#cw/tw — injuries (not graphic)

[arickaandherfictionalothers]

“Stay awake...please... I'm ordering you to stay awake!"

(Aricka x Caracalla, Aricka and Geta, Aricka and Dori)

(When one of the gladiators (NOT HANNO) shoots an arrow at the royal box, treachery occurs. Geta and Caracalla scramble to aid the newest member of their family- Caracalla’s beloved, Aricka.)

(TRIGGER WARNINGS: heavy blood mentioning, description of arrow injury, fainting due to blood loss; heavy angst!)

*Geta*

Everything was going so well. Geta, his brother; and Aricka, Caracalla’s beloved “little dove” as he called her, were gathered in the Royal Box with Acacius, Lucilla, and several of the senators.

Aricka was resplendent in a golden dress, matching the one she made Caracalla two days prior. She was holding his hand, perched on the armrest of his throne, the pair talking as though they had known each other for years. It made Geta smile.

And then it all went so wrong, so fast.

“Aricka? How are you enjoying the games?” Geta asks, looking over at her. She leans over; having not heard.

“What, Get-?” She couldn’t finish her sentence, because at that moment; she jerked back with a cry of pain, and with a start Geta realized she had been pierced-

With an arrow from the coliseum.

She falls backwards, and Geta, not caring if another arrow was heading towards him, lurched for her, scrambling to pull her against him so she wouldn’t hurt her head.

She grips his hand and he lets it happen, intertwining their fingers. “Geta…?” She sounds so confused, so- far away.

"Aricka?!" His eyes widen in fear as he scrambles to catch her, "Oh no... Oh no, no, no, no!" He glances over at Dori, who's frozen with fear for her sister, before looking back at Aricka. "It's alright. You're going to be alright." He presses his hand against the wound, crimson red blood pooling around his fingers as he does.

It was staining her dress… the blood was staining her dress and her skin…

She gasps as she looks at her shoulder, breath quickening, causing more blood to gush out. “Geta…!”

“Shh... I-It's alright. Steady your breathing. You will be fine." He frantically looks over at Caracalla, frozen with fear just like Dori. "Brother!" He yells to snap him out of it, "Go find a healer, quick!"

“Healer-!!” Caracalla yells, “you-!” He grabs a soldier. “You will go and find the best healer the palace has to offer, bring them here immediately. Or suffer the consequences if you fail.” He does the same with several other soldiers.

“My… my arm…” He begins wiping her hair from her face as sweat begin to seep down her face. She struggles to breath, vision already blurring. “Dori…?”

"We will get her for you, Aricka. Right now just-just focus on your breathing, alright? Caracalla's fetching a healer for you now."

She blinks sluggishly, “so.. tired… Sorry… Geta…” panic fills him at those words. She couldn’t.. she just couldn’t…

"No, NO! No," He holds her face in his hand, patting her cheek to keep her alert, "Stay awake...please... I'm ordering you to stay awake!"

Her blinking, gasping. “You.. are…” she hesitates. “Geta… I’m so… tired…”

Tears begin to sting Geta's eyes as he chokes back a sob, "Please! ... I'm begging you to stay awake, Aricka... Please... If not for me, than for your sister. Just don't give in! PLEASE!"

Blue eyes meet brown. A shaky hand-the one holding his-presses to his cheek. “… I love you.. and Calla… you.. m’family…”

Geta squeezes his eyes shut as tears begin to flow down his cheeks. He sobs, "I love you too...as does Caracalla... He adores you..." he brushes another section of hair away from her face, "And Dori loves you... so much... P-Please hold on..."

“Let me have her, brother.” Caracalla scoops her up, and he does a scream rips from her throat, a gut wrenching horrible sound that silenced the entire coliseum, and the older twin begins running to the palace

Aricka manages to lock eyes with Geta, before blue eyes roll back and she passes out, blood loss overwhelming her body.

———

*Dori*

Dori was frantic. She hadn’t seen the traitor gladiator, hadn’t seen him lift the crossbow and aim at the box. She did, however, see the arrow pierce her sister’s shoulder, saw her sister flail back into Geta’s arms, saw the twin emperors immediately react and close ranks around her.

Geta and her shared an unreadable (to anyone else) expression. They nod; and immediately begin looking for a way to escape the arena.

Then the scream reached her ears. She became more frantic, "MOVE! I need to get to my sister! I need to get to her, please!Tears gush down her face. “ARICKA-!”

————-

*Caracalla*

Caracalla was- despairing. He held Aricka, whose precious lifeblood was pouring out from her like a river to the ocean, and he had no way to save her. He couldn’t heal her. He would have to set her down, let her go, so she could be tended to.

He looks down, and he pales even more to see her unconscious. “No…” he begins to move faster. Pushing to his own chambers, setting her on his bed. “BROTHER-! Where is DORI-?!” He holds her hand, gripping onto it for dear life. “Don’t leave me,” he says around a sob. “I still have so much to tell you…”

————

*Aricka*

Burning. Aching pain. And then- nothing.

Aricka woke up. She felt no pain. She looked around- she was in Caracalla’s room. Something prickled on her shoulder, and she felt a faint scar when she investigated. She looks down- her stomach was swollen- she was pregnant?

The door opens and she looks over to see- “beloved,” she hears herself say.

“My little dove, you are as radiant as the day I first laid eyes on you.” Caracalla walks over, hands on her shoulders, carefully, and kisses her temple. A ringer hand comes to rest on her stomach. “How is our little prince?”

“He is eager to join us in this world,” she replies. Caracalla laughs.

“So impatient,” he said.

“Like his father,” Aricka hears herself jest. “And where is our little Aelia?”

“Right here, mother-!” A little girl with blonde hair, blue eyes and the sweetest smile- Caracalla’s smile, Aricka realized- appeared. “How is baby Caius?”

“He is growing and so ready to meet his big sister!” Caracalla scoops her up, swinging the little girl around, making her giggle.

“I’m dizzy now, tata-!” She giggled. Caracalla perched the child on his hip, one arm around her back.

“Is that better, dulcedo?” She laughs and nods.

Aricka stands and joins them, her chin on Caracalla’s shoulder, her hand on Aelia’s back. “I never thought, when you asked me to join you in your royal box that day…”

“That we would get all this? I didn’t either, my love.” He smiles so softly at her, making Aricka’s heart thump painfully.

And then- she woke up.

———————

She woke with a gasp, eyes fluttering open as she takes in her surroundings- she knew this room. Not only had she just dreamed about it; she had been in here before.

Caracalla’s room. She scans the room further and sees-

“Dori-? Geta..?”

"Aricka!" The two gasp in unison, having just walked in to check on her. Dori practically launches themself onto their sister. Needing to hold her after fearing that she would never wake up again. "Oh, Aricka..." They sob, "I thought I was going to lose you..."

Aricka winced, one hand coming to her sister’s hair. “Sh…” she looks at Geta, standing behind Dori. “… it’s okay. Come on..”

That's all Geta needs before leaning in to hug her as well. "We were worried sick about you..." he sigh

She runs a weak hand through his hair. “I.. I’m sorry…” she whispered. “I tried to stay awake…” she pressed a kiss to both of their heads.

"It's alright. You did as best as you could," he whispers back, "I didn't know what your fate was going to be... I was just scared that you wouldn't make it..."

“You told me to fight… I did.” They sit in silence for a moment. “What.. what happened? To me?”

"After you fainted, Caracalla brought you here and the healer dressed your wound. Then Dori came to stay by your side and we both watched you for the night.” Geta allowed himself to run a hand through her hair, this girl who (along with her sister) had come to mean so much to him and Caracalla.

“… how many days…?”

"Two... and a quarter, if you count this morning." Dori lightly chuckles. Aricka giggled even though it hurt, but then went silent.

“…. Caracalla?” She whispered. “Is he…?” She was afraid to ask.

"He's perfectly fine," Geta says, "He has been just as worried as we have. He would watch you during the day while Dori and I watched you at night. It should be time for him to be here soon."

She smiles, not even trying to hide how please she was at that. “Good… I missed all of you. When I was sleeping.”

"We missed you too." Dori says, squeezing Aricka's hand.

The doors swing open, and Aricka looks up to see- “Calla-!” She says as loudly as possible- which isn’t as loud as it usually is, but enough for him to hear.

He sees her; and it seems like she is the only thing he sees at that moment. He staggers towards her, and she opens her arms just as he falls into them

Geta and Dori move out of the way. Giving Caracalla all the room he needs to embrace Aricka.

His shoulders are shaking, and the wetness gathering on her skin let her know all she needed to. “Oh.. oh Caracalla…” she tugs him close with one arm, “I’m -!” She couldn’t finish, because he surged forward to slot his lips against hers; hands grasping her neck.

“I love you,” he says once he pulls back. “I love you. I cannot- I will not- go another day without making my affections for you known.”

Without giving her a chance to reply he was pressing his lips back against hers, fervently; desperately kissing her, as though she would vanish if he didn’t. Aricka is vaguely aware of Dori dragging Geta from the room.

“Calla… my beloved Caracalla…” she whispers against his lips. “I never thought, when you asked me to join you in your royal box… oh…. Oh beloved…”

“Stay… stay with me.. be my wife. My Empress. Stay, stay, don’t leave me, just stay….”

“Yes, yes, absolutely, of course I will, yes, yes…” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands so she can look him in the eye. “I love you,” she whispers. “I love you, as a lover, and I love Geta as a future brother in law…. I love you. My Caracalla…”

He pressed his forehead against hers, their eyes both closed. She sighs softly. He does too. “My Aricka…” she blushes at that. “Marry me…”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes…”

“Yes-!” He removes the ring from his pinky; slides it onto her finger. “This is yours. As is my heart. For all time.”

And it always was.

——————-

@astralshipper @rosieshipper @hyperionshipping @yeehawselfshipping @letsgofoletsgo

[ryderdire]

Cw: blood animal abuse light body horror eye strain

And still It was never enough. I was never enough no matter how much I let them cut out.

——

I’d apologize for my hand writing but I am not sorry soooo

[fletcherwilbury]

@febuwhump Day 10: Killing in Self-Defense

Warning for Illness, respiratory issues, injury, faking injury, robbery, attempted murder, murder, minor character death

[qierxing]

Farewell to Thee?

A/N: (checks last post time stamp) Oopsie. (drops this in front of yall like a bag of groceries and fades into the distance)

Yan! Twst Isekai AU

CW/TW: the Mouse is Real™, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids/injuries, assault and kidnapping Pt. 3 Oh Woe is Me... | Pt. 4

◇ Continue

[Loading…]

“..llo?"

"Hello?" 

"Hellooo?”

Out of the wispy fog comes a familiar voice. It echoes on and on, fading into a whisper. The tenure worms into your brain as you struggle back into consciousness. And as your eyes open and focus, your brain finally recognizes who is calling out.

“...Mickey?” You respond quietly in disbelief. “Mickey!”

“[First]!” The reunion, however unexpected, is still relieving. You never thought you would be so happy to see the cartoony mouse again. But…

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, huh?” He chirps, walking up to your side. “I’ve been trying all sorts of things to get here, even trying to change my pajamas before sleeping too, heh…”

“So…this is a dream?” You ask hesitantly. Mickey smiles up at you, unaware of your inner turmoil. 

“Must be! This is quite unexpected, I usually only see your head and shoulders, not your whole body.” 

That makes sense, in a way. Only white nothingness surrounds you. Although you two are striding forward in a sense of strolling, you can’t make heads or tails on whether you’re actually walking somewhere.

“Normally I’d ask to take your picture but I don’t have my special camera.” You wryly smile in response. Did you succeed with your plan? Interactions with Mickey was usually out of the player’s hands…did you force a connection when you caused a game over?

“That’s a right shame. I was so looking forward to it since you mentioned it last visit.” Mickey sighs with a playful pout. It then changes to something more somber as he gazes up at you.

“[First], I’m glad to have met you again, but be careful.” You stop in your tracks at the warning.

“I sensed some dark aura around you when we first met. It’s gotten even stronger this time.” Mickey explains, worried eyes examining you. “Please be careful.”

“Wh-what do you mean…?” Your mouth runs dry. Something prickles in the back of your head, and to your panic, the vision of Mickey starts fading away, images blurring. 

“M…time….up….watch…” his last words hover in the air as you frantically reach out to him.

“M-Mickey?!” You fumble around, trying to reach out to him, but come up with air. 

“Damn it!” You scream, impatient rage blinding your sight. 

Just when you’re so close to getting an answer out of this damn game! You just wanted to go home! Was that such a sin?

The prickling in your head grows stronger and you grow lightheaded, collapsing in on yourself. You look up to see a bright glowing menu.

[True Ending has not been unlocked]

>⬛⬛⬛⬛ Key has not been obtained. 

>Continue?

–

[Loading…]

Your cheeks feel sticky.

It feels so gross. The smell of iron and rust floods your nose and makes your eyes fly open. Your fingernails scrape the substance as you push yourself off the cold floor. When you hold it up to your bleary eyes, you can see blood and dirt flaking under your nails. Your entire front is also soaked in blood and saliva. The disgusting sight makes you cringe. 

The ground underneath your body shakes. You regard the pool of blood, tears, and snot underneath you with a gaze not fully aware. You’re… in Twisted Wonderland?

Screaming? There’s people yelling somewhere, and it’s making your head hurt. You groan, raising your dirtied hand to steady your forehead.

What happened…?

"Easy, Trickster." A warm voice envelopes your ear. Suddenly, the scent of mint and petrichor overtakes your senses. Verdant green eyes peer down at you with relief.

“R…Rook?” The voice that comes out of you doesn’t feel like you. Someone else speaking in your body, like a ventriloquist. “H-How…?”

“[First]!” Grim flings himself into your face, adding to the pool of snot and mucus. It’s okay though. You hug him tightly, curling in on yourself, trying to absorb the warmth Grim gives. 

The others come and swarm you; trying to check in on you, but you don’t respond to their numerous worried inquiries, drained of all your energy. Something catches your ear though.

“Oh, we were so worried! When Neige told us you got accidentally poisoned, we couldn’t take you to the infirmary right away–thank Seven Rook was there!” Kalim clasps your hands tenderly, not minding the gross slew of fluids getting on his hands. 

Poisoned? How was I poisoned…?

A knife sharp pain slices through your brain when you try to recall what happened. You were with Neige…and then? Everything after that was all coming out as static noise.

“Prefect.”

You know who it is without looking. What a sight. How could Vil Schoenheit look this disheveled? Blonde greasy hair that is out of place, skin hollowed and pale with scratches, and bloodshot lavender eyes. He looks worse than you on death’s door.

"Vil…?" You gaze at him with empty confusion, unsure of why your heart drops at the sight of him. "Did…did something happen?"

Vil's eyes narrow but then close in resignation. Epel takes over, eyes wide in earnest. "Vil had an overblot, so we had to wrangle him back to normal."

Overblot…right…that's what supposed to happen, right?

Why…was that supposed to happen?

"Forgive me, Trickster. If only I had reached there faster with Monsieur Al-Asim…" Rook hums, surprisingly sincere. "Roi du Poison's madness and obsession…even when he had overblotted…how wonderfully beautiful it all was. The ink swirling around him, his stature…"

You shiver as his gaze rakes into yours.

"But, mon amour, you must not do that again, oui?" He leans in, lips ghosting over your ear and your blood freezes. What does he…?

"What a fine mess this is. What are we going to do now?" Ace drawls, eyes scanning behind him. Your eyes follow where he's looking and wince at the now destroyed colosseum. Debris and rocks flung everywhere, banners ripped to shreds, and electronics fried beyond repair.

For some reason, you feel calm despite the scene before you. As if…

"Well, well, if this isn't a sight."

Malleus.

Nothing registers until his gaze falls on you, and you swear his eyes glow for a fraction of a second.

"What have we here?" The question echoes and everyone looks nervously around at each other. “I arrive early to find not a single person and a stage laid to waste.”

You can only muster a sheepish grin in response. That's right. Malleus could fix this all up in a flash, no problem.

