#tw pinned down

[witch-hazels-musings]

reel me in 

warning: angst -> comfort | fighter!reader and character are sparring but when reader gets pinned to the ground, they recall a traumatic event (non-specific, but hints at a near-death experience from past fight), and start to panic - the characters calm them down and bring them comfort (tw: pinned to the ground, feeling of being trapped, anxiety and difficulties breathing, sparring leads to panic)

character x gn reader | request | anthology 

includes: childe, kaeya

Childe

“Is that all you’ve got?” You cried out through heaving breaths. Every muscle in your body was screaming from the onslaught of blows, but it made you feel alive. Fighting Childe was like wrestling the sun - and you were obsessed. 

Childe straightened, turning back toward you with a grin so wide you knew your taunt would get him going. The way his eyes flashed in the sunlight, the shimmer of sweat on his shoulders, biceps made your heart flutter. It was so exciting - the heat of battle - no wonder Childe loved sparring so much. 

“You want more?” He beamed, stalking toward you, slowly, meticulously, his eyes trained on you as if you were prey in the woods. “Then don’t hold back. Let me see it all!” He roared as he dashed your way. His water-blade crashing against your two daggers. Sending a shockwave through your arms. It hit your chest with so much force that you pushed against him, sliding on the dirt to reposition and get a better angle but he was ready with another swipe. You barely ducked out the way in time. 

The match was heated, invigorating. The two of you lost yourselves in the midst of it all. Egging the other on, laughing at the thrill, pushing until something was certain to break. You just didn’t expect it to be like this ... didn’t expect it to be you. 

With expert skill, you dodged away from his swing. Twisting your foot and leg leg so you could roll over his back and slip into the tiny opening he left, but when you landed on the other side of him, his leg swiped yours and you fell, hard, onto the dirt. The force knocked the wind out of you. A rock punched against your shoulder making your arm go numb for just a moment, but long enough that he could take full control. 

His hands grabbed your wrists so you couldn’t swing at him. Faster than you could comprehend, he had you pinned. Disarmed with your hands under your arching back, he held you captive. 

Shaking your head didn’t relieve the fog, struggling only made it worse. The sweat on your brow stung your eyes until you could barely make out his figure. Then, it all came flooding back. 

“Now that was fun,” Childe panted above you, his hair clinging to his forehead, his cheek, but you could hardly see his familiar, comforting face. The past was crashing into you, and you couldn't’ breath. 

“G --- et off ---” 

“Don’t tell me you can’t overtake me. Hah, you’re better than that --” Childe teased but you weren’t having fun anymore. Panic started to set in, your heart was beating erratically, out of rhythm and control. You shook your head, thrashed just like you did once before - yet nothing changed, just like ...  “... and we were just getting sta-” 

“G-GET OFF!” You screamed. The words came out strangled, fearful. Childe let you go and you scrambled out from under him. Your nails digging through the dirt in a frantic escape. “get off. get off ...” You groaned, crawling free from him until there was enough distance for you to catch your breath. 

“Woah, are you alr-” Childe’s words caught in his throat when you turned to sit on the ground, arms coiled around your legs, hands shaking as they hid your face from him. “Hey --” he called to you. Calmly, softly, but you didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. In your mind it was still happening, and you needed it to stop. 

Everything was turned to maximum. Every sound, every smell, every sense in you stung. Your mind was on fire and you couldn’t calm it down. Something touched the fingers digging into your leg so you violently swatted it off until your hand came to a stop and your itching eyes found the reason. 

Childe was kneeling in front of you, his expression twisted to one you’d never seen before. His common smile was turned into a deep frown, brows furrowed and eyes were searching you intently. His jaw clenched, the hand holding yours looked pale. 

Still shaking, you wiped your eyes and he slowly came back into focus. This wasn’t your past, you weren’t about to die alone, beaten, bloodied - you were safe. You were safe. 

In an instant, you twisted your hand to grip his wrist and held on so tightly that his arm began to shake.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, head shaking to return to your senses. The noise was starting to fade; you took a few more breaths to bring it back to normal. 

“You went somewhere else on me ...” 

“I know -- I’m sorry,” you apologized, swallowing to wet your dry throat. “I’m alright now.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing, I promise. It’s ... it’s nothing,” you pressed your fingers to your forehead and shook again, mostly to work out your nerves, but the action didn’t convince him you were okay. 

The dirt around you crunched, grinded against itself as he moved toward you. When you glanced at him under your salty fingers, you noticed he was blocking you with his long legs. One at either side as if to be a human shield. 

You sighed, and tried to get him to ease off, “I’m really okay -” 

“A warrior must be ready to face any challenge,” he began, cutting you off as if you never said them, “In victories or in failures, the outcome is irrelevant - what matters,” he said as he tugged your arm and pushed against the hand blocking you from his sight. You moved them only enough so you could see his eyes, and he could see yours, “what matters is learning from the experience. You are here to fight again. You survived - no matter what it took to do so.” 

Childe’s gaze was intense, his words pierced your heart making it difficult to breathe again but he was right. You survived. You were here and that’s what matters. 

Your lips trembled, so you adjusted your grip on his wrist and held tightly.

“I survived,” you whispered. 

“You survived.” 

“I survived,” you repeated and covered your face while Childe shielded you from the rest of the world. 

-- 

Day’s later you shared with him what had happened and he listened without judgement. You noticed how he incorporated some new moves into his training with you - ones to avoid the mistakes of your past and then, without prompting, on a warm summer night, he told you of his own and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel so alone. 

--

Kaeya 

“Pick it up!” you shouted to the knights as they ran through their drills. By this point they shouldn’t be so sloppy, but it seemed your expectations for them were too high. 

Groaning, you turned the other way and began to clean up the training grounds. Practice swords, spears, and other equipment were left on the dirt and even though you weren’t the only one tasked with training the new recruits, you knew your partner wouldn’t be much help. 

“How’s it going, teacher?” Kaeya’s silvery voice slipped through your annoyance like water passes through a fisherman's net. Unfortunately for him, you weren’t in the mood to hear it. 

“Fine. Here,” you said and handed him the pile you’d managed to pick up while he was standing in the shade, “Take these back to the racks for me.” 

“My, what a cold temper you have,” he teased. Even though you couldn’t see it, you knew he held a smirk on his lips. “And here I was coming over to congratulate you on all your hard work.” 

“Ha,” you huffed. You were starting to wonder if Jean was mad at you. Why else would she ask you to work with this ... this ... slacker. He may be pretty, and you, stupidly, had a crush on him, but why was he always so ... aggravating. “If you’re not going to help me, at least don’t stand by sidelines watching. It creeps me out.” 

Kaeya picked up the pace so he could match your strides. It was easy for him with his long legs and all. “I thought you loved when my eyes were on you?” 

Luckily you were already so irritated. If you weren’t you probably would have been more affected by his comment, “Nope. Not me.” 

“Really?” 

“Mmhm. Ugh,” stopping suddenly, you shouted toward the recruits to come back but when you glanced back at Kaeya, he was just standing there, smiling. “Are you going to help me with the demonstration or not?” 

“Why of course,” he beamed and you wanted to punch him. 

“Good. Grab us some swords and meet me in the circle.” He gave you a playful confirmation before walking off toward the racks. 

Why couldn’t you have fallen for someone else? You asked yourself as you headed toward the panting new knights to explain the next portion of their training. It wasn’t the first time you had them spar with each other, but this time you were going to be demonstrating several moves they needed to learn in order to stay alive. As much fun as being an aggressor is, if you didn’t learn how to block or dodge oncoming attacks - well, the research institute was working on some new mechanical prosthetics if they needed it.

Once Kaeya returned, you had him demonstrate several jabs so you could show them how to avoid. After that, you had them mimic you as you moved out f the way of Kaeya’s swings. It was almost like a dance, the two of you, and it was starting to draw an unnecessary crowd. 

“Shall we show them in real time?” Kaeya inquired with a smile, “They are unlikely to fight slow moving assailants after all.” 

You weren’t really planning on doing that, but he was right, so you relented. “Alright, but don’t throw out anything fancy.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he hummed, getting into his stance. 

“Alright - watch us closely and count how many times I use the moves we just showed you. Got it?” The knights nodded so you got into position. “Let’s go.” 

Lunging forward, you made the first contact and Kaeya deflected it easily. He reacted faster than you planned with a counter swing that you had to narrowly block with the edge of your wooden sword. The noise rang out across the training ground drawing an audible gasp from the crowd. 

The two of you started simple but eventually lost yourself in the spar. Kaeya moved like a skater on ice and you danced along with him. The feeling of the wind rushing past your face as you dipped under his swings, when you swirled past him to get the advantage. It was a blast, and reminded you why you fell for him so hard. 

Kaeya might be a slacker, but his swordplay was flawless. 

You wanted to bring it back to focus but Kaeya was distracted and before you knew it, your guard was too far down to catch his next move. Like a flash of lightning, he was in front of you one second and behind you the next. Your weapon swung up to block a blow to your chest but you were off balance and fell backward as he had intended. Before you could taken in a breath, Kaeya was gripping your arm and twisting it behind your back while his play sword rested against your neck and his cheek pushed against the side of your head. 

