#does it count as whump if it's just sad?

[n0sewise]

Febuwhump 2025 Day 2: (alt 1: major character death)

If anyone had ever asked (and they hadn’t), Killua would’ve said he never really thought about it. It was a lie, but not a terrible one; a nice, white lie that he told himself every so often when the thought occurred.

It was easier to focus on other things. Killua had a sister, and a little brother, and he had friends. Lots of friends. Friends in different places and friends he saw every week. And Killua had Gon. That counted for a lot, didn’t it? He had a husband.

Still, the question was there, so Killua buried it.

There was a place inside him where these things went to die. He was good at this part. Only a moment of anxiety; his stomach sick, roiling and knotting with nausea, and then it wasn’t.

It was gone and he didn’t need to think about it.

Gon was still there, right next to Killua with the sheets mostly kicked off and drooling on one of the pillows. He’d tease him for it in the morning, and Gon would be sheepish and laugh anyway.

Killua didn’t think about it.

In the end, Gon was the one to bring it up.

“Killua?” he said, and his voice had been soft and tired; unsure in a way that was foreign on his tongue.

“Yeah?” What was it that he’d been doing? Preparing for another job, maybe. Killua couldn’t remember. “What’s up?”

Gon poked his head out of the bathroom, and a cloud of steam emerged. “Could we...would Killua mind if we took it easy tomorrow?” He smiled, and it was halting. “I’m a little tired from today.”

Killua scoffed. He’d rolled his eyes. “Duh,” he said. “’Course we can. Who wants to be cold and wet anyway? Once you’ve seen one set of rapids, you’ve seen them all.”

Gon’s smile faltered. “But I wanted to see the rapids, Killua! There were the Cannibal Hippos and the Razor-Clawed Turtles and—“

And then Killua shoved him. Lightly. Affectionately, but he’d wanted Gon to stop. This wasn’t a thought he wanted to continue.

“Relax, dummy,” he said, willing steadiness into his voice. “We’ll stay a few extra days. You can get your arm bitten off once I’ve had a chance to sleep in a bit.”

It was no big deal. They’d gotten dinner at a nice restaurant, and a day later, Gon was up and ready to brave the rapids. So it was alright and not worth thinking about.

The hair wasn't hard to ignore. Grey crept into Gon’s inky spikes, starting at the temples and peppering out bit by bit. They were getting up there in years, he’d told himself. It was just easier to notice on darker hair when Killua’s was already white. That was nothing. Gon was still young. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, but hadn’t they always done that?

Killua didn’t think about it.

“We’re taking a break,” he told Palm. “What else are we gonna do, right? Go for a quadruple star?” He laughed. “And Alluka’s been bugging me about a family trip sometime, so why not?”

“Of course,” said Palm. “Better to do it now while you can.”

Killua had bristled at that, but Gon laid a gentle hand on his arm, and his heart had been so full of that same, stupid fondness, so he just leaned back into him and placed his own hand on top of Gon’s. Killua didn’t think about the feeling of thinning skin on the back of his husband’s hand, nor did he linger where the joints had grown knotted and thick like the bark on a tree.

Killua refused to think about it.

Gon seemed smaller in his arms. “Killua is still so beautiful,” he’d told him. Was it raining? Yes, it had been raining that day. They were sitting out on the front porch, watching the rain. Gon couldn’t smell it the way he had when they were younger, but he still liked to feel the cool mist on his face, and Killua liked to sit with him.

He’d wanted to brush it off, like he always did, but there was a wet shine in his eyes, and Killua didn’t have the heart to do it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re not so bad yourself, old man.” It had been a bad joke. Some days he looked in the mirror and saw a ghost of his father staring back at him, and that was another thing to not think about.

“Killua?”

“Yeah?”

“If I...” Gon trailed off, gathering his words. “Do you— does Killua think if I hadn’t...all those years ago...would I be different?” Younger, he’d meant. Stronger.

“No,” he’d replied immediately. “No. No, and you don’t need to be. It all worked out, alright?”

“Mm,” Gon hummed. “But what if...?”

“No,” said Killua.

They watched the rain for a little longer until Gon had gotten tired.

Their bed was colder now. Empty, but Killua couldn’t bring himself to get a smaller one.

It was easier to focus on other things.

He tried not to think about it.

[matcha-milkies]

LIKE AN OLEANDER

Summary: Bill Cipher needs a footstool and a thoroughly Stockholmed Ford is happy to oblige.

Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Pyronica is there too

Content Warnings: Abuse, Master/Pet, Psychological Torture/Horror/Trauma, Stockholm Syndrome, Victim Blaming, Sensory Deprivation

Tags: Triangle Bill, Canon Divergence - Weirdmageddon, Bill Cipher Wins, Collars, Chains, Whump, Hurt No Comfort, Bill Cipher is a Jerk

Word Count: 1,306

Link to AO3: Here

A/N: Based on @jellyskink’s immaculate Domesticated Ford AU, in which Bill mentally breaks Ford in the 1980s and brainwashes him into an obedient and fawning pet. Weirdmageddon started early, and over time the weirdness bubble surrounding Gravity Falls naturally expanded to contain both California and Oregon. If you want to learn more, there’s a lot more tidbits on their blog, though fair warning it’s a pretty dark and sad AU.

Thank you, jellyskink, for giving me the green light to write a fic for this!

I saw someone say this au is “all pain, no sex” which is really at the heart of what I look for in fics, but is so painstakingly absent in most fandoms, so this is a godsend •⩊•

If you haven’t listened to “Oleander” by Mother Mother what are you even doing with your life /lh

Bill Cipher is in a particularly good mood today. He and Pyronica probably broke a record for largest bonfire in California, even counting all their previous antics over the years. Not the dream demon’s most creative endeavor by a long shot, but hey, sometimes you just gotta start a blazing inferno to let off some steam. Nothing wrong with a bit of simple, straightforward arson now and then.

It’s only when he returns to the Fearamid, practically glowing, buzzing and high off the screams of the innocent, that he remembers the state he left Sixer in.

The man is in a kneeling position, collared by the neck. His hair, fluffy and disheveled, feathers down to around his shoulders, brushing against the cruel blue metal. His twelve fingers twitch and grasp at nothing, futilely, as though groping for purchase on a rugged cliffside. His purple sweater is rumpled in places, like he had pulled and grabbed at that too, to no evident avail. He’s whimpering to himself, words that are at first indiscernible as Bill enters the massive chamber.

The scientist is tethered to a ring near the base of the Throne of Frozen Human Agony, staring vacantly into the middle space, unseeing. It’s not his fault. Bill severed all input from his optic nerves, so he literally can’t see. Or hear. Or feel. Yeah, he cut off those nerves too. It was supposed to be a punishment that lasted a few hours. And then Bill had left and gotten carried away with his fun, and well, it had been an entire day.

Whoops.

Make no mistake, he doesn’t feel bad about it. If anything, it’s kind of funny, like forgetting to feed your dog! Wait. Humans don’t find that funny. Well, who can expect them to understand the emotions of an all-powerful chaos god? He draws closer, and the previously indiscernible words sharpen into clarity.

“I love you, my muse. I love you.”

Repeated ad nauseam to the uncaring void.

“Aww,” Bill clasps his hands together and brings them closer to his eye. “He’s so pathetic!” Pyronica, who came in with him, nods her agreement and laughs along. This must be what it’s like to catch your puppy mid-dream, its little tongue lolling and leg kicking at nothing.

He can’t remember whether he instructed his pet to repeat those words or not. Honestly, it’s anyone’s guess. Bill’s will and Ford’s are so inextricable at this point that Ford often does things without needing to be told. Of course, they’re not entirely on the same wavelength, or else punishment wouldn’t be required in the first place.

“Eh, remind me to snap him out of it in another half an hour,” Bill says, settling himself on the throne. With a wave of an arm he summons a martini glass. “I’m gonna have myself a drink.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He summons a glass for her too, and hipshot, she accepts. “Hey, you think we should’ve put the fire out before we left?”

They both share a hearty chuckle over that. “Would be a shame if it all burned down!” Bill sighs as the laughter dies down. “Nah, but seriously. California will still be there for us to play with tomorrow. And if it isn’t, we can always just rebuild it! In my image! Ha!”

“Yeah. Technically the fires are my image though.”

“Touché!”

They talk for a while, maybe 20 minutes or so in this fashion, casually sipping time punch and discussing unnatural disasters like they’re music festivals. Ford goes completely untouched and unnoticed, until suddenly Bill returns his attention to the human, and a light bulb goes off next to his hat.

“Wait. Do you wanna see something hysterical? I have the best idea.”

Every sensation returns to Ford at once in a flood of color, touch and sound. Sometimes, when Bill is feeling merciful, he eases him back into it, but his merciful moods are few and far between. More commonly, he likes to toss the scientist in the deep end and watch him flounder, tears quickly beading at the corners of Ford’s eyes and spilling fatly over his cheeks. His body convulses in a singular, broken sob, and before he can finish another apologetic, “I love you,” Bill hits him with a hard command.

“Stanford! I need a footstool!” The demon extends his legs and wiggles his feet a little. He whistles as though beckoning a dog. “Come ‘ere!”

Despite his disorientation, Ford rushes to obey, lurching in the direction of Bill’s voice and falling flat on his face. Shakenly, he picks himself off the ground, letting loose a singular groan.

“I’m still waiting!” Bill sings, swinging his legs a little for effect. Pyronica snickers. Ford tries again, following the sound of his muse’s voice, although he is quickly dismayed to find that he’s already reached the end of his chain. He falls just short of Bill’s feet, and no matter how he chokes himself, no matter how hard he tugs at the collar or the chain attached, he can’t go any further than this. His distress is evident in the way he keens.

“What are you doing?” Bill demands, rolling his eye. “All I asked for was a simple footstool and you can’t even do that? Bad! Bad dog!” Ford sobs.

“I-I’m sorry, my muse!” he rasps, the cold metal of the collar pressing in on his windpipe as he strains to obey. “I’m so sorry!”

Pyronica is practically in stitches at this point, and Bill is a showman, a class clown ever chasing the next laugh. “Are you really though?” His eye wanes to an amused crescent. “Do you even love me, if you can’t even follow a command as simple as this?”

“Yes!” Ford insists with a cry. “Yes, my muse, I love you! I’m sorry that I’m so useless… Please, please forgive me…”

“Why should I? Do you think you deserve forgiveness?”

“N- No,” Ford sniffs, “but—”

“Alright, alright. Since I’m in such a good mood, I’ll give you a hand.” Bill waves his hand in a circle and the chain elongates, allowing just enough slack for Ford to crawl under his waiting feet. Bill settles them heavily on top of Ford’s back and sighs. “Ahh, that’s better.” The man shakes under the weight.

“Thank you, my muse,” he says. Normally, he would be a lot happier about serving Bill like this, but he’s clearly still torn up over his recent punishment and failures. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it, kid!” Bill rests his hands behind his ‘head,’ or rather, the tip of his topmost vertex. “Maybe after this, if you’re good, you can have a treat.”

“R- Really? Oh, thank you so much, my muse. I promise I’ll be good.” His voice is still wavery from the earlier-shed tears, but his cheer seems to be returning. It’s not difficult to keep the man happy when he’s so thoroughly and hopelessly smitten with his muse. Bill could have Pyronica drop-kick Ford off the top of the Fearamid right now and when he reached the bottom he would find a way to smile and thank Bill, no matter how many broken pieces he was in.

“Yeah. Now shut up while I get some reading in. Hasn’t anyone ever told you footstools don’t talk? Sheesh.” With a sigh, Bill summons an extradimensional magazine and floats it in front of his eye, every so often flipping through the pages. Pyronica says she’s off to see what Teeth and Keyhole are up to, and Bill acknowledges her departure with a little grunt and wave. Ford stifles a whimper. His back has already been giving him issues lately, and this definitely isn’t helping matters, but he soldiers through it for his muse. He’s determined not to mess up again. He’s determined to be a good footstool.

A/N: This is my first time writing from Bill’s perspective! I don’t usually write him this cruel, so it was a fun change of pace to lean full force into that side of him. Thanks again, jellyskink, I hope you liked this little installment!

[fungifanart]

Romantically Bankrupt

Characters: Male reader, Yuu!reader, Ruggie Bucchi

CW: Blood/fatal injury, death, heavy angst/whump, hurt/no comfort, angst with a sad ending

Word count: 2.8k

Notes: Happy Pride Month, my fellow queers! Sorry it took me so long to get this done, but I promise it's worth the wait! Also, props to you if you get the reference to a certain other Ruggie fic of mine! ( @lemonchuu / @leichor pspspspspsps) ( And @nemisisnemi pull up a chair)

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Ruggie genuinely can't remember a time when he's felt happier than he does now.

Living comfortably with a stable, high-paying job at the Sunset Savanna palace, thanks to Leona.

Being able to move his grandma into a nicer, safer part of the kingdom and work with government officials to slowly but surely close the gap between the rich and the poor.

And last, but not least: Doing this and so much more with his beloved husband by his side. The man who came to this world with nothing, but still rose from the title of Janitor to the Prefect of Ramshackle dorm and then eventually to the Headmaster of NRC itself.

Y/n.

His handsome, loving Y/n.

The man whom he's sworn his heart and soul to for the rest of their lives.

The man for whom he's used all of his built-up PTO to spend a whole week with starting today, their five year anniversary.

Ruggie flops down into a chair at the kitchen table after finally finishing making his and Y/n's anniversary dinner and waits patiently for his love's return.

Fifteen minutes later, Ruggie's ears perk up at the sound of footsteps approaching and then the front door to his and Y/n's shared living space opening.

"Ruggie, I'm home! Sorry I'm late, I had a phone call that--" Y/n's sentence ends abruptly as Ruggie runs up and surprises him with a tight hug while he's still in the doorway.

"Shihihi! Welcome home!" Ruggie exclaims while nuzzling his face into his husband's neck, "I'll forgive you for being late just this once, seeing as how it's our anniversary! Not to mention how I'd hate for the special dinner I made to go to waste!" He finishes lightheartedly while motioning towards the kitchen.

"Like I'd let that happen! But first, I got something for-" Y/n moves his hand from behind his back only to just realize that it's empty and looks back at Ruggie to see him happily sniffing the bouquet of rhododendrons, begonias and chrysanthemums he'd bought for him.

"Shihihi! You know old habits die hard!" Ruggie quips before placing a tender kiss on his husband's lips, "I love them, dear. Thank you so much."

This tender moment continues in the kitchen where the two men eat their dinner while discussing all manner of things, from how their days were to how their friends are keeping up to how Grim will do as Acting Headmaster while Y/n is away, until the food is finished and they fall into a comfortable silence. A silence which Ruggie breaks upon seeing Y/n begin to fidget nervously.

"Is something wrong, love?" Ruggie asks while placing his hand on the other man's in comfort.

"N-no! It's just that I got some amazing news earlier and it's getting harder and harder to contain myself!" He says with excitement rising up in his voice.

"Well, don't keep me waiting, then! Lay it on me!" Ruggie urges, his curiosity at it's peak.

"Ok ok! So do you remember that phone call I mentioned that made me late?" The other man begins before taking both of Ruggie's hands in his own with a big smile, "It was from the adoption agency! The papers were accepted!! We can adopt a child!!!"

All time seems to stop in the moment it takes Ruggie to process this information before resuming as his face breaks into the biggest smile he's worn all day and he reaches across the table to wrap his husband in a tight hug.

The two remain like this for several minutes, hugging and crying from happiness until they've calmed down enough to separate and look at each other with eyes full of love and adoration.

"I'm so happy that I get to adopt a child with you, Y/n!" Ruggie says elatedly.

"Me too, Ruggie!" The other man responds, "Now, all that's left to do is--"

"W......... ...p..."

Ruggie blinks for a second, unsure of what he'd just heard, "Uh, what was that last part, Y/n?"

"Huh? Well, I was just saying how we need to--"

"W...KE U..."

'There it is again. It sounds far away, but close at the same time...and what is it trying to tell me?' Ruggie thinks as he attempts to clear out his ears with his finger to hear better, "Sorry, my ears are acting weird suddenly, could you say that again?"

The confusion on Y/n's face is quickly accompanied by concern as he reaches forward to check Ruggie for a fever, "Dear, are you feeling alright? Maybe you should--"

"PLEASE, RUGGIE!!! WAKE UP!!!"

The hyena's surroundings begin to melt away into darkness as he hears the voice loud and clear, that of the real Y/n begging him to wake up from this apparent dream, the last thing he sees before doing so being dream Y/n's concerned face dissolving into the darkness.

Ruggie floats in the void of unconsciousness briefly before he feels a pair of hands shaking his shoulders frantically and his eyes flutter open to see the real Y/n's face looking back at him, contorted in desperation that turns into immense relief upon his awakening.

"Ruggie! Oh my god... oh my god. Thank goodness, you're okay!" The Prefect says while pulling the hyena into a tight hug with shaking hands.

"Y-yeah...sorry for worrying you! I'm okay now, though!" Ruggie says while shaking off the drowsiness caused by Malleus's spell and returning his boyfriend's hug.

Ruggie would've preferred that this nice moment go on for a bit longer, but it's instead ruined by the sound of a spell being launched at the two of them and the Prefect instinctively rolling them out of the way.

"Crap, I was so relieved that I almost forgot." The other man says while helping Ruggie stand up and staying close to him protectively, "We managed to severely weaken Malleus in the dream world, but he's not down just yet. Will you help us finish him off?"

And here Ruggie was just getting used to being awake again and suddenly he needs to fight. Typical.

"Shihihi, anything for you, Y/n!" Ruggie says while shaking off the last of the drowsiness, "And besides, I need to pay that guy back for teasing me with something that hasn't happened yet!"

And so, the fight continues as Ruggie and the others lob spell after spell at the weakened fae prince until Malleus's stamina is seeming to reach its limits, which his dormmates and the Prefect use as an opportunity to try to reason with him again.

