#Set Up For Failure

[blackseafoam]

“set up for failure”

[blaiddraws]

OH HEY I FORGOT I DREW THIS THE OTHER DAY AS WELL. a quicker doodle than the others i just liked how the expression looks :P placeholder au again!!!!! the prompts i used are "set up for failure" and "fingerprints" - it was originally meant to be more clear that he had bloody fingerprints (don't worry it's not emmet's <3) but i kinda got sidetracked. anyway! it's supposed to be right when our lads show up in Hisui! no one knows what's going on

[brucewaynehater101]

WHUMPTOBER 2024: PROMPT #3

Set up for failure, fingerprints, "I warned you"

Brief synopsis: Tim warns Damian. Damian doesn't heed the advice.

“You're telling me that Bruce assigned you this case?” There's a note of apprehension in Tim's voice as his arctic eyes scrutinize his younger brother. Damian scoffs.

“What? Jealous that Father trusts me more than you, Drake?”

“That's not-” Tim's teeth grind together as he tries to halt his automatic response. “Look. Can you just tell me if anyone else knows about this?”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Perhaps you would need assistance with such a meager inquiry, but Father trusts my ability to handle it with ease.”

“So the answer is no.”

Instead of dignifying that with a response, the kid twists on his heel and returns with his perusal of the batcomputer. He needs to analyze the fingerprint and he does not have time to listen to his older brother's whims. Tim doesn't take the hint.

“If you won't let me in on the case, can you at least inform one other person? As long as it's not Bruce, can you please talk to someone about this?”

Emerald eyes peer over Damian's shoulder as he assesses the older man. Evidently not finding what he was searching for, he continues to ignore Tim.

“Please, Damian.”

With a scowl, the kid finally flips around again. “Why are you so insistent, Drake?”

Tim bites his lip hard enough for the skin to turn white. He avoids the other's stare. “Bruce has a habit of utilizing missions, in particular secret ones, to further his own agenda at the jeopardy of whomever he assigned it to.”

An indignant sneer paints the younger's face at the insult hurled towards their mentor. “You may be an unworthy imposter who doubts Father, but I won't. This is why you were stripped of the title that doesn't fit you.”

With that, Damian proceeds to ignore Tim again. Anger thrums within the older brother, but he knows there is nothing he can do to change the other's mind. If there's anything that Damian is, it's a dedicated but stubborn kid.

Part of Tim, the often buried protective instincts he feels for his baby brother, wants to solve the issue for Damian. He wants to drag Dick into this mess or Jason or Cass or even Duke. His fingers itch with the need to reach out to Oracle and double check whether she sanctions it. He could subtly manipulate the situation so Damian never falls to harm and never learns just what Bruce had in store for him.

There's so much Tim could do, but he won't. He shouldn't and he's been working on being better. He has a habit of controlling and managing other people's lives for them. He needs to allow his loved ones to make their own decisions, even if he knows they will regret it. They deserve that respect. Gods know Steph shouldn’t have had to scream it so many times for it to finally sink into Tim's thick skull.

The visceral obligation to fix this claws at walls of his ribs and it rakes at his intestines, but he's getting better at disregarding it.

It will burn Damian and destroy his trust in Bruce, but the older brother will let it happen. For once, Bruce will reap the direct consequences of his actions without Tim dulling or softening their effects.

He'll be there in the aftermath, and he'll be watching in the meantime. If it appears to be going to a point of no return, if Damian is in serious danger, then Tim will stop it. He will earn the kid's ire for that, but Damian's safety is paramount. Otherwise, it will run its course and prove to be a harsh lesson for the kid.

Tim heaves a sigh as his gaze falls away from the younger one. His shoulders droop with a weariness uncharacteristic of Red Robin.