“Got you,” he declared and pulled you closer to him. You were captured, and it distorted your reality. 

It was like you fell into a deep pool. Your body went cold, your mind triggered every alarm it could as you wiggled against him to get free but he was having too much fun to notice that you were clearly not. 

“Kae--” 

“We certainly put on a show,” his voice drifted past you but you could hardly hear him. Waves crashed against your senses, deafening the world around you. It felt impossible to catch your breath, even when you gripped your shirt and pushed against Kaeya’s arm. Something hit your foot so you stumbled forward only to be reeled back in. “Leaving so soon?” He asked and you panicked. 

“L-let me go - let me go - let! go!” Fear and violence overcame you until you were finally free from his grip. The edges of your vision were so dark that all you could see was the building in front of you, the confused expression on his face as you turned to face him, the bobbing blobs in the distance as you tried to call it for the day. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. All you could feel was a sense of dread and your nails biting into the flesh of your palm. 

Kaeya dropped his weapon. You watched him turn to the crowd but couldn’t hear what he was saying. You just stood there, lost, back in that place you never wanted to visit again. 

A cold hand grabbed your balled up fist and, like magic, you were in Kaeya’s office with no recollection of how you got there. 

Someone called your name. Who was it? 

Touch, the sensation of skin against your cheeks. Hands - someone's hands. Whose hands? WHOSE HANDS!? 

You flailed your arms to push them away but they didn’t leave until you could hear the voice of Kaeya calling your name. 

“... do you hear me?!” he shouted, and you did. You did. “You’re okay! - it’s me. It’s me.” 

“... Kae...?” 

Kaeya’s head dipped forward when you recognized him. “There you are.” His tone was tense. When he looked at you again it was like he had aged since you last saw him. He shook his head and moved his thumbs under your eyes. 

“What happened?” you asked, confused and disoriented. One minute you were out on the training field and another you were in his office. Did you black out?

“I was hoping you could tell me.” 

“I don’t -- I don’t know ...” looking down, you tried to assess what was happening. Your body felt worn, exhausted. Your fingers were curled in and stiff but they weren’t like that originally. Right? Why was there sweat running down your spine? Confusion was soon replaced by worry but Kaeya was there to catch you. “Kaeya - I don’t remember --” 

“It’s alright,” he reassured you by grabbing your hands and holding them steady. You could tell he was contemplating what to do. You’d known Kaeya for so long. He was always so confident, so playful but right now he seemed afraid to even touch you. “It’s alright,” he said again and took a step closer, but not too close. He sighed and then explained what happened. Perhaps he hoped it would make you feel more in control or, perhaps, it would give you the knowledge you needed to understand why you vanished in front of his eyes. 

He was right. As he explained the sparring match and what happened moments before you panicked, you knew exactly why it had happened. 

In training, you are taught how to protect yourself and your fellow knight. You know the dangers of the job but you can never fully grasp the severity of it until you’re there - face to face with life and death. This was your hidden scar. One you didn’t intend to let others see. 

It took a while, but you slowly started to share what had happened. Kaeya listened without questions, without jokes. He just listened, and when you were done he didn’t give you pity or tell you it was in the past. He simply offered his hand and vowed to leave it open for you whenever you needed it. 

“You’ve always been around to lend me a hand. It’s due I return the favor. Whenever you need me, I’ll be here with you to carry on,” he affirmed and though he couldn’t heal the space left in your chest, his words made it a little lighter. 

“Thank you, Kaeya,” you replied, squeezing his hand like he was yours. “I guess this means you’re stuck with me?” It was meant to be a joke to lighten the mood, to bring back his teasing but it seemed to backfire. 

“Well that’s an odd way of proposing to me.” 

“I wasn’t proposing --” 

“You weren’t?”

“No ...” 

“Ah, a shame then,” he lamented and let go of your hand to walk toward the door. You followed him, watching how he leaned against the closed door with a sorrowful expression on his face. 

“W-wait, did you want ... me too?” 

“We will never know now will we?” He threw up his arms into a deflated shrug but made sure to keep a sharp eye on you and your slowly rising embarrassment. “Best not keep them waiting, teacher,” he smirked before walking out of his office and leaving you, once again, flustered. 

--

[linkhappyface]

day 5 i know im so behind

bug and champpp content lets goooo

lemme know if the tws need to change or smth

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 21

Path of Whumperless Whump Prompt; "Delirium" (mentioned) + Alt. "Drugging"

Day 21 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters;

- POV/Caretaker: Gawain - The Green Knight

- Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 815

TWs; unconsentual first aid, drugged, pinned down broken ribs, severe injuries (referenced), gravely injured (referenced), near death (referenced), choking, oxygen deprivation, asphyxiation, carewhumper, forced to hurt (In order to help), delirium/aggression/stubbornness from pain

"Let. Me. Help you!"

Gawain breathed hard, glaring down at the Fey he had rather unceremoniously pinned beneath him.

"...No!" Lancelot spat up at him, lips stained with blood, clawing at the arms that held him down, snarling like a wild animal with wide eyes near feral from pain and what Gawain guessed was at least a degree of fever-induced-delirium.

In Gawain's hand, a wineskin of poppy milk- a powerful pain reliver and sedative he had brewed earlier from the crimson blooms in the neighbouring fields. Despite severe injuries in dire need of treatment Lancelot was blatantly refusing aid of any kind with threats to flee if Gawain tried to help, resulting in Gawain having to pin his unthinking arse to the ground lest he bleed out on the damned moors somewhere.

"Do you expect me to just sit here and watch you die?"

Lancelot didn't answer, his teeth bared, mouth parted in a silent snarl. Is that not for the best? his eyes seemed to say, no matter that he did not voice it aloud Gawain heard it as loud as a shout.

"Because I won't."

Lancelot refused to reply, though Gawain wasn't entirely sure whether it was intentional or by design now.

"You give me no choice." Gawain warned. Lancelot looked away with a bitter expression, as if aware what was about to happen.

Gawain sighed heavily, steeling himself to the task, then grabbed Lancelot's jaw in an attempt to force the medication down his throat.

Pain sliced through Gawain's finger as Lancelot bit him in response, hard.

"Ah you son-of-a-- Stop!" Gawain growled, swallowing down every insult known to Fey whilst scrabbling to free his finger, cradling his hand away from the fucking animal. Gawain glared back at the triumphant smirk Lancelot had the utter audacity to give him now.

The moment he drew near again did Lancelot shut his mouth and refuse to open it.

"Arawn give me strength, Lancelo-- oof!" Gawain grunted in pain as Lancelot swung at him. Lancelot's injured arm collided with his chest with a suprising amount of force, enough to half wind him.

Oh that's it...

Having finally had enough of the ungrateful sod's antics, Gawain clamped a hand over Lancelot's nose, cutting off his air.

In his head he began to count, Lancelot's steel grey eyes widened in near immediate terror.

Ten seconds.

When Lancelot seemed to realise what Gawain was doing he clawed at Gawain's arm hard enough to draw blood, his back arched and his hips bucked as he writhed and raged against Gawain's hold.

Thirty seconds.

"Open your Gods-damned mouth!" Gawain yelled, but if Lancelot could have responded he was long past hearing him, completely lost to blind panic, thrashing violently. Leaning on him with his elbow, Gawain tried to force his mouth open, Lancelot bared his bloodied teeth at him, refusing to give in, fighting like his very life depended on it.

One minute.

Lancelot's struggles were growing weaker. Gawain's arm ached fiercely and sweat dripped down his brow.

Gawain continued to count, preparing to let go, those claws in his forearm barely soft touches now, Lancelot's eyes started to flutter shut...

...and at the last moment Lancelot gasped a breath.

Gawain immediately rammed the wineskin between Lancelot's bloody teeth, releasing his nose and gripping his head still. Lancelot made no move to fight him, exhausted.

"That's it, good."

Gawain saw the immediate flash of defiance in Lancelot's eyes even as he tried to soothe him. Thinking quickly, he held his mouth shut even before Lancelot had chance to spit out the Poppy milk. The murderous glare he got in response told Gawain well enough he'd been correct in the assumption he'd try.

Gawain released him the moment Lancelot swallowed, staggering back from on top of him. The entire interaction had knocked him suddenly sick, he swallowed back bile, dragging in a breath, closing his eyes against the nausea.

Lancelot didn't waste a second. Gawain heard him move immediately, his eyes flew open to see the Ashman leaned up, teeth gritted in pain, making as if to flee--

"For fuck's sake Lancelot, Don't!"

Gawain wasn't expecting Lancelot to actually listen, yet he'd halted all the same; collapsing back down to the ground and clutching at his injured side with an agonised groan in his throat like he was only just holding back a scream.