"MALLEUS-SAMA, PLEASE YOU MUST UNDERSTAND--"

"Malleus, it hurts me too, but this isn't the way to--"

"Malleus, just give it up! This can't go on forever--"

"Lostie, please! This isn't who you are--"

"SILENCE!!!" Malleus yells in one last fit of rage that sends a barrage of thick and sharp thorn vines out in all directions, one of which speeds towards Ruggie faster than he can dodge.

Ruggie closes his eyes and braces for the feeling of the vine tearing into his flesh, when suddenly--

"RUGGIE!!!"

He instead feels a hand pushing him away, hears the Prefect’s voice calling his name in sheer desperation and opens his eyes just in time to see the thorn vine drive itself directly through the other man's stomach as he lets out a blood-curdling scream in pain.

Ruggie's vision turns red at this and the next moments go by in a blur until he comes out of it to the sight of an unconscious and now normal Malleus at his feet.

He has no time to wonder how that happened as he whips his head around to find where his boyfriend is and sees him collapsed on his back in a growing pool of blood with Grim crying his name next to him.

"Y/N!!! No no no no no no--" Ruggie says as he sprints over and slides on his knees to a halt next to him and holds him in his arms, uncaring to how much blood would get on him, "Y/N! Hey!! Talk to me!!! Grim! Go find Professor Crewel or Riddle or someone who can help!"

The direbeast sprints away as the Prefect stirs in Ruggie's arms.

"...*cough* R-Ruggie? You're alright?" He looks at Ruggie with barely focused eyes and coughs up blood on top of the blood already gushing from the gaping hole in his stomach.

"Forget about me! Why'd you do that?!" He practically screams as he shoves his scarf into the wound in a desperate, but vain attempt to stop the bleeding, all survival knowledge having left his brain due to panic.

"S-sorry...*cough* when I saw the vine coming at you, my body moved on its own. I just couldn't bear the thought of you getting hurt..." Y/n says with a small, pathetic smile.

"I-- That's-- Y-you shouldn't-- I-I'm not--" Ruggie tries to argue, to say ANYTHING, but, looking at the ever growing pool of blood around them and hearing the sound of the Prefect’s breathing becoming more labored, all words die in his throat and all he can do is look into his love's eyes while tears pool around his own.

Just as the tears begin to fall, the Prefect reaches up his hand to caress the hyena's cheek, which he takes in his own trembling grasp.

He's scared. So scared.

Ruggie's finally found something, someONE, that his childhood self could only dream of finding and now here he is, slowly but surely slipping away.

His spiraling is interrupted by the Prefect’s weakening voice, "R-Ruggie, there's actually-*cough* s-something I need to tell you in case I-*cough* don't make it..." He says as his words grow more forced.

Ruggie's eyes widen, "H-hey! Don't talk like that! Grim's gonna get Professor Crewel here and you'll be patched up in no--"

"Ruggie...please just listen..." The Prefect says in a weak tone that overpowers the rest of Ruggie's sentence, "If I don't make it, I want you-*cough* to go to my room-*huff* at Ramshackle. T-there's *huff* s-something in the very back of the drawer in my desk that I-*cough* want you to have, ok...?"

Ruggie nods nervously as his grip on his boyfriend's hand tightens, "S-sure, but that's only if you don't make it! Which you will! I mean it!" He says, unsure whether he's trying to convince the Prefect or himself.

"Y-yeah...of course..." The other man responds while turning his gaze straight upwards, "Hey...would you mind-*cough* telling me what you dreamt about...?"

Ruggie blushes in embarrassment thinking about it, "Uuhh...w-well...you and me, we were...uh...living together. I was working at the palace and you were the Headmaster here and...we were...really happy. I'd really like it if that could be our reality someday."

The Prefect continues to stare upwards as his eyes glisten with tears, "That-*cough* sounds wonderful...*huff*...I'd like that too." He rasps as Ruggie can see the tears threatening to spill over, "H-hey, Ruggie?"

"Yeah...?" The hyena responds.

"You k-know I love you, r-right?" He says with a weak, but geniune smile causing Ruggie's heart to skip a beat.

"O-of course! I love you too!" Ruggie responds plainly with no hint of sarcasm or false bravado, just the honest truth.

However, this one statement is what makes the Prefect's tears finally spill over, "Th-that-*sniff*-makes me-*cough* so happy to hear. I love you, Ruggie." The next part, he says in a barely audible whisper, "I wish I could’ve...*huff*...shown you how much..."

Time slows down to a crawl in this moment as Ruggie watches the love of his life close his eyes and feels his hand go limp in his grasp, seemingly at peace.

But not Ruggie.

Ruggie is anything but at peace.

All sound is cut off in this moment to the point that he can't even hear his own voice as he desperately calls out Y/n's name and shakes his shoulders, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

He only stops upon being pushed away by someone he vaguely recognizes who tells him something he can't hear before putting their ear to the Prefect’s chest and trying all manner of tactics to resuscitate him.

But it's too late.

Ruggie had already guessed this, but the confirmation saps the color from the world around him as the person and a small animal still work feverishly for several minutes.

But it doesn't work.

The end of those several minutes of fruitless work is marked by the person placing their fur coat on top of the Prefect's body.

Ruggie goes fully numb at this, his brain barely registering anything about the world around him and even his own actions as he only realizes he's started walking away upon seeing the faces of people he's pretty sure he knows as they either are only just waking up or nursing their own injuries.

How lucky they are to walk away with their lives, unlike a certain someone. Unlike the one person who mattered.

Ignoring the questions of his peers, Ruggie exits Diasomnia and continues walking.

To where? He doesn't know or care anymore. It's not like Y/n will be there to greet him after all.

The minutes pass by in a blur as Ruggie walks until he finds himself at the gates to Ramshackle, 'Oh yeah, that thing Y/n wanted me to have.' He thinks numbly to himself before entering his boyfriend's dorm.

Walking into the Lounge, the hyena's mind clears enough to see the faces of the dorm's three ghostly residents in front of him who look ready to fire a barrage of questions, but settle on one upon seeing his expression.

"He didn't make it, did he?" The middle ghost asks, all three of their expressions turning crestfallen as Ruggie nods silently, "That's...unfortunate. He probably already told you about his gift for you, so go on up to his room, lad. We won't keep you."

'Like I needed your permission.' Ruggie thinks bitterly to himself.

Upon reaching the room he's been to countless times at this point, Ruggie hesitates, but pushes forward and opens the door, already regretting it as he's bombarded with Y/n's scent and every memory he's made with him rushes through his head relentlessly.

Fighting back the tears and forcing each foot in front of the other, Ruggie eventually makes it to Y/n's desk and opens the drawer, finding it empty save for a single envelope with his name on it leaning against the very back.

Snatching up the envelope, Ruggie opens it and immediately recognizes his boyfriend's handwriting on the paper contained inside.

"Dear Ruggie,

If you're reading this, then it means I'm no longer alive. With how dangerous things have become, I've suspected my death as a possibility for quite some time now, so I wanted to be prepared for this outcome.

As I'm writing, you're currently out working one of your jobs and I still find myself marveling at how hardworking you are. It's one of the qualities that I love and respect the most about you. Just before you left, you mentioned how you'll need to hit the grind harder than ever to provide for your 'darling future husband.' which you probably meant as a joke, but it still made my heart skip a beat to imagine that kind of future for us.

But...regarding the future, I really need to apologize. It seems like I won't be able to fulfill the promise we made before we officially started dating.

I'm sorry. I really and truly am. I don't know how I died, but I can one hundred percent assure you that it was never my intention to leave you like this, because the time we've spent together, however brief, was easily the happiest I've ever been and I sincerely hope that you can say the same.

You may have already noticed a certain something I've left behind this letter, which I had hoped to give to you in person later down the line, but seeing as how that's no longer possible...

It's probably cruel to ask this of you now, but:

Ruggie Bucchi, I love you with all of my heart,

Will you marry me?

Forever yours,

Y/n"

Shoving his hand back into the drawer, Ruggie pulls out one more thing like the letter said, a very small box that he opens to reveal a circle of metal adorned by an even smaller glittering jewel on the top.

A ring.

An engagement ring.

The Prefect was going to stay and he was going to propose to him.

With this revelation, Ruggie's legs finally give out and he drops to his knees, tears falling freely down his face as he tightly clutches the letter and ring box to his chest.

"Yes, Y/n...I will marry you…”

[waterfallofspace]

All That Remains

So! I wrote a 'snzfic' that is like... 80-90% angst and whump. Though, there is snz in here, but uh... yeah I won't lie and sell this as a 'snzfic', think of it much more as an angst/whump fic that has snz featured too~

basically i had too many feelings about t/im s/toker and this is what happened

[CW: Swearing, Spoilers for M/agnus A/rchives, talk of heavy fevers and bad coughs, and a lot of emotional angst/anger]

Word Count: 7.3k Characters: Tim, Jon, Martin, mentions of others ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Go home, Tim.” 

Tim merely rolls his eyes, giving a pointed look to Martin over Jon’s shoulder. He does not meet Jon’s eye. Martin, for his part, looks petrified. Tim’s half convinced if it was up to him, they’d all be sitting around drinking tea. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. 

“I’m not asking anymore,” Jon continues, voice firm in a way that sets Tim’s teeth on edge. “You’re quite clearly not well.” 

“None of us are ‘quite well’ lately, now are we,” Tim snaps back, a chill settling in his tone. “No ‘well’ person would be here. In this place.” 

Jon pauses, face tightening. It’s not what he meant and they both know it. They both also know that Tim’s not wrong. It’s a stalemate, one that’s been going on for the full three days Tim had been coming to work with this bloody cold that’s begun to nestle in his chest. No doubt one Jon passed on to him, lord knows that man comes into work sick more times than healthy. 

Fine, that might be a tad of exaggeration, but not all that much. Any time a cold, flu, hell- any time anything at all is going around the office? Jon will catch it. If something’s going around outside the office, Jon will catch that too, and bring it into the office. There was a time Elias himself had to step in and ban Jon from the office because he kept catching the same cold he’d just gotten over. Is that even possible? Who knows. In this line of work, ‘possible’ becomes a term applied loosely. 

“Tim?” 

The voice snaps him from his thoughts, Tim silently cursing the fever beginning to settle in his bones. Alright, maybe this is more than just a cold. Still, he’s not going- wait. Out loud. 

“I’m not going home,” Tim manages, this time avoiding Martin’s dripping with concern gaze. Those puppydog eyes lost their charm as the world began to turn on its head. For what it’s worth, before all this, he would’ve been living for the attention. But now? Just the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach, every nerve in his body on edge. 

“I told you,” Jon continues, mouth still pulled tight. “I’m not asking anymore.”

“Oh, so what, you’re ordering me?” Tim retorts, rising to his full height. He doesn’t miss the slight step backwards Jon takes, and fights the urge to feel pleasure at eliciting that response. 

Jon stammers a little before speaking, but clears his throat roughly and calms his tone, “If that’s what you’d like to call it, then yes.” 

“And what would you call it then? Pity? Care? Where was this… this care when I lost Sasha? Where was this pity when I was almost eaten by fucking worms for you?! I don’t need it now, and I won’t have it. Fuck your pity, and especially fuck your version of ‘care’.”

There’s a pause, and Tim could almost swear he sees… sadness in Jon’s eyes. It brings a new bout of rage rushing through his veins, blood beginning to boil. 

It’s Martin that speaks first, barely audible above the pounding in Tim’s chest.

“When we lost Sasha.” 

Tim sincerely considers telling him to fuck off. Maybe even throwing a chair at him.

We. When we lost her. Martin barely knew her, and Jon… No. No ‘they’ didn’t lose Sasha, he did. He lost her, it was him that knew her the best, it was him that talked to her every day, it was him that truly saw her, and it was him that should have seen that- 

But did he? Did he even truly see her? Can he say that he did? All of his memories, they aren’t of Sasha, they’re of… 

“Did any of us truly lose her?” 

It’s barely a whisper, and Tim jolts a little as he realizes the sound came from him. Jon doesn’t seem to have noticed, and if it wasn’t for everything that’s gone to hell, Tim might thank some form of god for that. Martin wears an expression that says he did, but his lips tighten. He won’t answer it. Even if he wanted to, what could he say? That… thing, it took everything they had of her. None of them can recall, none of them can remember her, can mourn her, can miss her. Can miss her. The real her. Whoever that may have been. 

This round of thoughts is interrupted by a deep cough, one Tim aims into his sweater. He pulls away as much as he can from the group, tucking into himself as he leans against the wall for support. 

Martin makes a move to step forward, but pauses as Tim casts him a dark glance. A very firm, and almost cruel, message to back off. The coughing finally subsides enough for Tim to get a real breath in, and he takes a moment to steady himself before maneuvering himself back to his chair. 

“You need to go home, Tim.” 

Tim casts Jon the same dark look, clearing his throat before attempting to retort. The clearing turns into another, and then a third, and then devolves into another round of throat scraping coughs. Tim braces himself with an arm over his chest, wincing as the coughing leaves his lungs and ribs aching. Each new breath leaves them screaming in harmony, and if it wasn’t for the fact that dying right here and now would prove Jon right, Tim might damn well consider stopping. 

“J-Jon’s right, Tim,” Martin stutters, pulling himself to his feet and beginning to busy himself with the kettle as he keeps talking. He’s muttering something or other about sickness, and wearing yourself to the bone. He’s gotten better about the rambling since… but it’s still Martin. Tim isn’t quite sure if he finds that comforting, or infuriating. 

It’s not until he feels the warmth of a mug set next to him that Tim realizes he’s practically laying on his desk. His arms are curled beneath him, supporting his head, and… for the life of him he cannot remember moving. He looks up, and notices Jon’s left the room. So it’s been more than just the few seconds it’s felt like. Delightful. 

A hand presses to his forehead, and Tim has to bite his own cheek to keep from crying out. He practically leaps backwards, or, as close as he can get with his body in such a state of exhaustion. All he really succeeds at doing is falling backwards out of his chair, eyes wide with panic. 

Martin stares at him, hand still outstretched, looking deeply apologetic. 

“Don’t do that again,” Tim snaps, quick to respond before Martin can get a word out. Masking his terror with anger, something he’s found comes pretty naturally to him these days. “I don’t need your fucking pity, or your fucking help.” 

He hopes Martin doesn’t notice the way his hands are trembling. Or that despite how harsh the words were, his voice cracked through them, dangerously close to tears.  

Every scar on his body throbs, and Tim can’t tell if it’s from the fever or the panic. Suddenly he feels the urge to scratch. To claw and tear and rip each one open, make sure there’s nothing crawling around inside him. He can still feel them, each wound… where they dug in… how they felt, crawling in and out of his aching flesh–  

And just as quickly as it began, it passes. He’d blame it on the fever, but this has been happening since the attack. In the beginning it was constant, and he found it hard to focus on anything but the scars. Over time it had faded, slowly but surely, until it was hardly noticeable. Then… Sasha. And it was back all over again. 

“Tim?” 

The voice is soft. Timid. Martin. 

Tim manages to open his eyes, though they feel heavier than they should. He tries to take stock of his surroundings, but the room begins to spin. 

“Yeah?” Is all he can manage, before his eyes crash shut again. He doesn’t remember closing them in the first place. 

“You need help walking, you can’t do it on your own, but I don’t uh… I d-don’t wanna…” it stammers a bit more, before Tim hears a deep breath, and the voice starts again. “You need help, I’m just gonna touch your arm, okay? And you grab onto me if you can, I’ll support your weight, you just lean on me.” 

Sure enough he feels a grip on his arm, but true to his word, Martin doesn’t do anything further. Tim can’t bring himself to feel anything. Surely he should be grateful that Martin’s being so considerate. Or maybe angry that he’s being treated like he’s fragile. 

Instead, he just stands. It’s slow, unsteady, and despite himself he leans into Martin’s grasp. Martin for his part is saying something, his voice low and steady. It’s probably meant to be comforting, but Tim just tunes it out.

“Storage room,” He mutters, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes.

“N-no, we need to get you home, you’re in no state-” Martin begins, but Tim cuts him off, pulling away with a move that almost sends him to the floor again. 

He manages to find his balance, glaring up at Martin with what even he knows is misplaced anger. “No. I am not going home. I am going to lay down on the couch in the storage room until this…” 

Martin doesn’t speak, clearly waiting for the end of the sentence. Tim wants to say… something. Anything. But he can’t seem to find words that fit. Till this sickness passes? Till this feeling goes away? Till he can stand to look at this office and not feel all the grief and anger and misery that this place seems to leak from every wall? 

“I’m just gonna go lay down,” Tim finally finishes. An unsatisfying end. Par for the course around here. 

There’s no argument, and despite Martin offering his arm again, Tim pushes past him and stumbles his way into the room alone. Collapsing onto the couch, he pulls his jacket tight around his shoulders. There’s some form of blanket around here somewhere, but he’s too warm anyway. Despite the fact he can’t stop shivering. Fucking fever. 

~~~~~

Even before Tim opens his eyes he can feel the heaviness spread over him. It’s gotta be more than just his coat and… for a minute he considers ripping the blankets off. He didn’t ask for their pity, he didn’t ask for their help, but… 

His eyes only open for a second before fluttering shut again. It’s more comfortable than he’d like to admit, and he soon finds himself drifting back off into another fitful sleep. This time instead of the things crawling in and out of him, his unconscious is greeted by eyes. Too many eyes. His body lays still, but his mind races. They all watch him. He can’t find it in himself to do anything but let them. 

~~~~~

This time Tim manages to keep his eyes open long enough to take stock of his surroundings. There’s a couple more blankets folded neatly on the end of the couch, and- yeah. He was right, someone had draped a few extra over him as he’d slept. There was also a pile of… what’s gotta be a scraped together ‘cold and flu kit’. A couple tissue boxes, a handful of pill packages, some- chapstick? Tim does find himself damn near chuckling at that one. No sound comes out, but it’s still the closest thing to real laughter he’s had in awhile. 