Damian will make his own decisions. Tim will respect that.

~~~

Damian's hands shake both in fury and hurt. He raises his emerald eyes to glare at Drake.

The older’s expression isn't gloating or smug. It's defeated. He peers down at his kid brother with a dejected frown.

Damian drops his gaze to his lap as he tries to clench his fists. “Why?”

An exhale leaves Tim as he shakes his head. “He does this, Dames. I…” The older brother tries to swallow around the tightening in his throat. Brief flashes of a little black box and screaming matches on rooftops come to mind. “I could explain his reasons, but I'm tired. I'm so tired.”

The shaking of Damian's hands increases to his arms and then to his shoulders. His whole form trembles as his lower lip begins to wobble.

Tim moves until he's perched on the bed next to Damian. He allows their shoulders to touch as a subtle form of comfort. When he hears a little sniffle, Tim can't help but to close his own eyes.

The kid’s voice is nearly a whisper and is cracking with emotion. “You knew.”

The older brother could try to defend himself and state that he didn't truly know. He had a hunch. He worried. He suspected. He wasn't sure.

Still, there wasn't accusation in Damian's tone. Just resignation, hopelessness, and the realization that what's happened to him has happened before.

“Yeah.”

The younger brother nods at the confirmation and leans into the older one. Tim wraps an arm around his shoulder.

Neither acknowledge the tears streaming down the other’s face.

[oxideblack]

[fummy-woomy]

₊˚˚✧ rk800 was always doomed to fail, always doomed to be replaced eventually ˚✧ ﾟ.

some really quick and easy art because i have planned absolutely nothing for whumptober

[small-sinclair]

Her Ruby Plains

Whumptober Day 3 and 4: Set Up for Failure and Hallucinatons 

Corrupted!Gambit x sick!reader  

Kinda prof-read. Kinda not. Let me know with you want more Corrupted!Gambit :3

“I warned you” and “You’re still alive in my head”. 

The dark purple smoke that filled Gambit’s lungs and opened a flood gate to his powers. He could feel the energy in the room and felt every type of potential each objected held. He could easily take down the light, take down this whole town with a snap of a finger! Remy just wanted to watch the world burn with one card at a time. Everything was a pawn in his chess game. He could take the Queen with just a single move from a pawn. Even if he didn’t win, the cards are always in his favor. A life lesson he learned when his powers went down the drain and spiraled out of control.  

Everything he touched, whether it be cards or exploding a charge with a car battery, he didn’t care. He’ll have all of Louisiana at his feet and in the palm of his hand. It’ll teach everyone—teach them not to mess with what’s his. He didn’t care how he made it there as long as he made sure he made a statement. His dark brown jacket worn and battered, cards be damned, and a greedy glint in his eyes was all he had to offer as he looked over the town burning below. He made this beautiful mess, this bright and lovely messed. 

Then he thought of your smile and how you would beam when he came to your little cottage on the outskirts of the swamp, just near the riverbed. There, his guard would fall and allowed your love to wrap him like a blanket. If only he could put your light into a bottle, he would take you wherever his darkness went. Looking at you with the brightness of the moon over the waters and marsh filled him with unspeakable thoughts of care and love. He didn’t love you like a partner; he loved more like a divine being. If you allowed him, the Cajun would build you and alter in the hidden parts of the swamp.  

With a twirl of his boe staff, he turned his back to the flames and headed towards your house, his home and world. As he walked, he scooped up the CVS bag of medicine. Before he burned everything down, you called him, slurring your words as you told him to get you some medicine. So, that delayed the firework show for thirty minutes because he couldn’t decide which one you needed and had to get help from someone to help. Out of kindness, he spared the CVS and the employees—just to show good on his word, he personally made sure none of his powers went to the corner of happy and healthy.  

He lit a ciggaret as he walked the path towards your home. With every step, his pace quickened until he found himself running. Inside him, something was building up that called for him to scream out in anger. Where this feeling came from was beyond him— 

“I warned ya that you’ll be too stressed over me,” he heard your voice say, replying a memory from a few days ago just as the sickness was starting. “You’ll get a headache one of these day, Gam-bees.”  

 He took his staff and charged it until it was burning a bright purple and red. He launched himself and used the charge to get him over most of the marsh. His shadow cast by the moonlight over the murky waters below. He could see all of Louisiana’s ruby plains and her beauty from this high up, and he couldn’t help be feel amazed how he could see it like this, see her in everything there was to offer. She would belong to him; she will belong to him...Louisiana waters and all.  

He landed lightly on his feet on the path leading up to your cottage. He never understood why you wanted a stone cottage out in the middle of nowhere, but he understood the honesty that came with it and the alone time. He just wished you would come to the town he's in and to the city lights, but that's not your speed. It never was your speed.

Gambit came up the steps of the wooden porch and went inside his trench coat for the key you gave him, which had a picture of 9 of Clubs on it. He takes the mail out of the mail flap on the side of the door and came into the house. He wiped his feet before heading to the back of the house to your room. As he walks pass the kitchen, he takes his coat off and hangs it on the back of a chair, gets a glass of water, and an empty bowl with a rag. If your fever hasn’t broken yet, he’ll have to help you.  

“Cher? You alive?” He called out before he came into your room. “I gotcha some medicine an’ water. Figured you...” his voice trailed when he entered your room until he was speechless. His red on black eyes filled with a glint of sadness as he looked over your shivering form. You looked so weak in his eyes, so frail and gone too far where he couldn’t follow. He didn’t turn on the lights as he entered your room. “Mon dieu, cher,” he whispers, setting the stuff on the nightstand. He place the back of his hand against your forehead. “Darlin’, you’re burnin’ faster than a gator on a spick.”  

You leaned into his cool touch, whimpering slightly. “Heya,” you managed to say, but your voice was so tired and frail that it hurt you.  

He sat close to you and brushed your sweaty hair back. “Rest, sunshine. Ya need t’get better for me, yeah?” His accent was thick and low as he spoke to you. He felt like he was telling you a secret. “Gambit brought ya some medicine an’ water. Can you sit up, cher?” He guided you to a sitting position and held you in close then resting your back against the wooden frame. “There ya are; good, very good.”  

“It hurts,” you whispered as his hand caressed your cheek. “Bones hurt.”  

“I know, I know,” he whispers. “But I’m here, mon cher. Gambit ain’t leavin’ ya tonight.” His hand left your skin and dug through the CVS bag then pulled out dark green medicine. “The lady said dis should help. Taste like shit but it works.”  

He opened the bottle and poured it in the little measuring cup. Gambit brought it up towards your lips and helped you take it. He kissed your forehead gently as a ‘thank you’ and put it aside to take the glass of water. “Slow sips, sunshine,” he whispers, guiding your hand up to your lips. “You’re doing so well, mon ami. Just need to take it slow.” He moved the glass away then kissed your forehead once more. “I warned ya ‘bout going outside without a jacket. Gets cold out here.”  

His lower hand guided you back into the bed, letting you rest under your blankets and stuffed animals.  

“...alive in my head...”  

“What’s that, darlin’?” He leaned his head down closer to you. “Gambit didn’t quite hear you.”  

“You’re still alive in my head,” you repeated. “Not gone or fighting...just being alive in my mind is enough.”  

“Sugar, I’m alive,” he reassured, letting a nervous laugh escape. “Nothin’ killed me yet.”  