“Hornton, thank goodness you’re here!” Dried blood cracks on the edges of your smiling lips. “We could really use some help-”

“HORNTON?” You wince at the cacophonous pitch of everyone yelling. Rook is tactful enough to shield your ears but it only did so much to keep your eardrums from ringing. While Grim realizes who Hornton is, everyone else is flustered, attempting to explain the weight of his identity to the two of you.

You don’t need it though. His magic is enough of a demonstration as he winds back time and repairs the stage in moments. With that, the NRC group’s spirit and morale is renewed and once again, they’re raring to prove themselves to RSA.

The only thing that didn’t change is you.

Malleus gingerly carries you in his arms while Grim worriedly looks up at you. While they were reluctant to continue without you, even they were not foolish enough to let you go without urgent medical treatment.

You managed to stay conscious long enough to hear Malleus talking with the school medics and Grim muttering about stones before the dull ache in your throat and stomach forced you into an uneasy slumber.

–

The vestiges of a strange dream about mice and keys linger in your mind as you blink away the sleep in your eyes. 

Evening has fallen, the only light coming from the dim lanterns the office has set up for patients. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can make out silhouettes of curtains and several items on the table near you. 

Snacks from Ace and Deuce, herbal medicine from Vil, and colorful flowers by Kalim (you’re sure Jamil was the reason why it was not mountains of flower bouquets). The gestures are enough to make you weakly smile before it drops into a frown.

You turn to scan the room, and find no signs of life.

Did Grim leave?

An uneasiness begins to settle in your chest and you try to quash it. Maybe he just went to use the bathroom. Or if the staff made him leave, maybe he returned to Ramshackle. Anxiety begins to creep through your mind as the seconds tick by on the clock above the doorway. 

 Screw it.

You slip off the duvet covers and although the feeling of cold tiles on your bare feet is almost enough to make you give up, you push through and leave the room in the direction of Ramshackle. 

Soon, the familiar sight of the Seven’s statues come into the horizon and cobblestones turn into granite tiles underneath your feet. Something makes you pause, however. Like a feeling of deja vu, you wonder why you feel like you’ve been in this situation before.

A growl shakes through the underbrush and you whirl to see the devil tips of a tail thrashing through leaves. Your heart jumps to your throat.

Grim!

The next thing you see is glowing blue eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth and dripping black saliva. You stumble back partially in disgust at the sight and partially from fear. What happened to your friend?! 

“Grrr…mine…you can’t…” His words are hardly decipherable, making you furrow your eyebrows in concern.

“Grim!” 

He’s already descended into a rabid, feral monster. Your calls only anger him, and his eyes thin into needle thin slits. He bares his teeth again and you steel yourself. 

Letting out a guttural roar, he pounces and you narrowly dodge and avoid getting shredded by jagged claws. 

You will not lose your friend here. You can’t. Not when–

A fleeting vision flashed in your mind: pitch black ink surrounding your feet, before finally flowing away and hardening into a condensed mass. Your head immediately is wracked in red hot spasms, causing you to keel over in pain. What is…

Unfortunately, this leaves you open to Grim’s next strike, and his attack throws both of you off balance. The impact sends you into the grass and it’s only when your back hits a tree trunk that you shriek out loud. Your fragile medical gown is torn through by his claws, leaving bloody gashes upon your midsection. 

The excruciating pain is enough for feverish tears to run down your cheeks and your vision to start blurring as Grim growls again, no doubt readying to finish what he started.

“G-Grim…” 

Your vision darkens, and your world goes silent.

–

A heart wrenching scream rouses you awake.

“[FIRST]!!”

The sound of whistling wind blows in your ears and instinctively you shiver. As your eyes blearily crack open, a gray figure comes into focus.

Grim is hunched over you, shaking your body with tears in his eyes. The both of you seem to be…flying? What?

“Subject F and Y secured. Waiting for other units’ reports.” A cold robotic voice drones above you. You force your head up and see a tall robot donning armor and wielding a formidable looking oar like weapon. As your eyes adjusted against the strong breeze, you realized you and Grim were trapped in a steel cage. 

In the distance, your ears faintly pick up explosions and deep rumbling. 

“[FIRST]?!”

Both you and Grim turn to see Ace and Deuce gaping up at you from the forest floor below. You open your mouth, but your voice doesn’t come out. 

“All targets have been secured. All units fall back and return.”

“No!” Grim yowls. “My henchman, they’re hurt! Someone, help–!!” 

But his screeching goes unheeded by your stoney captors. And although you swear you hear familiar voices calling back, the robots are undeterred and whisk you both away easily. 

The last thing you see is the shattered ruins of a barrier and a school left in burned pieces.

[ghostf1ux]

"Who the Fuck are you Calling a Twig?"

Day 1: Broken Bones

Word Count: 3.8k

TW/CWs: Broken bones, drug talk/usage, Venom, guns, graphic violence, graphic injuries, general DCU-ness

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

“Wow, boys, you really know how to make a guy feel welcomed.”

Jason's dry words echo mechanically through the warehouse, making it impossible for the men below to figure out its origin. He counts fourteen masked heads crowded around a large moving truck that whip around at the disturbance. Nine of them brandish some kind of automatic rifles– the others seem to just have handguns. Nothing he isn't used to.

“Who's there?” One of them calls out hesitantly, nerves clear by the way their voice wavers with the question. He smirks.

Much to Jason's amusement (and maybe disappointment) they never just look up. Despite years of Batman and his flock swinging around Gotham, its population, home to some grade A dumbasses, have never learned to just look up.

“Damn, guess I'm gonna have to get some more heads,” Jason sighs, shifting from his crouched position in the rafters to one knee. He continues without answering the question. “So, here's the deal: you take yourselves, sans your drugs as well as your dignity, and skedaddle. In return, you retain use of all your limbs for the foreseeable future.”

Personally, Jason thinks this is a good deal. He understands that these guys are probably just trying to get by, so he'd rather not have this turn into something more than it needs to be.

Plus, he was looking forward to an easy night.

The goons all look between each other, conversing quietly. Jason notes the way some of them shift uncertainly, glancing around despite the weapons in their hands trained on the surrounding shadows. It's a little pathetic.

Finally, one speaks up.

“How about you try saying that to our faces, or are you too chicken?” The goon near the driver's seat of the truck tightens his grip on his rifle, before motioning to the others to start searching the warehouse. Jason decides to call him the leader of this little ragtag group of thieves, though he isn't sure exactly who they're stealing for. His intel only pointed to there being a pretty big load of Venom that was missing from a drug bust he had orchestrated weeks ago. 

“You aren't from around here, are you?” Jason drawls curiously, tilting his head in consideration. Of course, the voice modulator makes it come out a whole lot more menacing, the effect made worse by the fact that they still haven't found him, despite how some of them have spread out. The immediate effect it has on them almost makes Jason laugh. Almost.

“What's it to ya? We ain't stayin’ for long,” a different voice answers. Jason stands, silently prowling the length of the beam he's on until he finds a group of four guys loosely tucked behind a stack of crates. 

“No, you aren't.”

He grins, and drops.

The first two guys are on the ground before they even notice he's there. He rips the rifle out of one of their hands to use as a bat to strike the third, putting him out instantly with a resounding crack. He uses the momentum to launch a high back hook kick at the fourth, who slams into the stack of crates and then crumples to the ground.

He manages to clip three more in the shoulders before gunfire is raining down on the crates between Jason and the truck. He thinks he hears shouting somewhere behind it, but it's unclear.

What he definitely hears is the start of a truck engine– listen, with how many god damn trucks he hears in this line of work, he can practically tell you the specs just based off the starting sound of the engine– and the squealing of tires against cement floors.

Swearing under his breath, Jason turns to dive through another barrage of bullets, racing through the maze of bullshit strewn about. He doesn't have time to worry about the hired guns getting away, what's important is getting that Venom before it can end up on the streets. His streets.

He fires a few shots blindly behind him– a twisted bit of satisfaction making him smile at the sound of bodies dropping on the floor with pained yells and swears– before whipping out his modified grapple gun, aiming for the ceiling above a hole in the upper wall– looks vaguely like it was exploded– above the exit the truck is taking off towards.

He grins when the line pulls taut and he's yanked past the truck– tracking his speed– tracking his trajectory– flying upupup–

And releases at just the right moment to fling himself through the hole and into the moist Gotham air. The truck pulls out far below him, gaining speed, but it isn't enough. He's too good at sending himself flying for anything else.

It's a hobby he takes great joy in.

Jason unsheathes one of his many knives mid-air, turning his body to dive and land in a roll on top of the hood of the moving truck. His speed and momentum was accounted for– he supposes he should thank Bruce's numerous lectures about thinking before pulling stunts like this– even if the rain wasn't as he tumbles over the roof of the storage and onto the hood over the driver and passenger seats themselves. Slamming the blade of his knife through the roof, he scrambles for purchase despite the way his weight wants to send him barreling past the windshield. 

Fortunately, he recovers before they can start trying to shoot what little of him they can see (he has the ruined edge of his bowie to thank for that) and he swings around to kick the passenger through the window– wait, wasn't this guy on the driver's side? Why is he in the passenger seat instead of driving–

But the goon doesn't knock the driver off course with the force of his kick that should've sent both out the driver's door.

The truck barely swerves. It only registers several seconds later why, when his ankle is grabbed and nearly fucking crushed.

See, a funny thing about hindsight is that it doesn't fucking help you. Ever.

That's what Jason thinks as he's ripped from his handhold into the tight front seat. The minimal skin of the leader goon he can see bulges with muscles that weren't there before, a yellow tinge to his veins just barely visible in the low light. His eyes are wild and bloodshot, pupils blown with the drug coursing through his system.

This is why Jason hates Venom. All it does is make his life– well, second life– harder.

Hm. Maybe he should call for some backup.

Jason considers this a moment before he grits his teeth as he's forcefully curled up and pushed against the windshield, the slowly cracking glass under his hands bracing against it like gunshots in his ear. It's taking nearly all of the strength in his legs to push back against the force and he's still losing, slowly, painfully folding up despite his joints grinding together.

A flash of metal (a gun, his mind supplies oh-so helpfully) in his peripheral catches his attention. Reflex and a burst of adrenaline makes him twist over the center console– fuck that stick did not feel good digging into his lower back– to wrestle the gun out of the driver's hands.

This time, the truck swerves. The gun goes flying– Jason thinks it ends up on the ground on the passenger side– before a sharp explosion of pain in his head nearly makes his vision go blurry. In reality, his head was just slammed into the steering wheel.

Maybe that shouldn't be said as nonchalant as it is, but… well. He's had worse.

He scrabbles against the body under him in the tight space, reaching for his thigh holster blindly. He manages to find it and draw the weapon in the tight space, but the leader– the guy high on Venom– snaps his arm like a twig before he can fire.

Jason hears himself scream and drops the gun– unable to do anything but scramble for something to stop the blinding pain– vaguely hearing unintelligible yelling that doesn't quite resonate in his mind– he feels himself get jostled around in his desperate movements–

And suddenly he hears shattering glass.

And suddenly he's in the air, all sense of direction lost.

And suddenly everything goes white when his body decides it's a good idea to shoulder check the ground– leading with his snapped arm. 

He tries to curl up in a ball out of reflex– protect his vital organs– but the street (when did they turn on to a street?) has different plans for him, apparently.

His vision still hasn't returned when creaking metal bends– groans– breaks–

He can only let out a hoarse, breathless shriek when cold, wet, sharp weight falls on his chest and legs– nearly cracking the asphalt below him. Something in him– several somethings, he thinks– grinds and pops and snaps–

His breath is ripped out of his chest again as he gasps for air, this ever-present weight crushing him until his bones grind into dust and all that's left is squished, soupy remains.

Despite this, the first thing Jason can actually register when his ears stop ringing and his vision fades back in from the white it was before is his heartbeat and the blood roaring in his ears. It's like he can feel the rapid pulse of his life force in his whole body, desperately trying to do something– keep him alive, probably. Though he can't quite say for sure from what.

Then he feels the cold spatter of raindrops on his face. Distantly his mind tells him that his helmet is broken from when he got his face bashed into a steering wheel. Yeah, that sounds about right to him. But his face shouldn't be as warm as it is. Something warm is on his face. Steadily dripping down his cheeks, his chin, his neck– maybe it's starting to gather underneath him? That would explain why his neck and back feel wet.

Burning rubber assaults his senses, something more toxic hidden beneath it. There's smoke, and coppery tang of something he's intimately familiar with that would normally make the acidic green flames in him sing–

Blurry shapes begin to take form next. Lights, blinding lights– but not many of them close. Tall walls flanking the road he's on, panes of glass between them. Distantly recognizable, to the part of his brain that's still muddled. Trash. Trickles of rain in the street flowing into gutters along the sides. The far away lights reflect on the dirty water, keeping his attention on them. Distracting him. 

Focus, Jason, a woman's voice cuts through the fog, silky-smooth but commanding all the same.

Assess, find an exit, another voice follows, this one gruff and deep. Masculine. It makes the fog clear rapidly in a way nothing else can.

Fuck, okay.

Jason's vision sharpens, fully registering the vehicle he's looking up at. He doesn't dare move his head, that deep voice vaguely rattling off possible head and neck injury procedures somewhere in the back of his mind.

Assess. He's on his back, trapped under a large vehicle. He's on the street, probably still in Crime Alley. No one is around, as far as he can tell.

The truck is on its side, the only saving grace for Jason's life. The side mirror is crushed directly to his left, between his chest and his arm, but it adds at least a little bit of leverage that keeps the full weight of the vehicle off of him. On top of that, his left arm– mostly uninjured, from what he can tell– is free.

Experimentally, he tries to move his hand.

He sucks in a sharp, white hot painful breath at the lightning bolt of pain shooting up his arm– it hurts like a bitch, but it isn't broken. His wrist might be fractured. Moving his arm fully doesn't hurt nearly as much as his wrist. 

His chest protests though, loudly. He has to bite back a whimper when the truck seems to sink into him– that had to be his imagination, right? Surely this can't be how he goes; crushed to death under a fucking truck full of–

Something.

Something important.

Focus, Jason. What's the situation?

Right.

The roof of the truck is digging into his chest, but his stomach has a lighter weight on it. At least, comparatively.

But then the lower edge of the window– broken, shattered window– digs into his right hip and the upper area of his left thigh. He manages to wiggle his toes, but the motion sends sparks of pain flaring up and down both legs, all the way up his ribs.

He can't even feel his right arm where it's trapped under the edge of the roof and the side edge of the window. 

Something tells him he really doesn't want to.

Glancing around, he sees his gun has fallen conveniently about arms length away on his left side. He doesn't try to reach for it. He wonders if he'd actually be able to get it if he tried. It's an expensive gun, he had it custom made as part of a set and it'd be really annoying to have to get another one–

Focus, Jason.

Shit, this is a bad situation, even by Jason's standards.

From what he can gather, there is no way to get out of this. Not by himself. He knows he's forgetting something. Something important. Something that can help him. But the thoughts slip through his fingers like smoke.

Fuck, he could really use a smoke right now.

Smoke.

Crushing weight.

Bones shattering under metal–

Waiting–

Pleading–

Alone–

No. Wait.

That's not right.

Someone was coming for him, then.

He's not alone. Not anymore.

Focus, Jason. What can you use to increase your chances of survival?

He slowly raises his free hand to a small switch on the unbroken side of his helmet. It's awkward and god does it hurt but–

“Need– need hel– help,” Jason manages to croak out, arm falling helplessly back onto asphalt. Copper drips into his mouth. He forces himself not to gag.

“What the fuck?”

“Hood?”

“Where are you?”

“What happened?”

“Hood are you okay?”

Voices clamber loudly over each other, but Jason is just focused on his rattling, forcefully shallow breaths. They all blur together into a cacophony of noise. That is, until one much deeper than the rest speaks over them.

“Hood, what happened?” the voice growls. Distantly, he recognizes it. The same one in his mind that echoed lessons from years past. Batman. Bruce. 

Dad.

“I– I can't–”

Jason's words are starting to stutter and slur, becoming harder to form. The dots of his thoughts struggling to connect into lines.

