#i had intended to write this for whumptober but better late than never

[wishbonemotel]

Blood of Eurydice

Second short installment in Nadia's Ghost series, Where the Stolen Roses Grow, is up!

Description:

It’s then that it hits them like a brick to the chest— cigarette smoke weaving with cheap cologne, scent stale and bitter in the still night air. Her cigarettes, her cologne. 

The hairs on the back of their neck rise with the fog pressing in, swallowing the cemetery from every direction. Even the crickets and creatures of the night have stilled into a suffocating silence. They are being watched but they cannot bring themself to turn around and break the illusion that it’s her eyes following them.

Any sane person would be running.

[e-vasong]

Not sure if youre taking the whumptober asks but can I request #6 with five? 👀 Also sorry new to Tumblr so not sure if I'm doing this right lol love your writings btw!! ❤

Oh!! YES I LIKE THIS ONE.  It is not October, but I’m not so much “participating” in Whumptober as I am just using it to kick myself into gear with writing.  

I may kinda suck at filling prompts, even when I ask for them, but when I do...it takes a really long time because this was supposed to be 1000 words max and is actually like. almost 3000 words of shameless whump.  WHOOPS.  Most of this is under a cut, because it’s long and...well, whumpy.

TW: Torture, electrocution

No. 6: Please... “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please.”

“Hm,” Agent Finch laid the bloody pliers back on the metal tray with a clatter.  “You’re as resilient as I remember, Number Five.”   He sneered the words, hands tightening into fists at his sides.

Five supposed that Finch meant for that to be a threat, but he just couldn’t bring himself to take it seriously.  

“Go ahead and hit me, Finch,” he gave the man an affable smile.  “If you really throw your back into it, it might even hurt.”

The provocation worked.  Finch did hit him, then.  Right across the face.  The force of the blow snapped Five’s head off to the side, slamming his skull into the metal back of the chair.  The steel reverberated, the noise echoing painfully in Five’s ears.  It did hurt, in a distant sort of way, but Five had found that being punched was always more jarring than it was painful.  Not to mention the fact that it was just bad technique.  After all, if you really rung someone’s bell...

Well, in an interrogation, where the goal was to disorient your target and trick them into giving you vital information, a concussion could be useful.  But it was a poor tool for torture because it made it easier to zone out, to forget about the pain.   And if Finch were any good at his job, he’d know that.

Five sighed.  “Ouch,” he said, voice droll.  He worked his jaw experimentally.  Everything seemed like it was still in its proper place, though the movement tugged painfully on the bruise that had already started to blossom across his left cheek.  

“You can’t fucking run, Five,” Finch said.  There was a new speck of blood on his chin, bright against his salt-and-pepper stubble.  “I know you.  I’d say we have a good half hour before you can jump again; probably longer, with you in pain like this--” Five couldn’t repress the laugh that bubbled up in his chest at that.  “Which is plenty of time for me to make you regret ever crossing--oh for fuck’s sake!  What are you laughing about?”

“Oh,” Five rolled his eyes. “Nothing.  Don’t worry about it.  You’re doing great.”

“What?” Finch’s hand returned to the metal tray, grabbing the pliers again.  “Not enough pain for you?  Fine.  Another fingernail, then.”

Boring, Five thought.  A sadistic appetite with no real vision or talent to follow it through, that was Finch’s problem.  He watched with disinterest as Finch pressed the pliers against his left ring finger, readying himself to breathe through the inevitable pulse of pain that was coming.

“No!” The shout came with a clatter of chains and cuffs as Diego jerked against his bonds.  Five jumped, and Finch did too, pliers slipping from his hand and hitting the ground with a clang.  Huh.  They’d both forgotten, somehow, that Diego was here too. 

“You sick son of a bitch,” Diego bit out, the dramatic fucker.  Five’s annoyance was practically a living creature inside of him.  Diego’s hero complex was both entirely predictable and deeply unwelcome, since Five had this very much under control, not that Diego much seemed to care.

“Shut up!” Five and Finch snapped at the same time, voices overlapping as they spoke.  

There was a brief lapse in conversation, the room falling silent as they both processed what had just happened.  Finch whipped around to glare at Five, and Five glared sullenly back.  He wasn’t about to be the one to break eye contact, but it was more annoying than he’d admit to accidentally end up on the same wavelength as his oldest and most incompetent acquaintance from the Commission.

“Why?” Diego said, responding only to Finch.  “Because you’re some twisted fuck that gets off on torturing children?”

Diego could be dangerously intelligent when he wanted to be, but he was a bad actor under pressure.  And this was a stupid, blatantly obvious attempt at provocation, even by Diego’s standards.

So of course Finch turned back towards Diego, a dangerous glint in his eyes.  

“Diego,” Five said, a warning in his voice.

“You know full well that your brother isn’t as young as he looks,” Finch said, talking over Five.  His voice was calm, but he was moving closer towards Diego as he spoke, successfully baited.

“Oh, sorry,” Diego said, yanking on his chains again defiantly.  They rattled against the ceiling pipe above Diego’s head and Diego winced.  The struggling was likely doing no favors for the discomfort of his position.  “I guess that makes torturing him alright, then.”

“Your brother,” Finch said, “was supposed to be my backup on a job once.  Instead, he shot me in the back and left me for dead.”

Diego, to his credit, looked utterly unfazed by Finch’s unfavorable and one-sided description of their former partnership, even though it was, essentially, accurate.  

“Your back?  Really?" He jerked his chin in Finch’s direction.  “Damn, I’d have guessed he hit you in the face.  Maybe he should have.  Can’t get any worse than this.”

Finch punched him, which seemed to be his default reaction to everything that upset him, the neanderthal.  His fist collided with a sickening crack, and Diego went limp.  Five stiffened in his chair.  For all that he’d critiqued Finch’s technique, the man was still a burly six feet, almost all of it muscle.  A poorly-gauged blow--and Five did not trust Finch to gauge anything well--could do more grievous damage than Finch may have intended.

“Diego?” Five called.  If Finch killed one of his siblngs, Five wouldn’t much care whether it was an accident or not.

There was a heart-stopping moment where Diego didn’t respond.  He just hung there, limp and unmoving.  Five’s breath caught in his throat. 

Then a shudder passed through him, and Diego’s head lifted slightly.  “”M fine,” he muttered, though he was clearly too disoriented to raise his head all the way.  His eyelashes were fluttering as he fought for consciousness, and a bit of bloody spittle dripped from his mouth to the ground.

“Five’s right,” Diego said.  He was slurring his words.  That was bad.  “That barely even hurt.”

But Finch didn’t respond to the jab this time, not the way that that he did when Five had resorted to the same taunt.  Instead, he stopped to look at Five.

“Did you...?” Finch tilted his head to the side, looking thoroughly bewildered.  And then his face split into a wide, almost hysterical grin.  “My, my,” Finch said, and Five went stiff.  

Finch’s smile was smug, like the cat that caught the canary, which was a disorienting turn of events.  Five was used to being the cat, not the songbird, and he rather liked it that way.

“What?” Five said, terse.

“You almost sounded...God, what’s the word?” Finch said.  “Oh, I know!  Concerned.”

“About him?” Five scoffed.  “In his wildest dreams.”

But it was too little, too late.  Finch’s lips twisted upwards in a vicious grin.  

“I can’t believe it,” he said.  “After all this time.  You know, we used to gossip about you in the break room.  Wonder if Five, the best assassin the Commission had ever seen and the Handler’s favorite little pet, had a weakness we could exploit.  We never did figure it out.  Who would have realized...” Finch turned back towards Diego and grabbed him by the jaw, tilting Diego’s head upwards as if to get a better look at him.  “That it was something so...sentimental.”

Finch laughed.  “I mean,” he continued, “we had some really crazy bets going. But this is just-it’s just--oh, don’t scowl at me, I’m trying to give you a compliment.  I guess I really didn’t see this coming from you of all people.  I didn’t even realize you had emotions.  Other than, you know, anger and irritation.  Those I knew about.”

Five opened his mouth.  Finch hushed him.  “Don’t lie to me, Five,” he said.  “You should have heard yourself just now.  That was the most scared you’ve been all night.  You have a soft spot!  All this time, I’ve been hitting the wrong target.  You should have said something earlier.”

Five grit his teeth furiously.  “Leave it, Finch.”

“No,” said Finch simply.  He walked back towards Five, and Five knew better than to think that Finch was coming back for him.  Instead, Finch gathered up a handful of cables, loose electrical wires sticking out of the rubber on one end, plugged into a large metal device on the other, and winked.

“Enough,” Five said, lowly.  “Finch.  Finch!”

“’S fine,” Diego spat.  “I can take it, Five.”

No.  Five struggled, but it was fruitless.  Finch palmed some sort of button on the device, and the air around them filled with an electric hum.  Finch strode idly back towards where Diego was strung up--the device was by Five’s side, presumably because Finch had meant to use it on him, but the cables ran long enough that Finch reached Diego without needing to pull them taut.

“Finch!” Five tugged sharply at the leather straps that kept his arms bound to the chair.  No luck.  

“Hm,” Finch was in front of Diego again.  “Let’s try it out.”  And then he reached out and pressed the exposed wires to a patch of exposed skin on Diego’s collarbone.

Diego tensed.  Five could see the muscles in his neck clenching as he grit his teeth.  He didn’t scream.  He likely couldn’t, paralyzed by agony, but the anguished groan he made in the back of his throat spoke volumes.  

Five twisted fruitlessly in his bonds.  He heard something in his right hand crack, the thumb popping out of place.  He wouldn’t be surprised, from the feel of it, if a few bones had broken too.  But even so, the leather was simply too tight.  

He couldn’t get free.

Finch held it for a moment, then pulled the cable away.  Diego sagged, panting heavily.  A few more tremors went through him, aftershocks as his body processed the pain.

“That all you got?” Diego slurred.

“No,” Finch said.  “It isn’t.”  But before he proceeded, he turned his attention back towards Five.  “You see?  All this over a couple dead civilians?” he asked.  “You realize that I’m going to kill your brother, right?  Was it really worth it?”

“Stop,” Five’s voice cracked.  He pulled at his bonds again, paying particular attention to his now-broken hand.  If he could just force it, he could get free.  In his old body, he might have been able to do it--sure, it hurt, but pain was nothing in the face of the panic coursing through him.  But in this body, he just wasn’t strong enough.  “Please. Finch!”

“Wow.” That did seem to give Finch pause.  He clicked his tongue, sizing Five up thoughtfully.  “You know, the begging is a nice touch.  It’s really making this whole experience a lot more enjoyable for me.”

Then he pressed the wires to Diego’s throat again.  Diego twisted in agony, and Five knew that Finch wasn’t going to let up this time.

