet he still couldn't move enough.

    The chains that hugged Obi-wan's wrist were strained as he tried to reach him. Panic set in. Tears began to well in his eyes as he tried to figure out what to do. "Wait!" He screamed.

    Dooku stopped. Anakin looked at him looked confused and tired. "What?" The sith asked.

    "Take me! Take me, not him." Obi-wan begged. His voice broke as he spoke. "Please." The last word came out as a desperate whisper.

    "My my, and here I thought you were a rule abiding jedi." Dooku's words stung but he didn't care. Right now the only thing that mattered to Obi-wan was Anakin's safety. "Fine." Anakin was thrown back into the room. He fell to the floor and didn't move.

    "Anakin?" Obi-wan's voice faultered. Darth Tyranus walked over and chained the young adult to the wall then unchained Obi-wan. Before he could do anything Kenobi was handcuffed and dragged out of the cell.

    The Jedi tried to fight back but like Anakin he was out of fight. His last stand has been saving Anakin for now.

    When taken to the room in which was set up for the message Obi-wan realized he was going to die.

    This was it. Everything he had ever done lead to this moment. He realized he would never meet Anakin's children, would never fight beside the 212th again, would never sigh or smile in the council room when they got off topic. He would never feel Cody's warm touch again. Anakin would grow up without his brother to help guide him. What if the 212th ended up with someone like Krell? Some many things flooded through Obi-wan's head all at once.

    Anakin searched for Obi-wan in the force. He regretted not arguing, not fighting. All he could sense was fear.

    Obi-wan was thrown into the center of the room. He slid and didn't bother to get up. After a moment Dooku pulled him onto his knees.

    Dooku's lightsaber never ignited. Looking at the man in front of him he couldn't kill him, he just couldn't. Obi-wan was all that was left of his son. He could see it in the way he fought and the way he cared for people.

    After a moment of silence Kenobi finally got up, deciding he couldn't just accept his fate. Pulling the red saber to him he stood. Igniting it he pushed it close to Dooku's throat.

   Slowly he walked him into a corner. "Let us out" Obi-wan hissed. Dooku tried to move and Obi-wan sharply leaned forwards.

    Blaster fire could be heard in the hall now. Someone had come for them. A purple lightsaber slid through the door. That's when Dooku decided it was time to go. He force pushed Obi-wan to the ground and grabbed his lightsaber. Destroying the window he jumped.

    When Windu entered the room he ran over to Kenobi. "Where's Anakin?" Obi-wan whispered.

    "Already being taken care of. Let's get you out of here." The medic came over and got the man on a stretcher and out of Separatist territory.

    When Anakin and Obi-wan saw each other again the first thing they did was hug. "Please don't do that again!" Anakin yelled.

    "Well what was I supposed to do? Let you die? You have a wife and a child on the way." Obi-wan smiled.

    Anakin just stared at him for a second in shock, "you knew?!"

    "Of course I did."

    The younger of the two sighed, "I love you."

    "I love you too Anakin."

[pyrepostings]

I went to a Renaissance Festival yesterday and want to list some key moments, some of which could be whumpy so that's how I'm going to frame the entire list.

Starting strong, before we even got through the gates there was a guy with a t-shirt with the text "the flogging will continue until morale improves" on the back so I knew it was going to be a good day.

Actually no, the Starting starting was the car ride, which was long and early and uncomfortable. It might have been worth it if the sun wasn't rising directly behind us and therefore not easy to enjoy.

It wasn't an issue today because I just got hiking boots specifically for this but sharp rocks on the ground will hurt your feet if you're going in style instead of practicality for footwear. You would think it would take less than half a dozen renfairs to fix this issue, but you'd be wrong.

My only exposure to Chappal Roan now has been some internet discourse I view from a distance, and two separate tavern bard acts getting Hot To Go requested in a row. Also shout out to the second girl who was told "if you're going to request that you're going to have to get up here and dance" and she did it was great.

Though the first band we saw had a genuine moment. A woman we later found out was the girlfriend of one of the members requested "the coconut song" and each member of the band had a verse about different reasons coconuts were dumb or whatever, and boyfriend's verse was last and he went "coconuts are child safe (x3), which is good because my girlfriend is pregnant" with the same tune and tempo as the others, and the moment of understanding and The Most Genuine excitement from the other members of the band, oh my god.

Anyway back to the whump. Heat stroke potential. That is all.

A correctly fitted corset might not restrict breathing, but it will press otherwise flowy and breathable fabric to your skin and trap heat.

People trust faeries far too much. I may be included in that. Though I do appreciate the visual of a fenced off faerie circle in the faerie forest. There's some kind of storytelling going on there.

Parade your royal whumpees around as the procession squeaks rubber ducks at them as they all stop and bow repeatedly. Mock their former status, ruin the words "your highness" for them.

Make your whumpee travel through rough terrain with a full plastic cup of a refreshing drink. Punish them if they've spilled, or it isn't refreshingly cold anymore when you reach the destination.

That one dog we saw that didn't have a muzzle at the start of the fest but had one at the end. And my mother's immediate reaction, "Oh someone's been naughty. And it's so hot today too."

It wouldn't be a renfair without at least two visits to the Danger Comittee act. We caught the final show, which is when they expirament with tricks they don't 100% have down and so can't put in their main show yet. They were trying a whip trick where they held a pretzel stick in one hand and a whip in the other and were trying to break each other's pretzels with their whip. Which is going to be really cool when they figure it out, and really painful for Mick on days like this.

Also happy pride month to Mick "When He Laughs I Can Feel It In My Mouth" Bald Guy, and Other One

Also it turns out when you sit close enough to the stage you can actually hear the flaming knives go by which is awesome, and a detail a whumpee with flaming knives thrown at it would probably not forget.

"I was threatening to throw a machete at a child, but mentioning a real symptom of a real disease is where the line is, ok." <- Ronaldo figuring out how exaggerated violence is funny

A detail that genuinely irks me sometimes about stage performers here, is the Way they ask for applause sometimes. I feel like it's fine to go "Oh I don't get any applause for sticking my hand into the cyclone of choppy choppy?!" But then don't tell us it's too late, that you don't want our pity applause when we start cheering then?? Or during the next trick where your jugglers are throwing knives back and forth between them and we cheer you stepping in between them don't admonish us saying "this is not the trick but alright, it's good to see how low the bar is" like guy, Ron, Ronaldo, if that is your real name, stop it. And that one fandazi girl, you don't get applause for stepping to the front of the stage, you get applause for doing the fire trick. So show us the fire trick and we'll cheer for you.

On a more positive note, I have been introduced to scotch eggs and I am in love. New favorite fair food.

[whumpflash]

Ashes, Ashes 1: For the Good of Humanity

finally posting the first part! I don't have a set update schedule for this one, but I'll post when I can. This story as a whole will feature lab whump, gore, violence, a whumpee who's kind of an asshole, and whumpers who are kind of chill.

word count: 2,172

ingredients: monster hunting, some violence, guns

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

"It's your first time, so I don't want you to run into the fray, but if one of them rushes you, go for the heart."

Nyra sat on the sofa, chin resting on her hand, and watched as her sister flipped through the vampire chapter of the family hunting guide. It was short, considering how many firsthand accounts and scientific analyses there were on vamps these days, but you didn't need many details for a hunt.

"Here." Faiza shoved the binder into her lap. "A list of their weaknesses. Memorize it."

Nyra gave the page a once-over, then closed the book with a snap. "I already know them all."

"List them then," her sister said, not even glancing back.

"Sunlight, silver, belladonna…" she let herself trail off.

"And? I thought you knew them all."

Nyra rolled her eyes. "I do, but the rest aren't that important."

"Anything can become important in the heat of the moment." Faiza flipped the book back open. "Read it," she said, then left the room.

Nyra blew a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. Happy birthday to me, she thought.

Not like she was surprised. Her family's lives practically revolved around hunting. Faiza acted like it was some kind of higher calling. But all it really meant was an endless chase. Forever trying to save the world from things that went bump in the night.