“You’re really here?” His heart broke as your hand held his cheek. “Promise? No more fighting or nothing?”  

He wanted to tell you the truth, but there was this desperate look in your eyes that called him to stop, that called for peace. Gambit lets out a deep breath and nods, pushing strains of hair away from your eyes. “Yeah,” he answers. “I’m still alive and going good. Gambit promises, Cherie .” There’s honor among thieves and the honor of keeping their sunshine bright with hope. Every thief knows this, well, every good thief.  “I swear it.”  

He stayed near, sitting close to watch over you. His eyes glowed in the darkness as if it was beckoning any type of misfortune to enter your home while you rest. Born into nothing but has something to call home...that's who Remy was. Compared to your ghosts and to his, his wealth to your simpleness, your bright smile with daisy rings around your body to his poison ivy and thrones. If he had to protect your from himself, he'll do it all for you.

Everything was for you.

Ruby fields of Louisiana will belong to him one day soon, but he’ll pause that adventure for you. He’ll live a lie that your sick mind needs him to live. If you need him to be an X-Men and need him to be better than the villains, he’ll do that. If it makes you better and get over your sickness, then he’ll do it until the light leaves your eyes. Once you're gone, lungs and all, he'll rage like nothing has before. He loved you too much to admit it, and it filled his lungs with swamp water and leeches.

As you slept into the night, he found a chair and came close to your bed, holding your hand the whole night. He would sleep now and then, nodding off into the abyss, but jerked awake when you started coughing all too loud and all too long.

"I'm here," he promises, smoothing your hair every time, comforting you the same why you would. "I'm right here."

"Still alive?"

"Breathin' as if it's nothin'," he answers. He'll kiss your forehead, saying, "Go back to sleep, darlin'. Gambit ain't leavin'."

"Promise?"

"With all my cards and scars, sugar." Let you have a space in his mind. He'll let you dance freely and openly. Just say when and he'll open like a coffin in the middle of the highway: fast, loud, and eager. "With all my cards."

[layraket]

Day 3 - Set up for Failure

Character(s): Legend and (in part) Time (LU)

Words: 936

Summary: Legend knows how the old man ended, or at least in his timeline

Whump scale: 1 (see the full scale here)

Warnings: mentioned Character Death, nothing graphic

-

When they ended in what appeared to be Time’s era, something felt weird.

“Is this yer Hyrule field?” Twilight asked, already noticing the expression in the old man’s face.

“Yes… Wait, no? It looks the same, but very different at the same time” he commented with a frown “Some trees look a lot younger, and the place too…”

Twilight matched with a frown of his own “Huh, weird”

Around the group murmurs were heard of where to go. When they were already deciding for the best option the feeling of pulling coming from a portal called for them.

“Weird indeed” Wind agreed with Twilight’s comment, already grabbing Warriors’ scarf to walk through the portal.

It was until they all went through it that they noticed there was an empty space.

-

There have been stories of a boy who tried to stop the man that caused the downfall of Hyrule. A kid who, with a fairy by his side and the legendary sword, went to a fight where he only met his demise.

This story is one that Legend knows from memory, his uncle always retelling it to him.

That’s also how he knows from the start who the old man is.

He wasn’t sure how, but it was obvious that Time was the same kid of the legend, just a little taller and grown up.

He tried to not think about it too deep, maybe it was really just a legend and there was no child.

He always though that, until he was given wrong.

They arrived at what looked like Time’s era, but there was something that definitely made the difference. The magic around the place was slightly damaged.

There’s always some trace of magic, and here it was a lot weaker than the one he always feels when they are going through Hyrule Field. The thing that worried him the most is the hint of darkness that plagued it almost in every corner.

Legend seems to have been separated from the group, not being able to see any sign of them close to his position. The only thing that was the closest to him was–

A boy. Blond, green clothes and a blue fairy coming with him.

Maybe he stared a little too much, because the kid noticed and came running towards him.

The sound of bells came together with the Fairy’s voice “We haven’t never seen you before! And we know everyone in the kingdom. Are you new?” The kid–Link, his name was Link– looked at him. Two blue eyes full of wonder and curiosity. If this was the old man, he obviously could sense all his magic arsenal.

Legend tried to come with a quick and reasonable response “Yeah, I came here after hearing about a kingdom full of life, wanted to explore and see what it can offer”

The kid frowned–And oh how it looked almost the same way that the old man usually does– and cleared his throat “There’s lots of cool things, just stay inside Castletown for today, you can explore all you want later”

There was something in his voice that didn’t match with how he looked. Raw and obviously rarely used, he understands now why the fairy was the first one to talk.

Then he noticed, the pommel of a dark purple in the kid’s back. He was going towards Ganon.

“I will take it in count” A pause, he needs to be careful how will he word this “And why is it that I’ll need to wait?”

The fairy was ready with an answer “In the actual times it’s not too safe wandering around, not after some attacks in the castle, but we’re taking care of it! Right, Link?” After that, the kid nodded.

The kid. The one who has the weight of the entire kingdom on his shoulders.

The one that he knows how will end up.

“I understand. Then I should get going, I will not stop the two of you anymore” He started making his way towards the gates, at least from here he could see in which direction to go.

Before he could go too far, Legend grabbed all his courage to speak again “Be careful and try your best, alright? I trust that I will be able to see you again” He never looked back to see the kid’s expression.

When he was close to the gates, the familiar pull of the portal made presence.

“So, you only needed me to give him some words? Cool” If she heard him, there was no signal to make it known.

He knows how the story ends, there was nothing that he could do even if he wanted to.

-

Centuries after, an old soul follows this one kid that decided to grab it’s old weapon. It saw how it finished the work it started, putting again the weapon on it’s place.

The soul decided to keep company this kid, witnessing more and more incredible adventures.

When it met the others it was delighted. Other cool people, who also went through big adventures and came victorious, it was fantastic!

If the young one stared at its direction every now and then, it didn’t care.

There was another one with its special kid, who seemed to come after all the pink-kid’s adventures. It also started following this fairy boy, his magic being like a warm comfort.

It should have seen it coming, Link should have known that it was set in stone for him to end in this state.

At least he can keep his promise, even if is only one sided.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“Yes.” | “Kneel.” | Best of Three | Correspondence | Appraisal | Collapse | Cupcake | Foggy | Cracking | Just Breathe | Urge | Trim | Stupid | Upkeep | Old Defeat | Watching | Simple Loyalty | Overreaction | Set Up for Failure | Burning | Healed Wrong | Haunted | Boxes Buried | Heavy Blow | Loneliness

“...Wow,” Mutters Simon reverently, finger tracing lightly over the black and purple bruising. Over squishy stomach that hides rigid muscles, sweat-slicked and hitching with pained breaths.

Cupcake sucks in a gasp when the lightest touch feathers over his stomach. Whether it tickles, or feels intimate, or hurts over the bruising, Simon isn’t sure.

“You’ve been recovering pretty well, from the break-in.” His hands are still shaking from the adrenaline of the beating. Simon tries to let them fall still. Sprawled on the floor and letting himself be touched by the guy who just beat him into a bloody pulp, Cupcake has his full, curious attention. “From getting shot for trying to escape. From all of this, really. Do you like it here, Cupcake?”