Diego was going to die.  Five yanked against the leather straps again as he jerked forward, overtaken by instinct.  It couldn’t end like this.  He couldn’t let it.

And then he was free.  With a flash of blue light, he stumbled out of a jump right behind Finch.  Finch dropped the cable immediately, even before he turned around, likely recognizing the distinctive sound of Five’s warping.  The live wire sparked on the ground.

Five didn’t bother with grabbing a weapon.  Finch twisted around, and Five punched him in the face with his good hand.  Finch staggered, though he caught himself on a nearby pillar of concrete before he could fall.  But Five was behind him before he could regain his balance.  He got an arm around Finch’s neck, braced his mangled hand against Finch’s jaw, and twisted hard.

Five felt the bone break under his hands, just beneath the brainstem.  Even pained and concussed, his technique was perfect.  Finch collapsed to the ground, dead before he even hit the floor, and Five had just enough wherewithal left in him to angle the corpse so it fell on top of the live cable’s exposed wires.

“H-holy shit, Five,” Diego said.  Five’s heart twisted slightly at the sound.  Lapsing back into his stutter like he was, Diego sounded so like the young, childish version of himself that Five had left behind all those years ago.  

“One sec,” Five said slowly, lifting a finger to silence his brother.  It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying, which was...a bad sign.  The world had started swimming strangely around him, and adrenaline could only keep him upright for so long.  But he needed to get them out of there.

He stumbled his way over towards the machine that the cable was hooked up to, hitting the button so that it shut off.  Then he found the lever connected the chains that were keeping Diego strung up and pushed it down.  The mechanism released, and Diego stumbled to the floor, hitting his hands and knees with a pained groan.

“Motherfucker,” Diego said, rolling his shoulders.  He was still shuddering from the electric shock.

“I’ve got you,” Five said, trying to keep his voice steady.  He made his way back over to Diego.  The notion of collapsing beside him was tempting, but Five resisted the urge.  “Come on, we gotta...we gotta go.”

“How-how’d you j-jump?” Diego asked.  “I th-thought you were at your lim...your limit.”

“I was,” Five said.  “Adrenaline.  Hell of a drug.”

“What?” Diego arched an eyebrow.  “D-dude, you like one-one of those moms that lifts a car when they see their kid is trap--” Diego had to stop and close his eyes for a moment.  “Trapped?” he finished, more smoothly this time.

“No,” Five snapped.  “That’s stupid.  And it’s called hysterical strength.”

“Whatever,” Diego rolled his eyes, in a manner that clearly suggested that he didn’t believe Five but was too tired to push the matter any further.  “Just d-don’t collapse on me, al...alright?”

“I don’t plan on it,” Five said wryly.  And then his world listed off to the side.  “Oh.”

He doubled over and threw up a mouthful of blood and bile.

“Shit,” Diego said, scrambling forward to steady Five as he sank to his knees.

“Shit,” Five echoed, and passed out.

                                                           ***

He woke up in a hospital bed, a monitor of some sort beeping monotonously in the background.  

Five sat bolt upright the moment his location registered.  What the hell?

He wasn’t hooked up to much.  There was just the IV sticking out of the back of his left hand, which was an unusual change of pace.  Five turned and reached over to rip the IV out, only to see that his right hand was bandaged.  Heavily.  

Shit.  He’d use his teeth then.

Five had just lifted his hand to his mouth when a bleary voice murmured: “Five...?”

He recognized that voice.  Five blinked and looked up.

“Diego?” he asked.  The burning panic in his chest extinguished, leaving only embarrassment in its wake.  

This was clearly just...a normal hospital.  Diego looked exhaustedly back at him from where he sat half-slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair that had obviously been requisitioned from elsewhere and dragged over to Five’s bedside.  He had an expression on his face like he wasn’t quite sure whether Five was losing his mind or not.

“What are you doing?” Diego said slowly.

Five hesitated a moment longer, then lowered his hand back down to his side.  “What happened?” he countered, pretending like Diego hadn’t spoken.

Diego narrowed his eyes, but thankfully let Five’s evasiveness pass without comment.  “Some Commission asshole kidnapped us.  Spent some time making mincemeat out of us--mostly you--and then you warped so hard that you tore your stomach lining.”

Five did remember that, now that Diego mentioned it.  Well, not the stomach lining bit, but that was presumably the explanation for the bloody vomit.  

“Huh,” Five said.  “Didn’t know I could do that.”

“Don’t fucking do it again,” Diego commanded, with all the presumptuousness of a child who thought they could get away with bossing around their elders.

“How long has it been?” Five turned narrowed eyes to Diego.  “You should be in bed.  You need to be monitored for cardiac arrhythmia.”

“It’s not--don’t worry about--”

“I fucking knew you were here,” hissed Ben from the doorway.  Diego jumped.  

“Ben,” Five said, relieved.  Finally, someone with common sense.  “Get this idiot out of here.”

Ben froze like a deer in the headlights, startled.  His head jerked up to look at Five, and the irritation and concern clouding his expression evaporated as he broke into a relieved grin.  

“You’re awake,” he said, soft and pleased.  He stepped fully into the room.

“You can’t be serious,” Five said as Ben plopped down on the foot of the bed, gently pulling Five into a quick, tight embrace.  “Both of you are ridiculous.”

“Oh,” Diego mocked.  “How dare we be concerned.”

Five rolled his eyes and spread his hands slightly, gesturing to the hospital room around them.  “As you can see, I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Diego said.  “You look fantastic.  Really, uh, in the peak of health right now, huh?  Gonna go get up and run a marathon?”

Ben let out a little snort of amusement, and Five glared at them both, utterly betrayed.  

“I can take care of myself, you know,” Five couldn’t ever remember being as relentlessly young and foolish as his brothers--or ever needing this much minding, for that matter.  At the skeptical noise Diego made in the back of his throat, Five tilted his head to the side and said, archly, “Which one of us is still in bed and which one snuck away from medical attention, Diego?”

“Ah, fair point,” Ben turned to Diego, still smiling.

“Oh yeah?” Diego said, sensing that the tide was turning against him and crossing his arms over his chest defensively.  “And what were you doing when you were trying to rip your IV out with your teeth, again?”

Five straightened his back.  “Diego,” he hissed, but it was too late.

Ben frowned, an expression full of worry and brotherly disappointment.  “Five!” he said, clearly dismayed.  Five wilted slightly.  Was this how Klaus felt all the time?  “Why would you do that?”

Five cast a sidelong glance at Diego.  “I was just disoriented,” he said.  “That’s all.  And I’m better now, so it’s hardly worth getting riled up over.”  It probably wouldn’t have taken him long to realize that he was just in a regular hospital once he made it out to the hallway.  

Once he had...he probably would have gone stumbling off to look for Diego, Five could admit that much to himself.  But he certainly didn’t need to tell his brothers that.  No one could prove that he was lying.

“Just,” Five waved them both off.  “Take Diego back to bed.”

“For fuck’s sake, Five,” Diego said.  “I’m just worried.”  Then, as if sensing that Five was not his best bet, he turned mournful eyes towards Ben.  “Just a little longer, Ben.  Then you can rat me out to the damn nurses.”

Ben’s lips twisted thoughtfully as he glanced between them.  “A couple minutes,” he finally conceded with a sigh.  “It’s not like you won’t just break out again anyways.”

“Ha!” Diego said, too loudly.  Five winced, the noise aggravating the pulsing headache that Five hadn’t even realized he had.  “...Whoops.”

Five glared.

“Sorry,” Diego’s voice was closer to a whisper now.  He reached out, lacing a hand with Five’s and squeezing it apologetically.

“It’s fine,” Five said, ignoring the feeling of warmth that bloomed in his chest.  “I’m not made of glass.”

“I’ll leave if you really want,” Diego offered.  “We can let you get some rest.”

If he wanted.  Ha.  Five couldn’t pretend that getting some peace and quiet didn’t have an appeal, but...in it’s own sort of way, it was comforting to have family in the room.  Irrefutable evidence that they were still living and breathing, so real that even all his years of knowing they were dead couldn’t override it.  But Diego did need to go back to his hospital room; Five wouldn’t be the one to pull him from the care he needed.  He refused.  But for now...

Five sighed.  “Fine,” he said, and squeezed Diego’s hand back.  “Just for a few minutes.”

[whumpfigure]

Whumptober Day 1: Waking Up Restrained

Let's yeet out one of the two pieces I wrote for whumptober *nervous laughter*

CW: pet whump, box boy universe, creepy whumper, facility stuff, electroshock treatment

'Cold'

It's the first thing that comes to Agustin's mind as he gains consciousness. He turns around and pulls his hand up to cuddle Sofi - his little sister - to keep her warm. But he's quick to realize that he can't. His hands are restrained behind his back.

'What the hell...?' He thinks, as the memories of last night flood his mind. Writing his goodbye letter, going to the WRU main building, answering the questions they asked him, being led to that waiting room, and drinking the tea they offered him, and then-... he doesn't remember what happened then.

Slightly terrified, he forces his eyes open, and the bright fluorescent light makes him wince and shut his eyes for a few more seconds to get used to it. And slowly, gradually, he manages to keep his eyes open without watering, and takes a look at his surroundings. Everything around him is white. Not the warm yellow-ish white you normally see on walls. But a pure and cold type of white. The kind that makes you shiver even if the room isn't cold on itself. Which is definately not the case here. Because Agustin felt the cold before seeing the white.

The room he's in is not big. And it's nearly completely empty, save for Agustin's body on the floor. There is a rectangular frame on one side of the room that Agustin can bet is the door. And for a second he considers opening it and finding someone to explain the meaning of all this. They didn't tell him he'd be freaking restrained and put in an empty room the first second! Not that it would've mattered of course. Agustin had made his decision even before talking to actual WRU people and asking about their training process. He had made the decision to trade himself for the safety of his sisters, when he still thought WRU was as evil as pet lib people pictured. Which is not true, as far as Agustin himself saw on his tour inside Facility 056. The trainee rooms weren't anything luxurious, but they were certainly better than the places he had lived in after his parents died. And none of them included empty white rooms and restrained hands and, as Agustin just realized, a door with no handle.

Just as he was in these thoughts, a beeping sound came from just outside of his room, followed by a soft shhh-click sound as the door with no handle opened. Agustin pushed himself to a sitting position as the door opened, revealing a man in a formal uniform similar to those he had seen before in the WRU building. He was fairly light skinned, and had brown hair that screamed expensive haircare products. And he was looking directly at Agustin's sitting form, with a smug unreadable look on his face. As if he was waiting for Agustin to say something. What thing, Agustin has no idea.