To make matters worse, both of Nyra's older sisters were good at it. Faiza was quick, strong, and probably starred in the scary bedtime stories monsters told their children. Eimaan, on the other hand, favored underhand tactics. Picking out weaknesses and crafting new methods.

And it was good that they were good, it was. It made her feel safe. It made her worry less if they were gone for hours, or even days. But it was a lot to live up to. Her mother had been a born hunter too, and her grandmother before. It was in her blood. The Khanh family had been dedicated to the slow war on the supernatural for centuries, a war Nyra wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be a part of.

But now that she was eighteen, it wasn't something she could hide from any longer.

She flipped idly from page to page, collections of drawings and facts and weaknesses that had been collected through generations of Khanhs and bound into one field guide by the girls' grandmother. Some of the monsters within the guide didn't even exist anymore. Some were so rare that Nyra could only hope to encounter one. But hoping to run into a deadly creature wasn't exactly acceptable. Especially considering they usually didn't get notified until the beast in question had already made a few kills.

"Alright, you ready?" Faiza leaned out from the doorway, sunglasses sitting on her head. "We definitely want this to be over before sunset."

"Yeah, I'm good to go." Nyra tucked the book under her arm and followed her sister to the beat up car outside.

With the money they made off of some of the bigger jobs, they could probably afford something nicer, but Faiza insisted that a nice car would only get damaged in a fight. Better to have something replaceable that you didn't feel bad about hitting a wererat or two with.

"Keep your guard up tonight," Faiza said as Nyra buckled up. "Word is, there's a dragon hiding out in town."

"A dragon?" Nyra glanced at the guide out of habit, but it was no use. She already knew everything that had been documented there, which wasn't a lot. Dragons had a tendency to avoid people. And when they did make themselves known, they hit hard and fast and deadly. Even if some lucky duck managed to kill one, they were nearly impossible to study, since they burned to ash within minutes of death. Dragon Covens were known to infiltrate kingdoms while polymorphed, sowing discontent and overthrowing rulers.

But the lone dragons were considered the most dangerous. They usually had nothing to lose.

The ride to the vamps' alleged hideout was a quiet one. Faiza usually got too focused to do much talking when it came to this sort of thing, and Nyra was too nervous to even want to ask questions. Though she certainly had plenty.

How many vampires did her sister suspect? Had Faiza ever had a close call with vamps? A situation she thought would be the end of it all? Did they have enough silver bullets?

Will I have to be the one to pull the trigger?

She shook off that last one. It was her first time, she was only here as backup, and to get an idea of how the typical hunt went. Sure, she might have to fend off a vampire or two, but that would be a last resort. She ignored the fact that there would always be more hunts. And someday, she would be expected to help.

As they came to a stop in front of an old warehouse, her heart rate picked up, her mind racing through everything that could go wrong–

"Hey," her sister said. "Don't freak out on me."

Nyra nodded, and Faiza gave her a small smile.

"It's a small den from what I've heard. It'll be quick, don't worry. Here. Remember what I said about aiming for the heart, but the head will work just as well." She put a pistol into Nyra's hands, and she gripped it tightly to try and hide the way they shook.

It wasn't the gun she was scared of; all three Khanh girls were well-versed in marksmanship. But she'd always been firing at paper targets, never something that was… was–

"Nyra."

She met her sister's eyes.

"I know this is… different. But you have to remember why we do this."

Nyra swallowed, holstering the weapon. "I… I know, it's to help people–"

"It's to protect people. It's to save people." She inclined her head toward the warehouse. "The only reason we got the call is because these guys attacked a college student last night. He's in the ICU now." She put a hand on her shoulder. "We want to prevent that, right?"

"Right." Nyra managed to nod, and her sister opened the car door, grabbing a few weapons of her own.

"Good. Now, I'm gonna go in there and hunt some vamps. All I want you to do is find some cover out here and watch the door. If you see any other vamps coming, let me know."

"And… what if you're in trouble?" Nyra asked.

"Then you run inside, guns blazing." A grin flashed across Faiza's face. "But I won't be. Don't worry."

"Okay." Nyra took a deep breath, opening the car door. "Okay. Let's do this."

Aside from the gun at her hip, it was relatively easy for Nyra to convince herself she wasn't on a monster hunting mission. As soon as Faiza disappeared into the warehouse, Nyra had backed off until she was hidden in some overgrown bushes that lined the cracked pavement. From here, it was quiet. Calm. She could listen to the birds and watch the door and just think until Faiza–

Snap!

Nyra's head whipped to her right, where the cracking sound had come from.

Probably nothing, right? Probably–

Snap!

Nyra clenched her fists, heart racing, as she willed whatever it was to go away, willed it to please, please not be a vampire. She drew her pistol carefully, and began edging her way back towards the lot, away from the noise.

But the noise kept coming. Toward her.

She could see a tall silhouette now, making its way through the hedge. As she looked at it, she swore whoever it was was looking right back at her.

"I see you! D-don't try anything! I have a gun!" She inhaled sharply. Stupid, stupid, get yourself together! "Come out into the open!"

After a second or two, a man in a black leather jacket stepped into the lot. Nyra levelled the weapon at him, taking a step closer. He was pale, with cherry-red hair that hung in his face just so, like he'd taken a long time styling it. His golden eyes were dangerously close to those of a vampire.

"This gun is loaded with silver. Don't. Move," she said. Faiza had said to warn her, but what was she supposed to do? Shout? 

"Who do you think you are, the vampire police?"

Nyra didn't answer. He grinned at her, a sharp, cocky expression that bared his fangs. But they looked somehow…different from a vampire's. —Not to mention he was standing in broad daylight without any visible protection…

Not a vampire, so what are you?

Nyra adjusted her grip on the pistol, circling the man.

"Do you actually know how to use that thing?" he quipped, crossing his arms.

"Wanna find out?" she shot back, trying to sound confident. He probably wasn't a witch... Maybe a fae? No, they had no reason to come to this little town, and she'd never heard of a fae having fangs like these.

He smirked, but didn't move. "Shoot me then."

It was possible he was a devil, but Nyra didn't think she'd ever seen a picture of a devil that looked so human. He couldn't be a were-anything if he wasn't afraid of the silver, so unless he was really good at bluffing, what…

Realization dawned on her as she remembered her sister's earlier warning.

"You… you're a dragon, aren't you?"

"Someone pays attention to her bedtime stories." He cocked his head. "Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna forget you saw me, and I'm gonna walk out of here."

"Why would I let you do that?"

"If you don't, I'll shift into my true form and burn your cute little town to the ground." He said it so casually, a smile still on his face. Nyra didn't move, squeezing the handguard of her weapon.

"Well? You gonna step aside?"

Nyra shot him in the chest.

The gunshot brought Faiza running out of the warehouse. She looked down at the man, then up at her little sister.

"Nyra— what did you just do?" she shouted, a mixture of anger and fear. "Vamps are all inside, dead. Did you just–"

"He… he's not human," Nyra managed to get out. She realized she was still pointing her pistol at the fallen man, and quickly holstered it, moving towards him with halting steps.

"Nyra, you can't just–"

"Look." Nyra was pulling up his shirt. The wound was already starting to close. "Look at this… he, I think he's a dragon?"

Looking up, she saw her sister's face was ashen.

"A dragon? You just shot a dragon? What do you think is going to happen when he heals? He's not just going to let bygones be bygones, Nyra–"

"I panicked! I'm sorry! He said he'd burn down the town— oh stars, do you think he'll–?" she felt tears prick at her eyes, panic building in her chest.

"No…" Faiza said, then again, softer, "No, Nyra, don't freak out, we can… we can…" she trailed off.

Nyra clasped her hands together. The dragon was still unconscious, but how long would that last? And what would happen to them if he transformed? Could they just try and kill him now?

No, no of course not. No one really knew what it took to kill a dragon. Those who had succeeded in the past had only been lucky. And besides…

She glanced over his face, contorted in a grimace even now.

She didn't think she could pull the trigger even if she knew where to shoot. Dragon or no, a living, breathing person wasn't something she could just attack.

