#the whumptober thing will still drop

[probssomethingorother]

My mind is going crazy right now with a big ole fat headcanon that the Jackson kids started an underground fight club.

Like all the kids think they are so cool and tough and start this thing, and it’s held in an old dank unused barn on the edge of Jackson and they have a roster and bets and its scarily organized, but somehow has also remained very hush hush.

You can’t just show up to the barn because they always change the days and times, so you have to be in the know.

And you can register as a coach to make extra off the bets if you bring in a new fighter kid. So ofc Jesse like basically pimps Ellie out as the wildcard pick even though she is so small in comparison, but he figures she’s FEDRA trained and can handle it. Jesse has known Ellie for less than a year and only through Dina, but it’s like whatever cause if she wins he won’t have to muck out stalls for like a month.

[hyperfixat]

day 14 of ai less whumptober: No Anesthesia

supporting these posts helps encourage my writing and creating, thanks!

(@ailesswhumptober)

The sound of one of your joints popping and the breaking of a bone are terribly similar.  Too similar, in fact.  The brothers have broken many bones in their infinite time. 

The first snap, crackle, pop of your joints had made everyone in the room freeze.  Leviathan, in the middle of talking about some new limited Ruri-chan figure, stopped.  All seven pairs of eyes stare at you in horror.

 Did the human die?  Are they broken?  Fragile thing, what would Lord Diavolo say?  

You freeze as well, hands intertwined and held above your head.

Lucifer seems to have gotten even paler than his usual pale-ness.  Mammon’s gaze catches yours and is filled with absolute horror, and Asmo.  Asmodeus looks on the verge of illness, eyes wide and face sickly gray.

“Ohmygod,” Levi breathes out in absolute shock.

“What’s wrong?” You’re a little nervous at their odd behavior, and as to what happened to make their moods flip so suddenly.

“Are you okay?”  Satan is on his feet, walking over to you, attempting to inspect you for any injuries.  Mammon flies to his feet as well.

“Hey, hey hands to yourself!  The Great Mammon can do that.”  He pushes Satan aside without any real force.  Together their hands and eyes cover you, like a TSA pat down.

“Does anything hurt?”  Lucifer asks while you’re nearly being groped.

“No?”  Confusion fills your voice.

A worried whimper comes out of Beel and he turns to Belphie, “so bad it’s numb.”  You think you hear him say.

“Nothing seems broken,” Satan says, he’s squatting down to check your legs and feet.  He lifts himself to standing.  His eyes are somber as he gently takes hold of your shoulders.  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Mammon shifts on his feet behind you, hand brushing over your shoulder blades, where you popped.

“Yeah?  I was just stretching…”

Asmo inches over to you, crawling on the floor slowly like you’re a landmine that could detonate at any second.

“You cracked.”  It’s an accusation.  Lucifer near glowers at you.

“It happens.”  You shrug.

“No it doesn’t,” Lucifer glares this time.

“Maybe not to you, but it’s normal,” you side eye him.  

A hand on the hem of your pants.  Asmo looks up at you, horror still plastered on his face.

Dramatic.

You pat his head and some color returns to his face.

“What happened then?”  Belphegor challenges you.

“I cracked my back.”

“How?”  Mammon’s jaw drops.  “That’s horrible.”

“It feels good.”  You defend.  “You guys can’t crack things?”

“No!”  Asmo cries out.  “That sounded horrendous.”

“Oh.”

It’s confusing, demons and angels don’t make sounds like that.  No one hasn’t let themself grow used to the noise, they’ll never let themselves.  Because the haunting what if? will never leave.

Eyes always fly to you the second one of your bones shift; it’s sweet they care, but they’re worried over nothing!  You’ve never broken a bone, ever.

You jinxed yourself.

Today you broke a bone.  Well, you’re pretty sure you’ve at least done something you shouldn’t have to your bone.  The splintered edge of the bone sticks out gruesomely from your forearm.  Yeah, that’s not normal.

Blood drips onto the bathroom floor and you don’t know why you aren’t crying right now.  The demon had handled you too roughly.  Shoved you out of the way too hard and you hit the air dryer bolted into the wall then this happened.

They had looked at you with a mixture of shock and fear as the sickening crunch of your arm registered, and the coppery scent of blood began filling the air.  Panic took over the stranger and they ran out of the bathroom, leaving you to sit on the floor and stare in shock at your horrible looking arm.

Your stomach churns and you look towards the ceiling and blink to try and clear your mind.

The demon fled the second his actions dawned upon them, fleeing the scene of the crime.  Smart fella.

The scent of blood permeates the air and you know you won’t be alone for long.  A hungry demon is bound to find you the way you are just bleeding.

And just as the thought hits you, the bathroom door flies open and Asmo is rushing towards you.  Concern and panic lace his features as he places a gentle hand on your injured arm.  You wince.

“Sorry, dear, but I need to get this tied off.”  His voice is sweet and your head rolls to the side as you relax, because your Asmo is here.  Things’ll be alright now.  Mammon stands anxiously behind him, avoiding looking at your wound.  

The bathroom door has swung closed again and you relish in the privacy of having you Asmo and Mammon take care of you.

“Oh, who did this, MC?” Asmo keeps the lilt in his voice, although it is strained.  “Hmm?  Who would hurt you?”  Golden eyes attempting to meet yours.

You crane your head further back to avoid the lure of Asmodeus’ eyes, “it was an accident.” 

There’s a tug at the junction of your elbow. 

He makes a displeased hum, “Mammon, fetch Satan for me, he’ll know how to fix this better than me.  Oh, Barbatos too if you happen across him.”

Mammon gives your uninjured arm a pat and follows orders.

“Alright sweetheart,” Asmo kisses your cheek, “this might hurt a bit.  I’m gonna have a little bit of help to fix your arm up.  You’re in good hands, doll.”

You hear ripping fabric then have to hold back a scream as Asmo begins to wrap the exposed gore.

“I know,” he sighs sympathetically.  “I know.”  He keeps it tight on your arm and you take some deep breaths.

The door swings back open and Satan and Mammon come in, Barbatos in tow.  Satan’s face twists into a grimace as the scent registers.  The two that Mammon fetched kneel at your sides adjacent to Asmo, Barbatos tears his white gloves off and takes hold of your upper arm, applying firm pressure.

“Fuck,” Satan hisses out, fidiling with his pockets.  He pulls out something silver and metallic and you wince and turn away.  

When you do so you bump your face into Mammon’s chest, where he’d taken to holding you steady.

You do your best to keep quiet when you feel them begin to work on your arm, but you can’t help a pained, breathless moan.

“Sorry, your pain cannot be helped,” Barbatos puts his bare hand on your knee and attempts to give it a comforting squeeze.  It doesn’t do much, but you're grateful.

You feel sharpness cutting away at flesh and muscle.  Your eyes bulge and you grip Mammon’s forearm with all the strength you can muster.

Fuck, it hurts so bad, it’s all you can do not to scream or passout.

“Shh,” Asmo soothes, you peek an eye open and glare at him.

“I can’t,” you stutter out.

“Yes you can, I’m almost done.” Satan says, voice plain.

You feel Barbatos stand and walk to the dryer you were shoved into.  Peeking out the corner of your eye you see him crouch and investigate.  His bloodied white glove runs through the half dried viscera painting the floor.  You’re torn away from watching him when a new pain rocks through your nerves. 

A sharp crunch resonates through your body as Asmodeus and Satan shove your bone back into place.  You let out a hoarse squeal and there’s a fresh round of hushing from Asmo and Mammon.  Your breaths come in wheezing bursts and Barbatos comes to kneel a bit in front of you.

“I trust these  three with fixing you up for now.  I must report this to the Young Master.”  Barbatos gives a sympathetic smile and stands to leave.  “I will tend to you at a later point, MC.”

A sharp, pointed pain in, and a sharp pain out.  Steeling your nerves you peek at your newly shoved back inside arm to see Asmo sewing your flesh shut as Satan holds it closed.

It takes an excruciatingly long three minutes for them to finish and tie off the stitches.

“Now, darling,” Asmo’s stained hand reaches to cup your jaw, “when we get home, we’ll talk about finding whoever did this to you.”

“Don’t be too harsh now, Asmodeus.”  Satan chides, holding your injured arm soothingly.  “They’re sure to be in a lot of pain right now.  Save that conversation for when they’re feeling better, okay?”  When he finishes the sentence, he nuzzles into the side of your head affectionately.  

“Let’s get you home now,” Asmo says, blatantly ignoring his older brother.

As Mammon helps you to your feet he speaks, “we should probably stop by the student council office and let Lucifer know that they’ll be missing from classes.  And,” Mammon turns his attention to you.  “Don’t you worry, the Great Mammon will be with you the whole time you’re healin’ up!”

[woso-fan13]

Whumptober 2023: 26 (Barca)

No. 26: “Sometimes I get so tired; I don’t even know myself.”

Seeing Double | Working To Exhaustion | “You look awful.” 

“Y/N,” a voice calls. 

You hum in response, not looking up from where you’re packing your bag. Practice had just ended and you were trying to get out of there as quickly as you could. You had a list of things you needed to do. 

“Want to come out tonight? We’ve got tomorrow morning off!” 

You still can’t place that voice. You know who it is- one of your teammates, obviously- but your brain is exhausted and can’t pack your bag while matching the voice to a name. 

“I can’t, not tonight,” you say, “have fun, though!”

You really did want to go. You would love nothing more than to have a night off to relax with your friends. But you knew you couldn't, you didn’t have time. Between practice and games for both club and national team and all of the travel associated with those, you stayed busy. Add to that your full course schedule at school and the countless commitments, you barely had time to sleep. 

Your bag is finally packed at this point, and you hike it up over your shoulder. You’re about to say your goodbyes when a different voice calls your name and stops you. Pausing, you look up to where Mapi stands with an amused look on her face. 

“Are you wearing that?” she asks. 

Confused, you look down. You had thrown leggings and a sweatshirt on after your shower, pretty much all of the girls were wearing the same thing. 

“Yeah,” you say, the statement coming as more of a question. 

“Your socks will get dirty,” she chuckles. 

You just blink at her, unable to process what she means. She takes pity on you, walking over to your locker. She grabs your shoes out, gently tossing them on the floor by your feet. 

“Oh,” you audibly say. 

“Yeah, oh,” Mapi copies you, “are you okay?”

You nod, shoving your feet into your shoes, “just busy.”

Mapi nods knowingly, “at least practice is over now. How about we drop you off so you can get some sleep?”

She motions to Ingrid when she says this. As your eyes move to look at her, you notice that the locker room is empty. Minus the said woman sitting on her locker and watching the two of you, everyone had left. You had no idea how you didn’t notice. 

“That’s okay, thanks though,” you decline, “I can drive myself, I have a whole list of things I need to do tonight.”

You yawn halfway through speaking, Mapi’s face softening. She scanned your face, noticing the large, dark bags under your eyes and the tiredness covering your features. 

“No, chiquita, you can’t drive home. You’re exhausted, it’s not safe.”

You want to argue, but you know she’s right. Before you can even begin to half heartedly disagree, Ingrid inserts herself into the conversation. 

“Mapi can drive you back in your car, and I’ll drive ours. Does that work?”

You nod in agreement. The idea satisfies Mapi too, as you can see her mirroring your nod. 

Since everyone was ready, the three of you moved to grab all of your things and head to the parking lot. Mapi shakes her head as she grabs your phone and keys from where you left them in your locker. She shoots Ingrid a look, both women frowning. You’re oblivious. 

—-

The drive home is short, thankfully you lived close to the club. You’re somewhat confused when Mapi gets out and follows you to the door, your confusion growing as Ingrid follows. Surely they weren’t planning on coming inside. 

They were. 

The two women didn’t allow you a chance to close the door, pushing their way inside. Mapi sets off to the kitchen, clearly on a mission. You can hear as she starts looking through cabinets, but you’re too tired to care. 

Ingrid places a warm hand on the small of your back, guiding you into the living room. You try to protest, insisting that you have things you need to do. She silences you quickly, insisting that you sit with her for only a few minutes. Agreeing with her, the two of you settle on the sofa. You’re leaning into her side, her hand stroking through your hair. You can feel your eyes drooping after a few seconds, but her gentle voice rouses you. 

“Stay awake, baby, just for a little while longer.”

You whine in response- something you’ll vehemently deny. Ingrid smiles, allowing you to silently rest against her until Mapi appears in the room.

She’s holding a plate in her hand, a sandwich and fruit sitting on it. Sitting on the table in front of you, she pushes it into your hands. 

“Coma,” she insists, “as much as you can.”

You manage about half the sandwich and all of the fruit before you look up to Mapi. She’s still sitting in front of you, watching you eat. She smiles encouragingly. 

“Done?”

You nod and she takes the plate from you. You’re somewhat surprised when she sets the plate on the coffee table, moving to sit next to you on the sofa. 

You try to wiggle out from between the two women. They gently stop you. 

“I appreciate you driving me home and making dinner, but I really do have things I need to do,” you argue. 

“You’re exhausted,” Ingrid simply says, tracing the bruises under your eyes gently with her thumb, “all you need is sleep.” 

Mapi chimes in before you can respond, “she’s right, peque, it’s time for bed.”

You really want to insist that you can’t sleep yet. But you’re so tired and they’re so kind and all you want to do is sleep. You don’t remember agreeing to sleep. You don’t actually remember anything after that point. 

