#shoulder whump

[jaws-and-canines]

They’re Laughing At Me

A Count The Days story. Set right after Scarring, Like an Artist. Following a week of sensory deprivation, Haskell finds himself weakened and overwhelmed, and at the hands of Officer Munroe. Contains alcohol, shoulder dislocation, beating including around the head, teeth gore, mentions of sensory deprivation.

---

Part of me wants to go back under. If it wasn’t for my mind eating at me, I’d welcome the silence. Everything is far, far too loud for me as Munroe lets himself into the room. I’m still where Iverson left me, bleeding through the trousers I put back on with numb fingers. Munroe squats down to get at my level, and laughs as I flinch. He takes his penlight from his key chain and turns it on, shining it in my face with a nasty laugh.

“Please don't do that,” I mumble, holding my hands up to shield the light. Munroe takes the penlight and flicks it over my face again. I hiss, shrinking back.

He laughs, stands up, and turns the overhead lights on. “Ouch!” I cry, my eyes starting to stream. “Turn them off!”

“Shut up,” he says, and kicks me in between my legs. 

I curl up, foetal on the floor. “Wasn’t it enough?” I say to him, from where I’m lying on the floor. “Wasn’t the… darkness enough?” I spit the word darkness with as much disgust as I can muster. A week of sensory deprivation, smothered by my own thoughts. My sluggish brain can’t put together a way to describe it yet.

“No,” he says. “Sit the fuck up.”

I press a palm to the floor, and try to sit up, a hand still on my thigh where the edge of the heel of his boot re-opened the cuts and I can feel fresh blood starting to well up again. I manage to get myself up to a sitting position with a grunt.

I’m weakened and I know it. This is going to be bad. This is going to be really bad, I realise. I put a hand to my face as I stand up slowly, and feel that my cheeks are damp. I’m already dazed, I’m already weak, and I’m already fucking tearful.

Much to my detriment, Munroe notices too.

"Stop crying," he yells. "Stop fucking crying! Crocodile tears," he yells in my face. I start to bawl. "You want something to cry about? I'll give you something!" he snarls. I find myself being thrown to his men like a sack of potatoes. In this state, active resistance is beyond me, I know that. No matter how much I try to go limp to passively resist them, they hold me up. A seemingly endless sea of black uniforms and blue shirts. There’s only three or four but I’m dizzy and dehydrated. They blur into one singular mass. 

Munroe pulls my hands back behind my head as I squirm uselessly, and knots them together with blue nylon rope. The position is already a little uncomfortable, pulling at old scars, but I know what comes next.

The rope gets thrown over one of the hooks on the ceiling and the other end is passed to Fives. Munroe stands in front of me, arms folded. "No, no, no," I plead with him, shaking my head. "You'll ruin my shoulders, please."

“I don’t care,” he says, and gestures to Fives. Fives plants his feet- and he pulls.

I’m pulled off my feet with a pained gasp that turns into a screech of pain. 

Fives takes a step back, and the nylon rope is tied off, quivering with my instinctual struggles to try to find purchase that’s just not there anymore, trying desperately to relieve the weight on my shoulders. “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” I cry.

Munroe shrugs. "Cry about it, Haveter. Cry those salty crocodile tears.” He takes out his knife from where it’s sheathed next to his holster and bends down, grabbing me by the ankle. “The Major specifically asked me to do this to you. So don’t you think for a moment I’m the bad guy here. I’m not.”

He cuts me across the back of the heel, slipping his knife into the cut and pulling down. Tearing a small strip of skin on the sole of my foot off, leaving a red and raw ragged mess beneath. “Oh, God,” I moan, shaking. I try to kick him with my free leg, but the effort means tensing up my shoulders. There’s a sharp crack from my right shoulder and I daren’t push them further. “Please, no, no.”

The knife goes in again. This time he cuts a huge strip off, peeling it away like paring skin from an apple. Keeps on going until most of the bottom of my foot is a bloody mess. I screw up my face.

I cry out as he grabs for my other ankle to do the same to my other foot. I feel my blood drying sticky as I slip in and out of the moment, gasping quietly to myself.

He steps in front of me. “Look at it, yeah?” He holds the knife up in front of my face, slick with my own blood. “I’m not the bad guy here.”

I kick him in the stomach with as much strength as I can muster.

Munroe steps back, shock on his face, but my small victory comes at a huge price. As I swing back from the momentum, my shoulder quite unceremoniously pops out of its socket. I feel it go. Munroe responds to the kick with a vicious slap a moment after my shoulder slips out.

I just howl, screwing my face up, hot tears spilling down my cheeks, shuddering with my shoulder out of its socket. "Oh, God, please!" I howl at Munroe. "My shoulder, my shoulder, my shoulder!"

“What?” he asks, incredulously.

I can’t put two words together. I just scream, still swaying from the momentum of the kick.

He shrugs. “You did that to yourself.”