It’s sweet. The pile, the offerings, it’s kind of them, but Tim feels that pit in his stomach begin to deepen. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t fix anything. And he didn’t ask for their help. Their pity. He’s not some… some broken thing for them to take apart and put back together. 

But he knows that’s not the real reason. That lump in his aching throat reminds him every time he swallows. Almost as if he can hear it in each heartbeat. It should be Sasha. It should be Sasha. It should be Sasha. 

Still, despite it all, Tim can’t deny he needs some of the shit they’ve left him. This is made clear as the itch he’d been fighting for days rears its head, sending chills down his spine. He barely manages to grab a handful of tissues before the first sneeze breaks through, stifled painfully into near silence, followed by another double he manages to stifle silently too. 

Another thing he learned from her. Unless he didn’t. Who fucking knows anymore. 

Tim doesn’t have long to linger on the thoughts before the next sneeze breaks through his control, roughly stifled again. It leaves his ears ringing, his sinuses throbbing, and his head pounding, but… it’s better than being heard. And you know what? Maybe he wants to have a little control over a situation that’s almost entirely out of his control. Sue him. 

“huh’kNXgt– dNGT’iuh-! Fuck.” 

He takes the pause to blow his nose, wincing as it does almost nothing but leave him even more congested. Even just the effort of that seems to sap all the energy he has. It takes all he has to toss the tissues in the general vicinity of the trash, grabbing a new handful. Knowing his nose, he’s not done. 

“knNCh-uh-! eh’KNXgt-! ah’RZSHHH–oo!” 

The last breaks through his control, scraping against his throat. Well isn’t that just the whole point. No control, no matter how hard he tries. He curses under his breath, spending the last of his handful of tissues to blow his nose a few more times. Thankfully that seemed to satisfy the itch enough for now. It retreats back into a softer, yet still deeply irritating, buzzing. 

Tim finds his eyes closing before he can really stop them. His body collapses against the back of the couch, and his breath begins to even out into congested snores. In his last seconds of consciousness, Tim almost has the presence of mind to pull the blankets back over himself. Instead he settles for some half-assed wiggle into a more comfortable position, hands tucked beneath his chin as he falls back into the void of sleep. 

The people that he doesn’t know at all begin to surround him, each of them wearing a face that he can’t help but recognize. This time he cries out. No one comes. 

~~~~~

“Hey, hey, easy, don’t move too fast,” The voice says, Tim slowly peeling his eyes open. The world is blurry, the light making all the lines in the room start to swirl together. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, coughing roughly into a curled fist as the change in pressure just from sitting up leaves him breathless. 

“Wow you really don’t follow instructions, do you?” The voice is playful, teasing, but softens as his spasms continue. “Easy does it, you’ve been out for awhile, I was starting to get a bit worried you’d never wake up again.” 

Tim still can’t make out the figure, tears collecting in his lashes as the coughing spills out from his lungs. His whole body feels heavy, and he searches in vain for something to lean against. 

The voice speaks again, soft and caring. “Just lean back, the couch is behind you, it’ll catch- yeah, there you go. Just breathe, alright? It’ll be over soon. There’s a water bottle to your left, yeah right there, drink some of that, would ya? Easy though, don’t choke on it.” 

He does as he’s told, taking slow sips until the spasms ease enough for him to draw a full breath without coughing. There’s a light wheeze to his inhales, but as he continues his slow but steady breaths, it fades back into the mild congestion settling in his lungs. 

“Tha-ks,” Tim says, his voice coming out crackly and congested. He considers clearing his throat, but the itch in the back of his lungs warns him against it. Guess he’ll have to settle for sounding a bit like death until his chest calms itself. 

“You sound awful. What have I told you about coming into work sick?” The voice is calm, there’s no anger in it. It just sounds… playful. And… familiar in that way where Tim can’t place it. He can’t say he’s ever heard it before. But he instinctively leans into it, keeps his eyes shut as he waits for– something. He’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. 

A cool touch breaks him from the trance, and he lets out a near moan at the sensation. “Tim… you’re burning up.” It’s not the same voice. This one is still soft, and caring, but it doesn’t feel as– it’s just not right. He can place it though, and he opens his eyes to find Martin’s general shape kneeling in front of him. As Tim’s eyes begin to focus a bit more through the haze, he can identify the knitted brows and tight mouth; concern written clearly across Martin’s face. 

He wants to tell Martin to leave him alone. He wants to ask where the other voice went. To ask who they were. To tell them to come back. He does none of this however, that damned itch deciding it’s been dormant for long enough. 

Tim barely has time to pull away from Martin, raising the collar of his sweater to cover his nose and mouth as the hitching begins. He sits there for a moment, frantic “hh– hUhh–!” coming out in fragments as his whole body begins to buzz. Finally it builds to a breathy, “hh’yshhiew! h’ZShhh–uh! tzsHhh-! ah’tSHH–iew!” 

They’re lighter than the others, his more natural airy sneeze, not the heady, throat scraping mess that comes after one too many stifles. Unfortunately they do still shift the congestion in his head, and he finds himself awkwardly reaching for the tissues, one hand pressed up under his nose. 

Thankfully Martin takes pity on him, and pushes the box within his reach. Tim grabs a handful and blows, then again, and then a third and final time. Martin, to his credit, doesn’t say anything about the whole spectacle. He settles instead for casting Tim that same worried glance, with a hint of a sympathetic smile. 

“So-rry,” Tim manages to croak out, coughing a little as the words pass through his throat. He takes a moment to drink some more of the water, relieved when it helps the next words come out audible, albeit quite congested. “That tends to happen when I wake up.” 

“It’s alright,” Martin replies instantly, rising from the floor to seat himself on the couch, a respectable distance away from Tim. “You have nothing to apologize for, you’re sick, you’re allowed to have symptoms. It kinda comes with the territory!” 

Martin chuckles a bit after that last part, clearly trying to lighten the mood a bit. Tim manages to give a weary smile. After all, it’s not Martin’s fault he feels like shit. And despite the anger he was aiming at him earlier… Martin’s just trying to help. He knows that. But more than that… this isn’t Martin’s fault. None of this. He’s just as caught up as Tim. Without Jon here, it’s easier to remember that. 

But still… Tim has to bite down the rising anger at the memories of what Martin had said. Jon’s going through it. Jon’s taking it hard. Jon needs their support. All the comments race around his head, spinning at dizzying rates until Tim feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, hey, you’ve gone really pale, do you need… c-can I do anything? Do you need anything?” 

Tim shrugs the hand off, pulling himself as upright as he can manage with the world shifting perspective each time he blinks. “No, I’m… I’m okay.” 

“Well we both know that isn’t true.” 

The comment seems to catch them both equally off guard, Martin’s eyes going wide as his mouth falls slack. “I- I don’t know why I said… I’m- I’m sorry, it just kinda-” 

“Hey,” Tim interrupts, putting on his best shit-eating grin. It’s halfhearted at best, but trying times and all that. “You were actually a bit of an ass for once, don’t ruin the moment with the whole apology thing.” 

“R-ruin the moment of me being an ass…?” 

That gets what would almost be called a genuine smile from Tim. “I prefer it to the crippling optimism and ‘let’s all be friends’ attitude.” 

There’s a pause as Martin seems to take this in, considering it with an unreadable expression. Tim continues, though whether it’s for his benefit or Martins, he isn’t sure. Blame it on the fever. “I mean, it’s never gonna be the same again, is it. Not that it was all that great to begin with, but… better to be a realistic ass, then pretend it could be that way again. Making fun of Jon with Sash, talking about how it should’ve been her, joking about taking him out so she could take over… and yet still helping him out, and laughing with him on the rare moments you catch him outside of his ‘I’m The Serious Bossman Now’ attitude-”

Martin laughs a bit at this, and even through the fevered haze, Tim can see the memories flashing behind Martin’s eyes too. Though for Martin, those memories might not be quite as treasured as they are for Tim. Jon was definitely more of an ass to Martin than he truly deserved back then. Not that he’s overflowing with nice now, but… he does seem to go easier on him. 

“Then again,” Tim finds himself saying, “can’t really be sure that was really her anyways, now can I. I mean, I have all these memories, these things we did, the fun we had, how she was… but all of it’s corrupted. Useless. None of it’s real, I don’t… I don’t even remember what she looked like. Or what her voice sounded like… I mean it’s so clear in my head, when I think of Sasha I remember her voice and her glasses and how she wore them kinda lopsided but- none of that was really her, was it?” 

There’s no response to this, not that he was expecting one. Honestly, Tim didn’t even mean to say that much. He looks up, noticing the same tears in Martin’s eyes that he can feel starting to well up in his own. Fuck all of this, honestly. Fuck Martin crying, as if he has any right to. As if Tim himself has any right to cry for… whoever it was that he might have known. He can’t even be sure they were close, but… the hole that he can’t quite place inside himself says there’s something he’s missing that he used to have. 

“Fever talking,” Tim finally utters, after a few minutes of unbearable emotionally-charged silence. “Don’t even really know what I’m saying. I’m gonna lay down again.” 

Martin stands, quickly maneuvering himself out of the way so Tim can stretch out. Not that he does. In fact Tim does quite the opposite, curling himself up into as small of a position as he can get. 

“You could stay, you know,” he finds himself whispering, the words coming out strangled and soft. There’s a moment of stillness as Martin pauses, one hand still on the door handle. He heard. They both know he heard. Now he has to decide if he’s gonna acknowledge that, or pretend he didn’t. 

“You know,” Martin finally speaks, Tim startling a little as his eyes snap back open from where they’d almost sunk shut. “Jon’s on a bit of a tangent about doors and spiders and whatnot at the moment. I could use a little peace and quiet.” 

“Well,” Tim says, the words rippling through his throat and leaving him struggling not to cough again. “Can’t really promise the quiet part.” He barely makes it to the end of the sentence before the cough breaks loose, a deep and rattling noise that leaves Martin wincing. 

Tim manages to grab the water bottle from where it had sunk between the couch cushions, and takes a few sips. After a couple more minutes of this back and forth, the coughing finally subsides, leaving him fully winded. 

“Case in point,” he manages to stammer out, swallowing with a grimace as the words burn against his aching throat. 

Martin says nothing at first, still standing awkwardly somewhere between the hall and the room. Finally, without a word, he closes the door behind him and walks over to the couch. There’s a brief pause, and Martin looks over to Tim. As if waiting for confirmation that this is really okay. Tim gives a small nod, curling back into himself, and Martin takes his seat on the edge of the couch. 

“That’s alright then,” Martin finally says, Tim not even bothering to open his eyes at the sound. “I never was a fan of quiet.” 

Sleep overtakes Tim as quick as before, that darkness enveloping him as fast as turning out the lights. The fog begins to roll over him, waves crashing against his feet, ready to consume him whole and drag him to the depths of nowhere. But it doesn’t. Instead, Tim looks up and sees- no one. There’s no one there, there never was, there never will be. 

Still… he can’t shake the comforting feeling that he’s not alone here. Not this time. A voice begins to hum to him. A voice he cannot possibly remember. A song he cannot possibly hear. But all the same, it soothes him into a deep and peaceful rest. 

~~~~~

This time Tim awakens to the sound of shushing, and hushed tones saying words just past his reach of consciousness. As the world begins to come into focus, he notes Martin standing at the door, speaking in hurried but quiet tones to an agitated looking Jon. 

Martin keeps casting glances back at Tim, and on what must be the fifth one, their eyes meet. Immediately Martin turns back to Jon, saying a few more words but this time in a much firmer tone than Tim’s used to hearing from him. Jon seems surprised as well, as he stops talking until Tim hears a faint murmur of… an apology? Followed by footsteps retreating down the hall away from the door. 

Turning around, Martin closes it behind him, giving Tim a soft smile. “Morning, sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“You di-dn’t,” Tim lies, leaning into his shoulder to cough a bit until the rough nature of his throat dwindles enough to sound legible. “I woke up on my own.” 

“That’s good then,” Martin replies, giving a soft smile.

“How long was I out?” Tim asks, swallowing roughly and beginning to search for the water. 

“Most of the day, it’s about mid-afternoon right now”, Martin says, turning towards a shelf, grabbing a cup and gesturing it towards Tim. “I made tea not too long ago, you want some?” 

Tim gives a nod, accepting the cup Martin passes him and letting the warm liquid soothe his throat. The taste is familiar, and he gives Martin a look. “Is this honey and lemon?” 

Martin blushes a little, hands fidgeting with his own mug. “W-well yeah, I figured if you did wake up th- that it might help,” he then pauses, giving Tim a once over. “How are you feeling?” 

“Right as rain,” comes the immediate response, Tim flashing Martin a forced grin. “Never felt better. Locked into a contract at the job from hell, where everyone either dies, goes mental, or gets eaten by worms! What could possibly be wrong, working at a place like the Magnus Institute!” 

It’s dripping with sarcasm, and that all consuming anger that Tim just can’t seem to be rid of. Not that he’s tried. Anger keeps him going. Anger gives him purpose. If it wasn’t for the anger… the depression would take over again. And he’s had damn well enough of that. 

Martin doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing really to say. They both know what he meant, and they both know pressing Tim for an actual answer won’t do anything but lead to a confrontation. Tim’s sure Martin’s well sick of those by now. Seems to be the only language Jon and him still have in common, and Martin never seemed one to take part. 

“hH’TSShh–iew!” The first sneeze catches him by surprise, but Tim has enough presence of mind to set down his cup and bring up his shirt to catch the next- “hihh– tsshhh-! tzSSHhhiew-! teh’ZShh’ew-! ah’tshh-! aH’TSHh–uh!” that follow. 

“Bless you,” Martin offers, setting down his tea and offering the tissue box instead. Tim accepts, taking a handful and pressing them to his nose, wincing as the light touch leaves his breath catching. 

“hh– hiEH!-hhh… hhhH!– hiEH’TSChhew-! aHTCHhh–oo! ah’tSChhho-! at’cHhoo-! nghh…” Tim can’t help the heady sigh that escaped at the end of that fit, the tissues all but useless now. Without a word, Martin offers the box again. Tim merely groans, taking another handful and blowing his nose a few times, until he can breathe again. 

“Bless you again,” Martin says, concern evident in his tone. 

“Thagks,” Comes Tim’s reply, dripping with congestion and sarcasm. 

“You sound awful,” Martin says, seemingly letting it slip before really considering the wording. He starts gearing up to an apology, but Tim holds up a hand, waving it off. 

“I dnow I do. Dod’t apologize, we both kdow it’s true.” With that said, Tim grabs another handful of tissues and attempts again to clear his sinuses. At least enough to make his words understandable. It seems to work, though it takes several blows to get there. “You really gotta work on that apologizing.” 

Martin stammers his way through something like seven near apologies before finally settling on, “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Tim just nods in reply, eyes beginning to flutter shut as he raises another wad of tissues to his nose. He can feel it twitching, nostrils flaring with each rise and fall of the tickle spreading deeper and deeper. 

There’s a beat of silence, Tim hitching mercilessly into the tissues as they both wait in anticipation for anything to happen. 

Finally after almost a full minute of the torture, Tim lets out an itchy moan. 

“Are you-” Martin starts, jumping a little when Tim whips to the side and lets out a desperately itchy sneeze. 

“hH’ATSChhiew-!” 

“Oh- bless you, I guess that was-” “aH’TSChhoo-! ah’TShh–oo! ATSCHh-shhoo!” 

Tim catches Martin wincing out of the corner of his eye as he comes up for air, before ducking back into his pile with “hH’tIEww-!” a few more “ahh!- hng… oh, hhhh– hH’TSChh–iew!” breathy and high pitched “hh’TZSHhiew-!” sneezes. 

Usually Tim would be feeling one of two things. One, enjoyment of the attention he’d get from such a desperate fit. Or two, mortified that people heard that version of his sneezing, how high pitched and dramatic it gets when his nose is really irritated. Admittedly it’s usually the first option, but amidst certain company it can be more humiliating than enjoyable to be reduced to such a display. 

Today, however, he feels neither. Instead he just feels drained. Completely and utterly drained. He uses his last bits of energy to blow his nose, barely able to produce enough willpower to get anything out, and then falls back against the couch. Martin looks on in concern, reaching down to the tray of supplies Tim had– frankly forgotten was there. 

“Look, I know you don’t want our… well I know you don’t want– um, I know-” Martin stammers, rustling through a few packages of pills and grabbing a few things Tim doesn’t even bother to attempt to read. 

“Just spit it out, Martin,” Tim snaps. The weariness in his voice softens the sting of his tone a little, but he doesn’t miss Martin flinch. He’d feel bad, if this was any other situation. He’d feel good if it was Jon. Instead he just ends up where he’s found himself more often than not lately. He doesn’t feel anything. 

“Sorry, uh… w-well,” Martin continues, and to the guy’s credit, he keeps his voice even and his tone soft. Despite the fact Tim knows he doesn’t deserve either. “I know you don’t want our help, or- or my help I suppose, as I’m the only one here right now, but uh– I really think you should take some of these meds. You just– you don’t sound well, and they could help, especially if you’re not gonna take Jon’s advice and…”

Tim feels his blood start to simmer again, despite how exhausted his whole body feels. No pick-me-up quite as good as a bit of rage to get you through the day. Martin knows he messed up. Tim can see it plain as day on his face, Martin’s words grinding to a halt and his eyes beginning to flicker back between the pills and Tim. 

He wants to feel bad for the man, truly he does, and he knows all this rage isn’t fair. All Martin did was state a fact. But… Jon’s advice. Jon’s advice. If he’s not gonna listen to their ‘boss’ who’s been too busy with his mental breakdown to give a fuck about how his employees– how his friends have been doing. If he’s not gonna follow the advice of the man who didn’t check up on him once after he got eaten by fucking worms. The man who stalked him, sat outside his house, took photos of where he went and what he did, but didn’t bother to ask if he was okay. 

“No, Martin,” Tim says, ice and sarcasm soaking through his words. “I am not going to follow Jon’s advice. And your contributions to the ‘Tim Can’t Take Care Of Himself’ club have been deeply appreciated, but now I think you should leave.” 