Unless I'm panicking, she thought ruefully, eyeing the gunshot wound in his chest. A twinge of remorse spoke above the fear in her stomach. She'd hurt someone. Monster or not, she'd hurt someone.

"Wh-what if we bring him back? she said, the words coming out before she could stop them.

Of course they wouldn't bring him back, Faiza would never agree to nursing a dragon back to health.

But to her surprise, a gleam came to her sister's eye at the suggestion.

"Bring him back… it's a risk, sure, but could it be worth it?" Faiza's voice lowered, dropping to the tone she often used to mutter to herself with. Nyra couldn't catch every word. Just the last part.

'For the good of humanity.'

That was good, right? Some distant, dizzy part of Nyra was dreaming of repaired relations between human and huge fire breathing reptile, brought about by a single act of kindness.

But even as the thought swept through her, she knew it wasn't the case.

It was further confirmed when her sister drew a ball of thick wire from a cargo pocket and began binding the dragon's wrists.

"Help me get him in the car," Faiza said.

"What… why are we–?"

"Like you said, we're bringing him back." Her sister smiled. "We're gonna learn about dragons."

next part

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

Seeing Green

Fandom: DC, Batman, Batfam

Word Count: 4417

TW: Whump, Pain, Memory Loss

Part 2 of Seeing Colors: Seeing Red, Seeing Green, Seeing Blue (Coming Soon)

Bonus: Seeing Red (Alt. POV)

Mustering whatever strength you have left, you manage to force out, “Thank you…..for….the life….you gave….me. I don-don’t…. regret a sec– of it……..” Your hand slips from your father’s face just as the darkness finally swallows you.

Then your world turns into a brilliant, blinding green. It’s all around you, overwhelming you. It’s too much. But suddenly the green doesn’t matter anymore as pain shoots through your chest. You curl over in agony as you feel bone fusing back together, skin stitching itself back up, and your heart falling back into normal rhythm. You try to scream but there is only a muffled sigh as bubbles explode from your mouth. You realize you are submerged in something. Struggling to the surface, your head bursts into the air above. You take heaving breaths of air into your lung, but it does little to soothe the burning that is coursing throughout your body. You can hear shouting from somewhere in front of you, but the blood pounding in your ears drowns out the words. Your flailing hand makes contact with dry land, and you hurl yourself out of the water. Adrenaline and something stronger, darker, is surging through your veins. It’s pushing you forward, urging you to fight, to get away from the pain and the panic that has overtaken your body.

You attempt to run, trying to escape the pain. But suddenly you feel hands grab you, holding you in place. The contact sends needles of pain shooting through your system and you jerk away with a snarl. But the hands soon wrap around you again, trying to keep you from leaving.

“Hey! It’s us! Just calm down!”

“It doesn’t work like that, you idiot! She doesn’t have control yet.”

“Well, what do we do?”

“Make sure she doesn’t get away. I don’t like the idea of trying to track her down.”

“Mother said we need to try to remind her who she is in order to try and bring her back.”

“Y/N, it’s us. Come on. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Tim, no!”

As one of the figures in front of you steps closer, you break free from the hands and hurl yourself at him.

The darkness swirls dangerously within you, urging you on. They did this. They are the ones causing this pain. Your hands tighten firmly around the figure’s throat, squeezing the life out of it. You can hear the other voices behind you, screaming, hands once again clawing at you from all sides, trying to make you let go. But some inhuman strength filled you and you effortlessly pushed them aside.

The figure beneath you is struggling to breathe, kicking his legs weakly beneath you. He looks at you, frantic and scared. Wait…. you’ve seen this face before…somewhere else…a friend…no, something more…

You release his throat as you stumble backward. You can hear the gasping, wheezing breaths as the figure, the boy, struggles for air. The smallest of the other three figures checks on him, while the other two slowly approach you. You hiss and bare your teeth in an animalistic fury…… but you’re not an animal…you’re a person.

You shake your head, trying to clear the green that still filters your world, but it remains as does the darkness within you. Yet….

Another voice from deep inside you starts rising up, chanting the same word like a mantra in your head. Remember. Remember. Remember. Remember.

The taller of the two men steps forward, slowly, hands raised. “Listen to me. I know it hurts, and I know you’re scared and I know it’s confusing, but it’s okay. You’re okay. We’re here for you. It’s us. Your brothers. You have to fight through this. Come back to us, Y/N. Please.”

You blink sharply trying to clear the green fog which still coats your vision. As you are finally able to place his face, you practically sob, “J-Jason?”

The man before you beams. “Hey, Sis. Glad to have you back.”

You squint at the other figures who are hesitantly approaching you. “Dick? T-Tim? Damian?” You see Tim rubbing his throat and you are horrified. “Timmy…I-” You reach out to the bruises already forming around his throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you realize what you have done.

But he just smiles brightly at you, though he still maintains some distance, “It’s all right. I’m fine.” His voice is slightly raspy but overall, he seems relatively okay. Thank God.

You glance down to see you are still in your Batsuit, except there is a huge gaping hole in the insignia directly over your heart. The suit is destroyed, but your skin underneath is clear and perfectly smooth. What happened? Where are you?

Suddenly, a white-hot dagger of pain stabs into your head and chest at the same instance. You shriek as you drop to your knees and curl into the tightest ball possible, one hand clawing desperately at your scalp as the other clutches at your heart. Memories begin flooding back: the red kryptonite, Tim slipping as he avoids Superman’s attacks, getting the Man of Steel’s attention as he flies you high into the sky, his fist driving through your chest, your father’s somber face above you, and then the world goes black once again. You’re rocking back and forth on the ground as you struggle to breathe through the unending wail that tears from your mouth. It feels as if your very soul is being ripped into a thousand pieces and there’s nothing you can do to stop the pain.

But then, you feel four pairs of arms wrap around your trembling form. Silently, your brothers hold you as you fall apart, their embrace the only thing grounding you to this world. After what seems like an eternity, the agony slowly fades to a dull throb. The tension slowly bleeds from your muscles until you are a limp puddle on the ground. Dick and Jason carefully help lift you up and lean you against Dick’s chest.

As you weakly scan the room, you manage to mutter hoarsely, “I remember…Oh God, I remember….But..what…what happened after? Where are we? How am I-” But before anyone can answer, your eyes land on the glowing green pool before you. A shudder runs through your body. “The Pit? You used- I was in-……Was I dead?” None of the boys will meet your eye and that is all the answer you need.

You begin to hyperventilate as you try to come to terms with your new reality. You had been dead. You had died. Passed from this world into the next. Gone to the big Batcave in the sky. And your brothers had used a Lazarus Pit to bring you back. You aren’t sure how to feel about that. Of course, you are grateful to be alive again, but you know the lasting side effects from using one of the Pits and you aren’t sure you are willing to live with them.

Jason seems to read all of the wide range of emotions that were flickering across your face all at one. He takes your face in his hands and makes you focus on his. “Listen, I’ve been here before. I know how painful, and scary, and confusing all of this is. But you’re going to be okay. It just takes awhile for the initial effects to wear off, then you’ll start feeling more like yourself, more normal. But we got you, Sis. We’re not going to let anything else happen to you.”

You squeeze his hand tightly. “Thanks, Jay.” You nod against Dick’s chest while you look at your brothers kneeling beside you. “Thank you all. I’m not sure how you did this or what it’ll mean for me… but thank you.”

Tim throws his arms around you, pulling you into a bone crushing hug. You can feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t tripped, if I had just kept him distracted like I was supposed to, none of this would have happened.”

You wrap your arms around his trembling frame. “Oh, Timmy, it’s not your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

“But you were just protecting me. You di-died protecting me.” A hiccupy sob causes him to stumble on his words and you hug him tighter.

“Yeah, and I almost strangled you while you were saving me. Sometimes, things just happen. Tim, listen to me. I would give my life for any of you a hundred times over and not regret it for a second. But it doesn’t matter because you brought me back. It’s over. I’m here and we’re all together like we should be.” You motion at the other boys and soon all five of you are once again in a dogpile-like hug.

