#does this count as whump? is there enough angst in here? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kastlequill · 9 months

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ii. for you my love i kill

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader word count: 6.5k synopsis: miguel visits the hospital to tie up some loose ends then makes sure you got home safe tags: whump/angst, protective/dark miguel o’hara, black cat!reader warnings: reference of past canonical sexual assault, some torture, broken bones, miguel kills a guy ao3: read here ← prev | next [soon] →

After Miguel left you crying in that alley, he had expected his night to end there.

The plan had originally been for him to head back to his apartment and get as much sleep as possible; no detours, no distractions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d rested for more than three consecutive hours, but if the Spider-Man wanted to continue starting his days at the crack of dawn, then Miguel O’Hara needed some good ol’ shut-eye. This should’ve been an easy-to-follow, hard-to-fuck-up plan.

Except, he hadn’t gone home and was instead currently perched outside the window of a hospital room four stories high.

Because the thing was, Miguel had lied to you—the man you had tried to kill tonight wasn’t dead. A few feet away, the target in question was bedridden but very alive, receiving medical attention for the damage you’d inflicted onto him.

When Miguel stumbled upon you relentlessly clawing at a noncombative man who laid prone in the street, his instincts had compelled him to act first and ask questions later. Every second wasted brought the man closer to death as you’d shown no sign of stopping your flurry of attacks anytime soon. So, Spider-Man had snuck up from behind and put you in a chokehold, compressing your carotid artery just enough to render you unconscious.

While you were passed out, the apparent victim had departed from the scene in a flying ambulance, which left Spider-Man alone to handle the apparent perpetrator: you.

You weren’t what he had expected.

As witness to your capacity for violence, there were certain adjectives Miguel would have thought applied to you, like unfeeling and inhuman. But you’d surprised him by being the opposite: fervent and compassionate.

Which made it irritatingly difficult to figure you out.

Not that he wanted to—he didn’t.

It was just that you had seemed so lost at the chance that this man, who you’d attempted to rid from society, might have survived. Miguel intimately understood the single-minded pursuit of a goal that had become the axis upon which your whole world now hinged. He knew what it meant to latch onto the mere hope that achieving a certain goal might suffice as enough of a sacrifice to stain the door to your heart with lamb’s blood and convince the Angel of Death sent by your best-forgotten past to leave you be, to pass over you.

And because he (unfortunately) had ample experience in this regard, all it had taken was hearing the desperation in your voice and seeing the begrudgingly-pleading look in your eyes to pull the following words right out of his mouth:

You got him, he’d assured you. Already dead when I arrived.

Miguel was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them; among his plethora of epithets, prevaricator was notably absent. He spoke the truth as he understood it, even if it pained him to do so. Even if he wanted to tell himself a lie.

Even if he’d rather use his bare hands to carve a shelter out of Utopian falsehoods and reside in purposefully-ignorant bliss

Moreover, Miguel was unlike the vast majority of Spider-People in that he did not adhere to a strict no-kill rule, either. So the moment those two short sentences left his lips, the fate of the man on the other side of this window pane had been sealed.

“John Doe” was as good as dead.

John Doe; the name presiding medical staff had assigned to the patient of unknown origin. He’d been admitted without an ID card, and his disfigured face didn’t do identification efforts any favors either. You had carved out chunks of flesh from his cheeks, and no patch of skin had been spared the deep, inflamed gashes imparted by your claws.

In the wake of your vengeance, he had become more thing than person.

Luckily, Miguel had Lyla. The AI had pinpointed the man in question by extracting his DNA from remnant blood on the Spider-Man suit and running a cross-comparison with the hundreds of thousands of DNA profiles stored in the city’s database. If he had any prior involvements with the law, there would be a match.

And there was.

John Doe was actually Trent Michaels.

A recent college graduate, son of his school’s dean. Star athlete, doted on by his professors and peers. Squeaky-clean record.

It’d been all too easy to learn your identity thereafter, to then find unsealed court records for a case marked dead on arrival, old images of you smiling, carefree and trusting. Reconciling the life-hardened woman who he’d confronted in the alley and that bright-eyed girl as being one and the same was a challenge, but not impossible. There was still much of her in you, even if she only appeared during the brief moments your guard was down.

As a mechanism for survival, you had been forced to construct walls around yourself of such height and of such thickness that they were too insurmountable for most to scale and too impenetrable for the rest to infiltrate. A man’s wretchedness had been the catalyst for these defensive measures which, while successful in keeping others out, also kept you locked in, trapping you with the demons that weren’t so easily deterred.

Feelings of self-loathing and helplessness; thoughts of self-blame and fruitless what-if scenarios. You were resigned to dealing with it all alone. Though he similarly shared that sentiment, Miguel’s concern was that you’d gladly destroy yourself just to catch all that haunted you within the blast range of your implosion.

Mutually assured destruction.

He refused to stand idly by while you became collateral damage in your own quest for vengeance. The longer Miguel ruminated on the matter, the more his anger toward Michaels grew. His ire tempted him to detonate this ticking time bomb of a human so that there’d be no chance of it exploding around you. But his logic commanded him to suppress the urge to unsheathe his talons and refrain from tearing the man limb from limb.

Sé paciente, sé paciente, sé paciente. Miguel recited the words like a mantra meant to tether himself to the present then pinched the bridge of his nose to assuage an impending migraine. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

To set the record straight, showing up to the hospital had not been a premeditated decision. One minute Miguel was swinging through Nueva York, taking the usual route that led to his apartment, and the next he was here, preparing to break into a facility for the sick and injured.

Since he had arrived, however, his mind had begun concocting a plan, officially converting this would-be crime of passion into an act of murder. Except—

—killing that maggot piece of shit isn’t murder. It’s what I’m owed.

Not murder. Retribution.

From the shadows, Miguel observed the medical staff’s next three rounds and soundly concluded that they were spaced fifteen minutes apart. That gave him fifteen minutes to do what he needed to do.

With sufficient information on both the premises and the target, operation take-out-the-trash was a go. He dug his fingers under the bottom edge of the double-hung window and slowly pushed upward, sliding it open just enough to allow him to step through and into the room.

Inside, it was quiet save for the steady beeping of a heart monitor and the faint whistling of air entering and exiting through the nostrils of a recently-broken nose. Everything tied back to the bastard who was laying on the hospital bed as if it were an altar and he was its sacrificial offering to the gods.

But there were no gods here; only Spider-Man.

This ritual wasn’t to bring plentiful rain or a bountiful harvest; it was to cage a monster’s soul in the confines of Hell and set free yours from the clutches of all that which sought to do you harm. It was to cleanse the revolting sight that was a supine Michaels sleeping peacefully, oblivious to or uncaring of the pain he’d caused you.

That those scum can walk among us freely, can go about the rest of their lives without consequence—

Try as he might, Miguel couldn’t unhear the break in your voice as you choked on all the things you could not say. The years-long wounds you carried within were clearly still raw; healing them had thus far been a feat unconquered since the root of the injury was still alive and well, preventing definitive closure.

Until now.

The room was larger than average, and a tray of gourmet food on the overbed table indicated the patient’s VIP status. This fancy, non-hospital cafeteria dinner had undoubtedly been provided at the behest of the Public Eye, who wanted Michaels pliable and cooperative during their inevitable one-on-one interrogation. He was, after all, their key witness to not just his mysterious assailant, but also his elusive savior. They’d been clamoring to get whatever information they could on The Spider-Man so that they could then charge him with vigilantism, and Trent Michaels had the potential to be a big lead.

Despite the only light source being a meager nearby computer screen, the combination of white tiled flooring and white stucco walls made the room appear well lit in contrast to the night’s pitch black. The moisture in the air reeked of sterility, which told him that this area was cleaned frequently and thoroughly.

No spilling blood, then. There was no hiding that unmistakable crimson red, nor was there time to properly erase the traces of evidence that would surely stain the pristine-white fitted bedsheets and seep into the slender crevices between each slab of tile.

When Miguel dragged his attention back to the bed, he discovered that Michaels had awoken at some point and was now sitting upright, eyes wary and muscles twitchy. The bruised and scratched-up man looked nervous in the presence of the masked hero.

