#strike whumptober

[quietlyimplode]

ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 18- Revenge

Warnings: canonical violence

Word Count: 1.4 (gif not mine)

Summary: the director wants revenge from those after him

Masterlist.

Whumptober Masterlist.

.

Thompson loosens his tie.

Opening his bank account, he glances at the money.

It was worth it, he thinks, looking at the savings and the retirement fund that sits waiting for him.

What did the country ever do for him?

Once out of the army, they didn’t take care of him.

His battle with PTSD and the ongoing trauma of what he saw in war meant nothing.

He had seen. He knew.

There was nothing but money that meant anything.

It was always about money.

Money ruled everything, and if the only way to make it was to be corrupt and sell others down the line, just like they had done to him, well, he was justified to do so.

He was too far on the rabbit hole to turn back now.

Thompson looks at his ledger, his scrawling handwriting in code, took seconds for him to decode.

Out of the 70 agents he knew, he marked off the ones he knew were missing. At the end, there was twenty left.

Throwing his pen in frustration, he growls softly to himself.

They’d done a good job at decimating it, whilst he’d been distracted.

It had happened slowly, people missing, others not showing up for work, missions gone awry; all with those that he knew worked for the triple headed snake.

He supposed that was the point.

He leaves the desk to find his whisky in the cupboard, and pours a glass.

If Fury and his merry band of warriors thought he was stupid enough not to stop the last of it they had another thing coming.

Fury, Coulson, Hill and Barton.

He was sure they were behind it. The only ones with enough of a security level to put the pieces together.

That and the little traitorous bitch.

She was the one that started it all.

He should never have approved the mission that Olivia had set out.

The wheels turn further.

“Claudia,” he calls, his PA entering his office with a nod.

“Yes sir?”

“Get Olivia Belova in here now.”

“Sir,” she nods, leaving the room.

It takes only a minute before the woman reenters with a stern look.

“She’s not available, her calendar says she on leave. I had a look and it says that you approved it two days ago.”

Thompson feels the frustration burn within him. Anger at being played and manipulated.

“Fine,” he growls.

“Where is Romanoff?”

The pa leaves for a moment, evidently looking at logs and emails, before returning to explain that she had left with Hill at Fury’s order.

“And where are they?”

He knows it’s unfair to be angry at Claudia, the 60 year old former Sargent, who had done nothing but be loyal to him, despite knowing his secrets.

He should do something to help her from the coming storm.

Claudia looks worried.

“It doesn’t say,” she replies, her voice small like a child about to get into trouble.

Thompson huffs.

“Go home,” he orders.

“No. Go on holiday, somewhere tropical. Don’t come back for a while.”

He knows she’s smart enough to read through the lines of his statement.

“There’s a storm coming,” he tells her.

“A big one.”

.

“We have to make contingencies,” the woman from the Oceania region demands.

“Are you going to take over once he is brought in?”

Fury nods.

“Who else?”

“There are a range of people,” the man from Europe advises.

“I know this region the best, I know my people the best, if this transfer of power is one that you want to go smoothly, then you must all see it.”

“Fine. We would like an update.”

The faceless voices take in the evidence, as Fury outlines what’s next.

“He won’t go easily,” he surmises.

The woman clenches her hands.

“Just get it done.”

.

Twenty men.

Four missions.

Five person teams.

Four targets.

Thompson feels like he’s fallen too far down the rabbit hole to ever redeem himself. He doesn’t care how treasonous it is to go after four former military personnel with medals ranging from a purple heart to a silver star.

They shouldn’t have forced his hand.

He fingers his gun, wondering if he should go with them, but when he hands the last orders down, he finds his courage fails him.

He should be the one to oversee everything. That’s what it was when you were the Major.

Alpha.

Bravo.

Charlie.

Delta.

The four strike teams had their orders, now he just had to wait.

.

Alpha Team.

Maria leaves Clint’s apartment, windows open and music on.

Blink-182 plays loudly and she smiles as “what’s my name again” plays through her speakers. She’d tried to explain music to Natasha but she could tell that it was falling on deaf ears.

Whether she didn’t care or her mind was on other things, she hadn’t known.

Turning left onto the freeway, she notices two black shield cars.

“Fuckers,” she thinks.

She knew those cars, those number plates and knew they were gunning for her.

Quickly making a plan, she turns off at the next exit, cutting off two cars and rightly receiving a blasting of horns.

One of the cars makes it off with her.

She assumes two or three man team in each car.

Annoyed, she speeds, making it to the closest Walmart and parking.

Cars are too dangerous and she knows they would prefer to just run her off the road.

People she knows.

People she’s trained.

She hates Hydra.

Twisted and corrupt.

Maria exits her car, watching the black car carefully.

It parks nearby.

Three man exit.

She has moments and the element of surprise.

Her gun loaded, she presses forward.

.

Bravo Team.

Coulson rubs his eyes.

Staying close to Clint was exhausting. Not because he was a hard patient, but because he was so worried that someone would come and finish the job.

The round the clock surveillance was exhausting.

The dog park outside Shield was just starting to heat up.

The golden retriever and the dachshund make him laugh with their antics as their owner chat, ignoring the dogs wrapping the leads around their legs.

Coulson leans back in the sunshine, and sips his coffee.

He almost misses the odd sound of boots on the ground.

He looks around to see a five man team closing in on him.

Standing, he heads for the middle of the park, the Rottweiler on his left taking notice of his pace and the urgency of his movements.

.

Charlie Team.

Gun on his lap, Fury shoots twice.

Once in the knee and the other in the head.

A shout of pain reverberates throughout his appartment.

Angrily, he throws a punch, and shoots again.

Two down.

He shuts off the lights, and drops the blinds.

The three that are left, enter in a V formation.

Fury almost laughs, as they seem blinded.

He knows the terrain on his apartment the best. They’re sure to miss the step.

He counts it down.

Holding his gun high, he aims the shot.

.

Delta Team.

Clint stares at Natasha’s face.

Maria had shrugged when he asked and told him to ask Natasha.

As if in a stand off, she hadn’t moved from his couch, just watched as he’d pottered around slowly.

He’d gathered some clothes, money, his gun, arrows and bow.

Now he was just tired.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

Natasha looks up.

He notices her hands, scabbed and sore.

She nods and stands to come and help.

“What happened?” he asks in almost a whisper.

Natasha swallows.

She’s sure her face is almost as bruised as his.

“They wouldn’t let me see you,” she whispers.

“What’s that?” she asks, the light above Clint’s head blinking rapidly.

“Shit.”

He coughs and winces.

“They’re coming.”

Natasha looks panicked.

“Who?”

Clint grabs his backpack and gun, and passes it to her, taking his bow and arrows and notching it.

“Carry that, and follow me.”

He hits a button, stairs coming down from the ceiling allowing Clint to ascend, Natasha on his heels as the entrance to his apartment is beaten in.

The rooftop is high, and Natasha doesn’t like it.

“We’ll be cornered,” she hisses.

Clint turns, and shoots a single arrow into the ledge.

To Natasha’s surprise, the lead and rope out of it attach securely, and Clint grabs it.

“We’re abseiling,” he tells her, sweat on his brow.

She thinks it’s from pain, or adrenaline.

Maybe both.

Her heart beats evenly.

“This would be a stupid way to die, Clint Barton,” she tells him.

He shoots another arrow, and she picks up the second rope.

“On three,” he tells her.

.

[iriel3000]

Trigger Warning

Whumptober day 19: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.”

Summary: the team finds out Natasha has codes like the Winter Soldier. click link below for full story

TRIGGER WARNING

Sixteen - Шестнадцать Purple(violet) - фиолетовый Ice - Лед Dream - мечтать Elephant - Слон Red - красный

“Hawkeye meet us at the hangar, Code Red!”

Barton bolted out the door and up to the landing platform.

The quinjet lowered its ramp. Sam, Maria, and Rhodey hurried out.

"Cap is with her." Sam told him, seeing his worry.

"What happened?"

"Zemo. He spouted some random words and she turned on us." Maria handed Barton most of Natasha's weapons. "Steve and Rhodey had to subdue her."

"She conscious?"

"Yeah."

"I don't understand, Clint. It's like she didn't know us at all."

"Programming from the Red Room. I'll explain it all later."

Barton cleared the ramp in three strides and joined Steve next to a heavily restrained Black Widow on a biobed. He barked her name but she didn’t acknowledge.

"How the hell does he know, Clint?" Steve kept his voice low.

"I was gonna ask you the same question."

"You want me to stay?”

“I might need the backup.”

Steve stepped out of sight. Clint tried again.

“Widow.”

She ignored him. He turned her face towards his.

“Who am I?”

