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nimble-stuff · 2 years

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1. Go Through Me || Raph Raph’s protective streak comes out.

FANDOM: ROTTMNT

@badthingshappenbingo

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Raph couldn’t remember which of them had gone down first.

It could’ve been Leo, because he was the most prone to getting hurt, because he leapt right the fray when things got dicey, because the invasion was over and he still felt like he had something to prove.

It could’ve been Donnie, because Donnie hyperfixated on one element of a battle instead of the whole thing, and when he did, he would lose sight of projectiles or attacks thrown in his direction, overconfident in his tech until the moment it failed.

It could’ve been Mikey, because, yes, he was hard to hit, but when he was, the results were always bad and he went down the fastest.

Or maybe it had been Raph. Maybe it was him, because there was a black spot where a memory should be, and he was sure he was missing some time, and when he woke up, things had gone to hell.

Raph was trying not to blame himself; he could do that later, lying in bed and staring at his bedroom ceiling while his brothers slept soundly in their own beds. Right now, it was about survival. With the Krang invasion had come a new onslaught of enemies with bigger, more mystical, more dangerous power sets. This one in particular could clone himself, and if he had a limit, Donnie hadn’t been able to determine it before his tech-gauntlet had shattered with a well-timed attack.

Raphn didn’t look back at their pursuers, barreling down confusing tunnels and corridors until they were at a sudden dead end, his three brothers held under his arms. They were in the guy’s underground hive which he populated with clones of himself—a narcissist’s dream, in another context. The tunnels were only just wide and tall enough to accommodate Raph when he hunched over a little, and they’d gotten lost fast. Raph had hoped to drop his brothers off in a more secure place before doubling back to deal with the clones, but a dead end squashed that plan in its path.

“Great, this is just great,” Raph said. He dropped his brothers in a pile. Leo was unconscious, and Donnie barely so, covered in cuts and bruises. Only Mikey was fully alert, his eyes bright and white in the dim.

“Raph?” Mikey said.

“Get Leo up, we need him to portal us out of here,” said Raph.

“Dude, what’re you doing? There’s too many of him to fight.”

“Don’t worry, Raph’s got this. Focus on getting Leo up.”

Leo certainly didn’t look anywhere near getting up, but Mikey was shaking him anyway when Raph turned and marched to the tunnel entrance.

The clone guy was an ant. There was irony somewhere in there about him forming his own colony, but puns were Leo’s thing. Raph scrambled into the tunnel’s entrance and wedged his body into it, blocking the way forward for the swarming insects crawling all over the walls, floors, and ceilings.

“One little turtle, two little turtles,” said one clone.

“Three little turtles,” said another.

“Four.” Another.

“Ready to play nice?”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” said Raph. “There’s only one of me, and…uh…let’s see…” He counted the surrounding clones. “About twenty-six…ish…of you! That’s not really a fair fight for you guys, is it?”

“Funny.”

“So funny,” said a clone.

“Tell you what, let us rough up those other three little turtles.”

“And I’ll let you go.”

“Nuh huh,” Raph sneered. “Not happening.”

“I know there’s no way out.”

“Give us the others. You can go free.”

“I’m not moving,” said Raph. “You’ll have to go through me if you want my brothers.”

He didn’t like the look the clones exchanged. It was hard to discern the expression in their inky black eyes, but the sneers were telling enough, and the jaws looked powerful.

Raph was short one sai, but he swiped the one he had at the first clone who got too close. Then they were all swarming and it was hell.

Raph sank his ankles deep into the sodden earth, jaws sinking deep into the fleshy mass of his arm, scratching against his plastron. He really should’ve just tried to wedge his shell in the tunnel entrance, but it was too late to move, and even he did, the clones would flood in and his brothers would pay for it. The tunnel was tight, and there was no way for the ant guy clones to squirm in around Raph’s solid body, so he used his full weight to press back, enduring the slashes and strikes from the bugs’ clawed hands.

“Raph!” Mikey yelled from behind him.

“I’m fine!” Raph shouted. “Get Leo up!”

“Leo, c’mon, wake up,” Mikey pled.

Raph didn’t see the attack come from his right side as one ant sunk its jaws right into his head and crushed. He cried out. Red swathed over his vision, his legs wanted to give out, the pained pressure was so intense that he thought his head had exploded all over the tunnel wall. The ant’s mandibles pinched hard. He and his clones were pressing harder and harder against Raph, shoving him in.

He would not move. He would do this, he would hold his ground, his brothers’ lives depended on it. He’d collapse this whole damn tunnel if he had to.

“You’re not getting in!” Raph screamed at the ant guy. He jabbed his sai into the forehead of the nearest clone. It bled green fluid and collapsed to the ground, but it was one of many, and they were all shoving against Raph’s indomitable strength.

He used his teeth when he couldn’t maneuver his sai any more. Once, Raph had eaten a bug on a dare when he was a kid, but the taste was significantly worse than he remembered. The clone’s carapace crunched under his teeth and it let out an inhuman screech.

Raph was breathless from exertion and losing blood. He felt light-headed and he couldn’t tell if it was from the ant trying to pinch through his head or the full force of the solid wall of ants shoving against him. At this rate, he’d crush his brothers. He couldn’t seem to hold his ground. Raph couldn’t believe that after all they’d been through, this was how it was going to end: in a damn insect hive against an enemy he should’ve been able to protect his brothers from.

The ground beneath his feet disappeared.

For a split second, he thought the tunnel floor had given away and they were collapsing into the earth below. He fell back with two ants on top of him, but the ground felt too solid to be earth; it was just New York pavement, grimy but solid, and they were no longer underground.

Raph couldn’t tell who was more surprised: him or the ants. He arched his head just enough to see a barely conscious Leo being held by Donnie, the last remnants of the portal above their heads vanishing in a swirl of blue light. Leo blinked slowly at Raph, then fell back.

Mikey made short work of the two ants that had gone through the portal with them. All in all, they were lucky it hadn’t been the whole damn hive, but Leo was precise with his portals, somehow only brought the two of top of Raph with them, and their insect brains splattered against the wall as Mikey slammed his nunchucks into them.

“Holy shit, Raph!” Mikey exclaimed.

“Watch your language,” Raph chastised him.

“Your brain looks like it’s leaking out,” Donnie said sharply. “I can think of more offensive vulgarities to use than ‘holy shit.’”

The world was twisting around him. Mikey was quickly at his side, wrapping up his head with a roll of bandages retrieved from Leo’s belt. They never went anywhere without bandages these days. Raph’s whole body ached, and when he stood a little too fast, he caught himself on the wall of the nearest building.

“Everyone else okay?” Raph asked.

“You look the worst off,” said Mikey. “We need to get you home. Can you walk?”

There was no way Donnie and Mikey were in any shape to carry him, not with Leo also down for the count. “I’ll manage. One foot in front of the other, right?”

Donnie scooped Leo up into his arms, and Mikey swooped underneath Raph’s massive arm to help him balance his weight.

“Take it slow,” said Mikey. “Are you—no, try it like—yeah, like that. Are you okay? Are you dizzy?”

“Mikey, it’s okay, I’m alright,” said Raph. “I’m sure it looks a lot worse than it is.”

Mikey didn’t look convinced. They started the slow march to the nearest sewer entrance with Donnie leading the way.

“Hey, kinda reminds me of that time you pulled me out from under that car,” said Raph, doing his best to keep his voice cordial. “You let me lean on you, remember? I thought I was gonna crush you.”

Mikey’s expression flickered a little. He smiled. “We really need to talk about this hero complex of yours.”

“Not a hero complex,” said Raph. “Just doing my job.”

“You could stand to learn to lean on us a little more, Raph.”

“Hey, I didn’t see you jamming yourself in a tunnel to stop those guys. Oh, wait—shucks, you’re small, it wouldn’t have worked.”

“I could’ve stopped them with my large personality if you’d given me a chance.”

“Right, I would’ve loved to see you try Dr Delicate Touch’s ‘Villain Reformation Program’ on a bunch of clones who wanted to eat us,” Donnie drawled.

“Hey, there’s no proof the program doesn’t work,” said Mikey.

“You can’t even find test subjects.”

“I haven’t found any yet. Maybe if you guys let me kidnap a villain—”

“We’re not kidnapping a villain, Mikey,” said Raph.

“Why not? They kidnap us all the time! Time for some payback—I mean, intervention. Y’know, I think the clone guy could be a great subject.”

“No way, I’m not going back in that hive ever again.”

“Bummer! Oh well, maybe I’ll send him—them?—a pamphlet instead.”

Mikey leaned a little into Raph as they hobbled over to the nearest sewer entrance and he gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Mikey flashed a relieved smile up at him. He didn’t think he was going to learn to lean into his brothers soon, not when his problems were far too heavy for them to carry.

#nimble writes #badthingshappenbingo #rottmnt #rottmnt raph #rottmnt leo #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt donnie

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thekranke · 2 years

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The first fic in my @badthingshappenbingo collection!

The Prompt was “Seizures” (Card Pictured Below) and this piece is for the JRPG “Tales of Berseria”. It kinda dips into dark comedy territory at times but I assure you the side effects are indeed very bad things that happen to Eleanor.

Title: What More Can I Do?

Author: Buh…buh…kRANKe (me)

Fandom: Tales of Berseria

Ships/Characters: Eleanor & Phi, the rest of the menagerie along with Kamoana and Grimoirh play a role

Chapters/Word Count: 13325 over 4/4 chapters

Rating: T

Warnings/Content Tags: Seizures and descriptions of all the fun side effects that come with them. Mystery-ish I guess?

Summary: Eleanor or rather her body was tilting at a stiff, almost unnatural angle. Her pale green eyes were completely glazed over giving them a lifeless veneer. It seemed like the entity known as ‘Eleanor’ had left the building leaving only an empty shell in her place. A shell that gravity swiftly took a hold of and sent crashing down to the ground with a hard thud.

“Rokurou, I think something’s wrong with Eleanor.”

Commentary: The menagerie and friends are frightened to learn Eleanor has developed an alarming new condition seemingly out of the blue but the true cause behind the disorder might not be what they're expecting…

**Link:**

What More Can I Do?

Plus the card featuring an Eleanor who is so done with my shat.

#bad things happen bingo #tales of berseria #eleanor hume #laphicet #rokurou rangetsu #velvet crowe #eizen (tob)#the gang's all here #fanfiction #fanfic #dark comedy #rip #Eleanor Hume and her wonderful friends

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hopeintheashes · 2 years

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If you're still taking prompts.

Eddie Diaz + sleepless nights and sunshine?

This ended up fitting for the @badthingshappenbingo Headache/Migraine square! Set 5x11-ish.

9-1-1, Hurt/Comfort, 1.2k; read it here or on AO3 Eddie, with some help from May, Linda, and Chris

"You okay?"

He'd hoped to get to his desk without anyone noticing him today, but May is looking at him with concern bordering on suspicion.

"Hmm?"

May gestures toward her own face and, when Eddie mirrors the motion, his fingers meet the dark sunglasses he still has on.

"Oh." He pulls them off and immediately regrets it, but it's definitely going to look weirder at this point to put them back on. He squints into the light. "Word of the day?"

"I think I'm going to have to go look up a new one for 'my coworker has turned into a vampire.' Seriously, Eddie, you look like you're in pain."

He is. Has been ever since he opened the curtains this morning. Well— had been well before that. The impossibly bright sunlight had just been what finally pushed the dull throb over the line into "splitting headache" territory. He manages a smile. "I'm fine."

Apparently it's unconvincing. "Do you need Advil? I have some in my bag."

"No, I've got some. Thanks." It's a lie. The idea that a technically-still-a-teenager has her life more together than he does is just too much to process before 9 a.m.

He turns off the lights in his office an squints at the computer screen, and then groans and turns that off as well. Which really isn't going to work in terms of getting any work done, but the alternative is putting his sunglasses back on, and he's really not ready for the attention that would draw.

He's got his head in his hands when there's a quiet knock at the door.

"Yeah." Without looking up.

"Eddie?"

He takes a deep breath and makes himself sit up and smile. "Hey, Linda."

Apparently still unconvincing.

"I know I have no authority to send you home, but just, as a friend? If you're sick, you should go home."

He shakes his head, which is a terrible idea. "I'm not sick."

"Well, I hate to say it, but you look like shit."

"Yeah. Thanks." He takes a breath, trying to bring down the sound of his own heart where's it's thudding in his temples with every beat. "Just a headache."

"Did you take something for it?" Eyebrows raised.

He sighs. "No, no yet." And then, burying his face in his hands. "Thought I had painkillers in my desk, but it turns out I don't." As long as he's lying, might as well go all in.

"Let me see what I can do."

She disappears, and May reappears, and he thanks her five times out of guilt. He dry-swallows the pills once she goes back to her desk, and then the clock hits nine and it's organized chaos outside his office and flat nothingness here behind the closed door.

The pills take the edge off for a while, and he turns his screen back on and does his job on autopilot and the minutes slowly tick by. He makes it until 1:45, when he realizes that if he's debating the pros and cons of puking into the waste basket beside his desk versus trying to make it to the bathrooms on the other side of the floor, it's probably time to go.

He makes it home, breathing through the pain of the sunlight stabbing his eyes and keeping the nausea under control through sheer force of will, and drops everything on the table by the front door. He just barely manages the childproof cap on the bottle of the strongest OTC painkillers they've got and swallows them with water scooped in his hand from the sink, pulls the blackout curtains in his bedroom, and crawls into bed without even changing out of his work clothes.

"Dad?"

He hadn't thought he'd be able to fall asleep, but apparently he was wrong. The meds must have kicked in, even though the only difference so far is that he doesn't feel quite as sick.

"Why are you home already? Are you okay?"

Chris is poking his head through the door, and Eddie motions him to come all the way in.

"Are you sick?"

He doesn't really know how to answer that, so he just forces himself to sit up and motions for Chris to come sit next to him on the bed. "Just had a really bad headache. I'm okay now."

Chris looks at him dubiously. "You don't look okay."

An exhale with a hint of a laugh. "So I've heard."

Chris looks him up and down, considering. "This is 'cause you're not sleeping, right?"

"I'm sleeping," Eddie says, but it's a weak protest.

"Do you know what a circadian rhythm is?"

Now there's a word of the day. "I mean, I do, but since when do you?"

"School."

Well, that makes sense. "What about it?"

"If you're awake all night but then you're in here in the dark all day, your circadian rhythm gets messed up."