I wail and wail, coughing and spluttering, gasping in pain as my shoulder burns. It fucking burns. He just wipes his knife on my shirt and puts it away. “Cut him down, Fives, come on,” he mutters.

Fives steps over, unsheathes his knife, and simply cuts a single loop of rope. My hands come apart, and I fall to the floor with a thud and another wail of pain. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, tell Jack I’m sorry,” I sob, seeing Munroe draw his baton. I try to crawl away from him, on my hands and knees. Every little movement hurts something, either my shoulder, which I feel clicking around, or my feet, which sting like all hell. “Please…” I mumble. “Please, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t listen. I go further back. “Tell Jacob I’m sorry,” I sob. “Tell him I didn’t mean it.”

“He’s fucking dead,” says Munroe, right before he brings the baton down across my fingers. And then they all descend. Fives and the other two, batons in hand, all at once. 

The first hit glances into my head. Then the second. “No, no! You’re going to kill me!” I scream, but it’s not like any of the officers are listening. They’re going for the jaw, because of course they are. From the left, a smack with a baton. Something shatters in my mouth and I spit blood down my front. I retch, and spit out another load of blood along with the tip of one of my teeth. The shard of enamel is bitter and hard.

From the right this time. He goes for the ribs, a kick with hobnailed boots. It slams me into the wall, and he follows up with a kick between my shoulders. I gasp as the nerves in my back seize. I can’t breathe, I realise, staring in fear at the scuffed-up wall. He kicks me again in the back, again, again. 

Munroe plants his foot on my head. I cry out as the treads of his boot scrape my bruised cheek. “Please!” I sob. “Stop!” 

“Shut up,” he says, and swings a kick into my stomach. I curl up into a ball, sobbing, gasping, curled around the bitter ache in my chest. Like a child, sprawled on the tarmac of the playground. I start coughing again. 

I roll back onto my back, coughing and spluttering as my lungs fight against me. I turn onto my side and start hacking up the blood I’ve inhaled. More shards of enamel fall out of my mouth. Fuck, they’ve broken one of my teeth. They’re going to fucking kill me. They’re going to kill me.

Oh, God, they’re going to kill me.

Munroe kicks me in the face. “This is what you fucking get, Haskell!” 

I howl. The words just aren’t there. He does it again. My whole jaw shifts. Again, one last time.

“Woah, woah!” says Fives, and drags Munroe off me. I’m spared. I catch my breath with a gasp, rolling away to the other side of the concrete room and trying to get up. My mouth is full of blood. It’s literally dribbling down my chin.

This time when I start retching, crawling around on my hands and knees, it’s not just enamel and blood I bring up. It’s teeth. Into the palm of my hand.

Teeth. 

I stare at them in my hand. Teeth. Multiple.

Someone swings another baton hit at me. I slam backwards into the doorframe, cracking my head on the metal, but I don’t react. Dead weight, I slump down to the floor, staring into space.

Teeth.

They knocked out my fucking teeth.

Munroe grabs me by the back of the shirt. “You need to learn some goddamn humility,” he hisses. It continues. And now they avoid my head. Now they avoid it. 

A kick to my back, a baton to my hip. I just lie there, on my side, staring at the mess on the floor. My teeth. Every single jolt makes me inhale, with the horrendous realisation that part of my mouth is a mess of emptiness, torn flesh and broken enamel.

By the time Munroe orders his men to stop, I’m crying. Silently. Just lying there, on my side, tears rolling down my face. Not a sound.

He grabs me by the jaw. It hurts so much I just sob and I can’t pull away. “Did that hurt? Did that hurt?”

I nod, slowly, whimpering as he presses his fingers against my jaw.

“I bet you’re fucking hungry and thirsty and tired as well. I’m not fucking done with you.”

“Please,” I croak. “You’re going to kill me.” The words come out messy, blood pooling in my mouth from the missing teeth.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks. It’s not a nice question, not really.

I look at him, dazed.

“Do you fucking want something to drink?” he snarls, gripping my jaw even tighter. I nod, eyes wide.

“Hold him,” says Munroe. “Down on the floor.” I’m already on the floor. They take an arm each. 

Munroe kneels on my legs, sitting astride me, fumbling with a bottle. It occurs to me a moment too late, as the smell of alcohol hits me, that he didn’t mean water. “Before you start-” he begins.

“Hey- hey- no-” I slur, spitting blood down my chin as I try to get the words out past missing teeth. “No!”  

But he advances anyways. “Before you start, this wasn’t my idea either,” he says, and with a hand on the back of my head, forces the lip of the bottle into my mouth, and tips the bottle. “So you can thank Iverson for this.”

The alcohol burns. The glass bottle comes away from my lips, and Munroe just presses a hand over my mouth and pinches my nose. I can feel it ripping away at the gaping mess they left when they knocked out my teeth. 