“My next target.” She narrowed her eyes.

please click link above for full story

[comfort-questing]

fealty (ch3)

first, second

it was an hour or less before dawn when the apprentice had a chance to see to the guard again, on the other side of the night from when she'd gently but firmly escorted out his visitor into the gathering dark. she'd been busy fetching and carrying and helping clean, the usual activities for when she was sharing nighttime duty with a handful of the other healers, and snatched a brief nap herself in the linen closet with her head on her arm, before waking to a summons. but in the cold gray of dreadfully early morning, iron-dull outside the windows, she huddled herself up at the foot of the guard's bed and held the water basin as one of the healers changed out the blood-clotted bandages wrapping his chest.

at least to her half-practiced glance all was well with him so far, the stitches holding and the skin around the wounds not too deeply reddened. the sound of his breaths was a little easier now, and he had given in to the sleeping draught and to exhaustion both, the skin sallow and papery around his closed eyes in the candlelight.

Valin. a name, a word, an identity. she had always been terrible at remembering names. you heard so many, and used them so seldom.

she stayed by his side afterwards, gathering up the dirty gauze and old bandages, tucking the blankets closer around him in the chill of the dark before dawn. it was only a few moments later that she saw his eyes were open, although no more than a fraction, and watching her as she moved here and there.

"can I... water, please."

he was better at measuring his breath now, because the few words did not set him coughing again; when she returned with the half-full cup of water and a spoon, he had gotten himself sitting up a little further, pale and shaky but with a set face.

"you don't need to try to move. I was going to help you. just tell me if you're going to try to get out of bed or something silly like that, wouldn't you?"

the guard blinked, and then the twist of a smile found the side of his mouth again.

"I won't...try yet, I think."

"you'd better not. you've been hurt badly and if you want to recover and go back to guarding, you'll need to rest and let yourself get better."

you had to take a hard stand with some of these fighting folk, the apprentice knew from experience. she knew it was less convincing coming from her than from the other healers, who had had more practice and typically more age and dignity, but it was worth a try.

"I... suppose so." he drank slowly from the cup she held to his lips, putting one hand up to steady it; he reached first with his right hand but winced and bit back a yelp, and then with his left more successfully. "where's ... Sorindel?"

"your lord? I hope he's asleep, it's quite late in the night. but I told him he could be back tomorrow." she glanced back over her shoulder, past the draft-brushed curtains, trying to gauge what was lamplight and what was the arrival of day outside the windows. "which should be soon, I think."

"good. shouldn't... have been shocked... if he'd stayed." the guard licked an escaped drop of water off his cracked lips, his eyes still sleep-hollowed, and chuckled softly. "he's... that sort."

"the healers wouldn't have let him. they don't like people sitting around getting in their way, not unless someone's dying and needs company."

"and we didn't... come to that, anyway." he coughed a little, but quickly stifled it, hiding the following wince with gritted teeth. "close, but... not quite."

something about the almost conspiratorial feeling of the moment, of the guard's lopsided half-smile next to her, gave the apprentice courage to ask, "was it his fault, what happened?"

the guard took another measured breath, wincing again.

"I... suppose it was. but - that doesn't matter, really. he's... my responsibility. like a cat... or a finicky rosebush... you know." once again the smile, and a shrug of one shoulder. "and... a nice fellow. so we'll forgive him."

the apprentice sat back on the wooden chair, tucking one leg up, chin to knee; her hands and apron were redolent of the strong soap from the basin, and she wrinkled up her nose.

"might as well," she said.

the smile had faded off the guard's face now, dull blue eyes suddenly serious. "if anything... happens, you'll... tell him that, won't you? not about... cats and rosebushes. about... forgiving him."

she reached over, then, and tugged the blanket up over the guard's shoulders, forestalling his clumsy one-handed attempts to manage it. the sheen of sweat on his forehead was visible in the candlelight, shivery strength giving out from his effort of the previous moments.

"of course," she said. "you'll tell him, if you wish; and I'll tell him, if we need to."

she watched his eyes slip shut again, and his labored breathing lengthen out, as beyond the walls the first birds started singing, sure of daylight before its appearance; and then when she was sure he was asleep, and the footsteps of the morning shift of healers approaching in the hallway, she stifled her own yawn and let the curtain fall closed on his rest.

___

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Picking Up The Pieces

“Bloody hell, Oggy, let ‘im be!”

Nick has to use all his strength to grab his best friend by the shoulders and pry him off the split-lipped hipster that he’s pinned to the pub’s floor. And it’s only thanks to Cormoran’s state of inebriation and a possible concussion that Nick manages to steer his loudly protesting friend to the exit, past curious and mildly shocked patrons, and then out and into the street.

“Lemme go!” Outside, Cormoran shrugs out of Nick’s grip, swaying. “That fucker deserves another…” He trails off as he swings back to the pub’s entrance.

Nick, relatively sober, steps between him and the door with raised hands.

“That ‘fucker’ is going to get you arrested,” he warns sternly. “And you’ll get court martialed. Dishonorably discharged. Kicked out of SIB. Or at least demoted.”

“I don’t care.” Blood dripping from one thick eyebrow onto his camouflage jacket, Cormoran stares at the door with big, maddened eyes that carry just a hint of sadness.

“Yeah, you do,” Nick contradicts him. “And you’ll regret this deeply if you don’t walk away now.”

For a moment, Cormoran just stands there, half-leaning his large torso against Nick’s impeding palms. Nick can see the cogs turning in his mate’s bull-headed, intoxicated brain. Slowly. Fuelled by rage that seems to have become a terrifying, constant companion of his lately. But Oggy is thinking, and that’s a start.

“Hey, come on, mate.” Nick pats his shoulder. “One stupid army slur is not worth it. The guy had no idea what he was talking about. Spoiled hipster brat.”

Nostrils flaring once more, Cormoran exhales. Then he grunts and shakes his head, like an angry bull who’s decided to let the matador live another day. 

“Lucky I din’ kick ‘is teeth all the way to Kabul,” he grumbles. With a huff, he turns away and almost loses his balance doing so.

“Whoa, okay!” Nick rushes to grab Cormoran by the arm and steady him. There’s quite an alarming amount of blood on his face by now, originating from a wound by his hairline. “Let’s take a few steps and go somewhere I can look at you without the police swooping in. Not sure someone didn’t call them.”

He leads a still-reluctant Cormoran down the street and around two corners until he finds a bench under a streetlight and sits his big friend down. 

“Lemme see that,” he announces and reaches out to inspect Cormoran’s forehead. 

“Oy!” Cormoran swats at him. “What the fuck-”

“You’re bleeding.” 

“So what?”

Annoyed, Cormoran wipes at his face, smearing the blood all over his cheek. 

“‘S nuthin’,” he states when he looks at his reddened hand.

Nick sighs. Stupid Cornish bravado.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“Med school already gettin’ to yer head, is it?” Cormoran raises one condescending eyebrow but Nick isn’t offended. This is the alcohol talking, amplifying their usual brotherly teasing of each other.

“Well, tonight, my medical training may help keep you out of A&E, and I know how much you love going there, so shut the hell up and let me see that stupid head of yours!”

Grudgingly, Cormoran surrenders. He holds still, exuding indignance and beer fumes while Nick tilts his head and looks for the source of the bleeding. He finds a cut that is partially hidden in Cormorans very short but very dense curls and extends almost to his temple. The area around it is swollen and already starting to turn purple. 

“You’re gonna look really pretty tomorrow, mate,” Nick says, prodding gently.

“Ow!” Cormoran flinches dramatically.

“Oh, come on…”

“Wha’? That hurts.”

Nicks rolls his eyes. His friend has clearly entered the pouty stage of tonight’s bender, and, from experience, melancholia will follow close behind. Both are better than all that pent-up anger Cormoran has been carrying around lately with no place to go. Nick knows that every person grieves differently, but it’s been more than a year that Leda died, and Cormoran seems to have become stuck in the rage stage. And Charlotte’s latest escapades haven’t helped with that.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Nick is waving his hand in front of his friend’s face.

Cormoran squints. “Three.” 

“Good. Follow my finger with your eyes.”

Nick runs him through the basic concussion protocol, satisfied that Cormoran’s disbalance and slurred speech seem to be a result of too many beers rather than being caused by the head wound. The cut, however, is still bleeding sluggishly.

“I’m sorry, Oggy, but this’ll need stitches.”

It’s Cormoran’s turn to sigh now, deeper and longer than Nick. He looks up at him with doleful eyes.

“Can’t you do it? Stitch me up?” 

Frowning, Nick studies his best friend for a moment. Intimidating and utterly terrifying only minutes ago, Cormoran now manages to look small and forlorn, misery rolling off those broad, drooping shoulders like a heavy mist.