Gawain raked a hand through his hair without even thinking of the blood it was coated with. He watched and waited now for the drug to take affect- he knew it wouldn't take long, and sure enough, within a minute Lancelot's panting had slowed. Within five, Gawain watched the pain as it slipped from his angular face, his body beginning to relax. Within ten, and he'd slumped unconscious entirely.

Gawain watched the look of desperate relief that flooded Lancelot's eyes before he closed them.

"Finally." Gawain breathed.

I like how this one paralls yesterdays prompt of Gawain helping Lancelot tend to injuries- these snippets both written from very different stages in their relationship though! It wasn't actually done intentionally, but it works better than I hoped it would.

This is one of only two prompts that I just couldn't get under the 800 mark no matter how hard I tried. It was originally written for Day 11 but I needed way more time to edit it as it was like. 1000 words, whoops... So I wrote something else for that day and saved it until I had whittled it down some and could vaguely get away with pairing it with today's "Delirium" prompt...

As always thanks for reading, onto the next!

[riseandfallofsecunit]

“Ratthi, I really need you to get this shrapnel out of my knee joint.”

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2025. Day 3. Pinned Down.

Oc Saunix (He/they)

[serickswrites]

Pinned

Warnings: pursuit, kidnapping, threat of torture, physical violence

Whumpee ran as fast as they could. They had to get away. If they didn't, Whumper would do terrible things to them. They had to get away from Whumper.

"Whumpee," Whumper's singsong voice came from closer than Whumpee would have liked, "give it up. I'm going to get you."

Whumpee didn't respond. They just ran faster. They had to get away.

"We're going to have so much fun, Whumpee. I'm going to get you." Whumper's voice was even closer. Whumpee couldn't chance to look behind because they would lose what lead they had on Whumper.

But it didn't matter. "Got you!" Whumper's voice sang out as they tackled Whumpee. They rode Whumpee's body to the ground, using their knee to keep Whumpee pinned down.

"PLEASE!" Whumpee shouted as they struggled beneath Whumper. They couldn't get up. They couldn't move.

Whumper smiled down at Whumpee. "We are going to have such fun back at my house, Whumpee. I can't wait to play with you."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[disappearinginq]

I'm calling this Febuwhump Day 3 prompt fulfillment (read: I need validation) because it was, conveniently, written yesterday. Prompt: Pinned Down.

It's long, so it's going underneath the cut:

“What is that?” River pushed himself further away from the man, eyeing the hypodermic in Frank’s hand, but there was nowhere to go. Not with his hands cuffed behind him, looped around the headboard of the bed frame, or his feet bound together with thick rounds of duct tape.

Frank sat down on the frame next to him, almost gentle in his movements, his face solemn and somewhat wistful, and he reached a hand over to pat River’s thigh, and for a disturbing moment, Frank seemed almost human.

Except for the part where he still had a needle in his hand, staring at it in a way that made River’s heart rate spike, the sudden wave of nausea threatening making him swallow convulsively.

When he was first dropped at his granddad’s house, Rose had a dog, Errol, an ancient terrier mix who much preferred a childless household, his quiet days filled with napping in the sun on his favorite spot on the carpet or making the rounds through Rose’s gardens - more out of habit than chasing vermin. But River had never been allowed a pet before. Isobel hardly wanted him around, never mind an extra mouth that couldn’t be left alone to figure out a cereal box while she was gone for hours or days at a time. He adored the cranky animal, enduring several nips to fingers to be able to stroke the wiry hair, even when prudence said he should leave Errol well enough alone. He liked to think he eventually appealed to Errol’s better half by sneaking him scraps from the table despite multiple warnings from his grandparents, and eventually, he and the dog were rarely apart. It wasn’t like Rose or David knew anyone with young children, or perhaps they did, and didn’t want to explain how River came to be dumped in the garden like a stray animal, so Errol was the only one around for River to play with. Even if that play was mostly reading in the garden under the shade of the trees while Errol stretched out beside him on his back, feet in the air, snoring loud enough to scare away birds.

But Errol was already old by the time River showed up. They had exactly one summer and three months together until two days before Christmas, Rose called the vet because Errol couldn’t stand anymore, and would only lay on his pillow near the fire, shaking and whining from pain.

Rose stayed with Errol while David ushered River upstairs, perhaps more to do with giving Rose a chance to say goodbye to her companion of 16 years, than sparing River the harsh realities of death and dying.

The last thing River saw before his granddad gently pushed him out of view of the parlor was the vet holding up a hypodermic that looks suspiciously like the one in Frank’s, and his expression was disturbingly similar to David’s when he’d sat with River on his bed, explaining as best he could that what they were doing for Errol was for the best, a kindness and a mercy borne from love for the old dog. He’d patted River’s leg ruefully, and sat with him in silence while River cried for the only friend he had.

River did not like the parallels.

“You are making this very difficult, son,” Frank sighed. “Pups are easier to train - that’s why you get them when they’re young. Once they’re eight months, a year - you have to break them down, start from scratch. Get rid of all the bad habits they’ve picked up before they came to you.”

River didn’t think it wise to point out what a load of shit that was, and more importantly, he was not a dog he was a person, not when Frank was still staring at the needle in his hand like maybe, maybe he wouldn’t have to use it.

“I should’ve come for you earlier. I see that now. If I’d known Isobel was going to dump you anyways, I would’ve just picked you up from your grandfather’s before he could really get his hooks into you. You and I - we could’ve made a real difference. I’ve been unreasonable, expecting too much of you too soon. I see that now. I’m not too big a man to admit my mistakes. But I am willing to try and correct them. You have potential. So much potential. But you’ve too many bad habits getting in your way. Habits that need to be broken.”

River twisted his hands against the cuffs, feeling the scabbed over skin break and bleed anew as he quietly tried to pull the unyielding metal over bone and tendon.

Frank sniffed, and clapped a hand on River’s knee, at first like someone might clap someone on the back in congratulations, but then his grip tightened, fingers digging painfully into already bruised skin in warning that River had better stop fidgeting while Frank was talking to him, or this almost civil conversation was going to get much worse, very quickly.

“But what defines a man, son, is how he learns from his mistakes. How he takes his weaknesses and makes them his strengths. Understand?”

River shook his head. “You don’t have to do this.”

“No, I do. I do, son. Because you’ve made me,” Frank said, turning to face River, offering a small smile that held no warmth. “Don’t worry. It’ll just put you to sleep.”

That was what the vet told Errol.

“You don’t have to do this, Frank - you don’t…” River shoved himself as far back as he could manage, but it was useless. He could go nowhere.

Frank’s hand came up, vicious and quick and slammed River’s head back into the wall before shoving him violently against the bedsprings, Frank’s meaty hand pressing down on the side of River’s face with such brutal force River could feel the metal biting in his other cheek even as his vision reeled from the blow.

“I don’t want to go to sleep!” It was embarrassing, to have to beg, to be a fully grown man with MI5 training, pinned down like some kind of animal, but River didn’t care. He could feel his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t budge, not with Frank’s weight pressing down on him, the awkward angle he forced River’s neck into feeling like at any moment, it would snap. “Don’t do this, Frank - sir - Dad,” he said the word in desperation, without thought, grasping at straws for anything that would keep his own father from putting him down like a misbehaving pet.

The needle sunk into his neck, and River closed his eyes, maybe in denial but mostly so that Frank couldn’t see the tears as whatever was in the hypodermic was injected, freezing cold but somehow burning all the way, and River knew beyond the shadow of a doubt, he wasn’t getting out of this.

Patrice stood in the corner, eyes cast down, arms folded across his chest, as unmoving as a statue, his warning that River had no idea what Frank was capable of echoing in his head.

River expected Frank to leave once he’d injected the drug, but he didn’t, and that was worse. He didn’t let up his bruising grip until River felt his muscles start to relax, and his vision swam dangerously. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing became shallow, his stomach rolling violently. When Frank finally lifted his hand, River tried to turn his head, but he couldn’t move, even as the metal dug painfully into his cheek and he could feel blood starting to well in the shallow cuts.

Frank’s hand came down, and River couldn’t flinch away from the expected slap, but instead, Frank’s hand brushed his hair away from his face, running a calloused thumb across River’s dampened cheek as River fought against the encroaching darkness, terrified that if he closed his eyes, he would never open them again.

He was going to die here.

“There’s a good boy,” Frank soothed, shushing him gently. “Good boy.”

River had never considered how much he hated that phrase. Hated it to his very bones, and felt a surge of rage so strong it momentarily beat back the black tide of unconsciousness that was dragging him down, and stupidly, foolishly, thought of the Slow Horses, and a voice that sounded suspiciously like Lamb warned him not to comply in advance.

It took every ounce of will that remained for him to force out the words, “They’ll find me.”

“He will look for you,” Frank agreed, his voice echoing distantly, “endlessly. But he’ll never find you. You’ll just be another ghost to haunt him.”

And River knew no more.

[macknus]

Febuwhump: Day Three

Prompt: Pinned Down

Febuwhump Masterpost

Whumpee ran. Sprinted through Whumper’s camp, feeling the cold, packed damp earth slapping beneath his feet was disgustingly wonderful. A feeling he didn’t think he’d ever miss, no… but here he was, breathless from the run, already exhausted from weeks of being captured and subdued, beaten and grounded and starved. His lungs screamed at him to stop, his muscles clenching as if he was ten sets into a workout, but Whumpee continued running.