“Robin, report,” the same voice barks, sharper this time. It pulls him back to a time before he had all the issues he has now. The words come tumbling out without him even thinking about them.

“Trapped– Venom bust– was chasing, got– got pulled in close– truck flipped– ‘m trapped– can't– breathing is–” the words get stuck in his throat, shallow breaths speeding up. The movement forces pained whines from his throat.

He doesn't have the breath for those right now.

“Oracle, send the coordinates. Nightwing and Red Robin, get to Hood. Robin and I will stop by the cave to get the materials needed to stabilize him,” Batman finishes. His voice is clipped. Controlled. Some part of Jason wonders why.

“Affirmative. ETA four minutes,” A younger voice– Tim, Jason's mind reminds him– answers immediately.

“Make it two,” Batman snaps.

“We're coming, little wing. Just gotta hold on for us, okay? We're gonna get you out.” Dick's voice is assuring, gentle. It's the one used for victims. Usually Jason would snap at him for using it on him, but at the moment, he can't really find it in himself to care.

All he can care about is the slowly increasing pressure pushing down on his–

Well. His everything.

“T's like– like the world– world's worse f– fuckin’– weighted blanket,” Jason finds himself saying out loud. A sardonic chuckle escapes him, which is a huge mistake because now he wants to sob.

He blinks back the burning tears before they can escape. He thinks, at least.

There's a small, sharp intake of breath before someone talks again. A woman, this time.

“I can't find him on cameras live, since Crime Alley is pretty spotty, but I found the footage of the crash. Hood, you need to be on the lookout for whoever was in the passenger seat. It looks like he got thrown from the truck, but if he was on Venom then he might get back up. You need to focus until Nightwing and Red can get there.”

Focus, Jason. Who can still hurt you?

“T– tall order there, Barbie,” he manages, glancing around. It takes him far too long to clock a peculiar lump on the ground about fifteen yards away. 

A moving peculiar lump on the ground.

Jason blinks rapidly up at the sky, cursing every god that may or may not exist.

“Do you see him, Hood?”

“Yeah,” Jason breathes out, barely more than a whisper. His eyes trail down to his gun laying on the pavement. He almost whines with how far away it seems.

“Is he moving?”

Jason can only manage a vaguely affirmative hum as he begins dragging his arm towards the gun. Every muscle, nerve, and bone in his body screams at him to stop. To rest.

He chokes down a sob when only his fingertips brush the cool metal of the barrel. He reaches further and nearly screams, but manages to drag it close enough to get a good grip on it. 

“Almost there, little wing,” Dick whispers, his voice taut with pain and worry.

Jason turns his gaze up to the man now hobbling towards him, sporting a bloody grin.

“Caged birdie all alone… shouldn't have bitten off more than you could chew,” the man chides menacingly. The zombie stumble he's got going on also isn't really helping.

Suddenly he's closer. Too close for comfort. 

Jason raises the gun, putting all his effort into maintaining his steady aim. Only a small tremor betrays the agony his wrist is in.

“Twenty seconds–”

The man steps closer, picking up something off the ground with a pained grunt.

“Maybe this'll finally teach you a lesson about sticking your nose where it don't belong.”

There's a glint of metal.

A gunshot.

And then nothing.

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

“--onna need the plane–”

“--wing, you with me?”

Gentle words coax Jason back to consciousness. Chatter continues in the background, but Jason is only aware of the pinched face of his brother above him. Despite the domino mask, he can see tear tracks on his cheeks.

Or maybe it's just the rain.

It's always raining in Gotham.

“Jay, come on, you gotta focus. We're gonna get you out you just gotta stay awake for a little bit longer,” Dick reassures despite the pained look on his face. He's trying not to worry Jason. He doesn't know if it's working or not.

“H– hurts,” Jason whines.

“I know, I know. I'm gonna take your helmet off, alright?”

Moments later there's a hiss of air before Dick gently works the broken helmet off Jason's head, setting it aside. He moves Jason's head into his lap, gently carding through the sweat-soaked curls. 

It's comforting. Distracting.

It almost makes Jason forget how much pain he's really in.

“Ho– how–?”

“B's gonna bring the plane around, and we'll hook the truck onto it so he can lift it off you,” Dick explains. The waver in his voice is there, betraying his anxiety at the situation despite his calm demeanor, but only the people close to him would ever be able to make it out.

Dick turns away to talk to Tim. Jason isn't paying attention. There's something else. There's a flaw in the plan. One only he knows about, because they can't see inside the truck. Not without putting more weight on him.

Focus, Jason. 

Weight.

A smaller weight.

Blood pooling.

But not his.

“Bod– body–” Jason rasps, quickly getting both boys’ attention.

“It’s fine, it was life or death. B won't be mad,” Tim offers him a reassuring smile. Jason grimaces, nearly shaking his head before thinking better of it.

“T– two. Stom– stomach.”

Dick furrows his brow, before his eyes widen. Tim seems to come to the same conclusion.

“Fuck, okay.” Dick rakes a hand through his damp hair, turning his gaze up to the sky as he takes a deep breath.

“B? Addition to the plan: Robin will need to repel into the car. There's another body in it, on Hood. We won't be able to get him out until it's gone…”

Jason lets the noise fade into the background, content to focus on Dick's fingers brushing through his hair rather than literally anything else. It's nice. The only nice thing in the cacophony of terrible no good awful things that make up his life right now.

But eventually, all good things must come to an end.

Distantly, he hears more talking. Organizing. Directing.

A weight gets lifted off his stomach.

Something hooks under his left arm. Someone else's arm, probably.

And then–

Well, being unaware of anything around you, thrown into a pool of evil magic battery acid mixed with mountain dew, and then subsequently ripped apart before being put back together was a really shit experience overall.

Being beaten nearly to death with a crowbar, then blown up and suffocating on smoke had been pretty terrible too.

This–

He won't remember being awake for this. It'll be a hole in his memory, one his brain will refuse to fill in… probably for the rest of his life. He'll think he passed out just before Bruce and Damien got there, and woke up safe and sound back at the Manor.

But his brothers won't be so lucky.

They'll never forget the piercing shriek that made all of them lock up as soon as the truck began to be lifted.

They'll never forget the wailing sobs that wracked the mangled body as pressure continued to be lifted. 

They'll never forget the screams that echoed off the surrounding buildings when he was dragged off the asphalt and onto a stretcher.

They'll never forget how his teal, bright teal eyes finally rolled back and they had to see how both legs were nearly crushed and torn to shreds, chest still never fully expanding to get oxygen that was so desperately needed, how a piece of bone stuck so far out of his forearm that bent in a ninety degree angle right near the middle, on top of a shoulder that was so clearly out of its socket it probably shouldn't even still be attached.

But Jason wouldn't remember.

He'd remember knowing that whenever he woke up, he'd be out. He'd be safe.

And for now, that was all he needed.

[ladybunny44]

Hii, I was wonder if I could request with Akashi Seijuro. With a girlfriend that is good at basketball and is on the girls team but in she ends up getting badly hurt at one a game he didn’t attend, he notices but she doesn’t say anything to him. He goes to a game of hers and sees moments before she gets hurt and when she does, it’s worse than it should have been. So he snoops around with her teammates to find out

Idk if it makes sense 😭

🏀 Beneath the Surface 🏀

Pairing : Akashi Seijuro x Fem!Reader

Genre : ❕️☁️

Word count : ~2500

Summary : As a basketball player for Rakuzan’s girls’ team, you’ve always pushed yourself to the limit. But when a lingering injury worsens after a brutal game, Akashi Seijuro, your ever-attentive boyfriend, begins to notice the cracks in your façade. Unbeknownst to you, he investigates and uncovers a shocking truth: your injury wasn’t entirely accidental.

TW/CW : Injury and pain (non-graphic), Brief mentions of bullying/aggressive behaviour and angst with a happy ending.

NOTIFICATIONS ꩜ ₊ ⊹! : Thank you for the request! I tried to made based on your request and add some of my ideas, i hope you wouldn't mind! Enjoy the oneshot 📚

『••✎••』

The first time you got injured, it was during a high-stakes match against another prestigious school. The air in the gym was electric, the crowd cheering as your team fought tooth and nail to maintain their lead. You were in your element, weaving past defenders, your sharp passes and quick movements keeping the opposition on their toes.

But as the game wore on, something began to feel off. The opposing players were rougher than usual, their elbows sharp and their movements too deliberate. You brushed it off, telling yourself it was just part of the game.

That was, until it happened.

You jumped for a rebound, your arms stretching high above your head. As you landed, one of the opposing players “accidentally” stepped into your path, causing you to lose your balance. Your ankle twisted unnaturally, and a sharp pain shot through your leg as you crumpled to the floor.

The referee blew the whistle, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

Your coach helped you off the court, concern etched across their face. “You should sit this one out, Y/N,” they said, but you shook your head, determination burning in your eyes.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, despite the throbbing pain in your ankle. “I can keep going.”

From that day on, the injury lingered. At first, it was manageable—just a dull ache when you moved a certain way. But as the weeks went by and the games piled up, the pain worsened. You started limping more often, wincing every time you had to jump or pivot.

Akashi had noticed, of course. He always noticed.

“You’re favoring your left leg,” he remarked one evening as the two of you walked back to your dorms.

“It’s nothing,” you replied quickly, forcing a smile. “Just a little sore from practice.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he let it go—for now.

The night before your next game, Akashi had called to let you know he wouldn’t be able to attend. “The council meeting is running late,” he said, his tone regretful. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him, though you wished he could be there.

You didn’t tell him that your ankle was worse than ever, or that you were struggling to keep up with the team during practice. You didn’t want to worry him.

The game itself was brutal. The opposing team seemed to have it out for you, their players bumping into you at every opportunity. You fought through the pain, determined not to let your team down. But by the second half, it was clear that something was wrong.

Akashi had decided to surprise you.

He had rearranged his schedule last minute, determined to see you play. He arrived just as the second half began, slipping unnoticed into the crowd.

What he saw immediately set him on edge.

You were limping, your movements awkward and pained. The other team seemed to be targeting you, their rough play growing increasingly obvious. Akashi’s jaw tightened, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched.

And then, it happened.

You had just stolen the ball and were sprinting toward the basket when one of their players charged into you, her shoulder slamming into your side. The impact sent you crashing to the floor, your injured ankle twisting painfully beneath you.

This time, you didn’t get up.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

『••✎••』

At The Hospital

You stared at the sterile white walls of the hospital room, your leg propped up in a brace. The doctor’s words echoed in your mind: severe ligament damage, a minimum of three months off the court, possibly longer if you pushed yourself too soon.

Akashi sat beside you, his expression unreadable, though his clenched fists betrayed his anger.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were injured before?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with an edge of frustration.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

He let out a slow breath, his fingers brushing against yours. “You don’t have to protect me, Y/N. I’d rather worry about you than watch you suffer in silence.”

As the days passed, Akashi couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to your injury. The deliberate way the opposing player had targeted you, the nervous glances from your teammates—it didn’t sit right with him.

Using his sharp instincts and connections, he began asking questions. His inquiries led him to some unsettling answers. Several of your teammates admitted that the opposing team had been targeting you for weeks, their aggression escalating with every game. Worse, one of your own teammates hinted that someone had intentionally pointed you out as a threat to be "taken care of."

Akashi’s anger was cold and precise, his golden and crimson eyes blazing with quiet fury.

When Akashi told you what he’d uncovered, you were stunned. “I... I had no idea.”

“It’s over now,” he assured you, his voice firm. “I’ve already spoken to the necessary people. They won’t hurt you again.”

You looked up at him, tears brimming in your eyes. “Thank you, Akashi. For always looking out for me.”

He reached out, brushing a tear from your cheek. “I’ll always protect you, Y/N. No one will ever harm you while I’m here.”

With Akashi by your side, the road to recovery didn’t feel as daunting. He was there for every step, encouraging you during physical therapy, cheering you up on bad days, and reminding you of your strength.

“You’ll be back on the court before you know it,” he said one evening, his hand resting over yours.

“And you’ll be in the audience, cheering me on,” you replied with a small smile.

“Always,” he promised, his eyes softening in a way they did only for you.

Through it all, one thing became clear: with Akashi by your side, there was nothing you couldn’t overcome.

[meowmaids]

I think it was really hard knowing he got a concussion because he was drunk and can't remember when he got hurt

Many of our close family members are severe alcoholics. I never started drinking or using drugs because it was agonizing to see loved go through addiction

Many family functions are include binge drinking. And it is so hard to see my little sibling drink so much. Or be invited out by family who are extreme alcoholics. He realizes now whats going on and is reflecting

Thanks to God he is home safe! And thanks to God we will be with him as he heals and gets better!

I just want him to know he is loved and I will always be here for him.

Man yea thanks be to God my brother is safe and well. He went for a CT came back and he just needs to rest, rest, rest and get better.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 12.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.6k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death any tw's and cw's will be added to chapters with them in it.

story playlist

Shera’s head pounds, laden with rocks and gravel as if she were resting at the bottom of a creek. Joints cracking and aching, she sits up. 

She doesn’t recognize where she is, only smelling the salt air and the distant crash of the tides. Her mouth is dry, sticky with a cloyingly sweet flavor. “Mhh,” she groans, vision blurred more than usual, throat tight. 

“You’re awake,” a taunting voice observes. “Good.” 

It takes her a few moments to match the voice to Prince Daemon— her situation going from bad to worse. 

She must’ve made a putrid expression, as the rogue prince gave a chuckle. “Am I that off putting, Lady Stark?” 

She continues to grumble, unable to form words yet— she remembers being hit in the throat particularly hard, rendering her voiceless and silent at the time of her capture. “W… wh,” she breathes, lifting her head to glare at the blurry figure of Daemon. “Wh… y…” 

“Why?” he asks, tilting his head. “I did you a favor, rescuing you from the usurper’s halls. I’m sure that Otto Hightower would’ve had you wedded and bedded with his one-eyed grandchild at a moment’s notice if he thought that your brother might waver to his side.” 

“I… didn’t…” she grasped at words, the ability to speak fleeting, like birds spooked from a windowsill. “I don’t…. w-want…” 

“Don’t strain yourself now,” Daemon chided, scolding her like a child. He watched her for a bit longer, seeming to take in each minute detail of her face. “Nasty scar that,” he gestured to her eye. “Baela didn’t seem to have as good of an aim as Lucerys. At least my nephew’s injury was swift work, taking out the eye entirely,” he was closer now, brow perked. He unsheathed his dagger, embossed in swirling depictions of scales and dragon wings, and began to cut a strip of fabric from the blanket upon the bed.

Shera watched him in blurred confusion, backing herself up against the headboard, trying to be small— mayhaps if she was small, she would disappear. 

The prince offered the fabric to her. “To cover it up— ‘tis a ghastly sight, as you seem to know from your usual garb. I’m sure we’ll have some more… suitable dregs for you soon enough.” 

Her eyes flicked between the fabric and his hand, back and forth. Something in her blood welled to the surface as she leaned forward to grab the cloth. It was a feral rage, something ancient swirling in the pit of her stomach as she lurched forward, sinking her teeth into the soft of Daemon’s wrist. 

She tasted his blood, her nails scratching at any exposed skin she could grasp. Her senses darkened as she heard his far away voice, saying words she didn’t understand, yelling at her, pushing her off. 

The back of his hand met her face as she landed back against the headboard once more, chest heaving. She spit at him, body shaking with rage and adrenaline. “Your blood… t-tastes… like shit.” she cursed him, spatting his foul copper ichor back at him. 

He was enraged, she could tell, feeling a similar dragon-esque heat emanating off of him. A small part of her sobbed, deep within the recesses of her mind— it reminded her of Aemond, even if only for a moment. 

And yet, despite Daemon’s rage, he retained some sort of manic lightness in his eyes, even as he was bleeding, teeth marks indented onto his skin. He stared at her with a morbid interest, as if she was some type of animal he had never seen before, never encountered so close— and in captivity.