“Alright,” Nick finally agrees. He’s not a certified doctor yet, and, technically, he should take Cormoran to an ER. But what harm can a little suturing do? He’s certainly practiced it enough. “We’ll have to make it to my place, though. And I’m not a plastic surgeon. It will leave a scar.”

Cormoran waves a floppy hand.

“Who cares. `S not like there’s anything to ruin.”

There it comes. Melancholia.

“Alright.” Nick fishes a fresh paper tissue from his jacket pocket and pushes it against the wound. This time, Cormoran barely flinches. “Keep pressure on that while we walk.” He hooks one hand under his friend’s armpit and pulls. “Up you go, come on!”

Groaning like Atlas, the world on his shoulders, Cormoran pushes himself up off the bench and, not minding Nick’s supporting arm, they begin their trek to Nick’s apartment. 

[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.

[bearsinpotatosacks]

Blood Dripping Down the Alley Walls - Whumptober2023

He was past the point where he was truly aware of his own actions. If he had to put words to it, it was almost like he was watching himself from behind. Or someone from the windows above the dark little alley they were in. Not that they should be. This wasn’t anyone’s business apart from their own.

For a second, he stepped back. The blood dripping off his knuckles smeared across his face as he wiped the sweat off his brow. His breath was burning from exertion. Somewhere in the chaos, his hat sat in a pool of blood, the dark fabric slowly dyed red as it lay discarded on the ground.

The Delancey Brothers find their dad in the Trolley Worker strikes. They're pissed.

For day 28 of @whumptober . Also on AO3. Inspired by this art by @crystallizedtwilight

Words: 687

He was past the point where he was truly aware of his own actions. If he had to put words to it, it was almost like he was watching himself from behind. Or someone from the windows above the dark little alley they were in. Not that they should be. This wasn’t anyone’s business apart from their own. 

For a second, he stepped back. The blood dripping off his knuckles smeared across his face as he wiped the sweat off his brow. His breath was burning from exertion. Somewhere in the chaos, his hat sat in a pool of blood, the dark fabric slowly dyed red as it lay discarded on the ground. 

The man below him was unrecognisable. He bore no resemblance to either of the sons he abandoned. Except, in some ways, they did. He’d been a cold and heartless man, who’d abandoned his sons, who in turn became cold and heartless men. 

Weisel had told them that their father would be among the trolley workers, he told them that if they went off course, if they got distracted, just this once, he wouldn’t be counting. They hadn’t shown anything at the time, but when they saw him among the crowds, something within him, something he’d hidden and pushed down, unlocked. 

He’d noticed first, then Oscar. After looking at each other, it hadn’t been a question of if, more just a question of how. Morris had pulled his back by his collar, throwing him on the harsh ground and watching him skid backwards until he hit the trash cans at the end. 

It was satisfying to see the confusion on his face. The crunch of his ribs against his boots as he’d kicked him, the loss of concentration and the way he disconnected, let his body take over as he stamped on his chest. Secured the knuckle dusters on his hand as he threw his hand down onto his face. Kicking his legs and picking him up just to hit him against the ground. Again. Again. Again. Until a crack rings against the tall buildings of an alleyway. 

His hands were glossy with blood. Drips fell off his knuckles as he waited to catch his breath. Oscar kept on going. There was a fire within both of them that had been steadily growing for years and here was the gunpowder. Here was the alcohol to their molotov cocktail, ready to blow in their faces yet they didn’t care if they died. Who was going to miss them? They all died in the end anyway.

There was a pipe glinting near the start of the alleyway. His ankle hurt as he wavered to get it. Their dad wasn’t weak, he’d fought back to the best of his ability until they’d swamped him until the point that he lay back and took the beating. 

The rust scratched his hand as he turned it. Turning his head, he saw his dad’s face whiten, in the parts that he could see from the blood dribbling down his face from where they’d cracked his skull. Oscar took his knuckle dusters off him as he lifted it above his head, both hands on the bottom as he harnessed all his strength to rain it down on him. 

Something crunched as it hit. His breath was in his ears, blood pumping as his eyes widened and a grin grew on his face. Oscar pushed the brass knuckles onto his hands as he reached back and joined the fight.

He disconnected. His brain shut off, like he wasn’t in control, like he couldn’t remember what he was doing as he was doing it. The only thing he remembered, later on, as they walked away to clean themselves up, was the still body of their father in the alley. His blood pooling into the drain, his likeness to themselves destroyed by the very heirs he’d made. 

God, he fucking wished he didn’t get up again. If he died in that alley, stayed there unidentified until some resident kicked up a fuss about a stink, he’d die a happy man. A very, very happy man.

----

I am so intrigued by the Delanceys, something I wouldn't have been brave enough to say when I first got into newsies in 2017 because the fandom, at least on Tumblr, was a bit black and white, the kind that says "if you like a character you condone their actions". I don't, I just like their characters.

Also context and story really change how the audience sees characters. For this I went Peaky Blinders, violence, blood everywhere, revenge. In a Peaky Blinders context, they wouldn't be evil scum, just milder characters who hold some bad opinions but in terms of their actions? Nothing compared to that show.

Anyway, enough analysis. I love how I wrote this, all the blood imagery, it was cathartic to write someone full of rage.

I also saw the UK newsies and that is my favourite version now. The set! The characters! It felt so much more lived in, I also found it funny that the poster made them look like Peaky Blinders.

Thanks for reading!

[swift-creates]

category: Gen

fandom: Star Wars

characters and relationships: Zhukova Silvanii and Strike (OC) - interrogator and interrogated respectively (with brief flirtation)

warnings: implied torture, interrogation, references to past battles & death, scars, Strike can't keep her mouth shut some swearing and one-sided flirting

Summary:

@ailesswhumptober Day 9: Scar Reveal / Interrogation / Presumed Dead

Zhukova Silvanii captures one of the emissaries assigned to scope out Zygerria, determined to keep the Galactic Republic away from her planet and her sister.

notes: Zhukova belongs to the lovely @/Modus_0perand1 on AO3!

more things about Strike on AO3

[crazylittlejester]

sorry everyone i guess i am a quitter (i am running on like. three hours of sleep and the gods keep trying to strike me down.) i will try to post the fic in the morning

Sorry for tonight’s fic being late I’m still writing it 🧍‍♂️

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Dead Brothers

Written for: Whumptober, prompt 4. HALLUCINATIONS Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)

"Danyal?"

His voice is shocked. Danyal doesn't understand what's there to be shocked about. He strikes again, aiming for his target's shoulder, quick and merciless, like the weapon he always was.

"Danyal, stop!" The target tries, dodging, and Danyal hears a tinge of plea in his voice. He doesn't care. And, he doesn't stop, of course - he is not to listen to commands of others. Only Grandfather's.

The boy in front of him doesn't fight back. Strange, Grandfather told him he was of the League. Maybe betrayal had softened him? Danyal narrows his eyes and strikes again, his blade reflecting the moonlight from the window briefly. His target steps back, avoiding the tip of it by mere inches.

"Ma bik, akhi?" The boy tries again as he keeps dodging and taking steps back to avoid Danyal's attacks.

Nothing is wrong with him. Danyal fails to understand the reason for the question. He is simply doing his job, one he was destined to do, one he was taught for. If this boy is not going to fight back, what is the reason for his dodging? He should simply succumb to the fate and accept his death.

...what did he call him?..

It doesn't matter. It's only a futile attempt to deceive him.

The hallway of the manor ends with a dead end, and his target is cornered. There's no escape now. Danyal lunges. The blade goes through the boy's shoulder with little effort, sharp and cold like ice. The moonlight from the window falls on the face of the boy, pinned to the wall like a butterfly.

His face is... familiar, somehow. Danyal has seen it before.

Yet, it's his eyes that cause him to still in his place. Dark and wide open, full of hurt and betrayal and, for some reason, hope. There are no tears - understandable, if the boy was one of the League once, he was trained to never cry, just like Danyal was.

His own eyes are burning with long forgotten tears.

The boy looks at him, blood streaming down his shoulder and leaving splotches on the carpet.

"...Danny," he whispers, and-

No, no-no-no, it doesn't matter, it doesn't make sense, he is a weapon, he has a mission, he-

It's not possible, he never had a-

"Brother," the boy, no, Damian says again, quiet and pleading, and Danny's eyes land on the blade again. Blood stains his brother's clothes, a dark, growing wet spot in the dim light of the moon.

Danny let's go of the hilt like it burns him and steps away, the memories locked away behind his purpose filling his head, speading and staining him, just like the bloody spot on Damian's shirt.

"Danny is dead," he tells the boy, shoving the undignified lump in his throat down, where no one can hear it. Damian looks him in the eyes without blinking.