Ingrid and Mapi watch as your body relaxes between the two of them, sleep finally taking over. The two remain still, chatting quietly. They don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize your sleep. Unfortunately, this includes moving because of the way you’re stretched across their laps. 

(They don’t mind this at all. They actually think it’s very fortunate.)

Eventually, they’re pretty sure you’re zonked for the night. As much as they would love to spend the rest of the night on the sofa with you, it wouldn’t be comfortable for anyone. After a brief argument, it’s decided that Mapi will get to carry you to bed. She stands up, cradling you against her. Sticking her tongue out at Ingrid, she walks to your room and settles you under the covers. She may also stay longer than necessary, pushing the hair off of your face and watching your soft features as you sleep. 

Meanwhile, Ingrid grabs the plate off of the coffee table. Going into the kitchen, she cleans everything up and starts the dishwasher. Walking over to the large calendar on the wall, she looks at the list of things to do under today’s date. 

—-

You wake up in the morning to the sun shining in through your blinds. That’s not good. You don’t remember falling asleep and you were supposed to be awake before the sun rose. Taking a deep breath and resigning yourself to less sleep tonight as you make everything up, you get out of bed. 

Walking into the living room, you notice that it’s much cleaner than when you went to bed. Suspiciously, you move into the kitchen. That, too, is sparkling clean. 

The next thing to catch your eye is the changes on your calendar. That was your baby, your whole life ran on that large whiteboard. So, when you noticed different color markers and new handwriting, your breath caught in your throat. 

Walking over, you can see the list of activities you were supposed to do last night crossed out. You also see that most of the things you need to do tonight are crossed out, instead replaced with a large “sleep!” 

Oh. 

Mapi and Ingrid had done it all for you. 

Tears well in your eyes at the kind gesture. You only manage to stop them when you hear quiet footsteps behind you. 

Turning around, you see a half awake Ingrid. She’s smiling, clearly pleased with the surprise. You hurry over and wrap her in a tight hug, whispering your thanks. Another set of arms joins the two of you- Mapi. 

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2023

No. 1: “How Many Fingers am I Holding Up?” | No. 5: Debris

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (pre-relationship)

Setting: Prison era

Warnings: Head injury

‘Please, don’t be dead. Please, don’t be dead!’ The railing on the stairs wobbled— a testament to the poor solidity of the building— as you hurried down the two floors separating you from the archer. The both of you agreed to tread carefully when entering the old hospital, the look of it not inspiring confidence but the probability of what it could contain overpowering any hesitance. Medical supplies were scarce in this world. Two Tylenol tablets and a pack of gauze would mean everything in what used to be the simplest of situations. 

“Daryl?” You called as loudly as you dared after shoving open the heavy metal door to the ground level. The hole in the flooring was easy to spot with the beam of your flashlight, several feet wide with dust still rising from the collapse. Your stomach twisted when there was no immediate reply, but another call was not necessary when you saw a piece of debris shift. A low groan followed the movement. You would swear that the moisture in your eyes was from the dust in the air. 

You had to hold the light in your mouth to help move the rubble covering him, but there he was. A little worse for wear but in one piece and blinking up at you with a dazed expression. The flashlight was propped against some of the wreckage so that your hands were free to help him sit up. 

“Are you okay?” He blinked a few more times and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. He didn’t answer, minutely swaying where he sat. “Dixon, are you with me?” 

Daryl finally seemed to realize you were speaking to him and met your eyes, more than a little disoriented. “Huh?” 

Worry gnawed at your heart. “Are you alright? How do you feel?”

“Like I jus’ fell through the floor fer a half full bottle’a meds.” His speech was a bit slurred, his movements slow and jerky. He held up the aforementioned antibiotics and shook the bottle lightly. “Still got ‘em though.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Let me look you over and then we’ll get out of here.” You left no room for argument. The archer quickly squeezed his eyes shut when the flashlight was pointed toward his face, swatting at your hand lazily. “Stop it, I need to look at your eyes, you big baby.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He slowly peeled open one and then the other, keeping his hand in front of them while they adjusted to the light. After a few seconds, he dropped his arm so you could see two evenly sized, reactive pupils. 

“Good. That’s good.” Lowering the light, you reached for the back of his head before he could think to stop the unwanted touch. Your fingers quickly probed at a wet, raised area. 

“Hey! Tha’ hurts, woman!”

“You’ve got a decent sized bump on your noggin, Dixon. How many fingers am I holding up?” You had perfected the art of ignoring his griping over the span of months you’d spent with him, a feat that the others in your little apocalypse family wished they all could achieve. Or maybe he just wasn’t as grumpy with you to begin with. Your hand hovered between you, three fingers wiggling to get his attention. 

Daryl scoffed and began preparing himself to stand, nonchalantly flipping up his middle finger. “How many m’ I holdin’ up?” 

You sighed with a fond smile, dropping your hand to his arm to help him get to his feet. “Yeah, you’re okay enough to get back to Hershel.” It was a bit of a struggle getting him upright, and he swayed a little before you settled his arm over your shoulders. “I’m driving.” 

“Hell no, ‘ve been through ‘nough today.” His tone was gruff but not angry. 

“And I’d like to make it in one piece. I bet you see two of me right now, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing, don’ reckon.” 

You could feel your cheeks burn. You ducked your head when you felt him staring at you and pinched his side playfully. 

“You must’ve really hit your head, Dixon.”

[jasmines-library]

Devil in Disguise

WHUMPTOBER DAY 29: Prompt ‘oxygen deprivation’

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: After escaping from the cage, Lucifer decides to pay Sam a visit, only he's not there. So he settles on the next best thing: you.

Warnings: Choking, near death

Word count: 1.2k

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

No matter how many times you wished things would go your way, you never seemed to be that lucky. That was to say the least.

You were waiting antsily for your brothers to return, bouncing your leg restlessly and picking the thumb around your skin. They had only gone on a supply run; something they had done hundreds of times, but today something was different. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being followed. Every time you turned your back, you felt as though an invisible hand was trailing down your spine, but each time you turned to take a look, the feeling stopped. Perhaps it was to do with the face that Lucifer was back from the cage. 

It was an odd sensation. Seeing Lucifer possess your best friend. It was stranger to know what he was doing with his body too. The havoc and disruption he caused. You would have liked to have said that it got easier when he left Cas and returned to his first vessel, but then you were faced with the constant reminder of what he had done to Sam. You weren’t really sure which was worse. 

To try and take your mind off of things, you had settled down in the library with a book, A leather-bound copy of a handwritten journal that once belonged to a woman of letters. You had just settled into it when you heard it; a loud crash that thundered through the bunker. You had an unwanted visitor. 

Leaving the book on the armchair, you crept into the hallway, snagging a pistol that lay on the table on the way past. The good thing about the bunker was that it was crawling with weapons and you knew it like the back of your hand. But seemingly, so did the intruder. 

A cold hand wrapped its digits around your arm. You yelped as you were whipped around to face Lucifer. Tall and looming over you he grinned, flashing you his pearly teeth. 

“Hiya, Y/n?” He gave you a small wave. “ d’ya miss little old me?”

You shoved him off, holding the gun out in front of you even though you knew that your actions would be in vain. “Get away from me.”

You tried to run further into the bunker, but were stopped by an invisible force, keeping your body in place as though you were surrounded by a block of concrete. “What do you want from me?” 

He shrugged, trailing a slender finger along your jaw. “Can’t I pay a Winchester a visit?”

You gave him a firm look. 

“Okay. Fine.” He chewed the inside of his lip. “I got bored. All this hopping around… i'd got nothing to do. But now I’m back in good ol’ Nick. Well. I thought it would be nice to see some old friends. Maybe take Sammy on a little trip down memory lane. But it seems he’s not here right now. Isn’t that right?”

You didn’t respond. You just grimaced as he took your jaw in his grip and forced you to face him. You tried to squirm but were held still. 

“So, It looks like I'll just have to deal with the next best thing.”

You didn’t have a chance to react as he flung you against the wall, your head snacking against the blue tiles, helpless as you felt the invisible force squeeze you against the wall. 

“Let me go.” You demanded, desperately trying to pry your limbs away from the tile. 

Lucifer just pursed his lips. “Hm. I think this is much more interesting.”

“Sam and Dean’ll be back at any moment and then you’ll be a dead-”

Suddenly an invisible hand wrapped its way around your neck. “You talk too much.

You dropped to the floor, clawing at your neck as you tried to relieve some of the pressure that was crushing your windpipe like it was a can. You gasped and stuttered, trying to hungrily suck in air that refused to pass into your lungs. The agony that blossomed from them was unbearable; fiery and raw. 

Lucifer just smirked as he watched you struggle, tightening his mercilessly around your throat. 

Your chest constricted with fear. You had never imagined you would go down like this. For years you had believed you would go swinging. Never alone and without saying goodbye to your brothers. You flailed wildly as black spots swirled in your vision, and everything faded in and out.Your shoes slipped against the floor, struggling to find a grip on anything in your panic-filled reverie. That was until it stopped. 

Lucifer’s clutch on you vanished as your two brothers stormed into the bunker, noticing your absence. It was then that he heard the struggle coming from the halls. They had never moved faster than they did as they raced towards you, catching the devil off guard and after some struggle managed to restrain him with the cuffs. 

Sam was at your side in a second, squatting besides you. He placed his hands on your shoulder and forced you to look at him with your wide eyes. You were hyperventilating, breaths coming in short and desperate gasps. 

“Hey, Hey. Kiddo. Look at me.” You watched him carefully. Observing the way that his hair framed his face. “Follow my breathing.”

You took in a shaky, but deeper breath feeling the air rush into your lungs. You tried to follow your brother's breathing until yours settled into an even rhythm. 

“That’s it kid. You’re okay. We’re here.”

He wiped the stray tears that had fallen from your eyes and brough your head to his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. You curled up tightly on his lap like you used to do when you were a small child afraid of the monsters that lurked under your bed. You leaned into his warmth, seeking solace in his cologne. 

“You’re okay kid.” He mumbled into your hair, threading your hair through his fingers. He eased you up into his arms and carried you off down the hall. When you dared peak over his shoulder, you noticed that Lucifer was nowhere to be seen. It was likely that Dean had forced him into the dungeon, but you clung closer to Sam just in case. 

He then eased open the heavy door with a creak and crossed the room in two large strides to lay you down on the comforter,Your head snapped up when he stepped away for a moment, panic clutching you tightly again.

You sniffled. “Sammy?”

“I’m here.” He said, returning moments later with Dean who had managed to slip in through the door at some point. 

He perched on the end of the bed. “Hey sweetheart.” He pulled you in close to his chest as his brother came round to sit on your other side. 

“You’re okay sweetheart.” Sam soothed. “He can’t get you anymore. No one is going to hurt you.”

You shuffled in closer to them, as exhaustion began to settle over your body. 

“Why don’t you try and get some rest, kiddo?”

You nodded hesitantly. “Stay with me? Please.”

Dean pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Of course sweetheart. We’re not going anywhere.”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 28 ⛤ DAY 30 ->

taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

[kybercrystals94]

I Miss You

By KyberCrystals94

Read on Ao3 here!

Whumptober 2023|Day 5|Alternative Prompt: Playing Cards

Bad Things Happen Bingo|Prompt: Crying Themselves to Sleep

Rating: G

Words: 785

Summary: Echo discovers a message from a brother.

“Those look so old!” Wrecker declares, leaning on the upper bunk to scrutinize the playing cards Echo is sorting through.

Echo smiles. “That’s because they are old. I pilfered them off a graduated trooper when I was a cadet.”

“You stole them?” Wrecker sounds as impressed as he is surprised. “I thought you never broke a rule in your life.”

“With the right motivation, I’ve been persuaded to bend a few.” Echo chuckles. “Technically, they were contraband for the guy I stole them from. So, really, I was doing him a favor.”

Wrecker grins. “That’s neat you still have them even after they thought you were blown up.”

Echo’s smile falls slightly as he continues to set the cards out, dividing them into suits. “Yeah, when they thought I died, they went to my old batch mate, Fives. After Fives, they went to Rex, and then Rex gave them back to me when I-"

"Came back to life?” Wrecker offers.

“Sure,” Echo says. “When that happened.”

“I don’t think you could even shuffle them if you tried.” Wrecker laughs.

“They’ve definitely seen better days.”

The cards are dogeared, and every one of them has been folded into quarters because of the time Cutup tried to cheat at Sabaac. He folded a few of them so he could identify them in someone’s hand. When the other Dominos found out, they had painstakingly copied the folds on every single card so they all matched. Echo had been so angry at his squad mate, but he desperately wishes he could take back the harsh words that came out of his mouth. After all, they were just cards. A toy. Nowhere near as important as the individuals that played with them.

Echo finds the card he is looking for, the one that had made this deck obsolete. He had accidentally dropped the card in his cup of caf, discoloring it. Fives had suggested they stain all the cards in caf to match; however, Echo decided to retire the deck and get a new one. The old deck was tucked away in his storage bin in the barracks on Kamino, carrying too many memories in its deteriorated fibers to throw away.

Echo holds up the stained card for Wrecker's inspection. “I dropped it in my caf. It’s the reason we didn’t play with this deck anymore,” he explains.

“What does it say?” Wrecker asks.

“What does what say?”