Realizing that it was probably his only chance at having his questions answered, he quickly asked, "Qué es esto? Dónde estoy?" What is the meaning of this? Where am I? And he sounded more irritated than he intended to be.

"Tsk, is that how you greet your handler, trainee?" The man - the handler - asked, in a perfect and unaccented English, and Agustin's eyes went wide. Why was the man talking English?

"Come on trainee, I'm waiting for an apology." The handler demanded, and took out the black leather stick that hung on his belt. "You don't want me to use this on you."

"W-what is it? Where.. where am I?" Agustin said in his own slightly accented English, and cringed at the way his voice was shaking. There was something about the man's presence, and the device in his hand, that was deeply unsettling to him. And he felt a shiver run down his spine as the man chuckled at him.

"Well you're in Facility 001, of course." He said matter of factly, and Agustin knew what that meant. He wasn't in Chile anymore. There was only one Facility 001, and it was located in the United States.

"B-but how?!" Agustin asked, and suddenly the weight of its meaning crashed down on him. He wasn't in Chile anymore. He wasn't near his sisters anymore. In fact, if the rumors about Facility 001's location were correct, he was far far away from them. And it terrified him.

"Uh uh uh, shut it now. Have you not learnt not to interrupt a gentleman's words? I was still answering your other question." The handler said as he took a step closer.

"I'm sorry.." He whispered, and tried to back away as the handler suddenly seemed too close.

"Hmm, now you apologize. I like it." He said as he came yet closer, and leaned over Agustin's small body. "But you know, you're a bit too late." He whispered the last words in Agustin's ear, before straightening back up and swinging the black stick out of nowhere.

As soon as the pointed tip of the stick made contact with his body, Agustin felt a pain he's never experienced before. Suddenly all his nerves were aflame, and all his muscles were tense as a tree, as electricity coursed through them. He heard a scream, but it took him a moment to realize it was his own, as he writhed in pain on the floor. When had he fallen on the floor again? He didn't know. In that moment, all he knew was pain, and pain alone.

But just as suddenly as the pain had started, it disappeared. Leaving Agustin a gasping mess on the floor. He attempted to get back to sitting, but his hands gave under him, and he hit back on the floor.

He felt a hand on his head, before its grip tightened on his hair, and pulled him up by it. He looked at the handler with blurry eyes, as the man said, "I guess that answered your other question."

The man let go of his hair, and it took everything in Agustin to keep himself sitting.

"You'd better get used to it. You're gonna have to go through this, quite a lot." The man said as he started going towards the door.

"And oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm senior handler Marcus Craine. And we'll be spending a lot of time together." He explained, just before he went out of the room using a card. Leaving Agustin there thinking all sorts of 'what have I done?!!'

Tagging: @slaintetowhump @ashintheairlikesnow @liliability @ohmywhump @whumptywhumpdump @raigash @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @simplygrimly @whump-it @oceanthesarcasamfox @inky-whump @whumppsychology @inaridriscoll @rivertamandspike @spookyboywhump @faewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpzone @sola-whumping @whumpsy-daisies @crystalrainwing @whumptober2020

[phantomchick]

List of wips - aka struggles

Call Me A Jason Todd fic I started two years ago and still go back to poke at longingly, will the second and final chapter ever be posted? Who can know for sure.

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I tell myself that I don't need Anyone (But the truth is no one needs Me) Another Jason Todd fic I haven't completed, posted two years ago for whumptober, it was the only day of whumptober I participated in, intended to be full of Captain Atom and Jason Todd interacting during the fall out of Bludhaven getting chemo'd but he doesn't show up in the first chapter and have you ever tried to read Infinite Crisis? It's a fucking mess. With this wip I have a close to justifiable excuse in that I refuse to write without knowing the canon, and reading through all the canon that's relevant is A Task.

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The Monster in The Man A Merlin fic floating around my drafts, currently at a good bit over 5k wherein Merlin gets POSSESSED by an old enchantment gone mad. Written because a Merlin fic I read ended on a horror style cliffhanger and I couldn't handle it so I charged my way through the first 2k of a sequel and I've been adding to it ever since. Angst with a hopefully happy ending, if I ever frikking finish it.

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The Dragon Lord In the aftermath of his father's death after Merlin inherits his father's dragon lord abilities he notices some minor changes to his interactions with his friends, the thing is that Merlin is a dragon lord and unusually what he hoards is people, things might just turn out the better for it.

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Maelstrom A Naruto time travel fix it fic that wouldn't leave me alone until I got the first chapter out, ironically it has left me entirely alone since I finished the first chapter and I have no idea if inspiration for it will ever return or when that will be.

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You Don't Know Anything Long long ago in a land of asks and a time of legend @paradise-runway sent me a fic request for "one where the other Bat boys find out the circumstances of Jason's death and resurrection and their reaction?" it has been lingering in my drafts haunting me ever since, someday, someday I shall fulfill what has been promised.

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Of Curses and Covenants A longfic exploring the magical underbelly of Gotham's history, focuses on the intertwined relationship of the Wayne Family and the Zatara Family brought about by how often Waynes through the generations have ended up being cursed. I have an index of all the curses ready, the problem with this one is the plot and the story.

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Vicki Finds a Bat (temporary title) Vicki Vale stumbles upon a still alive young adult Jason Todd at a wafflehouse on the way back from snooping into Cobblepot's latest criminal schemes. Convincing the young man to go back home to his loving father might prove more of a challenge than she thinks however. (will have a happy ending if I ever fucking finish it, for now it looms in my drafts like an unhappy gargoyle)

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Hug Deficit A fic about Jason being touch starved and his family fixing it, hurt/comfort all the way, post resurrection.

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Stephanie Brown and The Mansion of Man Pain Robin Era Steph, she and Alfred have pumpkin spice lattes together, it's their thing because I say it is. Includes, Alfred raised 5 boys counting Bruce, he's not sure how to handle a little girl and Bruce trying to dad plus Steph trying her best. Would be a lot easier to write if I was any good at comedy.

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Another Time, Another Place Some twenty years or so after their death, Martha and Thomas Wayne appear in the middle of Wayne Manor's ground floor parlour room, the major problem with this? Not only are Bruce and Dick away, Alfred's on holiday in England! Which is why Jason as the eldest has been unwillingly nominated by his younger siblings to deal with the situation at hand. Martha and Thomas in this are heavily inspired by @unpretty's amazing portrayals in her fics with them.

- Queen Blackfire and the Lazarus Lord An au with Soulmate identifying marks: Jason Todd was having an okay time as de-facto leader of The Outlaws, a band of misfits and rebels with hearts of gold (or at least silver) saving the world the best they could and filling in the gaps the more straightforward heroes tended to miss while they were at it. Then he found out he was soulmates with the Alien Warrior Queen bent on declaring war on planet Earth if the Justice League didn't find her soulmate for her. Things with his friend, team mate and potential future sister in law Kori just got super awkward and the only good thing he can find about this situation is how angry (and protective? But maybe he's just imagining that) Bruce seems over the whole thing.

Side note: Kommand'r freaked out during the years Jason was 'dead' and accidentally brought peace to a huge chunk of space and intergalactic society via building up her empire after throwing herself into work to escape the grief.

- To Grasp The Hand of a Fox Naruto and Kurama travel back in time to save the world but unfortunately they land in the same moment that Kurama's just been put under a genjutsu by Madara Uchiha, Naruto has to make his way to Konoha and wake Kurama up before the villagers seal him away inside Mito. Can he save his friend in time to save them all?

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Those Winter Sundays Mcu fic. Snapshots of Tony working hard for the avengers and no one noticing. Civil War Team Iron Man.

- Salvation Rides a Solar Wind Iron Man fic in a Science fiction / Western style fic where Tony's presence is described through the eyes of the aliens he helps. Au where the war with Thanos goes very differently. The type of fic that needs like 5 multi chapter fics in a single series to truly shine, hence why I will likely never finish it.

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And We Break Away Again Jason goes back to Talia after Damian is brought back from the dead by Bruce. It's not that he begrudges his little brother his resurrection, the opposite, but he can't ignore what Bruce did to him by taking him to the magdala valley and he can't ignore what Bruce doing for Damian what he didn't do for him, (do for Dick, do for any of them besides the blood related one) means. So he decides to go back to the only person who ever seemed to understand why he wanted to avenge himself in the first place, the only person who seemed to agree that he had a right to be angry that he'd died at all, the only person he can trust to hold him together while he feels like he's falling apart that won't judge him against the heroic mold while they're at it. Not sure if this will be a oneshot or a series but we're going good Talia with this one regardless, DC's been ruining her lately but through fanfic all things are possible so fuck them.

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Fan The Flames In the aftermath of a magical fire taking hold of the Daily Planet in Metropolis, Superman is missing, can Batman and the rest of the Justice League find their friend as well as the identity of the evil arsonist before Lex Luther does it first?

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In a Whisper (In a Wish) Ichigo Kurosaki protects people, it's not just who he is, it's what he is, down to the core of his very soul. The only problem is, that a few weeks ago he sacrificed half his soul to protect the world. It aches inside where he knows something important used to be. When everyone he cares for is avoiding him and he's starting to feel more like a shadow than a person, that aches at him too and he can't help but wish, quietly, privately, painfully, to himself if no one else that things were different, that he wasn't so broken or so alone. But if wishes were fishes they'd fill a whole sea (just be careful not to whisper them within the hearing range of the Hōgyoku).

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An Honest Conversation (Is A Bitter Thing To Crave) Jason kidnaps Bruce but things don't go as Bruce expects. First of all the reason Jason was able to kidnap him was because Stephanie of all people was his insider, why would she support someone Batman knows she's only met once. And second of all the reason he's been abducted - So that Jason can drug them both with the same substance. And when Bruce asks what he's doing this for Jason only responds, "We don't trust each other enough to have a truthful conversation otherwise" and refuses to say anything more while they wait for it to kick in. What will be revealed by this forced honest encounter on both sides? -

carrying the world on thin shoulders Midoriya Izuku deserves better from literally all the adults in his life so this is part whump part hurt comfort part fix it fic that sprawls out from time to time but it's pretty bad tbh, at some point I'll probably make it neater and give it something resembling a coherent plot. Hopefully. -

Trust Issues HP fic. Harry gets dosed with a potion that's supposed to reinforce your strongest survival instinct, the person who drugged him might've intended to be helpful but said potion happened to be at extra strength and he was given what would be a normal fix for the regular version but for this one is twice the recommended amount. Great.. The biggest problem about all this - beyond his internationally wanted godfather Sirius endangering himself by hiding out in a cave near Hogsmeade against all rational advice, his best friend Ron hating him, everyone in school besides his other best friend Hermione also hating him or avoiding him and the entire Goblet of Fire problem - is that he can't bring himself to trust anyone enough to tell them what's wrong.