"You were always alive in my head," he answers, almost soft, which is... Damian never talked like that before. Danny hates that he knows it.

He hates what he remembers. He hates that he remembers at all.

He turns away and runs.

[jasmines-library]

Tried and True

WHUMPTOBER 2023 DAY FOUR: Prompt - Hiding an injury.

Fandom: Batfam/DC/Young Justice

Summary: During a fight with Bane you get critically injured but leave it hidden from your brothers. When they find out, it's a race against time to get you back to the safety of the manor. Warnings: Bullet wound, blood loss, near death experience, surgery, cursing. Word count: 2.8k Note: I'm super excited about this one. That's all i'm gonna say :)

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

Bane fired three shots down the alleyway. They ricocheted off the bricks, clattering to the ground with a metallic ping. Dick Grayson hid crouched behind the lip of a building overlooking the alleyway, his mask pulled tight over his face. He watched with cautious eyes, surveying the villain before him. You were hunched over on the opposite side of the street dual daggers pressed firmly into the palm of your clammy hands. Damian and Jason lingered nearby, Tim opted to survey with his older brother. He had his bo staff hooked under his arm, ready to draw back and swing at any second. 

“I know you’re out there little birdies.” Bane sung, drawing out his steps as he paced the length of the alley. “Why don’t you come out for a little chat?”

He fired another round of bullets, this time up into the sky. Your little brother cast a look at you from your left, you held out a warning hand.

“Nightwing?” You asked into the coms quietly, careful not to draw unwanted attention. Even though Bane was outnumbered 5-1, he was still extremely powerful and if he caught one of you off guard, you would be in some deep shit. 

“We need to wait until he gets to the end of the alley. There’s a fork. We can flank him from both sides.”

The five of you watched intently as he walked, monotonously slow. When he was a mere few steps away from the end of the alley, Nightwing gave the signal and the five of you sprang into action, disguised and protected by the thick plating of your vigilante suits each specified to fit your needs. 

Landing roughly on your feet, you jumped from the building, reading your daggers in front of you. Your brothers formed a circle besides you, trapping bane between the three exits. He grinned manically.

“Finally! I thought I was going to miss out on all the fun.” 

He hoisted his gun up onto his shoulder and eyed the five of you up. The look on his face was mad; cynical. His eyes glistened beneath his mask as they settled on Robin. He fired, releasing a fresh wave of bullets, but the youngest was small and quick enough to slip away, behind a crate. 

With his back turned, Red Robin took his chance to make a move on Bane. He swung his staff in an arc, swiping at the giant's feet in an attempt to knock him to the ground. He wobbled, but spun around and knocked him out of the way, sending him flying into a nearby pile of junk.

“Red!?” You called out through the coms.

There was static as he shuffled around, coughing slightly as he tried to recover from having the wind knocked out from him. “All good.”

You moved next, Robin at your side. Using the walls, you propelled yourself towards Bane, trying to swing your dagger and lodge it anywhere on his exposed chest, only to have to skid across the floor as he swung his arm out to hit you. Although you weren’t successful, Robin had managed to get in a well placed slice along Bane’s torso. He had been aiming for the thick tubes which pumped him full of venom, but he wasn’t so successful. 

The five of you went many rounds with Bane, swinging, slicing and dodging as you tried to get the upper hand on the giant man. Though despite being outnumbered, he had still managed to get his own in on the five vigilanties. Red Hood was suffering a twisted ankle, and Robin had a trickle of blood running down the side of his temple where Bane had managed to strike him.

“Raven!” Nightwing hollered “Flank left.”

You retreated back round the alley with your eldest brother, twisting and navigating in the dinginess to flank him from his other side. When you returned, he had Tim pinned up against a wall, gasping for air and flailing, his feet struggling to scrape against the floor. You picked up your pace, feet slapping against the concrete. You swung, leaping high into the air and bringing your daggers down in a large sweeping motion, it lodged itself in one of Bane’s tubes, staunching the flow of venom pumping into his veins. You rolled across the ground and onto your feet, skidding against the asphalt as you dodged another swing that caught Robin instead. Nightwing was suddenly flanking from Bane’s otherside, cutting off the rest of the venom’s flow. Pulling Robin to his feet, he raised his katana.

With a signal from your brother cracking out over the coms, you gripped your daggers tighter, shifting them into a more comfortable grip in front of you. The humming of Dicks escrima sticks filled the alley. There was a beat, then you all charged, using bane’s weakness to your advantage. He took a large slice across his abdomen and a shock to his body. He roared, releasing a round of bullets into the brick. Dropping like a sack of flour the five of you pressed your body to the ground, trying to dodge the lethal pieces of metal he flung your way. And that was when you felt it, a raw indescribable pain that radiated across your body above your right hip. You stifled a cry, biting your lip beneath the cover of your mask. Your breath shuddered as you rose, trying to ignore the dark red patch that bloomed across the front of your suit. You readied your daggers, trying to conceal the wound with your arm. You were hoping that the cover of the darkness would help disguise it from your brothers. 

From his place on the ground, Jason fired at bane, distracting him from Tim, who swung his bo staff again at his feet, this time bringing him to the ground. Stepping forwards,you pressed your dagger to his neck, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to get the message across. He howled and grunted as Nightwing and Red Hood made quick work of securing him with rope they had stored on their suits, then delivering a quick blow to his head to render the giant unconscious. 

Nightwing took a step back and sighed, dropping his twin fighting sticks to the ground. “Is everyone ok?”

There was a chortle of agreement between the comms. You sheathed your daggers in the hosters at your hip, groaning as your fingers brushed against the pulsating wound. 

“Call B, tell him we have Bane.”

“Copy.” You said, flicking through the channels on the comms to call your father. He answered gruffly, signifying that he would be on his way on his way over as soon as he could. You heard the rumble of the batmobile in the background. 

“B’s on his way.” You told your brothers, changing the coms back. “He’ll be here soon.”

You glanced down at your stomach, still oozing blood, crossing his arms in front of you, trying to hide the growing patch and keep some pressure on it. You could feel the warm, stickiness against your skin clinging to the fabric of your suit. You couldn’t feel the exit wound, piercing the back of your flesh. Just the thought of the bullet still lodged inside of you made the pain worsen tenfold. You just had to hope that you would get back to the manor in time to stitch yourself up. 

~~~

Left, Right. Left, Right.

You had never been more glad to see the silhouette of the wayne manor, illuminated by the lights from the many windows that had been left on whilst you were out on patrol. You were trudging back slowly with your brothers after finishing up on patrol and ensuring that The Bat had bane secured and was taking him to Arkham. Your steps had grown sluggish, your vision doubled and your breaths uneven as you tried to keep up pace with your brothers, only to end up falling behind anyway. Your whole body ached, but nothing compared to the stabbing pain near your hip. You pulled your hand away from where you had been discreetly keeping pressure on it. Your head spun as you took in the sight of the blood dousing your hands. 

Left, Right…

Not much further now. You told yourself as you forced your body to keep pressing forwards. Home was so close but felt so so far away. You made your shaky legs push on, but with your hazy vision you swayed on your feet. 

Dick turned around, noticing your absence besides him. 

“Raven?” He asked, stopping in his tracks. His panicked tone alerted the rest of the boys. 

You were leaning on a nearby fence, trying to regain your composure.

“I- I’m fine. I just need-” 

Left…

Your body gave out beneath you as you tried to push yourself away from the wall, you were swallowed by a blinding pain; hot and inflamed as you collapsed in on yourself. Jason, the closest to you, rushed forwards before your body could collide with the hard asphalt. He laid you down tenderly so that your head was lying down on his lap. Dick was by your side patting down your body for the hidden injury, followed quickly by the other two.“Raven?” Damien stared at you with wide eyes. 

“Shit.” Dick cursed when his hand skimmed the tear in your suit, pulling it back with his fingers coaxed in your blood. 

You cried out in pain, eyes flying wide. 

Damien gripped your hand tightly, wincing at your pained expression when Jason hastily tore your mask away. He wiped away the tears which stained your cheeks. 

“AH!” Your face twisted when Dick ripped apart the fabric of your suit to get a better look at the wound; circular and ugly, only around the size of a penny, but it was already an angry shade of scarlet and was leaking more blood than you though you had in your body. The fabric which had matted with your blood tugged at your skin. You squeezed Damian’s hand tightly.

“R, what happened?” 

“...Shot.” You forced out. 

Jason reached around the back of your suit searching for an exit wound then cursing loudly when he failed to find one. “It’s still in there.”

Dick cursed. “Okay. Tim?”

The boy looked up meekly. 

“Grab the emergency pack, we’ll need tweezers, bandages. Something for the pain.”

“On it.”

“Damien? Call Alfred, tell him we need help, stat.”

Hesitantly, the Wayne let go of your hands and scrambled to get his phone. Tim was rushing back over with the supplies. 

“Y/N? This is going to hurt okay?”

You nodded feebly, head lolling around in Jason’s lap. 

“Hood, keep her awake.”

Jason took your head in his hands and angled it up to face him. Your eyes were fluttering closed.

“Hey, look at me, keep ‘em open kid.”

Your eyes opened in fraction as you listened to your older brother's words, though you were in a pained daze, only registering the pain in your side.

They would never forget the inhuman scream that pushed its way past your lips as Dick dig the tweezers into the wound. The pain was indescribable as your fingers clawed against the ground. You writhed in Jason’s hold, squirming away from the onslaught of pain. Dick cringed. 

“Tim, keep her still.”

His hands were like cold vices on your arms as he pinned you down, trying to keep you still as his older brother rummaged through your body. Your screams had morphed into horse shouts by the time he finally got the bullet out. But then came the burst of agony as he pushed his hands down as hard as he could on your wound. You whimpered.

“I know. I know Y/N I’m sorry.”

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you began to lose a grip on consciousness. Black dots danced in your vision.

“Hey. Stay with us!” Tim patted your face. “We need to move fast.

Jason leaned you up against his chest so his brothers could wrap the bandages tightly around your stomach. Damien had returned, informing them that Alfred was on his way. Once the bandages were secured, you were laid back down in Jason's chest, eyes fluttering. Damien returned to holding your hands, rubbing his thumbs back and forth across the flat of your hand. 

“Stay awake, Raven. Talk to us.” Tim prompted.

You were silent for a horrifying moment, before muttering out a few words. “...I’m sorry.”

“No. None of that. You’re gonna be fine.”

“I love you all.”

Your breaths were becoming shallower and you struggled to get the air you needed into your lungs. The black spots began to take over your vision. 

“We love you too, Y/N. So, so much.”

You hummed contently. Your body had begun to go numb. 

A dear ran down Damien’s cheek. You reached up to wipe it away as your older brother had done to you mere minutes ago.

“It’s okay.” You hushed. “It doesn’t hurt bad anymore.”

The two eldest vigilantes swallowed thickly, sharing a wide eyed glance between each other. That was when Alfred turned up, and the next minutes went by in a blur. The boys could do nothing more than watch as they whisked you away into surgery, praying that you would pull through. 