Once the boys help you up and bring you onto your father’s private jet that is waiting outside, you shuffle to the small bedroom in the back. You can feel the weight of all eight of your brothers’ eyes on you, watching your every step, but you do your best to ignore the feeling. As soon as you close the door behind you, you collapse heavily against it as you think about everything that has happened. You had been dead. And now you weren’t. Yet part of you still felt….

You clutch at your chest where you could almost still feel Clark’s arm jutting out of it. You had thought that was the worst pain you could ever experience, but it was nothing compared to the pain of being resurrected. Even now, sharp daggers of memories would randomly sear through your brain, almost doubling you over with agony. You are trying to stay strong for the boys, keep them from knowing the full extent of what you are going through, but you are sure they know. At least Jason does. He has been where you are before. He knows exactly what is happening to you. You can see it in his eyes: the grief, the sorrow and the regret that he played a part in charging you with this burden. But you guess it is better than the alternative…. Wasn’t it?

You plop down on the bed and try to get some sleep. But your body has been asleep for so long already. Almost two months, according to Tim. It had taken them that long to convince Talia to help them find a Pit, to steal your body from where your father had stored it in the Batcave, to commandeer the jet without alerting your father who was so deep in grief that he refused to even speak your name. Apparently, he had denied even considering any options about bringing you back, afraid of the consequences. Part of you wonders if he was right….

Suddenly, you hear a small knock at the door. “Come in.”

Jason enters carrying a pile of clothes. “Hey, I found these in one of the storage compartments. I thought you might want to change considering….”

You glance down at your ruined Batsuit and nod. “Thanks, Jay. I appreciate it.” As you reach out to take them from him, another shot of memory returning makes you involuntarily finch.

It was a small action, but Jason notices immediately. “Is it still coming back to you? The memories?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “But they’re not as painful as before.”

Jason nods. “It’ll get less and less as time goes on. Mostly they are triggered by an event or location or person. Sometimes it might just be a single image, other times it’s a flood of memories. The first time I saw a picture of you, Bruce, and Dick once I had been brought back, I was curled up on the floor for almost an hour. It was a lot of memories to process all at once.”

You take his hand and gently squeeze it. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you then like you’re here for me now.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like you knew I had come back. But I know you would’ve been there if you could have, and that’s more than enough.” Jason eyes you cautiously. “So, real talk, just between us…. How are you really? No bullshit.”

You sigh heavily. “I-I don’t know. I’m grateful you guys risked so much to bring me back and I’m glad to have another chance at life but….”

“But what?”

“…..Do you remember when Dad took you, Dick, and me camping? It was a few months after you had become Robin and Dad thought we all deserved a break. It was the first and only time we tried it.”

“You remember that?” Jason chuckles.

“It’s one of the few things I do remember right now, actually. So, the first night there, we each opened the brand-new air mattresses and set them up. Took like five minutes. And the whole trip was great! We went swimming in the lake, Dick caught a fish, I taught you how to start a fire, we roasted marshmallows every night. After three days, it was time to leave. And it took us 45 minutes to get that first air mattress back in its box. It was still too inflated, and it was damp, and we couldn’t figure out how to fold it correctly. Finally, we got it in but part of it was still bulging out of the top of the box. So, Dad wrapped it in duct tape, then gathered the rest of the air mattresses up in one big ball and just threw them in the back of the truck.”

You sigh as you look out the window of the jet. “Jay, I feel like that first air mattress. Like someone took me out of my box but I didn’t go back in correctly. Parts of me are too inflated or damp or folded incorrectly. I’m still me, just not…. how I was originally packaged.”

Jason nods sadly. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. For the longest time, I felt wrong. Like I knew I was me, but I also felt like someone else.”

“Does that feeling ever go away? Did you ever start to feel normal again?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know. When I came back, my entire life had been thrown upside down. I was in a strange place surrounded by strange people who molded me into something I never thought I would be. That’s not going to happen to you. You’re back with your family, people who love you. We don’t expect you to be anyone other than who you are. And if that means a slightly different version of the person you were, we’re okay with that. I’m just so glad to have you back.” He slides his strong arms around you and you lean into the embrace. The familiar gesture helps ease some of the tension you have been feeling.

“There’s just so much that I don’t remember. Like I feel things, but I have no context for them. I know I love you. And Dick, and Tim, and Damian. Dad, Alfred. I feel that, I know it deep in my soul. But I just can’t…”

“Remember why?”

You nod sadly. “Yeah. At least, not fully. I have some memories like that camping trip, but I can feel there are so many more still locked away or missing.”

“It’ll come with time. Just be patient. You’ve been back for less than four hours. It’s not an instant process.”

“I know but…” You hesitate, “Real talk, no bullshit?” Jason nods so you continue, “What if….what if I don’t want to be back…?”

Jason stares at you for a long moment before letting out a long sigh. “Yeah, I get that too.”

“You…you do?”

“Sure. I remember how traumatic this part is. How everything hurts, you don’t feel right, you’re exhausted but you can’t sleep. You just want that sense of peace back from before.”

You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I know you guys took a huge risk bringing me back and I am grateful but…”

“I know….. But hey! If you try it out for a few days and still prefer to be dead, I always have my guns.”

You chuckle softly. “Thanks, Jay. I’ll keep that in mind….Can you just keep this between us? I don’t want the rest of the guys to know. But I figured you might understand.”

“Of course, your secret’s safe with me. And… it does get better. I promise.” He squeezes your hand one more time before standing. “Now, you better try to get some rest. I have no idea how Bruce is going to react to any of this.”

“Knowing him…. honestly, I have no idea either.”

Walking through the front door of the manor feels strange. Everything looks, feels the same, yet there is something different as well. Like a thick, invisible fog had permeated throughout the rooms, making it hard to breathe.

Dick throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you in close, “Welcome home, Sis.”

You can feel the storm of memories threatening to rage through your mind, but you manage to hold them back for the moment. “Thanks, Dick. It’s good to be back.” I guess.

Tim bounds over to your side. “B is probably down in the cave. He’s going to be so excited to see you!”

You catch Dick and Jason exchanging a look over your head. They’ve already made it very clear that your father was adamant about not trying to bring you back. And honestly, you didn’t blame him. You couldn’t say for certain what you would have done in this situation if it had been him or one of the boys who had died in your place, but you knew it would not have been an easy, clear-cut decision. You don’t cheat death without paying some sort of price. It was a lesson you were learning all too well at the moment.

As you all head down into the cave, you can hear the clicking of keys coming from the computer. Your heart leaps in your chest as you spy your father sitting at the Batcomputer, back to you, in full Batman attire. He must have just come back from patrol. Even his cowl is still on. You want to rush over to him, but Dick holds you back. Motioning for you to stay hidden in the shadows for now, the four boys approach your father.

“Hey B. What’s up?”

“And where have you four been?” He spins the chair around and stands, a scowl clearly visible under the mask. “I needed help on patrol and I didn’t have any backup. Someone could have at least told me you were going out of town. Instead, I had to find out when the airport security called to say that four of my wards had just taken off in my jet.”

“Listen, Bruce. We know you’re not going to be happy that we went behind your back, but there’s something we need you to see.”

“Dick, I am not in the mood to-” He stops abruptly as you step into the light. His face goes slack as he stares at your face.

You give him a hesitant smile. “Hi, Dad.”

Your father’s eyes grow wide with disbelief. But instead of rushing to you like you expect, he whirls to face the boys. “What the hell have you done?” He growls.

All four of your brothers seem just as confused as you feel. Out of every possible reaction you thought he might have, this complete ignoring of you was not one of them. Dick finally speaks up. “We-we did what we had to do to bring her back. We saved her.”

Your father just shakes his head. “I specifically told you not to do this. You know the costs and ramifications of bringing people back. Now I will ask you again, what the hell have you done?”

“Father, we-” Damian takes a step forward but is unsure what to say. “I spoke with Mother, and she agreed to help us by providing the location of one of the Pits. She has always had a soft spot for Y/N and she knew I was upset… Grandfather also reluctantly agreed, so there will be no retribution or retaliation from the League.”

“The Pit? You used…” For the first time since he saw you walk in, your father’s eyes flash to you for just a second. But then he turns back to the others. “Are you four insane? She might have killed every one of you when she came back.”