It was a blur as the maester walked in and lifted a cool liquid to her lips, tasting of that same saccharine sweet that filled her mouth when she awoke. It was undoubtedly an attempt to subdue her. She drank it gladly, wanting nothing more than to be asleep again. Mayhaps she would dream of Aemond. Mayhaps she would never need to wake and could dream forever. 

As her consciousness faded again, she never once broke the locked stare between her and the prince until her body gave out. 

If he ever got that close to her again, she would love nothing more than to sink her teeth into his neck, maybe even sinking her nails into his eyes. 

She would dream of ways to kill him, surely.

��� 

He hasn’t been granted a marble yet— not even an official title for his seat has been bestowed. And yet, he is there, sitting at the head of the table across from the King. 

It had been ten days since Shera was taken, six days since the Velaryon fleet enforced its blockade upon King’s Landing, and four days since court had been held in the throne room to hear concerns from the smallfolk and lesser lords. 

Days upon days of doing nothing— of doing diplomacy as Aegon had put it, to parrot the words from Otto’s mouth. Aemond rolled his eye at the sentiment, knowing he would have this war snuffed out in a moment’s notice. 

Our house’s words are Fire and Blood, are they not? And yet we are nothing more than simpering whelps— for the sake of diplomacy. Aemond suppressed a scoff as Tyland Lannister spoke about the costly nature of the blockade. He could only think, mayhaps Shera would be proud of his restraint in holding his tongue. 

The thought brought a small bit of warmth to the tips of his ears, suddenly grateful for his hair covering them.

Aegon twirls his yellow and pink tinged marble in its circular setting, seemingly bored with the conversation at hand, his eyes set upon the marble as one council member or other continues to drone.

“… the shipments have been delayed due to the Sea Snake’s blockade…”

“… the shepherds are asking for compensation for their sheep being taken…” 

Aemond’s ears begin to ring— a high pitched, ugly, grating sound, drowning out the noise. He looks down at his fist on the table as it flexes and relaxes, the tendons and ligaments snapping and mending back into place like a taut bowstring. All this time of doing nothing, nothing, nothing— 

“Well,” Aegon’s voice snapped through his fog, effectively cutting off whomever was speaking. “I believe I have a plan that will solve all of these… predicaments.” he clasped his hands together with a self-assured smile. 

Otto visibly tensed, sprouting another proverbial gray hair. “Do share, your grace.” 

“You have dragonriders on your side, with very capable dragons. I don’t see why we don’t dissolve the blockade with fire.” 

“I will assume you are speaking of you and Aemond,” the hand spoke, his tone light. “The princess’ side has many dragons as well— what is stopping them from attacking King’s Landing while our two capable dragons are traipsing in the bay?” 

“You’re correct in your sentiment, grandsire. My half-sister’s army consists of more dragons than we— but most are babes or hardly fledglings,” Aegon drawled, looking down at the marble. “You are also discounting that we have another capable dragon and dragonrider. Do you forget your Queen’s dragon so easily?” 

There was a palpable silence in the room as Otto stared at the King. “Helaena is… she is no warrior.”

“She is no more a warrior than Rhaenyra is, than any of us are— but she does know how to say ‘Dracarys’, if I recall. Dreamfyre is large enough to defend the city while Aemond and I are gone on our quick incursion. I don’t believe I need to remind you of the speed at which dragon travel differs from horse travel, grandsire.” Aegon hummed now, seemingly pleased with himself. 

“Even so— it is incredibly reckless for you to be out. You are the king, not some paltry foot soldier,” Otto’s calm demeanor was shedding slowly, irritation bleeding into his words. “It doesn’t bode well for a king to fight so openly.” 

“Nor does it bode well for me and mine to sit and hide here and let paltry foot soldiers die in the masses when we could end it before sundown. I fear you won’t persuade us otherwise, lord hand,” Aegon stood up, pushing his chair back. “In fact, we will even return before you pass your evening constitution, grandsire. Does your privy have a good view of the Blackwater?” 

The Hand turned to his younger grandson, who’s single eyed gaze met him in kind. “Aemond? Do you believe this wise, as well?” 

Aemond didn’t move an inch, merely glazing over Aegon’s smug expression before returning to Otto. “I would not be so capricious as to challenge the king’s wishes, grandsire. I shall do as he commands and nothing less. The blockade needs to be eradicated— all of our diplomatic approaches have been exhausted. As his grace said, it shall be ended swiftly before Dragonstone hears a word of us even mounting our dragons.”

A cold chill befell the council room as Otto let out a tempered breath. There was a vein bulging at his temple, coupled with a myriad of new gray hairs. His expression could only be described as regret, for he is a tower cornered by two fire hungry dragons. “Very well. Rid the bay of the blockade and nothing more.” 

Soon enough, the chamber cleared. All that remained were Aemond, Aegon and Otto, the latter of whom waited until the door closed to speak. “You’re both being incredibly reckless. I expected this from you, Aegon— but Aemond, you are better than this. You have more restraint, more patience.”

The king wilted ever so slightly at the admonishment, turning towards the open window with his goblet. He remained silent. 

Aemond, however, stayed sitting. His leg was propped up against the table, one hand tracing the deep engraved ridges of the pommel of his sword. “Patience,” he echoed his grandsire’s words, mulling over the meaning of it. “Restraint,” the prince continued, finally looking back up at Otto. “I indeed have those qualities in spades, to some extent. But, patience is like an hourglass. The sand dwindles, granule by granule until there is nothing left. I am reaching my limit, becoming bereft of such patience, sitting here on my hands for days upon days. We are ready to do something.” 

Otto’s brow knit together as he observed his second youngest grandchild— a man grown now, always studious and hardworking, a true shining example of a prince. It was a perfect illusion, adept at fooling those who didn’t look deeper. A single crack at the surface reveals a fathomless gaping hole could be seen, leading to molten fire and an adept ability to not be swayed, not to be controlled by someone else. 

This is the first time Otto Hightower realizes how dangerous his grandson had become— and how much he was reminded of a certain rogue. 

Swallowing softly, the hand nods. “Do what you think is wise, Aemond.” 

—

The wolf still follows him, like a mangy shadow. Aemond didn’t care for the animal, but couldn’t bear sending him off somewhere else. 

Moongeist would let out a warbling whine each time they passed the corridor that led to Shera’s guest chambers, glancing down the hallway to see if she might be there, before padding to catch up with Aemond, who wouldn’t permit the wolf into his room. 

Aemond, admittedly, had done the same a few times, having to will himself to not venture to the guest quarters. His breath would catch if he saw a blur of auburn hair somewhere in a crowd, he would smell her scent of lavender and rosemary in the oddest of places. It felt like she was haunting him, her ghost steeping into every facet of his life.

But she wasn’t dead— was she? 

That was the ever clouding thought on his mind. He just wished to know if she was alive— even Lord Larys Strong, a man known to have his fingers and eyes in many places of Westeros, couldn’t catch a bead on Shera’s whereabouts. That in itself was disconcerting to Aemond. 

His gaze was glazed over as he knocked upon Helaena’s door, stepping in without a word or greeting to her handmaiden. The wolf, of course, followed. 

“I was wondering when you would visit today,” Helaena murmured, kneeling at one of the tables in her solar. She was fiddling with wooden cages fashioned for her crickets, facing away from Aemond. “Maelor will be happy to play with Moongeist, I’m sure,” she paused and murmured softly to herself. “The vines are overgrown, they strangled a green dragonfly just this morn…” 

The mention of the cherubic toddler caused Moongeist’s ears to perk up, his tail giving a small wag. Finally breaking away from the invisible chain that held him to Aemond, the wolf walked over towards the doorway of the nursery and took a seat, waiting patiently for the arrival of Maelor, who undoubtedly was taking an afternoon nap. 

“This one has been very quiet lately,” Helaena continued, bringing up one of the cages closer to her face, lips tugging into a frown. “Do you think it’s lonely?” 

Aemond walked to his sister, leaning down ever so slightly to observe the silent cricket. “Mayhaps,” he replied, hands behind his back. “Do crickets get lonely?” 

“Sometimes. They get lonely when no one listens to their song, so they stop singing. What would be the point to sing if no one can hear it?” she ponders, giving the cricket one last look over before putting the enclosure back on the table. “How are you feeling as of late, brother?” 

He was caught somewhat off guard by her question— it wasn’t usual in their family, perhaps even society itself, to ask something so directly. It took him a few moments to answer. “Fine. I am feeling fine.” his words were plain, hollow. 

“I miss her too,” Helaena responded, sitting up and straightening out her skirts. “It isn’t your fault, Aemond.” 

Aemond peered at his sister, hands finally unclasping from behind his back. His shoulders slumped for the first time in days, the muscles previously strung taut like thread on a loom. He couldn’t say anything for a long moment, brow furrowed. “I…” he cleared his throat, feeling more vulnerable at this moment than he would like to. It felt as if he was belly up, soft innards ripe for the slaughter. “It is my fault. I faltered in a time of weakness.” 

“Love isn’t a weakness. We all must love.” 

“Love— love is a… weakness. I allowed for one sliver of something good, I indulged when I should have starved. Look what it has gotten me, gotten us,” he continued, cracking a finger with each inflection. He needed to be doing something, anything rather than to be still. To be still, to be at peace, is to lie down and die. “I won’t make another mistake.” 

“You’re just like mother in that way,” Helaena sighed softly, taking her brother’s hands in her own to stop his incessant fidgeting. “You both have such a staunch code of what you think you deserve. All goodness is an illusion— a trick,” she squeezed his palms. “You deserve much and more.” 

His eye glazed over for a moment as he savored the feeling of Helaena’s hands in his own. He hadn’t been touched by another human being since Shera had gone— he would never let anyone else get so close. Aemond’s throat bobbed, mouth opening to say something, but the steel within him cut it off. 

Helaena felt this, letting go with a nod. “I think today is a good day for flying, don’t you think?” she began to hum again as she looked to the open window that overlooked the bay.

It had been a while since Aemond had left her chambers, leaving her to get on her riding leathers. She didn’t prefer wearing them, as beautiful as they were– she would opt for her regular dress and mayhaps some long pants to prevent chafing. The leathers felt restraining and tight, when all she wanted was to be free and to fly. 

Maelor giggled in the background as he played with Moongeist, who was gentle for such a large beast. But, it didn’t surprise Helaena in the slightest. The wolf was imbued with Shera’s soft sense of humanity, the thought of it making the queen’s heart ache. If she were more fierce, more brave, more fire blooded, she would go to Dragonstone herself and negotiate for her release. But where Aemond’s blood was molten fury, untethered and unpredictable, her veins were full of dreams and predictability. 

She knows that negotiating wouldn’t work, nor would burning down the island. Shera’s escape comes in the means of green dragonflies and barn owls.

“Will you watch him?” she asks Moongeist, who lifts his muzzle to lick her open palm as she approaches. Maelor is laying atop him, arms wrapped around the wolf’s torso as he sleeps, using the poor beast as a makeshift bed. He does not seem to mind though. “He isn’t like the twins. He’s more fragile, you see. The maesters say his heart is bad– how can that be possible? He is just a boy, never doing a bad thing in his life. He is pure of heart, you know that.” 

The wolf’s amber eyes blinked slowly as he gave a small chuffing sound in response. The wolf had attached himself to the toddler since they met, Maelor second to only Shera herself. Now with Shera gone, Moongeist likely felt the same amount of shame Aemond did, if not more. He couldn’t protect his master and she was taken– as much as he tried, as much as he fought, it wasn’t enough to save her. He favored Maelor now, perhaps because he reminded the wolf of Shera, and perhaps he likened himself to protect the little toddler with an irregular heartbeat.

Helaena leaned down and kissed Maelor on his head, then Moongeist between his ears before slipping out of her solar, off to the Dragonpit.

— 

He threw his leg over the saddle, not quite buckled in yet. Vhagar doesn’t rest in the Dragonpit any longer, opting for a craggy shore near the bay. She grumbles, lamenting softly at being awoken. Aemond thinks her akin to an old cat nowadays, opting more to nap than to burn and conquer like she did in days of old. He almost felt bad to disturb her, a gloved hand patting the exposed scale above the saddle. 

“Just burn a few boats, Vhagar, then we shall rest on the cliffs,” he murmured as they took flight, skimming low above the roiling waves. It took Vhagar longer to climb in altitude, but soon enough, they were looking at King’s Landing from the clouds. Her mass blotted out the sun temporarily, casting a shadow over the sprawling city. Even through the dim, a glint of gold caught his eye. 

Sunfyre, with Aegon atop, raced through the sky like a whizzing bee. The king’s dragon was young, hatching as an egg in the cradle, an admittedly gorgeous golden and pink whelpling. Aemond could remember the jealousy he felt at his brother’s bond with his dragon. Aegon had loose ties to many humans of the world– his nature wasn’t made for forging meaningful relationships, as much as he tried. Apart from his children, as well as a confusing relationship with his sister-wife, he was bereft in anything beyond that. 

But, Sunfyre was different. In many ways, the golden dragon reminded Aemond more of a giant dog than a fearsome beast. He was keen on giving and being given affection and was quite pompous, puffing out his chest to Dreamfyre and giving mewling coos when the she-dragon was in his vicinity. Aegon spoke to Sunfyre in broken High Valyrian, mostly opting to speak in the common tongue– the way the dragon learned to understand Westerosi and anything Aegon seemed to say was beyond Aemond. The bond between Targaryen and dragon was bound in ancient magic, but the bond between the king and his mount was even more so– supernatural, even. 

The golden beast lingered a good length away from Vhagar, knowing that she was in a testy and irritable mood. The two dragons seemed to converse, Sunfyre giving trilling whistles, while Vhagar returned in low grumbles. 

“Your old lady is upsetting my boy, Aemond,” Aegon laughed, head thrown back. He was always in his best moods in the sky– they all were. 

“Tell your boy to leave Vhagar alone, I know he must be spewing obscenities at her. You two are alike in that way,” Aemond bit back, the bite in his voice in more of a teasing manner. Aegon wouldn’t get a smile out of him, though. 

A low trill of a third dragon broke through the clouds above them, the cerulean and opalescent sheen of Dreamfyre parting from the blue in the sky as if she were invisible previously. Helaena atop her dragon, waved to them with a wide smile. 

“Seven hells, Helaena,” Aegon and Sunfyre reeled almost in unison at the sudden appearance of the duo. “How did you get above us? You hadn’t even left the pit when we took off!” 

“Camouflage, brother. Dreamfyre blends into the sky at this time of day so well, doesn’t she?” Helaena preened, hands off the reins and resting behind her head. She was always so carefree when riding, especially since Dreamfyre was one of the most steady flyers. When the twins were still little babes, Helaena swaddled them both to her chest and flew, much to Alicent’s absolute horror. They slept soundly against her breast, not disturbed by the movements of dragonflight in the slightest.

“Are we all prepared, then?” Aemond cut in, getting straight to business. “Helaena?” 

“Yes, we shall skim the clouds and keep an eye on the horizon. There aren’t many bugs this high… too cold for them,” she hummed, clad in her deep turquoise colored riding leathers. It was imprinted with embroidery of dragonflies, coupled with a matching engraving on the front of Dreamfyre’s saddle. 

Aemond nodded, not waiting for his brother to answer before he set off towards the bay, knowing he and his fast golden beast would be in tow. 

The Velaryon fleet laid beyond the outcast of the Blackwater, barely floating above the skyline. There were approximately twenty ships encircling and blocking entrance to the harbor. It was a bold move on their part, to taunt the King and his family so openly, in their own waters. Aemond sneered slightly as arrows were notched and released to no avail— Vhagar’s skin was as tough as armor to the pitiful splinters they let forth, and Sunfyre was much too swift to even be nicked. 

The two brothers made quick work of the blockade, blessing the boats in fire and watching them sink to the bottom of the sea. They met in the middle, lines of inferno mingling together. 

“Now we’re clear for the second bit?” Aegon yelled, eyes squinting from the ashes blowing in the wind. 

Aemond nodded, waving his arm towards the north. Decidedly, to the next part of their plan— a bit they did not reveal to the council nor their grandsire. It was something only shared between the three siblings and their dragons. 