There's so much more to what's going on than that, but he just turns to face Chris. "So what's your advice, Mr. Scientist?"

"You have to go out in the sun."

He half-laughs. "Yeah, the sun and I aren't getting along real well right now." Chris shrugs, and Eddie sighs. "Go get changed and get a snack, and I'll be right out, okay?"

"Okay."

He can hear Chris in his room, and then in the kitchen. His afterschool program goes almost-but-not-quite late enough for Eddie to get there after work, so they'd worked it out with another family for Eddie to do the school run in the morning and the Yamadas to do the afternoons. It means Chris has about 45 minutes home alone in the afternoons, and he's loving the freedom. Eddie had been afraid that it would be nothing but screen time, but lately he's been lounging on the porch reading when Eddie gets home.

He finally gets changed out of his work clothes and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. He drinks the whole thing in one go— and that can't have been helping with the headache situation either— and fills it back up. Takes it out to the back porch, where Chris is waiting for him.

"Do you want the hammock?" Chris asks, his book in hand.

"Do you want to share?"

"Sure." It's one of the big, flat ones, and they both still fit, at least for now.

Chris lets Eddie get settled first, then climbs in next to him with his book, his elbows not quite missing Eddie's ribs.

"See, the sun is nice," Chris says, and Eddie hums thoughtfully. He definitely needs the sunglasses he brought out, and the baseball cap he'd pulled down low for even more shade. With his eyes closed, though, there's just a low, red glow, and the warmth of the sun on his arms, and of Christopher at his side.

"Yeah," he says, one hand on Chris's curls and the other tucked behind his own head. "You were right. This is a good idea."

"Hopefully it'll help you sleep," Chris says, and it's quieter, a little worried.

Eddie sweeps his hand over Chris's hair, warm in the sun. "Hopefully, but it's a good idea either way."

"You can come read with me tomorrow," Chris says, already back into his book.

"Yeah." The world feels just the smallest bit lighter here. "I think I will."

#911fic #9-1-1 #hurt/comfort #eddie diaz #by:hopeintheashes #my bthb fics #badthingshappenbingo #fandom: 9-1-1 #square: headache/migraine

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writercole · 3 years

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Soldier On 5

Squares: Power Fatigue @badthingshappenbingo // Pairings: Soldier Boy x Antigrav (supe reader) Words: 1311 Warnings: Fight, murder, blood, fluffy-ish ending, slight spoilers for season 2 finale. Credits: @flamencodiva for being her wonderful self as always and beta’ing A/N: Here it is. The final installment. I won’t be doing much more for SB until after season 3 premiers. Well, I don’t plan on doing more until then.

Series Master List

You took a deep breath and smiled.

Tom was watching you intently, waiting for your answer. His hands fidgeted in his lap as you thought.

“Tom, I would love nothing more than to have you back in my life. But with everything coming, I don’t want to make promises and plans yet,” you replied sadly.

Tom nodded in understanding. “I’ll just have to ask you again after we finish.”

“Please do.”

Three Months Later

You, Link, Mary, and the boys were sitting outside of Vought Tower, getting ready for the planned attack. Everything had gone perfectly; Tom was a full fledged member of The Seven, he’d earned the trust of everyone he needed to and everything was in place.

Hughie’s cell phone beeped, signaling that it was time to begin. Mary had been practicing her teleportation and she brought all of you inside Tom’s quarters in the tower, figuring it was easier to begin the assault from the inside.

Your group was met with the stoic faces of Tom and Annie, both nervous participants in the coup.

Weapons were handed out, everyone receiving an assault rifle and a handgun, some of the men grabbing knives as well. Silence engulfed the room as everyone prepared, nerves getting the better of you.

With a nod, Tom opened the door and crept silently into the hall. He had been giving Homelander the Compound V antidote for the last three months and the results had been noticed. Tom was set to take on Homelander with Butcher, you and Annie would take out the rest of the members of The Seven that would stand against you, Mary and Link would head to the top floor where Stan Edgar would be held until everyone met at his office, and the rest of the group would run interference and take on the non-enhanced beings along the way.

Everything was going according to plan, Homelander was dispatched, The Seven were neutralized and you were on your way up to Edgar’s office, tired and drained, when the loud speaker turned on.

The sound of Link begging filled you with dread and you started running, pushing aside anyone who thought it would be wise to stand in your way. As you made it to the stairwell, you could hear Mary whimpering in pain. It crushed your heart and gave you a boost of adrenaline, pushing your powers back into functioning and allowing you to fly up to the appropriate floor.

You crept down the hallway towards Edgar’s office cautiously, knowing you were running into a trap. As the office came into view, you saw Stan Edgar’s body slumped in his chair, headless, a brunette standing behind him, facing the window.

“Antigrav, how lovely of you to join us,” a female voice greeted you. “This must be related to you. I thought she looked awfully familiar.” The woman turned around and you recognized her.

“Congresswoman Neuman?”

“Not exactly expected, right?” she chuckled. “I was here, having an impromptu meeting with Stan Edgar, or what’s left of him, when these two burst in here.”

The sound of footsteps alerted you to the presence of the rest of your team on the floor. What you didn’t expect when you turned around was Queen Maeve leading the pack.

“What do you want, Neuman?” the lead supe questioned coldly.

“Oh, what everyone else wants, I suppose,” she replied. “I want Vought gone and supes regulated.”

“Well that’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?” Maeve replied as she stepped forward in front of you. “I mean, you’re a supe, too. Wouldn’t you be putting things in place to regulate yourself?”

Victoria Neuman chuckled darkly. “That’s just it, Maeve. They don’t know so technically these regulations wouldn’t apply to me.” She turned her attention back to you with a sarcastically sympathetic look. “But your spawn here, and her husband, would have to register. As would you and baby daddy.”

You heard a growl come from behind you and Tom stalked forward with his gun raised. Hughie put his hand out and stopped him while Neuman smirked.

“I see,” she commented, looking back and forth between you and Tom. “Baby Daddy is Soldier Boy. Oh this is wonderful.” She stepped towards Mary and you matched her

“You lay one finger on her and I will blow your brains all over this office,” you threatened, your sights still on the congresswoman.

“You won’t do anything, Antigrav. You wouldn’t have time -”

She was cut off by a knife jutting through her throat. While your group had kept the congresswoman distracted, Link had slipped around to Mary who teleported him behind her. You and Tom rushed forward to check on your daughter and son-in-law while Maeve and Annie checked the congresswoman’s pulse.

“Mary! Link! Are you two hurt?” you exclaimed as you neared them, looking over their bodies for telltale signs of injuries.

Both of them shook their heads as they leaned on one another against the window, both clearly exhausted from the events of the day. You relaxed when you saw they were well, immediately feeling fatigued also. Arms wrapped around you and you turned your head to see Tom holding you up.

“So what now?” Frenchie asked.

Everyone looked at each other, but no one had an answer for him.

One Year Later

The Vought Tower attack was hailed as one of the most coordinated murder suicides in recent history with Victoria Neuman taking out Homelander and Stan Edgar before turning a knife on herself. While it wasn’t exactly what happened, it was enough to make the world not look too deep into anything.

You stood on your back porch sipping a cup of coffee and watching the sunrise. Your life had been quiet and peaceful since Vought was taken down. A pair of arms wrapped around your waist and you sighed happily. “Good morning, Tom,” you mumbled.

“Good morning sweetheart.” He kissed your neck before he rested his chin on your shoulder, admiring the view along with you. He turned you around in his arms and took your coffee cup from you, setting it on the railing. “Marry me,” he whispered with a smile.

“What?”

“Marry me,” he repeated, a little louder this time. He held up his hand, a silver ring with a princess cut diamond settled on the top.

You were speechless as your gaze flitted from the ring to Tom. You didn’t know what to say; your head was fuzzy and your mouth was dry. “I…”

“I spent seventy years waiting to see you again and this last year was the best year of my life. I refuse to sit by and wait any longer. I want to spend the rest of my life with the woman that I love.”

Your mind became clear in that instant, knowing exactly what you wanted. “Yes, Tom. Yes,” you mumbled, pulling him down for a kiss.

Tom kissed you back, breaking away when you heard a wolf whistle behind him.

“I told you she’d say yes,” Mary gloated with a smirk that looked just like her father’s.

“Yeah, yeah. Is she always this much of a knowitall?” he chuckled.

“Yes,” you and Link replied at the same time, causing everyone to burst out laughing.

“I do have one condition,” you told him.

“Name it.”

“No more babies. I’m too old for that shit.”

“Deal, sweetheart. Deal,” he replied as he slipped the ring on your finger.

“I hope that doesn’t mean grandbabies, Mom,” Mary said.

You looked over Tom’s shoulder in disbelief, seeing your daughter wearing an expression reminiscent of the cat that swallowed the canary. Pushing Tom aside, you wrapped your arms around her and started crying, overjoyed at the next generation.

Two more sets of arms wrapped around the pair of you. You couldn’t have been more at peace. Your family was here, together, healthy, and expanding.

Soldier On: @stoneyggirl2 @sexyvixen7 @flamencodiva @that-one-gay-girl @downanddirtydean @deangirl93 @charred-angelwings @zooaliaa @maliburenee @spngi

#cole writes #badthingshappenbingo #soldier boy #the boys fanfic #soldier boy x supe reader #final chapter #the end

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

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I hope you are having a great day.

I wanted to tell you that I love the way you write and how you show the personality of your characters in so few words.

Also if you have time, for the Bad Things Happend Bingo, could I ask for a Soup for the Sick? (Maybe a villain whumpee)

Thank you for the ask! And especially thank you for that lovely message attached to it, it means a lot!

Soup for the sick... here you go, I hope you enjoy! I did, I had lots of fun writing this one.

Personalized Caretaker

@badthingshappenbingo

Warnings: drug abuse mention, feverish whumpee, talk of medications, mean caretaker, delirium, fever, pills (tylenol)

... there may be more so tell me if there is so I can list them.

Civilian wished that she didn't live in the most heavily super-powered city in the world.

Yes world.

Villains and heroes all running around like teenagers, not caring for the lives of innocent civilians... or the heroes were meant to, Civilian started to think that the whole "we will protect you" was all phony propaganda aimed to get the city to fund their organization.

But the daily bombings and increasing death toll was not the issue with the city. It wasn't even the large mass of heroes and villains. It was only one.

One.

Of all the heroic figures and devilish snakes, there was only one that ticked Civilian off.

Villain.

And not because he was the King of Monologues. No, it was because the bastard made Civilian his own personal caretaker.

Was she asked to tend to his very needs? No.

Was she hired? Paid? No, but she should be getting a salary for the tedious work of stitching wounds and feeding his greedy stomach. The bandage bills were adding up and Civilian's meager wage was completely wiped out from having to buy a pack every day.

She was an inch away from going on a rage and robbing every bank in the city.

No, she wasn't. She just happened to live on 489 Deertree Avenue, where six months ago the murderous villain decided to collapse unconscious on her doorstep to bleed out like it was no problem.

Like it was a leisure, a recreational activity. Probably to him, waking up in a warm bed, doped up on painkillers with the sickening sweet smell of caramel candles burning around him, it was.

But not to Civilian. She had to manually help the injured individual drink water, get dressed, and even use the bathroom.

UGGGHHHH!

The man had millions of henchmen, billions of wannabe minions at his beck and call.

But he just so happened to have a crush on the red door of 489 Deertree Avenue.

But it was a bad case of unrequited love of the highest order, so no hope of a romantic candlelit date at the most expensive restaurant in the most famous city in the world.

Dairy Queen.

The pure hilarity of that fact. Even the Avenger Tower did not hold nearly as many powered or high-tech individuals as the city and the most fanciest restaurant was a chain fastfood restaurant at the corner of main street.

Civilian clenched the towel she was holding. As much as the stupidity of the city got on her nerves, it was very unpatriotic of her to go on and embarrass the area even more.

Civilian was scrubbing the mirror in the bathroom. The walls of the whole room were stained in the most disgusting brown and red from all the grime and blood radiating off a singular person's- not even the owner of the house- body.

Those would never go away unless Civilian paid for someone to come and mega-wash the bathroom. Not that she had any money to invest in such a delightful gift, her bank account was too busy supporting the prescribed pain medications. Like, Civilian was probably on the watchlist for utter bankruptcy and for being a possible candidate for drug addiction.

Who needs two whole containers of opioids and a canteen of valium every three months?

Not a normal civilian washing floors at Walmart, that's for sure.

But then again, Civilian was far from normal. She worked as a personalized savior during her freetime.

Civilian clenched her teeth and took a deep breath in. Her ward hasn't made his grand appearance in over a week. She actually had time to relax, make some popcorn and actually decompress. It was like vacation, peaceful, tranquil and full of serenity, free of any-

Knock, knock, knock.

Civilian's moment of bliss was unceremoniously ended by the all too familiar beat of a fist on wood.

"You have my permission to make out with the door Villain! You don't need to ask anymore!"

Civilian hoped Villain was coherent enough to internalize that as an invitation to bleed on her couch.

Just so she could have one more moment. One more moment of her coveted break.

Cough.

Civilian's head perked up. That was new. She never, ever heard Villain cough in a sickly manner- she never let him get bad enough to get sick, or he didn't permit himself to wait around until infection and fever set in.

She set down the towel, worry settling into her bones like it always did- not that she liked the heart dropping feelings and nauseating pit in her stomach each and everytime Mr. Needy had blood on him. Or everyday that he didn't show up for a bandaid, or a "kiss-it-better".

Yes, the pure humiliation when her delirious patient painfully begged her to kiss his knee better. Like, the puny scrape on his leg was by far the least severe wound on his bloodstained body, but of course, Civilian complied and gave him a little peck on his Olaf bandaid.

Civilian ripped open the door and the scene in front of her chased away those obnoxious memories.

Villain collapsed into her arms, head lolling pathetically against her shoulder. His forehead felt like it was doused with gasoline and then lit by a torch five times over. Civilian's shocked arms involuntarily wrapped around his equally scorching body. Yes, it was not a conscious act. Not in a million years would Civilian muster up the compassion to actually comfort the villain more than the deed of "saving his life" called for.

No, no Civilian hated Villain. Completely and totally loathed each and every cell on his body.

But she dragged him into the house and shut- more like slammed- the door anyways because she couldn't let him die, it would be like murder's sidekick.