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Truth is Treason in the Empire of Lies A post marvel avengers story, thor pov probably, made because I like to dive into a pool of thor & loki sibling feels sometimes: Starts off as Thor regales his new human shield brothers with the story of his banishment and return to Asgard ending with Loki falling into the Void and the Avengers have some questions, questions Thor had not thought of, remarks on things that Thor doesn’t know how to explain away.  After he goes to Loki’s cell and asks him some things he becomes more and more angry despite having no one he can punch > Gets drunk and criticises Sif and The Warriors Three after they try to calm him down > mention of Loki still being underage by Aesir standards during Thor 1 seeing as Thor was being crowned due to being of age in the movie > heavy inspiration drawn from queen regnant by peaceheather. “For while the Treason I detest, the Traitor I love still.” Currently just an outline.

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Separation Split personality disorder Red Hood and Jason Todd, alternatively, Red Hood is a demon/parasite latched on to Jay. A lot of work necessary considering right now it’s currently just an idea inspired by a cool tumblr fanart.

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A Trinity of Head Wounds The dcu trinity in the aftermath of a fight against some alien invaders (or something along those lines), whump, hurt/comfort, starts with them arguing, ends with them bleeding on each other in a friendship way, whole thing should take place in a single room on the watchtower and be a oneshot so it's gotta be a short and sweet one-two gut punch with the feelings which is difficuuult.

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A Stark in The Stars an mcu fic, a really over complicated mcu fic, mostly because of Steve Roger's timeline fuckery, Tony's alive but he's not supposed to be, but so are a lot of people who were dead but aren't now you might say what with the snap and the blip. The thing is that Steve's timeline fuckery is making it so that everyone keeps getting confused between the two different timelines of events, obviously more confused the more that their characters were connected to the films/the events that were altered, the punchline of this particular fic though is that Tony's still alive and he's unaware of the timeline of events where he died. And as he's currently in space he's also unaware that everyone on Earth thinks he's dead (because why wouldn't they? he died in endgame after all). That makes this fic super tough to write because like ultimate unreliable narrator right here and not sure how to tie in the whole 'oh wait actually everyone on Earth thinks I'm dead because of the canon timelines' thing in or at what point of the story to do that at. The fuckery of it all gives me a headache. Plot is hard. Also all of that's basically background to the actual focus of most of the fic thus far which is Tony travelling around space in an Iron Man suit up until the point where it won't be background.

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Magic Chained Merlin au. When you put magic restraining cuffs on Magic himself you don't just bind him you bind all magic the world over. It is therefore, infinitely lucky that Uther Pendragon never became aware of this fact.

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A Child in The Cold bnha Midoriya deserves better also Recovery Girl and Aizawa have shit to answer for as far as I'm concerned.

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[bluejayblueskies]

chimera

Part 13 of Whumptober 2020

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood Tags: Whump, Major Character Death, Angst (like a LOT), Memory Loss

Read on Ao3

Warm sunlight filters through the window, casting dancing shadows against the hardwood floors of the Scottish safehouse. It brings out the golden tones in Martin’s hair, Jon thinks as he lays tangled in the soft down comforter they’d dragged from the closet, sleep having left him before the sun broke over the horizon, as it so often did lately.

 “I can feel you watching,” Martin says softly, eyes still closed, and Jon startles slightly, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks.

 “I- sorry, I… thought you were still asleep. Though I suppose that’s not really any better, is it?”

 “No, it’s- it’s fine,” Martin says, opening his eyes to look at Jon. There’s a small smile on his lips. “It… it’s nice, actually.”

 Jon’s blush deepens. “Oh.”

 Martin laughs lightly, voice still husky from sleep, and reaches forward, his fingers ghosting across Jon’s cheek. “I just meant that- well, you don’t have to stop. That’s all. I like looking at you too, you know.”

 Jon reaches up and captures Martin’s fingers with his own. It never feels quite real, being able to touch Martin like this; even now, Jon’s afraid that one moment, he’ll reach out and he’ll meet only fog. “I know.” He hesitates, just for a second, and then leans forward and presses a soft kiss against Martin’s mouth. “I love you.”

 He can feel Martin smile against his lips. “I love you too, Jon.”

 They lie there, in the warmth of the sun, and just look…

.

It’s really no surprise when Martin wakes one morning to the creaking of the bed as Jon scrambles out of it, nearly tripping in his effort to free himself from the tangle of sheets that, once, had been a comfort. It still nearly breaks Martin when Jon says, in a voice trembling with raw fear, “Where- where am I? Who are you? Why- why can’t I see anything?”

 They’d rehearsed this, all those weeks ago when the first gaps in Jon’s memory had begun to appear. Just little things, at first: what he’d had for breakfast that morning; their trip to the village the day before, to pick up groceries; the garden they’d planted last week, evident only in the freshly tilled earth and small wooden markers labeled in sharp, blocky letters that Jon couldn’t remember writing. Then, bigger things: those last moments of fear, destroyed utterly as the Panopticon went up in flames and Jon’s eyes alit in kind; that long and pained journey through the domains, every step carefully planned yet entirely unknown, in the end; the trip to the safehouse, Martin still shivering in the passenger seat of Basira’s car and Jon’s hand clasped firmly with his, as it had been since they’d begun to make their way out of the fog.

 Yesterday, it had been the first time Martin had brought Jon tea. Earl Grey, with a splash of milk, no sugar. Set on his desk with a tentative smile and a, “Sorry about earlier, with the- erm, the dog. I- I’m glad to be here. Really.”

 Jon had stared at the tea, like he couldn’t quite understand why it was there, and then had said stiffly, “I trust we can expect a more professional demeanor when it comes to your work, Mr. Blackwood.”

 “Oh, y- yes, of course,” Martin said, trying and failing to hide the nervousness in his voice with a shaky smile. “And it’s Martin. Please.”

 Jon’s finger absentmindedly traced the rim of the steaming mug. “Well, Martin, we’ll have our work cut out for us rectifying the frankly abysmal state of the Archives. I suggest you spend less time making tea and more time filing.”

 It probably should have made Martin angrier, to have what was intended as an apology be brushed aside. But the look on Jon’s face later, after Martin had retreated back to the assistants’ desks, when he took a casual sip of the tea and, apparently, found it quite to his liking, was something Martin never could get out of his mind.

 And now it was gone. And Martin knew, when Jon looked at him blankly and said, “We’ve just met—of course I don’t know how you take your tea,” that this was it. He… he’d run out of time.

 He’d known for weeks, what was coming. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

.

Jon’s curled up under the sheets, and he’s shivering, and Martin wants nothing more than to wrap him up in his arms and hold him, in these last moments. But he knows that’s not what Jon wants. Not anymore. So he sits, in the armchair he’d moved from the living room to their bedroom—Jon’s bedroom, he mentally corrects, as he’d moved to the second bedroom in the safehouse some time ago—and tries, unsuccessfully, not to cry as Jon says, weakly, “I- I don’t remember. You- your name. I’m sorry, I- I think you told me, but I- I don’t…”

 Jon lets out a small, broken whimper. “I don’t remember who I am. And- and everything hurts, and it- it’s so cold. Why… what’s happening to me?”

 God, he can’t do this. He- he shouldn’t have to do this. Everyone else gets to be happy. Everyone else gets to forget that dark and broken world of fear and pain, resuming their lives like nothing had ever changed. They’d gone through so much, sacrificed so much to cast the fears from this reality, and this is what they get. This is their reward. Martin wants to scream. He wants to break down, to collapse into the pain and the fear and the sorrow, to retreat into himself and shut out a world that’s not for him anymore.

 He forces a reassuring smile onto his face. “It’s- it’s okay, Jon. You’re going to be okay.”

 Jon’s hands, thin enough to be nothing but bone covered in a layer of dry, cracked skin, scrabble at the sheets, unable to get a grip. “I- I don’t- please, just- just help me, I don’t- I don’t understand- who am I? Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I see?”

 “You… you’re going to be okay,” Martin repeats, and he- he can’t stop himself. He reaches forward, hesitantly, and lays a careful hand on top of Jon’s. Jon flinches instinctively, and Martin’s stomach twists as he begins to move his hand back. Then, tentatively, Jon relaxes against Martin’s touch.

 “You…” Jon swallows, and his voice is so ragged. “You’re so warm.” A pause. Then: “Will… will you hold me? I- I’m sorry, I- I don’t even know if you know me, but- but I’m just so cold, and—”

 Jon’s voice breaks off, and Martin realizes that he’s crying. “And I think I’m dying,” he says, barely more than a whisper, and it breaks Martin’s heart into a thousand tiny shards.

 “Of course,” Martin says, and he’s sure that the tears that are now flowing freely down his face are wet and sticky against Jon’s neck as he pulls Jon tightly to him, trying desperately to commit to memory the way that Jon smells, even now, like lavender and sandalwood, and the way that Jon’s curls tickle his cheeks as Jon tucks his head into the crook of Martin’s neck, and the way that Jon sighs, ever so slightly, as his arms wrap around Martin’s back and his hands fist in the soft material of Martin’s shirt. Martin can hardly breathe, but he focuses on those sensations and tells himself the lie that this isn’t the last time, because otherwise he thinks he’ll crumble entirely. “Of course,” he repeats. Then, because he can’t help himself: “I love you, Jon. So, so much. I- I just wanted you to know.”

 Jon’s breathing hitches, and Martin thinks he’s going to pull away—that it was too much, he knows it was too much, that he shouldn’t have said it—but after a moment, he just squeezes Martin tighter. “I- I wish I could say the same. But I… I don’t think I know what love feels like anymore. It… it’s just gone.” Jon swallows, and then says, in a quiet and pleading voice, “Could… could you describe it to me?”

 Martin tries to think of a way—a way to describe how it feels, to be completely consumed with affection and warmth and radiance and Jon—and comes up empty. So he pulls back, just enough to study the lines of Jon’s face, and begins to tell him about cups of tea placed on hardwood desks, and quiet moments spent walking with hands clasped through rolling, grassy hills, and holding onto one another unwaveringly when the world wanted nothing more than to pull them apart.

 At some point, Martin feels the gentle rise and fall of Jon’s chest still. But he keeps talking, even as he lays Jon down gently on the bed, and brushes Jon’s hair away from his face, and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

 “It was nice, you know?” Martin says, his voice thick with tears but unable to help the small, sad smile that comes across his face. “The time we had. I just wish…”

 No. There’s really no point anymore, is there?