Soon, he’d be more than just nervous. And by the time Miguel was done with him, he would be nothing at all.

Soon.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Spider-Man stated the obvious, stalking closer, both hands on his hips, before coming to a stop in front of the several machines that were hooked up to the target’s frail body. The movement held a striking resemblance to that of a predator circling its prey. It was an assessment of strength differential, an evaluation of the energy investment required to subdue. “That makes my job easier.”

As Miguel casually pulled up a chair and sat at his bedside, Michaels donned a look of bewilderment, confused why he had a visitor but showing no sign of fear. Not yet. At present, Spider-Man was still the masked hero who saved his life in that alleyway and not a harbinger of Death who had come here to cast him into the pits of Tartarus.

The man rubbed at his sockets once, twice, affirming and reaffirming that the mythified vigilante was indeed standing inside his hospital room at the dead of night. “Spider-Man? The hell’re you doin’ here?”

Miguel elected to ignore that question, not trusting his ability to maintain an unaffected vocal inflection if he were to discuss anything other than the strict script in his head. He got straight to the point, projecting into the space between him and Michaels a holographic image of you. The you of a few years ago, the you with a cheesy grin spread wide across your lips, ear to ear.

The you who hadn’t yet been made to walk this road of unsatiated vengeance.

“This girl,” Miguel started to say then stopped to assess the man’s face. Though most of it was swollen and scabbing, Michaels could still reconfigure his features into discernible expressions, and Miguel would be damned if he didn’t take note of every single change. “You know her?”

A beat of silence. Michaels flicked his gaze toward the hologram, and the sickly hue of his current complexion paled even further than Miguel had thought was possible. The heart monitor blared to warn that an abnormal spike had been detected in the patient’s heart rate, betraying the truth before an answer could even be given.

He knew you alright.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” was his response, tone a bit defensive as he shifted in unease. “What’s it to you?”

What’s it to him?

To him, it was rectifying a wrong. If he’d known this man’s sin, he would have gladly stayed put on the roof to watch from above as you killed him yourself. Not everyone deserved the helping hand of Spider-Man, or, at least, not that of this dimension’s Spider-Man. Perhaps simultaneously filling the roles of judge, jury, and executioner was a sin in its own right, but Miguel wasn’t stupid; he knew the courts were conditional in how and when they chose to enforce law, sparing the rich and powerful from the consequences of their actions. Death, however, was not so inclined to do the same.

To him, it was honoring his word. He had reassured you that you’d successfully scourged the streets of this vermin, and he wasn’t about to let that become a lie. No, Miguel was going to strip the brute who’d dared to hurt you of the privilege to feel the warmth of tomorrow’s sunrise. Trent Michaels didn’t have permission to look upon the breaking of dawn, to see how the sun warred against darkness and emerged victorious, setting the sky ablaze with its golden rays.

Ultimately, it was very simple: paramount to everything else, you had wanted the man dead, and Miguel wanted to actualize that wish. For you, yes, but also for the sake of every soul who might someday cross paths with Michaels if he were to leave here alive.

This was what came to mind when he reflected on why he’d rerouted to the hospital rather than his own damn apartment. His thoughts demanded to be acknowledged by their maker, and their obnoxious loudness lulled Miguel into a state of reticence.

At the eerie, prolonged silence, Michaels cleared his throat and began to speak.

“She’s nobody. A girl I hung out with freshman year. Things got a little heated one night,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “It was just some fun. Harmless, really. Then she had to go and make a big deal out of nothing. I’m sure you know what I mean, man.”

During this spiel of utter bullshit, Miguel had slowly begun to fiddle with the pulse oximeter attached to the tip of Michaels’ index finger. The minute fidgeting could be interpreted as absentminded and unmotivated, but that didn’t account for his purposeful and intentional way of doing things.

Miguel clipped it onto his own left finger when Michaels was preoccupied with picking at the peeling edge of a bandage on his brow bone. The heart monitor synced with the well-regulated and steady heart rate of Spider-Man.

That had been Step 1. The second step was a bit more. . . hands-on.

Rolling his shoulders back, Miguel stood up from his chair and gave a short, noncommittal hum. “Can’t say that I do.”

His free hand curled into a tight fist and launched itself at the man’s already-battered face, catching him on the nose, and a satisfying crack pierced the air. The sheer power behind the punch was such that it sent Michaels reeling backward, and his concussed head (your handiwork) ricocheted off the bed frame, temporarily dazing him.

When he came to his senses, shock morphed into contempt. “Y’broke my goddamn nose. That’s the second fuckin’ time tonight!”

Unfazed by the assault, the heart monitor continued to beep, raising no alarms since it hadn’t detected any abnormalities in heart rate. It was a metronome that kept time, but the maestro after whom it modeled its cadence had switched from Michaels to Miguel. Its consistent pattern thus left the medical personnel on duty none the wiser about what had just transpired, nor about what was yet to come.

Beep. Beep.

Beep.

“What the fuck, dude? I thought you were s’posed to be the good guy!” the man cried out, indignant and genuinely baffled as to what he could've possibly done to warrant this assault. He tipped his head back, desperately trying to stop his compromised nose from dripping blood all over.

The small blotches of red that now stained his patient gown weren’t ideal, but no one would think to question a spontaneous nosebleed when said nose was confirmed to have been broken earlier in the night. Punching him had been worth the risk; even Spider-Man wasn’t exempt from the universal human desire to absolutely deck an asshole who deserved considerably worse. Still, the plan had been to keep all blood inside all bodies, so that was what he was going to do moving forward.

Miguel allowed himself the momentary indulgence of basking in the melodic, steady stream of agonized groans. It was music to his ears, an unconventional symphony of which he was the conductor.

A prelude to his magnum opus, a crescendo to its climax.

Leaning forward to block every possible escape route with his broad frame, Miguel grabbed the sniveling coward by the neck and squeezed.

“I am.”

Driven by his instinct to fight or flight, Michaels clawed at the hand around his throat, but his efforts at either of the two courses of action were in vain. The hold was ironclad, immovable, whereas the force he tried to exert on it was nowhere near unstoppable; thus, it did not budge.

In no rush to relent, Miguel relished the way his prey squirmed and writhed, and only when the man’s eyes began to flutter shut did Spider-Man relax his grip with an exasperated sigh.

To die by strangulation was an end too merciful for the likes of this scum. It was over too quick, a brief burst of pain liberated by the peaceful promise of eternal nothingness. No, Miguel wouldn’t bestow the gift of a swift, clean death; rather, he sought to make the final moments of the man’s miserable existence torturous, to send him off to Hell kicking and screaming.

As he struggled to catch his breath, Michaels splayed his hands atop the overbed table to support his heaving body. The shift drew Miguel’s attention, and he glared at the offending appendages because those weren’t gentle hands that delivered care, nor were they hands that offered protection. They were hands that had hurt innocents.

Hands that had hurt you.

Hands that needed to reflect their sins, that needed to be as equally marred in flesh as the man who wielded them was in conscience. Each and every digit would pay penance for his transgressions since all ten had partaken in the atrocity.

The right middle finger was first. Breaking a bone was neither difficult nor complicated, regardless of whether it was his own or that of someone else. Miguel settled on his fists to be his weapon of choice, classic and old-fashioned, close and personal, then he restrained his target with shackles made of webs, then—

Snap.

Before a howl of pain could echo through the halls for all to hear, Miguel shot a wad of his organic webbing at Michaels’ mouth to muffle any potentially-incriminating screams.

“Quiet now, don’t worry,” he cooed in mock sympathy. “You won’t be needing these where you’re going.”

In a state of pain-induced delirium, Michaels extended his trembling left hand for the bedside remote to signal for aid, a Hail Mary that would go unanswered, deemed unworthy of her saintly supervision. Before he could press down on the call button, the device was snatched from his grasp altogether by another string of web.

“Too slow,” chided Spider-Man, a cruel smirk hidden underneath his mask as he moved the remote far from reach. “What are you making such a big deal for, we’re just having some fun. Isn’t that right?”