Especially since Villain trusted her. Oh how he trusted her. Trusted her to bathe him, to feed him, to give him medicine, but most importantly not to kill him. With all the horrors he committed, a swift knife to the throat would be more than justified. In fact, Civilian would likely be commemorated for such bravery.

Public approval, fame... all a deliciously yummy cake.

Not worth it. Too many calories.

Civilian sunk to the ground and put Villain's upper body in her lap. He nestled into her, pressing his cheek deep into her side with a small, contented smile on his pale face.

"Don't drool on me," Civilian snapped, jostling Villain who woke up. Before he had the chance to get his bearings, Civilian spoke up again, "Are you hurt?"

The villain stared at her for a while before breaking into desperate tears, shaking his head.

What the heck?

"Stop crying or I will punch you," Civilian threatened, but she rubbed Villain's back soothingly.

"Dying," Villain sobbed.

"You are not dying, buddy, you have a cold."

"No, I'm dying," Villain asserted. Civilian rolled her eyes. Did he have to be so dramatic?

"I don't think a cold will kill you. Stop acting like the world is ending now, or I will throw you in the trash."

Villain whimpered and pulled himself closer, still crying.

He really was sick. So sick to the point of being delirously delusional.

"You don't need to be a Disney princess," Civilian said, still rubbing the villain's back. Villain's cries turned into sobs and then into wails.

Okay this was getting out of hand. Civilian stood up and dragged Villain's body over to the couch. She marveled in her strength for a while. When Villain first made his appearance in her otherwise boring life, she was as skinny as a twig. Now? This girl was a freaking hulk, baby.

Okay stop that, Civilian chastised herself, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She laid Villain on the beige colored couch and rested his wet head against a pillow that was metaphorically marked with his name.

Now that the villain was completely stretched out, Civilian- to her relief- found that he was not bleeding, therefore, she didn't have to waste her precious supply of gauze and bandages tonight.

But he still was very, very sick. His face was a gray mask of pale complexion, his hair snarled and matted in sweat. His lips were tinged blue as unfocused eyes gazed around the room, landing on the TV.

"You want to watch something?" Civilian asked, though the question was more than unnecessary. Villain always watched a movie as he dozed off, warm and comforted by the mound of blankets strewn over him.

But still, like a habit, he nodded weakly each and every time. Civilian smiled, the tiniest of grins, and connected the tablet to the television. When the screen popped up with the classic Amazon Prime Video layout, Civilian asked what movie.

"Boss Baby," Villain mumbled, lips hardly moving.

"You want to watch a movie with baby superheroes? Why don't we watch Toy Story or something?"

Or something a bit more adult-ish.

"Mhm," Villain groaned, eyes slipping shut. "Baby superheroes."

Now it was Civilian's turn to groan, loud and exaggerated. But, still he was her unwelcome guest so she had to please his obnoxiously childish wants.

Like how old was he? Five?

Civilian put in the movie and sat down next to Villain, putting his legs on her lap. She tapped lazily at his jeans as the opening credits showed. Leaning her head back, Civilian allowed her gaze to drift away from the stupid fat-faced animated figures and to Villain.

He was nearly asleep.

Civilian shifted her weight and rested against her arm to watch him. Even sick, she had to admit, the evil and annoying villain was shockingly handsome.

What was she thinking?!

Pushing Villain's feet away, Civilian stood up and aggressively shoved her palm to his forehead. It was buzzing with heat.

"You are paying for the bill," Civilian growled and went to go get some tylenol.

Upon returning to the sickly man's sweaty side, Civilian thrusted the pills into his mouth and washed them down with water. She didn't even give him a chance to wake up fully, the motion was instinctual. He swallowed on reflex.

Next, Civilian cussed herself for this, she cupped his cheek. Villain sunk into her palm, chewing silently, and continued to sleep.

When Villain first visited, Civilian couldn't get over how touch starved the poor guy was. It was to the point of absolute fear of touch. He would shiver before violently flinching away, glaring daggers.

He still didn't allow hugs or a highfive when he was in his right mind- not that Civilian saw him fully conscious ever apart from a couple times.

"Hungry?" Civilian mumbled, more to herself than anyone.

Still, Civilian placed Villain's head back onto the pillow and went into the kitchen to make some soup.

Chicken noodle soup with rice... her specialty. Chicken breast and rich seasoning, even one's dampened taste buds could taste the utter deliciousness of the watery broth.

Then the rice. Sometimes when Villain was on the mend, she would add some wild rice or lentils to the dish. Spooning some basic white rice into the bottom of the bowl, Civilian tapped her foot aimlessly.

The kettle on the stove whistled, Civilian pushed it off the heat and added the seasoning and celery. The savory scent wafted into her nose earning itself a tiny smile from Civilian.

Once the soup was done, she presented it to the still sleeping villain. His mouth hung open, desperate for air that his clogged nostrils couldn't deliver.

Dang. Poor guy was really ill.

Civilian sat next to Villain, so close that she could feel the rise of his chest. She shoved his face upwards. Villain blinked his eyes open and settled his gaze on Civilian's annoyed, but worried, face.

"Ghm," he moaned, rumbled in the back of his throat in a fatigued manner. "Cow hopping."

"Shut up," Civilian scolded and helped Villain to a seating position. He complied, but had no strength left to actually hold the stance.

So Civilian was forced to lay him against her chest and feed him by giving him a big old bear hug. Spoon after spoon went to his mouth until Civilian was just dumping it into his mouth without any natural swallowing reflex.

She took a wet rag and cleaned his face before laying him back onto the couch. Civilian smiled and tenderly touched his eyebrow.

Why did she have to care about him so much?

#bad things happen bingo #villain whumpee #civilian caretaker #villain x civilian #civilian #writing #sick villain #sick whumpee #delirious whumpee

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tarisilmarwen · 2 years

Photo

@badthingshappenbingo

Title: “Breached Sanctum”

Prompt: Faux-Affectionate Villain

Fandom: Big Hero 6 (Series)

Character(s): Hiro Hamada, Bob “Obake” Aken, Cass Hamada, Wasabi-no-Ginger, Fred “Fredzilla” Frederickson, Gogo Tomago, Honey Lemon

Warnings: Mild panic attack

AO3, FFNet

Set somewhere nebulously in Season Two, post "Something Fishy" but pre-"The Globby Within", and a bit AU-ish. You'll see.

---

Just got off the tramm. Be home soon.

Hiro sent the text message off. It blipped and appeared in the thread, and he exited out of his conversation with Aunt Cass and began scrolling through his phone to check for other new messages.

Ever-active, his brain remembered something else important and, absently, he called back to Baymax, who was walking squeakily behind him.

"Hey, can you put a reminder in my calendar about the Applied Physics test next Thursday? Mr. Arnold said it's an easy one, but I still want to squeeze in an hour or two to study for it. In between... everything else," Hiro said, grimacing, thinking back to their very busy past few weeks, both as SFIT attendees and as Big Hero 6.

Baymax's stomach switched on with an image of Hiro's agenda and a blinking icon appeared on the calendar. "I have set your reminder," the bot assured him. "Will you require anything when we get back home, to the... Lucky Cat Café?"

Hiro was busy typing out a quick response to a homework inquiry from Wasabi. "Nah, Fred cancelled tonight's night patrol on account of the thunderstorms that are supposed to be rolling in later. So I think it's just going to be dinner and then some suit debugging in the garage before turning in early."

"Understood," Baymax replied.

Cars beeped noisily as they passed, Hiro's shoes tapping steadily on the sidewalk and Baymax's awkward poly-plastic steps following after. The rhythmic sound lulled him a bit into an idle stupor; his feet knew the way home so he trusted them unthinkingly, focusing instead on the missed messages and notifications on his phone.

Hiro frowned a bit as he turned the last corner. Aunt Cass would have usually replied by now; she liked it when Hiro checked in after school, always immediately had a funny story or a bunch of smiling emojis for him in response.

She was probably busy with the café, he figured. It was some kind of government holiday wasn't it? His aunt had mentioned pre-prepping for an expected lengthy lunch rush that morning; maybe it was still going strong.

He glanced up briefly, warm smile tweaking his lips as the side window of the Lucky Cat Café could be seen just up ahead. His eyes dropped back down to his phone, scrolling through an excitable message from Honey Lemon about a cute lizard she had seen outside her Chem class that morning.

When they were only a few paces away from the door, the squeaking steps behind him... stopped abruptly.

Hiro alerted to the unusual motion, even as he was tacking out a reply to Honey Lemon.

"Something wrong, Baymax?" he asked.

There was an unusually long pause.

"...My scanner indicates that the patient known as 'Bob Aken'... is inside the café," Baymax said eventually.

Hiro froze in place, his limbs locking up briefly, involuntarily. Flickers of panic danced on the edges of his mind for a moment, before he shook his head, dismissing his robot companion's statement as fanciful glitching.

He reached forward for the door.

"That's impossible, Baymax, Obake's—"

The bell above the door rang brightly as he opened it, but Hiro wasn't even halfway over the threshold before he froze again, everything inside him stiffening, his eyes widening with abject mute horror.

There, standing in place in front of the pastry counter, posture relaxed and leaning on the glass like it was perfectly natural for him to be there... was him.

Hiro forgot how to breathe for a second. His hyper-active mind was taking in a million little details at once—Cass's door sign was turned to "Closed" position, there were no other customers inside the café, the chairs were half-stacked on the tables as if she'd been in the process of cleaning up, Obake's eyes were lighting and fixating on him with a creepy kind of glee, the kind that had always, always, unnerved him before, just standing there and looking at him like he was some kind of proud father.

His fingers tightened on the handle to the door, still half-open, hanging on its soundless hinges. His head was screaming with an incoherent flood of noise. Carefully, he slipped his phone back into his pocket, though not before dialing 911 and keeping his thumb poised over the call button.

Hiro swallowed, unsticking his throat.

"Baymax, stay outside," he ordered firmly, mouth dry.

The heathcare bot tilted his oval head, metal irises blinking in concern.

"Your heartrate is... elevated... and your breaths have shortened," he observed. Lowering his voice, Baymax whispered, "Would you like me to call the others or... the police?"

Hiro's heart was beating a million miles per minute, but he shook his head. "Not yet," he said quietly, voice so low it was almost inaudible. "I don't want to risk him reprogramming you again. Just be ready. In... in case," he stuttered.

Baymax nodded silently and withdrew a few steps, holding position outside the doorway.

Hiro took a deep breath and then let go of the handle, letting the door swing closed behind him.

It thunk!ed with an ominous, almost unnatural sound, an auditory portent of doom as it closed and sealed him inside, with the villain who still haunted his nightmares.

Hiro took in a shaky breath, every nerve ending twitching, every molecule of his brain firing off with fear and distress. Air dragged in through his lungs as he composed himself.

"...What do you want?" he demanded, voice low and dangerous.

"Now Hiro," Obake chided, leaning up off the pastry counter, arms folded so casually across his thin frame, "is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Hiro's tongue felt like a leaden lump, he swallowed again, struggling to ignore the ringing alarms that were blaring inside his head. "Wh—where's Aunt Cass?" he asked, his eyes starting to dart around in search of her. "What did you do to her?!" he demanded, voice pitching a bit shriller.

"Relax," Obake told him, crossing over towards a nearby table and chair set—as of yet not put up, just out of line of sight of the door—where Cass was slumped with her head on her arms, eyes closed and head tilted in soft sleep. Obake placed very gentle hands on her softly rising shoulders. "She's not in any danger... for now. The sedative will wear off eventually."

Hiro's throat tightened upon seeing her, wordless worry screaming up through him, clashing and mingling with his anger as Obake patted her shoulders affectionately.

"Don't touch her!" he cried, his free hand tightening into a fist, his other twitching against the phone screen in his pocket.

Obake made a noise in his throat like a disapproving cluck-cluck, reaching down and gingerly straightening a loose strand of Cass's hair, moving it from her face to behind her ear.

"Why are you so worried?" the villain asked, eyes searing with false sincerity. "No harm will come to her," he said.

A vaguely dangerous glint entered the soulless ice-blue eyes.

"That is..." he drawled, every syllable sounding ominous, "...if you cooperate."

Hiro tensed even tighter. His head was filling with racing panic, his mind flashing back to the secret underwater base, ringing with flashes of memory—Baymax's hand tightly gripped around his arm, the uncomfortable enthusiasm with with Obake described the utter destruction of the city, the cold sparse cell he was locked in to await the fulfillment of the villain's horrible plans—

He gulped, forcing the panic down, forcing himself to narrow his eyes, glare with all his might at Obake.

"What do you want?" he repeated his demand.

Obake straightened casually. "Right now, from you?" he said, adjusting the cropped cuffs of his sleeve. "Nothing."

He sidled a look towards Hiro that made the boy's skin crawl—too fond, too affectionate, too much like how Granville might have looked at him when giving him a bit of oft-withheld praise.

"Except to warn you and your... little team... not to interfere," he said. There was a dangerous note in his voice, one that made Hiro immediately apprehensive, not helped by the pat he gave Cass's head.

His aunt murmured softly in her sleep, her head barely stirring from her arms.

"What are you planning to do?" Hiro demanded, his free hand gripping tighter, nails digging into his palm, trying not to freak out. He had undefined doubts, as his other finger twitched towards the call button, as to whether or not Obake would actually follow through on his implied threat. Hiro's mind was spiraling; his eyes were darting from Obake to his aunt and he was beginning to wish he had not shut the door behind him, had not ordered Baymax to keep careful watch outside.

His thoughts were beginning to fray and dissolve from the fear and knowledge that Obake was here. He was alive and he was in the café, making demands of Hiro as he held Hiro's aunt in implicit danger and Hiro was starting to hyperventilate, starting to have less and less control over his own breath.

Obake just smirked in response to Hiro's previous frantic question.

"Now that would be spoiling," he tutted, finally pulling his hands off Cass and tucking them into his pant pockets. "But I would appreciate not being interfered with as I enact it." A feral light was in the villain's eyes. "It should be even more spectacular than before," he promised breathlessly, the left half of his face glowing with excitement, purple blazing from his skin. "Something even your newly-appointed chief of police won't see coming."

Hiro realized, after a painful half-second, that he was shaking.

Obake was closing in, drawing nearer to him, and Hiro stiffened, every muscle on high alert. His eyes were frozen in a wide-eyed expression, his breaths short, frantic, tensing as the villain came closer.

"I'll come to collect you after it's finished," Obake promised, and a cold shot of dread congealed in Hiro's stomach, the dry panic choking his throat as he stood there, aware of only the closed door behind him, the claustrophobic space, the threatening vibes off Obake as he loomed in front of him. "I suggest you find somewhere safe to hunker down until then. I would not want to be street level when things go down."