 Martin steps away from the bed, and looks away. “Goodbye, Jon,” he says. He lets himself stand there, just a moment more. Then, he draws in a shaking breath, and makes the call.

[broken-wings-and-whumpy-things]

Random WIP stuff

I haven’t been writing much lately so.... ye. Here’s some of my WIP stuff idk if I’m gonna finish, mostly unedited.

Content Warnings: Mental health and trauma, tasing/electricity whump, blood, lab whump, wing whump, muzzles, verbal cruelty from another captive, referenced minor whump (brief mention, character is currently 23)

Intended sequel to THIS drabble, and Whumptober 2019 prompt Isolation on Day 7.

CW: None

    The ride in the van was only a few minutes, but no less unpleasant. The cuts she'd gotten from the thorns still bled, the red fluid dripping onto the floor with every bump and turn. It was dark, very dark, pitch black if you will. Fae tried to summon a light, but the tiniest wisp of fog evaporated. Always with the magic-dimming cuffs- what was she going to do? Freeze her way out? Glow a hole in the side of the van? Please.    

Once the vehicle finally stopped, Fae let her head knock into the wall, looking up in a silent prayer to abso-fuckin'-lutely nobody. The aftermath of a failed escape attempt was never pretty. This wasn't gonna be an exception. She listened carefully as the two enforcers exited the van and stopped around the door, their conversation incoherent. Then, a latch flicked, and the glorious light of... the lab's garage streamed in. She groaned into the muzzle, more out of contempt than anything. She wanted to compress some of her anger into sarcasm and send it their way, but the thing on her mouth made that pretty damn difficult.

This one I intend to finish someday, it’s the next drabble in Ari’s storyline. I have so much plot for this, y’all, I can’t believe I haven’t written it down, I have the entire next three arcs planned out if I could just wRITE-

CW: Verbal cruelty from another captive, mental health, blood and scar mentions

    Hours passed in the room of cages. A clock, somewhere in the corner, ticked away incessantly, filling the room with the sounds of mechanisms clicking and moving. Soon, Ari found her thoughts aligning themselves neatly along the seconds. For the first hour or so, she laid in the cage, examining her fellow captives with exhausted eyes. The wound on her arm had fully healed, and she'd flaked off the silver blood that'd dried around it. The scar, new and still slightly pink, laid among the menagerie of fading ones that wove up her arm and across her back. Nobody spoke for a long, long time.    

     When somebody did speak, however, the angel jumped. A low, gravelly voice snaked out from the left.     

     "I know you're listening, newbie. So listen closely," the voice said. Ari finally looked up, and found each conscious occupant of the opposite cages staring intently at someone on her side. "You fuck things up for us? We fuck things up for you. We've got a plan. Either stick with us, or stay out of the way. Those are your only options."    

     The angel was frozen. The words echoed and twisted in her mind, the threats trying to interpret themselves. What did they mean? What did she have to avoid? Who all was 'us'?

     "Well?"

    "Y-yes," she stammered, forcing the words out.

    "That's 'yes, ma'am' to you, newbie," the voice hissed again.

     "Yes, ma'am, s-sorry ma'am."

     "Better."

    The room settled into silence again, save for the ticking of the clock. What little tension Ari had managed to release had coiled itself back up into her, drawing her wings close and curling up against the scratched-up metal of the cage. She couldn't stand, could barely even sit, so she decided she might as well lay down. She had two people to be good for, now. And she wasn't quite sure what either of them wanted from her. So she remained, slowly tracing patterns onto the metal below to bide time. 

This one was meant to be a BTHB prompt, it’s almost fully finished but I’ve been tentative about where to end it for a while. Also, I’m worried about repetetiveness when it comes to these Onyx drabbles x-x CW: Mental health and trauma, blood, lab whump, wing whump, muzzles, referenced minor whump (brief mention, character is currently 23), tasing/electricity whump

The silence was stifling.

The buzz of fluorescent lights and forcefields, occasional footsteps filled the air. There were two dozen people in this hall and none of them spoke. Each corralled in their own little white cell, some of them paced, some tried to sleep, still others tried to tend to their own wounds. Twelve cells to a side, reinforced double-doors at the end of the corridor.

Faelynn laid in the solid cutout, one wing crumpled up against the wall and the other hanging over the edge. She tapped her fingers against her own arm in frustration, nearly staring a hole through the ceiling above her. She was running through her capture in her head over and over and over again, trying to figure out what she did wrong. How she ended up back here again. She ran her thumb along the edges of the cuffs clasped on her wrists, the ones that stopped her from using her magic; and began to fidget with her hospital gown. She clinked her ankle against the corner of the cutout, hearing the metal of the cuff collide with the... whatever the hell they used for this place. It felt like plastic, but she couldn't be sure. What was she thinking about?

Around the fifteenth time, the hybrid couldn't stand the stillness anymore. The buzzing was so loud, her brain searching for any sound it could, picking up every shuffle and whimper and minuscule change that happened throughout the entire hall. She finally twisted out of the nook, landing neatly on her feet and wincing at the pain that shot through her leg. Not a fracture, but there was claw marks covering about a third of her calf. They'd been cauterized, although carelessly, leaving burn marks around the wounds. And of fucking course, who would bother with anesthesia. However, she successfully ignored the pain and began to furiously pace around the cell. It hurt, every step sent fire up her leg, but the stillness was worse. Her wings flexed slightly, knowing she couldn't stretch them even halfway in this tiny cell.

It wasn't long until even the pacing wasn't enough. She wanted to stretch her wings, she wanted to fly and run and do literally anything else. Gods, this was agonizing. Fae gathered her hair. They'd ripped out her hair tie and snapped it in front of her, some kind of attempted display of power, like she hadn't snapped them by accident hundreds of times before. Her normal messy updo was gone, her hair looking crumpled and unkempt. The temporary feeling of her hair being lifted up was comfortable, but soon she had to resist the urge to pull on her own hair. She let it fall again, then hugged herself instead.

Fae didn't realize how hard she was gripping her arms. Her ragged nails left white marks on her skin as she dragged them down, and she groaned to herself. It hadn't even been two days and she was already going batshit. At least, she didn't think it had been two days... They hadn't taken her out for any tests yet, but she knew it wouldn't be long. But who knows? The lights never turned off. It could have been two hours or two weeks for as much as she knew. The uncertainty added to her building rage.

Too many feelings were coming back from when she was a kid. When she lived like this, day in and day out, torturous experiments becoming more and more frequent as she aged. It would be so easy to just slip back into compliance, to just sit down and take it. Half the city knew about the raid, the search and rescue team would be back to rescue everyone taken. But... they'd need time.

She couldn't. She couldn't do that. She wouldn't let herself get broken again, she couldn't set herself back like that. She'd give them a hell of a time, make them regret ever dragging her back to this fucking hellhole. They'd only managed to nab her because- oh, that's what she'd been thinking about- they drugged the shit out of her, keeping her weak and fading in and out of consciousness while they threw her into the back of a van. After that, she could barely remember anything but the pain of her wounds being cauterized and waking up in this cell. It replayed in her mind again, and again, until-

Almost involuntarily, Faelynn finally snapped. With an impressive roar of frustration, hatred, and pent-up agony, she brought her fists down on the ledge she'd been sitting on minutes before, sending a startling thud down the corridor of cells.

"God FUCKING DAMMIT," she started, to nobody in particular. She whirled around, facing out of the forcefield, just waiting for an enforcer to show up. The cell in front of her was empty, and she was glad she couldn't see the occupants diagonal to her. She must be scaring them- and although she felt horrible for it, she needed to do something. Before she completely lost it. Even if it would result in pain, extra restraints, whatever they were going to do, she was gonna fucking lose it if she didn't. Finally, she heard angry bootsteps coming up the hall. "HEY. Yeah, you," she practically spat at the approaching figure. "I've got some things to say, fuckface."

The enforcer stopped in front of her cell, staring her down with a blended look of smugness and disgust.

"What do you even get out of this job? You get good benefits? Vacation days? 'S that worth it for you, asshole?" Fae taunted, hatred and anger lacing her voice.

Oh, she was aware that this wouldn't end well for her. Well aware. She saw him reaching for his stun gun.

"You gonna shock me? Gonna knock me out? Leave a mark? Get in line," she snarled sarcastically.

It happened fast.

The enforcer slammed his palm onto the panel next to her cell, dropping the forcefield in order to get to her with the taser. Fae took a jumping start, sliding under his outstretched arm before scrambling to her feet and taking off down the hall, wings folded tightly for aerodynamics. She made it almost halfway down before a high-pitched whine pierced her ears. She barely had time to widen her eyes as she realized what was happening. Before she knew it, she was falling, twisting around on her side to minimize facial contact with the ground. She tried to swing her arms out to stop the fall, but couldn't separate her wrists. A panicked yelp escaped her throat, and she landed squarely on her shoulder.

And her right wing.

She felt the stalks of her feathers crunch under her own weight, and the pressure tore at her back.

Before she had time to process any of that, however, the enforcer was on her, trying to pull her back up by a shoulder. The second he got close, though, she bit on instinct. Fae felt her teeth pierce skin, saw the man recoil. She started to grin and opened her mouth to taunt, but was quickly cut off.

The sound of doors swinging open reached her ears. Next thing she knew, somebody was jamming the stun gun into her arm, her side, her left wing- with each blow, she could vaguely hear somebody screaming. She knew it was herself, but couldn't feel it, couldn't comprehend it, and soon the screaming coupled with tears.

The electricity stopped, but the burns racing across her skin flared, searing streaks firing across the hybrid's nerves like the lightning it came from. She felt one of the enforcers lift her up by her neck, and she was barely lucid enough to be aware of the device being strapped around her skull. She tried to dissent, but all that came out was a weak, hoarse whimper. She thought she could hear... laughing? A vague, misty impression was all she could manage. They were laughing at her. They found this hilarious. She tried, with the little strength she still held, to bite back again.

There was something covering her mouth.

The whimper grew louder, only by a hair, and then fell silent. Her voice hurt. Everything hurt.

One of the enforcers grabbed her by the cuffs and began to drag her back towards the cell. She had no energy left to fight it, even as her consciousness began to resurface slowly. The friction rubbed against her wings uncomfortably- then, nerves lit up in them as she felt primaries rip out. The pain didn't register immediately in her greyed-out mind, but she could see the giant feathers laying abandoned in the hallway as she was dragged back to the cell.

Once they arrived, the enforcer kicked her in with a blow to the chest. She landed unceremoniously inside with a dull thud, skidding across the pristine tile. One of her wings hit the wall behind her, and the muscle pain amplified tenfold. She laid there, unmoving, glaring harshly at the people walking away. Her mind was beginning to come back to full consciousness, as was the pain. Her shoulder stung with every slight shift, every breath. Except now, she couldn't stand and shout. She could barely breathe, her mouth covered by a fucking muzzle. The cuffs were still charged, effectively gluing her wrists and ankles together. And if she was angry before, now she was pissed.