Wrecker points to the back of the card. “On the back. There’s writing.”

Echo flips the card around, squinting to make out the ink of a pen on the intricately designed backing.

I miss you.

Echo feels like the air has been stolen from his lungs.

Fives wrote those words. There is no doubt in Echo’s mind. Not before the Citadel mission. After. After Echo died. After Fives went back to Kamino. Echo can see him. Sitting in their barracks, sorting through Echo’s meager collection of personal effects. He’s searching for a playing card stained in caf. He writes the three words, handwriting ragged by a trembling hand. A note for the brother he lost. That he'd never get back. I miss you.

“Echo!”

Echo blinks and finds that Wrecker has half climbed into the bunk with him, a hand on each of his shoulders. “You with me, buddy?” Wrecker asks.

“Yeah,” Echo croaks. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Wrecker’s good eye searches Echo’s face, trying to understand. “You scared me there for a second. You sorta zoned out, and then your breathing got weird.”

“Sorry,” Echo says again. Emotions bubble up, threaten to burst out of him, card still gripped in his flesh hand. Dark, inky, familiar script carving into his mind. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

“Did I do something?” Wrecker asks, climbing down from his precarious perch.

Echo shakes his head and tries to reassure the man with a thin smile. “No, you didn’t do anything. It’s just…” Echo holds up the card. “The writing. It’s a note from my batch mate, Fives.”

He leaves it at that, and Wrecker doesn’t ask for more. Instead, he offers Echo a kind smile. “I'm gonna go start my watch but let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Wreck, I will,” Echo says, and he means it.

Wrecker leaves the bunk room, and Echo gathers up the cards, tucking them in their tin. He keeps the caf stained card out. He lies down, back to the room, facing the wall, and holds the note in front of him. The last words his oldest brother ever gave him blurs in his watery vision.

“I miss you too,” Echo whispers, and silently cries until sleep claims him.

END

Read the prequel, You Promised, here!

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 4: Shock, “I see the danger, it’s written there in your eyes”

We had to get to the bloody ones eventually—

This was originally going to be standalone, but one thing led to another and I think there’s going to be another part at some point. I couldn’t make it longer and I’m very stuck on the idea hehe

Warnings: blood & injury, specifically a stab wound, and just general battle violence and injuries

Read it on ao3

————————————————————

“Ugh, wizzrobes again?” Legend grumbled as he slid under a bolt of electricity. “We just fought some of these clowns yesterday! Did the Shadow just give up on originality?”

“Less complaining, more fighting!” Warriors shouted at him from nearby, and Legend rolled his eyes.

“Less criticism and more fighting!” Hyrule called back with a mischievous look, and Legend almost laughed, though it turned into a yelp when he dodged another bolt of magic.

Wizzrobes were such a pain.

Especially Wild’s.

Warriors shouted at him again, but this time it was a warning, and Legend deftly jumped away from a blast of ice that would have frozen him solid. He nodded a thanks at the captain, and went back to trying to defeat the wizzrobes, which was nearly impossible with how crazily they moved.

Legend dodged a fireball, and quickly turned and shot a blast of ice at the offending monster. It shrieked, and disappeared into a puff of smoke, and Legend swapped out his ice rod for a fire rod, and did the same to another.

The different rods seemed to work well, and along with the others all fighting together, soon there was only one wizzrobe left. It was in a color Legend hadn’t seen before though, and he looked at it suspiciously.

“Yours come in purple now?” he called behind him towards where he knew Wild was sniping.

“I’ve never seen one like that before!” Wild called back, voice uncertain. “I don’t know what it—”

As he spoke, the wizzrobe grinned, letting out a deranged cackle as it shot a huge burst of magic into the sky. Purple lights flashed, and a glowing ball fell from them, dropping down into the clearing and exploding into blinding light before anyone could do a thing.

Legend yelped and covered his face with his shield, but the magic still knocked him off his feet and onto the ground. It shook into his limbs and up to his face, his vision going white and spotty. It didn’t... hurt, exactly, but something about it felt all mixed up inside of him, jolting through his body and limbs, and he felt rather discombobulated.

“Legend!”

The sensation abruptly faded, and he felt arms tugging at him. Legend gingerly opened his eyes, almost surprised he could see at all, and looked up, meeting Hyrule’s worried gaze. The traveler was looking down at him with wide eyes, and Legend blinked a few times to get the last few spots of white out of his vision.

“Are you okay?” Hyrule asked, looking him over worriedly, “you were closest to that beam, it felt like an explosion went off.”

“Fine, fine,” Legend coughed, then gingerly pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Think it was just... magic. I don’t even think it did anything to me.”

“Nothing?” Hyrule asked suspiciously, and Legend shook his head.

“No. Is everyone else okay? Where’d that wizzrobe go?”

“I haven’t checked yet, but since you’re fine I would guess they’ll be—”

An arrow slammed into the ground right between Legend’s feet.

He jumped, and in one swift movement was on his feet with his shield out, back to back with Hyrule as he looked for the enemy who’d shot. He scanned the field as he looked for where his sword had gone to, then he froze, and stared at who had fired the arrow.

Wild stood across the clearing, his bow drawn with an arrow nocked in Legend’s direction. His brows were lowered as he stared at the veteran, stance unusually firm, and something about the way he held himself just screamed danger.

Legend flicked his eyes around, and felt his breath leave him as he saw Warriors and Sky both staring at him as well, swords drawn and angled towards him in a threatening gesture. Time stood on Legend’s other side, claymore raised as he stared silently at the veteran, and Legend’s heart skipped a beat.

He and Hyrule were surrounded. By their own teammates.

No, Legend realized with a dawning horror, sunlight glinting proudly off Time and Warriors’ armor, no not my teammates.

Knights.

“Captain? What’s going on?” Twilight asked nearby, Wind and Four looking equally confused next to him.

“Traitor to the crown,” Warriors said in a low voice, eyes never blinking.

“You kidnapped the princess,” Wild added in a growl.

“We have our orders,” Sky said in a smooth voice, and raised the Master Sword accusingly. “Dead or alive.”

Legend couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t be crazy!” Wind said in disbelief, looking at Time and Warriors with a shocked expression. “Legend didn’t do anything! What’s wrong with you guys?!”

“The wizzrobe,” Four said with a sharp inhale. “That attack must have done something to make them think he’s the enemy.”

“Time, please, you know Legend, he hasn’t done anything wrong,” Twilight said gently, inching towards him. But Time stopped him with a firm glare, his sword never lowering. The knights all took a step closer to Legend, and he felt Hyrule stiffen at his back.

“Legend, you need to run,” Hyrule whispered. “Now.”

Legend couldn’t move.

Suddenly he was eleven again, staring at a wanted poster with his face on it, wondering why the reward was so high. He was eleven, screamed at by the townsfolk, and surrounded by guards just for trying to walk into the village to buy food on his quest. He was eleven, chased down by brainwashed knights and forced to fight them, some of them people he knew, his uncle’s friends, raise his uncle’s sword against them and hurt them—

“Legend RUN!”

He snapped back into himself just in time to avoid a thrust from Warriors, and Hyrule grabbed his wrist when he merely stared at the weapon that had almost killed him, pulling him away.

“Come back you traitor!” Warriors shouted, and Legend blinked, able only to watch in numb shock as Four and Twilight leapt to defend him, Hyrule still dragging him away.

Sky leapt forward, then cried out as the Master Sword fell from his grip, sparking as she was about to be used against one of her own. Wind took the opportunity to tackle him, and Legend watched blankly as the sailor wrestled Sky’s pouch away from him so he couldn’t grab any more weapons.

“Don’t hurt them!” Wind cried out, still struggling with Sky, “they’re not themselves!”

“Keep them away from Legend!” Twilight shouted as he crossed swords with Warriors, the captain swinging his blade with fierce strokes.

Hyrule nodded, and blocked a slew of arrows from plunging into Legend’s chest, then yanked him behind his back as he avoided a huge swing from Time.

“You’ve betrayed us all!” Time spat, and Hyrule crossed blades with him, nearly driven to his knees by the force of it. “You’re nothing but a false hero, poisoning the land with your lies!”

The words were like a knife, and Legend could only watch in blank shock, stunned as Hyrule struggled against Time, as Twilight and Warriors still fought against each other, Wind nearly getting punched in the face by Sky while Four tried desperately to get close enough to Wild to stop him from sniping them all down—

“Legend! Snap out of it!” Hyrule shouted as he somehow managed not to be lopped in two by another of Time’s swings. “You’re going to get killed, wake up!”

He wasn’t sure if it was the phrase or the desperation in Hyrule’s voice, but Legend finally snapped into action, firmly shaking himself. You can freak out later when half of your team isn’t trying to kill you!

Legend dove for his gilded sword, but hissed at the warning spark he felt as he grabbed it. Sometimes he forgot his blade was another version of the Master Sword, upgraded and changed, but at times like these it was impossible.

I’m not going to hurt them, I’m only defending myself, he begged as it got hotter, still stubbornly holding on even as his hands began to burn. Please, you know I’m not!

The hilt scorched his hands, and Legend was forced to shove it into its sheathe, grabbing in his pouch for a backup sword. Before he could though, something swung towards him, and he only barely got his shield up in time to block it.

The strike threw him to the ground for the second time today, and Legend nearly had the breath knocked out of him. His eyes widened as Wild raised a claymore of some kind to strike him with, and he just barely managed to roll out of the way of another hit.

“Champion I don’t want to have to hurt you,” he gritted out, but Wild didn’t reply.

His face was eerily closed-off as he tried to hit him, strikes almost clinically precise. Legend had to dodge all over the place, and he still got a shallow cut on his arm. Not to mention his hands were smarting from trying to use the gilded sword, and every time a hit rang out against his shield, he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

Wild swung again, and Legend gritted his teeth and used his backup sword to shove the champion backwards, then grabbed for his ice rod again. His aching fingers closed around it, but then he felt his entire body freeze in place, yellow shining in his vision.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t defend himself. He couldn’t do anything, and he suddenly realized that Wild must have used the stasis rune on his slate on him.

No, no no no no no—

Before he could panic too much, the magic broke, and Legend stumbled, thrown off-balance. He looked around in surprise, then saw Four standing next to him, having frozen Wild’s feet to the ground with Legend’s own dropped ice rod.

He could only stare at him for a second, and startled as Four yanked him behind his shield, blocking the arrows Wild was shooting at them again.

“Should have gotten his arms too,” he cursed, then turned towards Legend. “Vet, they’re all after you, you need to go find that wizzrobe and beat it. That should break the magic, I think it’s our best bet. We can keep them all busy while you go.”

“But— you’re outnumbered,” Legend said a bit hysterically, his panic over the whole situation starting to come back, “not in numbers but skill, have you ever seen Sky and the captain duel? Not to mention the old man, he could probably take on all of you at once—”

Four put a hand on his arm, and gave him a small smile as he raised his sword.

“I can get us some more help. But you need to go.”

Legend swallowed, but he knew Four was right, and gave him a nod as he grabbed his ice rod and bolted in the direction he’d last seen the wizzrobe.

He suddenly felt like he was eleven again.

He caught sight of Hyrule as he ran, the traveler using his magic to stay away from Time’s deadly swings. He had blood on his leg, but his face was as determined as ever, and he firmly blocked Time from following when the older hero saw Legend running away.

“Coward!” he heard shouted behind him, but Legend kept running despite the sting it left in his chest.

He bolted past Twilight, who had an arrow in his arm and multiple other injuries, but was continuing to fight anyway, blocking Warriors’ strikes with a grieved look, almost like he’d been forced to do this before. Wind was still wrestling with Sky, fists flying as the Skyloftian tried desperately to get his weapons back, but Wind was determined to keep him down.

Every instinct of Legend’s was screaming at him to turn around and fight, help his friends, his brothers, he had so many items that could help them— but he forced himself to continue, ignoring a pained cry when he heard it.

Legend was smart enough to realize the only way they would all get out of this alive would be if he broke the curse. They couldn’t stand against some of the best fighters of their group forever— it was only a matter of time before someone was seriously hurt.

But no matter how many times he told himself that, it still felt like he was abandoning them.

This is the only way to help right now. You’re not leaving them, you’re doing what needs to be done.

If you stayed here, you would only make their job more difficult.

Legend searched desperately through the trees for a flash of purple, hoping desperately the wizzrobe was still in the area.

He had no way of knowing if he was looking in the right spot or not. For all he knew, the wizzrobe was long gone, but he kept looking, even as the clashing of swords still rang in his ears, and a scream that sounded a bit like Four echoed nearby.

Legend bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood, and ignored the stinging that had started up in his eyes as he searched.

The others were back there somewhere, fighting against their brothers, risking their lives, all for him, to keep him safe, and he’d frozen and barely helped them and now he couldn’t even find the stupid wizzrobe.

“Come on! Come out and fight me!” he screamed, voice breaking a little. “Are you afraid? Because you better be!”

A giggle flitted through the trees, and Legend shot a blast of ice out, the laughter only growing.

Purple weaved through the foliage, and Legend shot another blast out, obviously missing due to the giggle he overheard. He knew his emotions were making him sloppy, and Legend forced himself to steady his hand. He breathed out, lowering his weapon and acting as if he was unaware of where the wizzrobe was.

Come on, take the bait...