Obake started to reach past Hiro for the door handle.

Despite his fear, Hiro firmed his jaw and shifted slightly, deliberately, blocking Obake's way.

"I—I won't let you," he declared, his voice shaking, squeaking on certain syllables. "I won't let you destroy the city."

A displeased flash passed over Obake's face.

"You really don't listen, do you?" the villain before him spoke up. Obake's eyes gleamed cruelly on his target. "You—and the rest of Big Hero 6—will do precisely nothing, Hiro Hamada." His stare was cold and serious and Hiro felt himself quivering a little, as Obake further cautioned, "You will not warn the police, you will not try to evacuate or run away, and you will absolutely not suit up in those silly little colorful costumes to playact superhero and confront me. If I see one flash of any of you, well..."

One of the villain's hands placed itself on Hiro's shoulder. Hiro's throat tightened so thick he almost couldn't breathe, watching Obake lean in with a cordial smile.

"Let's just say I wouldn't be able to guarantee the safety of your precious aunt."

Hiro was absolutely paralyzed a moment, hyper-aware of Obake's hand sitting warmly on his shoulder, of the deceptively pleasant smile turned down on him, the thoughts and questions screaming in his head—Whyishehere, whyishehere, how is he still alive, is Aunt Cass okay?—and then...

...He dropped his eyes and lowered his head, resolve weakening.

He could feel Obake's smile widen, more than he could see it. The fingers on his shoulder squeezed approvingly, another hand tousled in his hair.

"Good lad," Obake cooed, "I'm glad we could come to an understanding."

The hands left him and only then did Hiro flinch, his eyes pinching closed a second as he forced himself to step back.

Obake pulled open the door, the bell ringing out all-too-happily, a spiteful noise, considering. Hiro was almost so numb and incoherent he missed the exchange between the villain and Baymax.

"Ahh, Baymax," Obake was saying. "Nice to see you agai—"

"You are causing my primary patient physical and... emotional distress," Baymax interrupted. The irises narrowed in the bot's oval eyes, giving him a very serious look. "You will leave now." Baymax's monotone had a threatening edge, a sharpness to it that was unexpected, almost protective.

Even Obake was taken aback, slightly. "Of course," he said, quickly recovering his composure. "Keep him safe for me. I'd hate to see him damaged."

He walked off without another word, disappearing around the nearest street corner.

Hiro felt himself stir as if released from a spell, staggering back, weak-kneed, several paces further into the café as Baymax grabbed the still-closing door and shuffled his way inside.

"I am calling the others now," the healthcare companion told him.

Wordlessly, Hiro nodded, finding one of the unpacked tables and falling bonelessly into one of its chairs.

***

He was still shaking openly when his friends arrived. His aunt was bustled upstairs for a thorough examination, Baymax and Gogo and Honey Lemon all going with, stepping quickly out of view.

Hiro pressed fingers against the table's surface, throat so dry he almost couldn't speak.

"He was in my house, Wasabi," he said, shakily. "He was here. He threatened my aunt," Hiro choked out, hands opening helplessly to the air.

Wasabi put a comforting hand on his shoulder, warm eyes beaming soft concern. "I know, buddy," he told Hiro. "Just breathe."

Hiro tried to do so, a trembling, awkward inhale pulling through his nose.

His throat choked up again. "He said he was coming back for me..." came his small, warbling, fear-filled utterance.

"We won't let him," Wasabi said firmly.

Across the café, Fred was surprisingly sober, twitching with his hands pressed against the window for any untoward signs of danger. "Yeah man," he said, turning his eyes this way and that to look out the windows warily. "No way we're gonna just let him take what he wants!" he declared earnestly. "Especially since that includes you," he added, redundantly.

Hiro tried to steady his breathing. He inhaled slowly, held it, and then exhaled. Repeated the motion. After several painful moments he felt his heartrate calming a bit.

Baymax's squeaky steps sounded on the stairs. Hiro alerted, his palms going flat against the table as he pulled his head up.

"Is Aunt Cass okay?" he asked anxiously.

"I did not detect any permanent harm," Baymax informed him helpfully. "She has been dosed with a mild sedative, and should awaken in approximately... five to ten minutes." He raised a chunky finger. "There were no further anomalies that my scanner could pick up."

The sigh of relief from Hiro whistled across the table. His shoulders slackened.

Still, he pressed, "Are you sure, Baymax? Nothing even on the microscopic level?"

"It's a mind game, Hiro," Gogo growled, as she appeared at the base of the stairs. "Just like it always is. He wants you too afraid to act against him." She crossed her arms. "Or it's another sick test of your resolve."

"I know, Gogo," he said, exasperated and exhausted. One hand strained up through his hair, tugging at the roots in agitation. "But—but I can't—Aunt Cass..." His words faltered, hitting a block in his throat. "She's all I've got left, I can't—"

"She'll be okay, Hiro," Honey Lemon's voice piped up to assure him. She followed after Gogo and descended the stairs, one hand on the railing as her heels clicked on the wood. "We were very thorough." She reached the bottom and stood next to Gogo. "And," she added, "while we were at it, we also did a thorough sweep of the café and the house. Just in case."

Her reassuring smile beamed across the way, and Hiro felt the anxiety alarms in his head begin to subside.

Slowly, the disparate parts of his brain began focusing, shifting into hero mode. His friends were right; this was all a twisted mind game.

Still, knowing that Obake knew where he lived, had physically invaded a place he'd thought was safe, just to scare him, psyche him out...

A shiver ran down his spine.

He inhaled slowly, and then straightened up with determined eyes.

"Obake has to know we won't just sit idle," he said, standing up from the chair and putting palms flat on the table. "So I'm guessing he's already planned for some kind of distraction, to steer us away from what he's actually planning."

The others nodded. Gogo declared fiercely, "We'll deal with that when it reveals itself." Her eyes softened; she stepped forward, uncrossing her arms. "Did he say anything?" she asked him. "Anything, that could give us a hint as to what he's got in mind?"

Hiro reluctantly let his mind play over their brief, tense conversation.

"He mentioned Chief Cruz specifically, said he wouldn't see it coming," he told them. "He also said I should 'hunker down', that I wouldn't want to be street level when things happened."

"So he wants you to get underground," Wasabi concluded. "All right. Well... there's only so many places he could be referring to."

"Shimamoto's basement lab," Hiro concluded, silently squeezing his eyes closed in realization. "That's where he wants me to go."

Honey Lemon's hands slowly rose up to clasp in front of her. "Are you sure?" she asked him.

Hiro nodded, throat tightening again. "You said it looked like it was titanium-reinforced, right? Almost like a nuclear bunker?"

Quiet notes of horror reverberated through all of them, as they wondered what Obake could do that was enough to merit hiding in a bomb shelter.

Hiro lowered his head in resignation. "We'll have to split the team up," he decided. "Half to handle whatever diversion Obake will try to obstruct us with, half to keep digging for the actual threat... And..." He felt the words pulling out of him slowly, like thick-stuck burrs. "I'll... I'll go to the lab... do what I can to distract him."

A stirring went through all of them; they twitched forward, even Baymax, tightening a protective circle around him.

"Hiro, no," Honey Lemon said with concern, heels rapid on the floor as she rushed over, placing hands on his shoulders. "You don't have to do that."

His smile strained grimly. "I'm the one he wants... the one he's obsessed with," he said, trying not to remember Obake's hands on his shoulders, the playful tousle of his hair, the fond look in his eyes. "If I can keep his attention off the rest of you..."

His confidence was warm and grateful, his look full of intimate trust.

"...I know you can stop him."

He met each of their gazes, mingled apprehension and understanding in all of them. Fred, Gogo, and Honey Lemon all gave him a nod. Wasabi curled his hands nervously before dropping them to his sides with a steely look.

"Hiro...?"

The groggy female voice was like a cold shock to his system. Honey Lemon startled aside as Hiro caught a glimpse of Cass stumbling down the stairs, one hand rubbing at her eyes in confusion.

Panic alarms raised inside his head. Hiro's eyes darted around frantically, the boy shoving his own hands behind his back, trying to put on a casual, unbothered smile.

"Aunt Cass!" his voice squeaked. "I, uh..."

"I dunno what hit me..." came his aunt's slightly delirious confession. "I was helping this one last customer in the café and then I just... I felt so dizzy and tired."

Hiro nervously looked towards the others. Honey Lemon, Gogo, and Wasabi were all evasively looking away, Baymax blinked neutrally, and Fred was frantically waving and mouthing a long string of "No"s at him.

He felt an instinctual urge to lie, to play things off like Cass had just gotten sleepy on the job, that nothing bad was going to happen to her.

But he saw flashes of Obake patting her head, the creepy smile he'd shot Hiro as he deliberately invaded both her personal space and his... They'd kept the team secret from Cass to protect her but it hadn't worked, Obake had targeted her anyway. She deserved to know why, to be aware of the danger.

She deserved the truth.

Cass seemed to read the serious tone of the room, the brows pinching between her eyes in concern. "Hiro?" she called again. "Is everything okay?"

"Not—not really." Hiro exhaled slowly, committing himself. "Aunt Cass?" he said, raising eyes to her. "There's... something I need to tell you."

***

Cass shot sharp, severe eyes around the room, from her place seated opposite Hiro.

"You all knew about this?!" she demanded indignantly.

Awkward, embarrassed faces were all that met her, none of the young men and women looking her in the eye. Wasabi whistled shortly. Honey Lemon rubbed her arm.

Cass turned her glare across the table to her nephew, who had his fidgeting hands in his lap, eyes down at the table. "Hiro, why didn't you just tell me?!" she cried, voice straining.

He curled up tighter into himself, flinching. "I-I didn't think you'd let me keep—keep doing it if I—" he stammered, "—a-and—I..." He visibly swallowed. "I didn't want you to worry."

"I worry anyway!" Cass cried, her hand snapping forward across the table, grabbing for the collar of his ubiquitous blue hoodie. She pulled herself out of her seat, using the handhold to pull herself to him, envelope him in a crushing hug. "God, Hiro, you don't even know how much I worry! All the time! About you, about if you're fitting in and eating enough, if you're getting home safely..." she squeezed the boy tighter, her heart cracking with emotions. "You think knowing you're a—a—a superhero and going out to fight actual monsters and villains every night would change that?!"

"In fairness," Fred piped up, "it's not every night."

Gogo elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Right," he squeaked, stiffening. "Shutting up now."

Hiro was mumbling into her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Aunt Cass. I... I should have told you. I just... I never meant for you to be put in danger because of me. Because of what we do."

And then he was pushing her away, pressing hands against her shoulders as he pushed her back.

"I wish I could apologize more," he said with regret. "But Obake's out there, and we have to stop him. We have to protect everyone. Including you."

He looked so brave and determined. Cass felt her eyes well up; a shaking gasp escaped her.

"But why does it have to be you?" she asked, voice wavering. Her vision blurred around the sight of her nephew, her little boy, her son in all but name and legality, feeling helplessly selfish for a moment.

He smiled grimly, looking so much like his older brother it made her heart pang. "Someone has to help," he told her.

Cass crumpled, noisily wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her wrist. "We're going to a have a talk when you get back, young man," she said sternly.

Hiro grimaced a bit, but nodded. "Yeah. I understand."

"And you'd better come back!" she snapped. "Or so help me I will march out on a warpath and wring this Obake person's neck myself!"

"Heh," he chuckled. "He wouldn't know what hit him."

***

After several more stern admonitions, directed at both Hiro, Baymax, and his friends—who all rushed to assure her they would keep Hiro very safe—Cass finally stepped back and slightly marveled as the Skymaxes were called and the group began suiting up.

Hiro felt self-conscious as he finished tugging on his gauntlets. He'd already begged Cass to find somewhere to keep safe, in case things went wrong—somewhere Obake wouldn't know about—but his aunt had insisted on stubbornly staying right there in the Lucky Cat Café, expressing a confidence in him and in the team that Hiro couldn't help but appreciate, couldn't help but feel bolstered by.

Still, he felt a twinge of sorrow and regret, as Cass looked at him in his hero gear with misting eyes.

Her collar shuddered as she inhaled shakily.

"Be careful," she told him, voice almost a whisper, one hand curled tightly into a fist against her chest, eyes tight with concern.

He nodded soberly. "I will. I promise."

A beat, and then—

"Last hug," he said, taking two steps forward to toss himself at Cass, wrap arms around her.

She clung to him with a desperate tightness, feeling the odd shapes of his armor pieces under her hands, pressing her palms to his back firmly. Hiro felt her nose burying in his shoulder, and wished he could do more to comfort her, assure her that nothing would happen to him, that'd he'd be okay.

But he'd already resolved to be honest with her.

He pulled back before she did, once again, giving her a tight smile, eyes straining to convey everything he wanted to say.

She nodded.

That was the release he needed to turn towards his team.

"Let's go," he told them, in firm determination.

The six of them proceeded out the door and separated, going off in all directions to face the challenge and danger ahead.

#Disney #big hero 6 #hiro hamada #bad things happen bingo #BTHB #fanfiction #prompt fics #obake #honey lemon #wasagi no ginger #gogo tomago #fredzilla #baymax

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hiddendreamer67 · 2 years

Link

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Joker Additional Tags: Weapons, Choking, Torture, Stabbing, Blood, Improvised weapons, Beating, Brutality, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd Gets A Hug, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Angst, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd-centric, Jason Todd Feels Summary:

When Jason Todd was killed by the Joker, he was tied up and unable to do anything about it. Now, Jason is having a dream about what could have happened if he had his hands free, and unfortunately learns he never stood a chance.

(And then Jason gets some hugs from his big brother Dick, as a treat)

Feel free to send one of the prompts w/ a character(s)! Characters can be Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne. (And Alfred) Bruce/Clark can be gay as a treat but everyone else is platonic

#whump #jason todd #dick grayson #badthingshappenbingo-ish #my writing

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orionares · 3 years

Text

BTHB: Concussion

BHTB: Concussion

Psych

@badthingshappenbingo

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

“This song’s going to get to get stuck inside your- this song’s going to get stuck inside your- this song’s going to get stuck inside your heeaaaddd.”

“Did you know that nine chefs in the San Francisco area have already purchased the Cutter Knife 4000?”