[faejilly]

Whumptober #1: Shaky Hands

Happy @whumptober2019! Well. Maybe not ‘happy’ obviously. This is one of the ‘worst’ things I’ve ever written y’all, istfg. I’m sorry. Shadowhunters 3x18 canon-divergence. #MCD warning #Hurt/No Comfort (There’s even a heartbreaking letter in this, because I am nothing if not on-brand in my agony.) What if Alec never showed up at the bookstore to break-up with Magnus? What if that would’ve been better?

***

Magnus gets back from the bookstore late. Late enough Alec is probably working; falling for a Shadowhunter had rather condemned him to living a third-shift life, considering demons and darkness and all that. Normally he doesn't mind, doesn't know why he had to think 'condemned' even jokingly, not when living with Alec is everything he could have ever...

It's harder now, of course, that he doesn't have anything to do, no potions, no projects, no people, no responsibilities. He's empty, and he's bored, and that second's almost worse than the first when it's the middle of the night and he doesn't want to drink himself to sleep.

For a lot of reasons.

At least today he can remember those reasons, can remind himself that he'll find his balance again, somehow, can believe in that future even if he can't believe it right now. Thanks to Maryse, of all people, and Catarina, and Madzie, and Alec.

Always Alexander.

There's a note in the middle of the bed. Folded up into a pyramid so it sticks out, Magnus written across the side like the name tags they make kids put on their desks when there's a substitute teacher.

Or that was something they did twenty or thirty years ago, the last time Magnus knew an elementary-aged child.

He's not sure why he's just standing in the middle of the room staring at it, why his chest aches and his hands feel so unsteady, why he's thinking about children from a generation ago rather than...

Whatever this is.

He doesn't want to know what this is, but he promised himself he wouldn't be a coward any more.

There's something about the way Alec wrote his name, the lines are too dark, like he'd pushed too hard, so much harder than usual.

Magnus makes himself pick it up, feels the pages slide between his fingers.

The back page, the one with his name on it, is almost entirely illegible, fragments of words all scratched out and filled over, and something twists in Magnus' chest, and he's having trouble breathing.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, because he needs to before he reads this, he knows, he knows, this is bad, it's going to be so bad.

He'll deal with the scratched out page later. If he tilts it just right, the light catches in the grooves of the letters, he saw a 'loved' and a 'can't breathe' and he’s not sure... maybe he'll just let that lie, maybe he doesn't have to be that brave, maybe reading the letter itself will be enough.

Maybe the letter itself will be too much. 

He turns to the beginning, where it's addressed to him. The penmanship's messier than Alec's usual hand, and Magnus feels queasy even before he starts.

Magnus:

I love you.

And I know you love me.

I have to start with that, or the rest of this...

I know this is a terrible thing I'm doing, and I never meant to—

I never want to hurt you, have always wanted to protect you but I can't and there's—

Fuck.

I don't even know if this will work, if this is breaking the deal I haven't made yet, if this will be here when you get back, but I had

I have to try.

You told me you needed your magic back. You wanted to say that dying would be better than living without it, you almost, you tried to. You didn't, for my sake, but that doesn't mean you felt any better about clinging to me than you felt when you almost died.

How could I hold onto you, here, like this, if that's how it made you feel?

You're my home, Magnus, but I know I'm not yours.

Magnus almost drops the letter at that, it hurts, like a knife somehow slid between his ribs to stab right at the hole in his chest where his magic used to live and he can't, he can't breathe, he can't see, tears blurring his vision.

"What did you do," he whispers, fingers curling and paper crumpling between them as his grip tightens. He doesn't want to know.

He has to.

And that's ok, it is, I get it.

Magnus lets out a sob, back curving as his heart aches, and how did he get this so wrong? How did he fail Alec so badly, that he thinks... that he believes...

And that's ok, it is, I get it. You survived before me, and I want you to live and love after me, I do. That's good, and that's right, and that's the only way any of us can make life worth it, and you can't—

Alec's words are shakier here, like it was hard to keep going, like he had to fight himself in order to write. Magnus wishes he'd followed that impulse, had stopped, but it wasn't like Alec to back down just because something was difficult.

You can't do that if I'm— if I'm clinging to you to make me feel better, regardless of what it costs you. I want—

I want my memory to be something that keeps you warm in a hundred years, and I know that's selfish of me, and I know this is probably going to ruin that, but I don't know how to make it stop hurting so much, how to help you stop hurting so much.

I know you'd say that I don't have to fix anything, that you made your choice, that we'll stick together and we'll live through it, but how can I make you live with this choice if it makes you think dying is better than living with me?

You told me you need your magic back, and I know you're telling the truth. So I'm getting it back for you. But I need you to know, just in case...

I know it's not fair, leaving this for you, that it'll hurt you to see this, to read it, but. You deserve to know, if something goes wrong, that I didn't just... give up. That I didn't leave without intending to come back, that I wanted... I just wanted you to feel like yourself again. You deserve to know the truth, to know that I will always choose you, and I don't know how else to tell you, to make sure you know, that if something goes wrong...

I'm sorry.

I hope this works, and I come back and can tear up this letter.

I hope you never see this.

But if you do... I love you, Magnus, and I will never regret that. I hope you don't either.

He feels something in his chest break, and he curls down even tighter, trying to hold it together through pressure, the pain of his own ribs pressing into his gut, and it's as if his own agony flips a switch, opens a door somewhere between his lungs, behind his heart. He screams, and he falls from the bed as his magic comes rushing back in, sparking and flaring between his bones. It hurts worse than when he lost it, worse than when he killed his step-father, worse than when he bound it to Edom and felt the scorched sand rub inside his skin because it was the only way to bind his father there, too.

He can feel that binding again, can tell it's still there, that his father's still there, still trapped, that the fail-safes Magnus put into the binding before he went to Edom to make a deal worked. But there's an ugly sort of feedback traveling along it; it's humming, unpleasant and prickly and annoyed and smug, all at once, and Magnus knows.

Alec made a deal with Asmodeus, the only one who could let Magnus' magic go. Asmodeus is not pleased by it, didn't get what he really wanted, but Alec hit the terms of it well enough that Magnus got his magic back.

Break his heart to save him. That would be the sort of thing his father would ask for, Magnus' agony to feed him through the binding, to give him a way to influence Magnus again, a way to start convincing Magnus that Earth isn't worth it, that Edom is.

Demon deals are like Seelie promises; they can't be broken, but they're never ever as straightforward as they look. Asmodeus would have told Alec something specific to do it, but if Alec confirmed the result, not the process? Alec could have managed to bend it just a little in his favor, just enough...

Asmodeus isn't going to let him get away with that. Asmodeus will have already...

Magnus hears a scream from the hallway outside, Jace's voice, but broken, broken like Alec was when Jace was at Lake Lyn and Valentine...

Magnus is not going to see Alexander again.

And it's his own fault.

[kaelinaloveslomaris]

Whumptober 22: Hallucination

Oh hey, look, I’m really late with this! But I’m determined to finish these, so here we go.

Also, I wanted to post something for the 3rd birthday of FFXV, so I’m sliding in a little late for that too, but here it is.

Ignis has a fever. Noctis fusses.

I’ve discovered that Ignis is actually really hard to write for some reason. This one gave me so much trouble, and I almost considered skipping it altogether, but I didn’t want to just have one prompt that I didn’t do. The completionist in me wouldn’t allow that.

So I stuck it out, though I didn’t quite get to the actual prompt. I was planning on having Ignis deal with fever hallucinations, as those are something that plague me when I have a fever, but I couldn’t find a way to work them in. So. Yeah.

I also have a cold right now, so it seems fitting to write a sick fic.

—

Ignis never got sick. He simply couldn’t afford to, not with his schedule as busy as it was. And although Noctis often complained that Ignis always managed to stay healthy whenever an illness swept through the Citadel occupants, and Gladio teased that it must be because the bacteria or virus was too scared of Ignis’s wrath to even think about infecting him, he was sure it was simply a combination of his strict preventative measures and a healthy immune system.

As it was, he could count on one hand the number of times he had had anything more than a slight sniffle, while Noct seemed to come down with anything and everything on a regular basis, and Ignis could count on both hands the number of illnesses His Highness had contracted in just the last year. Ignis supposed it just made him all the more qualified to be Noctis’s advisor and would-be caretaker when he didn’t need to fear catching whatever it was he had come down with most recently.

That morning Ignis had woken with a mild ache behind his eyes and a bit of scratchiness in his throat. Nothing some better hydration and a decent amount of sleep couldn’t fix, and he thought nothing of it. No one else was sick, after all, and Ignis was never the first one to succumb on the rare occasions he did get sick.

But by the end of the day it had progressed to coughing and shivers and a full headache. He pushed through it, determined to just drink some tea when he got home and go to bed early, and stopped by Noctis’s apartment on his way to drop off a stack of political reports and make sure he wasn’t procrastinating on any of his duties. To his surprised relief, Noctis was sitting at the table, surrounded by papers that at a glance looked like calculus notes, and focused enough he barely acknowledged Ignis’s entrance. It was… a marked improvement over last month, and Ignis was pleased.

Not wanting to distract him or give him an excuse to abandon his studies, Ignis set the stack of reports on the edge of the counter and tried to slip out again before he could notice anything that needed cleaning. But his body betrayed him, and Noctis looked up from his homework to raise an eyebrow at him when he attempted to stifle a cough.

His prince’s eyes turned sharp in a way few people knew they could as he examined Ignis’s face, took in the slight flush Ignis could feel on his cheeks. Ignis put on his best disapproving glare, intending to direct Noct’s attention back to his homework so he could make his escape, but the effect was ruined when he coughed again. This time it evolved into a full coughing fit that had him bracing himself with a hand on the edge of the counter.

Noctis shot to his feet. “Ignis, you’re sick!”

“Nonsense,” Ignis said when he could breathe again. “Merely a tickle in my throat.” He turned to leave and found Noctis blocking his path.

“Yeah, I’m not buying that.” He reached up to rest the back of his hand against Ignis’s forehead, but Ignis swatted his hand away before he could touch him. Noctis frowned. He pointed at the couch.

“Sit.”

“I really should be going -”

“Ignis Scientia. You will. Sit. Down,” Noctis commanded, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Ignis his Serious Face. Really, Ignis found it endearing rather than intimidating, considering he knew that if he pushed the matter, Noctis would fold, but he decided he was feeling bad enough that sitting down on his prince’s admittedly comfortable couch couldn’t hurt.