I scream, arching my back, twisting one way and the other, trying to spit it out. But the hand on my mouth is firm, and I choke it down before I run out of air. Only then does he let me breathe. 

Only for a moment. I see it coming. “No, no-” The bottle meets my lips again. I try to fight it, slamming my head against the floor in the process, but the alcohol swills into my mouth. Again, the hand, and I scream and I cry through Munroe’s palm as the alcohol sears my fucking mouth raw until I manage to swallow it.  

“Please, not again,” I croak as the hand comes away from my mouth. “Please. I’ll drown.”

“Not a bad way to go,” says Munroe.

The bottle meets my lips once again. I try to go with it this time, drinking as much as I can, swallowing it even as it burns and I can feel my stomach roll with nausea, tears streaming down bruised and grazed cheeks.

The alcohol smothers me like the darkness’ unkind sister. I find myself under their knives once again. I don’t really have the wherewithal to put together what’s going on- passed from one set of hands to another, from one cruel-edged knife to another, as I stumble around in my afraid stupor, trying to stay on my feet. 

I stare at my own blood on my hands, on my feet, my bloody footprints across the floor. My teeth are on the floor. And then it’s onto the next pair of hands, who takes it upon himself to pull off my clothes and inspect my back. Perhaps he re-opens old wounds, or he makes his own new ones. I don’t know. I don’t remember.

The same happens with my trousers. I flail around on the floor as they try to pin me down to look at my thighs, bruised and bleeding from a fresh whipping. I wail and cry for someone to come and save me.

Nobody will. They’re laughing at me.

Out comes the saltwater. I knew I was never going to get away without it. 

Munroe takes a particularly unkind view to me at this point, soaking a rough rag in it, and scouring my back down with it. Then my front, then my neck and face, all the while as I writhe and make incoherent pleas for him to leave me alone, my mouth full of blood and inflammation, and me, drunk out of my mind on whatever coarse alcohol they poured down my throat. And then, the final act of cruelty. I find myself staring at my own reflection- such that it barely is, I don’t recognise him- in a bowl of saltwater so thickly brined there’s a skin on top of salt.

And then I’m plunged under. Held down with a hand on the back of my head. I choke on it, because of course I do, too drunk to understand not to breathe in. They bring me back up to kneeling with saltwater streaming from my nose and mouth, tinged with blood, reddened eyes, and coughing so hard I can barely breathe. It stings. My eyes stream, my mouth bleeds, but all I can do is just lie there. 

No way out, no way to get away, I just shut down, retreating deep into myself, exhausted and in pain.  Munroe squats down to look me in the black eyes. “The fuck are you mumbling about?” “I... I want...” I struggle to put two words together. “I want ‘t go home... I want... I want my mother,” I sniffle. “But... she doesn’t want me!” 

Munroe laughs in my face as I bawl weakly into the concrete.

They discard me on the floor after that. They leave, and they’re laughing still.

They’re laughing.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Dislocated joints are actually very fun whump concepts. Think about it:

First you have the initial injury. Be it a dislocated shoulder, hip, knee, all potential locations are dehibilitating, losing the use of that arm or being unable to walk, etc.

Also that every time the whumpee tries to move the dislocated limb they risk making it worse and intensify the pain.

Then... then you have treatment. Forcing a dislocated joint back into place is NOT FUN. Not for the whumpee, not for the caretaker. And if someone inexperienced tries and messes it up... oh boy oh boy we making it worse!

And of course you have all the issues that might come about after the joint is fixed, such as strained muscles, sprained ligaments and tendons, nerve damage, vascular (blood vessel) issues, stiff joints/osteoarthritis... the list goes on.

Anyway thinking about this bc someone I know irl dislocated both their knees on separate occasions, (and it took like four medical professionals to put it back in place). Also I remembered a scene in Mom's Night Out (2014) where Sam dislocates his shoulder and instead of letting a medical professional set it he slammed. His shoulder. Into a wall. And shoved it back in place. In the storming emergency room. In front of the receptionist. I cringe every time.

[whumpslist]

Tracker episode 1.10 “Into The Wild”

Character: Colter Shaw, performed by Justin Hartley.

Type of whumps: [training, grunting for physical effort,] ambushed and under gunpoint, shielded another person and got shot at his shoulder, rough landing on the floor and shot at again, grimacing getting up, almost hit by a car, bleeding and heavily breathing, field approximative medicine, panting, brief scuffle, hunted, arm into a sling.

[whumpingandsmilinglikeanidiot]

Talented but arrogant,

perfect and a show-off,

dominates the stage every time they show up.

is one my favorite kind of whumpees ever; when something went wrong a long, long time ago and they've been trying to hide it.