“Tim, I didn’t mean-”

Tim casts Martin a dark glare, pulling himself to his feet with considerable effort. “Get out.” 

Martin does as he’s told, rising to his feet and hurrying out of the room, though he does pause at the door and give Tim one last look. It’s clear what he’s saying, you aren’t alone. I can help you if you let me. 

It’s a look he remembers from Sasha. She used to say all the time, “I can’t help you unless you let me, and Timothy Stoker you are stubborn as anything, but god help me I will make you let me.” 

But even that is tainted. He wants to believe she really said that, he wants to believe they really had those moments, those looks, that bond, but… even if they did, the face he remembers, the look he remembers, it’s not her. It will never be her. She’s dead and he can’t even do her the small favour of remembering what she was like. 

A few tears begin to run down Tim’s face, and the feeling surprises him enough to snap him out of the anger. And as the anger fades, so does the strength he’d found from it, his legs giving out beneath him. Tim hits the floor hard, feeling his knees grind against the carpet as he sinks to the ground. 

Martin reacts quickly, jumping to action to help break Tim’s fall, strong arms, stronger than he’d expect from the man, gripping his shoulders and helping lean him against the wall. Martin’s speaking too, saying something Tim… just can’t make out above the crying. Why is– why is Martin crying? 

It takes him longer than he’d admit to realize the crying is coming from him. Once he catches on, so do his lungs, and it’s mere seconds before the heaving sobs turn into rattling coughs. Tim gasps for air, hands white-knuckled as he grips Martin’s arm. Martin’s still talking, and through the coughs he manages to understand “sit forward” and “deep breaths”. 

He does as he’s told, desperate to cling onto consciousness as everything begins fading into white. The world begins to spin, flashes of darkness and light taking turns blocking his vision. The worms are back, crawling in and out of his body, leaving his entire skin itching and burning. 

Amidst the chaos, he feels a hand on his back, and a bottle being pressed into his hand. A firm voice calls out to him above all the noise, “Drink this, Tim.” 

Tim manages to do so, identifying the liquid as water as he chokes it down. It’s cold too, the ice cubes giving him something to focus on besides the feeling of crawling and pain in each scar. He takes the time to chew each ice cube that makes it through the bottle, his lungs beginning to calm as his throat soothes at the cool touch. 

“There you go, just like that, now take these and blow,” The voice demands, and Tim feels tissues being pressed into his free hand. The hand on his back is rubbing slow circles, and too out of it to feel any embarrassment, Tim leans forward and blows his nose into the tissues. He blows again, and again, until he can feel some of the pressure in his head start to clear, and his breathing gets a touch less laboured. 

When his vision is cleared enough to look around, Tim glances up and sees Martin sitting beside him, rubbing soft circles on his back. He notes that he’s leaning against Martin’s chest, and makes the conscious choice not to move just yet. Tim then draws his eyes up further to the right to see Jon kneeling in front of him, still holding a handful of tissues. 

“You brought the ice water?” Tim asks, voice coming out surprisingly clear, though quite hoarse. Jon simply nods, suddenly very busy studying the floor beneath them. 

“I,” Jon starts, clearing his throat awkwardly before continuing, “I thought you might need it. I could hear you from my office, you didn’t– you didn’t sound well.” 

“And you just happened to have ice water and tissues sitting around casually on your desk,” Tim asks, doing his best in his foggy state to raise an eyebrow. 

Jon blushes a touch at this, casting an anxious glance over to Martin, before returning his gaze to the floor and answering noticeably quieter, “I may keep a certain set of… supplies in my office, as I’m not exactly unfamiliar with– this sort of condition.” 

“Is that your way of saying you’re sick more times than healthy?” Tim quips back, not unaware of the irony of their current situation. 

Jon doesn’t seem unaware of it either, and for the first time in… in a long time, Tim sees a smile creep over his face. A genuine one, not that professional civility bullshit he’d been putting up as a front lately. 

Jon clears his throat a little before speaking, casting Martin another embarrassed glance. “That statement is definitely not accurate, but… I do suppose you could say I’m–  more susceptible than most.” 

“Well it’s not like I’m immune,” Tim starts, pausing to duck into his shoulder with a rough, “ah’TZShh–oo!” 

“Bless,” Jon says, Martin echoing with a blessing of his own, never pausing his slow circles on Tim’s back. 

“Case in point,” Tim says, letting his eyes fall shut as he leans to the side, suddenly feeling the full weight of his fever begin to pull him back towards unconsciousness. 

He’s snapped out of it by something cold and wet being pressed to his face, managing to pry his eyes open to be met with the sight of Jon holding a washcloth soaked in icewater to his forehead. Despite everything, this sudden touch doesn’t leave him with the same crawling sensation most do. Maybe due to the fact he’s still half leaning against Martin, or maybe because… it’s Jon. And despite everything, he’s the one person that understands… 

“You really should go home, Tim,” Jon says, interrupting Tim’s thoughts as he sets down the washcloth. “I can feel the heat radiating off you from here, and while I don’t have a thermometer to check, I’m willing to bet you’re well past an acceptable fever to be working through.” 

Martin chimes in with his agreement. Tim takes note of the fact he’s stopped rubbing, and instead has one hand behind Tim’s head to keep him from hitting the wall, the other against the ground to keep his balance. 

“Weren’t you the one who came to work with a fever of 41° and fainted at your desk? I seem to remember Elias threatening to call an ambulance,” Tim retorts, tongue sharp as ever, even while fully leaning against Martin to keep himself upright. 

“Are you saying you need me to threaten to call an ambulance to get you to go home?” Jon responds, not without wit of his own. Tim gives him a look, weighing his intentions. He knows Jon won’t get Elias. After everything… he just wouldn’t. But an ambulance..? It’s not outside the realm of possibility he calls one. 

Tim mutters his response, barely audible over the sound of his own wheezing breath. 

“What was that?” Martin asks gently, using his free hand to brush back a bit of Tim’s hair from where it was clinging to his sweat-soaked forehead. Tim nearly melts at the touch, another thing he’s blaming on the fever. 

“I said I don’t think I can make it home like this.” 

Jon pauses, taking a step back and clearly evaluating Tim’s condition. Tim gives a winning smile, one laced to its core with sarcasm. Even in this state, he’s not forgotten what Jon did. How Jon acted. He can put on the concern all he wants, hell he can actually feel it, but it’s too late. He doesn’t need it now, not… not like he needed it then. 

“Fine,” Jon says, Tim nearly jumping at the sudden noise. Martin flinches too, and Tim could swear he sees a flash of guilt across Jon’s features. Still, Jon continues, voice even as ever. “You can stay here and sleep off the fever, it’s not like we’re using this room much anyways. Me and Martin will handle your caseload, between us, and with Melanie’s help, I’m sure we can work something out.” 

“Sounds like a plan boss, now maybe you can leave me to die in peace?” Tim quips in response, wincing a little as the room lurches violently when he rises to his feet. Martin’s still perched at the ready, clearly thinking Tim’s going to fall over again. To his credit, an entirely possible outcome. 

There’s a look in Jon’s eyes that Tim pretends he didn’t see. He knows what it means, after all, Jon used to be his friend. He knows the sadness all too well, he’s felt similar kinds of it himself while Jon was losing his mind right in front of their eyes. Or when Sasha… but no. Knowing the feeling doesn’t mean he has to empathize with Jon. 

Jon, for his part, just nods, gesturing for Martin to follow him as he leaves the room. The door closes behind them with a resounding thud. Tim winces as the sound echoes through his brain, pounding in time with his heartbeat. After they’ve both left, he stumbles over and turns the light off, before collapsing back onto the couch. 

He’ll sleep off the fever, then go home when he can travel on his own. And fuck, maybe he’ll just never come back. Maybe he’ll go on vacation, go somewhere far away, visit Rome, or Peru, or maybe Malaysia. 

Sure, maybe it was nice to have Martin stay with him but... it changes nothing. None of this changes anything. Sasha's still dead, Jon still left them all on their own, and Martin... he's still fighting for a future that's long dead. One that died with Sasha, even before any of them knew it. All that remains now is anger, lies, and whatever the fuck the Magnus Institute has in store for them.

So for now, all he can do is sleep until this fever goes away. Tim's eyes drift shut, and he falls back into the uneven sleep he’s grown so accustomed to. This time he’s back in those never-ending halls, turning corners that cannot possibly be there, walking past hundreds of lamps, paintings, photographs, and mirrors. This time, like many before, he does not scream. 

He’s far too aware, there’s no one to hear him.

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Wash Away the Pain #2 - Hunter

Fleeing Kamino, Hunter knows they’ve made a mistake, but he isn’t sure how to fix it. Could they even fix it? Who knows. All he does know is that he’s way out of his depth.

Pairing: Hunter x gn!reader (can be seen as platonic or romantic)

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: whump, guilt, hurt and comfort, brief mention of order 66, hopeful ending.

A/N: I was heavily inspired by these gorgeous drawings by @thattoothpick.

This is part of a mini-series where each of our boys will get their sad/angsty shower time, but they can be read as standalone's.

Check out others in the series: Echo, Tech, Wrecker, and Crosshair.

ps; don't care what's canon or not, the Marauder has a fresher 😂

Sign up to be tagged in my future fics.

It’s late, but Hunter can’t sleep.

How did things go so sideways?

They never leave their own behind, and yet…

He sighs, head thunking back against the shower wall. There wasn’t much room in the small fresher on the Marauder, but it was the only space he could be alone with his thoughts. Guilt churns in his gut. What the hell had happened to his baby brother? Why had he fired at them?

Crosshair’s demeanour had changed ever since the order on Kaller. His brother would’ve never fired on a child in the past; he would’ve listened – albeit with a snarky comment – when told to stand down. It was as if Crosshair had been replaced by someone else.

But rather than getting to the bottom of it, they’d left him.

He’d left him.

So much for being a good leader. A good brother.

The quiet click of the fresher door doesn’t even register to Hunter as his thoughts spiral, clutching the bandana wrapped around his fist.

The touch of your hand on his tattooed cheek rips him from his thoughts, head tipping forward to look at you standing before him under the shower spray.

You’d heard Hunter get up and had heard him head to the fresher and turn on the shower. Tech, Wrecker, and Omega remain asleep. Echo is on watch as you travel through hyperspace. As the squads nat-born medic, called in because of the inability of your boys to get along with regs, it was your job to look after their wellbeing. And now it felt like Hunter needed some care.

“Hey, H.” You greet him softly once he looks at you. Living in such close quarters had desensitised you to nudity – you’d seen all the boys in varying states of undress over the years and had even ripped blacks from them when they’d been injured to give you more room to work.

Hunter doesn’t bless you with any words, just a tiny nod of his head in acknowledgement. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to understand what’s going on in his head.

“It’s not your fault.” You whisper, fingers smoothing down his face and neck, pushing back wet strands of dark hair plastered to his skin until your palm presses against his chest. 

Hunter’s gaze lingers on yours, searching for reassurance that you may hold the answers he desperately seeks. The steam from the shower swirls around both of you.

“I should’ve done something,” Hunter mutters, his voice a low rasp. The guilt in his eyes mirrors the storm within him. “I left him behind. Left my own brother.”

Your fingers smooth over his collarbone, a gesture of comfort. “You did what you had to do to protect the rest of us. Crosshair wasn’t himself. You couldn’t have predicted it.”

Hunter’s jaw tightens, and his gaze drops to the swirling water pooling at his feet. The Marauder’s constant hum provides a backdrop to the heavy silence between you.

“He’s my responsibility,” Hunter admits, a raw vulnerability in his voice. “I should’ve found a way to save him.”

Your fingers tilt his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze again. “Hunter, you’re only human. You can’t control the choices others make. All you can do is protect the ones who are still here.”

He closes his eyes briefly as if trying to shut out the haunting images that plague his mind.

“You’re not alone in this, H.” You assure him. “We’re a team, and we’ll figure this out together. Whatever happened to Crosshair, we’ll find a way to bring him back.”

Hunter’s shoulders relax, if only slightly, under the weight of your words. The subtle touch of your fingers against his chest feels like an anchor, grounding him in the present moment.

A mixture of gratitude and anguish plays across Hunter’s features. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. Instead, he steps forward, his wet skin meeting your soaked clothes as the shower’s spray cascades around you both.

Without a word, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a gentle embrace. A hand cups the back of your head, the other around your waist, holding you close. The water from the shower mingles with the tears that escape his closed eyes. You hold him, offering solace in the only way you know how. Hunter’s breath steadies as he clings to the lifeline of human connection.

As the minutes pass, the weight on Hunter’s shoulders seems to ease. The guilt doesn’t vanish entirely, but it becomes a shared burden. You pull back slightly, holding him at arm’s length. Your eyes lock onto his. “We’ll find him, Hunter.” You affirm, your voice unwavering. “Whatever changed him, we’ll get to the bottom of it. And if there’s a way to bring him back, we’ll find that too.”

Hunter’s expression softens, a mixture of gratitude and determination replacing the turmoil. He nods a silent agreement that resonates through the small fresher. The two of you stand there for a moment longer, the steady hum of the Marauder and the pattering of the shower the only sounds in the room.

You reach for his hand, unfurling the bandana wrapped around it. Quietly, you wrap one end around your hand, too. “We’re with you, Hunter. No matter what.”

Hunter’s grip tightens on his end of the bandana, the physical connection serving as a tangible reminder of the support he has. “What do we do about the kid?” He asks softly, thrown so far out of his element.

You shrug, not having thought that far ahead. “We figure that out, too. You said it yourself: she’s one of us.”

“Never raised a kid before.” Hunter murmurs, brows drawing down into a frown. He could remember himself and his brothers at Omega’s age, but that was his only reference point.

A soft laugh leaves you, echoing in the fresher. “And you think I have?” You tease, delight flaring in your chest as Hunter’s lips pull up slightly into a smile. That was more like it.

Silence lingers between you both again, comfortable as always, but you watch as Hunter’s eyes glaze over a little. “He’ll think we abandoned him in favour of her.” He swallows, jaw clenching as the earlier guilt rears its head again.

“Perhaps, but we know that’s not the case.” You reassure him, hand shifting from his chest to smooth across his bicep, across the dark ink that shades it. “We were kitting up to go and find him, to break him out of wherever he’d been taken.”

Hunter knows you’re right, but pushing away his thoughts is hard. “Should’ve stunned him. Should’ve…”

“Hey. We’re not falling down that ash-rabbit hole, okay?” Your voice is more assertive this time, though still laced with care. “There’s a lot of ‘should’ve’ in life, but if that’s all we focus on, then we miss out on the here and now and forget to look to the future. What’s done is done, how we survive this…takeover…of the Empire, and how we get him back are all matters.” You insist, both hands rising to cup Hunter’s face to draw his focus to you.

It works. Hunter’s eyes find yours as he leans into the comfort you willingly give him. “Think we’ll survive?”

“I’ve spent three years with you. I’ve seen you guys pull off the impossible before.” You point out.

Hunter’s lips quirked into a half-smile, a glimmer of hope breaking through the clouds of doubt that had shrouded him. “Yeah, well, we have the best medic in the galaxy on our side.”

You playfully roll your eyes at his attempt to lighten the mood, but it does its job. “Flattery won’t get you out of the next round of physicals, Sergeant.”

He chuckles, the sound a welcome reprieve from the heavy atmosphere that had lingered moments before. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Let’s get some rest.” You suggest, the exhaustion evident in both of your eyes. “We’ll face whatever comes next with clear heads and a plan.”

With a nod, Hunter switches off the shower, and the two of you step out to towel off, changing into clean blacks stored in the only locker in the room. As you return to the racks, you glimpse Omega, still curled on her makeshift bed. She stirs slightly but settles quickly. Hunter places a hand on your shoulder, a silent expression of gratitude.

As you settle into your bunk, you glance at Hunter, resting in his bed across from you. His eyes meet yours, and an unspoken promise is made in that shared gaze. The journey may be arduous and treacherous, but together, as a family, you will face it all. The Marauder hurtles through the star-studded void, a small vessel carrying the hopes and dreams of those who refuse to be crushed by the weight of a galaxy in turmoil.

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal @littlemissmanga @starrylothcat @cw80831 @dreamie411 @issa-me-bry-blog

[apollo-likes-writing]

Death in the Family

Characters: Jason Todd/Red Hood, Dick Grayson/Nightwing, Bruce Wayne/Batman

Summary: The world is falling. Dick and Jason are trapped under the rubble of a now-destroyed building. It takes everything to escape.

Word Count: 2325

Tags: Angst, whump, gore, graphic depictions of injuries, death/deaths in the past, swearing (but nobody actually gives a shit about that), mentions of explosions, angst with a sad ending.

Authors Note: Is the pacing goofy? Yes. Do I care? No. I will be paying in advance for everyone's therapy bills regardless. This fic was inspired by the movie "Fall" on Netflix! Let me know if you want me to tag you in my fics!

Masterlist | AO3

@qcomicsy

It’s as if the world is falling. Everything feels so heavy. An uncomfortable weight lies on his chest. Moving doesn’t help. It instead makes it worse. A disgusting feeling of wetness coats the side of his face. Is it sweat? Tears? He can’t tell. His body is heavy. His eyelids are heavy. Maybe he should just stay there. Slip into sleep again. Maybe then that weighted feeling will leave him. 

“-Bird!” 

A tiny voice sounds out in the dim. That’s peculiar. What’s the importance of a bird right now? He’ll figure that out when he wakes up. He’s too tired to care right now. 

“Jaybird!” 

The voice is clearer now. Louder, but not to the point of deafness. Loud in the way your parents are loud when they yell at you from downstairs to tell you that dinner is ready. It’s distant. Muffled. Like someone has put earmuffs over his ears. 

“For goodness' sake, Jason! Wake up!” 