Still, he waited a moment, holding eye contact, to see if Noctis would back down. Ignis was pleased when he didn’t and instead only narrowed his eyes further.

Ignis sighed, pushing his glasses up on his face as he made a show of surrendering. “Very well. I will stay long enough to have a cup of tea, if that will satisfy Your Highness?”

Ignis kept a stash of tea, and Ebony, at Noct’s apartment, and he knew the other boys kept various food and drink items here too. Useful, considering how often they all ended up staying here unplanned. But Ignis didn’t want to impose on Noctis on a school night, especially if he was actually coming down with something. He idly wondered if it could be considered treason, intentionally exposing the prince to whatever sickness he currently had.

He headed back towards the kitchen and found himself cut off by Noctis once again.

“Sit, Iggy,” he all but growled. “I’ll make the tea.”

“That won’t be necessary, Highness. I am perfectly capable of -”

Noctis put on his best haughty prince face, the one he reserved for especially irritating politicians and reporters, and switched tactics. “I don’t want you coughing on my dishes.”

Ignis internally grimaced. He knew Noctis well enough to know that that was the last thing he was concerned about, but was instead appealing to Ignis’s logical side since the emotional approach had proven fruitless. Noct was a lot more interpersonally savvy than most of Lucis gave him credit for, when he was motivated. And Ignis supposed he should reward that attempt at diplomatic negotiations, even if Noctis’s subtlety left something to be desired.

He raised his hands in surrender and retreated to the couch. He let himself relax for a moment, closing his eyes to give them a break from the bright lights of the apartment. It eased the headache marginally.

He didn’t open them again until he heard Noctis approaching and a warm mug was pressed into his hands. When he did, he found that Noctis had turned the lights off, save for a dim lamp in the corner of the room, and Ignis was oddly touched.

“Thank you, Noct.”

Noctis shrugged. “There’s honey in there. Should help with your throat.”

He leaned over Ignis and pressed his hand to his forehead before Ignis could stop him.

“Six, Iggy, you’re burning up!”

Well. A fever would certainly explain the shivers. He frowned, shifting away from Noctis’s hand and placed the mug of tea on the coffee table.

“I should not be exposing you to whatever this is,” he said, preparing to stand. “I will just go home and sleep it off and -”

He stood too fast, the floor suddenly tilting to the side, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness. Familiar hands grabbed his shoulders and forced him back down on the couch.

“You will do no such thing,” Noctis said. “You’re staying right here tonight.”

“Noct, I do not want to get you sick,” Ignis argued, feeling panic rise in him. He never should have stopped by the apartment at all. He should have had Gladio deliver the reports, or simply left them for Noctis at the Citadel. It had been foolish and careless to come here, he should have known better than to ignore the earlier symptoms and put Noctis at risk.

Noctis cut off his rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Ignis, if you’re sick, I’m going to get sick, no matter what you do. You know my immune system is crap.”

As much as he wanted to protest, he knew Noctis had a point. It was likely too late now to avoid it, so despite everything in him screaming at the irresponsibleness of it, he allowed Noct to get him settled on the couch.

It was weird, being on the receiving end of the fussing. Normally he was the one doing the fussing, making sure Noctis or Gladio or even Prompto, though the blond was more reluctant to let him help, almost skittish in his attempts to avoid being taken care of, and that opened up its own set of problems, was comfortable and had everything they needed when they were sick or hurt or upset. And though it made him feel somewhat useless, he had to admit that it was kind of nice to be the one being taken care of for once.

He just needed to make sure he didn’t make a habit of it.

[juju-on-that-yeet]

The Fade

This one’s real sad, guys. I made myself a little sad while writing tbh ;w;

Summary: Fading effects every figment differently. When Bim was a few days old and almost forgotten, this is how it happened to him.

Prompt: Delirium

Warnings: Death mentions, dying character, but no one dies in-story

Tagging: @peribloke (ask to be tagged!)

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober Series)

Enjoy!

~

“He sure wears out quick, doesn’t he, Doc?” Wilford asks, wiggling his moustache with thought. “He was perky when he got here.”

“Wilford, he’s fading,” Dr. Iplier groans, not for the first time. “Of course he got tired fast; he’s sick, to put it lightly.”

Wilford blinks, brows furrowed.

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

“What does that even…?” Dr. Iplier asks.

“It means exactly what I said,” Wilford says, with dignity.

Dr. Iplier sighs. It doesn’t seem to matter how many egos they lose, Wilford can’t figure out that fading means fading, it means dying and staying dead. Dr. Iplier doubts that’ll ever happen to Wilford; he’s so massively popular that not even the many reckless deaths he’s experienced could keep him gone for long. But most of the egos aren’t that lucky.

The ego wrapped in a blanket on Dr. Iplier’s armchair is one such unlucky ego.

Bim Trimmer only just appeared a few days ago, only just found the others this morning. He hasn’t even met everyone yet; just Dr. Iplier and Wilford. He and Wilford seemed to hit it off, but apparently not enough for Wilford to show much sympathy when he started flickering and getting weaker as the day sank from morning to late afternoon.

“Hey, wh–” Bim starts, coughing a little, “Who’s th…the pink guy again?”

“Wilford Warfstache, of course!” Wilford shouts, indignant. “How do you just forget me of all people??” He points to himself, wiggling his moustache for emphasis.

“Again, Wilford, he’s sick,” Dr. Iplier scolds, tucking the blanket closer under Bim’s chin. “He barely knows where he is right now, much less who you are.”

The armchair is too short for him to lay down all the way; Bim’s posture is more of a deep, leaned-back slouch, bundled in the blanket like a bag on the end of a hobo stick. But the armchair is more comfortable than the sofa and cleaner than Dr. Iplier’s bed, so it’s the best Dr. Iplier can do without driving him to the city and sneaking him into the hospital he works at.

“Anddd…” Bim squints at Dr. Iplier, wincing through a flicker that nearly makes him disappear. “Wus your name again?”

“Dr. Iplier,” Dr. Iplier says, still gentle, trying for a reassuring smile.

“Oh.” Bim’s eyelids flutter. “I have…rehearsal t’morrow.”

“Really?” Wilford asks, perking up a bit. Dr. Iplier, for his part, tries not to look at Bim’s timer, already at ten hours and continuing to go down.

“Mmhmmm.” Bim coughs again. “Maybe more…people…”

“What?” Wilford asks.

“You…” Bim points to Dr. Iplier. “‘n…Wilbur…?”        

“Wilford!” Wilford yells, annoyed again.

“Winston…maybe you both can come…”

“On your show?” Dr. Iplier prompts, mostly to keep a red-faced Wilford from yelling again.

Bim’s eyes close for several long moments. When he opens them again, they’re clouded with tears.

“Doc, ‘m I gonna die?” he whispers.

Dr. Iplier’s tongue catches in his mouth for a long moment. Even Wilford seems taken aback.

“Bim…” Dr. Iplier murmurs.

He hates this. He hates watching egos die. He hates watching anyone die, but it hurts twice as much when it’s an ego, when it’s family. The Author chides him for that attitude whenever an ego goes.

“You can't keep thinking about it like that, baby,” he always says, I-told-you-so edging his voice as he wipes Dr. Iplier’s tears. “You’ll only break your own heart.”

He’s right, of course he’s right, but how else can Dr. Iplier think of the other egos?

And Bim, from what little time Dr. Iplier got to spend with him before his condition started spiraling, seems like a great addition to the group. As arrogant as Wilford, as smarmy as Dark, but sweet like King and sharp-witted like Author.

Now, though, he’s only barely present, only barely real, as his body continues to flicker in and out of existence. His time might still be blue, still have the potential to change, but there’s only ten hours left for change to happen.

“I jus’ got here,” Bim whines, a tear escaping down his cheek. “They’re already forgetting me.”

“I know,” Dr. Iplier says, achingly soft, reaching out to thumb away the tear. “It’s not fair. But you might still get better.” He smiles. “I can tell it’s not over yet.”

“Exactly!” Wilford puts in. “You’re a fine chap, Bim. There’s no way the fans can’t see it!”

“Y’think?” Bim asks, followed by a cough.

“Of course!” Wilford leans in conspiratorially. “After you’ve been here a while, you’ll learn that I’m always right.”

Dr. Iplier rolls his eyes, but the line gets a giggle out of Bim, so Dr. Iplier decides to find the humor in it. But the giggle is followed by even more coughing, until Dr. Iplier starts rubbing Bim’s back through the blanket.

“Easy, bud,” he soothes, “How about I get you some water?”

“Y-Yeah,” Bim manages, shivering.

“Watch him for a minute,” Dr. Iplier tells Wilford before going to the kitchen.

He’s back barely a couple minutes later with a glass of water and a plastic straw, but Bim stares at the glass in his hand without comprehension.

“Why’d you get water?” Bim asks.

“I offered to get you some a bit ago,” Dr. Iplier tells him, patient, “And you said you wanted some.”

“That just happened, how–” Wilford scoffs, bewildered, cut off by Dr. Iplier’s icy glare.

“Oh.” Bim says. His eyes close for a moment, then open again. “I don’t wan’ any.”

Wilford grumbles under his breath.

“You need it, though,” Dr. Iplier says gently, “You’ve been coughing a lot, this’ll help your throat. You don’t have to drink it all.”

“O…okay,” Bim says. There’s a dazed, fluttery quality to his voice, the kind that Dr. Iplier’s only ever heard in the voices of elderly dementia patients in the midst of an episode. It sounds so bizarre coming from the mouth of Bim, a young man, a three-day-old figment, a baby ego.

Still, Dr. Iplier approaches him with the water, holding the glass in front of him and helping him get the straw into his mouth. Fortunately, even though Bim forgot he wanted water, his body didn’t, and he drinks steadily. Dr. Iplier expects Wilford to make a comment about Bim needing a straw, but he’s curiously silent. Dr. Iplier glances at him briefly to see the expression on his face, but it’s hard to decipher.

When the glass is empty, Dr. Iplier sets it on the coffee table and Bim sighs and snuggles deeper into the blanket.

“You gonna go to sleep?” Dr. Iplier asks, hoping the answer is yes. It’d be a kindness from the universe to let Bim sleep through his fading.

“Mm,” Bim mumbles. His eyes are half-open. He looks like he wants something.

“What’s up, Bim?” Dr. Iplier asks, walking over to him.

Bim doesn’t say anything, just grabs Dr. Iplier’s arm and pulls. Dr. Iplier stifles a yelp as he stumbles onto the armchair, squished against Bim’s side. It seems to be what Bim was going for, though, as he leans into Dr. Iplier’s chest and sighs again.