All the subtle cues that something is wrong - disappearing randomly for a few minutes, strange responses to everyday things, bruises appearing out of nowhere, >>>>things they always did that looked like childish swagger but actually it was for different reasons<<<<

There whumpee stays nonchalant and sticks their chin high up in the air while important things are given up, they're worn and tired, and the insides of their life turns into an absolute mess, yet things just keep getting worse and worse

And everything slowly swings out of control and whumpee is desperately trying to pull themselves back together and despite caretaker begging them to let it go - arrogant, stubborn whumpee refuses

So when everything finally falls apart in the worst way possible - when they faint in the middle of their job performance, when they crack and start shouting, when they're caught coughing blood on national TV, when voice recordings of their torment get sent to their family and friends

my god it's perfect

[letitbehurt]

Whumpees hung from the ceiling by their wrists. Defiant Whumpees mouthing off despite the pain, and having weights tied to them as a consequence.

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Open Line

For Whumptober Day 20: Shoulder to Cry on

Rating: General Audiences

Rating: Gen

Fandoms: Nightwing (Comics); Batman - All Media Types

Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne

Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne

Additional Tags: Minor appearance by someone else; offscreen death; Grief/Mourning; Whump; Hurt/Comfort; Dick Grayson Needs a Hug; Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad

———

Dick pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulled the crate down from the top shelf. The line rang twice before connecting.

“Hey, you busy?” Dick stepped down from the stool and carried the crate to the table, popping the top and flipping it off to the side to reach inside.

“Everything okay?” Bruce asked. His voice sounded close, like he was in a small space.

———

No stories on Tumblr while Tumblr is shoveling my work into generative AI. Head to AO3 to read.

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #20

part 1

xxx it's not your fault

Neal is slumped on the ground against the wall. His right arm is held tight against his stomach, and it looks like that's where the blood is coming from. Peter pulls out his phone, quickly dialing Jones as he crouches in front of Neal, setting the flashlight down on the ground.

"He's here," Peter says as soon as Jones answers. "We need an ambulance to his anklet coordinates, now."

He hangs up, shoving his phone in his pocket before reaching forward to give Neal's shoulder a gentle shake.

"Neal. Neal!"

Neal groans, lifting his head from where it's dipped down toward his chest. Peter can see now that there's a huge bruise forming over his left eyes and his lip is split.

"I knew you'd find me," Neal rasps. "Would've called but m' phone broke."

So that's why he'd stopped moving once he was outside of the perimeter. He'd gone just far enough to set the anklet off and then waited, knowing Peter would come find him and get help.

"Move your arm," he says, trying to ignore the guilt that rushes over him. He grabs Neal's hand when he doesn't move. "Come on, let me see."

Neal allows Peter to pull his arm away from his body, letting out a hiss of pain.

"Careful," he groans, and Peter realizes that the blood isn't from a wound on Neal's flank like he'd initially feared. That doesn't offer much relief, though; there's a huge gash on Neal's forearm, and it's bleeding badly.

"Ambulance is on the way," Peter says gently, reaching forward to pull the tie from around Neal's neck. He loops it around Neal's arm. Neal lets out a cry as Peter ties a tight knot.

"Sorry, about that," Peter murmurs. "Sorry, just trying to slow that bleeding down some."

Neal nods breathlessly, eyes screwed shut. There are little beads of sweat as his hairline and across his upper lip, though whether it's from the pain, or, god forbid, and early sign of hypovolemia, Peter's not sure. He puts a hand on Neal's shoulder. The man is trembling.

"What happened, Neal?"

Neal opens his eyes, staring down at his shoes.

"Owen Kang is dead."

For the second time in just a few minutes, his heart feels like it drops into his stomach. Owen Kang, witness in their current case.

"He – what?"

Neal looks up at Peter, and his eyes are shining with tears.

"He called me about an hour ago, told me he wanted to talk. I was going to tell you, Peter, really I was. But he begged me, and I just – I thought it would be fine. We were just a few blocks south of here, and this guy just-just came out of nowhere. His face was covered and he had gloves on and I knew. I knew he was there for Owen, and I pulled out my phone but he grabbed it from me and smashed it..." He trails off, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as tears roll down his cheeks.

"It's okay," Peter assures him. "Take your time."

"He went for Owen and I – I tried to stop him. That's why he cut me." He winces, as if remembering the moment the knife bit into flesh. "He wasn't actually going for me, I just got in the way. The second time I got in the way is when he hit me."

Neal's breathing starts to quicken and he closes his eyes. Peter tightens his grip on his shoulder. When Neal speaks again, his voice is quiet and strained.

"The guy hit like a boxer. By the time I came to, he was gone and Owen was...And my phone was broken, and the edge of the radius was closer than any people were, so."

He'd been knocked unconscious, then, long enough for the man to kill Owen and escape, which means that on top of the wound on his arm he's probably got a concussion. Concern and guilt, and anger at whoever did this, all twist in Peter's gut.

"You could've been killed," he says, and Neal lets out a miserable laugh.

"If he'd wanted to kill me, I would've been." He looks up at Peter, and his expression is one of anguish. "If I had just called you..."