“Hello, Mr. Spencer. It’s Mrs. Harley, Shawn’s teacher. I’m here with Shawn calling to inform you of Shawn’s choice in daring a student to jump off of a picnic table during recess today-"

So, his brain is on fire.

Goddamnit.

On the bright side, Shawn Spencer's brain isn't a literal fire like the time he had tried to light a small bit of hair with Gus at the age of seven to see if he would turn into the Human Torch.

Or the time he and Gus had started a small..ish fire in Gus' backyard in an attempt to see if ants would actually explode under a microscope.

Man, Santa Barbara Fire Department came by the house a lot.

No, this is a new beast- his normally eidetic, pineapple infused brain is now a broken record skipping through memories good and bad.

All because he had tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. While running with Gus. From a man with a gun that had-

“SHAWN! How many times did I tell you not to climb that tree? You and Guster are in high school for Pete’s sake!"

That one never made sense to him- the saying, not the totally justified tree climbing competition. Who the hell is Pete and what's his sake?

"The doors are closing…."

"Welcome to the California Academy of Sciences-"

At the rate and speed he's going, he may become the first person to die from his brain exploding….maybe.

"-ca-hr-me? Wha-ppened?"

Who's voice, who's irritatingly LOUD voice, is talking above him?

“He fell down a flight of stairs after being chased by a suspect.”

The second voice is compassionate and strong and an easy one to recognize- his beloved Jules.

“Miss-” A deep voice answers Juliet O'Hara with a smugness that Shawn could open his eyes and see but-

“It's Detective," Juliet corrects sharply.

“My apologies, Detective. Thank you for letting us know. Now back up and let us assess Mr. Spencer-"

Uh-oh. Another overload coming in 3...2...

"Spencer Shoes semi-annual sale coming straight to the Santa Barbara Area-"

"Spencer Shoes semi-annual sale coming to the Santa Barbara area-"

"No-Shawn, we can't go over and steal Santa's glove-"

"Yuh-huh."

"Nuh-huh."

"Yuh-huh."

"Nuh- huh."

"Sirs , you need to leave the store. The Santa display is for those under 12."

Behind his shut eyes, Shawn tries to pull up anything to organize the catastrophic meltdown of his magnificent brain. The only thing that pops up is the explosion of pain at the back of his head hitting the last stair.

Head hitting concrete means concuss-

"More than one million individuals injure themselves on stairs, resulting in injuries such as concussions-"

"I triple dog dare you to spell concussion without using your phone-"

The doctor's voice scoffs, "Once we can do a neuro- wait, is he shushing us? What in the hell- why is he shushing? Why is my patient shushing me?"

Because you're loud, duh, he wants to say.

“Did he just say ‘duh’ to me?”

Whoops- came out loud.

Juliet sighs and retorts, “ My husband is trying to tell you that we’re talking too loud. It happens when he gets a concussion-”

“Ma ‘am-”

“It’s Detective and I’m telling you the in’s and out’s of my husband. I also work with him in my job as a police officer-”

Shawn winces at the sudden wave of pain across his forehead and the next round of spiraling, loud thoughts.

"Jules?"

"Do you ever confuse SBPD with SFBD?"

"Shawn? Go back to bed."

The overwhelming pressure growing in his head from the loud, uncontrollable thoughts are getting worse.

“Shawn! SHAWN! I know you two can hear me up there?”

“We can’t hear you, Dad! We’re ‘splorin!”

“Exploring and like many criminals I’ve arrested, you’ve just given yourself up. Are you going to surrender peacefully or will I need to send up SWAT?”

What would SWAT storming an attic to find two six year olds look like? Shawn feels a hand on his arm and he attempts to push the hand away. The motion triggers a louder, more painful overload of thoughts and memories that brings tears behind his eyes.

“I swear, you two are going to make my brain explode!”

“Never ever, Lassie- Loo- Hoo. We’d never intentionally annoy you into your brain exploding. Accidently, is a different story.”

He can feel Juliet’s hand on his cheeks but can’t hear anything words from anyone around him. Shawn chokes out a sob followed by a plea, “Jules, make it stop.”

He doesn’t feel the sedative injected into his IV or hear the directions from the doctor and Juliet. Shawn Spencer only feels the noise erupting in his brain and the pain throbbing in his head and then finally, silence and unconsciousness.

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

“How is he?”

Juliet turns her head to the door to Gus, staring sadly over to a sleeping Shawn. He steps further into the dimly lit room close enough for Juliet to see the stiches across his forehead and left forearm. She can also see the guilt in Gus’ eyes at the differences in their injuries.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Gus,” Juliet says. She sits up straighter in her chair as Gus approaches the foot of the bed and nods towards Shawn. “All I got was a few scratches and Shawn got a concussion,” Gus replies. “He pushes me out of the way from getting slammed against the wall and ends up getting pushed down a flight of stairs.”

“He’s ok, Gus. He did have some of his-”

“Concussion brain?” Gus finishes. Juliet and he stare at each other before sharing a soft chuckle.

“That wasn’t the term I wanted to use in front of the doctors, but yes,” Her smile falters at the moment the Doctor Calhoun had injected a sedative into Shawn’s IV. “It got really bad this time. They gave him a sedative.”

Gus inhales in and out slowly before asking, “How are you holding up?”

“I’m worried and….sad...and scared,” Juliet admits. “I wish there was a way that could help him through when he gets like this. I wish I could see inside his mind- have an answer on how to help calm things down.”

Unexpectedly, Gus snorts and motions over to Shawn. “You don’t need to do any of that, Juliet. I’ve learned about fifteen years ago...about the time Shawn was irritating a certain , as Shawn would call him, Lassito and his partner, that there are three things Shawn needs whenever he’s heartbroken or injured. Jamaican tacos, pineapple smoothies and you.”

“And I have him,” Juliet states with a smile. “But you have to cover the tacos and the smoothies.”

#psych #shawn spencer #juliet o'hara #shules #bad things bingo #bad things happen bingo

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wincestation · 3 years

Text

Birthday Suit

Read on ao3

Pairing: Sam x Dean (Supernatural)

Word Count: 729

Square Filled: CIA Agent!Dean for @spnaubingo, I'm Fine for @badthingshappenbingo, Suit Kink for @anyfandomgoesbingo

Summary: On the morning of Dean’s eighteenth birthday, Dad takes him to buy a suit.

a/n: There aren't warnings because this is pretty PG-13, but Sam is fourteen-ish. No actual wincest action, just flushed and sexually confused Sam.

On the morning of Dean’s eighteenth birthday, Dad takes him to buy a suit.

Not to take some girl to prom, of course; they aren’t going to stay in town long enough for that, anyway. The suit had one purpose only: another possible cover.

Cover-ups, lies, secrets. Sam frowns at the motel ceiling from his bed, waiting for Dean and Dad’s return. It seems like the Winchesters and the CIA have plenty in common. It was surprising they didn’t use that story earlier.

Sam’s bitterness stems from somewhere much deeper, like a seed buried so far down that it should be impossible for it to grow, and yet it does in a sick, unnatural way. Dean getting that suit means that it’s not going to be only Dad leaving for hunts anymore. Sam shifts on the bed, laying on his side and staring at the still clock on the wall. Is this what the next few years are going to look like? Laying in motel beds, staring at walls and broken clocks, waiting for Dean and Dad to return? Sam was always lonely - no use being sad about it; that’s just the way his life is - but until now, he never felt truly alone.

Sam sniffs his nose, curls into a ball, and tries his hardest not to think.

When the door opens and Sam turns around, he definitely doesn’t have a single thought in his head, and he distantly imagines the constant beep of a life support machine flatlining.

Dean is grinning at him, freckles perfectly dusted across his face, green eyes glittering in excitement. “Well, Sammy? What do you think?” Dean spreads his arms with satisfaction. “Do I look like Tom Cruise?”

Sam swallows hard. They watched that stupid spy film more times then he can count since it came out last year, because Dean has a weird obsession with spies and Sam enjoys watching him get so enthusiastic, losing the bad-boy facade for while (only in front of Sam - a fact that he relishes in). And if Sam actually likes all the suited-up men fighting and shooting at each other, well… Nobody needs to know that. Sam doesn’t want to disappoint Dean, who stares at him in anticipation, but he looks nothing like the movie.

Dean is only eighteen, but his shoulders are already much broader than any movie star’s. His classic black suit is joined by a silver tie - thank god, Tom Cruise’s bowtie was horrifying - and Sam stares at the way it’s neatly placed underneath the crisp line of his dress shirt’s white collar. His hair is messily slicked back, and Sam knows it’s because Dean thinks he looks cool when he runs his fingers through it. Heat starts creeping up Sam’s cheeks, the same kind of hot embarrassment that rises in him every time Dean almost finds his collection of newspaper clippings. Most of the men in John’s ammunition magazines are in army gear, but it’s the few that are more dressed up that Sam truly keeps his collection for.

Dean is standing there, and Sam can easily imagine him holding a gun casually, tucking it into the waistband of his perfectly ironed pants. This is the purpose of that suit - not a slowdance and a quickie with some cheerleader - and Sam is suddenly happy Dean isn’t going to prom, that only he gets to see this.

“Everything alright, son?”

He and Dad, of course. John looks at him with a furrowed brow, as if he wants to get inside Sam’s head. “Yeah,” Sam mumbles. “Awesome suit.”

“Sure you’re okay, Sammy?” Dean looks worried, getting closer to examine Sam’s face. “You’re kinda flushed.” He places his hand on Sam’s forehead and Sam looks up at him, smells the expensive new fabric that mixes with traces of colon. Is he imagining the scent of gun oil from his brother’s fingers? “You’re a bit warm, maybe a fever - “

“I said I was fine!” Sam yelps, tearing himself away from his brother and running to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, as if putting a barrier between them could undo the sudden tightness of his jeans.

Dean stares at the door and then shrugs his shoulders. “Teenagers,” he sighs as if he is oh-so-much-older, leaving it at that. John keeps looking at the bathroom door, a foreboding splinter of a realization sneaking into his head.

#my writing #wincest #teenchesters #bad things happen bingo #spn au bingo #any fandom goes bingo #sam x dean #fluff #suit kink

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magioftheseas · 4 years

Text

Repressed/Stunted

For @badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Please Don’t Leave Me taken from here.

Rating: T+

Warnings: Possessive and violent thoughts but in terms of content, nothing really.

Notes: I finally wrote a full-ish Pokemon BW fic, focusing on FerrisWheelShipping because... Yes! This one’s on the messier side, sorry. I have a lot of feelings about my Trainer Touko/Hilda headcanons. I just think she should be much more aggressive. So, I explored that a little. Hope it’s okay. =m=

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

It had taken a while to ‘break N in’, so to speak. When she first offered that he stay with her and her mom, he had of course been anxious. Wary. He grew only more skittish the closer they got to Nuvema, and the only reason he hadn’t bolted the second the door opened was because her mom had greeted him so warmly.

“So you’re the friend she’s talked so much about! Come in, come in!”

She had wondered, of course, if N had ever known a mother’s affection. Judged by his dumbfounded stare and the way he trailed after her mother like a lost Lillipup, she suspected that wasn’t the case.

He really is a child, isn’t he?

“She looks a lot like you,” he had remarked. “That’s normal, isn’t it? What about your father?”

“We don’t really talk about him,” she had replied with an easy laugh. “I barely even knew him.”

“Oh. Was he bad?”

Like yours?

She had shrugged.

“Like I said, I don’t know. Can’t really make those kinds of calls on someone I didn’t know.”

“I see.” N blinked at her, eyes wide. “That’s such a noncommittal response. So mature, Touko.”

Mature?

The relationship between her and N had always been a little weird. From the start, N saw her as a rival and a counterpart to himself. With his own grand self-image, she couldn’t deny the expectation in that sparkling gaze of his was beyond uncomfortable and frustrating. Even now, N looks at her like there’s more than what she is, and the weight of that is crushing on her shoulders. With his life and world crumbled, his pedestal of her remained.

She still wants to tackle him sometimes for that. It would be inappropriate to do so at the dinner table, so she just thrums her fingers along the surface, and she takes in how her mom prepares their plates with a smile and a laugh. Like nothing is amiss. Like nothing ever went wrong.

“How long are you staying with us, N?” her mother asks. “I certainly don’t mind having an extra pair of helping hands around.”

“Touko insisted I’d come and she’s quite scary,” was his answer. “When I told her my living conditions, she went into a rage.”

“Because he sleeps outside,” she huffed. “In the cold. Without even a tent.”

“My friends keep me warm, Touko. It’s not cold at all.” N shook his head. “Not to mention tents are windy and unyielding.”

“Yeah, he’s staying with me until further notice.” A pause, and it was probably then that Touko realized how rude she was being. “T-That’s alright, isn’t it, mom?”

“As I said, I don’t mind,” her mom chirped. “It’s nostalgic, isn’t it? Having a friend stay over. Both Cheren and Bianca are so busy these days. How are they doing?”

“They’re...doing fine,” she says because she’s not sure what else to say. “Don’t worry. I’m looking into getting our own place so this shouldn’t be a permanent setup.”

Her mother’s smile is broad. N eyes her curiously. Intently. She doubts he understands this situation, the undercurrents brought about by societal expectations and pressures. He was sheltered from all of that—she wondered if he even truly understood what independence was. N was a couple of years older, yes, but he was also much, much more immature.

Not that it’s his fault or anything.

“You don’t have to be in such a hurry, Touko,” her mom said. “Just grow up at your own pace.”

“Can’t help it,” she huffed. “I don’t like to fall behind.”

Cheren and Bianca seem to be on a path that’ll suit them for the rest of their lives. Or at least the foreseeable future. Meanwhile I—still have no idea what I want, exactly. Besides that guy.

“Is this a competition?” N asked, quite confused. “I apologize. I do not understand at all.”

I want him. To be with him. Maybe that’s shallow, but... It’s because he’s so innocent that I can’t help it.

“It’s irrational,” Touko explained. “It’s not really meant to be understood so much as felt.”

“I...see. I don’t suppose you can explain those feelings in greater depth?”

“Not with formulas, no. Sorry.”

Inferiority, desire, and drive. I’ve always been the kind of person to let my emotions guide me. Blind leading the blind. I even ended up on going in circles looking for this stupid, stupid guy.

N was frowning, almost pouting, and she wanted him fiercely.

“Even as a human, you’re particularly arduous, Touko.”

“It’s not good human behavior,” she admitted. “But it’s not bad for a rival, huh?”