No reply. Just two beady blue eyes glistening with poorly-concealed terror, hoping to appeal to the hero’s better nature. Unfortunately for Michaels, Miguel reserved his compassion for the billions of innocent people who comprised the Arachnoid Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, not a sorry excuse for a man who couldn’t understand that no meant no.

“What was it you said, hm? Harmless?” Knowing the context in which the word had been used five minutes before, it tasted foul on Miguel’s tongue and sounded vile to his ears. “I think this is pretty harmless, no?”

That question, though rhetorical, elicited a vigorous shaking of the head, the man’s intended message fully-transparent and frantic: no, no, no.

Miguel released an exaggerated, disappointed sigh. “That’s fine—we can agree to disagree.”

It continued like this for the remaining four fingers on his right hand. One after the other, Miguel fractured bone with nothing but his enhanced strength and unbridled rage. Each additional crushed digit was accompanied by the further splintering of Michaels’ spirit, dismantling him piece by piece.

By the time Miguel had finished rendering the hand free of functioning fingers, it appeared as though Michaels had given up on trying to weasel out of this nightmare scenario, the pain so severe and unyielding that he had seemingly become numb to it. His joints were rapidly swelling, and angry patches of dark purples and reds bloomed on his skin as blood rushed to the site of the blunt force trauma. It was his body’s attempt at salvaging a sinking ship and relieving its captain of his burden.

But there would be no such reprieve, for Miguel was wholly unsatisfied so long as this man, who had touched and taken without permission, still had operational extensions of his body.

Michaels mumbled something unintelligible through the webbing that was still plastered over his mouth, and, wanting to hear what he had to say for himself, Miguel tore it off. When no words followed, he prepared to resume his onslaught, readying his arm for the swing.

A single syllable stopped him just short of making contact with the left pinky finger.

“Stop,” croaked Michaels, his voice scratchy from the strain of repressed screams. “Please.”

Spider-Man’s fist halted mid-slam and hovered over his chosen target. The plea transported him back to the events that had transpired earlier in the night. All throughout his interrogation, you had maintained a commendable degree of composure despite the clear imbalance in power between the two of you. You had been hung by your feet from the neck of a streetlight and then immediately re-tied to that same pole after being freed of your webbed restraints.

And yet, you’d never begged. Not until your vengeance outweighed your pride did you plead with the vigilante to—

—tell me I got him. Please, tell me I killed him

Your begging had been on behalf of the girl who’d been betrayed by someone she had trusted, on behalf of the many survivors who spent the rest of their lives carrying the knowledge that justice hadn’t been served and that it never would. Even while physically and emotionally under duress, you had thought of them. Because at your core, you represented all that was good and right about the world.

Conversely, no such redeemable qualities could be detected within Trent Michaels. His pleas served only himself, a sick piece of shit who, at his core, embodied all that bastardized the world from its ideal vision.

The man of the hour gulped several breaths of air, eyes closing in gratitude at the perceived fact that this torture session had run its course, mistaking the brief hesitation as a sign of reconsideration.

It wasn’t.

“Stop? I’m just getting started.” Spider-Man flexed his hand then clenched it once again. “We’ve still got five more to go.”

He unfroze and brought his fist-turned-hammer down hard, crushing another distal phalanx beneath the weight of his own fury as well as that which he channeled from you, grinding his knuckles into the new injury for good measure.

“Did I say five? I meant four.”

His assault on the left hand was a blur. He laid waste to the digits faster than he did the right hand, brain on autopilot. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly; fifteen minutes were almost up.

An agonized groan from Michaels eventually snapped Miguel out of his anger-induced stupor, and he blinked down to find that the last four fingers were severely mangled compared to the others, having been subjected to repetitive pummeling in excess. Though he resented losing control, the important thing was that he had neutralized these hands of vice and malevolence.

Now that there were no more fingers left for Spider-Man to break, a nearly-unconscious Michaels slackened his muscles, curling into himself. He probably thought the worst of the night was over.

Not a chance.

“Oh, I wouldn’t look too relieved if I were you, Trent. The show’s not over yet,” Miguel spat, saying the name like it was dirty. Which it was. “We still have the finale.”

The finale entailed grabbing a syringe from a nearby cabinet and pulling its plunger all the way back so that the entire apparatus filled with air. He had briefly entertained the idea of sinking his teeth into Michaels’ jugular and pumping him full of venom but had ultimately decided against it since that would surely get flagged on the autopsy report. Bit hard to explain that one.

Once the syringe was full, Miguel fastened a needle to the tip, and it reflected blue light from the computer when he raised it higher to get a better look.

As he did so, fear at last settled on Michaels’ face. During the obliteration of his ten fingers, he had writhed in pain, his eyes pinched shut and his veins protruding in exertion. Before that, there had been confusion and shock. But until this very instant, fear had remained notably absent, too consumed with surviving the encounter to imagine that Death might still await him in spite of his best efforts.

The appearance of Death came in an infinite many forms. Death was both destroyer and creator, both decomposition and nourishment. Death was the car that did not stop at a red light, the cancerous cells born of mutated proto-oncogenes, the peaceful embrace after eighty years of life.

And when he raised the syringe to the IV line, Spider-Man too became Death.

No one could accurately speculate their reaction to the moments preceding their death. Many liked to believe that they would use their strength to persevere, but in the end, they were the ones who bargained and begged the most. Some were more honest in their assessment, admitting that their souls would be fetched and relocated elsewhere, but they too believed that they would depart this world with their head held high. Fewer still recognized that death was not to be feared or overpowered, but was to be met with open arms and a smile.

Michaels, being the cowardly and spineless man he was, belonged to that first category.

Typical.

“I’m sorry, okay, I fucked up, but I can be better, I swear. If you want money, name a price and it’s yours. I’ll donate to charity, I’ll apologize to h-her, I’ll—” His groveling was abruptly cut off by a sob, pathetic and ugly. “I’ll do anything. Just please don’t kill me. I’m begging you.”

Nothing. The pitiful speech inspired absolutely nothing in Miguel. No sympathy, no reflection, no anything. He was devoid of all but stone-cold hatred.

“Me vale madre.”

Spider-Man injected the pocketed air into the IV line and watched its resulting bubble travel down the tube, disappearing into the stuck vein. The estimated time it took for an air embolism to kill an adult male of this stature was approximately five minutes, maybe ten. But considering the sheer volume of air that had been put into circulation, Miguel presumed complications would arise much sooner.

His prediction proved true, the tell-tale symptoms presenting not even a full minute after the air bubble had entered the man’s bloodstream. The man tried to clutch at his chest but yelped when the motion jostled his fractured bones. Unable to assuage the tightening in his heart, he began to hyperventilate, panting, eyes bulging.

Then came death.

When Michaels’ squirming body went unnaturally stiff, Miguel removed the pulse oximeter from his own index finger and reattached it to that of the dead man. The heart monitor began to blare, both an alert to the night-shift nurses that a patient had flatlined and a cue to the Spider-Man that he should vacate the premises.

He exited the way he’d entered, slinking through the window before sliding it shut behind him. Nothing was out of place. The walls and tiled floor were still squeaky clean and white; the chair he had moved was back in its original place in the far corner; the gourmet dinner was still untouched and positioned on one side of the overbed table, where it would stay uneaten for all eternity.

The lone evidence of his presence was a fresh corpse with ten fingers smashed and bent out of shape.

They would soon declare their John Doe deceased after multiple failed attempts at restarting his heart, and then they would open an investigation to determine the cause of death. Frustrations would mount when the toxicology reports housed no answers, and stress levels would peak when the patient turned out to be the son of a very wealthy man who was threatening to sue the hospital for negligence.

Quite frankly, none of that mattered to Miguel—the job was done. Whatever bureaucratic shit came next was an addendum, an afterthought scribbled into the margins of tonight’s catalogue of events.

The mission had been accomplished: Trent Michaels was dead.

By all accounts, this kill was yours. You had been the one to drag him to the gates of Hell, whereas Miguel had only ensured that the scum would successfully reach his destination. You had been the one to gather the trash and make all the arrangements to discard him, tracking his location and beating him within an inch of his life, whereas Miguel had only dropped him off at the dumpster yard.