“She sure tried,” Jason says with a smirk, but immediately regrets it as your father whirls on him.

“What?”

Jason shoots you an apologetic look before mumbling, “She came out in full Pit-rage mode. But we had it under control. She only got in a few good hits before we snapped her out of it.”

All eyes shift to Tim’s neck as he hurriedly tries to cover the bruises left by your fingers, but your father spots them immediately. “See! This is exactly what I mean! What if she snaps again? You don’t understand how dangerous she could be!”

“Don’t you dare try to tell me that I don’t understand!” Jason rages forward, his face suddenly purple with anger. “I know better than anyone what the Pit can do! But it was a risk we were willing to take. Because we got her back! Yeah, the side effects suck, but we’ll deal with them. Together. If you could take your head out of your ass for one second and think about what a miracle you have just been given-”

Your father starts to cut Jason off, but you try to intervene instead.

“Dad-” You take a step towards him but he takes a step back. You try to keep the tears that are welling up in your eyes from falling. Right now, all you want in this world is a hug from your father and he can’t even stand the sight of you.

Jason sees your face and lashes out at your father once more, “What the hell is wrong with you? Your daughter comes back to life and is standing in front of you, and this is how you react? Who cares how she got here? She’s here and that’s all that matters. Bruce, I know you can be a cold-hearted bastard at times, but this is a new low even for you.”

You sigh as you look around at your family. If this keeps going, it might start an all-out war. “Listen guys, maybe it’s better if I just go for now. I can come back tomorrow and maybe get this sorted ou-AHHH!”

Excruciating levels of pain shot through your head once again but a hundred times worse than before. You hadn’t had an episode this bad since you left the Pit. You stumble backward, trying to reach the wall for support but you collapse to the ground before you can make it that far.

Memories begin to flood your brain once again. They are good, wholesome, wonderful memories but they still burn through your mind like a brand. Your eyes are wide open but all you see are the images from the past moments in the cave replaying across your vision: the time your father watched you try on your first batsuit, the time you first brought Dick down to the cave, the times you and Jason played hide-and-seek amongst the trophies from past cases, the time Tim got a concussion and the two of you stayed up all night just talking as you monitored his condition, the time Damian gave you your first hug and called you sister.

You feel the love and joy in each scene but there is just too much. Your head feels like it is splitting in two, filled to overflowing with memories. You roll to your side, curling in on yourself as your fingers tear flesh and hair from your scalp. You can dimly hear the shrieks of agony that are exploding from your lips, but you are helpless to quiet them. And just as you think you are going to pass out, you hear a familiar rustle of a cape and two black boots step into your field of vision.

It is a memory…..but also the present. You can feel familiar arms cradle you to a familiar chest. Your fingers scratch desperately at the Kevlar surrounding you, hoping to grasp anything that can help ground you, to bring the pain to a stop.

Then as a hand cups your face, you hear it, “I’m here, babybat. It’s going to be okay.” Once again, the mix of memory and the present gives you a momentary grasp on reality. You can just make out your father’s face through the flood of memories, still masked but definitely his. You slowly reach up and thumb the edge of your father’s cowl. He understands immediately and rips it from his face, tossing it aside. You smile softly as you stare at his bare face, running your thumb lightly against his jawline. He reaches up and covers your hand with his.

The pain fades to just a throb as the memories subside and the world around you becomes clearer once more. Looking up at your father, tears streaming down his face, you whisper, “I remember. I remember everything…….Thank you for the life you gave me. I don’t regret a second of it….. I didn’t get to properly tell you that last time, but I wanted to make sure you knew.”

Your father folds over you, resting his head on yours, “I’m sorry, babybat, I’m so sorry. I just… I couldn’t let myself believe…”

“I know, Dad. I understand. And it’s okay. We’re okay. Before this moment, I had known that I loved you but now I remember all the reasons why.” You wrap your arms tightly around him and he squeezes you back just as firmly.

Suddenly, you feel another pair of slender, yet muscular arms encircle you from behind. They are soon joined by a pair of beefier biceps and a set of lean limbs. Finally, your littlest brother squeezes in between you and your father. The six of you stay huddled together for what seems like an eternity, but you don’t care. You are home with your family, and you know there is nowhere else you would rather be.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Would you continue the villain nausea whumpee? To show how he is after he is removed from the chair? Do they set him free since he won’t be violent anymore ?

I loved the idea of Villain being set free, and ran with it a bit! I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for the ask!!

This is a continuation from here, and, once again, the story below is below a read-more to prevent any accidental viewing of content that could trigger emetophobia very badly. I would hate for anyone to see it as they scroll past.

However, this time, the first scene is shown, as it contains no potentially triggering content.

CW//Emetophobia, graphic description of vomit, self-hatred, medical malpractice, low self esteem, hatred of former friends, Stockholm syndrome, whumpee liking whumper, minor eye whump mention, nausea

The auditorium crackled with the feedback of a thousand microphones, shoved towards the stage, frequencies battling and screeching against one another in chaotic choir. From a mass of bodies, of cameras and clattering boom mics, the wire spheres emerged in their dozens, all pointed centrally.

All pointed at the stage, and the podium that lived upon it, glistening in freshly-polished hardwood and media attention.

Behind the platform stood a figure, as equally basking in fame, and equally as glimmering. Upon their face, perfect white teeth glowed as freshly-fallen snow, pressed together in a wide grin.

In Hero’s eyes, it was pride that shone. The pride that came with accomplishment, with recognition, with glory, with perfect hair and thousand-dollar suits and the attention of the world, all upon their face. Their words.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here.” With a greeting alone, the world tucked back in hushed quiet. “Now, we will have plenty of time for questions later, but I wanted to start off with what has surely found itself on every headline this morning.”

A pause. The expected clamor erupted from the horde of media, incoherent shouting and stomping. A rioting crowd.

“Now, now.” It was a practiced ritual, between lion and tamer. “I will be taking all of your questions at the end, but let an old guy speak a little, first.”

Laughter queued.

“Well, then. I’m sure you’ve all seen the headlines-- you guys especially, you wrote them! But, for everyone at home, yes, the rumors are true. A villain is now loose in the city.”

A practiced gasp.

“And it’s a good thing! You see, for years, now, our in-house villainous psychology research has been working on a technique that they have dubbed Reaction-Based Morality Rehabilitation. Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

The hero leaned forward, hand cupping the microphone, playful smile clear upon their face.

“They gave me this paper, and it was like, 100 pages long. And I didn’t know half the words in it.” They backed up, smile remaining. “But, trust me when I say, those guys in R&D? They’re amazing. They know exactly what they’re doing, even if I don’t.

But, I won’t leave you hanging. I do understand the just of the procedure, even if I’m not so sure on the jargon.

It’s a very simple solution to a very complicated problem. I am a firm believer in the fact that people are not born as villains. We are all born as heroes. Some of us, through unfortunate means, however, turn rotten. Through this technique, however, me and Organization believe to have found a way to separate the villain from the person inside.

By using innovative methods of therapy, our psychologists are able to help villains reject their evil ways, all the way at the center of their neurology! We have heard many concerns about the possibility of relapses, of a villain turning sides upon their release. Yet, with this technique, changing sides is not a conscious choice. It is as much a thought process as it is a carefully embedded instinct.

Of course.” They straightened momentarily. “That does not mean we are simply allowing once of those who have harmed you return to our beautiful city unsupervised. We ensure you, multiple surveillance methods have been put in place. This is only a trial run.

We at Organization wish to think each and every one for your cooperation and participating in the beta test of this revolutionary new technique. If this run receives positive results, you can all think of villainy as a thing of the past!”

From the crowd emerged a cheer. A cheer for glory, for fame, for progress!

For the destruction of a foe.

For unquestioned success. A villain defeated!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Villain’s fingers brushed over the top of the kitchen’s oak-stained counter, kicking up enough dust to suffocate, even as their tightly pursed lips protected them from such.

This was a house.