I say like I hadn’t crushed Cheren under my heel. Like I haven’t made Bianca almost cry. Like it’s not a great thing that both of them moved on from me.

“At least you’re not inflexible,” N mused. “Some humans are. It’s really frustrating. I can still only communicate properly with a select few of them. Beyond you and Mei, of course.”

That’s a bad thing. You left in the first place to gain a greater understanding. I shouldn’t be a little happy to hear that.

“A lot are flexible,” she said. “Keep trying, N. Don’t give up. And if someone is being particularly stubborn—I’ll beat them up.”

“Not battle them?”

“Sometimes you can settle matters with your own two fists, N. Oh, but only leave that to me. Don’t get into any fights. Be diplomatic where you can.”

“I know that,” N replied, brow furrowed. “Ghetsis made it clear that such physical means were...unsightly.”

“It’s because I don’t want you getting hurt, obviously,” Touko said. “Not to mention it’s for the sake of everyone else. I don’t think I’d be able to hold back against someone who hurt you.”

Even that monster’s name is enough to drive me into a white-hot fury. N’s incredible, isn’t he? For saying it. So easily.

N does bristle this time. With a predictable amount of childishness.

“I can handle myself. I don’t need a guard.”

“Oh, no,” her mother cut in. “Touko’s just like that with her friends. It can be a nightmare to deal with especially when she tried to physically fight Bianca’s father.”

N blinked, and his mouth opens. It closes without a word, leaving behind only a soft hum. Touko, too, said nothing in response. She felt no need to protest nor defend herself.

“Some things never change,” her mother just sighed, preparing the plates. “But, well, enough about that. Let’s eat!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“Thank you for the food,” N muttered, head ducked.

After the food was set out and the table made, they ate in relative silence and comfort. Touko wondered if she should have been relieved that N knew to use utensils. She then felt foolish for the thought. N wasn’t completely untamed, obviously. That monster wanted at least the appearance of refinement, so N would know how to function somewhat in a social setting such as eating at the table. Thinking of it that way, Touko found herself wishing N wouldn’t have bothered with the pretense. Even now, the way he operates forks and knives was stiff and almost mechanical. Between that and his tightened features, it was clear just how nervous the other was.

“Is it any good?” her mother asked, ever kindly and worriedly. She no doubt took notice as well.

N’s nod was more of a spastic jerk.

“Thank you for the food.”

It was too much to take, so she looked away for now.

“Thank you for the food,” she echoed in a drone.

N was a couple of years older than her. Physically, he was in the early stages of adulthood. But with how much of the world he’s seen, he might as well still be a child. He’s a lot like Bianca, body growing faster than allowed. Sheltered and sweet, only N’s upbringing was of a much more sinister nature.

N was once a king. At the time, Touko wanted to crush him. To smash him between her palms and wipe the remnants off her shorts. She had pretty strong feelings against him. His smug attitude and upturned nose, the way he would continuously dart his eyes towards her team attached to her belt. He spoke so quickly that she wanted to wring his neck.

All that said, she wanted to shove her tongue down his throat. Be it because of hormones, because he was the first guy she really got to know besides Cheren, or even because N was just pretty to look at, there had been undeniable attraction. Attraction which hadn’t even been separated from violence.

And now, she—doesn’t want to hurt him. Because she knows how vulnerable he really is. How he had been manipulated by a monster and how his face had crumbled like paper when called a freak. When she wanted to embrace him, it was fueled purely by the desire to keep him safe from the rest of the world.

She still let him leave. She understood that he needed to understand things for himself. She had been his ultimate rival, but they hadn’t been friends. She couldn’t have expected him to confide in her. And, yet, she still chased after him and now that they’ve reunited... She frankly has no intention of letting him go again, even if it’s for his own good.

N was stated to have a pure and innocent heart. The only thing pure about Touko was pure stubbornness.

“Mom’s nice.”

“Yeah, she is.”

She doesn’t correct N. Her mother didn’t either, finding it endearing if a bit sad. Touko did think to tell her not to pity him, because N doesn’t like to be pitied—but she thinks her mother might ask her more about N, and she doesn’t want to talk about him. Or rather, what she knows about him.

She kind of wants to keep it to herself out of the messed up desire to keep N to herself.

“It’s warm,” N said. “Nothing like the castle at all. It’s all calm. Calming. I envy your upbringing, Touko.”

He’s a little tall for the futon that her mother laid out. Touko stares at him shifting awkwardly.

“You’ll get used to it,” she finally replied. “You’re gonna stay here for a while, yeah?”

He hums softly.

“If you’ll have me.”

She could’ve laughed, even as she did have the decency to feel the slightest twinge of guilt. It wasn’t enough to admit the truth. She only felt guiltier because N thought highly of her. Like this—she was taking advantage of him. She’s been with Bianca long enough to know how to be gentle with people, and yet...

“Sorry.” She slips off her bed, hovering over him before pressing down on her hands. With N’s head in-between, she held herself over him with resolve. “You’re not lonely with me here, right?”

When that monster told you the truth—when he spat in your face about inhumanity, I can’t even imagine how you felt. Devastated? Shattered? Perhaps—you felt the loneliest you’ve ever been. I get it. I do. I understand why you had to get away. But—that didn’t stop me from wanting to scream “please don’t leave me!!”

“It’s a little lonely,” N admitted, because he really was so unabashedly honest. His eyes were bright, but her reflection within them looked a little twisted. “The reason for that is because you’re closed off from me, Touko.”

Ah.

Aha.

Her heart nearly stuttered through her ribcage. Funny how words like that could cut through her.

“Are you mad?” N asks so sadly, reaching up and cupping her face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving.”

This idiot really has such trouble understanding the human heart. But, he’s trying. Oh, Arceus, he’s trying so much. For years, he’s been trying.

Swelling with adoration, Touko turned to kiss his palm, nuzzling into that hand. N pets her for that, and maybe to him it’s just like reassuring a friend. Gentle touches to show that the world isn’t entirely cruel. If she had been a tad more immature, she would’ve recoiled at the idea of being treated like she was broken. But because she’s mostly selfish, she accepts his affection greedily.

I’m not letting you go again. Sorry, N. Sorry.

At least N holds her like he doesn’t want to let go, either.

#Magi fics #bad things happen bingo #FerrisWheelShipping #Pokemon BW #bad things bingo

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Divided, United

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Scott, Virgil, John

Waking up bound in a dark room is never good news, but the absence of the brother he saw shot in front of him just makes it worse.

Another @badthingshappenbingo this time with the square “Taking the Bullet” - featuring Virgil (as requested by @gumnut-logic).

I’m still taking prompts for non-Scott TAG characters for the other squares! I have at least one character per prompt for most of them now, but I’m always up for adding more (sometimes it’s that addition that gives me the spark I need!)

Scott’s eyes snapped open. It was dark, the sort of gloom in a house after sundown when no-one bothered to turn the lights on. Nothing moved, a stillness in the air unnatural to a man who had grown up with someone else always nearby – brothers, roommates, squadmates – telling him that he was alone. Completely and utterly alone, the only sound his own breathing – bordering on ragged, a panic stirring in the back of his mind from a source beyond his grasp.

He was lying on his side, crumpled as though he’d fallen, but when he tried to move he found that assessment to be inaccurate. A loud clang reverberated through the space – must be quite small, to echo that loudly – and his leg stopped short as something yanked on his ankle. Cautiously sitting up, he found that his arms were wrapped around behind him, something that wasn’t coarse like rope or metal like handcuffs binding his wrists together. Some sort of plastic, zip ties, maybe, although if that was the case there were a lot of them.

A chain on his ankle and wrists bound. Scott shuddered, nightmares rearing their ugly, monstrous heads, but this wasn’t the same. Not quite, and he focused on the differences to drive the nightmares back down into the box he tried to keep them locked up in. He wasn’t in uniform – in any uniform, he was alone, and he wasn’t… wasn’t there. He’d never been there since, the one country Thunderbird One never attended.

Slowly, he wrestled the box shut again, nightmares lashing out at the draw of the familiar even as Scott convinced himself it was different. It was different, he’d been in New York, catching some fresh air after a meeting with stuffy investors who were trying to claim that as they were investors in Tracy Industries, and the Tracy family were International Rescue, surely that meant they were investors in International Rescue, too? That wasn’t how it worked, International Rescue weren’t funded by Tracy Industries but rather out of their own pockets, but some investors were greedy and wanted their fingers in that pie, too, never mind that International Rescue was non-profit.

He’d been in New York but this wasn’t New York – or at least, wasn’t any part of New York near the offices. Too quiet, no traffic to be heard, and the city never slept.

Masked men, outnumbered, and-

Scott surged to his feet, bound hands be damned, only to crash back down as the chain on his ankle pulled taut. He landed painfully on his shoulder, a cry forcing its way out past clenched teeth, but that didn’t stop him and he pulled himself up again, this time managing to keep his balance.

He was alone, and while that had been a comfort, a defence against the rising nightmares moments earlier now it was a source of a whole new terror, because in New York he hadn’t been alone. Virgil had been with him, snatching some downtime and some time with just the two of them, but Scott was alone now and where was Virgil?

His eyes had adjusted to the gloom enough to find the door and he lunged for it, clattering to the floor just short when the damn chain pulled taut again. He tugged at it, jarring his leg again and again, but the metal wouldn’t give.

The door opened suddenly, bright white light streaming in and leaving him blinking furiously, blinded. A silhouette stood there, tall and muscular. No defining features were visible, and Scott snarled at them.

“I see our sleeping beauty’s awake at last.” It was a modulated voice, cobbled together from various electrical sounds. Scott couldn’t even tell if they were male or female. “You’ll only hurt yourself if you keep that up; the chain won’t break.” Even with the electronic edge to the voice, the contempt was clear in their tone. “Be a good little detainee and you’ll leave here in one piece.”

Defiant, Scott tugged at the chain again. “Where is he?” he demanded. “What did you do with him?”

They laughed and turned away, pulling the door closed. Scott let out a strangled yell and launched himself forwards again, feeling something give in his ankle before he crashed to the ground again, landing on his chest and getting a mouthful of dust. In front of him, the bright light had narrowed to a sliver as the door almost closed, hovering in that liminal state between open and closed for just a moment.

“We only needed one.”

The door shut, a click loud in the sudden silence – soundproofing, he noted absently, but that didn’t matter because we only needed one and there had been a gunshot, a yell of pain, a body hitting the floor.

Virgil had gone to get a drink, no point both brothers going inside the coffee shop just down the road to pick up some to-gos and out of the two of them Scott was more recognisable so he’d stayed outside, lurking behind the offices on private, Tracy-owned land while Virgil made the run. Virgil was also only there to kill some time, dressed in his favourite flannel and jeans combination, while Scott was in full CEO regalia of several-thousand-dollar suit and sharply styled hair. Virgil had refused to give him some solidarity by wearing his own suit, because all of his little brothers were a pain like that, not that Scott didn’t understand. He wouldn’t wear it if given the choice, either.

How they’d got past security, he didn’t know, but one minute he’d been alone and admiring what little he could see of the sky in the middle of the city, and the next there had been five assailants grasping at him, creasing his pressed suit and brandishing guns in a way that screamed untrained. Untrained gunmen were dangerous, trigger-happy and not quite in control. As far as kidnapping attempts went, it was pretty rubbish. Scott should have been able to drive them off long enough for security to appear, and after a little bit of excitement it would all be over. It was hardly the first time someone had tried to jump him in the middle of a city – it was an occupational hazard of being rich.

Security hadn’t arrived, but Virgil had, dropping two coffees and a paper bag of baked goods that had smelt heavenly at the scene before making a move towards the nearest assailant. He wasn’t military trained, but he was Kayo-trained and there shouldn’t have been any issues.

Except these people weren’t trained gunmen, and in the chaos a shot had gone off before either of them could relieve that particular person of their gun.

“Scott!”

He hadn’t been in a position to see the gun in question, see where it had been pointing, but a flannelled shoulder had barged him, knocking him off balance, and a moment later they’d both been on the floor and Virgil’s red flannel was the wrong shade of red, a frayed hole in the fabric. It had been in the back, somewhere shoulder-ish. Bad, Scott’s mind had supplied, breaking through the sudden numbness and compelling him into action.

Too slow. The numbness had frozen him in place a split-second too long and he’d been dogpiled, muzzle of a gun digging painfully into his shoulder – metal warm and the smoky scent of gunpowder trailing it – and a prick in his neck.

Now he was in a room – small, featureless except for the chain linking his ankle to the wall and a thick, soundproofed door – and Virgil wasn’t. Virgil, who had taken a bullet pushing him out of the way, who wasn’t needed, who had probably been left to bleed out in that small area behind the offices where no-one went because it was private, Tracy-owned. Virgil, who would not have been left if they’d thought he could talk, maybe even shot again after Scott was down to make sure he couldn’t.

Scott shuddered again and changed tactics, heaving at his wrists, rubbing them together for friction and ignoring the burn of his skin. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, how long the drug had kept him down for, but Virgil needed him – if he was still alive, the voice that said all the things Scott tried to ignore muttered in the back of his mind – and he had to get out.

Warm liquid trickled down his hands, and idly he noted that his suit was probably past all repair, but he kept pulling, grit his teeth through the pain he ignored because he had to.

There was no give in the bonds at all. Not zip ties, then, because Scott had been trained to break free of those years ago. Something stronger, more durable, more than a match even for a frantic man whose mind was clouded by fear for his brother.

That wasn’t working. There had to be something, anything, he could do. He was still in his suit-

His suit. A plain business man’s suit that wasn’t as plain as it looked because Brains never let any of them go anywhere without at least some inventions shoved up their sleeves – literally. The laser cufflinks wouldn’t be any use – he couldn’t reach them, and even if he could, without being able to see where they were aiming there was a high chance he’d laser himself. Scott wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

The comm unit in his lapel, however…

It took some contortionism, his shoulders and wrists screaming out in pain as he was forced to hold them in an awkward position until his chin could just about reach far enough to depress the patch.

“Scott!” John responded immediately, before Scott could even get a word out. He sounded panicked, harried in a way John rarely was. “Scott, are you okay?”

“Virgil,” he grunted, wheezing as his muscles trembled. “Is he-”

“We’ve got him,” John cut him off. “He was lucky – a clean shot that missed anything fatal. Hospitalised, but he’ll be fine. Kayo’s with him.” Scott sighed in relief. Kayo wouldn’t let anything else happen. Virgil was safe, alive, and their assailants were fools. If, he thought with some irritation, fools with access to a dark room with an embedded chain in the wall. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Scott lied, feeling the warm liquid seeping from his wrists and the throbbing of his ankle. “They haven’t touched me.” That was the truth, at least. “Where am I?”