Tear-clouded eyes blink blearily up at the ceiling. His crying is a byproduct of the session so it is not judged or even particularly watched. Reflexive tears, not sadness. No answer falls muttered from that split lip.

Simon hums at the non-answer and trails fingertips up the side of Major’s ribcage. He gets a thrill deep in his stomach at each stifled whimper as broken ribs are irritated by the passing pressure. “I think the beers, the food, TV, a bed… they’re all generous. You won’t talk to me, Cupcake, and it’s starting to feel less worth it.”

His breathing was picking up, faster and faster, as Simon’s touch wandered toward his broken arm. He was terrified of it being touched - terrified of lashing out and then being punished - but now his breathing has stopped for a second, at the vague threat of privileges being revoked.

“C’n talk,” He rasps. Simon’s hand warps tenderly around the throbbing forearm, and Major resolutely holds still, tears streaming down his face in a renewed cascade.

“Really? Where did you live, what kind of place?”

An apathetic shrug would be nice to have, but he’s not going to try moving a muscle. Major grunts instead. “Uh… wherever. Anyplace with a busted door, open window, I guess.”

That sounds fitting. No house. No stability. Simon nods his approval of the answer. Cupcake using his words is a special occasion. “Alone?”

Silence. His jaw sets with visible tension, and in those brown eyes, Simon sees a vulnerable glint. Don’t make him talk about whoever he cares about, please, those eyes say.

Simon allows it. He sighs calmly, dedicating a second hand to cupping the broken arm and tracing touch over it for the thrill of hearing sharp little gasps. “Okay. Well, whoever it was, it wasn’t your family, right? You don’t act like you have a family to try to get back to.”

That startles a snort out of the man lying on his back and submitting to having his beaten body messed with. “What, like. Sisters or something? A fuckin’ mom and - sorry, sorry.” He can’t curse. Major’s briefly casual expression goes blank with panic. He waits, he watches.

Rewarding the fact that he was talking at all, Simon shakes his head in a dismissal of the fear. “You’re fine.” Cupcake relaxes, and Simon smiles. “A mom and dad, yeah. None of that?” It would be an odd question to ask, maybe, except Major acts so juvenile. Even being a few years from thirty, it’s not hard to imagine him having parents that he still rebels against.

Major tries to snort, but some blood seems to get in the way, and he ends up gagging on a cough. When his chest rises with sharp, startled breaths, his bruised skin shifts so slightly over his ribs. Simon’s hands buzz.

“Nah. Never had ‘em.”

Simon’s head tips with skepticism. “Someone made you.”

A derisive huff. “Yeah, I guess. Then dumped me someplace. I dunno. Grew up with these… assholes, just pushed me around and - oh fu-, I - my bad. Uh. These… stupid jerk people. Just - they sucked, okay?”

The fumble with cursing is silently forgiven again. The broken arm is deposited kindly enough against the floor, and Simon busies his hands with pressing the sides of his thumbs into Cupcake’s face, searching for broken bone that might need to be healed soon. Cupcake closes his eyes, always shy about close eye contact.

“Right from the start? As a baby?”

The rugged face scrunches under Simon’s hands, disgusted by that tender word. He doesn’t like being seen as something soft. “Yeah, ‘s what I said.”

No breaks. Some sore bruising coming to life all along the side of his face, though. Simon checks for blood in his hair next. “School must’ve been nice, then. Getting out, making some friends.”

It is a leading question. Cupcake is oblivious. He scoffs, eyes scrunching shut tighter as the blood in his hair is found, along with a painful knot. “School. Yeah right.”

It is simultaneously satisfying and unsettling to have his suspicions confirmed. Simon sits with that for a moment. “If not school, then… when did you leave?” He must have left, he seemed like he cares about whoever he’s been living with recently.

This must be a painful memory. Cupcake tries to shrug up a shoulder to look nonchalant, and keeps his eyes closed tightly. “When I got too old.” For what, Simon doesn’t want to ask. Cupcake croaks out a little laugh that hangs hollow in the air between them. “Got pissed at me for something, locked me up to a rad-, a - the metal thing, hot, in a house? It’s like, pipes?”

“A radiator?”

“Yeah. That. One of those, and - and uh - yeah.”

Simon shakes his head, invested now. “No, and then what? Did you break free?”

His body is too battered to be willing to move, but Cupcake is feeling restless. His hands twitch with the need to bolt. “Uh. Nah, got found.”

“Oh, good.” Simon laughs. “I was going to say, if you were stuck there for ages, and…” Cupcake is shaking his head. Simon’s words die out, his smile fading. “No? It wasn’t good?”

“Wasn’t good,” Is all Major says, head tipped away now. The clear shame that tells Simon all he needs to know. They’ve both gotten good at communicating without words, lately.

“...Ah.” Sitting up and no longer looming so closely, Simon looks up toward the ceiling and breathes. It’s not upsetting, exactly, to hear about his Cupcake’s old suffering. Or to infer all the things that might have been done to him. It’s just… Simon respects him, in a way. Major is strong. He’s been through a lot. It doesn’t feel right to taunt him about it, or to drag out too many details. This is probably more than he’s said to anyone in the world, about it. “...No family, no school, no home… it makes sense, with how you are.”

“What - stupid?” Major scoffs, and it sounds fragile. Upset. Simon glances down to find more tears shining on his cheeks, and wonders if they’re still from the pain. “Loud? Mean, bad?”

Silence falls. The room is dark, with that busted lamp, its glass shattered and stuck in Cupcake’s back from the collision - oops… and in the stillness, the gentle hitching of Major’s chest lodges itself in the center of Simon’s focus.

“Stupid isn’t the word I’d use,” Answers the man on his knees, hands no longer exploring. It’s not fair to call someone stupid if they never got the chance to really learn how to speak when it was important, never got shown how to read or add. “Loud - not here, not that I’ve seen. Mean?” His hand moves again, finally, to slip fingers into that soft hair. It’s grown down to Cupcake’s shoulders by now. The aching man leans into the contact, and Simon makes sure not to look amused by it. “Bad?” His tone alone expresses his disbelief. “You’re not bad.”

The chest hitches sharply. Major’s lips part to suck in a tremulous breath. He’s trying to make it inaudible, so Simon won’t comment on it.

“You’re not bad. You just never had a chance, before. But listen… you’re good, here. I like watching TV with you. Deciding what to eat. You’re the best at sessions, better than anyone who’s been here before. And… Cupcake, listen…” If he was ever going to use Major’s name, for it to really mean something, it would be now. If that was an option. “...Cupcake, what you did the other night… stopping them, killing them, and then backing off until I got myself untied, and… you could’ve done other things.”

The crying is more like sobbing, now, and Cupcake isn’t being quiet anymore. Croaking out sad sounds, coughing, humming in vague agreement. Simon lays a hand on his chest.

“You could’ve done other things,” He repeats, quieter. “I never really thanked you.”

The blood dripping down his throat from his nose chokes him up again, and out comes a messy, awkward cough-laugh. Major tries to grin cockily, but it shifts into a frown, and he shakes his head, weeping.

“You were good, you survived it, you… protected me. Cupcake, thank you. You did good.”

Simon isn’t sure how, because it doesn’t make sense, but Major curls up, and ends up somehow with his head in Simon’s lap. Those sobs must be agony against battered ribs, and the broken arm is being jolted, and the battered head must be throbbing… but the sobs won’t stop now, and Cupcake seems to want to be held until they pass. Wants to be held in one piece, it seems, from how he presses his head against Simon’s stomach and wedges his shoulder into that lap, all but clambering to get as close as possible. This feels right, feels like Simon can protect him.