~~~

Dick watched as you began to stir. Your face twitched and you shifted uncomfortably. He had his much larger hand wrapped around yours, and had done for a few hours, insisting that he stay with you. You were his baby sister after all. Bruce had tried to send the other to bed, but like Dick, Jason had insisted that he should be allowed to watch over you too. Bruce was about to protest, but he couldn’t dismiss the distraught look plastered on Jason’s face. He had no doubt that the youngest two were lingering around somewhere, minds too full of opposing thoughts to let them succumb to the sleep that their bodies begged them for. Damian had kept trying to sneak in before being dragged away by Bruce. 

The room had been silent for a few hours as they watched your chest rise and fall. The surgery had been hard on your body, and for a while no one was sure that you were going to pull through. Albeit there you were lying pale but showing signs of waking up, on your bed.

  Alfred and Bruce were frequently in and out of your room where you lay hooked up to all sorts of machines that made Jason cringe. His head was resting on the side of your bed by the hand that Dick wasn’t nursing. His eyes had begun to droop shut as the early hours of the day crept around, when you shifted the let out a pained whimper. When he turned his head, he was greeted by your striking eyes. 

He scrambled off of the floor and into the chair that had been pulled up by your bed. “Y/N? Hey.”

“Boys?” You blinked, your head still groggy from the anaesthesia.

The eldest boy gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah kiddo. We’re here.”

Trying to sit up, the tug on your stitches elicited another cry of pain. Instinctively, both boys helped you sit up. 

“Take it easy, little bat.” Dick told you as you gingerly pushed back the sheets. Your hip was bound tightly in a white bandage. “He got you good.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jay pressed. “You could have…”

“I-”

You were cut off by the sound of the door shuddering open and a pair of your ‘not so little anymore’ brothers' heads peeking around it. They were hesitant, glancing around the room until you gave them a gentle smile.

“Y/N,” Damian rushed into the room, wrapping you tightly into a hug. 

“Hey Dami.” You murmured into his ear. 

He was suddenly ripped away from you by a grinning Tim who chided “Hey, be careful with her, you demon spawn. It’s my turn.”

You chuckled as he pulled you desperately into his arms.

“I’m so glad you’re okay Y/N/N. I was so scared.”

You frowned, hoarse voice breaking as you spoke. “I’m sorry-”

“Damian.” A haggard voice sounded from somewhere in the hallway. It was followed by a pair of heavy set shoes. “How many times do I have to tell you to get back in bed-”

Bruce stopped abruptly at the sight of his children crowded before him. His eyes were clad with dark bags and his hair was unkempt on his head. 

“Hi Dad.” Your voice was barely a whisper, but he heard it nonetheless. Pushing past his sons, he was at your side in less than a second. 

And that was when the reality of the whole situation hit you. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

“Dad. I’m sorry. I- I wasn’t thinking.”

“Shh.” He hushed. “This isn’t your fault. This is no one’s fault but Bane’s.”

“But-”

“Listen to the old man for once little bat. All that matters is that everyone is still together.”

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY THREE ⛤ DAY FIVE ->

🏷️ Taglist:

@senjoritanana

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 4: Sensory Deprivation

Ao3 link

- Twilight & Time

- Summary: A spell cages Twilight in a realm of nothingness

CW for hallucinations

————————————-

Ever since twilight touched him, his senses have been strong.

The world no longer brushes its gentle fingers against him, distant and meek. Now, it screams, now it assaults him, pummeling his head with the sheer immensity of it all. He can see things, smell things, hear things he never has before.

It is wonderful, useful. It hurts.

But this hurts far worse.

He breathes in, a haggard crescendo of panic. It is the only sound in this place of unending white, the only sensation.

The spell had been excruciating when it hit. An explosion in his body, in his mind, at the strike of a wizzrobe’s rod. That was to be expected though. The sudden onslaught of mind-numbing nothingness was not.

Wild had screamed his name, reached out. Time had spun, black blood flying from his blade, icy terror and fiery fury battling for ownership of his expression. 

Their faces had been the last thing he saw, their voices the last thing he heard. 

Since then, there has only been an endless abyss of white. 

No noise. No feeling. No delicate drifting of differing hues. 

Everything is the same. The madness of it roars in his ears, pounds against the backs of his eyes, sears his flesh. 

He reaches out, retracts his hand as though burnt. There is nothing here to tell him whether or not danger lurks. Nothing to alert him to a swift and deadly plunge.  

To move forward is to risk more than mere injury. 

But…the alternative is to remain motionless, melt into the terrifying dullness, become empty.

He cannot bear to do that.

Especially now that things have begun to change. Twilight doesn’t know how long he has been here. Time is yet another object that cannot exist in a null universe. But other things have begun to take shape.

Dark, monstrous things.

Shadow beasts.

They turn their heads toward him. Twilight’s breath catches in his throat, quickly transforming to a snarl.   

How? How are they here?

He doesn’t have time to ponder. 

They scream. They leap. And when he raises his hand it feels heavier than lead. 

His sword is gone, discarded he knows not where. But he has his arms, his hands, his legs. They have been strengthened and hardened by years of labor beneath a cheery sun, by days of hauling goods and halting the flights of panicked goats, by nights of patrolling with Rusl.

Twilight lashes out, placing all his strength behind a punch aimed at the first beast’s head. His knuckles connect with its maned cranium, and for a mere moment he feels the exhilaration of a successful hit. The rush of relief at the prospect of making it out of another battle alive.

But it is gone as quickly as it comes. His hand slides through.

As though he were clawing at a cloud, the beast dissipates. A dark mist floats forward, envelopes him, flies away. 

Twilight stumbles backward, heart fluttering in his throat, hand still clenched in a fist, brows dipped in confusion. 

What…

“Link!”

The barely-formed question shatters, replaced by the sheer emptiness of terror. He whirls. A name is on his lips.

“Colin!”

Wide eyes stare from a young face. A petite form trapped in the bulk of a moblin’s meaty arm. 

The monster grins at him. His grip constricts.

“No!”

Twilight lunges, aims to tackle the thing to the ground. But once again, he plunges through it, sending the granules of existence to drift away. 

“No, Colin!” He chokes, grasping desperately for the boy. 

After a moment, though, he too, is gone.

“Link?”

Midna.