It struck him then that this was likely the first time you’d taken a life. And instead of offering you advice on how to navigate the toll that killing took on your conscience, he had left you in the alley to come to terms with it all by yourself.

He winced. Fuck.

Miguel needed to see you.

“Lyla,” he called. “Give me her address.”

The miniature AI materialized beside him, her tone light and teasing. “Lyla, give me her address what?”

Usually, there was no harm in entertaining the AI’s shenanigans. But tonight was different.

“Not in the mood,” he gritted out, irritation spiking abnormally quick, even for him, as the adrenaline from handling Michaels continued to set ablaze his systems. “Her address.”

Lyla handed the information over without further fuss, and Miguel leaped off the ledge just as a cluster of medical personnel filtered into the hospital room-turned-morgue.

Clearing the tops of buildings in a single bound, he traveled through the city in record time, aided by the strong winds that blew in the direction of your residence. When Miguel finally arrived, he took up position on the roof of the building directly across from yours. From this vantage point, it was almost concerningly easy to see through one of your windows.

You should really buy some blinds, was his immediate thought, grumbling to himself about how unsafe this setup was.

He squinted his eyes and conducted a quick sweep of your apartment, searching every gap, checking every corner once, twice, three times. The place was empty.

A knot formed in his gut at the realization that you hadn’t come home.

Where are you?

The longer the question went unanswered, the louder its echo reverberated, perpetuating itself as if in a chamber. He’d scanned you for injuries and hadn’t found a scratch. You had been coherent, conscious, and as composed as could be expected, but what if he had missed something?

What if you were still in the alleyway, incapacitated by an unattended injury?

The mental image of you agonizing over your wounds, both the visible and the invisible, was enough to will him to a decision. Just as he was about to turn around and swing his way to the opposite side of the city—

A light flickered on, illuminating your living room. It was fairly small, like most other studio apartments in the expensive rungs of Nueva York. His sharp vision instantly honed in on the two black cats that roused from their slumber to greet you at the front door, which had swung open with such force that it’d hit the wall and slammed back into your shoulder.

When Miguel finally laid his eyes on you, tension seeped out of his muscles, the frown line between his brows momentarily disappeared, and his shoulders slumped forward as he exhaled a nearly-inaudible sigh of relief.

You were okay.

Well, okay might not be the right word because you were evidently not okay. You were slightly hunched and limping, shifting your weight from foot to foot, dragging a hand against the wall for extra support should you careen over, which was becoming a more likely reality by the second. As you lugged your spent body to the clawed-up sofa at the center of the room, the legs that had thus far been supportive of your weight buckled with fatigue. All Miguel could do from here was watch you collapse onto the sofa, face-first.

Your shoulders began to convulse, and he stiffened, worried you were belatedly going into shock or having a seizure based on the way you jerked and jolted. Upon further inspection, however, Miguel determined that the culprit of the shaking was neither the former nor the latter.

Sobs wracked your frame. You lifted your head from the seat cushion to rip off the black domino mask with which you’d disguised yourself, revealing a steady stream of tears, black trails of mascara staining your cheeks. Next to go was your white-haired wig, yanked with equal force and chucked across the room.

Gone was the outwardly-confident woman who had managed to rile him up and get the upper hand whilst dangling from a lamppost. Left in her wake was the woman behind the persona. Here was the woman you were when the spotlight faded to darkness, when the curtains closed and the audience departed, when the performance came to an end. Uncensored, unrefined, undone—you.

An unbecoming.

The rational part of his brain told him that this was an invasion of your privacy, that he should leave you to your much-needed crying session and stop peeping through your windows when you were at your most vulnerable. You thought you were alone and had subsequently allowed yourself to shatter, but here he was, heightened senses privy to the whimpers that broke your voice, to the utter despair that furrowed your brows.

And yet he couldn’t avert his gaze.

Such a raw display of catharsis; it was sublime. How long had it been since he last cried more than a few silent tears?

He already knew the answer: Gabriella.

The multiverse couldn’t afford for the leader of the Spider Society to fall apart, not when he was the one keeping this whole operation together. Thousands of Spider-People played their part, sure, but he alone dedicated every waking second to preventing anomalies from destroying entire dimensions. And though he would never admit it, Miguel was at the end of his rope, akin to a powder keg about to explode at any given moment.

Maybe he was more like you than he’d thought. Maybe he should take a page from your book, let himself cry and cry until he had poured everything out from the cavity of his chest. Even Atlas had briefly passed the weight of the heavens off to Heracles, so perhaps the multiverse wouldn’t unravel if he were to open the floodgates, just this once.

The thought left as quickly as it had arrived. Logistically, it wasn’t viable. How could he ever jeopardize the fate of billions for one man? Regardless of whether that man was himself or a stranger, his decision was the same.

He would thus have to make do with a more vicarious manner of release. Your tears were both yours and his. The tears he could not bring himself to shed joined yours as you became a vessel of the emotions that had long since been repressed, both by you and by him.

Where Michaels’ sobs had grated on his nerves, yours made Miguel physically recoil not in revulsion, but in visceral need to comfort. The sight made him want to do something stupid, like jump down from the roof, knock on your door, and ask you if he could come inside

Go inside to do what, exactly? Hugs are a no-go, so that leaves. . . awkward shoulder patting? He slapped a hand to his forehead and ran it over his face with a groan.

This—going to the hospital to terminate your target, showing up to your apartment—was a dangerous chain of events that would further snowball into an unacceptable culmination of feelings. Unless, of course, he impeded it, uprooting this budding thing before it could blossom, terminating these strange thoughts in gestation before they could be spoken into existence.

In which case, the crisis would be averted.

He had fulfilled his heroic obligations as Spider-Man, had ensured your safe arrival, and had kept his word. All he needed to do now was put as much distance between you and him as was humanly possible.

Yes, that sounded like a plan. Excellent. Good.

Great.

As Miguel vaulted off the roof and shot a web at the nearest billboard, he decided that he would not be returning to your apartment ever again; this was the only time he’d let himself check up on you. When he stepped foot into his own apartment a good hour and a half later than he had initially intended, he recited the declaration to himself as he took a hot shower and again as he changed out of his suit. When he awoke the next morning, he fully believed that such would be the case because you’d been absent from his dreams, all memories of you already archived.

It wasn’t until he took the long way home three nights in a row that Miguel finally conceded otherwise. The first night was brushed off as an innocent coincidence, and the second night was justified as having simply found a better path home. But by the third night, he couldn’t deny it anymore:

The true reason this objectively-worse, inconvenient route seemed better was purely because it passed by your building complex and gave him the chance to see you.

tbc.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara #across the spiderverse #spiderman x reader #spiderman 2099 #marvel #spiderman #my fic #fic: for you my love i kill #series: cursed from the start

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practically-an-x-man · 3 months

Note

Prompt: "I don't know if we're going to come home from this."

Ooooh I know I've been writing a lot of Eris recently but this really does feel like them.

____ Lost Gods

Word Count: 2.1k Content Warnings: graphic depictions of violence and injuries, angst, whump

____

"I don't know if we're going to come home from this."

Those were the scariest words he'd heard in his life.

It wasn't as if it was the first time Rick had heard them. It came with his line of work: things looked grim, and usually there was someone just frightened enough to voice what everybody else was thinking.

Sometimes they got lucky. Sometimes they were wrong.

Other times they weren't.

So far, Rick had been one of the lucky ones - if he could even call it luck, when he had to live with the echoes of a hundred other deaths etched permanently into his memory. But he was lucky in the fact that he survived, he made it home.

So it wasn't the words themselves that scared him. He'd heard those same words a dozen times in his life, if not more.

But never from Eris.

They came limping up to him mid-battle, spear missing and their right arm hanging dead at their side. At first he assumed it was dislocated, with their look of pain and the way she gripped it tight with her opposite hand. But then his grip shifted, and Rick saw bone and loose-hanging sinew through his fingers.

"Holy shit, doll-" he started, slinging his gun back over his shoulder and surging ahead. Eris just shook his head, readjusting his grip so the gaping wound - almost completely severed at the shoulder, Rick realized - was hidden again from view.