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy, @apokolyps, @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite,

@wollemi-whump, @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire, @notactuallyluska

[whump-me]

Whumptober 2024 Day 3: Set Up for Failure

He crept through enemy headquarters, trying to stop his hands from shaking. For some reason, the boss thought he was qualified for this mission—him! He wouldn’t be afraid. He would make the boss proud.

He turned a corner, following the directions he had memorized—and found himself staring into the eyes of the enemy commander himself.

He jumped back with a squeak. Quickly, he pulled his gun and raised it in trembling hands.

The commander chuckled. “There’s no need for that. The fighting is done with now. Your boss and I made a deal—and you were the payment.”

[wolfeyedwitch]

Set Up For Failure

Bailey and their no good, very bad day month year

Taglist:

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@pickleking8 @ghostfacepepper @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 @mylifeisonthebookshelf

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow @multiple-characters1-acct

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[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 3 - Set up for failure

ESH AU LET'S GOOO

title: confinement

fandom: empires smp

cw: blood and injury

~

Jimmy bites his lip, sucks in a breath, then sidles into the vault.

It’s a tight squeeze—the Jingler had only opened the vault’s door the tiniest amount, and Jimmy hadn’t been brave enough to ask for him to open it any more. The pin holding his fishnet cape on almost pops free, and his mask gets stuck for a moment, but he manages to make it through and release his breath.

Behind the vault isn’t anything that he expects.

Behind the vault is a room that’s mostly empty, but for a pile of cardboard boxes and an old rocking chair. It looks more like a mostly-emptied storage unit than an actually vault; strange, for such a high-security building.

“What—what am I looking for?” he whispers into the walkie-talkie that the Jingler had given him.

A crackling voice speaks back to him. “Notebook.”

Jimmy glances around. His eyes land on the boxes in the corner and he heads toward them, digging through the boxes.

One of them has a worn yellow notebook, which he grabs, then heads back to the vault door.

The Jingler is waiting on the other side, hand outstretched. “Pass it through, Solidarity.”

“The Codfather,” Jimmy corrects, shoving his arm through the tiny gap. The Jingler takes the notebook, flips through a couple of pages.

“Yep,” he nods shortly. “Thanks.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves.

“Hey—hey, wait—”

As if by some stroke of bad luck (which, to be fair, Jimmy's used to), the door slams shut.

Come on.

Jimmy pounds on the inside of the door. “Wait! Let me out!” After no response, he frantically fumbles with the walkie-talkie. “Let me out! The door closed!”

“Hmm. We've been here too long.”

“Wh—?”

“But I'll call you an escort.”

Jimmy doesn't have time to ask what that means before sirens start blaring, the lights in the vault flashing red.

The walkie-talkie pops and fizzes out in his hand.

Jimmy groans, drops to sit on the ground and wait it out, abandoning the vault’s door. It won’t be long before this place is swarming with cops, and he’ll be the only person for them to find.

He really ought to get a frequent flier card for prison.

-

“Hope you like the new digs, Solidarity,” the prison warden says loudly, shoving Jimmy into a cell that seems more secure than normal. “We've been working on a specially-reinforced one, just for you.”

“It's the Codfather, now,” Jimmy tries.

“You've made a lot of people angry,” the warden continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. He locks the cell, grins at him through the barred window of the heavy door. “Some of the boys might come through to see you.”

“Oh. Oh, that's . . . great,” Jimmy says helplessly. “Maybe they could just . . . not?”

The warden doesn't dignify that with a response. He stalks away, leaving Jimmy alone in the cell.

Jimmy leans against the wall, slides down to the floor. He fidgets with the stiff navy jumpsuit they've given him, not quite long enough in the leg, then adjusts his Codfather mask.

This is going to be just wonderful. It’s not even been a month since he was last in this prison (they’d started building this very reinforced cell while he was here, that time), and he’d been hoping to avoid it for a little while longer.

Life always sucks significantly worse in prison.

He isn’t exactly separated from the other prisoners, but he isn’t exactly with them, either. His cell (reinforced and all) is in the same hall as the other cells. The difference between Jimmy and the others is that he’s in solitary confinement lite—he doesn’t get to leave for meals or exercise time, and his cell comes with a shower and a toilet in the corner. He isn’t meant to leave at any time.

The heavy metal door that never seems to be unlocked has a window at eye level, bars set into it a couple inches apart. There’s a little slot below it, just wide enough for a food tray. That window means that he can still interact with the other prisoners, unfortunately—or, rather, they can interact with him.

So the first day is a constant barrage of verbal abuse.

See, Jimmy may be a villain now, but he does his best to be kind about it. After all, none of this is his fault, not really. He can’t control his powers. He’s a villain because it’s convenient, not because he actually wants to be evil.

But everybody and their dog has a cousin’s friend who was injured by Solidarity’s powers, and Jimmy has to be yelled at about it.

“When they let you out of your little safehouse, I’ve got a couple friends waiting for you,” a big guy warns, his thick fingers wrapped around the bars of the window. “You won’t be able to walk when they’re done with you.”

“Creative,” Jimmy mutters.

“My mom lost her kneecap,” a redhead leers, spit flying from his cracked lips. “I think I oughta deliver her one of yours.”

That doesn’t sound very nice.

“My brother can’t eat tortilla chips anymore. I’ll spit in all your food.”

“Did you know I used to have two eyes? Wonder what you’d look like with zero.”

“I will break every one of your fingers and toes.”

And on and on and on.

It’s getting kind of boring, honestly. Every time he ends up in prison, he’s under fire from more and more prisoners, many with no real reason. He’s the cause that they unite over, because everybody has been inconvenienced by Solidarity in some way. They aren’t made to leave him alone, either—the guards may not participate in the harassment, but they don’t do anything to stop the threats. The guards don’t do much of anything when it comes to him, really.

He’s pretty sure he should be having solitary exercise time, but nobody lets him out. Whenever he asks (half-heartedly) to speak to a lawyer, nobody pays him any mind. His food is almost certainly contaminated, but when he speaks up about it, the guard tells him to eat it or starve.

Jimmy’s overly familiar with unsafe food, but he eats as much of it as he can. Food poisoning is unavoidable for him on a regular basis. It’s really not that different.

(Sometimes the guard sticks around to watch him eat, amusement in their eyes. At those times, Jimmy knows for sure that it’s contaminated, and he doesn’t want to know how.)

He’s supposed to go to his first hearing about a week after his arrest, but on his third day it gets postponed to a month away. The guards tell him so with unmistakable satisfaction, and Jimmy lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling.

Does it really matter? The courts will rule against him, no matter how good of a lawyer he gets. He’s Solidarity—er, the Codfather. He’s a villain. The villains never win.

Even when he was a hero, he knew he would be tried as a villain.

It’s the fourth day when his power decides to take action. It’s been in effect this whole time, of course—the shelf where his mattress is meant to lie has already collapsed, and the water will only run burning hot—but the fourth day changes things.

He just wishes it would have picked a better time.

It’s right when the last group is coming back from dinner that the hinges of his specially-reinforced metal door break. It makes a loud noise—the creak of the metal groans, then snap!