“Downtown. I’ve got someone working on extraction now. Do you know their motive?”

Someone? That was ambiguous.

“They haven’t been particularly chatty,” he shrugged, trying for a nonchalance he didn’t really feel. “There hasn’t been a ransom?”

“Nothing so far,” John confirmed, and Scott could hear that he shared his unease. No ransom meant they weren’t after anything from the family – no money, nothing IR. The statistics of recovered kidnap victims were low – alive, at any rate – and without even a ransom to imply they were considering it, Scott’s future was looking bleak.

“How long until your someone’s getting me out of here?” he asked, and there was a bit of fear in there, now, because Scott knew he was valuable for more than just money. Information was a popular currency, and he knew a lot of classified information. Unfortunately, the fact that he knew some wasn’t so classified.

“Working on it,” John repeated. “Hang tight, and don’t cut the line. I’ll mute my end if you get company.”

“F.A.B,” Scott agreed, more than a little relieved, although he did his best to hide it. He wasn’t alone, but John was untouchable, up in Five. They couldn’t use him against him.

“Do me a favour and don’t do anything that’ll get you injured,” John continued. “You might need to run for it.” Scott glanced down at the chain bolted to the wall, and the ankle that wasn’t going to want to bear his weight for very long.

“I’ll do my best,” he replied. “But if you want me running, your extraction’s going to need some chain cutters. I’m bolted to a wall.”

There was silence for a moment. “Noted,” John eventually said. “What else?”

“Hands are tied, some sort of strong plastic, I think,” he reported. “A knife should handle that.”

There was another silence and this time Scott could feel John judging him, putting two and two together in that way he had. “Help is on the way. Stop trying to escape and wait for it.” Busted. “We don’t know what they want with you so don’t give them a reason to hurt you.”

Now that he knew Virgil was going to be okay, and that someone – ‘someone’, probably Penelope, if Kayo was on guard duty with Virgil – was working on getting him out, Scott could manage a little patience. Probably. He still wouldn’t be happy until he’d seen Virgil for himself. John had an annoying habit of understating things if he thought they’d be a distraction.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he allowed. Depending on what they wanted, that might not be avoidable. He shifted to get a little more comfortable, swallowing the hiss as his ankle protested. “The sooner your extraction gets here, the better.”

“They’ll be there as soon as they can. Just hold on.”

Still no clues who he was waiting for, but Scott didn’t get a chance to ask. The door slammed open, blinding him with bright light again and he hissed involuntarily, fighting the instinct to turn away.

John, thankfully, had the sense to not comment, and Scott hoped he’d muted comms as he’d said he would.

The silhouette was different to the last one – a little shorter and wider – but the voice was the same, electronic not-voice. “Good morning.” Morning? It had been mid-afternoon when he’d been attacked; how long had he been unconscious for? “I hope you enjoyed your nap.”

Okay, that was cliché, although still annoying. Scott glared at him. “What do you want?”

They advanced, carefully measured steps, but Scott refused to scramble back, keeping his gaze steady even as his heartrate jumped. Fingers, nondescript and gloved, cupped around his throat, pressure barely-there but still setting his nerves alight.

“I have what I want.” The electronic voice purred, and more fingers spidered their way up his face, trailing along the line of his jaw in a touch that should have been tender but did nothing except alarm Scott. His alarm only grew when it stopped, relocating to cup his cheek in a mockery of Grandma’s caring touch, and a thumb tugged at his lower lip.

He snapped at it, jerking his head to dislodge the touch, but the hand on his throat tightened, fingertips pressing uncomfortably on his jugular.

“Feisty,” they observed, although they didn’t pull back. Scott tried to yank back, escape the hand, but the grip was too tight. “You’ll make a wonderful addition to my collection.”

“What collection?” he demanded, voice coming out strangled by the grip on his throat. The hand returned to his cheek, thumb once again tugging at his lip, and he let out another strangled snarl.

“You’ll see,” they sing-songed. “There’s a lot of use for a man like you.” The pressure on his lip disappeared and the fingers glided along the line of the jaw again. Light, barely there, but sending spikes of alarm all through Scott. “Oh, that’s a nice look,” they commented and he realised something must be showing on his face. “I like it. But there’s something that would make it better.”

They clicked their fingers, the noise sharp and unexpected enough to make Scott flinch, and then there were more footsteps. The silhouette this time, from what little he could see past the one still gripping his throat, was larger than even the first person, probably around about his own height.

“The spider ring would look best, I think,” they said. Before Scott could work out what that meant, there were fingers gripping his hair, tilting his head back so far it was painful, fingers in his mouth yanking his lower jaw down with more strength than he could fight. Something with the cool, sharp taste of metal was forced into his mouth, and with both assailants holding him still he couldn’t dislodge it as a strap went around his head, pulling tight and catching some strands of hair painfully.

By the time they released him, his mouth couldn’t close and he glared balefully at them, trying not to panic about what was happening or the implications behind it.

“Oh yes, that looks very good,” they mused, and there was a flash and click of a camera. “Enjoy.”

Scott tried to snarl at them but the noise came out slightly dampened. Both assailants – captors – ignored him and left the room, leaving Scott with a rising sense of dread and panic.

“John?” he tried to call as soon as the door slammed shut, but the damn gag got in the way, leaving a muffled mmmn? the only thing to escape.

“Scott?” Thank goodness John was smart, but Scott had much more on his mind than his brother’s intelligence now. Being kidnapped for ransom was one thing, information another, but this… whatever this ‘collection’ was, it put a chill all along his spine.

Get me out of here now, he tried to say, but all he managed was a fresh chorus of mmphs. John was a genius, but even he wasn’t going to be able to translate that. Scott cast around for something else he could use to communicate, beyond thankful that he still had his comm. The chain caught his eye, and he shuffled awkwardly, trying to reach it with his bound hands.

“Scott, ETA for extraction is fifteen minutes,” John told him. Either he understood gagged-speech after all, or he just knew what Scott needed to hear. He made grunts that hopefully got the F.A.B. across. “Stay calm. Breathe through your nose.” Scott knew that, but it was easier with his brother’s steady voice in his ear. “For clarification, it’s eighteen hundred hours local time. You’ve been missing for less than two hours and it most certainly is not morning.”

He reached the chain and gripped it with fingers slippery with blood. Breathing as deeply as he could, he tapped out F-A-B on it in morse, followed by P-L-A-N?

“Nothing subtle,” John told him. “I’ve got the building schematics and approximate life sign locations, so they’re going to blast their way in. If the door is north, which wall are you against?”

Scott squinted at the door through the darkness. C-O-R-N-E-R, he corrected. S-E.

“Can you leave the corner and head further up the East wall?” John asked. Scott started to shuffle, reluctant to part his fingers from the chain and his only way of communicating with John, before realising the chain was embedded in the so-called South wall.

N-O, he tapped out. C-H-A-I-N-S.

“Understood.” John fell silent for a moment, and Scott hoped – trusted – that he was relaying that information to the mysterious ‘someone’. “Move as far into the corner as you can. They’re approaching from the South-West direction.”

A time and location. Scott steeled himself and began the shuffle to wedge himself into the corner, chain clinking and ankle protesting the whole time. Part of him felt uneasy – into the corner meant nowhere to escape if his captors came back first, but with the chain on his ankle he couldn’t move away fast enough anyway.

He stopped only when he felt the cool masonry hemming him in on both sides, and reached for the chains again. H-E-R-E.

“Twelve minutes,” John told him. “Try not to leave that corner if you can.”

F-A-B. Scott curled up as best he could with the chain still beneath his fingers. The gag was gathering saliva in his mouth, drool starting to run unpleasantly down from the corners of his lips, but he couldn’t lick it away or swallow, despite his body’s reflexes. He kept breathing through his nose and did his best to ignore it. Twelve minutes. He could do that.

John kept talking to him, for the most part not about anything important – the stars he could see, theories he was working on, distractions from his current situation – but updating him on the extraction whenever something happened he thought he should hear about. It wasn’t the first time Scott had admired his brother’s ability to do multiple things at once, but that didn’t lessen his gratitude for the skill at all. Holding a conversation was limited when one party was limited to morse tapping, so he let John carry it, only responding to a direct question with simple Y-E-S, N-O, or F-A-B.

“Thirty seconds,” came the warning. “Scott, curl up as much as you can and protect your head.”

He didn’t waste time tapping out an acknowledgement. With his hands bound behind him, there was little he could do to shield his head except turning his back on the South-West corner and hunching over as much as his bonds allowed.

“Ten seconds.” He closed his eyes and focused on keeping his breathing even and not choking on the saliva that trickled back towards his throat in the change of position. “Five… four… three… two… one.”

The explosion was loud, hunched shoulders doing little to protect Scott’s ears from the blast, but the ringing in his ears was nothing compared to the sight of two of his siblings scrambling through the hole in the wall.

His eyes widened.

“Target located,” Kayo said sharply, fingers pressing down on the iR of her baldric, but Scott only had eyes for his brother, one arm in a rough sling.

So much for being hospitalised, he thought as Virgil knelt down by his leg and produced one of Alan’s so-called tin openers, the laser making short work of a link in the chain.

“No time for the rest,” his brother said apologetically, grasping him by the bicep and hauling him to his feet with his one good arm. “We’ve got to move.” Scott didn’t miss the worried glance at his ankle, but there was muffled shouting from outside and the priority was getting out. He could run on it, and did, Virgil’s hand still firm on his bicep. Kayo brought up the rear.

No-one ever mentioned how difficult running with a gag was. Every instinct Scott had was screaming for him to breathe through his mouth, but the saliva pooling made him choke every time he mistakenly took a breath. Between him and Virgil, he was by far the better runner, but even with one arm in a sling, it was Virgil pulling him along, keeping him upright as he stumbled.

Behind him came louder shouts of alarm, all still through electronic voice modulators, but it wasn’t until Virgil skidding to a halt that Scott realised one of them had got round in front of them and cut them off. The gun was pointed straight at Scott’s chest, wavering slightly.

“I won’t let you go!” they declared. It was the smallest one, the one that had mentioned a collection and decided to gag him. “You’re mine! Mine!” The gun trembled wildly, and Scott glanced around, trying to find a way out without any more injuries. He couldn’t talk, the gag still there, digging in painfully after his dash for freedom, but he couldn’t let that stop him. There had to be something he could do.

He took a step forwards, towards them, slow – unthreatening.

It was the wrong call.

They screamed.

The gun went off.

Virgil shoved him sideways, knocking him over and forcing a cry of pain as he landed badly on his ankle as well as the same shoulder he’d knocked painfully in the little room.

More gunfire, and his captor – his tormentor, the sensation of the gag still in his mouth, chipping his teeth, corrected – fell. Scott didn’t care about that, more interested in his brother. Virgil was down, one hand clutching at his hip, where his jeans – he wasn’t even in IR uniform? – were quickly becoming red with blood.

Scott’s hands were still behind his back, but with no chain tying his ankle to the wall he could pull his legs up and rotate his shoulders enough to hook his bound hands past his feet so they were in front of him. His wrists looked terrible, and it seemed like some sort of electrical cord had been used, but that wasn’t important. Not with Virgil bleeding from a gunshot wound for the second time that day – both wounds that should have been his instead.

His suit was expensive, but it was already ruined so he grabbed for the shirt and tore it, bundling it up into a wad of fabric before leaning over Virgil and pressing it over the bleeding area. Virgil let out a groan of pain but Scott couldn’t reassure him, couldn’t do anything except keep pressing, keeping the pressure on as the once-blue fabric darkened. His fingers were already slippery from his own blood, but even if he couldn’t feel it, he could see Virgil’s own blood joining the red concoction on his fingers.

A glance at Virgil’s face saw his eyes drifting shut, clouded with pain, and Scott let out a scream of frustration as he pressed down with all his weight. His arms were trembling – pain, exhaustion, maybe something else entirely, he didn’t know – but he kept holding on, because it was Virgil and he couldn’t lose him. Couldn’t lose anyone else, and definitely not when it was all his fault, when those bullets should have hit him.

Hands covered his – calm, steady hands – and he looked up to see Kayo, eyes grim.

“The GDF are on their way,” she told him. Her eyes drifted to his mouth before looking down at Virgil – white-skinned, blood staining both their hands. There was a silent apology in them, an acknowledgement of the gag but an inability to do anything about it when Virgil needed them more. Scott focused on his brother’s face, watching as Kayo snapped at him to stay awake, tapping his cheek with one bloodstained hand as the other pressed down with Scott’s.

“’mwake,” Virgil slurred, although his eyes barely opened a sliver. “Sc’t?”

Worry about yourself, Scott tried to say, but it came out a mixture of mmphs and hacking coughs as more saliva ended up back in his throat.

“You’re worse,” Kayo said firmly. “Scott will be okay. John, where’s the GDF?”

“Two minutes out,” Scott’s lapel said, echoed by Kayo’s own comm. “What happened?”

“Virgil’s collecting bullets today,” Kayo told him. “Right hip, this time. No exit wound.”

“I’ll tell them to hurry up,” John said bluntly. “Hostiles?”

“Neutralised.” Kayo’s voice was grim, leaving Scott to translate that to dead. Normally he’d be upset about that, lethal force never the answer, but they’d shot Virgil twice, who knew what they’d been planning to do with him, and he was so tired even though he’d spent a large chunk of the past two and a half hours unconscious.

Scott just wanted to go home.

It was Colonel Casey herself who led the troops out of the GDF flyer two minutes later as they touched down, running over to them almost unprofessionally as she directed her soldiers to clean-up, aside from the medics who made a beeline straight for them. It was also the Colonel who pulled Scott back gently, out of the way of the medics, and brandished a small knife to cut the straps of the gag.

He coughed as she eased the metal out of his mouth, batting his hands away lightly when he tried to do it himself, hacking up all of the saliva that had been pooling and overflowing before swallowing painfully.

“Virg-” he started, but his voice broke and the Colonel hushed him, clearly more in godmother mode than military.

“My people are dealing with him,” she assured him. “He’ll get the best care; John’s already alerted the local hospital.” Scott lunged forwards anyway as his brother was loaded onto a stretcher and hurried away, almost falling over until his godmother caught him. The knife flashed again and the cables wrapped around his wrists fell away, revealing just how raw and bloody the skin was. “They’re waiting for you as well, Scott. Can you walk?”