"It'll start healing up soon," he said, though his voice was tight with pain and something all too much like hopelessness, "Keep fighting. Don't stop for me."

Not that Rick's gun had been making much of a difference anyway. He wasn't even entirely sure what it was they were fighting, only that it was very large and very angry and had incapacitated the rest of the Squad. He hadn't had so much as a moment to check whether they were unconscious or dead. He prayed the former.

Eris let out a low groan, the only warning he got before their knees crumpled under them. Rick darted ahead to catch them, finally noticing the rest of the blood coating their clothing. After so many years, so many injuries Eris just brushed aside, he'd largely learned to tune out the sight of blood on them. But now he took in the sheer volume of it all - too much blood, too many wounds, more than any ordinary person would survive.

Eris' enhanced regeneration had taken care of most of them, but Rick could see that their energy was spent from everything it took to heal them. Some of the wounds were still oozing blood, darkening his clothing even further. And then there was the matter of her arm, still hanging by a few scraps of muscle and yet to start recovering tissue.

"I'm spent, Rick." they muttered, dropping their head against his shoulder with a shuddering sigh, "I've- I've got nothing left. It's too much."

"Okay, just- just rest here for a minute," he said, fighting hard to keep his panic in check. It took a lot to knock Eris down in any meaningful way. Eris' "shrug it off" was most people's "three days in the ICU". To see Eris laid this low, not only injured but struggling to heal...

Well, Rick was surprised he'd lasted this long himself. To say the least.

He steered Eris off to the side, shielded by a pile of rubble left from the fight. He could see the tendons and muscle in their arm beginning to weave back together, form new connections, though it was a slow and clearly arduous process. It left him wondering how many wounds they'd shouldered through already, to have drained so much of their strength.

"I couldn't land a fucking hit." Eris muttered, wheezing like he couldn't quite catch his breath, "It's got some kind of armor. Worse than the bugs. I couldn't do anything."

Rick struggled for words for a long moment. He wasn't sure where to start. Eris would brush off any attempt at comfort or reassurance, he was sure - even if they were still openly leaning on him, letting him take her weight. And everything else... there was just so much.

"Did you see any of the others?" he tried, figuring that was safest. Eris shrugged with their good shoulder. The other was still slowly mending, muscle creeping outwards in a vaguely entrancing spiral.

"Croc's down. Saw him slip into the sewers. Injured. Either bled out down there or just ran away." Eris answered, eyes flicking back and forth as she retraced the battle in her mind, "Bison's dead. Merlyn's dead. Didn't see DuBois. Probably hiding somewhere. Too smart to get caught out in the open with that thing. Nanaue's still up- fuckin' invincible, probably still chewing on its pinky toe or something."

"Figures." Rick agreed, running a mental tally of his own. Not great odds. Especially with Eris down. They were the team's real heavy-hitter, often just as impervious as Nanaue but with a lot more intellect to back it up.

"Rick, I..." Eris mumbled, baring him a deep grimace. He was shocked at the sight of fear in their eyes. It was not an emotion they wore often. "I don't think we're making it out of this one."

"Hey, hey, no- we'll come up with something." he insisted, "We've been through worse."

"You didn't see it. Not like I did." she insisted with a brisk shake of her head, "It's... it's like a god. It's like nothing I've ever seen. I don't even know where it came from. Look at this-"

He twisted around, reaching with his good arm to tug at the hem of his blood-soaked shirt. His abdomen was covered in half-healed punctures - only half-healed, even the oldest of them just barely beginning to clot.

"I'm not healing." Eris finished, "It's stopping me. Blocking me from my power. I'm..."

A heavy boom rocked the world, shaking the ground around them. Eris' words cut off, a yelp escaping her lips instead. Her shoulder, still a ruin of snapped tendons and half-regenerated flesh, appeared to slip free again, and she clutched at it with her good hand. His shirt darkened with fresh blood.

"See?" they muttered, pushing their shirt aside to show that the wounds had pulled open again, "It's got this... this pulse. Draining me. You know how much blood the average human body contains?"

"...Not sure I do, hon."

"Five liters." Eris answered, looking down at their clothing, "About this much. Dunno how much- I don't think-"

He cut himself off with a brisk breath, unable or unwilling to voice his thoughts. Rick realized a moment later that she was trembling. He couldn't tell whether that was exhaustion or pain or fear. More likely, some combination of the three.

The world rocked again, closer than before. Eris let out a low whimper, a shockingly pitiful sound to escape their lips. Any other time, with their spear and healing intact, they'd already be soaring back into the fight. Here, they hardly moved. Rick's hands were sticky with their blood, leaking more freely from their wounds.

"Rick?"

"Yeah, darlin'?"

"I love you."

"Whoa- what the fuck is this?" Not his finest response. But Eris didn't share those words openly. Not at all. He could count the amount of times he'd heard them, all of them half-asleep and behind closed doors. Eris' love was a different thing than most. He'd understood that from the beginning.

So words like these, rather than reassuring him as they did on those late and gentle nights, only sent fear spiking through his veins.

"It's me, saying... I care about you, cowboy. Always have. Even if I'm an ass about showing it." Eris sighed, "And if this is all the time I get before you're gone, or both of us... this is how I want to leave it."

Something thundered from above them before Rick could respond, and the ground shuddered. Rick tightened his grip, shielding Eris with his body. Loose pebbles, chunks of concrete, rained down on his shoulders. He was beginning to think this outcropping of rubble wasn't the safest hiding place. But there was nowhere else to go. He could sense, in some primal way, that their eldritch adversary was creeping its way nearer, step by step, pulse by devastating pulse.

"Say it back." Eris muttered, the words almost lost against his chest.

"Say-"

"I need you to say it back. Please."

There was a knot in his throat. He couldn't breathe. Rick shifted his grip, cupping the back of her head in one hand and pressing a kiss to their forehead.

"I love you, wartime. You know I do."

Eris hummed, weakly hooking their good arm around his shoulders and tugging him down into a proper kiss. They pulled back far too soon, their breathing shallow. It was strange to see them so hollowed and weak. Any other time, it would be healed in moments, and he'd be right back on his feet.

Rick didn't like this. Not at all. He'd always assumed he'd be the first to die. He never imagined he'd have to watch this happen.

Another tremor racked the ground, this one so strong even Rick could feel a few old aches of his own threatening to spring back to life. His newest scars felt like they were unwinding at the seams. He couldn't imagine the pain Eris must have been in, with so many open wounds.

And then the shudders cut off, there and gone like a switch had been flipped.

A beam of plasma cut through the air, bright enough to make him wince. In his arms, Eris took in a sharp gasp, their whole body shuddering like they'd been hit with a cold breeze. New muscle, clean and pink, crept over their near-severed shoulder and sealed over in moments.

Within seconds, the remains of their wounds had healed - at least enough to move - and Eris wriggled out of Rick's grasp. She crept out from the rubble and let out an incredulous laugh at the sight of their savior.

"I have never been more grateful to see that cornhusking son of a bitch..."

Rick followed, vaguely confused until he saw an all-too-infamous blur of blue and red whisking through the air.

"Cornhusking?" he echoed, firing them what was meant to be a teasing look. He was sure it didn't come across quite right- not through the relief that swept over him like a flood.

"He's from Kansas."

"He's from Krypton."

"Heh." Eris said, baring him a familiar sharp grin. All their earlier fear, all their earlier pain, seemed to have vanished in a heartbeat. "You don't know him like I do."

Their dark eyes scanned the battleground, and he could see hope and thrill blooming on their face as they did.

"DuBois. Croc. Nanaue." he listed, pointing at spots on the battlefield. Eris beamed, bouncing on his toes as the fresh thrill of the fight washed over him. "And Supes. Now we've got a fucking chance. Get your gun."

Eris rolled her shoulders, newly healed, then picked her way through the rubble until he found an exposed shaft of rebar. He found a grip on it and hefted it like a warhammer, wearing a contemplative expression.

"Primitive." they decided, "But it'll do."