He would know that voice anywhere. It is imprinted on his consciousness. A burn upon tender flesh.

She reaches for him, he for her, turning so quickly his ankle protests. Their fingers brush and he readies himself for the chill of her twilight-caressed touch. 

But it is not cold. Neither is it warm. She erupts into one million dazzling shards of glass and is gone. 

There is nothing to grasp at except the air. 

Twilight stumbles. His legs give out.

The silence is screaming now, tearing at his mind. 

This isn’t real. 

Another monster forms before him. Everything within him orders him to move, to defend himself. He forces himself to remain in still surrender. Even as his heart pounds and his hands shake, even as tears bud in his eyes, he does not allow himself to budge.

This isn’t real.

Claws rake through the air. He flinches away seconds before they strike his forehead. He can’t help it. Even before he became a hero, his survival instinct was strong.

There was nothing to fear, however. Again, the beast disappears as though it were never there at all.

His breathing has reached the speed of hyperventilation now, his extremities have turned ice cold. At least there is something to feel now, to reassure him that he is real. 

Twilight backs up, waiting for his back to hit a wall, waiting for something to ground him, to lean against and crumple.

He is real, though nothing else here is. He is real. He is…

“Twi! Twilight! Rancher!”

He tries to ignore the voice, tries to shove them away between hiccuped sobs that turn his vision spotty. He needs to calm down, has to, but he’s too far gone now, too far gone and he can’t, damn it he can’t…

And then there are hands on him. Then, there is sunlight. Then, there are more voices, tumbling over one another like a river over rocks. 

A single eye a piercing blue that matches a winter sky stares into his. Worry turns it so sharp that Twilight cannot help but think that if he gets too close he will be cut by it. 

He finds that he is not afraid.

“T-time.” It is a choked gasp, desperate and mournful and questioning. A child crying out to a father. 

Time pulls him close and he buries his head in his shoulder, careless of the cut of his armor plates. It is good to feel something, good to know that he is solid and living and real. 

Something that hurts cannot fade away. 

“Cub, are you alright?”

Twilight means to nod in response to the voice that rumbles like oncoming thunder. But then Time pulls back and cups his face gently, oh so gently, and looks over him again, searching for wounds he will not find…and he ends up shaking his head instead.

Fury joins the fear in the old man’s expression. But he only sees it for a split second before Time draws him into an embrace once more. Twilight curls into it, breathing in his scent, listening to his heartbeat an erratic pattern of panic, feeling his chest rise and fall, hearing the chatter of his brothers rise and wane like waves….

“You’re real,” he whispers. Time holds him tighter. 

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumptober Day 26

Nightmares - Breakfast Table - Parting Words Regret - "I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved that I have loved, the actions I have hated (Poe, Haunted)

Whumpee rested their head on the table while Caretaker was getting breakfast ready.

Caretaker's gentle whistle was so peaceful. Whumpee couldn't help but doze off.

Caretaker peaked out at them for a quick moment before going back to cooking.

"Might as well let them rest", Caretaker sighed, "I know they've had a hard time sleeping because of those nightmares."

Whumpee's peaceful sighs turned into small whimpers... soon small whimpers turned into moans and groans.... then yelling.

Caretaker raced into room and to Whumpee's side.

"Whumpee.... Whumpee, I need you to wake up", Caretaker shook them, "come on Whumpee."

Whumpee tried to fight out of Caretaker's grip, even landing a solid slap on Caretaker's face.

Unfazed by that strike... Caretaker wrapped their arms around Whumpee and pulled them down to the floor.

Whumpee continued to thrash around, but Caretaker had a strong hold on them now.

"Whumpee I need you to wake up", Caretaker burried their face into Whumpee's neck, "come on Whumpee."

Whumpee yelled a little more before they stopped.

Caretaker noticed them trying to get closer to their own wrist.

"You better not bite me", Caretaker lifted their wrist to offer it to them, "slapping is one thing, but biting is where I draw the line."

Whumpee, in their sleepy state, cuddled Caretaker's wrist against their nose and breathed a sigh of relief.

Caretaker sat dumbfoundedly as Whumpee seemed to completely relax now.

"Hey Whumpee?", Caretaker whispered.

Whumpee slowly opened their eyes and took a few moments to realize what was going on.

They quickly jumped out of Caretaker's arms.

"I'm sorry", Whumpee whispered.

Caretaker studied them, "do you remember anything of what just happened?"

"I know I had a nightmare. I don't know what else happened though", Whumpee frowned, "why?"

"You don't remember slapping at anyone?", Caretaker looked at their wrist, "or completely relaxing after my arm was against your face."

"Oh no, I slapped you?", Whumpee winced, "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, you were in the middle of a nightmare. I'm mostly curious about why my wrist calmed you down", Caretaker looked at Whumpee again.

"It's... your... cologne/perfume", Whumpee spoke slowly as though they were embarrassed about it.

"My...", Caretaker looked at them questioningly.

"When I have really really bad nightmares I sneak into your cupboard and smell your bottle for a few minutes to calm down", Whumpee sighed, "I'm sorry, it helps sooth me, but I'll stop."

"No no. You don't have to stop doing that if it helps", Caretaker smiled, "I just wish you had told me."

"That smell reminds me of you. It helps me remember that I have someone who cares about me and loves me", Whumpee explained. "I just know I'm safe when you are near me."

Caretaker nodded, "I understand. That makes sense... and even gives me an idea."

"What?", Whumpee looked at them weirdly.

Later that night, Caretaker had finished tucking Whumpee into bed.

The last piece to add was a towel that Whumpee had brought with them. It was an old washcloth that Whumpee had found a long time ago. They couldn't sleep without it.

Caretaker pulled a small bottle out of their pocket and showed Whumpee.

Whumpee looked at it, then at Caretaker.

"This is a brand new bottle of my favorite cologne/perfume. This is for you", Caretaker smiled.

"Really?", Whumpee looked at the bottle again.

Caretaker took Whumpee's towel and sprayed a few drops onto it.

"What I'm hoping is with the smell already present, the nightmares will stay away. You will have your comfort towel and my smell to help you", Caretaker set the bottle on Whumpee's side table, "but if not, you won't have to go far to get the bottle. If you do need me during the night, then definitely come and get me."

Whumpee took the towel when it was offered to them. They took a big wiff, then sighed contently.

"Thankyou Caretaker", Whumpee smiled, "this is a really good idea."

"Thankyou, I appreciate that, let's see how this works for you. Maybe we figured out another step to getting your nightmares under control", Caretaker stood from sitting on the edge of Whumpee's bed, "remember. You can come and get me anytime you need."

Whumpee nodded, "thankyou."

"Goodnight Whumpee", Caretaker reached for the nightlight and turned it on.

"Goodnight Caretaker", Whumpee had cuddled the towel right under their nose.

Caretaker checked in on Whumpee about two hours later. Just a quick check before they got themself ready for bed.

"I would say this about the longest they've gone without getting up", Caretaker whispered as they opened the door.

Whumpee seemed to be peacefully sleeping. The towel still under their nose.

"I guess we'll see how tonight goes, and check in the morning", Caretaker smiled.

Caretaker gently shook Whumpee.

"Good morning sleepy head", Caretaker chuckled.

Whumpee slowly blinked until they let out a giant yawn.

"I'm taking it that you slept really well last night", Caretaker smiled.

Whumpee nodded, "ymhmm, I only got up once, but not from a... nightmare", Whumpee realized, "it worked Caretaker."

"I'm seeing that", Caretaker smiled.

Whumpee held up the towel and smelt it again.

"Well", Caretaker smiled, "are you ready for breakfast?"

"Yes please", Whumpee smiled.

"Alright", Caretaker started for the door, "come down in a few minutes."

Whumpee nodded and started to get out of bed.

They quickly spritzed some of cologne/perfume onto their wrist.

"If it helps me sleep.... it will help in me during the day", Whumpee whispered, "it's like I'll have Caretaker with me all day. Even when they go out."

Whumpee heard the plates getting set out onto the table.

They carefully set the bottle down again, and hurried down.

Caretaker smiled when they smelled Whumpee.

Whumpee smiled back, "I thought it would help."

Caretaker nodded, "it will."

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

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@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

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@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

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@thenormalestever

[iriel3000]

Just to Hear Your Voice

Whumptober Day 16: “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

Just to Hear Your Voice

Summary: Early SHIELD, fucked mission after care

“Widow, talk to me.”

“Clint!” She put one hand to her ear, the other over her heart.

“Can you make it to the nest?”

“Can you?”

“I’m two klicks away.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She met him at the door of the safehouse and he nearly collapsed in her arms. Hawkeye had arrived in Bogota several days before to map out the arms facility and rig traps for their escape.