Their fatigued, half-haunted gaze turned to move over the surrounding interior. The kitchen was fully-featured, oak accented with shimmering, mottled granite. Not that anyone had bothered to clean in the place. Beyond the room and its attached dining area, a step lower, a carpeted area was positioned, furnished in felt couches and a television.

But this was not a home.

With a scratching nail to their neck, the villain moved forward numbly, to the base of the stairs and up them. Beneath their skin, the tracking chip was an awful feeling. Buried just deep beneath that it could not be seen, yet shallow to the point that its presence was unyielding and unignorable. A constant itch, embedded between twitching folds of muscle.

Maybe they could take it out. Maybe with the right kitchen utensil-

Halfway up the stairs, they dropped, keeled over themself with sickly pea soup filling in the space behind their eyes. In an instant, their mind retreated desperately from the thought, or any semblance of it, even as their stomach heaved with the residual ghost of it.

The tracking chip was fine and they didn’t care about it and they wanted it to stay there forever because it wasn’t coming out.

Legs now taking on an appearance that ever so slightly more resembled gelatin, the villain leaned upon the railing, ascending with a considerable additional difficulty up the stairs. In the very brief tour they had been given, their bedroom had been identified as the dark spruce door at the hall’s end.

Moving to it was a struggle on its own, insides still twitching and squelching with the remnants of acute nausea. Yet, their agony was only internal. They made it, and, all the way, kept their mind empty. Thoughts clear.

Not thinking of anything that could make them fall.

The bedroom was a bedroom. A dust-coated vanity. A small attached restroom. A nightstand. A bed.

At the very least, the quilts had some color to them.

Struggling in an attempt not to clutch their own stomach-- an action that they had learned, time and time again, only made the organ flip-- Villain shuffled to the piece of furniture that had been designed for use when they slept. Dust coughed from beneath the covers as they lifted them, crawling under.

Laying down helped, at least in some slight way that may or may not have been a placebo. It meant they could close their eyes. Make unwise thoughts that much less likely to happen.

For a moment, Villain succeeded in blackness. A blank mind. A world unmarred by the horrible jolts within their brain, the firings of neurons, the innate jostling of their frontal cortex.

Yet, it only lasted a moment.

With a jerk, they curled to a fetal position, legs bent and tucked beneath arms. Their body struggled as though weeping, though they had long ago learned not to cry. It was terribly difficult to produce tears, after all, when the metal drew their eyes to unbroken wakefulness.

This was a nightmare. They were certain of it.

That had been their first thought, of course, when the news of their liberation had been shared with them-- after it had been shared with the wider public. Things did not reach their cell very quickly. They had believed it to be a dream, for there was no other possible explanation.

Villains did not deserve freedom. They knew that. Violent little scumbags.

When they had been driven to the house, that was when the orinique connotations in their mind had flipped-- when dream turned to nightmare.

It was their home. Such had been stated clearly, so many times. Upon a thousand channels of media syndication. They had been given the keys, had stared at them for an agonizing moment. Watched them dangle between their fingers.

Hero had practically had to shove them through the doors, and even so, their attempts at escape ceased only after the fourth time they had been reprimanded for them.

Somewhere, something mechanical twitched. Moved. Buzzed. One of the cameras. They knew they were here, obvious, blocky, black eyes. At the very least, they provided some semblance of comfort.

Of home.

Of safety.

Oh, how desperately Villain wanted to go home. Everything had made so much sense there! Was so fantastically, wonderfully simple! If they were placed in their cell, they stayed in their cell. If offered food, they ate. When seated in their chair, they watched.

It was so easy. So invariable. Strict and stringently controlled, as the life of any vile beast who called themself a villain should be. Not a chance they could make a mistake, that they could do anything wrong. Only the slightest opportunities for their mind to slip, their thoughts to wander, to go somewhere bad.

Somewhere that would send them to their hands and knees, heaving and retching.

Food came often, with how difficult it was to keep it down. They’d counted once. Certainly the chefs must have become tired after preparing thirteens meals in a single day. Yet, in the end, they had only managed to fully digest one.

Especially since that was only the day on which they had counted-- it certainly wasn’t notable.

Now, there were no chefs. No cells. No chairs. No screens to watch. Order was gone, and chaos reigned.

Terrible, bloody chaos.

The house was far too large. So many times, Villain had begged for a schedule. For orders. For what they were meant to do-- when to get up, when to go to sleep, what to do inbetween.

Yet, the answers always came the same: A shrug, and four terrible words. “Whatever you want to.”

That which they wanted was not that which should be carried out! They were a villain! A terrible, retched thing! A monster! A devil! Their thoughts deserved no attention, their wants deserved only the click of the IV.

The sickness.

Somehow, despite the inherent maleficence that it most certainly carried with it, an idea manged to work its way through the folds of their brain. A thought. A plan.

A good one. One that did not incite their stomach to heaving.

Certainly, if they laid here, in this bed, then their freedom could not lead to the harm of anyone else. The world would remain safe, regardless of their liberty. And, when the cameras at last noticed, the heroes would be forced to return. To bring them back to the cell and the chair. To return them to where they belonged.

It was perfect-- though that wasn’t to say that anything they created could possibly be good.

Thus, they put the plan into action. Beneath the chains that were covers, upon the chair that was a bed, Villain waited.

Their plan worked for perhaps an hour.

An hour. Then the door was kicked in. This time, that which seized their chest had nothing to do with nausea, nothing to do with conditioning. Everything to do with terror.

Even their wildest dreams, their most optimistic ambitions, did not expect that the heroes would have come so soon. If they had, they would have knocked.

They curled tighter into their fetal position, fingers gripping skin until both turned white. Desperation and willpower, even together, could not stop their mind from tracking the noises as they moved through the house. Through the kitchen. The living room. Up the stairs. To the hallway outside.

Certainly, they would have noticed the lack of dust on the bedroom’s doorknob.

Perhaps it was a member of the public, come to take their righteous revenge. Such would certainly be deserved. Or, perhaps, a wayward hero, disliking the arrangement that had been made. Having decided to take the matter to their own hands. They deserved that, as well.

But, when the voice came, Villain knew that their hopes were as far as could be from the truth.

“Villain?”

Blank mind. Don’t think. Blank mind. Don’t think. Blank mind don’t think.

Beneath the blanket, they twitched.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Footsteps dashed to the bedside. Hands upon them. There was such a wholehearted relief to the voice, an unimaginable burden relieved.

Yet, such was impossible, as villains did not have hearts.

“We were so worried, so, so worried. You have no idea! Come on, come on.”

A hand, to the top of the blanket.

“There’s about a thousand cameras in here, buddy, so we need to get going. Everyone at base has been so nervous, all day. Ever since we heard... My car’s just outside, we need to go, quick.”

Villain’s only solace was torn away.

“Buddy? What’s wrong?” The voice was practically a whisper. “It’s me. It’s-

Supervillain.”

A blank mind, filled with thoughts.

The initial strike of nausea was enough to make them wail, even as they had no ability to. They hardly remembered getting to their hands and knees, hardly remembered as they began to heave. No. They registered only the horrid, green-and-brown mess that exploded upon the pale white bedspread.

Again, again, a thousand exhausting times, the heaving struck them, until chunky vomit was spilling off the side of the bed, ruining the antique carpeting. It only ceased to spill when their insides were well and truly empty.

That was when they were picked up.

It was a caring, warm hold, tucking them close to the chest of a vile demon. Yet, they had not the slightest ounce of energy to resist. Any muscles not exhausted by fatigue went back to work, heaving and coughing, even as nothing more emerged.

“I’m sorry.” With a broken voice, Supervillain spoke. “I’m so, so sorry. Let’s go back to base, okay? Everything’s going to be okay, I promise, I promise, buddy.”

No.

With evil like this in the world, nothing was even going to be okay again.

[aimeelouart]

Repurposing a bit of server freewriting for part 2 of purring!Cloud (Saving Subject C AU). Lil’ bit of whump, lil’ bit of hurt/comfort, and lovely fluffy cuddles

Also doubles as a preview if we end up going in a certain direction, but tbh I doubt it. Either way, spoiler free.