A small crazed smile on his lips as he felt the wind on his face, rushing through his damp hair that Whumper kept tied back. The first thing Whumpee did when he got free was take that blasted bobbin from his hair and let his shoulder length raven birds nest free. He felt… oh gods, he felt alive.

He cleared the camp paths, rushing out of the alleyways packed with tents like buildings on either side and when he emerged onto the field that their camp was on he finally— after weeks that felt like years, stretched his white, feathered wings and continued to run.

Damn the ache in his back from spreading them.

Damn the stiffness of his limbs as he stretched them out to their full wingspan. He felt whole again now that they were no longer chained to his back at awkward angles.

He swallowed the cheers, the hollers, the whoops that threatened to spill out of his mouth from the relief, but he wasn’t out for the woods yet. He still had to clear Whumper’s camp before he risked making any more noise than is necessary.

He beat his wings after the stiffness faded to mere pins and needles. He was skinner than before, even if they were a little out of practice, they would hold him in the skies until he was free. They had never failed him before. And with the cool night air on his cheeks, the sable night sky calling to him, the stars winking, beckoning him to the heavens, Whumpee beat his wings, once, twice, then he was up.

He faltered a bit as he tried to steady himself in the air, a single, breath denying moment of a stumble as he fell through the air. But his wings caught and he wasn’t out for flying— he was—

He was FLYING!

He didn’t care as hot tears rolled down his cheeks, whipped away by the wind as he soared high above his prison, Whumper’s vile camp.

He was— he was actually going to be free…

And then he flew straight into a wall. Whumpee blinked, stunned as his body slammed against it— but it was just open air. Open sky.

“No,” he muttered, slamming his hand against it and a ripple whirled against the invisible barrier. The same barriers that Whumper’s sadistic Right Hand could weave. “No! No, NO!”

He pushed and clawed against the barrier and glanced up. He tried to fly above its edge, the impenetrable wall meeting a ceiling and he cursed.

“No! No! No! Come on,” he cried, pushing with all his strength against the barrier. There had to be a weak spot. There had to be.

“Do you know what the real kicker is?” A cold voice asked from below. Whumpee froze physically, while his insides raged against a storm. His heartbeat hammered against his chest, sweat forming on his brow, his chest, his back from the exertion. Whumpee trembled as he tilted his head down to see Whumper directly below him. Whumper met Whumpee’s gaze with a cruel smile as he stepped past the barrier that kept Whumpee trapped within the confines of the camp. “It only works on you, darling. It helps to keep your pesky friends out, and your defiant, ungrateful self in. Exactly how I want you.”

Whumpee snarled. “I’m not coming down. I’m not letting you chain me up again.”

Whumper stepped back into the barrier, all humour gone from his sharp, angular face, but his eyes glinted with a dark promise. “Good thing I don’t need your permission then, isn’t it?”

With a click of his fingers a spear appeared in his hand and Whumpee paled. Whumper tossed the spear in his hand, getting the weight of it in his fingers as he assessed Whumpee above.

“You can either come down here, now, or I’ll bring you down, boy.”

Whumpee glanced around the camp, but there was nobody else out of bed. Only Whumper. He could fly to the opposite end, avoid his attacks and then what? He couldn’t leave! Spelled to remain—

Before Whumpee could finish the thought he felt the whistle of the spear through the air and he rolled, barely dodging the blow in time. The spear ran straight through the barrier like a mocking taunt, but Whumpee couldn’t focus on that as Whumper summoned another spear into his hand.

“This one won’t miss. One last chance, Whumpee,” Whumper sang. His voice like gravel, echoing shards of ice through Whumpee’s ears and sending shivers down his spine. Whumpee knew how good Whumper’s aim was, and he didn’t want his wings to be speared which is exactly what Whumper would do.

Whumpee hung his head, wings beating against the air to keep him up. “Okay,” he said, hands balling into fists at his sides. “Okay,” he said again and let the air catch his wings as he descended.

It was pathetic really. Whumpee had a chance at freedom, at escape, and all it took for his defiance to smoulder was Whumper. Not an army. Not an onslaught of Whumper’s bloodthirsty soldiers, just… just him. With a spear.

Whumpee’s feet had barely touched the ground before Whumper tackled him to the ground. Whumpee’s head hit off the barrier with an oomph as his shoulders took the brunt of the blow to the cold, hard earth below.

Whumper straddled Whumpee’s waist, a cold smile on his thin lips. “You know how much I love your wings, Whumpee,” Whumper cooed, running his fingers over the feathers that made Whumpee squirm. He didn’t want the sensitive spots to be touched, especially by Whumper. That was something that he and his mate would share if he— if he ever got out of here.

But Whumper knew that. Knew how intimate a gesture touching Whumpee’s wings was and did it anyway.

“Which is why I’m so proud you didn’t make me put a hole through them,” he continued, touching an especially sensitive spot that made Whumpee whimper under Whumper. “But you still need to be punished. Right Hand suggested I clip your wings.”

Whumpee’s eyes went wide through his terror, shaking his head as Whumper smiled down his horrible smile at Whumpee. “Don’t worry, darling, I told her I won’t do that. I want you to still be able to fly… but your punishment remains.”

Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s wrist and yanked his hand down until it was parallel to the ground. Whumpee struggled, trying to pull against Whumper’s strength, but his grip was strong, sure. Fed. Whumper wasn’t starved like Whumpee. Whumpee’s resistance was futile and they both knew it.

“Now, since your hands are the actual offenders, getting you out of your chains, I think this will be a fitting punishment.”

Whumper didn’t wait a beat before slamming the spear through Whumpee’s palm and burying it into the ground below. Whumpee screamed and thrashed under Whumper, begging, pleading for him to take it out, take it out, I’m sorry.

Whumper clicked his fingers and another spear appeared. Whumpee kicked and tried to worm his way out from under Whumper but every small movement aggravated his impaled hand and he cried out.

“You got cooped up, little bird, it’s okay,” Whumper cooed. “You wanted to be outside, you should’ve just asked, boy.”

Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s free hand. “No! No! Please, Whumper! Please!”

“See? With those manners, I’d give you anything, darling.”

Then he impaled Whumpee’s other palm into the ground, effectively pinning him to ground, arms stretched out wide to his sides. Whumpee screamed as fire raced through his blood, no longer struggling but every breath, every tremor threatened to move his limbs and he wanted to be sick. The stench of dirt and cold and metal from his blood filled his senses which roared like a beast inside him.

Whumper’s smile dropped from his face as he stared down at Whumpee. He stroked a hand down Whumpee’s wing and Whumpee couldn’t stop the knee jerk reaction that tore against his hand and he screamed again.

“Now boy, you’re outside. Just as you wanted. A nice night below the stars might do you some good.”

Whumpee trembled as Whumper’s heat pulled away from him as the bastard stood. His mind only processing Whumper’s words after he walked towards the streets line with tents.

“Wait! You- you can’t leave me here!” Whumpee yelled after him, panic seizing his throat. “Whumper!”

Whumper didn’t answer, just kept walking further and further away. “Whumper! WHUMPER!”

“WHUMPER!”

There was no response. Whumpee stared up at the stars winking down at him, beckoning him to the sky and he sobbed.

[blackfoy]

Baby Viktor

Due to a magical mishap in the lab Viktor ends up de-aged. Little Viktor comes to himself in a place he doesn't recognize, with no clothes and no cane. He is very obviously in Piltover, and there is a very large man calling his name and asking him if he's ok and what he remembers. The poor boy is very frightened, and it doesn't help that they are not speaking in his first language, so he is still having some trouble with words at this age. Jayce, of course, helps the little one up and puts his own shirt on him, which hangs down like a dress, but little Viktor is even more terrified because of the strength in Jayce's arms and the fact that his hand practically covers his entire torso.

Of course, the poor child tries his best to put together how he got here. He understands that he is missing memories, but he doesn't know he's been de-aged, so he is trying to figure out how a crippled child from the undercity ended up in the rich part of Piltover. The feeling of being out of place gets even worse when he finds out that Jayce is a councilor and when he meets Mel, who looks extremely extravagant and is also a councilor. Any and all ideas he can come up with are, of course, bad ones, but there is little good he can figure from his situation. He had never thought of himself as one of the ones to sell their body for food and shelter, much less to big, strong, rich pilties, but he assumes his past self must have had a reason and tries to be good and not make himself sick with his own thoughts.

[bitchliteraria1906]

I don't know if this is a hot take or not, because I haven't interacted with the Omori fandom enough, but I don’t think Kel would forgive Sunny and Basil that easily. I'm not even sure if he'd be the first one to forgive them.

The way I see Kel, he's a very loyal, community-oriented person. He's extroverted, comes from the biggest (and apparently closest) family in the main cast, was the one who made Sunny go out again, and is just overall the glue that holds everyone together and someone who is used to community and friendship and needs these things to feel good.