Only, they never got to break in. The agent that tipped off SHIELD doubled crossed them and walked the team into an ambush.

“Perimeter is secure.” She led him to a chair after noticing him limp.

“Seal it.”

Lowering her head in solace, Natasha took a deep breath and activated the security system.

No one else was coming.

Civilians died, three strike team members died, and for a brief moment when the comms went down, Natasha thought she’d lost Barton too.

“How did I miss it?” Hawkeye ran his hand across his eyes.

“There was nothing to miss. We were betrayed, plain and simple.” Natasha handed him some water and mentally logged his injuries. “How long were you on watch before I arrived?”

“They killed the informant and his family.” He held the water without drinking.

Blank stare, unresponsive to questions, Natasha knew she needed to keep her partner from sinking. She removed his flack jacket and arm guards.

“How did Williams and Grayson…”

“Don’t,” she pulled him up and pushed him towards the small bathroom, “it wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent it.”

“It was my job to make sure you all got out alive.” He kept his eyes on her while she undressed him and turned on the shower.

“Get in.” She ordered.

There was nothing to say to make either of them feel better. Natasha peeled off her uniform and joined him.

He looked mildly surprised. They’d seen each other naked before, mostly to stitch and patch each other up, but never so close and intimate.

“Natasha…”

She put a finger to his lips.

“I'm going to take care of you and you're going to let me.”

He didn’t argue.

tbc, please click link above

THANK YOU FOR READING, AND YOUR SUPPORT, AND YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT TO WRITE MORE. I APPRECIATE YOU ALL.

[writeroutoftime]

peaky blinders

-tommy shelby-

Where You’re Supposed to Be - Tommy comes home late, yet again, but now you want to know where he was and why he’s in pain 

Home - During a late night at work, Tommy finds that he can’t focus, so he heads to the one person he wants to be near

Power Couple - When Michael and Gina try to push everyone out of Shelby Company Limited, you and Tommy remind them who the real power couple of the family business is 

Stronger Together - As an honorary member of the Shelby family, you’ve been with Tommy through thick and thin - even the war. Now with the war won, the two of you must battle a strong, internal enemy together

Patience Runs Out - While at a gala, Mosley has the audacity to make vulgar comments about you, but instead of Tommy, it’s you who deals with him 

Not Invincible -  When Tommy gets arrested, you go to visit your husband, only things don’t turn out the way you expect

Surprise -  based on the prompts “I’m not going to like this am I?”/“Probably not." 

Shit Day -  After a long day at work, Tommy comes home to find you dancing and singing in your kitchen, and you’re all that he needs to feel better

Calm in the Storm - When a storm strikes, you find yourself only wanting Tommy for comfort

-john shelby-

Old Habits - When John comes home from a day of work he finds you and also finds himself reminiscing of your old life

Birthday - It’s your birthday and when the love of your life and your family forget, you aren’t sure how to react 

-michael gray-

His Irish Girl - There to support your cousin at her wedding, you catch the eye of a certain Michael Gray and share a wonderful evening 

-tommy shelby-

whumptober day 1 - poisoned

-arthur shelby- 

He Struggles with His Conscious 

-john shelby- 

Baby It’s Cold Outside

-tommy shelby-

Late Night/Early Morning Cuddles with Tommy Would Include…

Arthur Teaching Tommy’s S/O to Throw a Punch Would Include…

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

You Break Me

“Is it broken?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Let me see!”

“It’s not broken, it’s just- Ow!”

“I think it’s broken.”

“Ow. Fuck. Shit!”

Cormoran grimaces, waving his injured hand and only making the pain worse. He hisses and gingerly re-applies the ice pack that Robin brought to his middle finger. 

“Tell me again how you managed to hurt yourself sitting at your desk?” Robin asks, truly bewildered.

Cormoran sits down heavily, teeth still gritted. He carefully lowers his hand, ice pack and all, on the desk in front of him. 

“I got distracted.” 

“Distracted?” 

Robin raises a questioning eyebrow. Her pulse is still a little too quick. Coming into the office and then hearing your partner cry out in pain will do that. And now he’s sitting here, looking both pained and awkward, avoiding her gaze as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. 

“Yeah, distracted,” Cormoran grumbles at the tabletop. “What does it matter? Would you mind calling me a cab so I can waste my whole night waiting at A&E now?” 

But Robin is a detective, and it’s not in her nature to leave a mystery unsolved. 

“I’ll take you in the BMW,” she offers. “Distracted by what? Doing what?”

Only when she says the question out loud does she realize what she may have run into when she breezed into the outer office a few minutes ago, long after closing hours, to fetch something she’d forgotten, on her way back home from a party with her boyfriend. Unexpectedly, Strike had been in the inner office, door open, and she’d only realized he was there when she’d heard a strange noise followed by a gasp and pained curses.

Oh God, she thinks, blushing. He’s a man. Please tell me he wasn’t…?

Cormoran looks up, noticing the suggestive beat of silence. 

They stare at each other, both mortified.

“No!” he hurries to say. “No, I wasn’t… I didn’t…” The ice pack almost slips from his hand when he gestures desperately with the other. “My stupid desk drawer was stuck again, and I was trying to get it closed, and then I… you came in, and I looked up through the door and you…”

He tapers off, his gaze wandering down from her face over the blue, deep-cut, silky cocktail dress she’s wearing, down her bare legs to her high-heeled feet and back up to meet her eyes again, face flushed.

Robin’s pulse, barely calmed, picks back up. She sees it in Cormoran’s eyes, beyond the pain of his injured hand: the attraction, the longing, the want.

It’s just a second, then he looks away again.

Robin’s shakes off her… shock? Consternation? Arousal? 

“Oh,” she manages, a bit breathy. “I see.” 

She walks back into the outer office to fetch the BMW keys from Pat’s desk. It gives her a moment to gather herself. Behind her, she hears Cormoran get up, groaning. 

“Do you want your coat?” she calls over her shoulder, her voice almost sounding normal again. It’s a mild summer night, but they’ll be awhile, and Cormoran may want to hide his misery behind a turned-up collar.

“Yeah,” he confirms, emerging from his office, hand tucked protectively against his chest. His middle finger looks bad now, swollen, with a purplish-red contusion across the middle phalanx where he pinned it in the drawer. “And a fresh ice pack, if we have one.”

“Of course.” 

Robin fetches a new pack from the fridge and wraps it in a dish towel, then hands it to Cormoran.

“Here.”

He takes it and carefully presses it against his hand. Somehow, he manages to look guilty.

“I’m sorry, Robin.”

“For what?” She smiles at him. He looks like he needs it.

“For being stupid. For ruining your night.” He pulls a face. “And you only need to drop me off. Your boyfriend is probably waiting. I’ll be fine. You really don’t need to st-”

“I’ll stay with you,” she interrupts him, adding a truth that slips out before she can hold it back. “It’s where I want to be.”

He blinks, then smiles shyly. His gaze goes right through Robin. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She places his coat over her arm and opens the outer office door to let him through. Cormoran steps past her, now focussed on cradling his hand without jostling it while he walks. He really must be in pain. It’s going to be a long night at A&E. And Robin, confused and conflicted about her decision, but somehow strangely content, finds that she doesn't mind at all.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2024 No.9 & No.30

Prompt 9: Bruises

Prompt 30: Holding Back Tears

Warnings: Violence and injuries

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

gif @jaaryl

The moment it happened, the fighting around you dulled into muffled arrangements of shouts and gunfire. A bullet could have hit you and you’d never have known. You could only see Daryl, barreling toward the large man that had grabbed and pulled at your ankle, his intentions no doubt nefarious. The hunter’s momentum was used as a weapon against him, a meaty hand wrapping around his bicep and fisting into the back of his vest. Your leg released, you could do nothing but watch Daryl be spun around and tossed, his back striking the tree trunk with a sickening thud. 

He was dead, you were sure of it. Dead or paralyzed, broken in half and suffering. There was a frantic shouting of his name, you could hear it along with a shrill ringing. The stranger reclaimed his hold on your ankle and began to drag you away, your nails clawing at the dirt as you tried to escape and make your way to Daryl. When everything around you catapulted back into realtime, you realized the screams for the archer had been coming from you. The stranger’s grip fell away, his body crumbling to the ground in your peripheral while familiar shouts began to filter through the chaos. None of that mattered. You were finally able to draw yourself onto all fours and crawl to where Daryl lay unmoving on his side. 

“Daryl!” You grabbed his shoulder and pushed him onto this back, his head lulling lifessly. Shouts and footfalls grew closer, louder, and your body coiled like a tight spring, ready to snap and defend the man lying in front of you. When Rick and the others came into view, you nearly collapsed in relief. The former deputy fell to his knees on Daryl’s other side and pressed two trembling fingers to the hunter’s neck.