A giggle erupted in his face, and Legend thrust out his ice rod, making the wizzrobe scream as it was launched backwards. It fell to the ground, stuck solidly in a chunk of ice, and Legend pulled out his fire rod, prepared to burn it to a crisp.

Then something hit him in the side, and he went flying, crying out as he fell to the grass.

His side ached where he’d been hit, and before he could move, what felt like a foot stepped down on his chest, pressing against his doubtlessly bruised ribs and stopping him from getting up. Legend opened his eyes and saw Warriors staring silently down at him, sword raised to pierce him through.

Somehow he’d gotten past the others.

“Wars— Warriors don’t,” Legend choked out, struggling to catch his breath. “Link, please I’m not your enemy!”

“You’re a traitor,” Warriors said in a cold voice, still not blinking. He had blood running down his face from a cut over his eye, but his face showed no sign of pain. “My orders are clear.”

“Captain wake up!” Legend shouted, terror rising in his throat. “You’re not yourself, you’d never hurt any of us, snap out of it!”

Warriors didn’t react in the slightest, and raised his sword.

Legend felt a burst of panic, and he shot his arm out, feeling desperately for where he’d dropped his fire rod. If he could just kill the wizzrobe, Warriors would wake up, the spell would break—

Warriors’ sword went down as Legend’s fingers closed around his rod, and he shot a desperate plume of flame towards the dazed wizzrobe.

The fire hit it right as Warriors’ sword buried itself in his middle, and Legend’s scream mixed with the wizzrobe’s, hot agony slicing into his chest. The sword was pulled out again only seconds later, but then Warriors stumbled back, the weapon dropping from his hands.

Legend barely noticed, trying not to scream again as the sword fell to the ground beside him, already feeling blood start to dampen his tunic.

Okay, okay okay easy, you’ve been stabbed before, no big deal. Just because Warriors was who did it doesn’t change a thing, put pressure on it, you need to put pressure—

His chest burned and Legend couldn’t hold back a cry, taking thick breaths through his nose.

Goddesses please, not like this, he’ll never forgive himself.

“L-Legend?” Warriors said dizzily, shaking his head as he tried to clear it. He put a hand to his forehead, and blinked several times, wiping blood from his face with a confused look. “Vet, what...”

Then his eyes focused, and he noticed the stab wound in his chest.

“LEGEND!”

Warriors dropped to his knees beside him, and Legend couldn’t help but jerk away from him, nearly shrieking as the captain immediately pressed his hands to his middle, trying to stem the flow.

“Legend don’t move, what happened how did this...”

Warriors trailed off as his gaze landed on his bloodied sword, and every bit of color drained from his face as he recognized it as his own.

“Legend?” he said shakily, and Legend swallowed, unable to stop himself from meeting his eyes.

A sword was abruptly pressed to Warriors’ neck, and Legend watched dizzily as Twilight forced the captain back, the look in his eyes equally furious and horrified. Warriors jerked like he wanted to go back to Legend, but he raised his arms in surrender, and moved back as Hyrule dropped to his side. More of the Links rushed into the clearing around Legend, but Warriors only had eyes for him, confusion and horror shining bright.

Hyrule’s hands pressed against his middle, and Legend sucked in another trembling breath.

“It— it’s gone,” he stuttered, and felt something warm slip past his lips. Oh that’s not good. “Wizzrobe— he’s not— not g-gonna—”

“Don’t talk Legend, you’ll be fine,” Hyrule said firmly, and Legend wasn’t sure if he imagined the tremble in his voice or not. “Just stay awake, okay? I’m gonna fix you up.”

Hyrule moved a careful hand around his chest, feeling at the injury, and Legend tensed, hissing through his teeth. Someone’s hand touched his head, and he flinched, choking as something moved in his middle.

The cold he’d been trying to ignore was growing closer now, nipping at his extremities, trying to suck him down. Legend firmly ignored the feeling, despite how easy it would be to sink into it, and focused on Hyrule’s face, blearily realizing there was blood on his shoulder. He wondered who had done that to him.

The pressure on his chest abruptly increased, and Legend couldn’t muffle his scream, so many sensations hitting him that his brain couldn’t even process it.

Then something began to trickle through his middle, something that warmed the cold that had been falling over him. Warmth blossomed in his chest, different from the hot blood that had been trickling across it, and Legend exhaled, relaxing slightly as Hyrule’s magic wove through him.

Once he could focus enough to realize Hyrule was still healing him, he reached down and grabbed his wrist, giving him a look.

“I’m good, don’t overextend yourself,” he said a little shakily, and he cut Hyrule off when he went to argue. “You already used a lot of magic, I saw you.”

“You lost a lot of blood,” Hyrule retorted.

“Well I’m not the only one who’s going to need healing,” Legend said more quietly, and Hyrule stopped, the glow fading from his hands.

Twilight appeared in his vision then, arrow still jutting from his arm, and he scanned Legend’s bloodstained middle in silence. Then he met Legend’s gaze, looking much older then he normally did.

“You definitely got the wizzrobe?” he asked seriously, and Legend nodded, his eyes suddenly heavy with exhaustion.

“It’s dead. The spell broke the moment I got it,” he said in a quiet voice. “They won’t... they’re safe.”

Oh gods I hope they are.

Twilight exhaled, and nodded, putting a hand on Legend’s arm.

“Okay. Try and get some rest, Veteran. We’ll handle things.”

“Take the literal arrow out of your arm first,” he muttered back, and a faint smile pulled at Twilight’s lips.

“We’re working on fixing everyone up. Rest. We can... we’ll figure all of this out later,” Twilight said quietly, glancing behind him at something. Legend followed his gaze, and saw Warriors sitting on a log, staring silently at the blood on his hands.

The others who’d been affected by the wizzrobe were nearby, and Sky looked like he was trying to talk to the captain, but Legend looked away as Hyrule began to bandage his middle.

Traitor!

Legend closed his eyes, and tried not to listen to any of the voices that still rang around his head, or focus on the horrified look of Warriors’ that was still seared into his mind.

He didn’t want to think about it. Any of it.

[topguncortez]

A Force of Nature, An Act of God || Whumptober day 13 - J. Seresin

whumptober masterlist

synopsis: you always said it would take an act of God to take Jake Seresin off this earth. . . maybe you should've kept that thought to yourself

word count: 1.2k

@ailesswhumptober prompt: crushed and grief

warnings: character death, grief, pregnancy, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

There are just some things you should never hear over a phone call. Y/N didn’t know that the simple ring from her best friend would end with her heart quite literally breaking into two. The loud scream that pierced through the office floor sent everyone’s eyes to the closed office door. Her boss ran down the hall and barged into her office, just in time to catch her from hitting the floor. The screams and cries that left her mouth were enough to break everyone’s heart that was listening. 

She cursed him out. She cursed the other driver out. She even cursed God out. Bradley couldn’t bear to hear the anguish of his wingman’s wife over the phone and hung up, knowing that Natasha was on her way to would be on to go retrieve her and bring her to the hospital. 

No one said anything as she walked into the hospital. Everyone and everything was still. No one looked her in the eye either, too heartbroken. She stood tall though, holding her head up, letting everyone see the emptiness behind her eyes. Y/N had to go in and properly ID him. There was something deep down in her heart that hoped they had gotten the wrong person. But Jake Seresin was a hard person to miss. 

His usual tan was gone. His body was pale, almost gray in color. His hair which was once shiny and full of life, hung down and was matted with blood. Small scars littered his face and arms. She cried softly as she ran her hand over his hair. The doctor stood in the corner, looking grimly at the girl as she sobbed over his body. 

They had just started their life. Married a year ago, and expecting their first child, a boy, whom he had been over the moon excited about. She felt as though bricks were now tied to her feet. It took everything in her to not tear the white sheet off of him once the doctor covered his body back up. 

When she walked back out to the waiting room, Bradley engulfed her in his arms, holding her up as her legs were shaking and ready to give out at any moment. It was unclear how she was going to move on.

How does one move on from this? How is one supposed to bury their lover and carry on with their life? 

Y/N thought it would be better if a car came out of nowhere and crushed her too. 

The next week was spent with people infiltrating her home. She was never alone, everyone kept a close eye on her. She felt like she was under a microscope. She spent three days locked in her room, in constant darkness. It took Bradley having to physically remove her from her bed to get her to eat and shower. She was close to her due date, and they knew it was not the time for her to check out. 

Jolene and George handled all the details, not wanting to stress her out. They watched as every day she would come down the stairs, pour herself a mug of tea, and sit at the kitchen table, her back to everyone, staring out the window into nothing. Her heart was broken. 

Before Jake’s death, the house was never quiet. Jake hated silence. But now, you could hear a pin drop from the other room. There was no music playing. No laughter echoing. No conversations to be had. The quiet was loud, and everyone knew it. No one dared to make a sound as they moved around. 

Y/N had blocked out the whole service, not remembering a single part of it. She remembered seeing the beautiful dark wooden casket he was laid in. He was dressed in his dress blues, his medals shining perfectly. She barely remembered getting up to speak in front of the crowd, but she did. The dagger squad gave her praise for how strong she was in speaking. 

She was the last to leave, as she watched the gravediggers lower his casket into the ground, and seal the vault. She stood by and watched as they piled the dirt back on top of the vault. Bradley and Natasha stood by the car, looking anywhere but at the plot their wingman now lay under. They knew they couldn’t leave her there, so they painfully waited for her to say her final goodbye. The drive home was silent, as she looked out the window, mindlessly drawing shapes over her belly and letting tears roll down her cheeks. 

It was three weeks to the day, that her water broke in the middle of the night. She hadn’t been sleeping in her once-shared bed, but for some reason, she decided to that night. She had woken up with a scream, that sent Natasha and Bradley stumbling into her bedroom. Neither one really knew what to do, but quickly calmed her down and got her down to the car. 

She didn’t think she would have the strength to walk back into the hospital. But much like she did three weeks ago, she walked in with her head held high, pain and emptiness in her eyes. The nurses and doctors moved quickly to her and sat her down in a wheelchair. She demanded that the brothers go back with her, and they let them. 

The pain of labor was one of the first things she had felt in so long. She had grown numb to everything around her. But the pain ripping through her body reminded her that she was still alive. Sweat and tears ran down her body as the youngest boy rubbed her back as she was fighting through a contraction. 

“I can’t do this,” She cried out. 

“You have to.” 

“I can’t do this without him!” She yelled. 

She sat on the bed, in the room alone with just a doctor and a nurse. The brothers had been kicked out, her request, as she started to push. She did her best, pushing with as much strength as she could, but her body was just too weak. 

“I can’t.” 

“You have to,” The doctor said, looking up at her, “You have to. You have no choice. Your baby will go into distress and so will you.” 

The door barged open, and she closed her eyes, too weak to put up a fight. She watched as he pushed over to her, and climbed behind her on the bed. 

“Bradley…” She cried, leaning her head back against him. 

“I know,” Bradley soothed her. The nurse handed him a damp rag to wipe her sweat, “I know he would do it if roles were reversed.” 

“I need him,” She whimpered out. 

“I know,” Bradley clenched his jaw, trying to push back his own tears, “I do too. But you also need to bring this healthy boy into the world. For him.” 

She nodded and gripped Bradley’s hands. She took a deep breath and listened as the doctor counted down. On one, she let out a loud scream as she pushed as hard as she could. Bradley whispered encouraging things into her ear as she used whatever strength she had buried within herself to bring the baby into the world. 

When the melodic cry broke through the room, she leaned back against Bradley, completely spent. Bradley smiled, tears down his cheek as the doctor laid the newborn against her chest. She looked up at Bradley, tears in her own eyes. The little baby boy was a carbon copy of his father. 

“We did it, Jake,” Y/N whispered and kissed her son’s forehead.

taglist: @els-marvelvsp @sarahsmi13s @topgun-imagines @cassiemitchell @xoxabs88xox @seitmai @a-reader-and-a-writer @bradleybeachbabe @kmc1989 @senawashere @beautifulandvoid @ohtobeleah @rogersbarnesxx @oatmealisweird @dempy @devil-angel-winchester @gillybear17

[onceuponastory]

the day i lost you - bucky barnes x reader

Still remember how you taste Somewhere in the bitter and the sweet dream Do you think of me standing in a summer haze? When we were gonna be okay? - january rain by PVRIS

Plot: In the aftermath of The Blip and her boyfriend Bucky turning to dust, Y/N finds a voicemail from him... sent the day she lost him. Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader Warnings: Mentions of death, or at least Bucky is presumed dead (obviously we know Bucky isn't dead but we all thought he was after Infinity War, let's be honest) and grief. And of course, some angst. But as always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know. Notes: This is for @whumptober Day 24. I used the prompt: "Goodbye Note". I also combined it with the @angstober "The Day I Lost You" prompt. I was once again sad and listening to PVRIS as I wrote this, so now you can be too :)

Not beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.

Stepping over the threshold into her apartment, Y/N drops her bags to the floor with a tired groan. The rain still pounds down outside, the sound echoing through the building. As a personal assistant to Tony Stark himself, Y/N’s working life is extremely busy. And since The Blip, she’s busier than ever, constantly being pulled into meetings with little time for herself. For the past few weeks, she’s been away at a conference with the surviving Avengers, working on a solution to The Blip. This is the first time she’s had to breathe in about a year. And that also means it’s the first time she’s been home since it all happened, since her boyfriend and some of her best friends turned to dust.

And she’s never felt so alone.