Rick did his best to bite back a smile as he reached around his back. His fingers closed on a leather sheathe, older and more worn than anything he usually carried, and he held it out in front of him- a foot-long dagger with a corded hilt.

"Want this one instead?"

Eris dropped their makeshift hammer at once, prancing over to him like a child offered an ice-cream cone. They took the blade and unsheathed it, giving it a few experimental jabs and swishes. The metal gleamed in the light.

"You packed me a spare?"

"Tell me you don't have an extra mag in your armor pouch." Rick countered. Eris shrugged and reached into one of the pockets at their side, tossing him the magazine with little more than a thought. Rick grinned.

"You and your damn smug face, I swear." Eris huffed, rolling his eyes as he sheathed the dagger at his belt. Avoiding his gaze, she hopped up onto the nearest pile of wreckage and took a second look at the battlefield. "C'mon, Flag, don't make me wait on you."

Rick laughed under his breath, picking his way through the rubble and readying his gun. Eris shifted their weight, fingers twitching towards the blade at their hip. Anticipation, dark and violent, gleamed in their eyes.

But just before she dove into battle, she grabbed Rick's shoulder and pulled him into a kiss.

#my friends!!!#answered asks #my writing #my ocs #oc eris #oneshot #ficlet #angst #whump #the suicide squad #rick flag #oc x canon

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lilmissnatcat24 · 5 months

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Turn Left Ch 22- (don't be suspicious, don't be suspicious)

Shepard and Garrus dive into the OSDs of Fist and Barla Von to create a new plan of action. Archangel just can't help himself.

CW: alcoholism

Relationship: Femshep/Garrus Vakarian

Archive Warnings in author's note

Additional tags: enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, slow build, alternate universe- canon divergence, detective noir, sex club, anonymous sex, canon temporary character death, murder mystery, drug use, dom garrus vakarian, whump, smut, heavy angst, alien sex, dual pov, an overly sexual elcor named candy, earthborn, ruthless, fake/pretend relationship, dead dove: do not eat, identity porn, minor character death

Detective AU mixed with identity porn mixed with so much whump my fingers are bleeding

(or, start from the beginning here)

lil text blurb:

“I hate these fucking things,” Garrus muttered under his breath, toying with the cowl of his suit. He wasn’t used to formal wear. He could count on his fingers the times he had to dress up so ostentatiously-- and mind you, he only had six. His cape kept getting caught between his legs, the flowing fabric around his carapace was itchy, the tight squeeze around his waist made him feel like he was being ogled by just about every turian he passed.

“Nah, you don’t,” Chellick snorted next to him, already three drinks deep before the event even began. Garrus wished he could join him-- he normally spent these stupid public galas either so drunk he couldn’t remember it the next morning, or in some storage closet with a turian woman bent over and his hands covering her mouth from yelling out too loud. “You’re preening for your girl, don’t deny it.”

“I am not preening ,” Garrus snapped. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, he hadn’t preened his neck at a woman in years.

“Then care to explain why you’re dislocating your neck every five seconds waiting for that Shepard woman to show up?”

Garrus just grumbled at that. He was busy scanning the crowds because he was waiting for any sign of Benezia or her daughter Liara. They devised a plan a week ago that they would take the gala as the best opportunity to strike on the doctor. It was perfect; she couldn’t run away, there was so much going on that no one would even notice two C-Sec officers talking to a pretty, young asari, and her mother would likely be so busy with all of the politicians and dignitaries and who-the-fuck-else was even there that she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes on her.

“Why didn’t you two show up together, anyways? Trouble in paradise?” Chellick asked with an obnoxious shove of his elbow into Garrus’s side.

“No,” Garrus said testily. The truth was that Shepard offered for Garrus to come over to her apartment while she got ready, but Garrus declined. Something about knowing that Shepard would be naked in just the room over, putting the paint on her face and tossling her fringe, made Garrus have the distinct fear that he would hardly be able to control himself. It was hard enough keeping his plates in place while they sat on the couch in Wrex’s safehouse, but being cramped in one tiny studio with her clothes strewn about the floor and her scent overwhelming his senses? “She wanted to get ready with Elyria.”

“Does your girlfriend know you’re still fucking that human at the sex club, or is that actually Shepard I’m smelling on you?”

“Chellick, I wish you didn’t say the things you say.”

#mass effect fanfiction #mass effect #mass effect fanfic #shakarian #shepard x garrus #ao3 fanfic #femshep #garrus vakarian #turn left

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mikaharuka · 1 year

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Mizuka's Chaotic Prompt Collection!

Heyo everyone! You might have noticed quite a few new fics by my talented writer friends, written for prompts that I've sent them.

Well... I've sent them quite a lot of prompts! Enough that I thought it'd be cool to create a collection of those prompt fics! Presenting:

✨Mizuka's Chaotic 10+ Step Plan to Take Over the World!✨

The collection is multi-fandom, multi-rating, multi-genre! And they range from the sweetest fluff to the darkest fics and all in-between!

There are only two things that all these fics have in common:

First, that they are fics written from the prompts I gave them.

Second, that all the authors are super talented, super nice people! I would definitely recommend all of these authors and their other fics!

So far, there are 14 works across 10 fandoms by four authors - @tsunderewatermelon, @axolotlsupremacyowo, @udaberriwrites, and @alpaca-clouds! I also count at least 10 more writers I've sent prompts too! They are all awesome writers and lovely people!

So... what are these prompts, you ask? It's a simple process!

The prompts are one-word prompts. I use an RNG word generator to get a set of words, then I choose words that best suit the respective author/style (from my POV) and their preferences (from their POV).

Feel free to specify a genre/theme if you like! I can do them all:

Fluff, angst, smut/NSFW, dark/dead dove, comedy, whump, slice-of-life, romantic, and more stuff I'm overlooking at the moment!

If you favor abstract prompts (ideas and concepts) or concrete prompts (objects, sensory stuff) or holiday-themed stuff, that works!

And of course, there's my own specialty - vampire prompts XD

If you have specific requests for types of prompts, that works too!

Fear not, though, this is a no-pressure thing I set up for fun - if a prompt does not work, just let me know and I'll adjust for it and hand over a new prompt! Likewise, if you've written for a prompt I gave you, here is no pressure to add the fic to the collection!

If you're interested or have questions, reach out! Exciting, isn't it?

-Mizuka

#mizuka's rambles #mizuka's chaotic collection #mizuka's prompts #ao3 collection #one word prompts

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whumpycries · 1 year

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brother's keeper #1

cw: carewhumper, bad caretaker, medications, angst, emotional whump, bruises.

this is me writing on this idea i'd posted a few days ago.

i didn't proof read this so if there's any glaring mistakes just tell me and i'll correct them. dima and vin are siblings, dima uses she/they and vin uses he/him

...

“You brought this on yourself, you know,” Dima said ideally as she set down the glass of water and the little cup with Vin’s medication down.

He stared at her blearily from under the covers, one of his eyes bruised nearly shut. It had been a few days now, but that bruise had been nasty, so however bad it looked now, it had been worse before.

“That’s the third time you’re telling me that,” Vin muttered, not getting up to eat the meds. Dima breathed deeply, slowly, and counted down from ten in their head. This was fucking stupid, counting down didn’t help with anger. It never has. She did it anyway.

“It’s not like you listen to me, is it?” she sniped, backing away, “if you don’t want to eat the meds, tell me before I take them out of the packets. There’s a lot of other, more useful stuff I can be doing that does not involve babysitting you like some goddamn toddler.”

“I never asked you to,” he said, not even looking at her anymore. He had a hand thrown over his head and was pressing it down. Probably had a throbbing headache. The meds she’d gotten him had a pretty strong painkiller as well, but it’s not like he was smart enough to recognise it, or even ask about the meds she was giving him. She could slip him poison for all he knew.

Sometimes she was tempted to.

“You’re feeling bold for someone who is bed bound with more injuries than I care to recount,” they said, narrowing her eyes.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” he snapped, tuning away his face completely.

Don’t hit him don’t hit him don’t hit him he might actually keel over dead if you hit him don’t hit him—

Dima didn’t say a word as she took up the small cup of medicine and the water, feeling petty, and exited the room. For a moment she was tempted to lock him in as well, but decided against it. Plausible deniability in case he did end up dying.