"Don't," Peter says.

"Peter, a man is dead because of me." It's like all the strength drains from Neal and he slumps forward, dissolving into sobs as Peter wraps him in a hug, pulling him tight against his chest.

"It's not your fault," Peter says, relieved when he hears the approaching sirens of an ambulance. "Neal, it is not your fault. It's gonna be okay." He rubs one hand down the back of Neal's head. "Everything is gonna be fine."

xxx

[shootingstarpilot]

okay listen. listen. i'm sorry, i had to get this out of my head, it's been haunting me and i want to get back to working on the next proper chapter-

the mimic lives au.

mimic is brought into the fold without question, of course. and needle- oh, needle's borne witness to the nightmares that force helix awake, shaking-not-screaming, and he knows enough-

so he makes mimic a voice.

it takes him just over a week to record the entire gbs dictionary. he breaks it down, keeps it alphabetical so it's easier to find the words. dictionaries of other languages are on the list. needle thinks maybe mimic can pick and choose which ones to prioritize later. they'll have time.

(they'll have time, isn't that a novel thought-)

but the dictionary is only part of it. there are plenty of manufactured voices out there already, after all.

the datapad becomes needle's newest conversational partner. he sets it up when he's on his own and lets his train of thought derail. spinning out stories both real and fantastical. drawing out threads until they reach the boiling point of absurdity and send him into a fit of giggles. he repeats the stories he'd told mimic just that afternoon, tells him about the jedi, about the temple, about making their own home. then he remembers what helix had said about mimic wanting to be a pilot, and goes and bullies comet into educating him on starfighters. he recites his lessons to the camera each evening in the moments of stolen solitude he can squirrel away before one of the others comes looking for him.

"it's like learning another language," he says, and wags a finger at the camera. "you're welcome."

needle gifts it to mimic a week after they arrive at the temple with a wireless earpiece to match. no pressure, of course, he says, grinning, just thought it could be a good resource to have, words to borrow at your fingertips, but i know i'm only tolerable in small doses, so-

he squawks when mimic's hug lifts him clear off the ground.

anyway. so. you see my vision.

helix jumps a mile when he first hears needle's laugh in mimic's mouth. stitch yells at needle for a bit about talking so much, needle, is this why your voice was so hoarse- and then restricts him to tea for four days until he's sure his throat has healed. sometimes it's too much, and mimic will stick his earpiece to the fridge and borrow words spoken right in front of him until his brain stops buzzing-

but it works. they work.

and then.

it's a few months in. they're comfortable. they're setting down roots.

then one night needle doesn't come home.

helix doesn't wait to raise the alarm. needle doesn't spend every night home, but he's good about comming when he'll be staying elsewhere. he knows helix is struggling with letting them leave his line of sight.

and now he's gone. and he didn't comm.

the first three days stretch into a week.

then a second week.

then a month.

and now, the vision that has been HAUNTING ME-

helix, clutching mimic's datapad, sitting on the edge of his bed.

the lights are low. his eyes are red.

he hits play.

"-ah, i love them," needle says, laughing. the laugh stretches into a yawn-

(that holds for one, two, three seconds, helix knows it now by heart-)

a knock at the door sounds in the video. needle hunches his shoulders, grimacing- his eyes are dancing, he's not annoyed, not really-

"be right out!" he calls, and then- helix's voice on the other side-

"get your beauty routine under control!"

needle waits until his footsteps have vanished before turning back to the camera-

(six footsteps before they fade enough to become inaudible- helix has counted them so many times-)

"i don't need one," he says, and winks at the camera- his eyes are shining, bright and happy- "he's just jealous all of this is effortless. night, mimic. talk to you in the morning."

the video ends.

helix sits in the dark.

after a moment, he taps at the datapad again.

"ah, i love them," needle says. his laugh- snorting, open, happy-

(one-two-three for the yawn-)

helix hits pause. rewinds.

"i love them," needle says.

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

"i love them."

"i love them."

[whump-galaxy]

A character’s arms being tied above their head for so long that their arms dislocate and eventually their muscles atrophy.

[aceofwhump]

The Silencing starring Nikolaj Coster-Waldau

For @whumpers-monthly Shot with an arrow

[jaws-and-canines]

Idiots, Fools, Part-timers

A Count The Days story. Comes after They’re Laughing At Me and leads into Respite. Contains teeth gore, shoulder whump and some sembelance of comfort. 

---

Fennec is on his fourth cup of coffee. It is three in the morning, and he is doing the observation rounds, because none of the officers have deemed to do it, and it must be done. He has a splitting headache.

None of this is unusual for him. He limps down the corridor of C-5, a hand on his key chain to stop them from rattling around and waking people up. The people in Corrective Isolation tend not to be so happy if you wake them up in the night. He’s had a man take a chunk out of his chin with a makeshift knife made from a broken CD over that in the past. 