Of course, Y/N knows that dating an Avenger, let alone the Winter Soldier himself, comes with its own risk. Especially the risk he may never come home. But although it’s always been at the back of her mind, seeping into her every thought whilst he’s away on a mission… Bucky came back safe so many times that the worry dissipated. Foolishly, she believed he was indestructible, and that he’d always come home to her.

Until he didn’t.

Tears spring at her eyes then, and she furiously tries to wipe them away. She’s done enough grieving over the last year. Enough hoping that he’s coming back, only to end up disappointed. There’s only so much pain you can take before you can’t go on anymore. And Y/N crossed that line a long time ago.

The red light on her answering machine blinks back at her, and she sighs, rubbing her temples and closing her eyes, hoping that when she opens them, the light will be gone. But no matter how hard she tries, it’s still there, and she groans. The last thing she wants to hear right now is more “I’m sorry to hear about Bucky” and “We understand how much it hurts, but he’s in our thoughts.” Nobody will ever understand how much it hurts. Even the other Avengers. 

Because Bucky isn’t just in her thoughts. He’s everywhere. He still occupies the empty space in her bed, his laughter still fills the halls, his singing echoing from the shower. He’s the whisper in the wind, the faint scent of his cologne whenever she enters a room, and that still clings to her clothing like a safety blanket. He’s the shiver up her spine, the faint feeling of a hand holding hers, an arm wrapped around her waist.

It’s like he never even left.

Y/N presses the button, bracing herself for the onslaught of messages to come. “Hey sweetheart. It’s me-” As soon as she hears her mother’s voice, Y/N deletes the message. She’ll deal with her and her incessant questions later. She means well, of course, they all do. But the last thing she wants is to be pestered, reminded of her pain over and over again. They may mean well, but there’s nothing they can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. The other message is boring, a message about her car’s extended warranty that gets deleted almost immediately.

But when she hears the voice in the next message, she collapses to her knees. “Hey doll.” Bucky speaks. It's the first time she’s heard his voice - actually heard it - since he left. As soon as she hears him speak, she can see the smile on his face, and hear the laughter in his tone. Her presence always brought a smile to Bucky's face, even on his worst days. Because he loves her. …Loved her.

Hearing Bucky’s voice again, so soon after losing him, causes all her pent-up emotions to erupt, a year's worth of pain spilling over. As the first of her sobs break through, Bucky’s voice continues. “Just checking in to see how you are and keep you updated. Steve and the others are here…”

“Why didn’t I answer the call? I could’ve stopped them!”

“... and we have a game plan now to stop this asshole. Before you know it, I’ll be back home in New York with you, my favourite girl.” Her chest heaves, and she sobs even harder. “I miss you so much, though. The guys keep pestering me about it, but I don’t care. I love you, Y/N, and I want the entire world to know.” That sends her over the edge. A painful, anguished wail rips through her, the sound filling the room. Y/N’s full body shakes, and she clutches at her chest. “I hope you’re doing well and staying out of trouble.” Bucky chuckles. “Keep me updated. But I’ll see you soon enough, anyway.” 

“Why didn’t I answer? Why didn’t I answer?!”

“I better go, Steve’s shouting at me. Think the mission is about to start.” 

Y/N sits up, trying to grab the phone to dial Bucky’s number and tell him she’s still here, that she still loves him. Hoping that he’s there on the other side, waiting for her.

“Bye doll. See you soon. Love you always.” And then, the line goes dead, the dull beeping noise going right through her. Picking up the phone, she dials Bucky’s number, holding it to her ear as her heart pounds.

“Please… please…” she begs. "Just answer me Bucky... please."

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

“Hey! This is Bucky. I can’t talk right now, and I don’t really know how these things work.” He chuckles, the sound forming a small glimpse of warmth in her belly, and Y/N even laughs softly too. She was there when he recorded that message, her best efforts to teach him the wonders modern technology still not sinking in. Not that it matters now, though. None of it does. She just wants him back. “So I guess if you leave a message, I’ll call you back?”

And he always called her back. Even if it was a day, a week or even a month late. Bucky always called her back. But he won’t call back. Not this time. 

She tries to speak, to say something, anything, to Bucky's voicemail. If there's even a chance he could hear it, she wants him to know how much she loves him, and how much she misses him. Yet she can't say anything through her tears.

When the call disconnects, Y/N sinks to her knees, huddling into a ball as the sobs rack through her entire body. 

She’s alone again. 

And she always will be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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[ohtobeleah]

Poison Ivy // Bob Floyd

Summary: Bobs got the hots for the admirals assistant. Bad. So bad it makes him feral. But what happens when he gets the dosage wrong and messes the whole thing up.

Warnings: Drug Overdose. Spiked drink. Bob Floyd x F!reader. Mentions of date rape drugs. Man slaughter.

Word Count: 1.5k

Author Note: Happy Whumptober everyone! I’m so beyond excited to get to break your hearts for 31 days. So here’s to Day One of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Drugging. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“How’d you kill her Lieutenant!” Bob Floyd, with his big eyes and even bigger glasses sat in the police station held up in an interrogation room. He wasn’t talking—not without a lawyer. Sure he did it. He didn’t mean to, but still, he did it. 

***~***~***~***~***

The human body is designed to compensate for loss. It adapts so it no longer needs the thing it can’t have. 

But sometimes the loss is too great and the body can’t compensate on its own. 

“Will you watch this for me?” It was common sense really, especially in this day and age, to not leave your drinks unattended at bars or clubs or restaurants. Your mother had taught you that. “I just need to use the bathroom real quick.” 

“Oh yeah—“ Bob raised his brows as if he was shocked you were trusting him with such a thing. “Yeah sure thing Ivy.” You’d been enjoying a drink or two, or possibly even three after work with a few colleagues. Normally you wouldn’t indulge so frivolously—but the more you worked amongst the Aviators that called North Island home, you grew accustomed to Hangman's incessant pestering with that devilish panty dropping smile and Roosters charming aura that seemingly had you nodding along in agreement to a few fruity beverages after a long day in the Admirals office. “Not a problem.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right back.” And then there was Robert Floyd. The soft smiling, baby blue eye having, kind hearted soul who always had an empty seat available for you to perch yourself up on beside him. He was all encompassing, endearing even. 

The time and energy he’d put into listening to you drone on and on about how your day wasn’t hard to notice. He always had time for you, no matter what. 

As you got up, you leaned in to kiss Bob gently on the apple of his cheek. It was the simplest of gestures that you hoped he perceived as an intention for something more. You wanted Bob Floyd— 

And he wanted you. 

As you walked away Bob's eyes lingered down towards your drink, then back up to scan the expanse of the bar, then again to your drink. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest all the while he fished the small, glass bottle of rohypnol out of his pocket. 

To be fair, Bob had tried to get you to go home with him in the past. He’d tried to give you small hints here and there but you just weren’t getting the hint. And there was just something stopping Bob from outright asking you to follow him out into the carpark so that he could take you home. His tongue always felt tied, so—the next best thing? 

Spike your drink, get you a little giggly and easily influenced all so that Bob could feel what your velvet walls felt like clenching around him. He was no Hangman or Rooster, he didn’t have that confidence or the charming mannerisms. Bob was simply Bob.

And you should have known, it was always the quiet unassuming ones. 

Bob watched your cocktail fizzle as the white substance settled to the bottom of the amber coloured liquid. He stirred the contents with the little black plastic straw and soon enough you’d never even know the beverage had been tampered with—and certainly the last person anyone would ever suspect would be the quiet and somewhat shy weapons systems officer that would bring you coffee in the morning and visit you during lunch. 

He was going to fuck you tonight, wether you liked it or not. Bob knew that much for sure—he was done playing Mr. Nice guy. He was done waiting, tired of always being second to none. Bob wanted you and he needed you, bad. There was no negotiation. He wasn’t about to lose out again. 

“You look a little paranoid there Floyd.” Hangman smirked as he let his hand fall to Bob's shoulder. Clamping down like a vice. “How’s things going with Ivy? You made a move yet?” It was no secret that you and Bob were in the beginning of what seemed to be a blooming romance. 

At the sight of you coming back from the bathroom, Bob shrugged Jake's hand from his shoulder and sat up a little straighter, just a little taller as he sent you an all encompassing smile that ignited your nerve endings. 

If only he knew how you felt about him. 

“If you’d buzz off I’ll let you know in the morning.” Bob hissed over his shoulder and Jake left it at that. He didn’t press or stick around to see the train wreck unfold before his very eyes. He knew Bob didn’t have the guts to ask a lady of your callable to go home with him. Hell, Hangman was quite certain Bob was punching above his weight with you. 

But if Jake had stayed, perhaps if he’d stuck around just five minutes more—you wouldn’t have taken a sip of your drink as you sat back down across from Bob at the small barstool table. Maybe you wouldn’t have gotten lost in the way the corner of his lips curled into only one of his cheeks as he sent you a half faced grin. If only Hangman had hung around, maybe you wouldn’t have noticed the burning taste in your mouth or the way Bob's eyes darkened when you saw the sediment at the bottom of your glass. Oh. Oh no. 

“Bob?” You felt sick to your stomach as He reached across the table to place his hand atop yours. “You didn’t, did you?” 

“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t already want.” Bob cooed, his thumb ran over your knuckles. “Come out to the car with me?” 

“Oh—“ This couldn’t be happening. “No, no—I really don’t think I want to go.” Everything was beginning to spin as you tried to step down from the stool. “Bob?” It came out as a whine for help. Bob was at your side playing worried for his friends as he caught you, your knees felt weak and your feet felt like lead bricks. What was happening? Why, why would Bob do this to you? “I don’t feel good.” 

“It’s alright, I got you.” Bob cooed as he helped you stand—he was quick to wrap your arm up and around his shoulder as your head lulled. Your neck felt weak, atrophied to the point where the muscles just simply couldn’t support the weight of your head any longer. Shit—this stuff worked quickly. “We’re gonna head out guys, Ivy’s not feeling all that great.” Bob explained without hesitation, the sad part was no one ever suspected a thing. “We’ll see you all Monday.” 

“Atta boy Floyd!” Jake teased as he clapped Bob out of the Hard Deck, completely none the wiser as to what Bob had done. But it was always the quiet unassuming ones. It was a goddamn cautionary tale at this point. 

“Come on baby, in we get hey.” Bob cooed as you felt you burning up, he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead as he tried to get your seatbelt done up. Safety first, as always. “You’re gonna be so good for me aren’t you? I’m gonna give you everything you need.” It was his lips against yours that really took your breath away as his digit’s slipped around your neck. You didn’t kiss back. You couldn’t do anything but whimper into him—which told Bob you wanted him. But in fact it couldn’t have been further from the truth. “Shit I dunno if I can wait till we’re home now that you’re making those pretty little sounds for me.” Bob could feel just how strained against his jeans he’d truly become. “Hold on—let me jump in the driver's side.” 

You’re always so hopeful at the beginning of things. It seems like there’s only a world to be gained, not loss. And as you watched Bob open the driver's side door, everything was beginning to darken—you couldn’t hold your eyelids open. Couldn’t see, hear or think. All you knew was that this wasn’t right, it wasn’t what you wanted, that this wasn’t the Bob Floyd you thought you were falling in love with. 

“Bob—help.” You couldn’t breathe. Your throat was so tight, you couldn’t get anything in. Couldn’t fill your lungs. “Please—help me.” People usually say that the inability to accept loss is a form of insanity. It’s probably true. Because as you took your last breath, all you saw was Robert Floyd. 

Unbuckling his belt like the devil himself had whispered over his shoulder and had dared him to do it. 

***~***~***~***~***

“I didn’t kill her.” Bob lied through those puppy dog eyes. “Someone must have spiked her drink! But it sure as hell wasn’t me.” 

***~***~***~***~***

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

One Bad Day....Jason's Death

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

Series Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me go. I need to see him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bruce was right. You shouldn’t have looked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not our place to–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

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

“Our son.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could I have saved you if I had been there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time….If only you had more time….

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

And it’s all because of The Joker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[uniasus]

Whumptober 23 - Day 15 - BBC Merlin

“You’re favoring your wrist,” Arthur points out as he watches Merlin prepare the hearth.

Merlin hums. “Fell earlier on the stairs. Used it to catch myself.”

Arthur shakes his head, only Merlin. He is injured regularly, clumsily doing daily tasks. It is a true miracle he hasn’t cut himself caring for Arthur’s sword. It is a mite alarming how often the man hurt himself, but Arthur has seen his clumsliness in action – dropping pieces of armor on the pitch, watching goblets slip between his hands, misjudging a corner and hitting his shoulder on the stone.

But for all that Merlin is constantly injured, it doesn’t seem to hamper his ability to do his work so Arthur doesn't press.

He watches from his desk as Merlin works, using his right hand to sweep the old ashes into a sheet. He keeps his left on his lap, out of the way. It's obviously a protective posture, but it is a bit odd that Merlin caught himself with his left hand. The man is right-handed. Maybe he’d been carrying something.

Ashes in the sheet, Merlin sets about tying the bundle for easy carrying. Prior to getting a good grip, Merlin pushes back his sleeves and Arthur’s pen freezes.

Just below Merlin’s wrist is a very obvious handprint.

There is no way he got that catching himself on the stairs.