They continued northward, the tailwind carrying them towards Dragonstone. 

–

It’s light, the luminosity of the sun reflecting off of the water. The lake was so large, the largest Shera had ever seen, she couldn’t even see the end of the opposite side. The waves were calm, lapping at her bare feet as they sunk into the soft sandy clay sediment that made up the shore. It was very different to the pebbled beach of the Blackwater, and the muddy, reedy embankments of northern lakes.

The air is still, quiet, her hair ruffling only when a dragonfly races past her, then circling back and hovering in front of her face. It is a green color, iridescent in its hue as the rays hit its thorax.

“Hello,” she whispers, greeting the bug like she does with all insects; a habit picked up from Helaena. She lifts her hand, finger perked. It lands on her pointer finger, impossibly fast wings coming to a resting speed. 

But then, it’s spooked by a gust of wind from behind them, fleeing off into the atmosphere. Watching it leave sparks an unexpected feeling of hurt deep within her chest. 

As she turns, she sees him— dressed in the traditional robes of Old Valyria. A garment of beige, steeped in red ochre at the ends. It is tied taut to his chest, a sanguine ichor dripping from his shoulders. His hair is down, his eyepatch forgotten, a pleasant smile lives on his face— one reserved just for her, just for them in this moment. Aemond’s hand extends, his palm eerily cold against her own.

Red leaves fall from the weirwood above them as a woman recites something. Her voice is garbled and as Shera tries to look upon her, a shadow is cast upon her features. Only her long, dark hair and the glint of a green eye is visible as she speaks in a manner of tongue Shera’s never heard before. The language feels… old, primal even, as it tugs at the very roots of her soul. 

Aemond palms her face, parting her lips ever so slightly with his thumb. She feels the cool shard of dragonglass pressed to her skin as it slices into her— barely a prick, blood beading at the surface. He offers her the knife, a shaky hand doing the same to him in turn. Bloody lip against bloody lip, the tang of copper satisfying the need of the Old Gods. 

Shera turns to look at the woman again— but she is gone, only a flitting feather remaining in her place. Her brow knits in confusion, head feeling airy and full of cotton. 

Aemond distracts her from her worries, murmuring slurred words in her ear. She is unable to discern what he is saying, a high pitched ringing drowning out the sound. 

“Ae—mond,” she whispers, clutching at his tunic, the red ochre staining her finger tips. “Aemond, Aemond.” 

He keeps speaking, but none of it makes sense. He still has that pleasant smile upon his face, his lip continuing to drip a steady stream of ichor. 

Splat. Drip. Splat. 

Droplets of blood spatter to the ground, overtaking any and every thought Shera had— it was all she could hear now. Her mouth is full of bile and viscera as the world around her changes. It darkens, castle walls enclosing around her lit only by a few candles. 

She feels the heavy burden of a cloak around her shoulders as a cup of wine is brought to her lips, her arm intertwined with another. 

“In the sight of the Old Gods and the New,” a gravelly voice spoke. “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for all eternity.” 

The wine feels like putrid spew as it’s tipped into her mouth, trickling down her throat. The arm laced with hers gives her a reassuring squeeze— and just for a moment, she looks to see him, to see Aemond. 

Except it is not Aemond. It never was Aemond. 

Jacaerys looks back down at her, brown eyes dilated into complete darkness. He is as sad as she is, it seems. 

“The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.” a man speaks, his voice infallible with authority.

[forwhump]

Touch

a/n; touch starved human weapon who’s never known kindness gets a hug :’) & a bunch of other times he’s touched, mostly in a horrible fashion

for the anon that wanted silas to get a hug & the anon that wanted more of the unit !! two bingo squares crossover episode best of both worlds babeyyyy

tw/cw: grievous bodily harm, mutilation, guns, traumatic brain injuries, implied rape/noncon, references to graphic violence, medical torture

living weapon whumpee

The first touch Silas ever knows is that of the cold, gloved hands reaching into the opened cavity of his chest.

Their touch is not gentle. Their touch introduces Silas to pain. It’s a pain that he will very quickly become familiar with.

They open him from throat to groin. They peel skin away from meat, and meat away from muscle. They pry apart his ribcage and crush his ribs into splinters of bone. They pull out chunks of organ tissue and they hold him down, against the cold steel of the operating table, as they take the colder steel of a surgical scalpel of his hairline.

Silas’ very first memory is waking up to those cold, gloved hands fishing his small intestine from his opened gut.

The very first touch Silas ever knows is that of those hands.

Silas doesn’t like to be touched.

He learns this very quickly.

It’s an empty cell, carved from stone, not quite tall enough for Silas to stand in but that doesn’t matter because Silas can’t stand. He’s shackled to the floor by the iron closed around his throat, and he’s left there for days in the dark.

He’s alone. He’s alone a lot in the beginning.

The first person that he ever sees, outside of that operating room, is a soldier. Silas doesn’t recognize him but he spits, “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, you ugly fuck,” and swings his fist into Silas’ face with as much force as a human being can manage.

His name is Point, Silas learns later, and his touch breaks his right eye socket into splinters of skull.

They manage to save his eye. Much later, however, Point puts three bullets in it, and Silas loses his right eye for good.

Silas learns very quickly that touch is something vile. It’s something to be shied away from, something that hurts. Touch is inhumane.

When Silas is touched, it hurts him.

When Silas touches, he hurts.

They chain his hands in front of him, and they shackle him at the ankles. He has to wear a bite bar because they don’t trust his teeth.

They’re right not to.

Because they remove the bite bar, the chains, the shackles, and there’s carnage.

When Silas touches, he hurts. When Silas touches, there’s carnage.

Silas usually does his field tests alone, but not always. They are a team, technically, him and the unit, and the district needs to be sure they work well together, or some shit equivalent.

Silas had spent a lot of time making a careful point not to let the unit see him the way the soldiers see him, as the horrible thing he really is, and introducing them into the field tests had made him edgy, and it had made him feel kind of sick.

It turned out to be a waste of emotion.

Even now, the soldier’s gun aimed into Hal’s face, Silas makes quick work of pulling his throat out through the back of his neck. He uses his teeth, and still, as Hal stands, he wipes blood from his eyes with his sleeve and looks up at Silas with a grin that’s nothing but relieved.

“Good looking out, man,” he says, and holds his fist out to Silas. Silas doesn’t know what to do with that, so he doesn’t do anything. Hal kinda gestures with his fist and says, “don’t leave me hanging, big guy. Bump me.”

Silas raises his eyebrows and Hal reacts like he hit him.

“You’ve never had a fist bump?” And he says it like it’s something heinous, like it’s even the most heinous thing Silas has done in the last three minutes. “Oh, man,” he says, but his grin is bordering on obnoxious. “I’m so glad I get to take your fist bump-ginity.”

“No,” Silas deadpans, because he doesn’t know what that is and he also doesn’t want to.

But Hal says, “yeah. Come on,” which isn’t all that convincing on its own, but he adds, “Wren will think you’re really cool if he finds out you do fist bumps,” and Silas squints. Hal grins again, wide and innocent, and holds his fist back out to Silas. “It’s easy. Just bump my fist with your fist. Fist bump.”

“Why?” Silas says.

“I don’t know,” Hal says. “Who cares? Just do it.”

Silas looks at Hal’s hand for a long time and decides the pros — Wren might be impressed he’s learned something — outweigh the cons — he just doesn’t want to. He relents and knocks his fist against Hal’s.

Hal, who throws both his arms up and his head back as he cheers.

June, after she left the service, was a hairdresser for a while.

Silas knows this, because she tells him, “after I left the service, I was a hairdresser for a while.”

Silas says, “okay.”

“So you can trust me,” she adds.

“No,” he says.

June tips her head back, dramatic, as she groans. She’s been wielding the hairbrush like a weapon. “Silas. Come on, dude. Stop being a bitch about it. Let me brush your hair.”

“No,” he repeats.

“Silas,” she repeats.

“No,” he says.

“Wren’ll like it,” she tries, and Silas narrows his eyes. She grins, and she has a very predatory grin. “You wanna look good for Wren, don’t you, big guy?”

He’s starting to suspect these people might be using Wren to manipulate him, and it’s unfortunate that it’s working. Silas sits on the floor, and June, with the added boost of the back of the couch, pulls a brush through his hair like she’s trying to rip all of it out.

He complains the whole time, mostly for the sake of complaining. “Ow,” he says again, and June groans at him.

“You’re too big to be this much of a pussy.”

“You’re hurting me,” he says. She isn’t.

“I don’t care,” June replies. “Stop moving.”

“I’m not moving,” he says.

“You’re flinching,” she says.

“You’re hurting me,” he reminds her.

“You should’ve started brushing your hair six months ago,” she bites back.

“How was I supposed to know?” Silas asks, and he’s won, because she quiets behind him, and her hands tug a little less violently at his hair.

“Sorry,” she says finally, and Silas tries not to smile but it tugs on his mouth at one side. He doesn’t think she’s looking at him, so he doesn’t try all that hard to hide it and so it makes him jump when he turns and she’s leaning over his shoulder to look him in the face. “Hey,” she accuses. “That’s not funny. I thought I hurt your feelings.”

He cracks a smile, despite his best attempts. “You couldn’t hurt my feelings.”

June grins widely, raising her eyebrows. “I’d love to try.”

Silas snorts, and she laughs as she pulls back over his shoulder to tug the brush through his hair again. She ties it up for him; a half knot, because, “I thought it would suit you. I was right.”

He tracks Wren down, just in case.

He has a pencil tucked behind his ear and Silas is strangely entranced by it. “Silas,” he says, and he says it with a smile. “You look so handsome.”

Silas doesn’t know what it means, but he’s flattered, anyway.

He’s on his back on the concrete, looking down the barrel of a gun.

It’s shaking. Point’s hand is trembling. “You stupid, disobedient fuck,” he spits, and Silas barely sees the bottom of his boot closing in on him before it’s cracking his cheekbone. “Bad. Dog.”

Both of Silas’ arms had been nearly amputated at different points, but he can still lift his left hand. Just barely, and it trembles with blood loss and severed tendons, but he manages to lift it from the wet concrete and fold almost all of his fingers down, save for the middle.

Point roars in frustration.

Silas knows the cold kiss of gunmetal, for only a second, and then an eruption of heat that’s white hot and electricity charged and Point empties his gun into Silas’ face.

Silas is reintroduced to the touch of surgeons, but this is nothing new.

He loses his eye.

They take Wren.

Silas couldn’t give less of a fuck about his eye. He’s got another one, he’ll be fine. What’s another disfiguring injury? But he gets back to the unit, and Robin finds him in Wren’s absence.

They’d taken Wren. Robin doesn’t know where.

His touch is a firm handshake that makes Silas’ skin crawl. But he accepts it, even if he didn’t need Robin to ask. Even if he would’ve raised hell, anyway.

He’d been really careful around Wren. He’d been so careful.

Wren’s different. He isn’t like any of the rest of them. He’s gentle in a way Silas thinks super soldiers just aren’t capable of. His skin is still soft. He’s still so human, and he looks at Silas, and he sees something in him that’s human, too.

But he’s wrong. Silas has known for a long time that he’s wrong, and whatever it is that Wren thinks he sees in him, it isn’t human.

He’d wanted so badly for it to be true, though. He’d wanted to believe Wren. He wanted there to be something human in him because he never wanted Wren to stop looking at him like that. He’d done his best not to let Wren see anything less, to not let him see him as any less human than a couple of fatal injuries.

He’d never let him see anything else. He’d been so careful.

But then he finds Wren, and he finds him with a group of soldiers.

Their touch is not kind.

He’s shackled to a bunk by an ankle to the bedpost, and Silas doesn’t even know what they’re doing to him but he knows it’s vile. The sounds make his skin crawl. Wren is begging for it to stop.

He’s crying, and it’s crying like nothing else Silas has ever heard. Wailing. He isn’t in complete control of himself after that.

The soldiers all react to him with flailing, frantic cowardice, shouting and clambering for guns, for knives, for weapons, and it’s embarrassing. Silas is embarrassed for them. Cowards, all of them — loud, cruel cowards. All so scared of Silas, every one of them, and they fuckin’ created him. What a fuckin’ joke.

He lets them scramble, looking at Wren through the blur of them. His mouth is swollen, face shiny with tears, and when he sobs, he sobs, “Silas.”

“Don’t look,” Silas says.

He doesn’t recognize any of the soldiers because their faces all blur.

Every one of them dies in that bunk, and they do not die gently. They die screaming and they die in pain.

Partway through suffocating a soldier with another’s small intestine, Silas lifts his head, and Wren is still there.

He reaches out and splinters the bedpost with one hand. He can’t look at Wren for too long — he doesn’t really wanna see the look on his face. “Run,” he says, and peels the jaw off a nearing soldier with one hand, without even looking at him.

Wren runs.

Silas is punished greatly for his disobedience.

Still, he isn’t looking forward to being back in the unit. The long walk back has his heart beating higher in his chest than he thinks it should. He only ever wants to be in the unit because he wants to be where Wren is — if Wren doesn’t want him there anymore, Silas will have to find a way to stay away, whatever he has to do.

He gets back to the unit and he’s expecting Wren to look at him in disgust if he looks at him at all. He isn’t expecting the way Wren pushes himself into Silas’ chest, arms so tight around his waist that Silas is surprised by the strength of him.

It doesn’t hurt, though, a very pleasant sort of vice, warm and Wren. “What are you doing?” He asks softly.

“A hug,” Wren says, face pressed into the spot just beneath Silas’ sternum and the pressure of him is nice.

“Why?” Silas asks, and Wren makes a sound that Silas can’t decipher as laughter or crying. It might be both.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he whispers into Silas’ crewneck.

It’s probably the stupidest thing Silas has ever heard him say. “I’d do anything for you,” he says, flat.

And it’s true. There isn’t anything in the world Silas wouldn’t do for him. Wren doesn’t even need to ask. Clinging a little tighter to Silas’ sweatshirt, he sobs.

Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand and lets himself be hugged.

The concrete of the common room floor is a cool touch against his cheek.

It’s the last thing Silas knows before his skull is crushed.

When Silas gets back to the unit, he has tremors in his hands and he doesn’t remember how to read.

When Silas gets back to the unit, it’s been months. He doesn’t know how many.

When Silas gets back to the unit, he’s surprised to immediately find his arms full of Hal.

“What?” Silas says, and then June is jumping onto his back, clinging to his neck, and Wren is at his side, small hands finding Silas’ skin beneath his sweatshirt and his touch is warm, impossibly soft. Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand. “What are you doing?”

Hal laughs from somewhere around his armpit as June laughs loudly into his shoulder. “We missed you, big guy!” She crows.

“We missed you!” Hal cries.

Wren laughs into his side and it’s a little wet. “We were so worried about you.”

Robin is lingering nearby and Silas points at him with his other hand. “Don’t come anywhere fuckin’ near me.”

His face doesn’t change, militant as he is, but his gaze flickers to Wren and back before he says, in the low, rumbling version of Wren’s accent, “welcome back.”

Silas lifts his chin, sort of a nod. He looks back down, at his shaky armfuls of the rest of them, and he can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth on one side.

They laugh and they cling to him and the touch of the pressure and the weight of them hurts, it makes his recently reconstructed bones groan in protest, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t but he’d also be full of shit if he said it bothered him at all.

Silas would consider himself pretty well versed in pain; this has to be his favourite.

[the-draconic-momther]

"You haven't done anything worth keeping you alive for."

*Clara stabs William through the palm, pinning his hand to the frozen ground.*

*William is walking near by, quietly muttering to himself.*

-@work-and-worship

"Hello there!"

*Clara waves, hearing William. She does not yet know who he is.*

[groovynightstrawberry]

Tadfield Zoo - Epilogue

Rating: E

CW/TW: Animals, inc insects and reptiles, minor dubcon, non-graphic animal injury and surgery

Summary: Happily ever after

Excerpt:

Crowley has become quite used to waking up to find Aziraphale already wide awake. On their days off, with no alarm to wake them and force them out of bed, it’s become standard for Aziraphale to read in bed while Crowley sleeps in, using a tiny booklight to avoid hurting Crowley’s eyes when he wakes, no matter how many times Crowley tries to sell him on getting an e-reader.