That’s what got his eyes to snap open. When he does, he’s met with almost pitch black. His arms are pinned to the ground beneath him by sharp stones. No, not stones. Boulders. His left arm has clearly snapped at the force of them falling on top of him. The dull throb that emanates from the now useless limb is soon to crescendo, but for now that’s all it is; a dull throb. It’s now Jason realises that the uncomfortable weight isn’t just the feeling of impending doom as he originally thought. It’s a slab of concrete. Thick and jagged and it’s digging into his torso, surely leaving bruises in its wake. 

He begins to panic when the dust begins to settle on his eyelids. How long had he been down there? He shifts around, attempting to move any of the debris that fell on him. Immediate regret shoots through him; as does a sharp, blinding pain in his leg. He cries out. The sound of it is gravelly and clogged as if something is stuck in his esophagus. The dust around him coats everything. His skin, his helmet (which he now realises is broken), his tattered costume; everything. It sticks to the interior of his throat and makes speech scratchy. 

“Nightwing?” he calls out to the darkness, “What happened? Dick? Are you there?” 

“I’m here, Jason. Had me worried for a second there,” the voice of his brother breaks through the cracks between the rock. Relief floods through the younger man. 

“Oh, thank the gods,” he responds. “Where are you? Are you injured?” 

“I’m fine, Jaybird. Only a couple scratches. You’re the priority right now. Keep talking to me, okay? Do you remember what happened?” 

What did happen? The vigilante ignores the pounding in his head in an attempt to recall the happenings of the past thirty minutes. His mind is filled with the images of a battle with the Joker. Jason broke down at the sight of him, and his distraction resulted in the C4 at the base of the high-rise building to explode, falling directly on top of them as a result. The two men are lucky to be alive. It’s a miracle Dick scraped away with only a few bruises and scratches. 

Yeah, Dick is apparently far luckier than Jason right now. 

“The fucking Joker,” Jason spits. “I’m going to kill him.” 

“Let’s focus on getting out of here first, eh? We don’t know if the rest of the family are trapped under here as well.” 

Dick’s defusal works. Jason breathes in deeply to calm his nerves. His eyesight begins to adjust to the darkness, and he can make out his surroundings more clearly. 

“Right. Yeah. You’re right. Where are you? I can’t see you anywhere.” 

“I’m next to you, Jason. Through this gap in the rock,” Dick replies. At his words, Jason tilts his head as far as his predicament will allow him (which, predictably, is not very far), and the eyes of his brother shine out in the dim between two large rocks that separate them. They’re bright and unmoving and make Jason relax a little. They always seem to have that effect. The constancy of them always ooze safety and competence no matter the situation. He’s Nightwing. His gaze can make even Batman feel safe. All it takes is a meaningful look and Jason feels calmer almost immediately. 

The younger man moves his head back to its original position, looking up at the debris instead of to the side. He closes his eyes, before throwing his head back onto the ground in frustration. 

“Fuck! This is my fault,” he exclaims. 

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Dick replies. Jason fights the urge to tut at him mockingly for his colourful language. “That man beat you to half-to-death and then caused the building you were in to explode. Nobody is blaming you for acting the way you did. This is not your fault. Stop blaming yoursel-" 

“People could be dead, Dick.” 

That shuts him up. 

The two brothers lie there in silence for a while before Jason speaks up again. 

“We should be dead, Dick.” 

“How come?” 

“What are the chances of us making it this far? You’ve been a vigilante since you were what, eight? You’ve been in the game almost as long as Bruce, and yet here you are.” 

Dick remains quiet. Jason continues. 

“Me? I did die. Quite horrifically, might I add. Yet here I am.” Jason opens his eyes and turns back to his brother. “Why am I not dead?” 

“Because it wasn’t your time.” 

“Then when is my time?” 

“Not right now, if you’re wondering.” 

Now it’s Jason’s turn to be silent. 

“You have your whole life ahead of you,” Dick states, “Now is not the time for you to talk like you want to give up.” 

“I’m legally classified as dead, Dick. There is a gravestone in the gardens of the Manor with my name on it. I’m already halfway there.” 

“And? You’re alive right now, right? Is that not excuse to keep on living?” 

Jason sighs, a heavy exhaustion settling like bricks on his body. 

“Fuck you, man.” 

“What for?” 

“For being right.” 

Dick’s eyes remain trained him, steady and still. It’s almost unsettling. The older of the two speaks up, this time with humour in his voice. 

“I’m always right,” he says, a smile evident in his voice despite the fact that Jason can’t see the lower portion of his face. The younger brother chuckles, the sound scratchy and harsh. 

“Now that’s bullshit.” 

The silence that follows is comfortable despite their surroundings. Jason closes his eyes, a faint smile on his face. He could fall asleep here and be perfectly content with it. A heaviness presses on his eyes as he begins to drift off.  

“Jason! Don’t close your eyes.” For the second time in the span of about five minutes, his eyes snap open in shock. They flutter for a moment, and he lets out a disgruntled groan. 

“I’m tired, Dick. I want to sleep.” 

“I know you want to, kiddo, but I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Bruce will never forgive himself if you end up dead.”  

Jason scoffs. “Fuck that. He’d get over it as soon as the funeral’s over.” 

“Yeah right,” Dick replies. “You didn’t see how he treated himself after the first time. He nearly destroyed himself.” 

“Let’s put the emphasis on nearly, hm?” he spits into the darkness. “If I was in his position, I would have torn the world apart if he had-” 

“Bruce isn’t you, Jason!” 

“What. And you are, Golden Boy?” 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

“What did you mean then?” 

An audible sigh is heard from the other side of the boulder but the older of the two brothers otherwise stays silent. Jason closes his eyes again, this time out of regret. 

“Shit. Look, Dick. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t waste oxygen arguing.” 

“You’re right. We shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” 

It’s at this point when an audible drip of something falls onto the rocks behind Jason’s head. His eyebrows knit into a frown at the sound. What was that? Is there water above them? If so, maybe they could use it to find which way is up so they can escape. 

Another drip, this time closer to his head. He can’t see the droplet of whatever it is falling from the ceiling of debris. Is it coming from the side? He turns his head away from Dick to look for the source. In the dim, he can make out a puddle of something next to his head. He squints his eyes, and he sees that it’s red. 

Oh.

Red. Crimson. It’s blood. 

His blood. 

He’s bleeding. 

The thing coating the side of his face isn’t sweat or tears. It’s his own blood. 

Oh God. 

Was the space he was trapped in always this claustrophobic? 

Was this smell of death always present? 

His chest is tight. His throat is closing. The pounding in his head heightens. 

A short way above him, he can hear his family. They’re shouting for him. They’re shifting rubble and debris. They’re trying to reach him. They’re shouting for Dick. Dick is shouting back. 

They can’t hear him. 

“Jason! Shout! Let them hear you!” 

He does so. He shouts. He screams. He yells. He yells for Bruce. He yells for Tim. He yells for Steph. He yells for anyone who might be there to save him. 

“Red Hood? Is that you?” He hears his father’s voice. 

“Bruce!” Jason replies. “It’s me! Help me!” 

“Keep shouting, Jaylad. We’ll find you!” 

He continues to yell for his father. His voice quickly growing hoarse from the dust that sticks to his windpipe. Beside him, Dick urges him to keep going. 

“Keep shouting, Jason! Keep it up! Don’t stop!” 

It’s only when light spears through the rubble and debris is pulled away that he stops. Tears stream down his face as the now unsettled dust falls on top of him all at once. He squints as his eyes try to adjust to the newfound light. The boulders pinning his broken arms are lifted and the slab of concrete is removed from his ribs. Strong arms lift him up and out of the pit he was in moments before. Bruce was always able to lift him as if he weighed nothing. Now is apparently no different. He’s picked up and cradled by his father like a child as he’s taken away from the hell that trapped him. He hunts for his family amongst the destroyed remains of the building that fell on top of them. He sees Tim. Damian. Steph. Duke. Cass. Carrie. Harper. Kate. Everyone. They’re all there. They’re all safe. 

But they’re missing someone. 

“Dick! You left Dick!” Jason’s voice cracks. Bruce gazes at Jason, the eyes behind the cowl seem sad. Defeated. It’s an unnatural look on the man. The Dark Knight shouldn’t look defeated. 

“I’m sorry Jason,” Bruce soothes. He sounds broken. Why does he sound broken? 

“What? No. Can you not find him? He’s there! He was right next to me!” he exclaims. Jason looks over Bruce’s shoulder to see his family gathered around the hole he was pulled out of. Steph is crying into Tim’s shoulder, his hand rubbing her back in an attempt to calm her. Damian is on one knee; the blade of his katana is stuck into the ground in front of him with his head lowered as if in prayer. Kate puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. What are they doing? Can they not find him? Jason feels like a child. Helpless and ignored. 

As he continues watching, he sees a flash of black and red fly into the pit. There’s silence for a moment before he sees Connor Kent bring the limp body of Dick Grayson out of the rubble. From where Jason is, he can see the teary eyes of the Kryptonian and his heart sinks to the ground.  

He doesn’t want to look down from Connor’s face. He doesn’t want to see the truth of it. He saw Dick in the rubble moments ago. He was alive! He was well! He only had a few scratches. He said it himself! He- 

“-was dead on impact.” 

His eyes are open, but the usual shine is gone. They’re glassy and dead. 

What? 

No. 

That- 

That doesn’t make sense. 

“But he was talking to me! I heard him speak!” Jason exclaims. Bruce shakes his head. 

“No, you didn’t,” he states, voice uncharacteristically quiet. 

“You’re gaslighting me? Really?” 

“He didn’t talk to you, Jason. I promise you that.” 

Jason looks down from his brother’s eyes, unbelieving. He knows what he heard. Dick was speaking to him as clearly as his father does now. He was speaking right into his ear, for heaven’s sake! He looks at Dick’s mouth as if to disprove his father’s words. 

Or rather, where Dick’s mouth should be. 

His jaw is gone. Probably smashed by a rock on impact. The hinge hangs uselessly on Connor’s arm. It’s grim and ugly. Jason can’t look away despite himself. 

“They say that,” Bruce begins, “sometimes, when someone is in a life-or-death scenario, their brain hallucinates a loved one as an act of self-preservation.” 

The puzzle pieces are locking into place. The fact that Dick’s voice is what woke him up in the first place is making sense now. The fact that Jason never saw the lower portion of his face is making sense now. The smell of death wasn't coming from him. The unblinking, still eyes wasn’t a knowing gaze, he was fucking dead and Jason didn’t realise. He was stuck in a hole with the corpse of his older brother, and he didn't fucking know. But Dick saved Bruce from having two dead sons that day. 

Even in death, Dick Grayson is always there to keep you safe. I suppose he is luckier in that respect.

--

Should I do a part 2 to this?

Reblogs appreciated!

Masterlist

[raointean]

Funniest responses* to the "What does "Whump" mean?" question

(In reference to my silmarillion fandom linguistics project, the results of which you can find in my "survey says" tag)

*not necessarily the full response, some are just fragments from longer responses. Also, I'm not filtering by "correct" or "incorrect" responses

it's like torture fic I'm pretty sure

Whump is (to me) almost kink adjacent in how it's employed for gratification (not necessarily sexual) and catharisis

Whump stems originally from the Stargate SG-1 fandom, and is an onomatopoeia of the sound a character makes when being hit or collapsing to the floor

Fic centring around a character being injured, sick, otherwise Going Through It(TM)

throwing your barbies out a window but like. with words.

Angst is a subgenre of whump, as are Hurt/Comfort and Hurt No Comfort.

(Usually) non-sexual

fic that revels in being angsty and sad

Can take the form of pain for pain’s sake

When your favorite character is suffering and you are enjoying every moment of it.

torture or other negative events happening to a character so we can see them SUFFERRRRR

Pain?

Sad, but not yet angst

a melodramatic connotation, though often affectionately.

Sometimes femdom flavored, sometimes part of hurt/comfort

Honestly, Elrond's entire history is a canonical example if I'm honest. The guy just never catches a break.

Gratuitous, slightly smarmy enjoyment of "hurting" a favorite character for iddy fulfillment

that builds to a crescendo of agony

The Silmarillion.

sometimes cute sometimes very much not

Historically I'm more used to seeing it associated with hurt-no-comfort but I think it's been updating recently?

Sometimes has a BDSM connotation but not always

No idea, but sounds funny

Ah baby your hurting so much (and I love it)

fiction where one character is excessively hurt for the reason of “the author wants to make them hurt in order to make them express emotions/vulnerability in a way they normally wouldn’t”

??? sex???

hurt/comfort, but without the comfort part. basically torture porn

emphasis on the hurt- but also with a recurring theme that eventually, things will get at least a little better.

Putting a character in traumatising situations, typically to feel better about your own situation

Hurt/comfort's darker cousin

I take my blorbo and I put him into a jar (plot outline) and then I shake him until he comes out bloody, battered, hurt on the brink of death and greatly traumatized, ready to be on the receiving end of some good old comfort

That Maedhros will be appearing in this story.

Hurt/Comfort but make it Hurt-HURT

kind of like grimdark but specifically physical and graphic

though its generally not very graphic)

Angsstttt but with a loving twist

Comeuppance towards a hated character does not count.

(but not like bdsm; character probably doesn't want it)

Putting your favorite characters through the meat grinder in a fanfiction context. Just make them suffer until they break down beyond recognition. It's not your regular angsty writing, no, this goes BEYOND. Just straight up torture.

It's suffering we coo over.

For those who enjoy torturing their dolls.

Genre where character is absolutely walloped on for catharsis reason (for the reader not them)

Nswf fanfiction catagory

Torture, whipping, medical experimentation, generally getting the shit kicked out of them. Often angst.

Similar to hurt comfort but its mostly the comfort part

Often does not include comfort as a chaser for the hurt, and if it does, then there is a *lot* of hurt

not sure. similar to whomp? like welp that sucks?

Making a character suffer. Extensively. Occasionally even excessively.

traumatising a blorbo and having a different blorbo help them

Light angst

[mbgcreates]

Para Siempre

(Or, Forever.)

A/N: I've just been thinking.

Dark x female reader, but written in third person. Inspired by Mark's final (?) line from his Unus Annus anniversary video in November 2023. (I've had this sitting in my drafts for half a year.) Established relationship ("wife" used for reader), so he's evolved quite a bit from the man we've seen. Contains mentions of death (no actual dying) and angst relating to such. Would this be considered mild whump? Idk. Word count: ~1300

~~

It's afternoon, this time; bright, sunny, not a cloud in the sky. It’s almost too perfect, in contrast to the activity and emotions on the ground.

What a sight he must look: glamour barely in place, wisps of shadow effervescing from him as he rushes to the place where, not all that long ago, the soil was freshly turned, where reality and dirt set in. Now, grass has made the space its home, the patches from years past but a memory. Flowers perch in a holder on the headstone, preserved and immortal. He made sure of that.

They are accompanied by regular flowers, although whether from the funeral home or loved ones, he does not have any way of knowing. These look relatively fresh, and he lets himself believe it was their family. It assuages his guilt.

Dark looks human again by the time he arrives at the gravestone, once more the age he had put forth for over a hundred years—although, perhaps, aged just a little. He can't bring himself to look exactly the same, not when it's been many years since he looked young. Not when it reminds him of when he met her.

He kneels down after a few moments, a more controlled movement than one might expect after his rushing around. He worries not about his suit; even if grass stains weren’t anything more than an inconvenience for someone like him, he wouldn’t care. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here, where she is.

Was.

It is human, to grieve—it was not something he expected to affect him ever again, and certainly not in such an intense way, and absolutely not for this long. But he is nothing but intense with everything, especially regarding her.

She had not been opposed to cremation, but he, the selfish entity he is, persuaded her into a traditional burial. He couldn’t bear the thought of his wife going up in flames, even if she no longer had any need of the flesh she once occupied. He could barely bear the fact that she was gone.

He brushes his thumb over the grooves in the stone, the ones delineating her name for all who seek her. A name that once was whispered reverently, said lovingly to the one whom it belonged to. A name that once laughed often, talked and listened, one who existed with him. Who wanted him. Him.

It could have been forever. But humans are not made for forever on earth, physically or mentally. They both knew what her decision would be, long before it came time…but that didn't make it any less difficult.

He can recall so clearly her smile, worn by time but no less beautiful, as he kept her company in the waning days, and he asked her again, hoping she would change her mind, this time. That death would not let them part.

That smile of hers was melancholic and her eyes pained that he would ask this of her again. “I don’t know that I could bear it,” she said, the words the same as last time, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “It would be selfish of us, amor. Hubris, even.”

“No more pain. You will be young again.” Even as he spoke, he could feel her stubbornness through their bond. “Stay with me.”

She was trying not to cry. He hated that he made her sad. “You know I always will be.” Her hand pressed against his chest, where his heart mimicked a pulse. “Para siempre.”

Her words ring clearer than ever in his mind, as if she were saying it directly to him again; but despite its fidelity, it’s a pale imitation to actually hearing her. Just like any illusion he could conjure would be a cheap imitation of her presence; it only instead brings back the pain.

There’s a tug within his essence, separate from his emotions, that makes itself known: an unwanted urge to leave. “It’s not fair,” he mutters. The last thing he wants to do is to leave her here alone. It's the same sentiment he has every time he has to go: He could spend all eternity here, at her grave, while the world turns and crumbles. Even forever would never be enough. But the void calls him back, forcing him to return. He doesn't care anymore if he dissipates, but the pull is too strong to resist; the very fiber of his being physically does not allow him to.

Obsidian presses his hand against the stone marker, mirroring her action from years ago. He reads it over again like it was the first time, as if he is trying to memorize words that are already emblazoned into his memory. The sensation of water collecting by his eyes is welcomed.

“I will be on time next year. I promise.”

Scotched, weathered landscapes, whipped by irradiated storms, stretches as fast as the eye can see. The soil, stripped bare of even a fraction of a sign of life, nonetheless holds the little memorial, clinging to what remains as if out of stubbornness. Long ago has everything else turned to dust…except for this. This, which that entity, now more creature than man, is now greeted by; what he will be greeted by in the time to come, until the very rock and core of the planet disintegrate into shards, and then into nothingness.