Could he walk? He’d just run out of the building with who knew how many pursuers on his tail. He could hobble over to the flyer.

He dragged his way to his feet, only for his ankle – still with a metal cuff around it, even if it wasn’t linked to a chain anymore – to buckle. Colonel Casey caught him and tugged his arm around her shoulder. She didn’t insist he wait for a stretcher, however, but patiently helped him limp forwards, a supporting arm around his waist. The woman was much shorter than him, but showed no signs of struggling as she guided him up the ramp and got him settled in a jump seat by Virgil’s stretcher, foil blanket around his shoulders.

His brother was unconscious, but that didn’t stop Scott from reaching for him, trembling hand probing the arm in a sling. His hip had been bandaged, field treatment that would hold until he got into surgery, but it was the earlier wound that Scott wanted to see.

It was Kayo who caught his hand and gently tugged it away, pressing a clean cloth to his bloody fingers despite his protests.

“Kay-” he protested, but she was firm.

“Drink.” A lidded cup with a straw was presented to him, straw prodding at his lips. “It’s just water.”

“Bu-” The straw slipped past his lips.

“Drink. You’re a mess, Scott.” Kayo’s voice was soft but unyielding and he reluctantly obeyed. A gentle finger touched the corner of his mouth and he flinched away. “Hold still; it’s raw.” He’d barely registered that pain when there was his wrists, ankle, and Virgil, but it was noticeably soothed by the gel Kayo applied. “Can you hold the cup?” she asked, guiding both of his hands to it, and he grasped it. “Just while I get this off your ankle.”

She had another of Alan’s tin openers, and he sat still as she lasered through the metal, scant millimetres from his skin. Only when it landed on the floor of the flyer with a clatter did he move, putting the cup down on the seat next to him and returning his attention to Virgil. Kayo didn’t stop him from looking, but she caught hold of his hand again and continued to wipe away the blood from around his wrists, rolling up the sleeves of his ruined, bloodstained jacket to chase the blood where it had trailed in both directions.

“It’s going to be okay, Scott,” she promised, but he barely heard her.

Their arrival at the hospital had Virgil whisked away from him before he could even stand on his feet, and his attempts to follow were thwarted by Colonel Casey, who forced him back into the seat while Kayo vanished.

“You can barely walk,” she scolded, and two men appeared behind her, a stretcher between them. “You will be entering that hospital on the stretcher.” He protested, but she stood firm. “The longer you argue about this, the longer it will be until you see Virgil again. Stretcher, Scott.”

Scott glared at her, but there was no way he could get past her and her men on a dodgy ankle and they both knew it. At a gesture, the two men with the stretcher approached and, defeated, Scott had no choice but to let his godmother help him onto it. Firm arms made him lay down before they finally left the flyer. Colonel Casey accompanied him the whole way, probably to make sure he didn’t try and make a run for it, until he was delivered directly to the doctors waiting.

It was several hours before he saw Virgil again. The hospital room he had ended up in, one shoulder in a sling of its own, wrists bandaged and ankle set from where it had apparently been broken, had a second bed, which they had promised would be Virgil’s once he was out of surgery. It was that promise, and Kayo’s reappearance, that kept him in the room rather than attempting to escape. Mainly Kayo’s sudden presence on his bed, not quite sitting on him but close enough that it didn’t really make a difference.

“It’s not your fault,” she told him, hand on his shoulder – the one not in a sling, apparently dislocated.

“He got shot twice today, and both times were because of me,” he protested.

“And if the situations were reversed, he’d be the one sat here feeling guilty and you’d be the one in surgery for your second bullet of the day,” Kayo pointed out. “It wouldn’t have been his fault, and it’s not your fault.”

She was talking sense, but that wasn’t enough to calm him down, not when it had been his inattention, his misjudgement. Nothing would, and definitely not until he saw Virgil again. Not even John, flickering into view from her comm, or his other two brothers, roaring in from the other side of the world in Thunderbird Two and piling onto his bed for frantic hugs and assurances that he was okay, could get the image of Virgil, white and bleeding, out of his head, or the manta my fault, all my fault.

At one point, Kayo slipped away, taking John with her. Gordon and Alan kept him forcibly pinned to the bed in her absence, to Scott’s frustration, but when she returned there was a satisfied air to her, shared by John’s hologram.

“The organisation’s been shut down,” she informed them. “The GDF tracked down all the surviving members with John and Lady Penelope’s help” – otherwise translated as John and Lady P tracked them down and sic’d the GDF on them – “and all of their bases have been seized.”

“It was an organisation?” Gordon asked, eyes narrowed. Alan just curled up under Scott’s good arm and hugged him tightly.

“A sloppy one,” John said. “They only got away with it as long as they did because they never targeted a high-profile individual until Scott.” His disgust at that was clear, and Scott could well imagine that somewhere, heads were rolling.

“What were they even after?” Alan asked. “It can’t have been money or there would have been a ransom.”

“They had ties to the black market,” Kayo replied, a little too quickly. “Slavery.” She spat the word. “The GDF are now working to find all the victims and their buyers.”

That didn’t make sense, not from what his captors had told him, but Scott sensed the lie was for his brothers’ benefit. He’d get the truth out of them later, especially as that was the moment the doctors appeared, transporting a sleeping post-op Virgil into the other bed.

His siblings physically restrained him as he tried to get out of bed, at least until the doctors reminded him to stay in bed, promised that Virgil was fine and would make a full recovery, and left. As soon as they were gone, it was a different story.

“You should stay in bed,” John sighed, but it was a lost cause and they all knew it. Gordon was the one to help him up, the aquanaut as ever stronger than he looked, while Kayo guarded the door and Alan hovered on his other side, poised to move in if necessary.

Deposited into the chair by his brother’s bed, Scott reached out tentatively to look at the wound – both wounds. They were freshly dressed, no sign of blood, and Virgil’s skin was no longer white but somewhere closer to his regular colour.

He was going to be okay. Scott knew he wouldn’t fully believe it until Virgil opened his eyes, but his pulse was strong and even, and unfortunately Scott had seen his brother in a similar state enough times to know it meant he was on the mend.

Recovery would take a while for both of them, and despite Kayo’s words and attempted use of logic, the gnawing guilt was still there, would join the brewing cauldron in his mind where all the my fault thoughts churned away, from minor things like the time John broke his arm on a dare Scott had made him to world-shattering things like I couldn’t save Dad.

But for the moment, Virgil was alive under his hands, sleeping deeply almost as though it was any old night home in bed, and Scott could at least let go of the what ifs, if not the what happened. He hadn’t lost a brother. Not today.

#badthingshappenbingo #bad things happen bingo #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #virgil tracy #john tracy #kayo kyrano #gordon tracy #alan tracy #colonel casey #taking the bullet #thunderwhump #thunderangst

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thewhumpstuff · 4 years

Text

Lucky?

Lucky - Kinda short. Might come back to it. Needed to yeet something into the void for the prompts. [I’m working on my caretake-y skills *nods*]

@badthingshappenbingo [Original Characters and content for - Rejected Apology] Whumptober Day: No. 7 - I’ve got you: Support and Carrying+Enemy to caretaker-ish [Sorta all three again. In concept any way.] Ten Trails: Guts Galore (1) - Dissection/Amputation and High spirits (8) False comfort (Though not exactly whumper’s POV oops) [@yuckwhump] TW/CW: Perhaps a little graphic? (though not really by whump standards) I can’t think of anything else. Please feel free to let me know if I missed something. Art at the end features poorly drawn blood and knife stab.

The faces were blurry, but Tariq could make out they were younger, closer to his age and A.J’s. They sat huddled around a mechanised crate, just outside the cell that the Acers were made to occupy. The Q.B agents were drinking and playing rummy, the retro way… with real cards. A.J clothes were stained with splotches of darkening copper, but he wasn’t bleeding any more. And it almost seemed like the lad had made a friend in the Q.B agent who sat furthest away from the bars of the cell, looking in. That man spoke over the din of his companions, addressing the battered Acer. "You're a medic too right? If you got a chance to fix up your dear Captain-” He jerked his jaw towards Tariq, without really looking away from his cards, “-here, what would you be willing to give us in return?”

Tariq shook his head at A.J bleakly. He knew the temptation of wanting to save a friend. To save a superior. A.J didn’t catch his eye, so Tariq was surprised when his underling shook his own head with more resolve than expected, “I’m not going to betr-” He was cut off by the man closer to the holding cell, “Yeah yeah, you won’t betray your precious G.C, could you stop talking to them and play, Dil” Dil chuckled, “You’re just scared he’ll tell me your cards, Garg. Tell you what, if I win this round, we let the medic pop his Captain’s jaw back, okay?” Tariq knew better than to fall for these games. But he did see a flicker of hope in A.J’s eyes. - Dil threw a wad of gauze into the cell after he slammed his winning hand down onto the surface of the crate. After the others peered at the cards, as if to confirm, he declared a winner. A.J scrambled to the gauze slowly. Carefully, he used it to pad his thumbs before rounding up on Tariq - His Captain. T was in no state to protest. Besides, though it was going to be unpleasant, if they truly let A.J reduce the dislocation, he couldn’t deny that he’d be grateful. He missed the chance to get a little snarky once in a while. Tariq held the fellow Acer’s gaze steadily, trying to keep his face devoid of any signs of pain. He tasted the grime and blood on A.J’s fumbling fingers as they invaded his slightly gaping mouth. The Captain sensed reluctance in the Officer. His tongue flicked against digits and the roof of his mouth alike as he tried to reassure A.J, “Just do it.” Unfortunately, there was no way to discern those words. Fortunately, A.J did follow the unheard order. Tariq snarled as A.J applied pressure. This was typically painful, but on a tender and swollen face, it truly was agony. The way his body involuntarily tensed did not help the sharp aches in his fractured knees and the sharp slicing in the shallow cuts just above and behind his heels. A low growl left him in a relieved exhale once the joint popped back into place. Tariq hissed and cursed under his breath. A.J withdrew and rolled away, so he could rest against the wall by his Captain. Dil clapped, “I always struggle with those, you were so fast. Wasn’t he so fast, Garg?” This Garg guy, was still sitting with his back to the cell. He hadn’t bothered to witness the spectacle. And he was still sour about losing. “Beginner’s luck, you’re not going to win again, sit down, fool.” Dil retaliated with a grin of cheeky victor, “And what if I do?” “If you do, we’ll let your rookie hotshot carry the mutt to the clinic and fix him up… But your ass is on the line when-” Garg made horns on his head with his fingers, “-Asura comes back.” Tariq was still reeling from the dull throb in his head and neck. He didn't care much for ranks, but he knew A.J did. He saw his face twist with a stab of shame. He knew how much the Officer hated feeling so useless and how much he'd feared precisely this situation. He would’ve said something. Even through the dull ache of a broken nose and the jaw that had just been popped back into place, Tariq grunted, "He's an Officer." Garg slipped of his seat and swiftly slammed open the door to the cell, “See, Dil, this is why we were going to leave him the way he was.” T earned himself a sharp backhanded slap. His face swivelled to the side in a way that made him want to slay the assaulter. Despite the violence though, the Q.B soldier did amend his statement. And though it was sarcastic, Tariq took solace in the small victory, "But the Captain is right, we must respect G.C ranks. I'm so sorry. Officer to Officer… Let’s see if luck favours you Acers and your fan over here.” The Q.B agent closed the cell up with a loud clang and soon they were all lost in the shuffle of the game again. A.J muttered an apology, “I’m so sorry, Captain.” “Apology. Not. Accepted... Ass-stick.” A.J’s face whipped to the side now, his eyes wide with guilt and admiration. Tariq still found it in him to remain composed and conjure humour, “I’m a lucky fucker, if they keep their word and your noodle-arms can’t carry me? Then you’ll have a reason to apologize.” -

As T had predicted, Dil did win another round. But it pissed Garg off badly enough for him to storm into the cell again, knife in hand. “Let’s at least give the rookie something to fix.” Tariq didn’t help matters by repeating, “Officer. O. f. f. i. c. e. r. Better spelled ou-” Garg scoffed and politely let Tariq finish the spelling, but nothing more. A coarse grunt interrupted the Acer’s words as the knife sliced through his deltoid. Before he had a chance to recover, another sharp cut tore through his chest. Tariq let out a strangled keen. But the silver of the blade didn’t stop drawing crimson from him. Not until he lost the will to scream. Garg’s exertion left him slightly breathless, “New scars to match the ones on his back.” When he felt done, he wedged the knife in Tariq’s left flank. The Acer’s eyes widened and he gasped as the steel pared his flesh. He could only hope it didn’t nick anything important. Dil stood with his forehead pressed against the bars, in disgusted shock and silence, the other two Q.B, agents sat frozen too. Garg caught his breath and went on, “Deal’s a deal. Have the O f f i c e r, carry this Captain, to the clinic. I want my knife back, but you should probably not take it out till you get there. I don’t want to deal with Asura or god forbid, Singhal if we lose him.” Dil finally found his voice, “Shoulda thought of that before you went all crazy, Garg!” Garg’s bloodshot eyes pinned the fellow Q.B. agent, “Unless you want a taste? Just do as I say okay?” With that, Garg left the corridor. Any onlooker could tell, this was not a difference in rank, but simply a difference in demeanour. Garg liked to push and Dil... didn’t quite push back. -

A.J was just beat up... But Tariq looked like he was going to fall apart. He wasted no time in getting to his feet and gingerly lifting his Captain. Tariq’s tall figure folded and draped itself across A.J’s hands. He winced with every move, but bit his lip to stay silent. With effort, he managed to loop his arms around the younger Acer’s neck. Tears stung A.J’s eyes and he feared he truly was going to drop his superior, given how slick the blood felt between them... Or worse... He was going to watch Tariq die in his arms. Dil hurried in to help. Through a curtain of sweat-slick hair, the anguish of broken joints and the pain that throbbed across every slice, Tariq managed a grin. Though his lids were heavy, the amber eyes that peeked at A.J, shined as brightly as ever. Tariq’s wink was almost lost. His lie was a whisper, “Hey… Ass--.. Tick… See... luc…ky! You… fix.. Me... Gon’ be… fine. ”

#whumptober2020 #no.1 #support #carrying #enemy to caretaker #ten trails #knife cuts #false comfort #badthingshappenbingo #rejected apology #whump #oc tariq #tempered grace

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