The steady stream of inmates slow to a stop, their chatter dying off.

There’s another long groan, slow-slow-slow—

The door shifts and clunks to the ground, hinges no longer holding it up.

Jimmy, sitting on his floor-mattress, lets his head tip against the wall as he lets out a long sigh.

It couldn’t have waited? A mere twenty minutes later and he would have been in the clear.

Jimmy doesn’t fight when they pull down the door and storm in.

He just lies on his bed and tries to cover his vital organs.

-

Despite their indifference, the guards manage to pull off the attackers and send them to their own cells before too much damage is done. Then they force Jimmy to his feet and frogmarch him to a normal barred cell in a different hallway. They toss him a bottle of water and a bucket and tell him to keep a low profile, and that he’ll be moved to a more secure prison in the morning.

Jimmy won’t need that.

He has a concussion, for sure. One man had kicked his head until his ears didn’t stop ringing. That makes his vision swim when he sits up, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to call out weakly for some first aid supplies.

The guards reluctantly provide, and Jimmy sets about taking care of his injuries. It’s really not too bad—he has the concussion, of course, and something that feels like his kidney is bruised internally, but the rest of it is your run-of-the-mill beating. Bruises and cuts all over, his entire body sore. The concussion is the worst of it, bad enough that he was barely able to walk when they brought him here. He should really get that checked by a doctor. Not that it’ll happen, but it should.

Jimmy knows well enough not to fall asleep with a head wound, so he kind of just rests on the floor of the cell, sitting up slumped against the wall, not confident enough to pull himself into the flat shelf-bed with the risk of falling. He presses a hand to his bruises whenever he starts to feel drowsy, and that wakes him right up.

The guards are on edge until around midnight, when they seem to relax a bit. The lights went out at ten, so most inmates have been asleep for a little while now. The two guards assigned to him start wandering away from Jimmy’s new cell now and then instead of constantly watching it, start laughing and joking a bit more.

“Hey! Solidarity!”

They poke a bit of fun at him in the early hours of the morning. Jimmy knows he must be a sight—covered in blood and shoddy bandages, his eyes unfocused and looking at nothing as he sits there on the floor.

He doesn’t respond.

“They hit his head pretty hard. Solidarity, you still alive?”

Jimmy blinks, very slowly. It hurts even just to blink.

“Hope they knocked the power out of him. Think he’ll be able to wash himself, or will they transport him like that?”

“Eckels said they’d take him in the morning. He probably won’t shower before then.”

“I’m not touching him.”

It doesn’t happen quite as slowly as it did with the reinforced door.

As the guards talk, one of the bars of the cell just . . . falls out. It clatters to the ground, making the three men jump, cursing.

Then another falls. And a third.

Well. That’s Jimmy’s cue.

Painfully, he pulls himself to his feet. He swallows back the taste of bile as his vision spins, rubs away some of the blood dripping from his split lip, and slowly, gingerly, limps out of the cell.

The guards stare at him. One of them, cautiously, reaches for his taser.

The weapon cracks apart, shards of plastic hitting the floor.

The guard lowers his hand back to his side. The other two don’t move, staring at Jimmy in some strange mixture of disbelief and irritation.

Jimmy sighs, winces when his whole body twinges. “Stuff still in the same place?” he rasps.

One of the guards nods.

Jimmy turns away and starts the long trek to the storage room. He doesn’t necessarily need any of it, but it would be nice to not be in the prison uniform.

He needs a really long nap after this one.

-

(Poultry Man shows up at his rented room and sighs at the sight of him, then shines a flashlight in his eyes and tells him not to get out of bed for the next five days. That’s about the extent of Poultry Man’s helpfulness, but he does buy him a loaf of bread and two jars of peanut butter.)

(It was a fairly average week, all told.)

[chaotic-orphan]

Whumptober No.3

Set up for Failure

Wrongfully arrested // fingerprints // “i warned you”

TWs in the extended tags

Ohhhhhhh kay, this one is really super fucking heavy? It’s really fucking dark, it’s emotional it’s very heavy, so just pre-warning to the — i did cry writing it? I don’t think I’ve ever done that so —

Do not read if you cannot handle grief and very intense pain and loss, please

*~*~*~*~*

Villain ran his hand through Vigilante’s hair who was kneeling beside his chair, every now and then catching the ends in a fist and tugging Vigilante’s head back so their eyes met with Vigilante’s throat exposed. Vigilante glared at Villain, but it’s not like he could do much with his hands cuffed in front of him.

“Are you ready for your surprise, pet?”

Vigilante just glared. Villain smiled. He loved the strong and silent types. Loved to watch them suffer even more. Make them crack, make them cry, but Vigilante? He was special. He was different.

He wanted Vigilante to speak.

Then, he wanted Vigilante to suffer.

Feel the same agony that he left Villain with.

The doors at the end of the hall opened and two Henchmen marched a half-conscious Hero in between them. Vigilante looked down, almost bored, and then, he lurched forwards. Villain tightened his hold in Vigilante’s hair until Vigilante was only able to look down his nose at Hero, eyes wide and filled with fear and Villain saw it all.

“See, darling? I told you, you’d love it.”

Hero peered ahead through bleary eyes. Their heart stuttered to a stop before life flooded their body and they ran forwards towards Vigilante.

“Vigilante?!” Hero cried, hobbling as a sob tore through their throat and the Henchmen had to yank Hero back to keep Hero between them. “You’re alive?!”

It was a heartfelt shriek, like a mother at a child’s funeral, a mix between pain that couldn’t be spoken and grief and sorrow, and a disbelieving surprise at the possibility that this could be happening to them. Why them? Why their child?

But Vigilante knew.

“Hero,” Vigilante croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. His voice sounded like shoes scuffing gravel from disuse. In all the time Villain held Vigilante prisoner, Vigilante never spoke, refused to scream or cry, became an emotionless shell of a human but seeing Hero… Vigilante forgot they could feel anything anymore.

How could— how did Villain know? They couldn’t know, Vigilante made sure to keep everything secret! That’s what he did, the last things he did before he went after Villain’s lover. He knew it was a suicide mission, but he— he protected every crumb, every minute detail about Hero, and Hero’s secret identity and their —

Hero fell to their knees, wailing. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t dead… I’ve been looking for so long,” Hero gasped and oh.

Oh.

He didn’t… Vigilante forgot the person he loved — the person who had his heart, his soul, his reason for living — was resourceful too. He was an idiot. He was such an idiot.

A breath on his cheek and Vigilante flinched. He actually flinched, shivering suddenly, desperate and he turned to look Villain in the eye, searching for any sliver of humanity left in him, but Vigilante had cut that out long ago.

Villain’s expression turned into a cold sneer, tears in his eyes as he glared down at Vigilante with the fury of a thousand gods and righteous men. Vigilante shook his head slightly, begging, silently pleading.

“Please,” he whispered. His voice like a recording of a broken man. Foreign and strange even to his own ears, he had forgotten what he sounded like, it was a shock— it would’ve been a shock if Hero hadn’t been marched in the door in chains, covered in blood.

Villain leaned in close, roughly grabbing Vigilante’s cheeks in one hand and squeezing them harshly, yanking his head towards Villain’s who was seething with a stolen hearted rage.

Every word was a dagger in Vigilante’s heart, a ripping of his chest and body and life, every syllable a death sentence, and spoken so softly, as if he was afraid he would split his larynx if he spoke above an inside voice, spittle flying, in Vigilante’s face as Villain kept his head wrenched back with his free hand in Vigilante’s hair.