He can't remember when he came here last. For him, it had been an exact year, just as it had been all the years prior, when he kept his promise each time. How could this world and its time have become so detached from his own? How could he have missed the signs?

A multitude of eyes blink down at the monument, the shadowy mass from which they originate almost melancholic, if one could assign an emotion to the form. It reaches out to the stone, an incorporeal limb passing right through it. With effort, the entity dredges up the desire to become solid and tries again, this time succeeding in making contact. He caresses the headstone, fingers—he has fingers now, subconsciously formed—tracing over the worn spaces where letters were once chiseled.

This could be his last time here. With how eroded the stone is, it's likely it doesn't have many years left in it. He doesn't want to consider that. The Dark doesn't want to consider that the last tangible piece of the one whom he loved might not be here, next time. He's lucky enough it's lasted this long, even though it was by design, but it always felt like an impossibility. But, over the course of many lifetimes, one learns that few things truly are impossible.

The wind that slams into his form ought to sting in a way only intense, constant radiation can, but he cannot feel it, despite how badly he wants to feel the pain. He is beyond it now; only physical altercations with his enemy cause him any damage, and those clashes are becoming less and less frequent. The man within must be finally, finally tiring—or maybe, that’s just him. Maybe, it’s moments like this, where memories are really becoming the only things left of the one whom he loved, that are wearing on him. What is the point anymore, after all? When vengeance is ever escaping his grasp, how much longer can he really act the part?

Long ago, he had wished he could be lain here, keeping her company, so he wouldn’t have to continue on pretending. He was able to pretend, after a while, that was exactly what happened…his own name, next to hers until the end of time, was then etched onto the very headstone that he would come to see for nearly every year for thousands of years. He allowed them to “bury” him, an inert doppleganger that disappeared once the soil had returned into the space it previously occupied. The entity once known as Darkiplier was jealous of the doppleganger, even with the brevity of its situation, because it experienced what he could not.

And now, here, in the barren wasteland, he decides he’s ready. He’s so, so damn ready. If, after this, the planet itself is no more, then why even bother?

The formless entity “kneels” down slowly, sinking heavily against the headstone, as if the weight of his many lifetimes are now weighing upon him. All the eyes shut in unison. He feels, for the briefest of moments, a small hand rest on his shoulder, then a body wrapping around his, and a peace that he hasn't felt in millennia washes over him.

And he lets go.

[amethystgoldenwind]

ROTTMNT Fanfiction Library

All my fics are posted exclusively on Ao3! The site's guest-friendly so you don't need an account. Fair warning that I harbour TONS of favouritism towards Donnie, so most of my stories are about him. I'll organise them and include word counts and a short description!

Any and all warnings will be in the tags of the fics themselves. I haven't written anything too dark for Rise (yet), but everyone has varying levels of comfort and sensitivity. Put yourself first and read accordingly!

I personally use "Whump" to mean fics focused on physical injuries, and "Angst" to mean emotional/mental pain. All of my fics include comfort!

Feel free to hit up my asks for any questions! I love to yap about my fics.

~~~

Goldenwind Riseverse (In chronological order)

The main series, if you will! These fics are primarily canon-compliant, but include my own interpretations, expansions, and headcanons both grounded and not. They may reference each other, they may not, but they've all happened.

Also, Autistic Donnie is my favourite thing to tackle and write about. Expect LOTS of fics about or featuring his autistic experience and struggles, inspired by my own at times.

My ideas have expanded the more I write, so the 'older' fics might be missing some things (like tails), but are still canon to the Goldenverse.

Champion of the Water (4K, Turtle Tots, barely Donnie-centric but Leo POV, fun & games; a holding-your-breath contest reveals an interesting softshell 'power' of Donnie's)

A Turtle's Best Friend (9K, S1 Repo Mantis, Donnie-centric, angst-to-fluff; Donnie begrudgingly gets a doggo)

A Living Stone Against the Pavement (4.4K, S1 Purple Jacket, Donnie&April-centric, whump; Donnie gets hurt & April has to save him)

Paper Burns in the Third Degree (10K, S1 original, Mikey-centric, whump; the Mad Dogs have to escape a burning library after an explosion)

The Egg Pan (2.7K, S1 ambiguous, Disaster Twins-centric, humour, autistic VS normie; the twins fight over a pan with a predetermined purpose)

Staying Sane in the Mama Train (2.6k, S1 Insane in the Mama Train, Donnie-centric, angst, in losing his identity; Donnie must also give up his accommodations)

The Egg Pan Part 2 (2k, S2 ambiguous, Disaster Twins-centric, humour, autistic VS normie again; Donnie tries to die with honour over the pan with the predetermined purpose)

Stadium of a Hundred Needles (4.4k, Series ambiguous, Donnie-centric, angst/whump; Donnie battles sensory overload at a Yokai sports game)

System Glitch (I think I am) (8.5K, S2 original, Donnie-centric, 11pm musings; Donnie questions the probability of his disability and goes to Draxum for answers)

Existance of the Metaphorical 'Wrong Side' (6K, S2 ambiguous, Donnie-centric, angst/whump; Donnie does stupid things after waking up sad/stressed and Repo Mantis chooses to be a decent person about it)

The Hilarity of the Difficult Son (4.9K, S2/Post S2 Original, Splinter&Donnie-centric, two scenes; Donnie 'comes out' as autistic and Splinter doesn't like it at first, but is later forced to accept it)

~~~

A Butterfly with a Mechanical Wing AU

A miniature alternate universe where only one thing is different: Donnie is a nonspeaking autistic and communicates through alternate means. The purpose of this series is to explore a new type of normal and perhaps tackle some challenges a nonspeaker would face. Don't worry, he's treated mostly the same by his family, just with more accommodations. He also retains his wonderful personality.

Full disclaimer, I am a speaking autistic and do not wish to speak FOR anyone. This is mainly a creative/fun exercise to explore alternate means of communication (which fascinate me) and is not meant to reflect a true nonspeaking experience.

Series Link

A Cause to Celebrate (3.3K, Leo POV, fun & games, the boys throw April a party after a successful round of mid-terms)

The Poisonous Platter (3.4k, Raph POV, mission, the Mad Dogs have to stop another one of Meat Sweats' nefarious plans)

A Chameleon Effect (11k, rotating POV, humorus incident, the mad dogs eat chocolates that performs the ol' soul switcharoo)

Love Me Just the Same (4.4k, Donnie POV; Donnie fears that being nonspeaking will put him at odds with the newly freed founder of his clan)