Halfway down the coridoor, in the middle of the long row of locked doors, one of the blue metal doors sits slightly ajar, away from the frame. Fennec pulls a comical expression of incredulous shock before it drops from his face as he realises what a stupid expression it is.

He rubs gritty eyes on the back of his hand, and stops, staring at the slightly ajar door. “Idiots, fools, part-timers,” he mutters, as if the day staff would hear the criticism, and goes to try to shimmy the lock into shutting. The day keys- the individual cell keys- are all in sealed pouches upstairs, and the spares, the “doubles” keys, are in the hands of the night’s orderly officer. The door’s locking mechanism won’t budge- true to its design, but certainly frustrating. Fennec pauses about to radio the orderly officer, one hand on his radio. Who is the orderly officer for tonight, he wonders? He puts his hand on his forehead as he remembers the name written on the whiteboard in the staff reception today. Jack Iverson.

He pulls the door ajar again to try and slam it, and see if the lock will shoot with that kinetic shock. It is at that moment when he realises the worst-case scenario has happened. Somehow, the cell’s not empty. The door wasn’t checked, and the cell is not empty.

Fennec’s hand on his forehead turns to a hand in his hair, staring at the crumpled figure in the dark of the cell. “Oh, Scheisse,” he mutters.

The ones who are awake usually know better than to try to sneak by if a door doesn’t lock properly. The threat of escape charges is enough for them to point it out at lockup, and no later. But the man in the cell looks totally out of it. He’s lying almost foetal on the plastic mattress, writhing and clawing at himself, mumbling incoherently. “I can’t- I can’t- I can’t-”

Against his better judgement, Fennec decides to step in. He almost vomits as the smell of alcohol hits him. He almost vomits again as he stands on a tooth on the floor with a crunch. He winces, kicking it gently out of the way, and steps towards the figure writing on the floor. “Mother!” cries the man, jolted into the now by Fennec’s shadow falling on his face. “Mother! Please!”

“She isn’t here,” says Fennec quietly, recognising the man by his scarred back and his hands and not much else. Haskell- normally a relatively well put-together man- has been off Fennec’s roster for upwards of a week now. He had wondered where they had moved him, but had decided it was much beyond his payroll to even think about.

Where he was doesn’t matter. What they did to him is written over his skin. Fennec pushes his glasses up his nose and watches Haskell reach a hand out to something that’s not there. “Jesus,” he mumbles- an exclaimation of shock he’s picked up from the native speakers around him. An unusual idiosyncracy for a Jewish man to have picked up, but an expression of shock all the same.

Haskell’s face is a mess. Both eyes blackened, swollen, hair thick with salt, his jaw, swollen, blood dripping down his chin as he chews at his own lip, reaching out into the dark with a grunt of effort. “No, no, n- no, no, you can’t, I can’t-” There’s a reedy cry as he shifts his weight a little, and he goes back to mumbling incoherently to himself, writhing in agony.

Tipping his head to one side, then the other, Fennec realises that his left shoulder is out of its socket. It’s quite obvious to see at a certain angle, each time he reaches out for something that’s not there. As much as he’d like to clean the utter mess they’ve made of him up and get him into bed properly, he worries that they’re not done with him. And to interrupt the work of the people who like to periodically wipe Haskell from the face of the earth for a week or so is a dangerous game- Fennec already has a vague idea of Iverson’s obsession with the disgraced soldier, and doesn’t wish to know more.

So cleaning him up is off the table, reasons Fennec. But the shoulder? It wouldn’t be out of the question that the shoulder had simply slipped back in whilst the man had writhed around in his half-conscious state, he thinks. He could lie his way through that. Glancing behind him, he puts a hand on the wall, and clumsily sits down beside the man.

He glances behind him again, expecting Iverson to be standing in the doorway, poised to attack. Reaching over, he takes Haskell by the intact shoulder, who screws his face up with a groan. Fennec gently turns Haskell over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says quietly, getting a good grip on the injured side, one hand on the side of Haskell’s neck and the other at the top of the arm. “I’m so sorry.” “N- no- no-” Fennec, aided by a grim sort of muscle memory, puts his weight behind his hands. The shoulder slips back in with an audible crack.

Haskell’s eyes go wide. “Ah! Ah!” he howls. “I’m sorry,” says Fennec quietly, putting a hand over Haskell’s mouth to try to quieten him down. “That’s better now, it is better, it is better.” Haskell shifts around, trying to get away from him, but slowly, the realisation that the pain has subsided a fraction sinks in, and he stills with a sigh, pressing his face against the cool of the floor.

Fennec sits there for a moment, looking at the utter mess they’ve made of the man, before he can hear the distant clicking of Munroe’s shoes against the laminate, coming down the other corridor of the wing.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, remembering just how much trouble he is in if he’s caught here, and tries to get to his feet again, grabbing onto the doorframe to ease himself up with a grimace.