“He’s alive.”

Your chin wobbled, the tears you were trying so desperately to control threatening to break through the dam you had constructed. “He hit so hard, Rick. The sound—I don’t know if we should move him.” A hand came to rest on your shoulder, the feather light touch you had come to know was Carol. 

“Come with me, sweetheart.” She was urging you up, pulling you away with her arm around your waist. You consistently turned to see what was happening, a distressed noise in your throat when Rick, Abe, Glenn, and Aaron began to lift Daryl. “We have to get him back to Denise.”

She made sense. Your panicked mind just hadn’t stopped playing through the worst case scenarios long enough for you to think logically. You allowed her to lead you to where the cars were hidden, your head turned to keep eyes on Daryl. 

The relief—and shock—had been so overwhelming that your legs had turned to jelly the moment Denise had said there were no visible bone abnormalities. Fractures were of course still a possibility that she couldn’t rule out. She ordered strict bedrest for Daryl until the swelling and bruising improved. She would examine again at a later time to plan the next course of action and ventured further to suggest he heal at home to keep him more comfortable. 

Rick had carried you home while Abraham carried the still unconscious Daryl. Abe wasn’t that much bigger than the archer but he was stout and able to lift Daryl with ease. You watched tiredly from against Rick’s chest, unnerved by your bowman’s limp arm swinging back and forth with each step. 

“Down or up?” Abe asked, once inside. Rick chewed on his lip, unsure of where Daryl would be best situated. 

“Down.” You offered within a yawn. “His room is safe to him, it’s his space. He’s more likely to stay there. Has the ensuite. Won’t have to leave.” You wiggled until Rick carefully lowered your legs and set your feet on the floor. “Thank you.” You knew your smile was strained but you offered it regardless. “I’ll go get some things together for him, bring more of my things down. I’ll take care of him once he’s in bed. Can you put him in his stomach please?”

“You sure, little lady? He’s stubborn as a mule. You know he’s gonna dig his heels in the minute he finds out he’s been benched.”

You didn’t even answer and continued up the stairs, smiling to yourself when Rick spoke up for you. 

“If there’s anyone that can handle Daryl, it’s Y/N.”

When you descended the steps to the archers room, Rick was sitting on the third from the bottom. He would never leave Daryl alone in such a state but respected the man enough to step away the moment he could. The archer’s scars had been seen by a few that night and while he had been less wary of showing them, it was always by choice. There was no choice for him this time. 

“I’ll be upstairs, Y/N. Just call me. Or Michonne or Carol—”

“Carol’s here?” You asked, confused, while sitting your bag of clothes and other necessities just inside the threshold of Daryl’s room. 

Rick nodded. “Should know we couldn’t keep her away when something’s happened to him.” It was your turn to nod. Those two were best friends. With a nod, you reached for and squeezed the deputy’s shoulder before stepping into the basement room and closing the door behind you. 

Daryl had been carefully placed on his belly, his shirt off. The bruising was profound and brought forth a rolling nausea deep in your gut. His back was various shades of purple and red, his scars even discolored from the trauma. Denise had supplied a few days worth of pain medication that you were all too aware would be a battle to administer. The archer could lose a limb and still refuse the medication out of worry that someone else would need it more than he ever could. 

You moved carefully to sit cross legged beside the prone man, your fingertips whispering over his shoulders in tender sweeps that avoided the mess of bruises. “You can wake up anytime now.” There was an unintentional plea to your voice. 

Still, he didn’t stir. 

It wasn’t until later in the night that you finally heard him groan, felt him shifting ever so slightly. You didn’t touch him, not immediately, giving him a moment to gather his bearings while you inwardly rejoiced to see arms and legs moving, albeit slow and jerky. 

“Daryl.” You beckoned softly, placing a hand on the back of his head. “Don’t try to move, love. You were hurt pretty badly.” You stroked his hair, hoping the action would soothe him but he only seemed to double his efforts at rising. Hands planted firmly against the mattress, he pushed his body upward, making it only a few inches before dropping back onto his belly with a choked off shout. 

“The hell happened?” He ground out between clenched teeth. 

“You became up close and personal with a giant oak. Courtesy of a Savior.” You recalled the fear that took hold of your heart when you heard the collision, saw him land in a heap. “Scared the shit out of me.” 

He was quiet for a few moments, breaths slowing and muscles relaxing. “How bad?” 

“Banged up. Denise says nothing is abnormal but can’t rule out fractures without seeing improvement.” You still worried, even after seeing with your own eyes that he wasn’t paralyzed. Seeing him in so much pain was bad enough. 

Daryl hummed quietly, mulling over your words. “Y’okay?” 

“I’m fine, thanks to you.” Your fingers caught on a tangle in his hair and gently worked it loose. “You should take something for the pain and rest. Denise gave—”

“Should save it for someone who needs it.”

“You need it.” You admonished, no real heat to your words. You had expected the argument, making it easy to counter without anger. When he merely grunted, you knew you’d never win. “Alright. It's here if you want it.” When he began to try and rise again, you pulled your hand away from his hair and waited, figuring he’d plop right back down but he didn’t. 

Daryl hissed and groaned with your panicked hands flailing around his back—not touching—until he was finally sitting up. The exertion through the pain left him pale and panting, his head hanging. 

“Denise didn’t want you moving around, Daryl!” You crawled over to sit at his side, leaning to catch his eye. 

The hunter scoffed. “She want me to piss on the sheets?” 

“Oh.” You reddened. You had used the ensuite as a reason to have him in his own room, but hadn’t given much thought to him actually using it. “I mean—no?”

Daryl gave a humorless laugh. “S’what I thought.” Standing, he remained hunched over, taking several hard breaths in preparation before he straightened. Staggering with a yelp, he caught himself with a hand on the wall, looking every bit as though he might faint. 

“Daryl, at least let me help.” You pleaded, now on your feet and in front of him. He blinked his eyes open, peering at the door as if he half expected someone to be watching, judging. Daryl was nothing if not self reliant, never admitting to weakness even at the expense of his own well being. 

Except when it came to you. 

He gave a sharp nod and gingerly raised his arm for you to duck underneath, assisting in balancing him when his legs weren’t willing to hold his weight. The pain must have been bad. 

“Just—I can make it from here.” He muttered, once the two of you had crossed the room. You didn’t argue, ducking from beneath his arm. The door closed and you moved away to give him privacy, though the silence of the house made it impossible not to hear. 

He was quick in relieving himself and even washing his hands, the door opening slowly to reveal a pain-stricken archer on the verge of defeat. 

“You okay?” You inquired softly. 

He nodded and winced. “Shit hurts.” He grumbled, shuffling out of the small bathroom. He waved you off when you tried to help. Getting back into bed proved to be just as difficult—if not more so—than getting out of it. Once he was finally resting on his belly, he quietly uttered “‘bout them painkillers.”

You couldn’t hide your smirk as you shook two tablets from the bottle. 

It was two and a half days before Daryl could manage to leave his room. He was stiff and sore, his back a painting of yellows, greens, and purples. Denise wasn’t naive. She knew that she could advise until she was blue in the face but he would do as he pleased. There was still the hope that he would take it easy under your influence. 

“Why don’t we go downstairs?” You tried from the porch swing, sipping your water as he carved away at some bolts. “I’ll make some sandwiches and we can use the record player.” He pinned you with an unenthusiastic glare. 

“Tired’a bein’ cooped up.” 

You hummed and tapped the side of your glass when an idea struck. “How about we go do what I suggested and tomorrow, we’ll go for a walk outside the walls?” It was risky. There were saviors everywhere, a war brewing, but that was a tomorrow problem. If you could manage to get the archer to rest for one more day, you’d work it out somehow. 

You knew you had piqued his interest when the knife stopped moving. 

“Y’won’t hound at me the whole time?” He regarded you with an arched brow. 

“Not the whole time.” You teased. “But you carry a gun and I’ll carry your bow. We’ll trade if we need them.” He narrowed his eyes, considering your offer. 

“I’ll carry it myself but keep it off my back.” 

Pursing your lips, you feigned deep thought, tapping your chin. He regarded you impatiently, clearly two seconds from dismissing the entire notion. 

“Done.” You acquiesced. It was better than nothing and much better than what he would have done on his own if left unchecked. “Now downstairs with you while I make some grub.” Rolling his eyes, Daryl sat the bolts aside and pulled himself upright with the help of the porch railing. 

“You’re a pain in my ass, woman.” He griped when you held open the door for him, making a grand gesture of ushering him inside. 

“I love you, too.” You laughed as he snorted and disappeared down to the basement.