“Oh,” Dr. Iplier says. Wilford snorts – the first sound he’s made in a few minutes now – and Dr. Iplier ignores him to stroke Bim’s hair. Bim worms one hand out from beneath the blanket to grab at Dr. Iplier’s free hand, and Dr. Iplier lets him. Bim frowns.

“Cold,” he says.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Dr. Iplier replies, “I’m not a very good cuddle partner, unfortunately.”

There’s a pause.

“I am, though!” Wilford suddenly exclaims. “I give excellent hugs, just ask Darky!”

Dr. Iplier snorts. Dark looks fit to murder every time Wilford hugs him, it’s a miracle he hasn’t killed him for it by now. But Dr. Iplier’s surprised when Wilford flounces over to the armchair to sit at Bim’s other side. The trio are sufficiently squished, but somehow they fit without anyone losing circulation. Bim adjusts to lay between them, in the middle of Dr. Iplier’s care and Wilford’s warmth. Eventually he dozes off, letting out quiet, snuffly snores as his body continues to flicker in and out of reality.

“I had stuff I was gonna do today…” Wilford grumbles.

“If you leave you’ll wake him up,” Dr. Iplier retorts, “And if you wake him up, I swear I will break my hippocratic oath to kill you in your sleep.”

Wilford stops grumbling at that, and he and Dr. Iplier continue to watch Bim sleep between them.

“Is he really gonna die?” Wilford asks. “I mean, what I said before…he’s really not a bad kid.”

It’s the nicest thing Dr. Iplier’s ever heard Wilford say about a baby ego. He wishes he had something reassuring to say in return.

“Most likely,” he says instead, “His time isn’t red yet, but once it gets this bad…I’ve never seen anyone bounce back.”

Wilford frowns and looks back down at Bim. Dr. Iplier looks at him, too, at his trembling body smothered in a blanket, at his hands gripping the blanket’s edge, at his glasses askew from his cheek pressing into Dr. Iplier’s chest. Despite his symptoms, he looks peaceful. He isn’t scared or sad like this. The sun begins to go down as the day moves into evening, and Dr. Iplier hopes Bim’ll stay asleep until his clock runs out and die without pain.

But Bim wakes up after an hour of sleep, stirring and lifting his head to blink blearily at Dr. Iplier. Dr. Iplier offers him a gentle smile as his eyes clear. But before he can say anything, Bim’s eyes suddenly go hard with anger, and his hands dart out to grab Dr. Iplier by his shirt collar and yank him closer.

“Don’t just sit here and let me die, you son of a bitch,” he gasps, like he can hardly speak for rage.

Dr. Iplier’s heart starts drumming, and he can’t make his mouth move. He’s not sure what he would say if he could. Wilford looks at him, eyes wide. Bim rears one hand back like he intends to throw a punch, and that seems to jolt Wilford into action.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Bim’s wrist.

Bim tugs but doesn’t have a hope of breaking out of Wilford’s strong grip, and he looks back at him with furrowed brows. Dr. Iplier can feel Bim’s grip on his shirt loosen, and his fisted hand relaxes in Wilford’s grip. He looks back to Dr. Iplier, blinking as his eyes cloud over.

“Wus your name again?” he asks.

Dr. Iplier bites his lip so he doesn’t sob. He glances over Bim’s shoulder at Wilford, who looks like he might cry, too. He releases Bim’s hand like he regrets grabbing it in the first place. Dr. Iplier looks away to Bim’s time. There’s still nine hours to go. Dr. Iplier schools his expression back into a placid smile to answer Bim’s question.

It’s going to be a long night.

[flyswhumpcenter]

Keepsakes [Whumptober 2019 - Day 15: Scars]

Summary: Serena asks questions about Shun's scars, bringing them on the path of memories.

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Arc-V (post-canon, implied alternate ending) Ship: Established Serena/Shun

Wordcount: 1.171 words

Content Warnings: Brief mentions of surgeries. Some references to a near-death experience. Consensual love.

Notes: It's whump if I mention how the scars happened, right? Because otherwise this is all fluff lol Nano and I got the same idea when I mentioned to her the next Whumptober prompts on my list being, back then, "Tear-Stained" and "Scars" : Peregrine stuff. We need more of it. I'll provide, I don't care how or when, I'll provide. I didn't intend this oneshot to have such a sensual tone, but I'm not against it, I've barely written any intimacy lately. The most sensual thing I've written aside from that was, like, a hug in BWI maybe? (spoils spoils) This is meant to be post-canon where the dimensions have fused together, but the Bracelet Girls and Yu Boys are free and not stuck in one mind because that was bogus/20. Bracelet Girls rights. (this story isn't the right place to complain about Arc-V disappointing us). And of course these two are a little older than they are in canon, they're young people who know what they're doing and can consent. I absolutely self-indulgently slipped a reference to a former work of mine, "Birds of a Feather, Fall Together". I've also included a modified reference to an older Arc-V fic I absolutely love, "placeholders" by harezora (who's most likely never gonna read these notes, but in case they do: I love this story so much it was great and better than canon holy shit). 

Event hosted by @whumptober2019

AO3 version available here.

------

The stare she was giving his chest was a bit too intense to his liking, as if her eyes were deciphering some ancient writing on a wall, scrolling from top to bottom, gliding from the left to the right. For a first night sharing a bed in peaceful condition with so little clothing on either of them (it had taken ages for him to even get comfortable with the idea, let alone putting it into place), it was a weird thing for her to do.

Not like he was any better, considering his own eyes couldn’t seem to unglue themselves from the bits of exposed skin left alone by her pyjamas, trailing from her slender shoulders to her hands, focusing on the few imperfections left on her skin by time and experiences, the easily seen and the barely visible, the memories’ physical form laid before him.

 “What are you staring at like that?” he still asked, right as he himself didn’t look quite exactly into her gaze.

“Your scars”, she bluntly replied.

He found himself puffing.

“They’re terrible, right?”

“They’re scars, really,” she continued, crossing her legs on the bed. “You’ve got a lot of them, but they’re a part of yourself. We wouldn’t be the exact same without them.”

That was a bit too deep for his late-night brain, truth be told.

“I suppose so.”

She must have been right, he silently figured, considering the number of scars he could see on her body.

 Serena’s eyes didn’t deter. In fact, her gaze only grew in strength as it continued deciphering the foreign inscriptions in front of her eyes. Her hand twitched on her tight, fingers in a dire want to move, as if she was preventing them from taking off somewhere else.

“I see that you too have a lot of-”

“Can I ask you about them?”

The question surprised him beyond his mind.

“…Come again?”

“Can I ask you about your scars?”

His eyes were furiously blinking.

“Sure, I guess…?”

 What was so interesting about these? They were just ugly, abhorrent traces left behind by wounds of all sorts. And yet, and yet, he found himself with her fingers dancing around his chest, her touch almost sending shivers down his spine (it was closer to a fluttering feel he wasn’t very familiar with, at least not yet), her eyes shining with the light of the bedside lamp.

He didn’t mind, frankly. It had a weird sense of comfort to have her explore him like this, curiosity filling her every move. It made it far less awkward for him to do the same, his own hands brushing against her shoulders, questions coming to his mind. How had she gotten herself these blemishes on her shoulder blades, as light as they were, near a crescent-shaped birthmark right over her breast? Where did the little scars on her arms came from?

Serena was right: they wouldn’t be the same without their scars. This much he could only realize, now that he was actually discovering someone else’s body for the first time in his life.

 Her fingertip stopped on the freshest scar on his skin, laying right under his ribcage.

“This one is from what I think, right?”

“Our first meeting,” he commented. “Well, the aftermath of it, at least.”

“I remember you trying to escape the hospital right before your surgery. Reiji had to send Tsukikage to stun you before you did because Yuya didn’t want to hurt you.”

Her laugh made it worth the embarrassment.

“Sorry, I just… remember your reaction to it. It wasn’t funny at the time, but now that I think about it… It’s kind of funny.”

 Her eyebrows then slightly frowned, making her smile bittersweet.

“…we didn’t start on the best first impressions, did we? You know, being on the opposite sides of a war, my people wanting to slaughter yours and the opposite way around, the Lancers…”

“I wouldn’t have said that. You were the best first impression I had in that dimension.”

“Was it because I looked like Ruri?”

“Maybe.”

 She smiled as her finger left its spot.

“I’m just glad we’re at peace now.”

“Same here.”

 Silence fell between them, albeit only for a short-lived moment, as her finger was still dancing around, eyes following it, before it found itself another spot to ask about.

“And this one?”

Her touch landed on his abdomen, on an old scar he had almost forgotten about from how used he was to seeing it every morning, every evening, every day, every night. Her eyes were sharp, to notice such a faded-out line.

“An old surgery from when I was a kid. I tried ignoring it, but it wasn’t an option. The best thing I remember about it was Ruri sitting by the bed asking me if it hurt.”

“And, did it hurt?”

“It was just sore, really.”

“What surgery was it?”

“Appendicitis, I think.”

“Ah… Never got it myself. Sounds rough.”

“Don’t,” he laughed, looking back at his younger self lying frustrated in a hospital bed. “It was a terrible time to be alive.”

It wasn’t funny, but she giggled back anyway.

“I’m sure it was.”

 Her irises continued their dance, accompanied by her lips shaped in a soft smile. This was a face he could have never resisted, the one who had won him over when he was refusing to show more skin than his arms to her. She’d be the death of him, now that the people trying to kill his entire kind were gone and on the path of redemption – but what a desirable demise she’d be.

“Oh, and this one?”

Her finger gently pressed against a deeper, much more visible scar on his left flank. That one displeased him much more than he’d have wished to admit.

“I got stabbed by an Obelisk Force jackass back in Xyz, before Yuto and I came to Standard, right in front of Ruri too. If it wasn’t for her, I’d have bled out there.”

“That’s horrible…”

“Wasn’t a cosy time to be alive either. Just shows you how strong my sister actually is. Heh, I was blind back there.”

Serena was quiet, her five fingers now flat on his abdomen.

“Hey, don’t make this face. I’m still here, alive and kicking, and so are you. That’s what matters.”

This managed to bring a small smirk back to her lips.

“You’re right.”

 She eventually sighed, cupping his face with her hands, her slender fingers brushing through his hair.

“I’ll have to tell you about mine someday. I don’t have as many, or with as much history, but…”

“That’s wrong. I’m sure they have more meaning that you’re trying to imply.”

“You think?”

“Try me.”

They exchanged mischievous looks, smiles and gazes swapped.

“For another day, then. We got to make the fun last.”

Peace meant they finally had time before them to enjoy life and all the things it brought with it, good and bad.

“Of course,” he said, before they closed the space between their lips.