I have plans for more stories in this AU, and look forward to writing and sharing them!

~~~

I hope you found something of interest! I hope to deliver many more fics as time goes on. My ADHD gives me endless ideas, but writing them is the true challenge.

Arrivederci, fellow nerds!

[alicepao13]

Hudson and Rex S03E16 - The Art of the Steal - PART A

As I said, not very high stakes finale, unless you count Charlie and Rex being in danger for like a minute.

Black letters in quotes: Actual show quotes.

Green letters in quotes: What I come up with my twisted brain.

You know that when a main character goes to the bank, some shit will happen. It's the law.

Charlie and Jesse talking recipes. And then we're going to end up with takeout.

"I gotta go. Rex has fans again." Always and forever.

"Man, I just wanted to make a withdrawal. How does this always happen?"

Jesse, stop talking recipes, Rex and Charlie are in danger!

"Rex, down." "Okay, but you'll tell me when I can rip him to shreds?"

What do I have to do to get this guy properly locked inside a bank under the threat of a gun (or several)? Or in some other ideal locations, basements, etc. I mean, Charlie whump was sufficient last season, I just... want... more.

"My partner and I are cops and you're the most unlucky fucker in the planet."

Don't touch the evidence with your bare hands, Charlie.

More gallows humor.

Sarah: "I'm glad you're okay." Charlie: "Glad enough to not leave... maybe?" If they're going to pretend this episode is actually after the previous one, then I'm going to pretend Sarah's job offer is on Charlie's mind.

Well, they did have everyone worried.

Hi, Mason.

Charlie: "Don't tell me you're starting to like him." Rex: "I'm allowed to have friends you disapprove of."

What do you mean you don't want coffee because you're vegan? What?

"You might have everyone fooled but you're not fooling me, you little dirtbag."

"Do you know if you locked your [car] doors, Detective?" Uh, he better. It's a police car. Disguised as a sports car but whatever.

Joe, come on. We should be allowed to interrogate whomever we want is related to the case.

"Joe, when has Rex ever been wrong?" "Charlie, we cannot hold someone indefinitely based on the testimony of Rex." Indefinitely? He just got here.

"Is it possible that Rex might have been mistaken for once?" Oh, you did not.

Annie: "Sorry, that's not him." Rex: "How fucking dare you?"

Jesse: "Maybe Rex's nose is broken or something." Rex: *low growl that promises pain*

Only Charlie believes in him! Okay, Sarah hasn't expressed an opinion.

They both look so sad.

Jesse to Sarah: *whispering* "Hey. Ask him." Sarah: *whispering* "No, he's busy." Charlie: *whispering* "I can hear you, guys. What? What?" Why do you have to be such dorks?

"The barbecue is still on." Oh, yes, that was important.

Charlie: "Take care of [Jesse]." Rex: "You mean the trouble magnet? Absolutely."

"There's no shame in being the third best investigator in town." Yes, that is exactly what Charlie was worried about.

Sarah brought flowers! And not much else lol

*about to expose Charlie's scheme*

Charlie: "Wow, you guys are pretty bad at this whole work-life balance thing." Work-life balance will forever remind me of Severance now. Damn it.

"Does the caramelizing of the butter come before or after the drive-thru?" lmao

Subtly working in there that Mason's lens has a scratch. No one noticed. It's not significant. It will never come up again.

That's what you guys do in your barbecues? Jeez.

3D-printer sculpting? What's next?

How did I hit the image limit on this episode? To be continued on Part B.

[soapy-soartp]

Day 5 of @whumperless-whump-event

Im so sorry Lan Zhan but these prompts just fit you

Day: 5 - STEALING THE BREATH FROM MY LUNGS (GIVE IT BACK)

Prompt: Wheezing / Light-headed / "I'll count, you just breathe."

Fandom: MDZS

Characters: Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Backround/Mentioned: Lan Sizhui and Wei Wuxian

“Wangji…” Lan Xichen starts, trying to reason with his younger brother.

Who was once again kneeling by a closed door, desperately waiting for it to open once again for the people inside to let him in.

Even all these years it’s still a painful sight to see, and even more painful to remember. Lan Wangji’s grief and desperation, his own grief and sadness, all far too overwhelming for two young children. But no one around could- no, would help them. The only one who was willing and happy to guide them was gone.

“...” As expected he got silence in return, but he can tell now that his brother’s word may fail him, his eyes don’t.

Those eyes are glassy and far away. So he does what he can as he holds over the umbrella he had over them both.

“…Let’s go inside, hm?” He tries to coax, it was raining instead of snowing but that's to be expected in Lotus pier, where the weather was much warmer than that of Gusu.

“Wangji… They’ll be ok…” He tries to reassure but it falls on seemingly deaf ears.

He can't even imagine what's going through his didi’s head right now, not only was his husband hurt, he couldn't even see him and the scene was far too similar to the one from their childhood.

–

It all happened so fast. At least that’s what was reported, Wei Ying and A-Yuan got hurt.

And he wasn’t there to help them.

“Move! get out the way!”

“I'm sorry, Hanguang Jun but you can't enter while the Jiang healers are in there…”

“They’ll be fine. He’s survived worse and you’ve both raised a tough kid.”

The long engraved need to follow the rules, to keep his composure wars with the anxiety, fear, and dread he feels at this moment.

So he kneels, out in the harsh rain of lotus pier, slightly off to the side from the Jiang sect's healing ward. His brother tries to coax him out of the rain, but he can't hear very well, actually he can’t do anything much more than fixate on the fate of those in the medical ward.

It’s getting harder to think, to breathe. He suddenly feels cold and lightheaded… and his vision starts to swim with dark spots.

Then someone’s (his brother?) is in front of him and there’s hands gripping at his shoulders.

“-ngji?...Snap…it- Breathe!” Is being yelled at him.

Breathe…? Isn’t he breathing? He has to be, why wouldn’t he be… Oh.

He isn’t breathing.

He tries but all he can manage is a wheezing breath, he blinks and his sight fogs over with tears.

“G-ge…?” He manages while struggling for breath.

“Wangji, Didi, it’s alright, you’re alright. Just breathe, ok? Just-” Was the frantic response, he feels himself shift and soon he’s leaning against his brother.

“C-can’t…” He gasps for breath but it ends in a choked wheeze.

“Ah, follow my breathing, hm?”

He feels his brother’s chest rise with a steady breath in and fall with one out. He tries to follow through but his attempts end in staggering wheezes. He feels more dark spots dance in his vision and he, embarrassingly slumps and clings to his brother.

“G-ge…g-ge, can’t. W-wei Yi- Shinz- Shu-” A gasps interrupts his desperate and panicked babbling then he continues on again.

He feels the tears fall as he calls out to the people who he cares for the most.

“Shh… A-zhan, A-zhan. Just breathe.” His brother states firmly, taking his wrists in a firm hold and pulling him in closer to the solid embrace, “I’ll count, just breathe.”

“In for One… Two… Three…” His brother starts, and he tries another breath in.

It was still hard but the solid presence helps, the calming voice and the counting helps. Thankfully after a few rounds of the breathing exercise, his own breathe steadies. But that doesn’t do much for the emotional exhaustion and anxiety he still felt, so he allows himself a moment of vulnerability.

He openly weeps in his brother’s arms, concern for his husband and their child too great to bear. Once he’s truly exhausted himself he slumps fully in the solid hold.

Now they were both soaked and kneeling in a Jiang sect courtyard. He lets out a quiet hum, an apology and thanks to his brother.

[whimsicalcotton]

2, 8, and 12 for Rachel

2. What’s your least favorite aspect of this character?

is it a cop-out to say that it's the fact that we never actually get to see stuff from her pov. i need to hear her internal monologue so bad i bet it's Fucked <3

12. How do they act when sick/injured? Is it obvious or do they hide it well?

Rachel is really really good at hiding literally anything that could possibly be going on with her, but even when it's becoming obvious to everyone else that she's under the weather it takes nothing short of holding her at gunpoint to get her to stop and rest it off. and when she's proper sick to the point where even she can't deny it she gives up The Facade & gets extra clingy and whiny like a sad little melodramatic cat <3

8. Describe your ideal whump scenario for this character.

slapping this one under a readmore bc i got. a wee bit carried away

(and quick CWs for suicidal ideation, emetophobia, & a mention of calorie counting)

overindulgence after a bad day. 

maybe it's been a long week and her patience for everything has worn thin, or maybe she's been thinking too much and looking for a way to shut her brain up for the night. whatever the underlying issue, she’s insistent on not bothering Chloe & Max with it and instead turns to her preferred solution of invoking the sin of gluttony via getting as shitfaced as possible. 

it starts out normally enough; roping people into various drinking games, finding an excuse to smoke with anyone and everyone. and then she's drinking straight from the bottle while playing cards, and she just won another couple of joints so hey why not head outside again, and everybody knows it's not a real Vortex party unless she does a line with Victoria.

and then later on when most people are starting to wind down their intake for the night Nathan offers her a tab and Vic (who is often forced by process of elimination to be the voice of reason when it comes to these three being inebriated) tries to dissuade her from it by pointing out she already has like three different substances in her system — “isn't that enough for you, you greedy son of a bitch?” — and adding another is a monumentally boneheaded idea. 

but Rachel looks her dead in the eye and says, “nothing is enough for me,” way too genuinely and that's when Victoria realizes this is gonna be a Problem. 

and imo Rachel is one of those people who is very much aware of her limits she just pushes them intentionally & without mercy, so even when she's starting to realize she's overdone it she just. keeps taking whatever the fuck winds up in her hands. what's another cooler? what's another cigarette? what does it matter if it feels like her head is gonna fall off any second? (Vic ends up confiscating no less than three drinks from her, which she then has herself bc she is a tripsitter by technicality alone.) 

but ultimately Victoria can only run so much damage control when she's Also completely blasted and has to keep an eye on Nathan too, so she's having a Tenth Doctor choosing between Rose and Mickey moment where she has to go after Nathan instead bc she knows he's more likely to cause collateral damage But. she does call Max and has just enough remaining pride to demand rather than beg that pricefield come get Rachel because, “your girlfriend is whacked off her ass and convinced she has the drug tolerance of an elephant and i have no idea where the fuck she went but wherever it is i can't guarantee she isn't about to waterboard herself with a bottle of smirnoff.” 

which is an unfortunately accurate summary bc Rachel is in fact attempting to drink More and she's at the point where she's thinking shit like i bet if i said i was taking a shot of bleach everyone would cheer me on and then maybe the applause would make it all hurt less. so when she finally pulls out her phone and sees all the missed calls and messages from Max — hey we're on the way over to get you, is everything alright? where are you? Rachel please answer I'm getting really worried — and Chloe — yo why is Chase calling at half past stupid to tell us you're being a dumbass? Rach c'mon pick up you're kinda freaking me out. you'd better just be too distracted to look at your phone and not out cold somewhere i swear to god — whatever emotional hellstorm she'd been trying to stave off finally breaks through the fifty pound haze of drugs and alcohol she's put herself in and she devolves into a big ol' shame spiral. it's definitely not the first time Chloe has seen her messed up six ways to sunday like this but she Does try really hard to keep Max from ever seeing her anything worse than drunk so the thought of them both trying to find her right now is a little too much to face.

and it was never that good of a trip to begin with but this is where it starts heading downhill fast. now that The Fun has worn off, being sloshed from several different sources is no longer the remedy she'd been pretending it was. fading in and out of feeling restless from the acid and lethargic from the alcohol, stumbling everywhere, can't keep focused long enough to think up an escape plan, and it's just starting sink in that Victoria was right (god forbid) and she shouldn't have taken up Nathan's offer because she's going to be stuck like this for a While before she starts coming down.

by the time Max and Chloe actually find her she's off all by herself white knuckling a bottle and staring at her phone and when Chloe semi-gently asks what the hell she's doing her answer is something like “oh, well I just thought the next few hours might be easier if I wasn't conscious but I've puked twice and I'm still awake so I don't think it's working.” 

which pretty immediately upgrades pricefield into Hyper Crisis Mode (bc let's be real Max has been having a crisis ever since Victoria called.) so Chloe slowly detangles her from the alcohol and helps her up, and Max gives Rachel her sweater bc she's a shivering shakey wide eyed mess. and the entire time Rachel is just babbling on and on about how they're not supposed to be here, how they should be off on their own having fun and not worrying about her because she doesn't need any help, nothing is wrong, she can take care of herself. when they're walking her out to the truck she's got leftover eyeliner streaks from crying in the bathroom and she's like two shades away from being printer paper white but all anyone says to her is stuff along the lines of, “hey looks like someone had a good night!” 

and once they're finally outside she turns to Max and Chloe all “see, see, you're doing it wrong. who cares if i’m fucked. you should ignore it and pretend i’m just having fun like everyone else does.” 

Max is (reasonably) horrified and Chloe is like “yeah, no, that's not happening,” and so they begin the arduous process of getting her back to the dorms in one piece. they have to stop halfway bc she gets sick again and at this point she's so out of it she's laying in the backseat openly waxing poetic about how throwing up is divine punishment for losing count of her calories but at least this way she can still have breakfast with them tomorrow. poor Max is back there with her trying to keep them both from tipping over the verge of a panic attack and just barely succeeding. 

then pricefield get to spend the rest of the night looking after her and trying to calm down & distract her jittery, incredibly unwell ass bc she physically can’t sleep until like 7am. Chloe conks out with her but Max is solidly in Worry Mode and stays up keeping an eye on them both. when Rachel finally wakes up she has a super mega thousand degree ultra hot knife son of a bitch wish-you-were-never-born hangover that lasts like two fucking days and she can barely keep anything down and she’s just wasting away like a waifish victorian woman on death’s doorstep in Max’s room the whole time and pricefield are running around like a pair of chickens with their heads cut off trying to take care of her and the entire time Rachel is thinking wow i sure love them and i’m so going to have the biggest breakdown known to man the minute i’m on my own. 

and to top it all off she gets an “i told you so,” text from Vic <3

[unrestrainedbalderdash]

Queerplatonic Riddler x Reader fanfic

Disclaimers:

I am not a good writer. I am simply making this because I am an aroace who loves the Riddler and and desperate for fanfiction that isn't romantic or sexual and I want it to exist in the world.

This is a bit out of character because I am simply not smart enough to write a genius and I am also not very good at riddles.

Some of it is very contrived, in particular the "worldbuilding" had to be crammed into fitting a pattern for reasons, so it is very janky.

Allos are allowed to interact but PLEASE BE MINDFUL THAT THIS ISN'T FOR YOU.

Also I'm English so there may be a couple of covert language differences if you're American (eg: saw a post where apparently in the US "quite" means very whereas here it's much less intense than that)

Rating: Probably teen

Warnings: Swearing (S and F word), whump (hurt reader), violence and injury, implied ableism, near-death experiences, robberies and hostage situations (not very dangerous)

Reader insert info: Oriented aroace, quoiromantic, autistic (hyperfixating on Riddler)

Word count: 5022

Please don't give me loads of criticism I'm not releasing this to improve at writing I'm releasing this because there's no representation.

You sit in your room, reading the Gotham Gazette. A small smile appears on your face; the news keeps talking about the new crime spree, courtesy of the Riddler. You’re lying on your green bedcovers, kicking your feet and giggling. It is quite sad that his latest bank robberies are going to severely affect the economy, but… look at him. He looks so happy in the CCTV footage. His smile is the most precious thing you’ve ever seen. You love the newspaper, as long as you don’t read the articles. There’s a lot of speculation about his mental state, and, while you do agree that his mental state is probably not great, some of the speculation… it wouldn’t feel out of place on an Autism Speaks advert. You use permanent marker and doodle question marks to hide the more offensive articles. With everything that’s left, you cut it out, glaring at the scissors that are leaving jagged edges even though it is probably just a skill issue. You use Blu Tack to stick it onto the board with all of the other articles and pictures, and pick up those which fell off. Five crimes so far. You scan the articles. The names of the locations… there must be something… Classy and Elegant, a store for wedding clothes, with lots of money… House-Dealing Special Princesses, the estate agents for posh people… River Bank Tower, a tower that was a historic location for money laundering and was converted into a tourist attraction… Worshipping Mr Batman, a Batman fan club with a large following, as well as founders who got very rich… and Rose Petal Association, a very wealthy gardeners’ club. The letters… they feel… familiar…

You quickly open Wikipedia. Hands shaking – you don’t know if it’s from nerves or excitement – you search for Elgar’s Enigma Variations. Your eyes widen. Classy and Elegant – C.A.E! House-Dealing Special Princesses – H.D.S-P! R.B.T! W.M.B! R.P.A! His crimes are all after Elgar’s Enigma variations! You’re stimming, at having solved this riddle. But where will he strike next? The next piece… Ysobel…

You open Google Maps. This isn’t simple initials, the piece is named after a full name… You search around, trying to find something that fits Ysobel…

It’s the next day. As usual, it is raining. You’re carrying a green umbrella, and hoping that, if he does show up, he won’t realise that you carved the handle into the shape of a question mark. Anxiety fills you – the establishment which should be the next target, is very… suspicious. Why So Bell, a supposed bell manufacturer which everybody knows is really a front for one of the Joker gangs’ hideouts. You glance around, nervously. There are legitimate shops next door, it should be safe, it should be safe…

You’re hiding in a bush, shaking. It hurts, there are probably lots of bugs, but… you can’t just loiter in the open next to a Joker-affiliated operation, but… you have to see the Riddler’s next crime. Your umbrella is hidden with you in the bush. You’re getting uncomfortably wet. You don’t think your glasses will ever recover from this experience. Half an hour passes, and you watch as people come and go from the buildings. An obvious gang member leaves Why So Bell. You are shaking in the bush as she walks towards you. Does she see you? She’s coming closer. Closer. Closer.

She yanks you out by the tip of your umbrella. You look up at her sheepishly, trembling. She responds by punching you in the face.

You wake up, and your heart leaps as you see your favourite colour, green. Your heart is then filled with terror. The green isn’t from your many pictures of the Riddler, the green is from a massive vat of acid, and you’re dangling right over it. “Who the fuck d’you work for?!” the gang member asks. “N-N-NO-ONE! I’M N-NOT A GANG MEMBER! PLEASE! TH-THERE’S BEEN A TERRIBLE MISUNDERSTANDING!!” you squeak, terrified. The gang members – three of them – laugh at you. “Why were you hiding in that bush?!” a Joker goon shouts at you, as you feel yourself being lowered towards the acid, “You’re a spy, aren’t ya?!” “PLEASE! PLEASE! I W-WASN’T SPYING! PLEASE! I W-WAS… I WAS JUST HIDING IN THE BUSH, W-W-WAITING FOR SOMEONE!!” “Yer lying!”

Your vision is being consumed by green, and not in the usual Riddler hyperfixation way, but in the way that you are about to die. You are whimpering, trying desperately to stammer out an explanation, but there is no way to explain anything in a way that does not make you look like an alloromantic stalker…

Suddenly, the power cuts out. You scream, thinking that this the end. The Joker goons are shouting, confused. There are sounds of a scuffle, and one of their panicked yelling is cut short. The other two are fighting something. “B-Batman?” you shriek, terrified. Every time the Riddler goes to Arkham, he seems to come back worse. If Batman is here, he will surely arrest the Riddler and send him to Arkham yet again. The sounds of the scuffle stop. You wait, hyperventilating. This is very bad, as you are starting to breathe in the fumes of the acid. It’s rather funny that you solved the riddle, and now Batman came here to save you but will surely arrest the Riddler. You can’t help but laugh at the fact that you solved it for Batman, it’s so funny, he’s going to rot in Arkham! Ha! You’re being lifted up, taken away from the green, just like how your hopes of ever seeing the silly green man have gone away! Now you’re being picked up! It’s funny, Batman’s arms seem nowhere near as muscular as they should be! Isn’t it funny that you’re still in the dark, the Dark Knight hasn’t turned the light on, because dark! Ha! Get it? “Ha… I’ve already done the work, Batman!” you laugh. “Don’t compare me to that pathetic man,” your saviour replies. It’s hilarious, you’re such an idiot, you’re stupid! You’re a fool! You’re just as pathetic as Batman! What even is a Bat Man meant to be, anyway? And now, this man is holding you! From what you can see, the glow of the acid is turning his outfit green! Oh, what’s that silly symbol on his outfit?! Haha! The little question marks in your brain, and now there’s a big one on this man’s spandex! Hahaha! You’re an idiot! An idiot who didn’t realise you finally got to meet your hero! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! He thinks you’re so stupid! He can hear you mumbling about how stupid you are, you’re really not helping things, this is so funny, he’s going to hate you! And now, everything’s going dark like your future! Ha! Ha… Ha… Ha…………..

You’re in a hospital bed. Next to you is your umbrella. “You’re awake,” the nurse says, looking at you with concern. “Wh… what happened..?” “Someone found a note leading to you. You were passed out… Joker chemicals…” Your eyes widen. “J-Joker?! Is… are there gonna be lasting effects?!” “You might be more prone to fits of laughter, but that’s all.”

In the evening, you’re released from the hospital. You walk home, holding your umbrella. You feel an irregularity on the handle, and carefully take your finger away from it. Your heart leaps; there, on the handle… a small question mark, engraved into the wood. You stand there for a little while, shaking, your mouth open in what could be a smile. What could this mean?

You return home, giggling. You walked past Troyte Bank on the way, Troyte being the next piece in the Enigma variations. There also seems to be a pattern to the timing of the robberies – the next is going to be at some point between 1 and 1:30. You’re shaking. You could go to the bank at 1. You… you could see him… you could be in the bank while it’s being robbed… a bank robbery would be very scary, but you could see him! Being an innocent bystander in one of the Riddler’s very own crimes… the thought makes you giddy with excitement. You’re giggling again; the exposure to the fumes of the Joker chemical has evidently given you this new habit. You sound like a teenage girl talking with friends about a cute boy. Your laughter turns more nervous. What will people think when they hear your giggling? They’ll think you’re weird…

They already do, though…

It’s 1PM. You step into the bank from the rain of Gotham, clutching your umbrella, biting your lip to stop yourself from giggling. You loiter near the side, doing your best to not look suspicious, waiting for him… After three minutes, the door opens, and five goons holding machine guns enter the building, along with him. The Riddler, wearing his iconic green spandex, with the purple belt, and the large black question mark on the front. There are little question marks in lines down the sides of the arms and legs. He’s wearing his mask and gloves, of matching shades of purple. The spandex… doesn’t leave much to the imagination. You can tell that he is quite muscular, although not nearly as muscular as people renowned for strength, such as Batman. “I’m tough and elastic, but you have left! O! What am I? A robbery!” he exclaims, gleefully. You can’t help but smile at his wide grin. He twirls his cane as the gunmen usher everyone in the bank to the side. The gunmen tell everyone to kneel, and you kneel down, clutching your umbrella. An old man grunts from having to kneel. The Riddler looks at the group. “Tell you what. Anyone who can answer any riddles will be allowed to stand up!” he says, taking out some cards from within his belt and giving them to one of his goons, whispering instructions for the order they get distributed in. He and two of the goons walk into the vault, and are presumably taking the loot, while one of the goons points his gun at the bank staff, one points his gun at the group, and the last one is handing out the riddles. You receive your card with the riddle on it. You read the riddle: What can be gentle as the wind, or as all-consuming as fire, as strong as a mountain, as beautiful as a sapphire? “Is it love?” you ask shyly, before he has even finished handing out the riddles. He walks over to you, and reads the riddle. After a little pause, he grunts and nods, and walks off. You start to stand up, and glance at the old man next to you who is struggling. “The answer’s water,” you murmur in his ear. He rereads the riddle, and then gives his answer to the goon, who has now finished handing out the riddles. He is allowed to stand, and you wait for the goons to glance away, then give another person an answer. “My, my, you’re very good at solving other peoples’ riddles, aren’t you?” a soft voice says in your ear. You squeak. It’s him. You can feel yourself trembling nervously, he’s so close, he has a smirk on his face. The Riddler gives you a wink, and moves away. He leaves with the goons and the loot he has stolen.