They were so close their noses touched.

“I warned you,” Villain seethed. “Remember that? Remember how I begged you not to do it, Vigilante? Do you remember what you said? It had to be done.”

Vigilante dissolved into sobs. “Please, Villain. Please don’t do this. Please, please.” Vigilante pulled against the cuffs that were hooked to his ankles but he couldn’t move in any real way like this. He couldn’t defend Hero. He couldn’t get to Hero and even if he could he wouldn’t be able to stop Villain in his vengeance.

“Do you remember when I said those exact words to you?” Villain whispered, agony creasing every muscle in his face. “See how much comfort they bring you. You have nobody to blame but yourself, and trust me when I say: you will blame yourself.”

Villain slammed Vigilante back so he fell onto his side and he screamed: “WAIT!” Then a desperate: “HERO RUN!”

Vigilante righted himself, throwing himself forward, the small chain between his wrists and ankles pulled taut but he launched himself forwards, desperate and clawing and crying.

“Villain PLEASE! PLEASE DON’T DO THIS, Please! Hero, Hero! HERO I’M SORRY! Please don’t, please oh god, please!”

Hero seemed like they were already cast in the glow of heaven’s light, ethereal, serene, had Vigilante ever appreciated their beauty enough? The small dimple that appeared in their left cheek when they smiled, even now when their cheeks were flooded with tears, glistening, their eyes crinkled as they found Vigilante’s.

“I won’t die,” Hero told Vigilante softly, as he scrambled forward shaking his head. Don’t say those words. Don’t say those words! A soft breath as the henchmen released Hero’s arms. “I won’t die, my love, because you have my heart. You always have.”

“Hero— Hero, I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you run please, please, Villain. Let them go,” Vigilante wailed, desperation fuelling his movements, as he grunted between sobs, they were so close. Hero was so close if he wasn’t chained he could reach out and grab them and shield them with his body.

Villain appeared behind Hero, a hand on their hair pulling their head back. “You have my he—”

Hero choked on the words as Villain sliced a blade across their throat. Vigilante flinched as blood spurted and sprayed Vigilante as the carotid was sliced through.

Vigilante who was reaching for Hero, arms out as Hero fell, convulsing on the way down and Vigilante pressed his hands to the wound.

“Hero! Hero! HERO! HERO!” Vigilante cried, trying to staunch the bleeding with their shirt, their hands but the blood kept pooling and the stench of iron filled their nose, their mouth, their body. “Oh god, oh god, oh god Hero, no. No, no! NO! Hero— please, stay with me. Don’t leave me here. Take your heart. Take your heart I can’t— I don’t want it if you’re not here with me, Hero. Hero.”

Vigilante’s hands gripped Hero’s cheeks, trying to keep their eyes open. “Hero look at me, look at me baby, please.”

He was sta— his— the blood, oh god he was staining Hero’s face, their beautiful face and the more he tried to wipe it away the more the blood smeared and it was still pooling and spilling from the wound and Hero was dead. Hero was dead. Hero was dead and he was staining their face—

Hero.

Vigilante hunched over Hero’s body, sobs wracking through him like earthquakes, shattering every bone, every nerve, every source of light in his being.

A hand settled on his back. Vigilante stiffened, grabbing hold of Hero and not letting go. “You know,” Villain said, sniffing himself. “I’m happy Hero had your heart, Vigilante. It’s satisfying. It’s like killing you twice.”

“Kill me,” Vigilante whispered, no, begged, wailed, pleaded. It was all the same now. All this opaque too full emptiness that permeated his body, leaving an absence between his lungs, under his skin, in all the empty space that Hero filled. “Kill me too, please.”

The hand patted his back.

“Oh, no, Vigilante. You and I— we’re not meant to die young. We carry the weight of our past, no. Only the good die, and we’re too wicked to be taken yet. Trust me,” Villain said hollowly. “I’ve already tried to end my grief, but I won’t give you the chance.”

Villain leaned in closer, his hand going to the back of Vigilante’s neck and squeezing it. “You will live with your guilt until the gods decide it’s your time.”

[secret-gallavich]

Whumptober Day Three: Set Up For Failure

Being born a Milkovich was a death sentence. 

Mickey used to be eager to go to school because it meant getting out of that fucking house. It meant he could be in a warm classroom and have someone read books to him. 

It meant the teacher taking one look at him and his dirty clothes and grimacing when they read his surname. 

Milkovich. 

A name that sparked fear and annoyance in people. 

A name that made people give up on him immediately and create a wide berth around him. 

A name that sounds nice when someone you love says it.

[psychologeek]

Whumptober #3:

SET UP FOR FAILURE | Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."

index Part of "The Cyclist AU", where Jason never went back to Gotham, instead went living a quiet (sort of) civilian life. He later joins Tim on his Brucequest, as "Paracosm"

“Seriously?”

The voice comes out of nowhere. If Tim wasn't Bat-trained, he probably would have freaked out. As it is, he only tenses and listens closely for any clearer sign of approach.

“I warned you,” the voice continues. “I left you with clear instructions. What did I tell you?”

“To stay out of trouble,” Tim sighs.

“And what did you do?” Paracosm questions.

Tim stays quiet as the handcuffs are taken off. This is a rhetorical quotation.

The older man just sighs.

“You're lucky I speak French, kid.”

“What –?”

“Your fingerprints are already off the system, Alvin. Now let's go, before they realize I'm not actually from the Interpol.”

(Like it? I have more mini-fics Whumptober index | And full size fics on ao3. )

[newbornwhumperfly]

ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves…

sorry for this day’s entry being late! i wasn’t happy with it for a while but perfection is the enemy of progress, so! here it is! i promise the next installments will be in quick succession, it’ll be a fun time for all 😈💖😈

whumptober2024 • day 3 • set up for failure • fingerprints | wrongfully arrested | “i warned you”

CW: blood, dehumanization, conditioned whumpee, allusions to xenophobia

title insp. by “ruthlessness” from epic: the musical

~

He knew it. 

He knew it, he knew it, he knew it, he fucking knew it. God fucking damnit. Jorah’s hands are steel-balls, every muscle coiled, spring-loaded, because he’s not fucking shaking. 

He’s not - he’s clear-headed and he has to be, doesn’t he, because nobody else in this goddamn base is. Nobody else is seeing or thinking or using their fucking brains because Morja is not in cuffs already (or, better, with a bullet in his head), just standing, standing, before their Captain’s desk, still soaking wet with Claudia’s blood.

“I warned you.” Jorah breathes, hands planted on Brax’s desk, knuckles bleach-white with holding himself still. “Captain, I asked you not to let him go without me, without a goddamn security expert-“

“There was an expert, Cuthbert.” The Captain breathes, their hands pressed flat on the fine wood grain of their desk, “The expert was Morja.” 

“And you thought- I’m sorry, you thought he’d be good enough?”

Claudia is in surgery, getting head stitches, and what if she dies- 

Jorah clamps down on the chilling twist in his stomach, all that cold going back to his veins. That’s not useful to think about right now, Sarai’s got her, she’ll be fine. She’ll live. She’d better live. 

Or Morja is dead. 

“Yes, Cuthbert, I used my discretion here. Morja was the only one who knew where the training facility would be.”

“And that wasn’t, maybe, suspect to you, did you not think of security, Captain?-“

“He was the best choice to keep everybody safe.”

Jorah reels, chest heaving, the sharp fire of rage pressing down on his lungs. He’s so betrayed. This is such a betrayal because the Captain is standing there, tall and pristine and behind that desk which represents their country, their title, and Jorah can’t believe that someone like them could be so stupid. How could they have made such an error?