God. Why did they have to find him? Why did they have to leave him alive? The missing case had been dropped. Her life had finally been in control. A huge burden had been off her. And now he was back, worse than ever, infringing on Dima’s life like he always did. Ruining it. Ruining their time, ruining their plans, ruining the safety and comfort of their home.

Just take a deep breath, she told themselves, he’s already in pain.

And he was. He was already in pain. That thought went a long way towards calming her down. He was in pain and powerless here and there was no Nana or mother to talk her down or mediate between them. There was no one here, and he was in pain, and he’d been found half dead in a goddamn dumpster and somehow remembered Nana’s phone number even thought they now live like a hundred miles away and so Nana had called Dima and now—

Deep breaths, she told herself, and slowly opened up her laptop. Maybe she can check student papers and be infuriated about that instead of Vin. Maybe she would find some really good papers too. She could send them to the college journal for publication. One student has been showing a lot of potential in that regard.

This was a far better use of their time than catering to the whims of a fucking ungrateful bitch.

She got to work, putting most of their effort into not thinking about the man in the guest bedroom, about the blood on the clothes she’d thrown away the day before, about the way Nana had sounded when she’d called and told Dima about how they’ve found Vin, and that he’s alive.

They pointedly don’t think about any of that at all as they make their way through the student assessments, a notebook in hand as they scribbled down little notes. The tension left her in increments, until she’d almost– almost forgotten about Vin.

Almost.

At that moment, the door to his room– her fucking house, a room in her fucking house– swung open, revealing Vin standing there, clutching at the doorframe with his life, shaking and pale.

“I was calling for you,” he said, “Are you fucking deaf?”

She thought of giving him a snarky remark, but then decided against it, only raising their brow at him. She genuinely hadn’t heard him, but then again, there’s music playing, the fan spinning, and the air conditioning on. She’s used to their solitude. Used to not having to keep an ear out for him.

Vin visibly gritted his teeth, “Where’s the meds? I thought you’d leave ‘em for me.”

“In the kitchen,” they said simply, and turned back to their work. She was done, and she’d said as much to him, to nana and to their father. She was done catering to him and dealing with his tantrums. She gave him a chance. She isn’t gonna keep running after him now.

There was a pause, where Vin neither moved nor made a sound. Dima wanted to start giggling, but controlled herself. Take that, you little shit.

Then Vin started moving, painfully from what she could see, but he refused to feel any pity for him, any sympathy or guilt. He disappeared into the kitchen.

Dima turned back to their work, but hadn’t read a single line more when she heard a crash from the kitchen. They jumped, startled out of their wits, heart thudding loudly in her chest as she whipped her head around to see what the fuck had just happened.

She shot to her feet and hurried to the kitchen, and had to stop at the doorway, staring. One of the decorative glass bottles she kept on the kitchen counter was on the floor, pieces of coloured glass scattered everywhere. She looked up, and Vin was staring at her with a faintly baffled expression, like he didn’t know what just happened.

Dima breathed.

“Out,” she said, very tightly, “Go back to your room.” It’s not your fucking room, she thought, it’s my house. You’re an invader.

When she brought him his meds later, she left out the painkiller.

ask to be added to the taglist!

#whump #whump writing #carewhumper #bad caretaker #angst #emotional whump #bruises #brothers keeper #theyre both a little fucked up but i think the way dima is fucked up is a lot more interesting than the way vin is fucked up

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goodfellowe · 1 year

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i feel like i'm always looking for good fic recs and i can never find any, do you have any?

so this is the part where i confess that i actually have not read ahit fics in eons. not for any particular reason im just kind of picky with what i like to read and ahit just doesnt happen to have any of those fics. if theres really something i want to read i usually just end up writing it myself ^_^; but normally i try to avoid reading for fandoms i write for out of fear of accidentally stealing ideas

with that being said though... i have some oldish favs for you here :)

opening ao3 for this and seeing the insane amount of unanswered stuff in my inbox made me start sweating o_o;

co-op by parrot_gel83, my favorite ahit fic of all time and the one i recommend to literally anyone who'll let me. twtt has a few of references to it because self indulgence is always key :3c

a hatty family by @gigilefache, not a fic per se but its on ao3 so it counts. i really like this au and i cannot stress enough that timejumper is my poor little fucked up meow meow who i love so dearly

meteor shower by stellahope. very cute and sweet, not much else to say on it tbh

the second hand of a clock by @lesbian-roguefort BAD BITCHES LOVE MY MUTUAL'S FICS OK this is one of my old old favorites and always makes me roll around on the floor a bit. i love whump i love angst and nobody does it like hat does (hi hat if ur reading this ily)

#ask #fic recs #sona #doodle #thanks for asking! <3\

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laireshi · 1 year

Note

For the ask meme!!!! I want to ask all of them actually, but i will limit myself: 🏷 💕 📚🤩💌

Thanks Anon!

🏷 Is there a tag you like to search for when looking for fanfics to read?

I tend to just click on the ship tag I want and start there. If the fandom is big enough (insert crying in small fandom), I might filter down to angst or h/c.

💕 What is your favorite fic that you’ve written?

Oh, I was wrong in the last reply. THIS is like choosing a favourite kid. Let me choose some from DMBJ only:

Threshold Concept - or the fic where I deal with all my TLTR issues, lol. Xiaoge whumps so prettily.

i thought the past would last me (but the darkness got that too) - I wrote this one before NPSS started updating the last part and it's still what I hope will happen in regards to saving Xiaoge XD

Hidden Dangers - because this is how I see heiping and xieping coexisting together after Ten Years, and I had fun with it.

📚 Is there a fanfic or fanfic writer you recommend?

A Life in Exchange remains one of my favourite pingxie fics!

Composite Events is full of Xiaoge feels ;; also, Xiazi.

Tanhua is an amazing novel fic, reads like canon

lost the day's rhythm, its precariously imposed momentum XIAOGE IS SUCH A MESS

Who Dares Not Gaze Upon Guanyin? is one of the best dmbj fics I've ever read, if not the best

How To Tame Your Cat - CAT!XIAOGE. also it's hot.

💌 Is there a favorite trope you like to write?

Does angst count as a trope? Does h/c? Does doing bad things to Xiaoge xD ?

🤩 What led to your interest in the fandom?

And I've already answered this one here^^

#anon #ask meme #dmbj

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eusuntgratie · 8 months

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Okay updates on my hockey ~descent~

I've been reading a bit of bennguin and that was pretty good, I've been looking at some vids and I swear when Tyler got into a fight after someone took a cheap shot at Jamie 😭 like why do I care so much about that?? Anyway I have also just finished reading closed fracture by lightgetsin and it was so lovely <3 so looking for some more recs for sidgeno if you have them! (also why are there (((( all over the place sometimes? I've seen a few in fics and in tweets?) I do really like the Penguins logo and jerseys so maybe I'll follow them closer when things get moving a bit more, its the off season now right? Some other ships I'm a fan of is sterek from teen wolf, Sirius/Remus from hp, Macdennis from iasip, steve/bucky - just pretty basic ones lel 😬

oooooh i'm so excited to answer this okay okay. thank you for the update i love this!

tyler seguin is everyone's favorite slutty bisexual. go bananas in his tag (just #tyler seguin or #seguin) on tumblr and you'll find some great shit. that ship doesn't get as much attention anymore bc benn isn't fandom's favorite. i don't know enough about the stars to know all the reasons, but he did a very dirty and unneccessary hit on the vegas golden knights captain in the playoffs this year and that was enough to make me not like him. i can rec some stars blogs if you want - they are a great team with a solid fandom presence and a lot of young amazing players. and they have seggy :)

um, if you love boys being overprotective on the ice, i can definitely give you some pens moments but ALSO you should look into tknp (travis konecny/nolan patrick). i think i have a #protective tk tag on here you can browse bc the boy goes batshit insane anytime someone touches his boy. one of the big reasons a lot of us fell for that ship. you don't have to be a flyers fan to love them; tk is a fandom darling bc he's so tiny and fighty and wonderful.

also, any decent player is very protective of their goalie, so if you love that dynamic, you might enjoy some defenseman/goalie pairings or there's just some fun clips and gifs out there. i'll try to reblog some stuff for you. give my poor followers a break from the rwrb posting and tzp thirst 😂

DON'T GET ME STARTED ON SIDGENO OH GOD. okay i'll reblog a few posts for them because the things they say about each other are just. alright. you're in love. we get it. okay.