That night, you go home, shaking. You’re filled with emotions, and they’re scaring you. You… you think you might… love him… you’re not sure what kind of attraction you feel… and it’s scary. He means a lot to you, and you want him to know how you feel, but you don’t even really know how you feel. You go and print out the page for Oriented Aroace on the LGBTQIA Wiki. You get out a pen and paper, and start making a diagram, with some bars, each corresponding to a different type of attraction, the main ones you can think of. For the bar about sexual attraction, you can easily put NO in capital letters. For sensual attraction, you fill it quite high. You pause, and decide to write definitions for the types of attraction. You reach romantic attraction, and hesitate. What is romantic attraction? Romance is entirely a social construct… how does one define it? After a minute of trying to think, you just fill it with question marks and print out the wiki page for quoiromantic. You start writing: “I don’t know what romantic attraction is meant to feel like. I don’t feel it usually, but you make me feel something I’ve never felt before, and I can’t tell if it’s a cross between hyperfixation and alterous attraction, or if this is what romance feels like.” You glare at the paper. You genuinely can’t tell if it’s you finally feeling romantic attraction for one person, or if it’s internalised amatonormativity and you’re just hyperfixating and have tertiary attractions. All you know is… that you love him…

The next day – another rainy one - is here. You’re loitering inside Without Nines, a casino, when he comes in, with several gunmen. There are also two women, dressed in spandex with question marks – Query and Echo. The Riddler is wearing a very dapper green suit with black question marks, along with a purple and blue waistcoat with question mark shapes. His light green tie is embroidered with purple question marks, and he wears a green bowler hat with a purple ribbon and a black question mark, the colours matching the rest of his outfit. His shirt is black, and he wears purple gloves and his purple mask. A little smile plays upon his face as everyone in the casino immediately panics, at his mercy. Guards immediately try to fight him, but the gunmen fire some warning shots. “Ah ah ah! I’m going to take a hostage! And if you don’t let me take the money, you’ll find yourselves riddled with bullets!” he says, smiling smugly. Your heart leaps as he starts walking straight towards you. You let out a little squeak as he hooks his cane around your arm, and pulls you towards him. You’re shaking, and do a little giggle, nervous. This is it. He’s noticed you. He’s taken you hostage. And all you can do is giggle like a lunatic. The Riddler is giggling slightly, as he unhooks his cane from your arm, and puts his arm around your shoulders, pointing the cane under your throat threateningly. You can feel the cold metal against your neck. With some of his goons following, he walks through the casino, holding you close to him, letting everyone know that he could kill you if they don’t let him rob the place. And yet, he gives you a gentle squeeze, and something tells you that he isn’t going to hurt you. Query and Echo force a staff member to open the vault.

He lets out a giggle as the group walk into the vault. You let out a little gasp as you see how much money there is. The Riddler chuckles. “Impressed?” he says in your ear with a low voice. He walks in front of you, and looks at your awestruck face. You’re trembling, he’s looking at you, all you can do is stare at the money like an idiot. He giggles. “Alright, then. Looting this place might take a while, so we may as well get comfortable,” he says, a smile on his lips. The regular gunmen start taking the money, while Query and Echo stay on guard at the vault’s entrance. The Riddler puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes down to make you sit on the floor. You let out a little giggle. He sits down, facing you, and holds his cane, resting it against your neck, presumably to establish some threat. “Well, then. Riddle me this. Why hasn’t Batman caught me yet?” he asks. You squeak delightedly when he says it. He laughs a little, a laugh that makes your heart feel so light. He looks happy. “Go on. I’ve seen you three times, now. You’ve solved my riddle…” he says, leaning in. “Not just anyone can do that.” You start giggling uncontrollably. You feel light. He leans back a bit, waiting for you to regain your composure. “Are you always this giggly? Is it from the Joker chemicals? Or… maybe… just maybe… is it only when you see me?” he asks, winking. You giggle more. “Ha! Ha! Hahahahaha! It’s J-J-Joker… ha! Joker chemicals! Ha ha!” you laugh. He looks at you, sympathetic, and puts a hand on your shoulder. Your giggling gets worse, and you feel yourself blushing, and he immediately pulls his hand away. He waits quietly for you to calm down, as his men continue emptying the vault. He pulls you to your feet, and whispers into your ear. “I only have two more robberies in this plan. That’s the… initial… idea…” he whispers. He’s so close to you, you can feel his breath on your ear. He gives a flamboyant twirl of his cane, and holds you menacingly again, putting his cane back to your throat. “Well then, my little hostage, it’s soon time for me to set you free,” he says, giving his handsome smile. You giggle, and blush slightly. You’re looking up at him, and he looks down at you. He lets out a little laugh. “You’re rather adorable,” he says. You squeak, and blush much more. He giggles. “Well, I’ll give you some time to regain your composure, haha,” he says, backing away slightly. You take deep breaths, and eventually calm down. He holds you again, and the group leaves the vault. He places you back with the other civilians, and moves away, his demeanour much more menacing… “Alright! And, just to seal this wondrous little robbery, everyone will give me one of their valuables!” he says, laughing. He looks so happy… you can’t help but smile… He takes peoples’ necklaces as they tremble, a pair of earrings, some fancy brooches… he reaches you, and smiles. You already know what he wants, and you shyly hold the umbrella. Your eyes meet as he wraps his hand around the handle, your grip lingering. He takes it from you, giggling, and continues taking other peoples’ valuables.

The next day, you’re walking through the streets of Gotham, giggling excitedly. Today is going to be the day you come out to him. You spent yesterday evening getting ready to tell him, getting ready to speak. You’ve simplified your explanation considerably. You can’t help but giggle at the fact that you’re going to see him, and tell him everything… maybe… maybe he was impressed by your ability to predict his crimes when even Batman couldn’t… “Hey, what’s that dumb smile on your face for?!” a menacing voice says. A gang of thugs surrounds you. You go pale. “Well? Why you giggling? You think you’re the Joker or some shit?!” he shouts. You look around, desperate for help. Citizens are walking away, only glancing for some spectacle. A furtive woman in a green coat opens her phone and points it at you – is she going to record this?! “Uh, heehee, I, I d-don’t wanna f-fight… it’s… ha… I inhaled some Joker fumes… p-please… haha… don’t h-hurt me…” “You won’t be smiling when we’re done with you!” a thug says, elbowing you in the abdomen and sending you staggering back. Tears are streaming down your face. You’re missing the Riddler’s robbery, surely he’ll think you’re an idiot, he’s going to hate you- you’re punched in the face, and sobbing. They keep punching you, keep kicking you, keep kicking you. Whack. Whack. Whack. It hurts. You feebly try to hold up your arms to block their blows, but they easily shatter your defences. You’re bleeding now. It hurts so much. They kick your legs, and you crash down to the ground, crying. They get their weapons out… one of them has a hammer… You can hear the crunch of your bones as your legs shatter. You can only whimper as one gets out her knife, and stabs you in the abdomen. You’re screaming. “PLEASE STOP! I D-D-DIDN’T DO ANYTHING TO YOU!!” you cry as they keep hitting you. Your vision goes black. This is it, you’re going to die… “LEAVE THEM ALONE!”  a voice shouts. They stop, tense. Your head is bleeding, you can’t think straight, but… it sounds… familiar… Your vision is lit up with blue, as something fires electricity at the thugs. They shriek, and run away, leaving you. There are murmurs among the onlookers. You can feel hands slide underneath your body, as your saviour picks you up. He’s walking quickly. “Hey… hey… please… please talk to me…” he says. Your vision is starting to return, and you can see the Riddler, tears streaming down his face. “Sorry…” you say weakly. “It’s alright, it’s alright, none of this is your fault, please don’t apologise for anything, you will be safe,” he says, voice cracking. “I w-was gonna be there… I… I promise I’m not stupid…” “Oh… oh, baby… I already know you’re not stupid. Shh… everything’s going to be okay…” he says, holding you close as he walks. He is thinking. “Alright… you need me on the fairway, you need me for luck, but when you have me you’re well and truly fucked, what am I?” “Uh… uh… uh… a… a stroke?” you answer. He strokes your hair with his soft hands. He’s wearing a green suit, this time with a purple shirt that’s only buttoned 2/3 of the way, showing off his chest and collarbones. His hat is at a jaunty – no, messy – angle, and his mask is streaked with tears.

He enters a building. You can’t read the sign, but you can tell the initials are E.D.U. It’s dark, this building must be a repurposed warehouse. It’s quiet, except for your whimpering, and his heavy breathing, and quick footsteps. He continues stroking your hair, his hands shaking. He sets you down, and rolls up your shirt, and you can hear his sharp intake of breath. “Uh… okay… this looks bad… I’m going to have to stitch your wound…” he says. You shudder, and he picks you up. “It’s going to be okay… I promise.” He rushes into the bathroom, lays you into the bathtub and turns the tap on, rinsing the wound under the water. He gives your hair a pat, and starts preparing his first aid equipment, sterilising a needle and thread. He holds your hand, and cleans your wound as you whimper. He takes you out of the bathtub, and lays you down, using a towel to dry you. “Listen, you’ll be okay, I promise,” he says. He starts rubbing some cream around your wound, and you feel yourself going numb. He starts stitching, and you’re crying. “Shh… shh… uh… what’s so fragile that saying its name breaks it?” “S-s-silence…” you respond. He nods, and keeps stitching. “You’re a smart cookie, you know?” His words make your heart leap. He keeps stitching. “I do mean it. I really do… I’m almost done with the stitches…” After what feels like an eternity, he finishes, and smiles at you, taking his gloves off. “The worst bit’s over,” he says, stroking your hair. He bandages the area. Now that the worst part is over, you start to appreciate the softness of his hands. You realise he is wearing green nail polish, with a purple question mark on each finger. He finishes bandaging you. “All done!” he says, giving you a headpat, making you giggle. He gives you a warm smile. Your giggling dies down as the exhaustion starts to really hit you. You pass out.

When you open your eyes, you’ve been tucked into a soft, green bed, covered in purple question marks. “You’re awake!” he says, reminiscent of a puppy who just saw a friend. On top of his outfit from before, he’s wearing a knitted jumper, green with purple question marks, it looks so soft. You’re still in pain, but you blush a little, as he reaches out with his hand, then pauses. “Um, would it be comforting if I held your hand?” Your heart leaps, and you nod, giggling. He gently takes your hand in his, and smiles softly. It’s so soft, it distracts you from some of the sharp pain you feel all over your body. “Um… th-thank you…” you mumble. “Hey. I had to save you, you’re like a good luck charm at this point. It… it’s not right when you’re not there,” he says softly, stroking your hand gently. You squeak, giggling. He looks at you, a little smile on his face. “So why do you keep following me? Is it gratitude for me saving you from Joker’s gang? Are you trying to prove your intelligence against the smartest man in Gotham? Or maybe… something else?” he asks in his soft voice, winking at the end. You giggle nervously, trying to collect yourself. “I… I… heehee… hahaha… you’re… hahahahaha…” You’re shaking, nervous, and he can tell. He gently strokes your hand, a comforting smile on his face. “It’s okay… take your time…” “Ha… ha… haha… YOU’RE MY SPECIAL INTEREST!” you blurt out. His eyes are wide, and he looks very surprised. You laugh nervously. “Like autism?” he asks, his smile widening. You nod, cursing yourself for being so blunt and probably making a fool of yourself – he’s smiling wide and crying tears of joy. His leg is bouncing. “Hahahaha I need to come out hahahahaha I’m an oriented aroace I hahahaha don’t feel romantic or sexual attraction but I’m feeling other types of attraction to you,” you say, shaking. He has a little pause of processing this, and smiles. “Hey, you’re valid! So, uh, what other types of attraction do you feel?” he asks, giving a good-natured smile. “Hahahaha I feel sensual attraction where I want to touch you and I feel alterous attraction which is uh it’s an emotion attraction that isn’t exclusively romantic or platonic haha and maybe I feel aesthetic attraction hahahaha,” you say, trembling. He grins, and giggles. “You’re quite the riddle, aren’t you? I’ve taken quite a liking to you,” he says, his smile lighting up your world. The way his eyes light up fills your heart with joy. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re so precious. Seriously, you’re one of the most adorable people ever. Seeing you during my crimes… well, now I know how Ozzie feels about seeing birds. You’re like… a little friend…” You let out a squeak, and he laughs. “You’re so cute… may I put my hand on your face?” he says. You nod, giggling, as he cups your head in his hands. “How do you feel about eye contact?” he asks. “Haha! I’m okay making eye contact with people I like!” you respond. There is a pause, as he slowly moves his eyes towards you.

“And… do you… like me?” he asks.

You look into his eyes. Both of you giggle. He gently strokes your hair. “Is this okay, d… may I call you dear?” Your heart leaps, and your mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Haha! I, ha, uh, haha it’s okay! Ha… uh… haha… what… w-what’s… what… what are we?” you ask, blushing slightly. There is a pause, as he thinks. “You seem to be my biggest fan, and I find you simply adorable. I’ll do anything to make you feel comfortable. I’ll look after you… Batman almost caught me last time, so I have plenty of free time…” “What… what happened? Wh-what did I miss?” You feel a little sting at the memory. The pain is coming back, and you can feel tears forming. He wipes the tears from your eyes. “I started the robbery… everything was in place, I had the plan, but… it didn’t feel the same, without you. What takes deep hold and becomes every day, and without it the tree will fall?” “Uh… root… routine?” “Exactly. Seeing you, it’s become part of my routine… you hold a place in my heart… I… my plans, I started planning for you…” You look at him, in awe. Somehow, the biggest genius ever, your hero… has been thinking about you. “Wow…” is all you can say. You’re not even giggling anymore, you’re just repeating the word. He ruffles your hair. “We Rogues, not many people like us. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a devoted fan… and you solved my plan faster than Batman… you can understand how much that means to me, right?” he says, seeming… nervous? The confidence is gone, he looks… anxious… like he needs reassurance. “You’re… haha… my… ha-ha-hero…” you say. His eyes light up, and he nods his head rapidly. “Um… is it alright if I give you a kiss on the forehead?” he asks. You nod, and start giggling again, as he gently puts his hand behind your head. He gives you a soft kiss on the forehead, making sure to avoid the bandage which you finally notice. He’s so gentle, and the tender kiss is taking away the pain you feel. He lets go, and looks down, into your wide eyes. “With skill, I am paid to save. What am I?” “… Protect?” He nods. “I want to protect you… you’re… you’re too precious. I’ll find the people who did this to you…” he says, wrapping his arms around you, looking into your eyes to gauge your reaction. You have a tired look in your eyes, as you lean into him. “I… I have something for you…” He reaches down, and holds your umbrella. Your crude attempt of carving the handle into a question mark shape has now been greatly polished, but most importantly, it has been covered in vibrantly-coloured question marks. “It’s… beautiful…” “A beautiful umbrella for a beautiful mind, from an even more beautiful mind,” he says, as you relax in his arms and make a contented little humming noise. He gently strokes your hair, and you fall asleep in the Riddler’s arms, your head buried in his chest.

[sir-fenris]

for the ask game again :3

16. Do they have a person they care for? Is it someone they are supposed to protect or is it in spite of orders?

Thank you for another ask!! :3

(Ask game) - (Curse of Withering masterpost)

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16. Do they have a person they care for? Is it someone they are supposed to protect or is it in spite of orders?

Well, this gets sad quickly :')

Cyrus doesn't gave any family or friends, not ever since he was made into a living weapon. So there's not much anyone for him to care about deeply, he's surounded by doctors, handlers and soldiers.

He is half friendly with one member of the medical staff, but again... not a friend, not anyone close. He's not allowed to have those.

But he's a very caring person, and being forced to use his magic to kill people... well... he does care a lot about their death. If that counts.

:')

(He does care about people in his recovery arc, though! He gets to be happy then, that... will just take a good while to happen...)

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Taglist: @whump-till-ya-jump @floral-comet-whump @paingoes

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[critter-rarepair-reccs]

Hey all, hope everyone's having a good Wednesday! Today we have eight whump fics for your enjoyment! Some are on the lighter side, some are much heavier, so don't forget to mind the warnings! As always, you can find them below the cut and if you check any of them out, I encourage you to leave kudoes and comments to spread the rarepair love 🩷

if you must falter, be wise by mabarihound (3,546 words, Explicit) Pairing: Eadwulf Grieve/Essek Thelyss (Esswulf) Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Unhappy Ending, Dubious Consent, Cannibalism, Body Horror

Wulf dies but Essek brings him back as a vampire, a la the Briarwoods.

Reccer Says: unhappy ending TO YOU. I'm built different. Essek is so fucking insane in this, Wulf is barely human, there's so much blood and bad sex, it's gruesome and sad and amazing. Love doesn't fix anything but it makes a thrilling story!

The Self in the Other by fjorests_of_wildemount (1,010 words, Teen) Pairing: Astrid Beck/Eadwulf Grieve (Blumenduo) Warnings: None

After killing some of Trent’s loyalists, Astrid and Wulf head home to tend their wounds.

Reccer Says: It’s a delicious glimpse into what post-C2 might look like for these two and I love it. Their dynamic oozes of the decade and a half of history between them and it’s so good.

Crowned Teeth (or, an Offering Revoked) by fruitzbat (130,570 words, Mature) Pairing: Kingsley Tealeaf/Original Female Character Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Slavery, Mentioned but Not Depicted Sexual Violence

Kingsley escapes being kidnapped by pirates after being mutinied against. Finding himself a long way from home, Kingsley then resorts to hunting the people responsible down with the help of a new ragtag bunch of misfits that call him captain.

Reccer Says: With respect to the rarepair, I think it's a fun dynamic. fruitzbat does a really good job of capturing all of those weird, uncomfortable nooks and crannies that come with new relationships. And I think most importantly, Kingsley really stretches his wings as his own person. There is such a clear vision of what he's like and how that's distinct from Molly and Lucien, and that clearness really carries throughout both this piece and the rest of the series.

which is a tenderness. by redhoods (5,724 words, Mature) Pairing: Fjord/Caleb Widogast (Widofjord) Warnings: Fjord-typical Self Harm, Fantasy Racism

Caleb returns to the tavern and learns Fjord has gotten hurt in a bar fight then locked himself in their room, refusing healing.

Reccer Says: Fjord angst and tender wound care *chef's kiss* (and also just a touch of trans Fjord)

i feel you, your precious soul by glossolali (6009 words, Mature) Pairing: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss (Shadowmauk) Warnings: Offscreen Past Non-Consensual Body Modification, Mentions of Limb Loss & Amputation, Mentions of Disordered Eating, Selective Mutism, Panic Attacks

Essek, a cyberware expert, medical technician and researcher, helps his friends save Mollymauk’s life using what he knows best. What he didn't count on, was the connection that would develop between them, and his own misgivings about it.

Reccer Says: Cyberpunk/cybernetics AU, Essek has mixed feelings about fixing up Molly, and about initiating a relationship (established shadowgast, established widomauk, but Essek hasn't said anything to Molly about them yet). Its great <3 mollymauk's half cybernetic/prosthetics, and the malfunctioning is pretty oof

fell in love with the fire long ago by BananasofThorns (2,501 words, Teen) Pairing: Fjord/Caleb Widogast (Widofjord) Warnings: Mind Control, Burns

Caleb has been mind controlled and is attacking the party with deadly intent. Fjord has a ring of fire resistance and a bad plan.

Reccer Says: What's not to love about a person being forced to hurt those they care about and then blaming themself for it? I've rearead this 3 times.

by the water by nonbinarywithaknife (578 words, Teen) Pairing: Veth Brenatto/Yeza Brenatto Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Nott-Typical Alcoholism

In Felderwin, Nott sits by the river and remembers.

Reccer Says: Mostly sad, briefly sweet. She's really been going through it😢

Peace At Last by HyperKid (4,770 words, Mature) Pairing: Jester Lavorre/Mollymauk Tealeaf (Jestermauk) Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Mentioned Past Character Death

After Cognouza, Jester takes some quiet time to herself in the Blooming Grove. Molly finds her and they cuddle and talk through some difficult emotions.

Reccer Says: It's heartaching and sweet in equal measures. The atmosphere is beautiful and suits it so well. Molly and Jester fit together so well, like the softest of puzzle pieces, if that makes sense. Their relationship feels natural and you can sense the strength of their bond in each moment. It's got some wonderful mentions of Jester's struggle with being the Happy One and Molly having lost so much time while his friends have grown as well, on top of all of the other deliciously angsty feelings the two of them are coping with.

Thank you for joining us this week's recc list! All the love to everyone who submitted a fic 🩷 All enclosed recommendations were submitted by the community via our submissions form, which you can find here. All fic information is as it was provided by the reccer, so it may not be accurate to the author’s intent or the precise contents of the fic itself. Please assume good intent from all parties 🩷

Submissions for next week’s list are already open! We’ll be featuring Pre-Relationship fics. If you have any you’d like to highlight, you can send them in here. The week after that, the theme is Canon Divergence and the week after that we're taking recommendations for rarepairs including Keyleth! Submissions for both themes are also currently open.

If you want more rarepair fic, check out @cr-summer-wildflowers and their event collections on ao3! If you want some friendship after all this romance, take a look at @critter-genfic-events and their recc lists! And if you’re interested in everyone’s favorite wizards, you can’t go wrong with the lists at @aeor-is-for-reccing !

Thanks all and have a lovely day/night/timezone! 🩷

[ungodly-amounts-of-godly-trauma]

wotw round 1

propaganda under the cut!

ianto jones:

Oh my god the amount of people who turned him into Jack’s uwu boi whump lad who Gwen was hurting with her nasty ways. Ugh that’s not a good explanation but just trust me it’s nasty - fish

dimitri alexandre blaiddyd:

Royal prince who was the lone survivor of a massacre that took his parents and childhood friend's life when he was younger and attempted to speak out against the public falsely blaming another country but was ignored due to pre-existing prejudices and was unable to stop the genocide that followed, so he's got a LOT of trauma and mental illness, which began showing itself in the form of severe bloodlust when he got older and began leading troops into battle. He finds out during the game that a different childhood friend is connected with the people behind the massacre and assumes she is the one responsible for it (she was like also 6 years old at the time so no, she was not involved with that though she's allied herself with the actual perpetrators for the moment despite also being a victim of them) and his mental health just goes downhill from there, with a full war breaking out and him being falsely accused of murder and (as far as he's aware) losing his closest ally while being broken out of prison.

So by the point in time the game focuses on him again, he's repressed all his emotions and thinks of nothing else but killing his childhood friend and her army and has become known for sadistically killing enemy soldiers. At one point in the game the protag has to perform a mercy kill because he's torturing a prisoner of war for his own personal satisfaction. Eventually he does begin to snap out of it due to the actions of his allies and he's able to think more clearly again, no longer prioritizing revenge above all else.

But you see like. You might not know any of that stuff if you just looked at fandom, because he's often treated as a lil sad uwu boy who was so horribly mistreated by his childhood friend (that evil bitch), despite the fact that he canonically enjoyed torturing people for like several years in-universe. A lot of people also reduce him to someone for the female main character to "cure" with her love if anything. He's an interesting, flawed character but people want things to be black and white and since it's a man vs a woman, he's the sad little victim rather than also guilty on some counts. A lot of this comes from Three Houses being a multi-route game but a lot of people only played his route and then never touched the others, meaning they never saw things from other angles or learned information that was available in other routes which reshapes things you see in his route dramatically at times.