Merlin hoists the sheet up into his arms, carrying the bundle in front of him. His sleeves fell, covering the bruise, but Arthur still sees the four purple imprints of fingers. For it to be that bruised, it couldn’t have happened in the past few hours. Last night maybe?

“I’ll be back soon with supper,” Merlin chirps. Then he is gone, out the door, leaving Arthur reevaluating every nursed hurt Merlin displayed in the past month.

----

A week later, there is a bruise on Merlin’s cheekbone. Not in itself an unusual thing, he has seen Merlin smacked in the face by everything from flying gloves to loose chickens. This one is caused by rolling out of bed and not catching himself.

“Woke Gaius up with my swearing,” Merlin chuckles and Arthur shakes his head.

“Only you.”

But he’s suspicious. Of course, he is. So he asks Gaius.

“Oh, that’s my fault, Sire. I opened his door this morning while he was preparing to do so himself. Caught him right in the face.”

All of which leads Arthur to decide that Merlin has been punched in the face.

-----

Arthur watches Merlin sweep his chambers. There are no visible bruises, no hand he’s using less or limp, but there is still something off about the way he moves. He’s twisting less to get into the corners, turning his head to look somewhere without his shoulders moving.

It takes Arthur a moment to recognize it. He’s seen that behavior on knights, who he then quickly gives a break to so they don’t overwork themselves.

Rib injuries.

Arthur marches up to Merlin and steals the broom.

“You’re injured.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying.”

Merlin snags the broom back, and there’s nothing on his face that hints at pain. No wince around the eyes or lines around his face. He's even standing straight. He’s good at hiding pain from his face, Arthur realizes, and that alarms him for so many reasons.

“You are. And this is not the first time. Someone is hurting you. Who is it, Merlin? I’ll see them punished.”

“There’s nothing to help with.”

Arthur grabs the broom again. “There is.”

Merlin tries to yank the broom back, but Arthur tightens his grip. If Merlin really wants it, he can’t rely on arm strength. He’ll have to put his torso to use, add a bit of shoulder strength. Maybe his abs. Merlin grimaces, tightens his grip, but he doesn’t pull.

It’s as good as an admittance.

“Your ribs. Someone hit you. Or kicked you? Who, Merlin?”

Merlin lets go of the broom and moves on to other chores. Arthur catches his jacket and Merlin freezes. Quickly, before his servant can brush Arthur off, he pushes Merlin’s jacket out of the way and lifts his shirt.

Bandages circle Merlin’s chest. Not Gaius's clean linen, but something with ragged edges as if they’d been ripped. And that’s what exactly they are – ripped sheets.

“Sit,” he barks, forcing Merlin to sit at the table.

Merlin bounces up as soon as Arthur releases him. “I don’t need you to help me. I can handle things myself.”

“What things, Merlin?”

Merlin presses his lips together. “Secret things.”

“I gathered that if you didn’t even let Gaius help you wrap your ribs. Tell me anyway.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Merlin stands straight, and Arthur remembers the handprint on his wrist. The bruise on his cheekbone.

“Someone is hurting you, Merlin. I won’t have them escalate to breaking your arm,” Arthur growled.

“No one is hurting me.” Merlin looks straight at Arthur as he says it. Two months ago, Arthur would have fell for it.

“I don’t believe you,” he whispers. “Is a lord blackmailing you or Gaius? Is that why you can’t say anything?”

“No.”

“Do you not know who they are?”

“No.”

Arthur glares. He can’t think of any other reason why Merlin wouldn’t ask for help, other than sheer stubbornness. But he’s never thought of Merlin as that independent a person. He and Gwen help each other with chores regularly. Pride?

“There’s no honor in suffering, you know.”

Merlin looks away. “I know.”

“So there’s no reason for you to work through pain other than wanting me to not know you were hurt.”

Merlin is quiet, which Arthur means he guessed right. Sighing, he pushes Merlin back into the chair. This time, Merlin stays put and Arthut sits in the chair across from him.

“Fine. If you won’t tell me who’s hurting you, at least let me know when you are hurt. I’ll lighten your workload.”

Merlin looks at him in disbelief. “You’ll let me handle this?”

“For now,” Arthur answers. “But if it gets worse, or doesn’t stop in the next few months, you’ll tell me.”

Merlin nods eagerly, and Arthur so, so wants to believe him. But the only thing Arthur believes in right now is Merlin's ability to lie.

“Since you were sweeping before, go back at it, but you can forget bringing up water for my bath. I’ll ask someone else.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

Arthur gentles his voice. “Of course. And don't forget to get those ribs wrapped correctly before you finish sweeping the floor.”

He leaves Merlin in his chambers with free access to the broom and goes searching for Lancelot to ask him to follow Merlin around. Lancelot is too loyal and honest to hide what he finds.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2023

No. 15 “I’m fine.” | No. 17 “Leave me alone.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (platonic, pre-relationship)

Setting: Post Prison/Pre Alexandria

Warnings: Animal bite, Injury, Illness, TWD Violence

“Thanks,” you muttered while wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You extended the bottle out to Glenn but he shook his head. 

“Try to get Daryl to drink when he gets back.” You cast him a curious look but he only smiled and shuffled forward to catch up with Maggie. 

The sun was beating down violently on your little group, no reprieve from the clutches of its heat. Just like yesterday. Just like the day before. The bushes rustled to your left, but you were too weary to be afraid. You simply rolled your head toward the sound and watched Daryl emerge from the foliage. You gave him a quick once over as he fell in stride beside you but saw no injuries and also no kill to call dinner. 

“You okay?” You offered the water bottle, but he pushed it back to you. 

“M’fine.”

“I haven’t seen you take a single sip in two days, Daryl.” You were trying to scold but your voice only sounded dry and tired. 

“You need it. Lil Asskicker needs it.” Right on cue, the baby on Carl’s back began to fuss. You glanced behind you where Sasha and Michonne were bringing up the rear. The group of walkers were still a ways back but if you stopped, it wouldn’t take them long to catch up. 

Your attention was brought back to Daryl when he stumbled, hissing through his teeth before getting his balance. You said nothing but watched him carefully. He was slightly favoring his right leg. While you could see no blood, you did notice that the red rag that usually hung from his back pocket was wrapped around his shin, just above his boot. 

“Daryl.” You called to him carefully when he looked up from his feet and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. He grunted in reply, and his gaze dropped again. “Are you hurt?” He grunted again. “That’s not an answer.”

“Don’ worry ‘bout it.” The archer looked over at you, one eye closed and the other squinted. “Ain’t a big deal.” 

Before you could press him on it, Rick called out for everyone to stop at a bridge. It was time to handle the walkers. 

It didn’t take long. Not a single person was injured and you were back on the road. Daryl was in front of you now, and you were watching him like a hawk. Other than a slight limp, he seemed okay. No better or worse than anyone else right now. 

The group had stopped to rest once the scorching sun had lowered, and Daryl had disappeared to hunt. With a nod to Carol, you ducked away past the bushes to join him. You weren’t great at tracking but he hadn’t been gone long and you had learned a thing or two from him. 

It didn’t take you long to spot him. There was a small cabin that looked like it had been abandoned since before the dead rose. Daryl was standing next to a tree close to the structure, leaning his shoulder against it. You smiled, and quickened your pace until you noticed his crossbow was on the ground at his feet. His right boot wasn’t touching the ground, and he was bent at the waist with his eyes screwed shut and teeth clenched. 

“Daryl?” You called out but he didn’t respond. He was sweating and pale, and as you neared, the smell of sick lingered in the air. “Hey, are you okay?” You placed your hand on his bicep once you were close enough. The archer reacted violently, catching your wrist and slamming your back against the tree with his hunting knife at your throat. Had he really not heard you approaching? His breaths came hard and fast. Those pretty blue eyes of his were filled with pain and anger. “It’s me, Daryl.” 

You watched recognition set in, and he released you with a huff. “The hell ya followin’ me fer?” You let your gaze follow him as he replaced his knife and reached for the crossbow. On the ground, near the weapon, was a puddle of vomit. Your eyes narrowed. 

“Daryl, what’s wrong with you?” You pushed away from the tree and jogged to cut him off. “Really.”

“Leave me ‘lone!” He made to go around you, but you moved to stay in his path. 

“You sick?” He tried the other way with the same results. “Hurt?” He growled deep in his throat, closing his eyes in what appeared to be restraint. You weren’t sure that was really the case. 

“Jus’ lay off, would ya?” He snapped harshly. You reeled, face contorting in anger, but just as you opened your mouth, Daryl’s eyes widened. He listed to the side, crashing hard onto his left knee and began to retch violently. With nothing in his stomach, he only managed to bring up a small amount of bile throughout the ordeal. 

“Daryl!” You grabbed hold of his shoulders just in time to stop him from keeling over into the mess. Falling back onto your ass, you managed to pull the man up against your stomach. He was panting with his eyes screwed shut. “Daryl, what’s going on? The truth.”

It took a moment but the archer finally managed to open one eye and seemed to study you before you felt him simply deflate in your hold. “Snake bit.” You quickly glanced at that old rag around his lower leg. 

“You moron, that’s serious! You could die!” Your hand connected roughly with the front of his shoulder but then held him fast where he was when he tried to struggle away. 

“Ain’t gon’ die. S’jus’ a copperhead.” He tried to sit up again and this time you let him. He nodded gratefully once he was shoulder to shoulder with you. “Got bit ‘fore, when I’s ‘bout 10. It won’ kill me but it’ll suck fer a day or two.”

You stared at him, not sure what you were feeling. You were angry that he had hidden this from the group, from you. You were worried that he was or would become dehydrated or the wound would be infected, both were very likely and equally as dangerous. You were sad that he would rather suffer alone than worry anyone even when he was in such a state. 

“Quit starin’ at me like tha’. Told ya, I’ll be fine.”

You nodded, looking down at your boots. You had to think of something. Daryl simply couldn’t keep going like this, disappearing ‘in search of water and food’ when he really just needed a break. You glanced at him again, leaning back on his hands with his head tilted toward the sky. His expression was riddled with pain, even though he was trying not to show it. You knew better. 

Over his shoulder, you saw the little cabin. It wasn’t the ideal solution but maybe one you could make work. “You cleared that yet?”

Daryl followed your gaze and shook his head. “Nah. Didn’ have a chance ‘fore my stomach crawled outta my throat.”

“Wait here.” 

“The hell ya doin’, Y/N?”

You pulled your knife from the sheath on your thigh and marched toward the structure. “Solving a couple of problems.”

The cabin had been blessedly void of walkers. It was small but large enough to shelter your family from the sun for at least a day or two. It was easy enough to talk Rick into stopping the fruitless march toward nothing. At least the group could stay put while you took care of Daryl, under the guise of being out for the night to hunt. 

He had been surprisingly pliant when you dragged him away. Finding a spot to camp for the night was simple. Far enough away for members not to venture in search of you, yet close enough to run for help if things got worse. You had taken all of the water that could be spared, leaving enough for the proper care of Judith and Carl. You hated leaving so little for the adults, but Daryl would surely die without it, closer than anyone to dehydration with the excess sweating and vomiting. 

You sat next to his outstretched leg, carefully pouring the smallest amount of water over the two punctures he had finally let you take a look at. Just to the right of his shin, the wound was swollen and angry, more in thanks to the venom than to infection. If you could manage to keep it clean, you could probably avoid that. 

You taped a square of gauze over the bite, thankful that you had at least that in your own bag. Keeping it covered was best for the time being. It could get air when the venom wasn’t doing a number on the archer. 

You worried about tissue damage, but that was a bridge you’d have to cross when you came to it. For now, keeping him alive was the most important thing. 

“Drink.” You titled the canteen against his lips, holding fast to his chin with the other hand when he tried to turn away. 

“The kid—”

“Has enough. I promise. I wouldn’t have taken it if it meant she or Carl had to do without.” He seemed to accept that, parting his lips for the smallest of swallows. You wished you had more and didn’t have to be so greedy with each offering. He had taken the ibuprofen you had managed to nab out of Michonne’s bag. That should provide a bit of relief from the pain while aiding in the reduction of the inflammation. It wasn’t much but it would have to do. 

“You should get some rest.” You placed your back against the tree, shoulder to shoulder with him. He didn’t look very comfortable but it wasn’t unlike Daryl to sleep sitting up. Sometimes, you think he preferred it. Regardless, he was sick and in pain, so you tried to make him as comfortable as possible. “Why don’t you lay on my lap?”

Daryl opened one eye and rolled his head toward you, blinking away the sweat that burned and obstructed his vision. You thought he might argue or turn you down flat, but he instead shifted with a groan and pillowed his head on your thighs. A true testament to how horrible he was feeling. 

“Better?” You questioned quietly, running your fingers through his damp hair. He hummed, his eyes once again closed. You could see the way they pinched at the outer corners and wished you could do something more for the pain. He’d been bitten while trying to find food and water for your group; trying to take care of everyone else. Always putting himself last. 

There was a content sigh that brought you from your thoughts. You hadn’t realized that you had begun to scratch and knead his scalp, but the way he seemed to melt against you ensured that you continued. His shallow breaths evened out and deepened after a few more moments, an indicator that he was finally giving his body the rest it so desperately needed. 

He would be okay. You knew that now. But if you could offer him some comfort and peace for just one night, you’d massage his scalp until your fingers bled. Daryl, rough around the edges and tough as nails, would bend over backwards to ensure the safety of each one of you. Anyone in the group would do the same for him if he’d allow it. But he didn’t. He chose to suffer in silence until you stumbled across him and forced his hand. 