--

Cloud held pressure across his stomach, grimacing as the pain came and went in throbbing waves. He’d already pulled the shrapnel out so his body wouldn’t seal around it. Now it was just a matter of staying still and keeping pressure on until it closed enough for him to safely move.

His chest was doing the fucking thing (he refused to put a name to it) but he couldn’t make it stop, which didn’t make any sense. Didn’t cats only...do the thing when they were happy? Why was it happening to him now? 

Fuck, at least the SOLDIERs weren’t around to hear it.

“Cloud!”

The call was still fairly distant. Cloud loosed an involuntary, irritated grunt at the sound. Shit, they were persistent. Maybe that wasn’t surprising. He had run off and destroyed Shinra property at the first available opportunity. With any luck, his hiding space would work until the hole in his side closed and he could make a proper escape. It didn’t have to be long. Just...long enough.

Gaia, he was starting to feel lightheaded. He cracked an eye open and checked the size of the blood puddle spreading from his side. It was much wider than he’d hoped. He might be in more trouble than he thought.

“There you are.”

Cloud breathed out a heartfelt “fuck” as Sephiroth’s voice reached him. Grimacing, he tilted his head enough to see the silver-haired demon kneeling and peering into the dark space beneath the broken lift Cloud was using for cover. He snarled at the man, but it was half-hearted at best. Even if he somehow found the strength to take up his commandeered knives again, he was too weak to run, never mind fight.

He’d miscalculated, and how he was going to pay for it.

But…

But.

Sephiroth didn’t sound angry when he dropped down onto his stomach and slid as far into the narrow space as he could. “Cloud, where are you hurt?” He sounded…concerned, alarmed, maybe even a little bit…afraid? “Cloud?”

“Fuck off,” Cloud slurred, confused. His sight was starting to gray a little bit around the edges. A real pang of concern shot through him. Had he missed an exit wound?

Sephiroth snorted a little, disbelieving. “Even when you are bleeding out, you still…” He reached, but even his long arm wasn’t quite enough to snag Cloud’s shirt. “Cloud, can you move toward me? Just a little bit.”

He hunkered down into himself, trying to apply more pressure. The pain was fading, and he still couldn’t make the stupid rumbling stop. “No.”

“I can’t help you unless you move a little bit, Cloud.”

“Fuck off,” he repeated, eyes starting to slide shut.

Another voice. “Seph?”

“He’s here. I can’t reach him.”

Cloud’s eyes shut all the way.

“Let me try. Here, Angeal, take my coat for a second.”

The voices were starting to sound like they were coming from underwater. Cloud felt, distantly, that this was definitely the point at which he should have been outright alarmed. He’d missed something. Probably an exit wound on his back, based on the blood loss. He’d be fine, even if they left him where he was, but they weren’t going to do that. He wished he had the strength to grab one of his knives.

“Cloud, sweetheart, can you say something?”

He found the will to say “fuck off” a third time. It sounded like “f’k ov.”

Genesis—that was Genesis—snorted. “Okay. Okay, I’ve…” Fingers snagged the edge of his sleeve. “…got you! I’ve got you, come on.” He pulled, sliding Cloud across the blood-slicked ground until he could grab an arm, and then Cloud was dragged from the safety of his hiding space and out into the light. Alarms were still going off in the distance. He smirked weakly.

“Shit, kiddo,” someone breathed as he was rolled onto his back. He couldn’t quite find the strength to keep his hand over the wound and it fell limply to the ground. “Did you⁠—is this a shrapnel wound? Cloud, did you pull it out?”

Duh, he thought, unable to articulate his disdain.

“Later, Genesis,” someone else said. Large, strong hands provided the compression Cloud wasn’t able to any more.

“I need to see his back. Get the shirt off.”

His shirt was cut off as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was shifted, then propped up across someone as two more hands pressed down on either side of his torso. Magic flooded his body, sealing the path carved through his flesh. The gray retreated a little as another flood of magical energy compensated for his blood loss until his body could make up the difference. 

And, finally, the stupid purring stopped. He really, really hated that it seemed to be involuntary.

Cloud was shifted again, wrapped up in something primarily leather and then picked up like a swaddled infant. Fucking rude, he thought, struggling to drag his leaden eyelids up. A vaguely silver blur hovered above his face. He tried to object, but what came out of his mouth was closer to a grumpy kitten growl than articulated displeasure.

“Hush,” someone said. It might have been the silver blur. A water bottle was pressed against his lips and since he wasn’t completely self destructive, he drank.

“Little idiot. What was your plan, hmm? To bleed out under there?”

That was probably Genesis. Out of pure spite, Cloud managed to spit out a “yeah” in response.

A frustrated noise. A tired sigh. A rumbling, half-stifled laugh against his ear.

“Stop antagonizing him,” someone said. A hand passed over his face, brushing his staggering eyelids down. Tired, he let them stay closed. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about appropriate responses to severe bodily harm later.”

And Cloud was...increasingly confused. It was hard to think, drained and cold and barely hanging on to consciousness, but none of this was what should have been happening. They were threatening...scoldings? No one was angry. He’d destroyed a massive amount of Shinra property, practically spat in their faces, and somehow no one was angry.

He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill.

--

Cloud’s little stunt had scared the hell out of them. It wasn’t that they didn’t care that he’d demolished Shinra property and made their job fending off the Turks much, much more difficult—they did—but when they’d started searching, they really had thought it would be a tiny, lifeless body they found. Any anger and frustration they might have felt paled in comparison to the sheer relief of finding him alive.

Sephiroth was the one watching him (hiding him, more or less), while Genesis and Angeal dealt with getting all of them back to the Tower in one piece. It wasn’t going to be easy, but Cloud was so little and this event just reinforced the fact that only SOLDIERs had any hope of containing him. Hopefully that would bolster their argument rather than encourage Science to get involved, because...well, forget what he and Genesis and Angeal would do to save the kid, Cloud himself would rip the whole department to shreds using only his teeth if they even tried to take him.

On some distant level, Sephiroth wondered how Cloud had managed to ensnare the three of them (and more SOLDIERs besides) so quickly. Or at all. Sephiroth wasn’t supposed to have a heart. He was supposed to be the pure paragon of SOLDIER, a soulless weapon forged only to mete out death. But here he was, holding a child safe in his arms and feeling his breath stutter every time he wondered what it would have been like to find a cold, unmoving body beneath that broken equipment.

Cloud was asleep, face milk-pale where it rested against the dark leather of his coat. He had proper blankets now, and Sephiroth’s own body heat besides. Angeal had been very clear about that—Cloud was not to be without a heat source until he was no longer anemic.

Not that Sephiroth would have willingly put him down. He found himself oddly agitated at the thought of not being able to feel the boy’s heartbeat beneath his palm. And, more than that...he felt unwilling to give up the strange, powerful contentment he felt just having Cloud safe in his arms.

“Seph?”

He startled a little, moving his eyes from Cloud’s face to find Genesis standing with one hand on the door frame, watching them with an unreadable expression. “...yes?” Sephiroth responded when Genesis didn’t continue. He realized that he had been shifting back and forth from foot to foot without noticing. When had that started?

“...you’re purring.”

What? He stopped—he stopped breathing entirely, actually. They’d told him about Cloud’s near-violent reaction to his own purring weeks before, but only now did he really understand. Because humans weren’t meant to be able to do that.

“Hey,” Genesis said quickly, crossing over to touch his arm, “stop. I know what you’re thinking.” His eyes were unusually gentle, maybe because he was riding the same relieved high Sephiroth was. “But...aren’t you glad Cloud isn’t alone?”

Aren’t you glad you’re not alone?

And he...was. He really was, once the thought was put to words. Cloud had been frightened by his own body and abilities, but he didn’t need to be anymore. Not when Sephiroth was with him. Neither of them were alone.

The rumbling started back up. He thoughtlessly leaned his head down and pressed his cheek to Cloud’s damp, unruly hair. The boy smelled like mako and blood and explosives. Sephiroth didn’t mind at all.

Genesis huffed a laugh, but it choked a little, and Sephiroth cracked an eye open inquisitively. “You’ve...you’ve never been injured enough or happy enough to do this before, have you?” he asked.