Mari's death literally took that from him in multiple ways. One friend is dead, the remaining friend group fell apart due to everyone coping so differently, Hero isolated himself and stopped talking to him in the process.

He was the first one to have a birthday after the event, and he spent that birthday completely alone.

I just don't see him taking the revelation that all of this happened because of Sunny and Basil lightly.

There's also the fact that Kel knows how it feels like to have an older sibling who you don't always see eye to eye with, but still love a lot. He has that in Hero just like Sunny did with Mari. This could make him sympathetic towards Sunny and his guilt and grief, but it could also make him more horrified with the whole situation:

"Basil suggested hanging her? And you were okay with it?!"

I can definitely see him trying to face the whole thing with a "What would I do if that was me?" mentality, and coming to the conclusion that Sunny is too cold, because if he was in Sunny's shoes, if he had accidentaly killed Hero, he would never feel okay with lying about it the same way for years.

Ironically, this thought process could also make him more sympathetic towards Basil. Kel is, again, very relationship and community oriented, so maybe he could come to the conclusion that in Basil's shoes, he would also have done anything to protect a friend. He'd still be angry at the lie, though.

Idk, just a thought.

[forged-in-kaoss]

The arrows represent the days I spent alone since the night of that storm. The number of times I mourned for my beloved friends that I suddenly lost. Now do you understand how I feel?

[lacquerheadd]

Next time you're bleedin' to death, just think: Dr. Zed!

[ghostf1ux]

The Demon's Sword: A New Life (A New Death)

Day 3: Pinned Down

Word Count: 5.2k

TW/CWs: Living Weapon things (manipulation, conditioning, etc etc), dehumanization, usage of it/its for pronouns (for dehumanizing reasons)

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 ->

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

Before, there was quiet, comforting darkness. The kind that wrapped you up, swaddled you like a baby and made you feel like you were floating in eternal bliss.

It was nice.

It was peace.

It was rest.

And then… it faded away.

Something happened. It's a blur, lost to a fractured mind's memory.

But then there's green.

Acidic, toxic, evil, disgusting green.

Green like maniacal, cackling laughter reverberating through a broken bird's skull.

Green like swishing robes and hushed whispers and fear and a twisted perversion of life.

Green like drowning, burning liquid filling his lungs, filling his veins and ripping him apart and stitching him back together and everything is pain and everything is hurt and everything is green green green–

The boy– not a boy anymore, not with how the green, the Pit has rewritten him– screams a guttural, agonized scream as he claws himself to the surface and–

And why does that feel so familiar? Choking and drowning and burning and stabbing and hurting and dad it hurts so much, please help me, please– 

Hands burning against his skin like acid rip him out of the toxic water, ignoring his thrashing in favor of following orders. Orders he can't hear, not over the blood rushing in his ears, not over his gagging as he throws up that glowing green nectar of hatred and carnage, not over his awkward scrambling for anything of use as he finds his own body to be unfamiliar and foreign to him.

The hands move him around, pushing and pulling and shoving and hitting and hurting. His nerves are alight, the slightest touch feeling like an open flame against his skin. He doesn't know how many there are– too many– that shove his shoulders to the ground and drive a knee into his back, pinning his legs so he can't kick them off while a fistful of his hair is yanked back. More force his mouth open and shove something inside, something harsh and metallic that fits almost perfectly to the backs of his teeth and doesn't quite let him bite down all the way, but close. Enough that he can close his lips and nothing more. Something else, attached to that, pushes down on his tongue, keeping it flat and pinned to the floor of his mouth. Useless.

He rips his head out of the grip holding him there, roaring at everything else that comes even close.

It doesn't deter them. They grab at him again, this time more forcefully, the metal pressing painful lines into the roof and floor of his mouth. Something hooks and slides and snaps into place over his mouth, and briefly, he panics, but it subsides when he finds himself still able to breathe, if with a little more difficulty than before. It's solid, and heavy, and digs into his skin under his jaw and across his nose and cheeks, but only just barely obscures his breathing. Not nearly enough to hinder him in any way, but when he tries to open his mouth he finds it’s plenty to keep him from doing that ever again.

Despite that, he fights. He snarls, he growls, he struggles. Even when his arms are pinned behind him with thick metal shackles, he tries to squirm his way out of the grip of the hands.

Eventually, it works. The hands– they let go, and he's blissfully aware of the respite it gives his skin, his nerves that feel like a naked live wire.

When they try to return, he lashes out on instinct, in desperation, to get them away from him again. Blinded by the green as he is, he's painfully aware of the warm wetness splashing over his hands and his arms and his face and his chest as he moves from one obstacle to another– just trying to get away, to get safe, to get home– 

When nothing reaches out to touch him he pauses, breaths heaving and irregular and stuttering and raspy. Something within him settles, for now, at least. The green bleeds away and– 

His eyes widen at the scene around him. Blood splatters coat the stalagmites and pool under the twelve bodies surrounding him. All the forms are unmoving, crimson coating every surface in sight. The only other color is that wretched green, shining brightly, acidically, despite the gore piled around him like a fucked up ritual circle.

He falls to his knees, uncaring of the way the blood splashes up onto his bare legs and the rough stone digs into his knees. Something stirs and twists within him. It's not guilt. He doesn't feel guilty. It was self defense.

It's… he doesn't want to say it's satisfaction. It's not satisfaction. This– he isn't satisfied by this. He doesn't take any pleasure in this. The blood, the gore, the senseless violence of it all, the way it makes his blood burn hotter, brighter, excitement and adrenaline coursing through his veins as the green takes and takes and takes– 

“Alzali,” a man's voice– smooth and oily, like a snake– barks from behind him. He whips his head around, staring up at the man who called him by that name– it's wrong, he knows it's wrong, but he doesn't know what's right– with narrowed eyes and a growl building in his chest. The woman beside him– she's younger, but they look similar (and very familiar)– tuts, manicured nails hooking into the underside of the muzzle and pulling up. The metal hooked to the inside of his mouth digs into the back of his teeth and forces him to follow the motion. He is left teetering dangerously on his knees with his hands useless behind his back, the smallest misplacement of weight ready to send him careening so only the metal digging into his teeth holds him up. She produces a chain– thinner than a traditional one, but no less strong– that gets hooked into a small gap across the front crease of the muzzle.

“As I said. The perfect candidate to become the Sword of the Al Ghuls,” the woman murmurs, her voice thick and sweet as honey, but with a bitter, deadly undercurrent that sets his instincts on edge. Her hand that had hooked under the muzzle before now rests heavily in his hair, idly combing through it. He growls, lurching away, but she just pulls the chain attached to the muzzle taut and the metal in his mouth follows the chain, dragging him back to her side so she can rest her hand in his hair a little more firmly this time. “Some training will be required, but that was predicted.”

“See to it that it happens swiftly,” the older man replies, glaring through bright green eyes at him. He levels the man with his own heated glare, not backing down until there's the cold press of razor-sharp metal against his throat. “You would do well to respect your betters. Always remember that you exist at my sufferance. You are a weapon, a Sword, who answers to the Demons alone and will serve only to be used by the Demons alone. You exist to kill, and nothing more.”

When he responds with nothing more than his defiant, continued glare, the woman tugs sharply on the chain with another tut of disappointment. “He shall spend his time in the Cage for the foreseeable future.”

“Begin its training following that. I expect results by the year's end,” the man hisses, sheathing his katana and turning with only the whisper-quiet swish of his cape signaling his departure.

The woman watches as he leaves, then tugs sharply on the chain again. “Alzali–” she snaps, only waiting a mere few moments for him to begrudgingly scramble to his feet before he's tugged along by the muzzle.

She keeps the ‘leash’ short as he's led through the compound. Memories flitter about in the dark haze that is his mind, and somewhere along the way, whether he remembers it or simply puts the context clues together, or some combination of the two, he deduces that this is the League of Assassins. Or Shadows, depending on who you ask. The man from before was Ra's Al Ghul, the leader of the League. The woman currently leading him to who fucking knows where? Talia Al Ghul, Ra's’ daughter. Both master assassins, incredibly dangerous, and people he really does not want to be in this position with.

Alas, it seems that even with his new lease on life he was still dealt a shit hand. 

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

Through the winding, nearly identical passageways of the Nanda Parbat, it's not long before he's all sorts of turned around and confused. Not that he can turn his head to take in any potential details, with the chain keeping his head pointed forward.

Talia stops before a large, plain door, at least compared to all the others. When she leads him inside, he's surprised to see it open into a wider arena. Not the actual floor of the arena, but instead to the outer stands of it. It's not big, could maybe hold between a hundred and two hundred people in the stands. Despite the size, it's not nearly full.

Figures clad in dark robes line the stands, heads snapping to stare at him. Calculating, assessing, predatory eyes, from every angle, from every side. He can feel them tracing over his every step and movement, noting every imperfection, cataloging every weakness.