But he’d allowed you into his space and trusted you enough to fall into a deep, healing sleep while you watched over him. He would be safe and cared for, and you’d make sure he knew that he could depend on this— on you — and drop his walls. He could let you in and be vulnerable. 

You’d be damned if you’d take that for granted. 

[jasmines-library]

Needle and thread.

WHUMPTOBER DAY 19. Prompt: “no anaesthesia.” Fandom: Batfamily

Summary: Dick is forced to carry out a life-saving emergency surgery when you are too far away to reach help before it becomes too late.

Warnings: Impalement, blood, gore, stitching, needles.

Word count: 1k (short but sour, I had to do this quickly sorry.)

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

Dick Grayson would never forget your blood curdling scream the moment the rebar punctured your stomach, ripping up skin and muscle as it forced its way through your back.

You had been flung sideways by the villain you had been fighting. The force of his throw has caused you to topple over the side of the scaffolding and sent you plummeting to the ground. Unluckily for you, you happened to land on the scrap metal.

He cried out, cursing as he fought to get to you. It was only supposed to be a simple patrol, but he was outnumbered. Dick fought hard, landing kick after kick and blow after blow with his sticks to reach you. When he landed heavily on his feet beside you, he could already see the puddle of blood below you. It gushed freely from your body. Raw and red and beautiful.

Your mouth was agape, panting against the pain. Your eyebrows upturned behind your mask as your face contorted in agony.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. He was stuck still staring at the blood stained steel. Your muscles clenched around it as you writhed.

“Y/n.” He dropped to his knees beside you when reality hit him like a ton of bricks. “Fuck.”

“Dick…”

His hands hovered over your body; he was too afraid to touch you as if touching you was going to break your fragile body more. He was wide eyed, mind running at a thousand miles a minute. He knew he needed to move you, but the rusty metal bar was the only thing preventing you from bleeding out completely. He had hit the emergency signal on his suit, and he knew help was on the way, but he had no way to gauge how long it would be before they arrived.

“Okay…” he breathed out unsteadily. His hands trembled as they moved around your body, coaxed in your blood. “I have to move you.”

Nodding, you clenched your eyes shut and gritted your teeth. Dick wrapped his hands around yours to haul you off of the bar. You howled, muscles twitching as it was ripped through you again. Your vision blurred as he lay you back down on the ground, applying pressure hard to the wound.

“Come on, Y/n. Just stay with me a little longer. Help is coming.”

“Dick…” you forced out through wet coughs. “You have to do it.”

He shook his head frantically. He hated doing it. It was something that was only supposed to be a last resort. “No. No, I can't do that to you.”

He turned his head, desperate to spot the red and green suits heading his direction, but all he could see for miles were the lights of the city.

“Robin, where are you?” He asked into the coms.

There was a crackle before he replied. “I‘m going as fast as I can, but I’m about 10 minutes out.”

He cursed. You were too far out for him to reach the bat cave and Damian was still too far away. 10 minutes and you would have lost too much blood.

“Do it.” Yo pleased. “Dick. Please.”

He took a deep breath and turned his head away, before pulling out the needle and thread that was kept in the small Medkit you carried in your suit for emergencies. Dick struggled to thread the needle with the way his fingers shook. But after finally sterilising and threading the small tool, he positioned it above the wound. It was still bleeding heavily.

“I’m so sorry.” He muttered as he made the first stitch.

You bucked forwards, contorting at the stabbing against your skin. He tried to be quick, but that did nothing to stop you feeling every stitch as the thread tugged against your skin to close the rift. You had almost blacked out by the time he had rolled you over to stitch up the entry wound. Every second was nothing but torment that seemed to replace the blood you lost.

By the time he had pulled the last stitch closed, you were a whimpering mess. Your face was stained with tears and your hair was a mess. Your whole body felt like one giant bruise; everything ached and your joints felt like a hinge that needed to be oiled.

Dick had tried his hardest to keep you awake, whispering sweet apologies into your hair as he rocked you back and forth in his arms, though you weren’t 100% sure who he was trying to make feel better; you or himself.

Your body had slowly begun to go numb after a while as you waited anstily for Damian to arrive. A chill had begun to set into your bones. By the time he had finally arrived, the pain and your senses had dulled into almost nothing at all.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 18 ⛤ DAY 20 ->

Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

[aceofwhump]

Hey Ace 👋

Do you have any good Rodney whump fics or Ronan whump fics to recommend

I am only like half way through season 2 of Atlantis but I think I spoiled most of the show for myself through the whumpy gifs and videos I see everywhere lol

(P.S may we see a pic of your cat? 👉👈)

Hiya!! Ooh I love Rodney and Ronan whump. Yeah let me see what I can find for ya.

Rodney Whump:

Desperate Measures By: angw Stuck in a mine shaft Rodney has to make a choice to survive.

Four Times Rodney McKay Got Shot Saving the Day By: LinziDay Four times Rodney McKay got shot saving the day and one time he didn't .

Guppy By: GateBiscuit Rescuing McKay from the lost, leaky Puddle Jumper was the easy part. Tag to Grace Under Pressure. Team fic

Reason #1 Why Rodney Likes Food By igiveup101 “Fine,” Rodney gave in, shoulders slumped. “But you’ll be sorry when I’m dying of hypoglycemic shock.” OR Sheppard and the team agree to sit and reflect for a few hours. It goes, predictably, horribly awry.

Soldiering On By: LilRicki In which Rodney gets severely whumped but is still awesome enough to save the team from certain doom.

Candle in the Dark By: Sholio An accident leaves Sheppard and McKay a little too dependent on each other.

Hypoglycaemia By: Alipeeps Hypoglycaemia or low blood glucose is a condition in which the level of glucose sugar in the blood, drops below a certain point... Special request fic written for McKayRocks! Featuring McKay and Shep whumpage in abundance.

Ronon Whump:

Silent Sacrifice by Daring Duo - John, Rodney, and Ronon try to survive after crash landing on an unexplored planet. Their injuries and lack of supplies begin to take their toll as they wait to be rescued.

Red Sands by kirsten999 - Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.

Finding Home by LadyShelley - Free of the Wraith, Ronon must decide if he is going to stay in Atlantis or leave to seek vengeance alone. While still trying to make up his mind, he and Rodney are trapped in one of the city’s towers, and each starts to learn more about the other as they wait for someone to find them.

A Light In Dark Places by LordVaako - Where was Ronon? Carson’s head felt like a boulder had dropped on it. The low ringing in his ears, coupled with a throbbing headache, made him touch his temple. He removed his fingers and inhaled in surprise at the crimson smears. ** Ronon is sent to bring Carson back to Atlantis, but the good doctor wants to spend more time with a village’s healer. When the village is attacked, Ronon and Carson are badly injured. They must rely on each other to get back to the Stargate.

Red Sands by kristen999 - Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.

Febuwhump Day 1: touchstarved By Yesimevil After living for seven years as nothing more than a hunted animal, settling back into a form of society was… difficult, to say the least. Ronon suddenly became overwhelmed with people and things and safety, and no idea what the hell he was supposed to do with any of it, and from his inability to hold a conversation to the alien feeling of a toothbrush in his hand, he supposed that he had, in a way, forgotten how to be human.

Whumptober 2022 day 31: a light at the end of the tunnel By Yesimevil Takes place after Broken Ties. Ronon struggles to recover from the events of the episode, but his friends are there for him.

And yes I'd love to share a picture of my kitty! Her name is Sable and this pic is from the last time I took her outside

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 29: "What happened to me?"

Continuation to day 22 and 25 :)

Day 22

Day 25

Read on ao3

Warnings: mostly the same as the other ones, blood, injury, some violence, possession, a little creepy vibes

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Warriors is not one to hesitate.

As Time leaps forward to attack the demon (the boy?) and tentacles of pure darkness shoot out from the mask, Warriors is instantly in full battle mode, and begins shouting out orders.

The others snap out of their horrified dazes and go to help Time, dodging shadowy tentacles as thunder booms nearby. The rain begins to come down harder, and visibility grows more difficult, the only truly clear sights Warriors gets of the battle happening when lightning scatters across the sky.

But he doesn’t let it stop him, and Warriors finally locates his first target, grabbing Legend’s shoulder to catch his attention.

“You need to go see if you can find Ravio,” he says a bit breathlessly, dodging a tentacle that comes their way. “He must still be inside, Sheerow wouldn’t have led us here otherwise.”

Legend scowls. “Captain, I’m not going to leave—”

“He may be in trouble, and we don’t know if he has time for us to finish this battle,” Warriors says grimly. “Go find him, Vet. We can handle things for now.”

Legend hesitates, then nods, Sheerow appearing at his shoulder like he’d heard them talking. Legend turns and runs off, and Warriors watches him until he disappears with the little bird into the Eastern Palace.

Then he turns back to the battle, and joins the others in fighting the mask.

Time is fighting the body itself, and while the rest of them are trying to help him, the mask is surprisingly good at multitasking. It picked up a sword somewhere, and while it swings viciously at Time, dark tentacles sweep at the rest of them, keeping them away from the fight.

Time is in no condition to be fighting a demon, Warriors knows that for certain. Between the sleepless nights that have sapped him of energy, and the nightmares and revelations he’s had dropped on him, it’s a wonder he’s even standing.

But there’s strength in desperation. Warriors knows that well.

Wild jumps back from the fight and along with Four, begins firing arrows into the fray. Warriors is glad for the the cover as he dodges another attack. They’re starting to figure out the movements of the battle now, the different attacks up their enemy’s sleeve, and with the archers’ support, begin closing in on Time and the demon.

An arrow flies past Warriors’ shoulder, and someone suddenly screams, piercing and familiar. Warriors is already looking around for who got struck, but when he finally sees where the arrow landed, his brow furrows in confusion.

It’s sprouting from the shoulder of their enemy, but he could have sworn the voice that had screamed was—

“Don’t hurts the person behind the mask!”

At Twilight’s frantic cry, everything Warriors had been wondering and suspected falls neatly into place, and he stares at the body that’s wearing the mask, a cold feeling in his chest. The figure is taller then what he remembers, but the outfit is familiar, even through all the blood and shadows covering it.

Somehow, impossibly, there’s a version of Time under that mask.

The demon seems to have recovered quickly from the arrow in its arm, and it rips it out with a small cry. Then it cackles as it thrusts a tentacle of darkness at Time, nearly throwing him to the ground before he scrambles to dodge it.

“How are we supposed to fight him but not hit him?!” Wild shouts, and Twilight’s reply is drowned out by another roll of thunder.

“How do we know if he’s even alive under there?” Hyrule asks worriedly, swinging at a tentacle nearby, and Warriors looks back at Majora, a tight feeling in his chest.

How indeed.

“We need to get the mask off,” he says as he dodges an attack, “then we’ll... we’ll know. In the meantime, try not to hurt him.”

“Easier said then done,” Sky grunts nearby. “I don’t think he has the same qualms.”

Majora must hear them, for after they have the exchange it grows harder to fight, tentacles lashing, cries ringing out as several of them are knocked to the ground. It begins tearing up bricks from the ground and throwing them as well, and between the projectiles and their reluctance to hit him, the battle begins to turn back in the demon’s favor.

A tentacle lashes forward, and a cry rings out, Warriors turning just in time to see Hyrule hit the ground, hard.

He hears several cries, but can’t get to the traveler through all of the tentacles and projectiles thrown his way. Someone does finally get to Hyrule’s side, Warriors unable to tell who through the rain, and he slices at another tentacle as another shout rings out.

It’s Time’s voice again, but this time it’s not Majora who’s hurt.

Warriors watches as Time grabs at his side, a flash of red visible through the rain as he reels backwards. His heart speeds up, and he tries to fight over to Time’s side, slipping on puddles and avoiding tentacles. Someone else cries out yet again, and Warriors feels ice begin to freeze up his chest.

They’re losing this fight.

He’s still much too far to be of any use to Time, and as he tries desperately to reach him and help, Majora dodging and leaping around, Warriors sees Time’s face harden into a look he knows well.

His heart shoots up into his throat as Time’s hand slips into his pouch, and a white mask is pulled out.

“Sprite don’t!” Warriors shouts across the battlefield, but Time either doesn’t hear him or ignores the words entirely as he slams the mask onto his face.

A tentacle tries to knock Warriors to the ground while he’s distracted, nearly doing the same to him as had been done to Hyrule. And by the time he’s dealt with it and turns back, Time is no longer there, a god fighting in his place.

A high-pitched laugh rings around the area, and Majora leaps around the Fierce Deity’s attacks, moving so fast it’s hard to watch. Lightning flashes, but it’s nothing compared to the way the Deity’s eyes flash as he fights Majora.

Warriors finally makes it within striking distance of the two, but they’re moving so fast he can’t help at all. He waits for an opening, wiping rain out of his eyes and nervously twirling his sword, and as he watches, Majora dodges just the slightest bit too slow.

The Fierce Deity doesn’t hesitate.

He swings his huge sword, glowing an almost electric blue, and strikes the mask right off the boy’s face.

A horrible scream rings around the area, a mixture of the mask and the one who’d been wearing it, and the body topples to the ground, bloody and broken. Majora’s mask flies into the air, bleeding darkness as it turns to the Fierce Deity with its tentacles lashing, and it roars in outrage.