“It was my call.” Jorah grits out. “I’m this base’s security liaison, I am second rank, I review all potential security threats, this motherfucker is a security threat-“

“Easy, Commander-“

“Brax, I- how else do you want me to put it, this is a fucking lapse in protocol, those are supposed to be my fucking calls to keep us safe!”

Jorah’s voice rising to a shout, his professionalism unraveling, hands emphasize his point by laying on the desk. It rattles, the trinkets rattling together, a cup in its saucer. Brax’s glasses flash, their glasses pushed up, as they stand fully behind their desk.

“If you are suggesting I had poor judgement, Cuthbert, I trusted everyone on that team.” 

Their voice is cold, sharp, and Jorah has gone maybe too far, he can see that, but they aren’t listening. Jorah can see those dark, sharp eyes keep glancing over Jorah’s shoulder, keep trying to seek out that rat fuck, why does Brax care what comes out of him? Is this balance? Is this trying to be fair, to be measured? Can’t they see the threat?

They aren’t listening. 

“Captain.” Jorah rears back, a stagger of a step, his eyes burning. Throat clicking. He goes to attention in respect for their station, but his head shakes back and forth, jaw spasming as he tries to unclench his jaw. 

“Captain?” His eyes blur as he blinks, frustration choking him, voice pitched soft, shaky. “You- you didn’t trust my judgement? You didn’t trust me?”

That makes Brax seem to remember themself, drawing themself up to full height, their expression, so tight and narrow-eyed, seems to falter. They reach out to him and Jorah pulls away, wounded. 

“Jorah, that isn’t why I didn’t consult you before they left-“

“I just wanted to keep my friends, my unit, safe, Captain.”

“I know that, Jorah, I know that and I would never have let them all go if I had known there would be this much danger.”

“He hurt Claudia.”

Jorah’s voice crests on a pitch of tension, cracks with rage, a frigid ocean storm frothing inside him, and Brax’s jaw tics visibly, sucking in their breath sharply. 

“…You don’t know that, Jorah.”

But they don’t sound so sure anymore, their eyes flicking from the asset, stock still as bloody stone, and him, and Jorah digs in, presses, urgent and hoarse, leans over the desk again to plead.

“Just ask him.”

They both spin but Jorah is watching Brax as their hand comes up to touch the gold wire of their glasses, to steady the frames again, peering at Morja with a look that makes even Jorah go still. Searching, probing, an excavation tool, razor sharp attention all on one object, one singular foci. There is a hardness to their mouth which means disappointment, pondering, doubt. 

“Morja?” 

Asset, Jorah wants to scream, but he bites his cheek somehow as the fucker thuds to his knees, filthy, on their beautiful carpet, whimpering like a dog when he folds, hands (the red blood barely dried, caked and browning) clasped crosswise in front,  playing dead. 

“Stand up, Morja, I’m talking to you.”

“I’msorryCaptain.”

As with their usual platitudes that grate, sugar on a broken tooth, Brax corrects his apology, a that’s alright, Morja, stomach-turning reassurance for a killing machine. The stains of small red fingerprints on the asset’s cheek, bright in the lamplight, make Jorah’s nostrils flare. Claudia’s handprints. 

Did she clutch at Morja before he bashed her over the head? Did she claw at him in self-defense? Jorah imagines Morja and his fucking scar-gnarled hands looming over her and he wants to put his boot against that throat and watch his fucking eyes bug as he crushes and crushes and crushes until he’s no longer playing at going limp.

“Morja, listen to me carefully. Are you responsible for Claudia’s wound?” 

Their icy calm could cut steel and even Jorah feels himself straighten up as the asset wheezes. 

“Y-Yes, Captain.”

Jorah warned them all. 

“Did you…try to harm her, Morja?”

“I’msosorry.”

“Morja, tell me you didn’t hurt her?”

“Yes- y-yes. Yes, Captain, s-sorry, was m-me.”

Brax’s hands slip into their waistcoat and Jorah is close enough to see their fingers clench into fists, rounded knuckles pressing against the silk. 

“What happened, Morja?” 

Their voice is so soft and Morja whines like a dog scratching at the door and Jorah wants to vomit.  The asset sways like he wants to collapse, silence stretching between them, taut and humming. He shakes his head, more a jerk of his chin, and lowers his chin to his chest. 

Look them in the fucking face. 

“I failed.”

His arm wraps around his stomach, head turned away, for all the world like a penitent child confessing his candy theft. Red handed. Sorry for being caught, blood still under his nails. 

“Cap-Captain, I- I am sorry. I am sorry for- for obeying my- the enemy, an- Captain, I didn’t know-“

Poorly trained dog with sharp jaws. 

“I just obeyed, I followed orders, and- I’m sorry, I tried to- I did hurt her, it is my f-fault, and I did try to- I didn’t want to hurt her, I did, I did-“

Rabid.

“Someone on the other side told you to hurt her?”

“Y-Yes, anotéros. Captain, I’m sorry.”

“Morja…who’s side are you on?”

Teeth at all of their throats.

“…Idon’tknow.”

A knock at the door makes them all startle, the silence spiderwebbing from the pressure of intrusion as Cobi steps into the room, Pfeffer still bloody, those big hands trembling, eyes red and swollen, streaming snot and tears that he keeps swiping away. 

Jorah’s chest spasms, cold, no-

Cobi catches his eyes and shakes his head, sniffling hard, using a heel of his palm to scrub at his cheek. 

“Sarai kicked me out, to- to work better.” He croaks. “I- Um. Dunno how she is yet, sorry, J-man. Just dunno yet.”

His lips are trembling, sniffling even harder, and Jorah cannot fucking handle any weakness right now, not from any quarter, spins to Brax, rigid attention and crisp readiness. The only one in this goddamn base who’s prepared to handle a goddamn difficulty. 

“What would you like me to do with him, Captain?”

Three sets of eyes flash to Jorah, the only source of clean and calm in the room. 

Brax tugs at the buttons of their vest, hands smoothing and adjusting, a magnet to Jorah’s lodestone, and when their jaw sets, he feels a surge of pride and relief that they’ve made the right choice.

“First Lieutenant Cuthbert, Private Pfeffer, Morja will be remanded into custody until further testimony from Private Williams i- when she awakes. Morja, please accompany them until further notice. We will get this figured out.”

The asset’s blank eyes go wide as he gasps a little whimper that Jorah and his tools could never wring out of him, face blossoming open in a look that Jorah doesn’t have to guess at: fear.

Good.

Motherfucker should be afraid - he should remember what he is. They should all remember what he is. It might be bittersweetly bought but now they will. Now they know that Jorah is right about him. 

~

oh no, what will happen to morja now, i wonder? 😨👀🥺

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[jamiesfootball]

Whumptober Day 3

Prompt: set up for failure / fingerprints / "I warned you"

"I warned you," Jamie's father sneers, a final parting shot. The treatment room door rattles, slamming shut with a finality that leaves Roy reeling in the resulting silence.

His knee is a swell of fire and vicodin; it feels like it takes him a million years to turn around and face the skyblue-clad figure on the bench.

"Hey," he barks. "You alright?"

It's a stupid question.

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Jamie replies, and the words come away garbled and wet. He swipes his tongue across his teeth, smearing red across white. A drop of blood spills over his lip like a tear. Distantly, he adds, "At least I won tonight."

Jamie's hands hang limp between his legs. Fingerprints colour his face where a smirk should be.

It takes everything Roy has to keep his fists at his sides, but he can't quite help the way his heart jumps into his throat.

"You call this winning?"

Almost lazily, Jamie's gaze falls upon Roy's fists. He eyes them in detached interest before dropping lower, taking in Roy's knee the way someone might tally up the last few quid in their wallet.

"That depends," says Jamie, bracing his hands on the edge of the bench. He tilts his chin up at Roy. When his mouth twists, red and ugly and crooked at the split, he looks the spitting image of the man who just walked out the door. "There's still time. Do you want to even the score?"