He has a lot of those. He knows. Because with every step, he nearly stumbles. His weight is all off. His balance, as a result, is fucked. He can't even imagine what it might look like, might feel like, to go through any more complicated motions that used to be muscle memory, because his skin itches and pulls and it's not right, it's not fucking right.

Talia stops him on the edge of the sunken arena, unclipping the chain off the muzzle and letting the shackles clatter to the dusty ground behind him.

He only gets a glimpse of everything around him before Talia shoves him over the ledge and he falls the ten or so feet down into the sand-floored arena.

He manages to catch himself before he completely crashes into the sand, and it's a good fucking thing too because not even two seconds later there's someone on top of him with something bright and sharp and dangerous and the green flares up in response. He's suddenly aware of everything and nothing– the gloved hands grabbing him, punching him, beating him, his desperate and clumsy struggle to fight back, the inferno rushing through his veins that tints everything that horrible, awful green, making the roar of blood in his ears sound like that evil, haunting cackling– but not the silence of the crowd, not the scuffling of feet against the sand, not his own gasps of pain when the dagger or sword or whatever rips into his body ruthlessly, mercilessly. If he thought his body was strung like a fucking live wire before it's nothing compared to now, and he screams, he knows he screams, but he doesn't hear it, not over the cackling, not over the feeling of his flesh fucking melting– or at least what feels like it– and certainly not over that shrill, ear-piercing whistle that manages to break through everything else. It's sharp as the katana that nearly sliced open his throat earlier, an unspoken command he doesn't know the meaning of, can't quite place the intent.

He throws the body off him, snarling and using the wall to help him find his balance.

That whistle fucking burrows into his brain, ringing in his ears.

The green flares from an inferno to an erupting volcano, and everything else…

Disappears.

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

Everything becomes a haze of green.

His life becomes a cycle of pain, a desperate struggle to fight off every attacker that comes for him, then choking (usually, sometimes it's just his restructured bones cracking and grinding together until unconsciousness takes him if he’s not choking on his own blood from his throat being slit), then drowning, then everything hurting way too fucking much, and then it repeats.

Over.

And over.

And over.

And over.

Until he doesn't know how many times it's been that he's died and been forcefully sewn back together with fiery green threads.

Until he doesn't know how long it's been since the first time he learned to breathe again, and that godawful muzzle was fitted onto him, and he was called “Alzali” for the first time.

Until the last time he drank anything other than the venomous green he drowned in and the blood he after choked on is nothing but a distant memory.

Until he doesn't even remember what anything tasted like in his mouth besides the metal hooked behind his teeth to keep the muzzle in place, and the grains of sand that made it in through the little gaps.

Until rest and respite were just two distant words with no meaning, no hope to them, because even in unconsciousness he never got the rest, and in death he would always be ripped from it back into the cold.

He’s learning to expect it.

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

Somewhere along the way, he stopped needing to be thrown in the Pit as often as he used to.

And when that happened, somehow it all got worse.

When he used to be brought to the Cage to be pitted against the League's members, he was now brought there for formal training to refine his skills. Of course, that was just a glorified way to say he was still being beaten within an inch of his life, just, now he couldn't kill the person doing it to him.

Not for lack of trying.

With the beginning of every match, he would start on the defensive. Talia would watch on impassively until he was unable to get up, and throw him into the little two-by-four foot cell she liked to shove him in to recuperate. When the injuries were bad enough, he was tossed right back in the Pit, then the cell. When they weren't, the residual healing effects would take care of it in the three or so days at a time he'd spend curled up in the silent, suffocating darkness.

After long enough of only minimal improvement, it became clear that even with them forcing him to fight, he would have no motivation if all he knew was pain and suffering.

So one day, after god knows how long of him being locked up in that cramped, suffocating cell, Talia came to let him out. Instead of leading him back to the Cage, however, she led him to another cell that was devoid of anything resembling a room besides the fact that it was big enough to let him spread out at least twice over, and contained a small mat in the corner. He was tossed in, but that didn’t stop his exhausted gaze from turning confused and suspicious at the sight of the space, the small bottle of water, and small thermos of… something, on the ground.

“Drink. You will have six hours here. When your skills improve, you will be brought back here instead of the cell.” Talia tugs him closer before fiddling with something on the front of the muzzle, and, amazingly, takes it off. The metal bit remains in his mouth, but just the feeling of the air on the lower half of his face is more of a balm then he ever would’ve thought it would be. “You will be rewarded for your learning and cooperation, and punished for your continued resistance. There is always more that can be done. Remember that.”

With that, she takes the muzzle and leaves, locking the cell door behind her.

He wastes no time following the direction, stretching himself out and finally getting some actual food and water in his system, enjoying the six hours of peace he’s been given.

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

After that first reward, it became very apparent to him that he didn’t actually have a choice in improving.

Because every time he even seemingly disobeyed, every time he hesitated to snap to attention at Talia’s sharp command from the stands of the Cage, or when he glared at her for calling him to her side, there was a punishment. Not right away, of course, or at least, not the big ones. A short reprimand, a single tug to the muzzle or a knee to the gut was the immediate punishment. The big punishment was at the end of the day, when the tally was counted.

Those punishments were worse than the beatings he’d receive in training. They usually consisted of lashes, where he would be forced to his knees with his wrists chained to a post in front of him. Talia wouldn’t do the punishments herself, just watch impassively off to the side. Sometimes she just stood there with crossed arms, sometimes she would sip a cup of tea, sometimes she would simply be doing paperwork or making calls for whatever work she did for the League.

Suffice to say, he started learning.

But the muzzle never came off again, only replaced by a new one with space between the metal for a straw to drink the water and broth provided to him.

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

The first time, he was desperate. It was after a punishment, a whipping of thirty lashes. He was already unchained from the post, crumpled in a heap on the rough ground. Blood leaked from the wounds, old and new, on his back. His body was a mess of blood, sweat, searing pain, and barely held in tears. Talia stopped in front of him, arms crossed and looking down at him.

“Alzali,” she ordered tersely, intense, emerald-green gaze trained on his form. The order is the final test for the day. After every punishment, she’d call him to her side with that name, that command. If he failed to heed it, another five lashes were administered and his wounds were dressed, but only with the bare minimum effort and materials, and then he was thrown back in that cramped cell that makes him nearly freeze up with the thought of being shoved in there again.

He breathes out a slow, measured breath, limbs shaking as he tentatively unfolds himself and forces his aching, burning muscles into some mockery of a kneeling position he’s seen the other assassins doing. His form is not nearly as rigid as it should be, he’s half curled over and using his hands to support himself from falling over, but his head is bowed and no reprimand comes.

He holds himself tense and still as he can be as shifting weight steps lightly out of the room, until it’s just him and Talia. Him, kneeled and bowed in a pool of his own blood that still drips off his back. Talia, who watches him with the smallest, triumphant smile. It’s barely anything, only people who really know her would even be able to see it.

He certainly doesn’t.

“Come, Alzali,” Talia orders, almost… softly. It’s not actually soft, but it’s as close to it as he’s heard from her in the months of him being here.

It’s slow, and agonizing, but he manages to push himself to his feet before her. He towers over her, despite his hunched form and trembling body. Despite this he does it without a sound, long since having any sort of sound-making beat out of him, whether it be in pain, anger, or god forbid, defiance.

Talia turns with an approving nod, letting the chain hang limply between them as she leads him back into the Nanda Parbat’s corridors. It acts more as a guide and a threat these days than a leash. A constant reminder that he can’t run, even if no one is actively pulling on it, tugging him forward with it. 

That night (he presumes) he’s brought to the more spacious cell he was brought to for that first reward. There’s no water and no food, but there’s enough space for him to stretch himself out and that’s good enough, in his book. 

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

The second memorable time was during a regular morning of Talia coming to retrieve him for training. He had been allowed to stay in the bigger room that night, had even been allowed some water and proper dressing of his wounds for snapping to attention any time Talia called for him. He still got a punishment for all his other mistakes, but it was only twelve lashes and the treatment afterwards made up for it. He was improving, according to Talia.

She unlocked the cell door and stepped in, where he was already waiting on his knees with his head bowed and hands folded in his lap. She hums approvingly, as she always does whenever she finds him like this. It makes him relax, just a touch, to know she’s happy with him.

She’s just tipped his chin up to clip the chain onto the muzzle when a soft ringing interrupts the near silence. Talia straightens, pulling her phone from her pocket. She glances between the device and him, his gaze impassive as he waits.

“Stay here,” Talia mutters, lifting the phone to her ear and taking the chain with her as she leaves.

He watches her leave, lowering his head to look straight ahead rather than up. Her voice echoes from the hallway outside his room, slowly becoming quieter, as if she’s walking further away. His gaze lingers on the cell door, left wide open. His fingers twitch as he stares at it.

This is the first time he’s been left alone with an open door. 

A means of escape.

No one in sight, or even nearby, if he had to bet. No one came down here very often, other than Talia and himself.

He could… he could run.

He could escape.

He could try.

Would he succeed?

He probably wouldn’t succeed.