So it’s somewhat of a surprise, when Crowley wakes up one Thursday morning, to find Aziraphale frowning at his phone instead.

Read on AO3

Start from Chapter 1

@goodomensafterdark

[angel-of-the-moons]

You don't have to do this request of you still don't feel like it but I have an idea.. what happens when the reader and possessive Baraka have a disagreement that makes her seek asylum in earthrealm? Of course he's not too pleased to hear about the reader. Write it however your heart desires and thank you again for all your amazing work! Love you and this blog! 💜

I'm not sure which Baraka you mean, but given the context I definitely feel this is more MK 11-oriented!

And tysm I have been off and on with my mental health but finally chipping away at these requests because the new DLC came out for MK1!

Runaway

Possessive!Baraka x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Angst, bit of Yandere, dark themes, some NSFW but nothing too detailed

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

You were scared. You were wet, you were hungry. You ached, your body sore and scraped in many places.

But you were free.

Your feet carried you swiftly, despite the soles of your shoes being worn thin; holes in places where they shouldn't be otherwise from your trek across the desert and canyons.

You were half-dead by the time you reached Outworld's capital.

You had been carried to the Palace where Empress Kitana lived, regaling her with the tale of how you fell in with Baraka, the rough and often violent warrior who had sworn his service to her.

She knew that relationships and matings with Tarkatans were often rough and bloody, it was their nature, after all; but to see one of her own people in such condition...

You couldn't even remember what had set Baraka off. Maybe a male had lingered his gaze upon you for longer than he felt was necessary, maybe you had done something without meaning to... Maybe he had a bad hunt or a fight, you just didn't know.

All you knew was that as soon as Baraka carried you into your tent over his shoulder, you knew you were in for it.

The night was rough; all teeth and claws, rough thrusts and primal, violent mating, a claim staked on your womb and body as his own.

He had left bite marks on virtually every part of you, a typical kind of "affection" among Tarkatans, to show their mate was strong and powerful, that they belonged to them.

The ones on your inner thighs hurt the most.

Kitana had urged you to rest, to let the healers tend to you while she spoke with Baraka directly. In making him one of her most trusted generals, he at least deserved a civil discussion about his treatment of you. You weren't Tarkatan--you were softer; fragile. You needed to be handled more delicately and with care...

But while Kitana left to go speak to him, Cassie Cage and her mother had come as an envoy to discuss possible supply routes to supply extra aid to the civilians injured during the final battles with Shao Kahn's remaining loyalists.

You took your opportunity.

The Earthrealm women looked at you with pity, noticing your injuries and burnt skin and cracked lips. You were scared, you knew that one of the most dishonorable things a member of a Tarkatans clan could do was simply walk away from their mate without fighting for their independence.

You would be labeled a coward, and Baraka would come for you.

Sonya had nudged her daughter and urged her to take you to Earthrealm, where you could be placed under protection by Special Forces--maybe even placed in the care of the Lin Kuei or Shirai Ryu--or possibly protected by the Shaolin monks.

You cried when you breathed the mountain air of Earthrealm; tasting your freedom and safety. You knew it wouldn't be easy for Kitana to explain to Baraka what happened--but maybe she could convince him to let this... situation slide. To take a "better", more hardy mate than you. One that can handle the way his fangs sunk into their flesh, the marks left on their body.

You didn't focus on that, instead, you let them guide you to the nearest medical bay to get treatment, collapsing on the first bed you were presented with--inhaling the crisp, clean scent of the fabrics you nestled into, your body melting into the first genuine moment of peace you'd felt since before you'd fallen in line with Baraka.

You had fallen in with his clan and into his bed in a rather rapid motion, surrendering yourself as his prized possession.

Your emotions were fragile and easy. He offered you pleasure, and security and undying loyalty, and you had surrendered to the Fakas Rakatan. By all cultural rights you were his.

And yet, you'd run away after he had given you perhaps the deepest rutting he had ever bestowed upon you. Yes, you cried and bled, but your body yielded to his pleasures regardless and responded with your own; trained to take pleasure in whatever he would give you.

He had been restless since you'd vanished, his lap bereft of your presence during the communal meals, his bed cold and his lions burning with untended desire.

He had ripped the hand off of a young male who had gotten in his way, in his rage and frustration when he discovered you'd slipped out of camp with stolen supplies.

What Baraka had not anticipated, however, was Empress Kitana to ride in on her mounts, words of you on her too-blunt teeth and soft lips.

One of the only things he liked about the "softer" race you were a part of was a mouth like that... blunt teeth and soft lips brought him pleasure he wouldn't have known with another Tarkatan. He could feel his girth swell and twitch as he remembered how yours had felt around him.

He repressed the urge to laugh as Kitana told him that you needed a more "gentle" approach, that you were weaker than he was and he should keep that in mind in the future... Or he should simply let you go.

He had laughed, at first, when she left. You were his, you had submitted. You belonged to him, and as far as the clan was concerned, you should have accepted that far sooner instead of choosing this path of cowardice and running away like scared meat rather than fight him directly about your treatment.

However... Baraka became enraged when Kitana returned with news that you had snuck off to Earthrealm while she was away; something even she took offense with. That you felt you weren't safe enough in her palace that you needed to escape to another Realm to feel so.

Baraka was able to convince Kitana to take leave to Earthrealm to speak with you directly. He would "convince" you. Be gentle with you, even...

Until you were alone.

Perhaps he would keep you on a leash, a small chain always tied around his wrist so you couldn't run away again. Perhaps he would keep you drugged with herbal teas to keep you responsive and submissive--and fertile.

He wasn't sure if Tarkatans and Outworlders could interbreed; but he made the decision that once he had brought you back to the clan, he would find out.

His blood thrummed with the promise of pleasure, weeks of you being absent would soon be taken out on your body; you would be used to the point all you could do was breathe, laying in his bed-furs, covered in his seed and scent and marks...

You were his, and he was not going to allow you to escape again.

Even if that meant maiming you to keep you close.

[literarystarfish]

Officially saying Hi! to the whump community!

I’m kinda new to this whole “actually posting” thing (although I’ve been on tumblr for ages, I’ve always just kind of lurked.)

While this blog isn’t exclusively whump (though 99% of it will be) I thought I’d introduce myself officially.

I’d like to get more into the whump community especially and maybe come out of my shell a bit more and not feel so afraid to actually talk to some of you cool people. (What is even the best way to interact on here?! You’d think I’d know after being on tumblr for many-a-year…)

I’m not new to whump, but this blog has definitely been a new experience for me. I’ve actually never even posted an original post on my main before, so I truly made my first ever tumblr post on this here side blog!

Well, maybe I should introduce myself and see where it takes me:

You can call me Jayy or Star (she/her or they/them).

Most of my characters go by they/them in prompts so they aren’t gender specific and you can imagine them how you’d like. My longer stories differ depending on the story itself but I haven’t finished 99% of them so who knows what will happen by the time they see the light of day (if they ever do… but I hope they do..)

Whump/things I like to write or want to write about in the future:

Hidden whump/ stoic whumpees — (love when a character doesn’t show their whump)

Emotional trauma

Hurt/comfort

Fainting

Used as bait — (and make them feel guilty after)

Recovery whump or difficult recoveries — (though I don't super love Caretaker turns Whumper)

Team whump

Kidnapping/ captivity

Self sacrifice

Scars

Hero/Villain or superpowered whump

Whumpee turned Caretaker

Things I like but that I don't tend to write about as much:

Pet whump

NSFWhump

Fevers/sickfics

Psychological whump

Lab whump

Caretaker turned Whumpee

Things I don't like/don’t like to write about (though nothing is a super hard ick or anything):

Medical whump

Extremely graphic harm/ injuries/ torture/ etc.

Permanent injuries (but scars are fine)

Character deaths — (main character deaths anyway - I generally like my characters alive so I can whump them some more >:D )

Caretaker turned Whumper

Whumpee turned Whumper

It makes me so nervous to even comment on a post so tags are the best I’ve done so far. (I don’t know why its so scary to directly interact with people further than, like, reblogging and stuff @.@)

So, anyway! All that being said, if you notice anything you’d like me to keep doing, feel free to tell me!

Send me asks if you so desire!

Especially if there's something more you’d like to see or if you’d like me to expand on a post. (I’m a slow writer, but I have tons of ideas that I’d like to get down or have no ending yet. Maybe I’ll try more short form stuff. Most of my prompts have come from stories I wish I’d finally get to writing or have been writing.)

If you write for/are inspired by one of my posts, I’d LOVE to see what you come up with! Tag me if you want!

Or, alternatively of course, if there's something you think I shouldn’t do or if there's any tags you think I haven’t been tagging correctly or tw/cw I’ve been missing (I try my best but I forget much too often) that you think I should add, please let me know. Tell me what I’m doing wrong!

Even this post reaching out is a massive step for me. But everyone seems very nice and accepting here so far so I’m forcing myself to finally go for it. I really want to interact more!

Hopefully my brain doesn’t get angry with me about that but hey! baby steps.

-Jayy 💫

[detectivemarvelingcomics]

Not Your Classic Vigilante [Ch. 10]

Alternate Dimension AU TW: Language, Mentions of Death, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Body Horror, Monsters be destroying shit, Lots of Gore, Fires, Major Character Injury CW: OC Use, See the OC Guide [Here] Genre: Drama, Action, Angst, Light Comedy Pairing: Batfamily & Batsis!Reader, OC x Reader YN Pronouns: Female (She/Her) Word Count: 4.9K

(10/?) [First] | [Previous] | [Next] [DC Masterlist] | [Not Your Classic Vigilante Masterlist]

Notes: HA I FINISHED IT Bi-annual update fr fr

Disclaimer: This series is originally by @fandom-meanderer who is a close friend of mine, but she has since fallen out of her Tumblr days and asked me to finish a few series for her, hence why I am now in ownership of the Not Your Classic Vigilante series, I hope I can still live up to her writing as I rewrite this series! (I promise not to change too much, hehe)

Taking heavy breaths, you took your time to steady yourself. Your hands were beginning to cramp from how long you’d been holding your rapier, and your uniform had been singed and torn at the edges. You stood your ground, but barely, and before you the daemons were twice your size, maybe even more, but they were mutated so heavily that you couldn’t even tell what they used to be. If one thing was certain, it was that you’d never seen a monster like them before. The casualty count, although you didn’t know it specifically, was immense. Today, regardless of whether or not you made it out alive, is a huge loss for the Guard. 

“Captain! The S squadron has arrived!” You heard a voice shout. Reinforcements have just arrived at the nick of time, whilst more beasts wandered out of the woods and towards the ravaged town.

“You see the situation, if you find any living civilians they are your first priority to get to safety, we’ve determined the daemons’ weak points to be their underbellies, aim for that area first! The skin is loosest there,” you commanded. “This place is already razed down, I don’t understand why they keep coming,” you mumbled. An axe lodges on the ground next to you, just barely missing your side. “Nixon! Now’s not the time to get lazy!” You pulled the axe with one hand and flung it back towards him, something he easily caught while blocking off the daemon’s claws.

“Thanks, Cap!” You couldn’t respond, too busy dodging the swings from the daemon in front of you. Its movements were slow and heavy, but they hit hard. You could barely get in a good attack with the equipment you had. Turns out, and maybe you should’ve expected this, rapiers aren’t the best for large opponents. 

“Ugh, this is getting nowhere,” you mumbled just as you ducked below the beast’s arms. You jogged back, keeping your eyes on the monster, and you switched out your rapier for the rifle strapped to your back. You aimed quickly, precisely, and with a deep breath you fired. The bullet pierced the daemon’s skin, but, if anything, you just pissed it off more. “Fuck, well, we’re screwed. Is it just me or are these things getting taller?”

“Not just you, Captain! Not just you!” Evangeline scrambles up from the floor, casting a spell to knock away the hoard. The blonde runs next to her Captain, shaking slightly. Instinctively, you took a defensive stance in front of her while reloading your rifle. “Where are they all coming from?” Hints of French laced her panicked tone.

“No clue, but we’re going to be here for a very long time,” you grimaced. “Take deep breaths, Eve, if you can’t handle it we’ll switch to base-tactics,” you said

“There’s just so many of them,” Eve huffs. “Almost like… like they were waiting for us to get here,” she coughs. That struck a cord, you turned to her for a moment, but hearing the monsters roar, you refocused back on the situation, doing your best to push the daemons back. Could all of this have been an elaborate trap? Who was pulling the strings? Now that you had thought about it, it would make sense for this to be a trap. All of the Guard were here, high ranking military officials, Starspire was even a village well known for their exports, getting rid of this area would disrupt many industries. But the village was also far enough for it to still be somewhat controlled. Everything happening here, surely, had to be part of some elaborate plan.

‘Take a deep breath, (Y/N),’ Alex’s words echoed in your head. You looked around the field.

‘Where the hell did you go, asshole?’

‘Calling for backup. I don’t think we’re dealing with the natural world anymore, there must be some sort of magic involved.’ Despite your efforts, you couldn’t find Alex anywhere. ‘Don’t worry, I’m still as much a part of the fray as everyone else. But if my theory is correct then I know someone who could help us.’

‘Call them in, I’ll take anyone at this point, anyone who can get rid of these monsters,’ you replied.

‘Certainly, Captain, remain vigilant.’ Then, his side went silent while you pushed forward. Two magic circles appeared under Eve’s hands as the field became encased in a bright light. Half of the daemons, that had already been hacked away at, fell at the attack, while others trudged on.

“Gah, Eve, warn us before doing that!” Carter rubs his eyes harshly.

“Ay, if it’s getting more than half of these fuckers, hell, do it again, Eve,” Nixon shouts back.

“I’m sorry!” Eve apologizes despite it.

“Are there any more coming in?” You spoke after tapping your earpiece.

“All clear in the North, Captain,” one voice says.

“None coming in from the West either.”

“The East is clear.” You looked forward.

“The South is clear,” you said. “Focus on the remaining daemons, we’ll reconvene once they’ve all been killed,” you flicked the blood off your rapier. “And someone get me an actual sword.”

“Captain,” Carter addressed you curtly while offering his own sword. Regal in all rights, Carter’s sword, much like yours, was a gift from the Royal family. As was every weapon belonging to the Brigade, granted. However, Carter’s was a marvel to look at. A silver broadsword upon first glance, but to its wielder it becomes their greatest protection. You made the trade quickly and just in time, too, for what happened next was something you would have never expected and something you would’ve never wanted to happen.

The sounds of despair and destruction had been drowned out by an all too familiar cry. Cries, when you first ran into the burning village you heard them everywhere. Men, women, and children alike were screaming for help all around you. That was hours ago. To hear shouts that weren’t from your squadron only spelt trouble. You turned your head towards the voice, and saw a sight that was some sick twist of what you’d grown up fearing. Without any care for yourself, granted you had other things to worry about, you sprinted towards the young boy with the silver of the broadsword reflecting the flames. In a delicately crafted move, you felled the already wounded beast. You held your stance, your left arm blocking the one behind you, and your right arm holding the sword parallel to the ground. Then the beast slumped to the burnt earth, making no attempt at any further attacks, but your split decision move wasn’t without consequence. The sharp pain across your front side was enough to tell you that next time you should think more carefully before doing.

“Captain!” Eve was running towards you in seconds, but her actions were a second thought to you. No, you were more concerned about the boy behind you. The boy wearing a ripped uniform, mask half hanging from his face and half tied around his head, and with slight cuts and bruises to his face and hands. True, this was the least of the wounds you’d see him have, but the knowledge that he’d been here long enough to get those was what scared you the most. Once you were certain the beast was dead, you were quick to turn, pull your gloves off, and cradle your hands around Damian’s face.

“How… How did you get here,” you huffed, wavering slightly. You moved his face around to see if there were any bad cuts, and your thumb traced under a fresh, but shallow, one under his eye.