He stumbles out of the room, nearly bent double, still holding onto the door frame with white knuckles, and lets a few tears slip down his cheeks as the pain gnaws at the inside of his knee. He stays, a hand on his knee, until he catches his breath, and then he straightens up, and pushes his glasses up his nose with a sigh.

In the dark, Haskell stops writhing around on the plastic mattress, and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

Fennec takes his radio from his belt with a sigh, and keys the transmit button. “This is tango-four to control, over,” he says flatly. He utterly despises using the radio. “Control. Go ahead, over.” “I have a door here- 467, down on C-5- that’s not been shot by the day staff. The… the, er, lock mechanism seems… erm…” He trails off for a moment. “It was shut but not locked. Requesting the NOO to come down and ensure that it is locked, over.” He chews his lip, praying that he’s not going to get yelled at for being unclear on the radio as he often is. There’s a moment as he stands there in silence, with his radio in his hand, and then Iverson’s voice cuts through the static. “Night Orderly Officer, receiving. Thank you, Anton. I’m on my way down, over.”

Iverson announces his presence with the jangling of his keys as he walks, as he always does when he wants to be heard, walking onto the wing in the knowledge that it is his kigdom and his alone. “Is it down here?” he asks, walking down the hallway. Fennec keeps his distance, just nods. In all honesty, he thinks the man smells godawful- salt, fish, and a coppery undertone- and he doesn’t want to be within arm’s reach either.

“There. There’s someone in there,” he says to Iverson, gesturing towards the unlocked cell. “No, there isn’t,” says Iverson, and fixes him with a stare. Those parchment-pale brown eyes are full of rotting bones and decay and blood and carrion. Fennec instinctively stares at the floor, wrenching his gaze away from the stare. That stare means what Iverson says, and it means what is in Iverson’s eyes, despite the soft smile on his face. “I think you must be very tired.” His voice drips with a sort of condescending sarcasm.

There is, then, as far as Fennec is willing to argue, nobody in that cell. “It has been a long night,” concedes Fennec quietly. “Go and take your break,” says Iverson. Fennec looks at him again, and nods slowly. He leaves before Iverson has a chance to say anything else to him, but out of the corner of his eye, watches the Special dissapear into the cell and pull the unlocked door of the cell to behind him.

[crimsonwolf715]

It's Not Your Fault

Jason’s been sitting in the therapist’s office for a while now, mostly silent as she asks him questions he gives one or two word answers to. 

“Why don’t you tell me about what happened?” the therapist asks, clearly trying to get Jason to interact with her. 

“Why should I?” Jason asks, keeping his eyes on his hands. 

“Because maybe if you talk about it, it will help you process through your grief. If you’re unable to talk about it we can start with something else.” 

Jason sighs. “It started out as a mission, barely a mission. The police needed assistance clearing out a building, so Red and I went. They were clearing out the building because due to some explosion that had happened next door a little earlier in the day, they found that it wasn’t likely the foundation of the building would hold. A bunch of debris fell on Red. He didn’t make it home.” 

“And how does that make you feel?” 

“Angry,” Jason answers. 

“Anything else?” she presses.

Jason shakes his head. “Nope.” 

“It’s natural to feel angry, but do you think there’s something stopping you from feeling anything else?” 

“Yeah, the anger.” Jason looks at his watch. “But would you look at that? Time’s up, so I’m gonna head home.” 

“We’re not done talking about this.” 

“I am. I’ve got other things to do today.” 

Jason gets up and grabs his bag, then heads out of the therapist’s office without another word. 

Jason heads up to the top floor to search for anybody else. When he doesn’t find anybody, he heads down to find Tim. Jason hears a crack, then the floor starts fracturing. 

“What floor are you on?” Jason asks. 

“I don’t know, eighth floor?” Tim answers. 

Dread fills Jason knowing that’s the floor right below him. 

“Get to the stairs, now. The floor above you is going to cave in.” 

“On my way.” 

Jason races down the stairs and he hears the floor give out on his way down. He gets to the next floor and doesn’t see Tim at the stairs. He runs onto the floor and Tim’s buried under debris. 

“Tim,” he breathes, then runs over. 

Jason removes debris and Tim’s not moving. Once enough debris is moved, Jason pulls Tim over to the stable side of the building. Tim’s eyes are half-open and he coughs up blood onto himself and Jason. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine.” 

He gently picks Tim up and gets him out of the building. Once they’re out of the building, Jason gently puts Tim down to check for injuries. Tim’s wheezing. 

“Medical’s on their way,” Jason says. “Just a little longer.” 

“I can’t,” Tim says. 

The words feel like a bucket of ice water being dumped on Jason’s head. 

“That’s okay, it’s not your fault.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, his voice breaking. 

“It’s okay, don’t be sorry. You’ve done such a good job. You can rest now.” 