A compound of assassins, one he doesn’t even know the layout of? Why is he even slightly entertaining that stupid idea?

Plus, when he would inevitably be caught, he would be put through so much worse than he goes through right now. It would be like the beginning, whenever that was. Worse.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

It feels like just a few days ago.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Talia told him to stay here.

If he stays here, he doesn’t have to go back to that cramped cell. He doesn’t have to be thrown back in the Pit.

So he stays.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there. By the way his knees and back begin to ache, he guesses at least an hour or two.

When he finally hears footsteps again, his body reflexively straightens and tenses. He watches the doorway with sharp eyes, narrowing them when he sees more than one shadow on the ground.

Talia rounds the corner, that pleased pull to the corner of her lips reassuring him, his gaze turning less intense in response. Following her is the flowing form of Ra’s Al Ghul, dark green cape swishing dramatically as he enters the small cell. His face remains impassive and calculating, even once his gaze lands on him, but he’s able to detect the brief sparkle of genuine surprise before it’s gone.

“As I said before,” Talia indicates matter-of-factly, stopping beside him in a scene that gives him deja vu, “he has improved immensely. It is only a matter of time before he is ready.”

Ra’s hums flatly. “And when shall that be, daughter? I grow weary of its reluctant progress.”

“Soon,” she assures him. “Since the first time, the time it takes for him to learn has shortened dramatically.”

“I wanted results by the year’s end,” Ra’s hisses, and he tenses in response, more of a reflex than anything else. 

Talia motions for him to stay, before stepping forward. “It has not yet reached the end of the year, and these are results. This is not an endeavor that can be completed effectively within a single year, father.”

“Fine. Then we shall test its combat prowess,” Ra’s huffs, turning his attention back to him before barking a sharp “Alzali!”

He goes to move before glancing at Talia, who gives him a minute nod. With the affirmation of Ra’s being someone to obey, he stands, averting his eyes down in an effort to avoid Ra’s’ gaze with the hope he’ll take it as a show of respect and submission.

Ra’s just turns and walks out of the room, him falling just two steps behind the father and daughter. Close enough to shadow them, far enough that they retain their space and can move freely as if he isn’t even there.

They bring him back to the Cage, where the stands are once more lined with assassins eager to fight in the ring. Having been through this plenty of times, he waits for Talia to direct him to the edge of the wall before hopping down. Her and Ra’s take their seats, and Ra’s motions for them to begin.

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

The third time, arguably the most important time, was during a training session.

He was just doing his normal sparring session with the assassin who was teaching him bladework. Katanas and daggers for the most part, but he was being trained to use almost any weapon containing a blade. It was going well. He learned every move the assassin had to teach him, and was holding his own in the sparring match.

That being said, when the assassin retreated once more after knocking him to the ground again, he was reminded of his inexperience despite the training having been happening for the past months.

He brandishes his knives– a kris and a karambit– dropping into a ready position across from the assassin, who’s leveling their katana at him steadily.

The assassin rushes at him, sweeping the long blade across the air at him. It’s easy to dodge– but the following strike twisted towards his abdomen isn’t.

Despite this he flips over it, movement flowing smoothly into a swipe at the assassin’s neck. They lean back just a hair’s breadth out of the way before the katana is coming up at him from below. He blocks with the kris– swings out a leg– wrenches the blade out of the assassin’s grip in the same movement–

A shrill, ear-piercing whistle splits the air. His eyes narrow on his opponent.

In the half second after his foot hits the ground he’s already pivoting into a bent knee. His kris dagger acts as a bladed shield against the kick aimed at his head while his karambit digs into the assassin’s thigh– then drags up up up– right through the assassin’s abdomen– through their ribs– their chest– up to their shoulder– before slashing a ravine all the way across their neck. Warm blood sprays across his face, drenching most of the front of his robes.

He stares wide eyed as the body crumples to a pile of blood and gore on the sandy ground. His hands shake, still gripped around the two knives, both slick with the assassin’s blood.

He didn’t want to kill the assassin.

He didn’t mean to kill the assassin.

“Good job,” Talia praises from behind him. He doesn’t turn to look at her, gaze trained on the dead body. “You listened well. A special reward is in order. We shall get you cleaned up, then you may enjoy your reward. Come, Alzali.”

There’s only a moment of his gaze lingering before he’s dutifully following Talia out of the Cage. He feels kind of… numb? Or maybe blank is the right word for the spread of emptiness that stems from his chest out to the tips of his limbs, head thick with a cavernous empty space where he thinks his thoughts should be. It’s not like he hasn’t killed before, but every time he has, it’s been out of desperation or when he wasn’t in control of himself because of the Pit. That was– that wasn’t either of those. He was laser focused. Nothing was different. So why…?

Talia leads him to a different room than his. It’s huge, at least compared to what he’s used to. Everything looks expensive as hell. There are two beds, which strikes him as odd, but he dismisses it when Talia directs him to the washroom, where he’s told to clean up. Usually she doesn’t particularly care how dirty he is after a training session, since he always gets washed up after his wounds have been treated (as long as he’s been good) so he doesn’t fully understand why she’d be telling him to do it now.

Regardless, he listens. He gets changed into different clothes than the ones he’s been wearing his whole time at the League. They feel like a higher quality, and are softer. Quieter when he moves. Brand new, and fitted perfectly to his bulky frame. They’re darker than the other ones, all blacks and greys with red accents. There’s a hood that shrouds most of his face in shadow, though he doesn’t flip it up right now. 

When he returns, Talia motions for him to sit on the floor behind where she stands, her back to him. He folds his legs underneath him, kneeling and waiting obediently.

“My father believes you would be best as an unthinking, unfeeling object to be ordered around at his discretion,” Talia muses, swaying slightly. “Despite this, I believe you to be your strongest when you care.”

He furrows his brow in confusion. Talia seems to sense it, despite not facing him.

“I do not believe, even with all we could do, that your emotions could be removed. It is your blessing and your curse. Therefore, you will utilize them.” She turns, but he hardly notices her because his gaze is locked on the toddler in her arms, looking down at him with narrowed eyes. They’re the same shade as Talia’s– that vibrant, soul-piercing emerald green– but their shape is different, akin to his father’s presumably, and so, so familiar. “Damian, this is your brother, Jason. Jason, you are the Sword of the Al Ghuls. You will answer to Damian, and you will protect him with your life and more. He is your priority in every situation, no matter what my father may say.”

He– Jason– Jason nods, watching the boy with wide eyes. She sets him down, and Damian approaches him, studying him intently. His gaze lingers on the muzzle with something like confusion, but he doesn’t comment, only turning back to his mother.

“I thought I was the only blood son,” Damian questions.

“You are, habibi. Jason was taken in by your father, but due to his mistakes, was lost to him. Now, he is here to serve us.”

“The Sword of the Al Ghuls,” Damian murmurs, turning back to address Jason. “And he is adequate in battle?”

“He would not be the Sword if he was not,” Talia responds easily. Damian nods.

“Fine, if we must have him.”

Jason watches him leave, then turns back to Talia, who watches him with a knowing gaze. They stay like that, before she nods.

“Come, Alzali. I have business to attend to. You will accompany me.”

He nods, standing and following silently behind her. Memories, hazy at best, swirl through his mind for the rest of the day while he stands by Talia, a silent shadow while she works. Nothing really sticks in his mind, but he knows one thing. One thing that sticks through it all.

The name ‘Jason’ sounds right.

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 5: Debris, Pinned down

Wind and Four <3 ...and some unplanned characters. This changed a bit from that one wip I posted!

Warnings: the title stuff, broken bones, and a teeny mention of blood.

Read it on ao3

————————————————————

“Anybody over here?!” Four shouted, squinting through the smoke and dust blowing through the air.

Nobody answered him, and Four kept walking through the huge piles of rubble, the tight knot of worry in his chest only growing.

The Links had been hunting down a group of monsters who’d reportedly been stealing and stockpiling bombs, for what, nobody knew. They’d traced them to an old patch of ruins, and engaged, taking out a large chunk of the group without much difficulty. But when the monsters realized they were rapidly being exterminated, they’d decided blowing them all up was the best way to stop them.

That had led to a mad dash to get out of the ruins as they’d exploded around them, but the Links had been separated while escaping, and hadn’t realized until the dust had settled.

They’d quickly split up to look for their missing members, and Four had been poking through these particular ruins for what felt like forever. His worry was growing with every minute that passed where he didn’t find anyone, and he looked nervously at a few larger piles of debris. He’d gone by several really large piles, so big that if anyone was under them he would have no idea they were there, and he’d debated trying to move them more then once.

But what good would it do? If anyone is under them, there’s no way they’d even be...

Four’s eyes suddenly caught on a distant scrap of color, and his heart jumped at the familiar shade of blue. He bolted to it, nearly tripping in the debris field between, and bent down to pick up the torn patch of cloth.

It smelled faintly of the ocean.

“Sailor?!” Four called, but heard no reply, and he continued to search around a particularly large pile of debris, listening intently for any sign of life.