“(Y/N)…” Damian’s eyes widened. His eyes fall to the three large gashes that stretched across your hips and abdomen. “You’re hurt…”

“We don’t have time to worry about that, how did you get here?” You repeated despite the good many number of daemons on the field. You brushed off the sparks on his shoulders and offered to help him up.

“I was looking for you,” Damian took your hand and stood up slowly, you didn’t yet know if it was from shock or if he was hurt.

“Is that the whole story?” People don’t just drop out of the sky. And to enter this universe is something that should be incredibly hard, if not impossible.

“A man in a lab coat brought me here,” his voice was shaken. You didn’t fault him for that, the young boy was just dropped in the middle of a blazing battlefield with heaps of dead bodies sprawled across the ground. It was a sensory overload with the blinding flames and the heavy stench of iron. Not to mention the fact that you were covered in blood, your own, your comrades, and the monsters’ alike. Now wasn’t the time for answers, and you’d be damned if anything happened to Damian here, so, instead you strengthened your grip around his hand.

“Do not, under any circumstances, let go of my hand,” you said firmly, holding your conjoined hands up so he could see, if he didn’t already feel it, the tight hold you had around him. Damian nods, what else could he do in this situation? With your left hand holding Damian and the right brandishing the sword you charged across the battle field. It might be better to carry him at this rate, but then you’d be more susceptible to attacks. Hard to dodge when there’s more weight on your back or on your front. This would be best, if worse comes to worse, you’re sure Damian would forgive you for throwing him to safety. But if he kept lagging behind, then there might be a problem. “Keep up!”

“I’m trying!” Damian barks. It was now you noticed the way he moved his gaze from you to the ground in rapid succession, no doubt trying to keep his steps in align with yours. “If you want to go faster then just let—”

“No, Damian, if I let go of you it would only be seconds before one of those monsters picks you up and kills you, do you understand?” You stopped only for a brief moment before taking off again, seeing one of the daemons take notice of your little brother. “Shit, they’re everywhere,” you said with grit teeth.

“Is that a kid?!” Nixon shouts. He pulls his axe from the broken ground. Damian first noticed the red stains on his white uniform before the disgust directed at him. “Lose him, Cap! He’s slowing you down! He’s going to get us all killed!” You pulled Damian along before he could shout an argument back. One, you just need one building that’s at least a little intact to stash Damian in for the time being.

“Just stay focused, Nixon!” You deflected a piece of charred wood. Damian’s hand slips for a moment and you react with a vice grip. “Don’t let go, Damian!” You shouldn't have been upset, it wasn’t his fault, it was the blood between your hands that made it all the more slippery.

“Sorry!” Damian is taken aback for a moment before regaining his senses. You looked to the woods and watches more of the monsters emerge. Luckily, if there was any in this situation, they seemed to be smaller monsters compared to the daemons. If anything, they were probably scavenger beasts, the lot of them will turn tail and run once they see the daemons, while the braver ones will venture more inward. Though you had to be realistic. A monster is a monster, and that’s an added problem on your plate.

“Oh fuck me…” You shook your head. Then a small ray of light. Sure, the roof was on the verge of caving in, but a house is a house. “Eve!” You turned back for a second to make sure the blonde was still in ear shot and when she notices you running towards the house, she opened a warp portal next to her and slipped in, immediately appearing at the front door to open it, and allowing for you to run into a building and push Damian inside. You knelt to his level, and with a stern expression, instructed him. “Do not leave this building, I’m going to have Evangeline place a protection charm up, alright? I’ll come pick you up once I resolve this mess, then you have to tell me every single thing that happened to you before you came here.” Though you spoke clearly, you knew when words go through one ear and out the other. You’d have to trust Eve to explain the situation to him, but you didn’t know if Damian would trust her.

“I can help.” That’s definitely the last thing you wanted to hear. Typical of Damian, though, he was still young, and he still thinks he can do anything, still thinks that he has to. But not here, and not now. 

“No. You can’t.” You kept your words curt enough for him to not misinterpret them. “This world is very different than our old one. You’re not in Gotham anymore. Those things out there can crush your skull in less than a second, and I don’t need anymore deaths on my mind right now, let alone the death of my little brother. Got it?”

“Yeah…” Damian looks back to your abdomen. It was still bloody but the wound was gone. “What happened to—” That might be the hardest one to explain to him.

“No questions right now. I have to get back out there before any of my teammates die. You can trust Eve, she’s a good friend of mine. Now, please, stay here.” With that, you ran out, slamming the door behind you. Not a moment later, Evangeline ran in, her white and silver uniform singed around the edges. She closes the door and places her hand on it, a magic circle appearing between the two with words of an ancient language inside of it. She waves her hand in the air and the building is surrounded in a veil of blue. She eyes the singed hole in the roof, but pays no mind to it, instead looking to Damian.

“So you must be Damian Wayne, right?” She smiles through the tired breaths. Damian nods and looks out the window. Eve seats him on the ground and hands him a thermos. “The Captain has told me so much about you. I’m Evangeline Chandler, your sister and I are good friends,” Damian suspiciously eyes the thermos, but takes it anyways.

“Yeah?” He unscrews the top, seeing some kind of soup inside of it. Eve takes the thermos from him, placing the cup in his hands and pouring the soup into it.

“Yes! I owe her a great deal. She asked me to give this to you, it’s actually Nixon’s, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing with you,” Eve grins. “You can trust it, Nixon is actually our resident healer. This soup should fix you right up,” she insists. “If you don’t believe me, I can drink it first,” she continues.

“That wouldn’t matter if you’d grown a tolerance to poison,” he gives her a pointed glance.

“Are you saying that the son of a vigilante and an assassin doesn’t have a well built tolerance?” She fires back.

“… touché,” he takes a tested sip of the soup, the immediate taste of a hearty vegetable broth greeting him. He could feel the warmth circle around his face, his chest, and his stomach.

“You don’t have to mind it, Nixon’s vegetarian too,” she chuckles, kneeling down next to him and dusting off her uniform.

“You know a lot about me,” was Damian’s next statement.

“That Captain tells me a lot about you,” she smiles. “Let’s see… you have a dog named Titus, your best friend’s name is Jon, for your tenth birthday you and the Captain went out to an arcade and ended up staying there for hours so you missed your celebration,” she counts the events on her hands, “oh! And how could I forget my favorite story? Whenever you had nightmares, the first place you’d go is to her—”

“I get it, woman,” Damian clears his throat and, again, Eve could only smile.

“And that is exactly how the Captain described you. She doesn’t talk about her family often, but her expression is always so kind when she does, especially when it comes to her siblings. Of course, this is only after a good number of drinks. Goodness, though, once she starts, she won’t stop, it’s a bit cute,” she rests her cheek on her hand. “I’m glad to see that you match her stories.” Damian could only look out the window as the screams got closer.

“What is going on out there?”

“There are quite a few of you correct?” Eve changes the subject and, with the wave of her hand, the voices deemed to dampen out into mumbles. “Two older brothers and two younger brothers, an older sister and two younger ones as well, if what she told me was right.”

“Yeah,” Damian caught on. She’s trying to distract him from the hell outside.

“Let’s see,” her eyes drift up in thought. “Barbara Gordon, Richard Grayson, Jason Todd, (Y/N) Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Timothy Drake, and then there’s you,” Eve says.

“That’s all of us, but recently father brought in a new one, Duke Thomas,” Damian explains.

“Ah, yes, the Captain has explained that her father loved to take in children,” Eve crosses her arms. “But, and perhaps I’m biased, I must say that his biological children are just so adorable,” Eve coddles. “Are you still hungry? I always have something on me.” As much as her efforts to divert his attention were somewhat appreciated, she’s wasting her time on him.

“What exactly is your role?” Damian presses. Eve takes a deep breath in before sighing and shaking her head.

“I should’ve known that it would be a lost cause to try to distract you, you’re very much like your sister in that regard, but I’m keen on at least trying to follow orders. Allow me to introduce myself properly then. I’m Evangeline, Evangeline Chandler, and I am from Earth-78, born and raised in Versailles, France. I’m the magic dealer of this team, you can tell because of these silver linings here, see? However, I specialize in support, which is why my uniform is white,” she claps her hands. “Ah, the Captain, your sister, is a damage dealer, she specializes in up-close combat with blade-type weapons. She truly is amazing.”

“I see… I assume this is normal for you.”

“Not in the slightest, no. Oh, well, battle yes, but not these beasts. These monsters just started coming out of nowhere, actually,” Eve scooted away from Damian slightly and, with a few waves of her hand, an image constructed of light appeared between them, “come take a look. These are the variants we’ve been fighting for quite some time,” she invites him to move the image around. The base animal was a kind of wolf, that much was certain, but the creature had mutated the ability to support itself on its hind legs whilst also gaining articulate hands. It was as if it was some gruesome mix of human and wolf, a terror of nature, and a horror of nightmares.

“What are those?” Was all Damian could say.

“In truth… We have no idea.”

~

Alex stumbled behind a building, holding his phone close to his ear.

“Come on… connect, connect…” he plead. Finally, an answer.

“Alexander.”

“Remember when I told you to come tomorrow? Scratch that. We need you now.”

“What in the blazes is going on? Why do I hear fire?”

“Get over here and I’ll still be alive to tell you.”

“You really don’t take no for an answer, alright, hold out for a few more minutes.”

“Will do. I’ll take care of the stragglers, everyone else move inward!” Alex hangs up the phone, waits until everyone was out of earshot, and pivots on his heel, both hands flying out and several magic circles appearing in the ground in front of him. “Sanguis voragine.” In the slight wave of his hands, the circles began to rotate in on themselves before ultimately converging into a larger one. Spilled puddles and splatters of blood began to move in toward the centers of the circle.

‘Alex, don’t do anything you can’t handle,’ your voice had a warning tone.

‘No need to worry, I'd been saving my stamina for this moment,’ he reassures you before walking into the middle of the vortex. 

You, meanwhile, glanced behind you at the fortified safe house. You’d instructed Eve to keep your brother busy, but you didn’t know how long he’d sit still. You’d have to wrap this up quickly now, somehow, at least.

“Okay,” you took a deep breath yourself, steadying the sword in front of you such that you were facing the blade. “Infallible guard,” a magic circle surrounded the sword and, in moments, a clear barrier surrounded you.

‘Perhaps I should’ve said that to you.’

‘See you on the other side.’ You readied your blade for what you hoped to be the final time that night, and charged forth.

~

Eve looked like she’d just seen a ghost. Eyes wide and jaw tensed.

“What’s wrong?” Damian asked quietly, a now empty thermos in his hands. Eve, wordlessly, stumbled to the window and peered outside.

“They’re using artifacts,” she mumbles, she looks back at Damian. Your orders conflicted with her morals.

“What are those? Something bad?”

“Call it a last resort. It should be fine since it’s (Y/N) and Alex but…” her scarred fingertips rose to her mouth habitually and, before she could begin to lightly bite down on them, she answered, “they take a lot of stamina to use, some that I doubt those two still have,” she mutters. She takes a seat with Damian once more.

“Then leave me here, I can fend for myself well enough,” Damian insists.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, young sir,” she replies. “Even if I wanted to, the Captain benched me,” she shakes her head. “I’m unfit for battle at this moment,” she stretches her hands out, the cuts and tears on them, fresh and weeping, were enough to tell Damian all he needed to know. “What good’s an archmage with anxiety?” She laughs pathetically. “Plus, I do enjoy talking with you,” she nudges him softly. “You must be so confused, aren’t you? Scared, maybe, but too stubborn to admit it. I don’t blame you, we all were like that before as well,” Eve clasps her hands together. “You know, I had a brother around your age as well, Felix, I haven’t seen him in so long, he’s back home where he belongs though,” she rests her cheek on her hand.

Curse his sister, it wasn’t Eve on babysitter duty, it was him also.

Damian couldn’t help but glance out the window again, the flames had begun to die down, he could tell from the way the room slowly darkened.

“Your family must be worried,” Eve tries to strike a conversation yet again.

“They don’t care.”

“Or so you think,” she shoots back. Then, when someone bangs on the door, both people stood up in guarded stances. “Being unfit for battle means nothing in war,” she sighs. She picks up her gloves from their spot on the rugged table. Despite the state of herself and her uniform, the gloves were pristine. She slips them on.

“Could be one of your teammates.” The door started to strain against its hinges.

“They would’ve been able to open the door,” a magic circle appears in her palm, “your sister told me to keep you safe at all costs, please respect her wishes.”

“If she’s really my sister then she knows I won’t,” Damian stood next to her, ready.

“She told me that you’d say that too,” the door bursts down, one of the few remaining beasts stood tall at the doorframe. “Divina vocatio,” she chants. Veils of light surround the both of them. “Have faith, Damian, that I will keep you safe,” she says. The beast roars in a way neither of them had heard before. The magic circles in either of Eve’s palms begin to rotate counter to each other as she crosses her wrists in front of her. As soon as she broke the formation, multiple circles appeared in a cross pattern over the beast’s chest, effectively pushing the beast back, but not doing much to detain it, rather, it charged despite it.

What could he do in this situation? Think, Damian. He scanned the shack for anything he could use. The image that Eve showed him, something stood out to him, but he couldn’t quite put where he’d seen it from. Then, kicked under the bed, something gleamed against the dying flames. He dove toward it, holding it up and the beast stopped. Eve chanced a glance back.

“Crucifix…” she holds her hand out and Damian tosses it toward her. “Made of silver,” she weighs it in her palm. The beast takes a step back. It could only work as a repellant, but as a weapon it was hard pressed. Damian looked around again, something made of silver, anything. The cross in Eve’s hand was a likely choice, but he’d rather not chance the karma. Surely there’d be something else?

Well, fuck it. He ran toward Eve, hand outstretched to grab the one silver item in his sight. Then, blood, lots of it. He and Eve turned to the beast, who’d been cut clean in half. Its torso slid to the ground in front of them, while its legs fell backward. Nixon stood at the door, if anyone had never seen him before, they’d think his uniform to be naturally red. Without a word, he falls back, completely passed out.

“This fool,” Eve clicks her tongue. “Help me pull him in here, would you?” She asks.

“Sure,” they both grab one leg each and pull him in, Eve slamming the door shut and placing another charm on it.

“His axe is made of silver,” she says. “And his artifact is an imperial one of strength,” she explains it well enough but Damian still stared blankly at her. “Meaning he’ll be out for a while,” she shakes her head.

~

“Where’s that help you were talking about, Alex?” You shout, stumbling backward and just barely keeping your balance.

“On his way… hopefully,” Alex bumps into you, the magic circle under him flickering weakly.

“After all the damage has been done,” Carter backs against the two of you.

“Well… the good news is that there’s one left,” you handed the sword back to Carter and held your rifle instead.

“And the bad news is that it’s the biggest one,” Carter sighs. You spot your rapier sticking out of it’s shoulder blade.

“Well… your effort is appreciated, Carter,” you nudged him and Carter stumbled further from you. “We’ll need a miracle.” The beast groaned.

“We are called the miraculous trio,” Alex takes a step back, distancing himself from the beast to ready an attack. “Let’s live up to that title,” Alex bends down slowly, tapping the blood puddle beneath him.

“You think we’ll get a raise?” Carter asks.

“Nah,” you aimed your rifle. “Dead Shot,” you said under your breath. A magic circle appeared on the daemon’s body. “There,” you pulled the trigger and Alex focused a ring of magic circles on it. “Carter!” Carter slid in front of you and launched the sword forth, the tip barreling toward the beast before the sword impaled it. The beast staggered back, but it did not fall. Instead, it looked to you, directly at you, in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

“W… W… Wayne,” the beast growled out. You held your hand up, stopping Alex from dealing the last hit. “I… know… you,” it fell forward, but still it’s gaze never wavered. “Do… know… me…?” It asked. You took a step forward.

“Hey,” Carter spoke up.

“It’s fine,” you reloaded your rifle. Soon, you were an arm’s length away from the beast. You spotted a hint of silver on it’s neck and, as if it were calling you, you pulled it out of it’s loose and tattered skin. It was an ID tag, one that every Knight received, hell, yours was around your neck right now. The name was almost entirely worn through, but you could still just barely read it.