Oh. Was that it? He thought it might have been in response to Cloud, somehow, but...he really hadn’t ever felt such powerful relief and contentment until today, had he? Objectively, that was probably sad—that’s what Genesis’s expression was telling him. He didn’t much care though. There were more important things to think about.

So he just hummed noncommittally and gathered Cloud a little closer, shutting his eyes again. When Genesis huffed a second laugh, it was much lighter.

“So,” Genesis said, nudging him, “when is it my turn to play space heater?”

Sephiroth growled.

[actress4him]

The Barn 2 - Auction

(Prompt #28 for Summer of Whump)

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Warnings: restraints, captivity, dehumanisation, shock collar, asphyxiation, human auction

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It was another day and a half before Jacob started to find out why he was there. During that whole time, he stayed hogtied in the stall, only being acknowledged when one of the goons came in to pour some water down his throat. The first time that happened he made the mistake of choking on it, and the sound set the stupid bark collar off again. The goon had just laughed at him.

On day two, when he was thoroughly bruised all over and aching from the cramped position, something started happening out in the barn. More and more voices filled the airy space, male mostly, but with a feminine laugh breaking through here and there. Jacob had no idea what was happening, but his heart rate sped up, regardless.

Then faces began appearing through the bars that lined the top of his stall. New faces, not any of the goons from before. Some glanced in briefly and moved on. Some stared openly, making notes on their phones. Others peered in curiously, smiling at him, leaning their heads in towards each other and exchanging secretive words.

He felt strangely like an animal in a zoo.

Part of him wanted to cower back into the corner, try his best to hide from the stares. But his pride wouldn’t let him. So instead he bared his teeth like the animal they seemed to think he was, trying to look as menacing as a mute, tied-up, sleep- and food-deprived, skinny blond guy possibly could.

He wondered if that was part of the reason some of them laughed.

The staring didn’t last long, thankfully. The faces stopped appearing, and the voices faded, though not completely. They sounded like they were standing outside of the barn, rather than in it. Somewhere close to him, a latch grated open, and there was a shuffling sound in the hay as a semi-familiar voice - Fancy Suit Man - rose above the rest, as if addressing the crowd.

For a long time nothing else really happened. Another voice spoke for periods of time, and every once in a while footsteps would enter the barn, and another latch would open. From the sound of it, they were opening each stall, drawing closer and closer to his each time.

Were there others trapped in here, like him? More importantly, what were they doing with them now? What were they about to do to him?

Eventually it was time to find out. Footsteps approached again, and this time the same man who’d laughed at him getting shocked the day before appeared at the stall door. Jacob glared at him as if that would change his situation at all.

The door swung open, and the goon quickly got to work untying the rope that connected Jacob’s wrists to his ankles. His heart was pounding for sure now. Maybe if he kicked out at the man’s face...maybe if he could get the stupid collar off…

He didn’t actually have any sort of plan by the time the rope came off. He tried kicking anyway, regardless of the fact that his ankles were still bound and he wouldn’t have been able to run anywhere, but the goon seemed to anticipate this, ducking calmly and catching Jacob’s leg in one, beefy hand.

“I’d break your ankle for that if it wouldn’t get me in trouble for damaging the merchandise.”

Merchandise?

There was no time to figure the statement out. Fingers were sliding down the back of his neck, in between the collar and his skin, and it was too much, too tight, the metal prongs dug holes into his throat while the black box they were attached to pressed up against his Adam's apple. He tried to gasp, but nothing came through. Instinctively he brought his bound hands up to the collar, groping at it, trying to pry it forward and give himself some air, but it was no use. There was no more give.

Through the fog of panic, he distantly registered that he was being dragged. Backwards, out of the stall, by the collar.

Black spots started dancing in his vision.

Just when he thought he’d surely pass out, he was thrown sideways onto gravel. He immediately sucked in a lungful of both air and dust, and began hacking until he thought a lung might spill out onto the ground any second.

He was still gasping and choking when a pair of hands grabbed onto the rope tying his wrists and yanked them up over his head, hooking something to it that pulled at the rope, scraping it across his already chafed skin. A second later, and he was jerked backwards.

And up. And up.

When the dizzying motion stopped and he was breathing somewhat normally again, he found himself looking out on the entirety of the crowd that had come by his stall earlier. They were all gathered around, watching, staring at him once again. And it was no wonder, because he was on full display now. It seemed they had hooked him up to the pulley on the front of the barn, the one normally used for hauling hay bales up to the loft. Now it was being used to keep him upright, toes just barely brushing the ground.

“Alright, folks, this is our last lot. Last chance to own one of these fine specimens for yourself, because I’m sad to say that after today I must move on to greener pastures.” Fancy Suit Man was standing somewhere to Jacob’s left, though he couldn’t crane his neck quite far enough to see.

“Now, I know a lot of you like to come to these events to find you a good laborer, but this particular lot I’d have to recommend for any of you who might be looking for...other purposes.” He finally appeared in Jacob’s periphery, gesturing to his body. “That’s not to say that he couldn’t be a good worker, eventually. He’s just gonna need a little...training. The shock collar you see him modeling might give you a good idea of what I mean.” He chuckled. “That’s not included, by the way. You’ll need to find your own creative method of shutting him up.”

Labor...other purposes…training? He didn’t know what any of it meant, and he didn’t want to. He just wanted to go home. He wanted his apartment, his bed, his leftover pizza, his cat Molly. He wanted to call his mom and tell her what had happened to him and let her lecture him one more time about the dangers of living alone.

He didn’t want to be here anymore.

“Alright, let’s start the bidding at $2,000.” The second voice he had heard before started up, quickly dropping into a drone of words and numbers that Jacob couldn’t keep up with. A white sign was raised, and the number changed. For a moment he couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t let himself wrap his brain around what was happening.

But there was no denying it, not really. He was being auctioned off.

A man in a trucker hat - not the goon, but another of several audience members wearing the style - was bidding rather fervently, egged on by the short, frumpy woman who hugged his arm. A few others joined in here and there, but after a while it came down to just that couple and one other man. He wore a hat, also, a Stetson that was pulled down far enough it left his eyes in shadow. There was never a twitch or flicker of emotion on his face, just a steady raising and lowering of the number twenty-eight sign in his hand.

Eventually, the man in the trucker hat gave up, much to his wife’s disappointment.

“And...sold! to Number Twenty-eight.”

Fancy Suit Man started blabbing on about his appreciation for the turnout, but Jacob was too busy being dropped to the ground and wrested off the hook to pay attention. The man in the Stetson approached, looming in the background while a couple of goons held him down. One started attempting to pull his wrists and ankles back together, despite the fight Jacob was putting up, while the other unhooked the blasted collar.

As soon as it was gone he shouted as loudly as he could, which wasn’t nearly as loud as he’d have liked, seeing as how his throat was practically mutilated. “Get off me! Get your stupid, filthy hands off me! I don’t belong to anybody, you can’t just sell me! I’m a human being, and you are all just sick, demented -”

The one who had taken off the collar joined the second and they were able to get him hogtied once more. They stepped back then, leaving him writhing in the dirt while Stetson looked on.

“Well, the boss did warn you. He’s a feisty one.”

Stetson’s stoic facade still didn’t crack. “I’ll take it from here.”

The goons stepped back. In one, fluid motion, Stetson reached down, grabbed hold of the shorter piece of rope, lifted Jacob off the ground, and slung him around his shoulder so that he hung against the man’s back like a sack of potatoes. He cried out in surprise and at the smarting pain in his wrists, glad he could do so now without getting the tar shocked out of him.

He continued to fight as he was carried away from the barn, bouncing, hoping he could make the man drop him despite knowing the fall would hurt. Nothing seemed to faze Stetson, though. They stopped after a minute, and the jangle of keys and creak of a tailgate being opened was heard. Then he was being tossed down onto a grooved truck bed and shoved deeper inside. Before he could get his bearings and try to scoot anywhere, the tailgate slammed shut, and a cover came down over the bed.

He was left in complete darkness, wondering where on earth he was being taken next.