“YOU NEVER PLAY FAIR!” the mask screams, and the fight resumes, the two attacking each other with an increased ferocity.

Warriors doesn’t hesitate in sprinting towards the fallen body, shadows and blood seeping off of him in nearly equal amounts. He drags him away (he’s so light) as far as he can from where the Deity is now fighting the mask with no holds barred, and Warriors carefully flips the boy over, a quiet hitching sound coming from him.

He realizes it’s crying at the same time his eyes settle on the boy’s face.

The features that have been freed look so similar to Mask’s that Warriors startles, nearly forgetting what he’s doing. The face is older, though not by a whole lot, and the blood and injuries and tentacle marks all over him certainly change things. But the shape is there, a mix between the man Warriors knows now and the boy he met during the war, and he feels like he’s been gutted.

He can’t be older then Wild.

The rain puddled beneath the younger Time begin to turn red, and the hitching noises turn to gurgles as the shadows holding him together fade. Warriors shoves his scrambled thoughts aside, and shushes the boy as he pulls out a fairy.

“Hold on kid, hold on,” he murmurs, and the fairy dances over the boy’s rapidly stilling form. Sparkles mix with the rain, and Warriors watches in silence as the most grievous of the boy’s injuries are healed.

Twilight and Wind run up to his side as the fairy finishes, and the hitching sound starts up again, Wind staring at the body in horror.

“Merciful Ordona,” Twilight breathes, and carefully lifts the boy partially onto his lap, shushing him when he makes a noise. “Shh, you’re alright, you’re safe.”

The boy shudders where he’s laying, and Twilight pulls him into a tighter hold, rubbing small circles onto his back. His injuries are by no means completely healed, but they can’t do much for him here, rain pouring on their heads, screams still ringing out.

Screams?

Warriors turns, and sees the Fierce Deity with a foot on Majora’s mask, angry screams and jabbering coming from the demon. The Deity doesn’t hesitate, and plunges his glowing sword through the mask, one final scream ringing out.

Any tentacles left grow still, then fade away, darkness puddling on the ground much like the rain.

A louder hitching sound catches Warriors’ attention, and he turns back to the boy, his eyes flickering as Twilight holds him. He’s looking around with a terrified look in his eyes, tears smearing the blood on his face, and suddenly the Fierce Deity is kneeling beside him, a hand outstretched.

Warriors stiffens, a hand reaching for his sword.

But the Deity’s hand merely rests on the boy’s cheek, notably gently compared to the way he’d been fighting earlier. The younger Time whimpers, and turns into the hold, and Warriors releases his sword, though he keeps it in reach.

“Rest, little one,” the Deity says, surprisingly soft as a finger brushes some blood away. “Your part of this fight is done.”

The boy’s breath hitches again, but his eyes slip closed, and he stills as the Deity gently holds his cheek. Warriors frowns, but Twilight waves him off, gesturing to the boy’s chest going up and down. He’s merely unconscious.

The Deity waits a moment, still looking at the younger Time, then removes his hand and turns to face the three heroes around him.

“The demon is gone,” he says, rain pattering on his armor. “And the one who brought him back is not present. The danger has been eliminated.”

“Are you going to release Time now?” Warriors asks in a voice that’s more of a demand then a question.

The Deity tilts his head, then blinks, looking like he’s studying Warriors’ face.

“My role is finished. You need not worry for your leader.” His hand raises, but he pauses just before taking the mask off, and stares at Warriors with an intense gaze. “Watch out for him and the boy. The upcoming days will not be easy.”

Warriors blinks, but before he can reply, the Deity lifts off his face, and Time kneels where he once did.

He immediately flounders, and Warriors is there with an arm under his shoulder as he lowers him carefully to the ground. Time’s hand goes to his side, blood on his fingers, and Wind scoots over and hands him a potion.

The rain is steady, but the thunder is mostly past, rumbles coming from in the distance. The others slowly converge on where the rest of them kneel, Wild helping Hyrule walk over. One by one they turn to look at the bloodied teenager in Twilight’s lap, and Warriors looks uneasily at Time, the older hero rubbing his forehead.

He looks exhausted, even having drunk a potion, but his face is oddly emotionless as he looks at the younger version of himself. Warriors can feel him shaking where his arm is still slung over his shoulder, and he holds him a little tighter, just like he has been for the past month after he’d woken up screaming.

It was his death he was seeing after all, Warriors thinks as the rock in his stomach shifts. An alternate version, but...

“Is... is that really Time?” Wind asks him quietly, and Warriors looks at the older hero again.

Time doesn’t say anything, rain dripping off his hair.

“In a way,” Warriors says a bit uncertainly. “Do you remember what Legend was saying about Times nightmares, and the Fallen Hero?”

Wind looks confused, and then he pales, a quiet oh escaping his lips as he looks at the young Time again.

“This is him?” Hyrule says a little shakily, and Warriors swallows, nodding without a word. What can he even say?

Wind suddenly perks up, and looks behind them all, some of the light coming back to his eyes.

“Hey look, it’s Ravio!”

Warriors turns and sees Legend exiting the palace with Ravio’s arm slung over his shoulder, the merchant barely able to walk even with his assistance. Wind runs over to help, and Warriors worriedly takes in Ravio’s battered appearance as they approach, though the merchant gives them all a bleary smile.

“Can always count on Mr. Hero,” he says in a shaking voice. “N-never let me down yet.”

“You certainly don’t make it easy,” Legend mutters, though there’s a fondness in his voice. His eyes seem red as well, but nobody mentions it as they look back at the boy in Twilight’s arms.

Legend takes in the sight of him, an unreadable look in his eyes, and then he looks around at the rest of them, soaking wet, exhausted and injured.

He sighs.

“Come on. Let’s head back to my house.”

(...)

It’s more then two days before he wakes up.

They all head back to Legend’s house, wounded in tow, and once they arrive, everyone is properly fussed over. Potions are handed out, bandages wrapped, wet clothes peeled off and set to dry by the fire Legend gets going.

The younger Time is placed in his bed once they heal and bandage him as much as they can, and they carefully coax the story of what happened from Ravio, the merchant still shaky and pale.

He recounts the exact events of Time’s longer dream, Legend sitting beside him the entire time, and when he finishes, Time stands up and leaves the room.

Warriors doesn’t follow. Time needs time to process everything.

Warriors knows he does.

After they’ve all sufficiently rested from... everything, and while they wait for the younger Time to wake, they help Legend clean up his house. It’s something to do, but it doesn’t dispel the strange mood over them all.

There’s relief, that Ravio and everyone else is okay and that Time finally has an uninterrupted night’s sleep, but worry too, since barely anyone got out of the fight without at least a few scratches, and the implications of the enemy they’d fought, and the boy they saved that still hasn’t woken up.

Warriors watches him that first night, his bangs partially obscuring the marks they’d discovered after cleaning him up. They’re from Majora of course, but Warriors hopes they’ll fade, for the boy’s sake at least.

He deserves to not have a reminder of what happened on his face.

He isn’t the only one in the room after another day of cleaning, on the second night they’re there. Though most of the Links are asleep, either on the floor or in chairs, snores drifting across the room. Not everyone is asleep though, and Warriors tries not to stare at where Time is seated by the bed, not quite within arm’s reach.

Twilight is beside him, much closer to the bed, and they keep watch over the sleeping boy, still as ever.

The younger Time suddenly whimpers in his sleep, and before Warriors can move, Twilight runs a hand along his hair, carefully avoiding the bandages by his cheek. The boy stills, and Twilight leans back again, looking at his ancestor with an aching look in his eyes.

“Time,” he asks quietly, the words loud in the silence of the room. “How old is he?”

Time is silent for a long time, and Warriors almost wonders if he’s not going to answer the question.

“Physically... around sixteen,” he says finally, voice not more than a rasp. “Maybe seventeen. I’ve never known exactly how old I was.”

“...mentally?” Twilight asks.

Time closes his eye, and Warriors sees him swallow

“About nine,” he whispers.

Warriors feels like he’s been kicked in the chest, and Twilight looks the same, both of them turning to stare back at the boy lying on bed.

Nine.

Nine.

The boy lying next to them, that had fought Ganon and been killed, setting off Legend and Hyrule’s entire timeline, and then been brought back to life and possessed by Majora and nearly died again due to the Shadow’s meddling was nine years old.

Mask had been eleven.

“Nine?” Twilight chokes out, and Time looks away, shaking his head.

Neither of them know what to say, but Warriors sees how Time’s shoulders curl in, how his eyebrows lower, that same haunted look coming back into his eye. Warriors stands up, making them both look over, then walks over to Time and pulls him into his arms.

He’s not usually one to initiate hugs of all things, but it’s all he feels like he can do.

“I’m so sorry,” Warriors says in his shoulder, and Time seems like he doesn’t know what to do, arms held rigidly at his sides.

“It’s hardly your fault,” he says in a strained voice, and Warriors holds him tighter.

“I know. But I have a feeling you never got an apology.”

Time stares, and then he crumples in Warriors’ arms.

A shaking breath escapes him, and Twilight leans over to put an arm around him as well, Warriors sitting to better out his arms around him.

They hold him in silence as he begins to cry, then sob, and if any of the others wake up from the noise, they don’t say a word.

(...)

The younger Time finally wakes up the next day, when it’s just Warriors, Wind, and Legend in the room.

They’d brought a pile of maps in to sort out and reorganize, figure out which are still useable. One minute Warriors is wondering exactly how many dungeons Legend has gone through, and the next, Wind jumps, staring over at the bed.

Two blue eyes are staring at the three of them, wide and confused-looking.

“He’s awake!” Wind gasps, but Legend puts a hand on his arm, stopping him from running over.

Warriors calmly gets to his feet and goes to his bedside, the blue eyes following him the entire way. He sits down, and gives the boy a careful smile.

“Good morning, Link. We weren’t sure quite when you were going to wake up,” he says kindly.

Link stares at him still, and Warriors grabs the cup of water they’ve kept at the bedside table for this very moment.

“I’m sure you’re thirsty, would you like some water?” he asks gently, and Link nods, zeroing in on the cup with a hungry look. Legend and Wind finally come over, and they help him sit up, the borrowed tunic slipping over one of his shoulders.

Warriors hands him the cup, and though it takes him a few tries, Link manages to hold the cup and drink by himself, eagerly draining the entire thing.

“We’ll get Wild to make you some food too, I’m sure you’re hungry,” Wind says with a smile, and Link swallows, finishing the water.

“Where... what happened?” he asks, looking down at himself, eyes going wide at the bandages, and Warriors and Legend exchange looks.

“...Maybe you’d better see for yourself,” Legend says, and grabs a hand mirror from a table nearby. Warriors raises an eyebrow, and Legend rolls his eyes. “It’s not magic, it’s a regular mirror.”

That hadn’t been what Warriors was raising his brow at, though the assurance is nice.

Legend hands it over to Link, and he stares, taking in the bandages and pale color of his face, and especially the markings that are still visible on his skin. He raises a hand, and stares at that as well, looking at the bandages wrapped over his wrist.

“Wh... what happened to me?” he asks in a small voice, running a shaky hand along the lines on his face.

Something flashes across his face, and he sets down the mirror, pulling up his tunic with a shaking hand. Link stares at the bandages covering the worst of the injuries across his middle, and places a hand on his stomach.

He suddenly freezes, eyes going even wider, and Warriors immediately recognizes the look of someone remembering.

“I died,” he says in a small voice, and Warriors breathes out, then nods.

“You did,” he agrees quietly. “But you’re not dead anymore, Link. You’re safe.”

“I... I wasn’t,” Link continues, and puts his hand back on the marks on his face with a shaken look. “There was... was something in my head. I remember, I was fighting, I fought really hard but it wouldn’t let me go, and it hurt and I wanted to be dead again but...”

He looks at Warriors, face pale and eyes watering.

“Y-you all saved me.”

“We did,” Wind says confidently, and pats Link’s hand with a smile. “We got rid of Majora. Time split the mask in two while pieces, there’s no coming back from that.”

Link lets out a strange noise, his breathing speeding up, and Warriors takes his hands in his. He holds them steady, feeling the way they’re shaking, and waits until Link looks up and meets his eyes.

“He’s gone, Link. You’re safe, and you’re alive,” Warriors says softly.

Link’s lip trembles, and suddenly his face is pressed against Warriors’ shoulder, quiet cries coming from him. Warriors puts his arms around him, and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly seeing so many similarities to Mask and Time that it makes his heart feel like it’s going to break in two.

“Thank you,” Link chokes out, and Warriors holds him a little tighter as his breath hitches. “Th-thank you, I—”

His words break off into a hiccup, and Wind can’t take it anymore and jumps up to hug him as well. Legend puts a bracing hand on his shoulder, something heavy in his gaze, and Warriors realizes that the others have come into the room, likely brought by the sounds of Link’s cries.

They don’t intrude on the hug, but they stay close, and Warriors meets Time’s eye for a split second before he looks away.

“Shh, you’re okay Sprite,” Warriors says softly, and despite the fact that the boy he’s holding can’t have heard the nickname before, he relaxes slightly at it. “You’re safe.”

He holds him a little tighter, and doesn’t direct his next words solely at the boy in his arms, but rather the one he knows is also trying not to cry only a few feet away.

“It’ll be okay.”