Then… realization. You staggered back, suddenly feeling weak in every limb.

“Captain?” Carter’s voice behind you again.

“Oh my god…” You shook your head. You looked around the battlefield, corpses of knights and beasts all around, and then to the one in front of you. You fell onto your knees and you placed your hand on the beast’s head. “You served well, Major Syke,” you said the name on the ID.

“Thank you,” the beast breathed it’s last before stilling. The field was quiet, quiet except for the sound of you pulling your rapier out of the Major’s shoulder. You turned your earpiece on and waited for it to connect.

“The field is clear, report the total number of casualties and damages to me whenever you can, we will regroup in the North delta base,” you turned the comm off and turned around to Carter and Alexander. “Don’t tell anyone this,” you whispered, “but… we’ve been killing people.”

Not Your Classic Vigilante Tag List : @gabytodd @peachydokii @marshmallow12435 @f0leysgurl @luminaaz @lolsnack @akuri-shinsou @pansinspace @time-shardz @lovely-maryj @urminebutidontwantyou

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[eydi-andrius]

⚔ rating: mature

⚔ cw/tw: AFAB reader, no house name highborn reader, patriarchy, abuse of power, cussing, implied infidelity/cheating, violence, choking, revenge, mention of injuries, threats, tags are not exhausted

⚔ pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Highborn!Reader

summary: You and your House Dressed Up for Revenge.

⚔ a/n: This fic is highly inspired by Taylor Swift's new song "Vigilante Shit" from her new album Midnights. divider: firefly-graphics

MASTERLIST

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Epilogue

ongoing........

© adandrius —do not copy, paste, or translate my works anywhere.

[ghostf1ux]

5 Times Jason Saved his the Flock and 1 Time they Saved Him: Deja Vu

Day 7: Kidnapped

Words: 2.9k

TW/CWs: Not too graphic descriptions of injury

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (here) | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

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

It was a quiet night in Gotham.

Too quiet.

Part of this was due to how cold it was, making it unlikely that many criminals were out doing criminal things, like crime.

But the other reason is that Jason is alone. Dick is off planet, Babs is somewhere in Europe for a Birds of Prey thing, Bruce is on a business trip… somewhere. Tim is off doing things with Young Justice, Damian is visiting Metropolis to have the weekend with Talia, Cass is in China, Steph is too injured to be out of bed right now, and Duke is asleep, because he's the only one in this family with a sleep schedule.

So that just leaves him (with the quiet company of Alfred in his ear should anything go wrong) to patrol the streets of his territory. That being Crime Alley, the Bowery, and the Narrows. He's well known enough that people wave at him when they see him, or occasionally strike up a conversation if he's escorting them somewhere safer.

In fact, that's what he had just finished doing when he saw the bat signal shining up into the clouds above Gotham.

He groans audibly, changing his swing trajectory to head back towards where he had parked his bike earlier that night.

“Please, please don't be an Arkham breakout,” Jason pleads under his breath, intending for the words to be only for himself.

“There are no reports of a disturbance at the Asylum,” Alfred responds calmly, the sound of quiet typing in the background a white noise in Jason’s ear. He hums in acknowledgement, turning his full attention to the road. He’d rather not wipe out going at least 70 miles per hour.

Before long, he’s pulled up to an alley near the police station and is grappling over to its rooftop. He lands soundlessly in the shadows of the doorway into the station, clearing his throat after a few moments.

“What’s the situation, Commish?” Jason asks, arms folded over his chest. The voice modulator on his half mask makes his words come out more serious than he was intending, but he’s sure his generally lax demeanor makes up for that. 

“Hood? Where’s the Bat?” Commissioner Gordon asks genuinely, only a small hint of his dislike for the crime-lord-turned-vigilante evident in his tone. Jason shrugs, straightening up.

“He’s not in town right now. Can I take a message?” He grins under his mask, tilting his head for dramatic effect. Gordon just sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

“What about the other birds?” Jason raises an eyebrow at that, which he’s sure is conveyed despite the way his face is mostly obscured by both his mask and the shadow from his hood because he immediately continues with; “It’s not because I don’t trust you, I know you guys worked your shit out and you’ve stopped killing. This is just a… delicate situation.”

Jason hums. “I can be delicate when I want to.”

The commissioner lets out a tired sigh. “I’m sure you can. Just… follow me.”

With that he moves past Jason and into the building, the red-hooded vigilante following close behind with his hands shoved in his vest pockets. He unclips the hood of the cropped vest he wears off his mask and lets it rest on his back. He’s confident no one is going to take a shot at him in the middle of the police station, especially with the commissioner right next to him. Speaking of…

“Excuse me, you’re going to have to leave your weapons here.” A police officer, or rather, detective, steps bravely up to Jason, gesturing to the table they have set next to the doorway to the bullpen. Jason looks him up and down, pausing on the expression on his face. It’s somewhere just on the edge of anger and a personal vendetta.

“Do I know you?” Jason asks innocently. He knows exactly who this guy is, of course, he’s had a bone to pick with him since the whole duffel bag incident, but Jason’s never had the pleasure of being this up close and personal outside the field.

“We don’t have time for this,” Gordon cuts the detective off before he can make the situation worse.

“Yes, detective, we don’t have time for this,” Jason echoes snidely. The detective’s fists clench, but he steps aside and lets Jason through. He very graciously doesn’t shoulder check the detective on his way past. He’s been working on his people skills. He likes to think he’s improving.

“Before lighting the signal, our systems were hacked and were forced to play a livestream. We haven’t been able to triangulate its origin, but it’s been running for about fifteen minutes now. It’s…” Gordon trails off, pausing in front of the first computer he comes across, before continuing towards his office for a bit more privacy. The other officers in the room aren’t crowding, per se, but they’re definitely too close for comfort, in Jason’s opinion. Especially since he can feel their wary glances at the plentiful weapons strapped to his body.

“What do they want?” Jason’s gaze flicks around, noting the people who seem to be the most wary of his presence, the ones most likely to try some shit while his back is turned, and where all his exit points are. He already has the place memorized, has for years, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be cautious.

“They want the Mayor to resign and for police presence to stay out of middle Gotham,” Gordon answers easily. “But that’s not really the issue. It’s their leverage.”

He gestures to his own computer in his office as Jason kicks the door closed behind them. He picks up a random pen to twirl in his fingers as he walks around to the other side of the desk–

The pen snaps.

Jason freezes, staring at the screen in front of him. Laying there, curled in a bloody ball on a dirty warehouse floor, was none other than Bruce Wayne.

His father, surrounded by three shittily masked goons, one of them holding a crowbar. A bloody crowbar.

Jason flinches when the crowbar slams down on Bruce’s shoulder. The sound on the livestream is off, but he can tell by the way he jolts his arm probably just broke and he wasn’t able to hold onto the sound of pain that came with it. Jason doubts it was a scream. He’s never heard Bruce scream, definitely not in pain. Bruce doesn’t scream.

Jason remembers screaming. Not when his arm broke. But probably once his fourth rib broke, or maybe it was his femur?

But the goons, they aren’t laughing.

Not like he was.

Not like the Joker was.

Which means this isn’t the Joker, right?

He raises a hand to his communicator as he watches the stream.

“Agent A–” His voice cracks, he clears it to put on a more put-together voice. He hopes it’s convincing. He doubts it. “Get Oracle on the line.”

“She is running a Birds of Prey mission currently,” Alfred responds evenly, with barely a beat of hesitation.

“I don’t care. Get her on here.”

“Of course.”

Jason is sure he’ll feel guilty about speaking to Alfred like that later, but he gets the sense the butler has noticed something is very wrong and is willing to let it slide.

“Gordon, keep this stream up. Oracle is going to track it from your system.” He finally manages to tear his eyes away from the screen. “I’m going to Crime Alley. Don’t send anyone, I’ll handle this. You’ll get a call when it’s done.”

Unless he’s too late.

“Wait, why are you–?”

“I know what my territory’s warehouses look like,” is all Jason manages to answer with before he’s vaulting out the window and swinging back over to his bike at a speed he hasn’t needed to go in a long time. “Agent A, I need you to keep me updated on the stream.”

There’s quiet on the other end of the line, before a short gasp comes through, just barely.

“...Of course, Master Jason,” Alfred’s voice finally comes through. Quiet, tentative, but painfully level in the way that betrays his ability to hold back his emotions to a terrifying degree. “Oracle has not deigned to answer.”

“Call her again, then,” Jason nearly growls. He’s on his bike within moments and racing down the street, threading between cars at a frankly terrifying speed to every civilian on the road, and probably any member of the flock if they could see him, too. “Keep calling her until she fucking picks up.”

There’s no response beyond a hum of acknowledgement. Jason pushes his bike to go faster. Snow practically slices into the small amount of skin he has showing on his forehead and neck. It’s a decently windy night, and it started snowing sometime while he was in the station.

Fuck, he needs to go faster.

“What?!” Oracle’s voice snaps out of nowhere. The roar of his motorcycle had drowned out the click of her joining comms.

“I need you to track a stream,” Jason replies tersely.

“I’m in the middle of something, Hood. It can wait.”

“It’s Dad, Oracle!” Jason shouts. It’s not like anyone or anything but the comm in his ear can hear what he’s saying. “He’s somewhere in Gotham and I don’t know where. He’s being used as leverage for political shit and they’re–”

His voice cracks again. Phantom laughter echoes in his ear, cackling at his helplessness. His ribs, his legs, his everything aches with phantom pain from that fucking crowbar.

Backhand definitely hurt more.

“Where is everyone else?” Gordon asks after a moment of hesitation, much more worry in her voice now than there was before. Jason chokes out a laugh.

“Not in Gotham, or injured, or just not close enough to make a difference,” Jason answers. He swears under his breath when he sees a traffic jam too dense for him to weave through and takes a sharp curve into an alleyway nearby.

“This is–” Babs cuts herself off, probably having finally pulled up the stream. “This is bad.”

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious,” Jason shoots back dryly. Oracle scoffs, but it’s more strained than her normal amusement at his antics. They fall into stressed, uncomfortable silence for minutes before anyone speaks again.

“They have the signal bouncing between too many towers to narrow this down quickly,” Oracle mutters under her breath.

“I know it’s somewhere near Crime Alley,” Jason offers. “But he doesn’t have time for me to search them all.”

“No, he doesn’t…” Alfred murmurs, and Jason stiffens. It was probably supposed to be just for himself, but the mic picked it up. He hesitates to ask the question that’s been burning in the back of his throat for the last… nearly ten minutes. Feels like it’s been hours.

“...How is he doing?”

There’s a heavy silence after Jason’s question. His white-knuckled grip on the handlebars tightens. He pushes the throttle to its max, uncaring of the possible consequences. Everything around him is a smeared blur of movement. He knows he should slow down. If he makes the slightest mistake, he crashes. If he crashes, there’s no one to help Bruce. Making a mistake is almost unlikely, with his track record, but he’s not infallible. It’s winter. There’s snow and ice on the road.

He pushes on anyway.

He’s not going to be too late.

He’s not going to make the same mistake Bruce did all those years ago.

His question goes unanswered for too long.

“The stream is originating from the south east side of Crime Alley, in a small warehouse tucked between a bigger one and an abandoned office building.”

Jason lets out an exhale of relief, but doesn’t dare tear his eyes from the road.

“I know where that is. Thank you, Barbie. A, call an ambulance there. Probably multiple. I’m five minutes out, max.”

“I’ll call for everyone’s immediate relocation back to Gotham,” Babs promises.

“Don’t. He’ll be fine.”

He has to be goes unsaid. I need him to be stays in a faraway, locked off part of Jason’s mind.

“Regardless, they’ll want to be there, whatever the outcome is.”

Jason doesn’t argue with her.

As he turns into the Bowery, he slows down. He's still going upwards of 100 miles per hour, but these streets are much less put together than the ones across the rest of Gotham. His saving grace is that there's one street that cuts through both the Bowery and Crime Alley, and though it's the main street, on a night like this practically no one is actually driving around. Everyone is either inside or huddled for warmth in the shadowed crevices, trying to avoid detection.

Jason is happy to know how many fewer people are out here, thanks to his efforts to clean the place up.

“Wait, something's wrong,” Oracle warns. “One of the kidnappers is on the phone. They're leaving.”

Jason growls under his breath. “Assholes won't even stick around for the beat down?”

“One of them is only partially off camera messing with something. I can't tell what they're saying.”

Damn it. 

“ETA one minute,” he snarls all but animalistically. He swings around a corner into a dim, snow-dusted alley within the bounds of Crime Alley. Following all the shortcuts he knows like the back of his hand, he makes it to the location in 43 seconds.

He doesn't even bother checking for traps or doing anything else that he would normally do in a situation like this. The voice screaming you can't be too late like he was is motivation enough to push himself past his limits. He distantly registers that awful sound of beeping between his heavy footfalls as he searches every room in the building, anxiety rising with each empty room.

He kicks a door open with enough force to completely rip it off its hinges. It skids gratingly across the floor, knocking over a tripod. He doesn't notice that, though.

All he sees is a too-still, too pale body on the ground, pooled in too much blood and being far too quiet. A distressed sound escapes him as he rushes forward, sliding to a stop beside Bruce's curled up form.

“B– Bruce?” Jason whispers, navigating around Bruce’s bruised, battered, broken limbs, finding the spot on his neck so he can feel for a pulse. The silence over comms is deafening, waiting for his deduction.

Jason lets out a strained, choked laugh of relief when he feels that telltale thump of a pulse under his fingertips. It's weak, and thready, but it's there and that's all that matters.

“He's– he's alive.” Jason works his arms under Bruce's back and legs, wincing when he receives breathy whimpers in response. He feels his arms become warm and sticky with blood, dripping down his forearms. “I know, I know B. But we gotta get you out of here. Just stay awake for me, yeah?”

Unfocused cerulean blue eyes look up at him, his brow furrowing as he tries to concentrate.

“J- Jay?” He murmurs, seemingly in disbelief at the sight of his second son. Jason grunts as he lifts Bruce up, gritting his teeth when Bruce lets out a strangled shriek.

“Yeah, old man, I'm here. Unlike someone, I got here on time,” Jason jokes, unable to stop himself from making the jab. Bruce's pained expression falls even further. A stab of guilt pierces Jason's gut, so he decides to avert his gaze and focus on getting them out.

“...’m sorry, Jaylad,” Bruce whispers. His voice is faint, just like both his heartbeat and wheezing breaths. He probably has a collapsed lung.

“Don't sweat it,” Jason grits out, shouldering his way through doors and hallways. The beeping seems to follow him, despite what he does to outrun it.

And then he's blasted by freezing Gotham air. Bruce flinches at the temperature, not dressed for the winter storm that's been brewing over the course of tonight. Jason hugs him closer to his chest, looking around for the telltale flashing lights of an ambulance.

Something screams at him to move.

He runs.

A wave of searing orange heat explodes behind him just as he gets out of the blast radius. Despite that, it still feels as though the flames are licking at his back, singeing his uniform. He uses his body to protect Bruce from the worst of it.

As swift as it was there it was gone, leaving behind the previous bone chilling cold of Gotham winter. He hunches his shoulders, jogging to where he can see those red and blue flashing lights. He ignores Bruce for his own sanity, only keeping his fingers on his wrist so he can make sure the man's heart is still beating.

The EMTs startle when Jason whips around the corner, but quickly fall into their practiced motions of first aid once Jason sets Bruce on the stretcher. He fights back initially when they try to push him away, but then remembers that he's Red Hood right now, not Jason, so he relents.

He watches, almost numbly, as the ambulance drives away with his father in tow.

“I'll be at the hospital,” Jason says flatly into his comm.

“Shall I wake Master Duke?” Alfred asks. Jason thinks about it, then shakes his head.

“No. Let him sleep. Tell him in the morning. I'll…. I'll keep you updated. With whatever they tell me.”

“Of course, sir. I'll make all the necessary calls to your siblings.”

“Thanks, Alfie.”