He continued to call the sailor’s name, using both Wind and Link, but he had no luck until he turned a corner into a more closed-off area.

And saw a shock of blonde hair, coated in dust that shone in the sunlight.

“Wind,” Four breathed, and bolted to his side, trying not to panic at the huge pile of rocks the sailor was under. He reached down to put a hand on his only visible arm, and gave it a light shake. “Wind, can you hear me?”

A groan came from Wind, and his eyelids slowly flickered open, face twisted in pain. His expression was twisted in confusion as he looked around, and his one free hand clenched at the dirt as he obviously tried to move without thinking. Then his face went white as he bit back a cry, and Four felt his worry triple.

“Sailor, easy, stay still,” Four soothed, heart in his throat, and Wind looked blearily up at him.

“...Smithy?” the sailor whispered, letting out a cough. “Is that... you?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s me,” Four replied, looking again at the large rocks covering most of Wind’s body. “Are you okay? How... how badly are you hurt?”

Wind was silent a long time, and looked to be thinking rather hard about the question.

“...I can’t move my legs,” he said quietly, voice taut with pain and barely-hidden fear. “A-at all. They’re stuck under everything, and... my arm is pretty busted up too.”

“Is there any part of you not incapacitated?” Four tried to tease, and Wind let out a laugh, though it broke into a pained cough a moment later.

“This arm, I guess,” he said tiredly, and Four swallowed, and began to feel around the stones, trying to figure out which ones, if any, were loose. But everything seemed solid and stuck, and Four looked helplessly at the rubble. There was no way he was strong enough to move any of it.

Then he squared his shoulders, and began pulling at the rocks that seemed the least load-bearing. Wind wasn’t going to get free if he just sat here, and hopefully his power bracelets would be enough to unpin him.

Wind stayed mostly silent as Four worked, sometimes letting out a quiet cough. At some point he began to hum, a quiet, rolling tune, and Four could tell it was to distract himself from the pain by the way it occasionally hitched. He hummed along once he figured it out, and tried not to despair at the absolutely tiny pile of rocks he’d managed to move.

He wasn’t making any progress.

“...Smithy?”

Four looked over at Wind, who had paused in his humming, and for some reason seemed paler then before. “Yeah, Wind?”

“I... I don’t think you can get me out by yourself,” he whispered, and Four shook his head and went back to scrabbling at the tiny, looser rocks. “You’re gonna, ha-ave to find someone… else to help.”

“I’m not going to leave you here,” Four replied sharply. He wouldn’t even entertain the possibility. Leaving Wind to go get help might have been what his logical side was telling him to do, but his emotions were horrified he was even considering it.

What if I leave, and I’m too late, and he’s all alone when he...

Four felt a touch on his leg, and looked over to see Wind giving him a pleading look, his single uncovered arm clutching at him.

“Four. I’ll be okay until you get back,” he said, a faint smile on his lips. “You gotta…”

He coughed again, and Four reluctantly paused in his digging, crouching down and taking Wind’s hand in his.

“Look, Wind, I don’t… I don’t know how much longer you have,” Four admitted quietly, and Wind let out a thick chuckle.

“Long enough for y-you to get help,” Wind promised, a drop of blood falling from his lip. He met Four’s eyes, and the Smithy was struck by how much trust he saw in them. I’ll be… okay, Four. Sailors’re tough. Go.”

Four leaned back on his heels, and looked at Wind again, studying the dust in his hair, the pained twist to his expression. Wind actually resembled himself quite a bit he realized, their hair nearly the same color, faces a similar shape. Their noses were even remarkably close, and as Four looked into his eyes, he suddenly felt like an idiot.

“Oh sweet Nayru, why on earth did I not think of this sooner,” he gasped, and quickly reached around to grab for his sword. “I have a solution Wind, I might not have to get anyone else after all.”

“...how?” the sailor asked in confusion, and Four held up his sword.

“Watch.”

Rainbow light shone brightly from the blade, and Four saw Wind squint against it as he split apart, the dust in his hair lighting up with bright colors. It quickly faded, and Vio dropped next to Wind, immediately setting in on studying the situation.

Red sat next to him, nervously holding Wind’s hand, and Green and Blue waited, one more patient then the other, for Vio to finish thinking.

Wind stared between all of them, blinking like he couldn’t believe his eyes, but his shocked faded soon enough, replaced by a look of dawning understanding.

“Oh. Four. I get it...” he snickered to himself, then his breath caught on a laugh and he winced.

Red squeezed his hand again, and Wind shakily squeezed back.

“Okay. I believe we can do it,” Vio said finally, standing up. “If two of us wear the bracelets, and are helped by a third, we can lift the rocks while whoever is left pulls Wind out. I think we have just enough strength between us.”

“Well then let’s go!” Blue said, cracking his knuckles. “Red’s gonna be the one to pull him out, right? Makes sense for him to do the easy job, he’s noodle-armed.”

“I am not noodle-armed!” Red cried, and Wind let out a faint giggle.

“You’re strong in other ways Red,” Green said patiently. “And actually, I was going to suggest Blue pull him out.”

“What? Why?!”

“Because you can easily pull him out while the rest of us move the rocks, and if you end up needing to be quick, you’ll do it even if it’ll hurt him,” Green said, meeting his eyes. “Now let’s go, Wind’s not getting any better.”

Blue grumbled, but agreed, and Vio and Green each put on a power bracelet. Red stood next to them while Blue crouched beside Wind, and the three of them began pulling the largest rock upward.

Wind’s breathing got shakier as they pushed, the rock shifting slightly. Small pebbles bounced, and dust billowed up into the shaft of sunlight as they lifted, slowly, carefully, straining as they pulled the huge stones.

Blue stayed as close as he could to Wind, waiting for the space to widen enough to pull him out. The sailor’s eyes were squeezed shut, lips trembling as they pulled, and Blue shifted uncomfortably as he saw a tear fall down his cheek.

See? Red would have been better, he grumbled to himself.

“Get ready Blue!” Green grunted, sweat beading on his forehead, and he, Red, and Vio all gave a concentrated push, lifting the stones up just enough to create a space above Wind.

Blue moved quickly, grabbing Wind under the armpits and pulling him out without jostling him too much. It didn’t seem to matter though, since Wind cried out the moment he tugged him, but Blue ignored the noise, and kept pulling until the sailor was all the way free and a good distance away from the rocks.

“He’s clear!” he shouted, and the other three parts of himself attempted to put the rocks down as slowly as possible, so nothing would collapse on top of them all. Something grabbed at Blue’s hand, and he realized Wind was clutching at it, breathing heavily as tears trickled down his face.

Blue looked away, and squeezed back.

The others dropped to Wind’s side a few moments later, and Green immediately began fishing in his pouch for something. Red’s face was pale, and Vio remained silent, studying the sailor as he breathed shakily.

His other arm was definitely broken, that much was obvious. Something seemed a little off about the way his lower chest looked, and his legs remained limp, Vio swallowing as he looked at them. He wasn’t sure if the others realized exactly what was wrong, but he wasn’t planning on telling them unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Here,” Green said, and pulled a fairy from his pouch. “This... this should do it.”

I hope.

Vio nodded, and Green opened the bottle, the glow of the released fairy making the tear tracks on Wind’s face glitter. The little creature made a beeline for Wind the moment she saw him, and chimed in distress, then swirled around him in tight circles, concentrating near his legs and spine like Vio had suspected.

Wind exhaled heavily as she finished, and the fairy chimed again, bobbing gently by his cheek, then flitted away into the sunlight.

“Wind. Can you move your legs?” Vio asked, and Wind scrunched his face up in concentration.

He managed to lift them both a little ways, and all of them sighed in relief.

The fairy had done her job.

“Think she didn’t get my arm all the way though,” Wind said with a wince, but he was noticeably less pale then he had been, and was already trying to sit up. “Guess she had to focus on my legs.”

“That would make sense,” Green said with a smile, and helped him sit up. Wind clung to him a little tightly as he assisted him, trembling slightly, and after he was upright, Red leaned over and hugged him.

Wind let out a shaky breath, his eyes glittering, and the others drew near and hugged him as well, even Blue and Vio.

“Thanks,” the sailor said into Red’s shoulder, voice smaller then normal. “Thank you Four, th-that...”

“Of course, sailor,” Green replied gently.

Wind swallowed, and didn’t say anything further.

They stayed there and hugged him for a long time, Red’s shoulder damp where Wind’s face was pressed to it. None of them really wanted to move, shaken and trembly after everything, but eventually Wind pulled back and wiped his face, and the colors helped him stand.

They looked at Wind, then around at each other, and wordlessly grabbed their swords, fusing back into one. Wind watched in surprise, but only asked a few questions before going quiet again, his normal exuberance obviously dampened by pain and leftover fear.

Four put an arm around Wind to support him while they walked, and they set off to rejoin the others, the sailor humming the same rolling tune as earlier.

Four joined in, and the debris around them quietly echoed the song.

[aceofwhump]

Buddy Daddies 1x11

[lunlumo]

pls baa back