Tim gives Jason a small smile, then closes his eyes. Jason holds his brother close until he stops breathing. 

Jason gets home and heads straight for his room. 

“Jason!” 

It’s Dick, and Jason can hear footsteps behind him meaning that Dick’s following him. 

“Can you leave me alone?” Jason asks. 

“That’s all I’ve been doing for a month. I’ve tried being accommodating but you keep pushing me away.” 

“Maybe that’s because I don’t want anyone’s attention.” 

Jason slams his door shut behind him and he can almost hear Dick’s thoughts of knocking on Jason’s door. He doesn’t end up doing it and Jason can hear him head towards Damian’s room down the hall. Jason spends the rest of the day locked in his room reading the books Tim wrote in his little amount of free time before taking over WE or laying on his bed, occasionally throwing darts. 

It’s well after ten o’clock when he takes stock of the time and decides he should probably get something to drink. Jason walks downstairs and finds nobody. He sighs and heads to the kitchen. Not that he exactly wanted to run into anybody, but he was hoping that maybe he’d wanna talk if he did. He contemplates breaking into the liquor cabinet, but decides to just drown his sorrows in orange juice instead. He walks into the living room and Bruce is standing there. He must have just come up from the Batcave. 

Jason turns to leave when Bruce’s voice stops him. “Jason.” 

“Dickie tattle on me?” 

“No, what happened with you and Dick?” 

Jason turns back towards Bruce. “Nothing.” 

“Can we talk for a minute?” Bruce asks. 

“Why not? I don’t have anything better to do,” Jason answers. 

Jason stands behind the couch while Bruce stays standing over by the bookshelf. 

“Everyone’s worried,” Bruce says. 

“Of course everyone’s worried,” Jason replies, cutting Bruce off. “Nobody knows how to mind their own business in this family aside from Damian.” 

“Everyone’s worried because this isn’t healthy,” Bruce continues, clearly ignoring Jason’s jab at him. “Nobody wants you to keep living like this.” 

“How am I supposed to live with the fact that he’s dead?” Jason shouts. “All I feel is rage! The sadness was gone within a day and all I can feel is this rage that makes me want to go out and start killing every psychotic or psychopathic person in this city!” 

“I understand that,” Bruce starts, but Jason cuts him off. 

“How could you? You didn’t kill anyone!” Jason shouts, throwing the book that was on the table at Bruce. 

Bruce moves just enough that he doesn’t get hit by the book, but he keeps his eyes on Jason. Jason’s breathing heavily, trying not to cry, his temper starting to evaporate. Bruce walks over and wraps his arms around Jason. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” Bruce says quietly. “It’s okay to be upset and angry, but it isn’t your fault that this happened. And I promise I’ll be here for you.” 

Jason starts crying and buries his head in Bruce’s shoulder, sadness replacing the anger in an instant. Bruce rubs his back while he cries, the two of them staying in that position until Jason runs out of tears. 

“Come on, let’s get you some water and then head to bed. It’s late and you obviously haven’t slept much lately. If you can’t sleep, we can talk.” 

Jason nods. “I’m sorry I threw that book at you, Dad.” 

“There’s no need to be sorry. I know you didn’t mean it.” 

They head upstairs and Jason asks, “Can you come sit with me for a bit?” 

Bruce nods, so they go sit on Jason’s bed. Jason talks about Tim for a bit, trying not to cry again, then falls asleep leaning against Bruce.

[hywenhei]

EMOTIONAL ANGST: Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | "It's not your fault."

"I'm tired, Caretaker." "It's okay, Whumpee, you can- you can let go now. We won't be angry."

After all the pain and turmoil they've been through, Whumpee has never allowed themselves to crack, not once. But, once they've finally reached safety with Caretaker, and have the possibility of a normal life within reach, they start to cry tears of happiness and bury their face in Caretaker's shoulder, overcome with emotion.

"I'm so so sorry, I should've fought harder, I should've held out longer than I did and then they wouldn't know our plans- " "Hey. Breathe. It's not your fault. Whumper forced you to tell them; you had no say in it."

A Whumpee who's super emotional and a Whumper who makes fun of them for it. Watching as Whumper pulls out new torture devices and seeing how long it takes for tears to rush into Whumpee's eyes. Whumper mocking their constant crying, which only makes Whumpee feel worse. Whumpee trying to hold their emotions back, but their heart always wins out over their head.

hope this was a nice prompt list!!! :] see you tomorrow for day 21!!

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

this or that - whump tropes (27)

[just-here-for-the-whump]

Hawaii 5-0 3x17 Pa'ani

[befuddled-calico-whump]

when the rest of the crew was captured, Jericho dropped everything to go after them. He managed to find Joy and Benji only a few days later, but by the time he got to Kaius and Hunter it had been weeks.

Cybercrew AU // T$$ AU Masterlist

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden , @snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa , @whumpcateyes , @clickerflight , @sodacreampuff , @starfields08000