King and Lionheart is the fic that made me fall for sidgeno. There is an excellent podfic available as well.

I could give you a billion sidgeno recs and writers and blogs to follow. What kind of fic do you like? Fluff? Whump? PWP? Kink? ABO? Monsterfuckery? Sidgeno is the most popular hockey rpf ship at least by numbers on ao3; we got it all, baby! I read a lot of angst and porn, so I don't want to throw a bunch of recs at you without knowing what you like :)

((( and )))))))) are russian smileys... so you're probably reading Geno texting. So instead of texting (or tweeting - you can see these in some of his old tweets): i'll be there soon :) he would text i'll be there soon )))

we ARE in the offseason but hockey comes back (relatively) soon. preseason games (exhibition games that don't count towards playoff standings) start at the end of september and the season kicks off in October. The Penguins season opener is vs the Chicago Blackhawks which should be a VERY fun game to watch, bc Chicago drafted Connor Bedard this year, one of the best hockey prospects since Sid himself. Bedard is insanely talented and we are all very eager to see how he does in the NHL. Sid was Bedard's favorite player growing up (he is so many players' favorite player growing up) and they've met and they are both very sweet boys and anyway it will be an interesting game.

Stucky was my first ship since really diving into fandom and I spent a ton of time in Teen Wolf fandom! There's a ton of teen wolf on my ao3, mostly sterek, but i mostly write hockey these days.

feel free to keep sending me questions! there's a lot to learn when you first dive into hockey but i love the sport and love this fandom!!

#fightmillk #ask grace #i'll reblog some stuff for you!

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oftincturedwords · 1 year

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Title: Fighting Chance Chapters: 3/14 Fandom: Star Wars : The Bad Batch / Star Wars : The Clone Wars Rating: T+ Chapter Warnings: Mild Blood , Nosebleeds , Implied Bullying & Prejudice , Explicit Language , Mentions of Decommissioning , Mentions of Reconditioning , etc. Characters: Crosshair , Tech , Original Clone Trooper Characters , Hunter , Wrecker , 99 Additional Tags: Hurt / Comfort , Angst , Tech’s Goggles , Sibling Bonding , Battle Simulations , Whump , Brotherly Affection , Team as Family , Backstory , Pre-Canon , Military Training , Mando'a Language , Caretaking , etc. Timeline: Set prior to Star Wars : The Clone Wars s07e01 ( The Bad Batch ) Pairings: Gen. None. Word Count: 5657 Summary: Growing up is already difficult enough, especially for genetically engineered clones, but when the odds are stacked against you since the moment you were created, it is all the more rough. Or, how Clone Force 99 was formed. A/N: I apologise for taking so very long to update this story. I have not given up on it nor abandoned it ! I love this story too much to ever leave it entirely. I just needed a bit of time for muse to build back up as I visited other fandoms. No beta so all mistakes are mine. Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Star War : The Clone Wars & Star Wars : The Bad Batch. Neither am I associated with Lucasfilms , Disney+ , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. I make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes. Read On : ao3 | under the cut part one | part two

The barracks were alive with quiet chatter and the noise of those taking some rec time before light outs. Most seemed to be talking with fellow batchmates or other clones, a few were combing through their gear to ensure it was inspection worthy, and less were engaged in games of their own devising with those brave enough to play them so close to rack time.

Crosshair kept to Tech’s right to ensure none of the regs came near enough to catch on the smaller clone’s crutches. Despite the other’s dexterity in using them had grown in the short time it took for them to arrive here from the medical bay, he wasn't going to risk it. Not when a few di’kute looked to be playing a modified form of flag capture in the middle of the karking barracks using a pair of socks.

Coming up to their designated section, Crosshair saw that Snap was seated in a bench near them, apparently awaiting for them since he watched his brother’s head rise from where it had been rested in the heel of his hand at their approach. Snap smiled at seeing them, jumping up to his feet and coming over in an instance.

“Ah Tech, wondered if you'd be back with us tonight.” Snap spoke to the younger clone first, his initial eye contact Crosshair having told him enough to know his brother was all right, “Though it seems you’re still injured.”

Tech nodded, “It is minor, however it does require this healing sheath for tonight and use of crutches, but it should be healed by tomorrow.”

“I knew you were tougher than you look.” Snap’s smile pulled up more fully at the corners, “Wasn't worried for a second that you'd bounce back.”

“Oh yes, that's why you were sitting here all alone. Waiting up for us, were you?” Crosshair asked, his tone leeched a mocking sarcasm that seemed to be becoming a brand for the younger of the pair.

“The others have gone to the showers, told them I’d wait up for you both, yes.” Snap answered easily, not rising to his brother’s teasing, his head tilted towards the direction of this section’s refreshers.

“I was advised to not shower until the med - patch I have is removed,” Tech relaid that bit of information to Snap, not clarifying that it had been not to take a hot shower because he would rather skip a shower than suffer through a cold one, it's benefits be damned, “but that does not mean either of you cannot go. I will be up in my bunk when you return.”

Crosshair glanced over to Snap to see his brother looking at him, seeming to come to the same decision as him in that single instance.

“We’ll stay as well.” Snap said, speaking the same thoughts between himself and Crosshair, “Showering tomorrow won't hurt anyone.”

“And you’ll need someone to hand up those crutches to anyway.” Crosshair added, stepping around the others towards the ladder access to their racks since his was one of the top most, might as well head up first.

Grabbing ahold of the ladder, Crosshair gave a small leap upwards and climbed towards where Tech’s rack was to depress the button needed for it to extend outwards from the wall. Then up further he climbed to do the same to his own rack before descended down a few of the rungs, low enough to reach out his hand to snatch one of the crutches that Tech had come over to raise up towards his grasp.

Taking it, Crosshair climbed up a bit to lay it on the far side of Tech’s rack, then down again he went to repeat the process whilst Snap offered a steadying shoulder to the smaller clone. Crosshair came back after the second one was placed to coordinate with Snap and help Tech up onto the ladder, Crosshair reaching down to grab Tech’s hand and lift up whilst Snap offered his hands to boost him up at the hips.

Working together as they did, it easily allowed Tech to grasp the ladder and ascend upwards once he was balanced. Doing so with only one foot was awkward, but after a rung or two, he found a rhythm to it until he was able to reach out and push off with his good leg to leap onto his rack.

Ignoring the hissing sound he heard from Crosshair at the risky action, Tech gave a thumbs up towards Crosshair then shifted over to flash the sign over at Snap who he guessed was still on the ground before he sat back once more.

Staring a moment more, Crosshair then turned to head upwards back towards his own rack and got onto it once he reached it. Shifting about for a minute to find a comfort position before he settled, arms folded up earth his head since the pillow was too flat to actually give any elevation or cushion to the back of his head.

He saw Snap come up a few moments later, opening his own rack and getting comfortable in it as well. Readying for bed far earlier than they usually would have, but he didn't mind doing as much as he would have thought. Especially when it was for someone so new to their squadron, not a batchmate, but more so a kin than any of the regs were, no matter that they were all clones. Experimental ones were always segregated against by the regular clones.

Hardly a few handful of minutes later, Crosshair nearly startled at seeing Tech’s head pop up beside his rack. Interrupting his thoughts, his internal musings and natural tiredness at the end of the day having veiled his senses somewhat. In his own rack and with his brother near, he'd fallen for the facsimile of security it proposed. And had been caught unawares.

“What are you doing?” Crosshair asked sharply, more concerned at the smaller clone having climbed the ladder up to the third level racks without a spotter than being caught off his guard, “You're supposed to stay off your leg.”

Tech seemed to take pause at that, his mouth, which had opened to give an explanation no doubt, hung ajar without any sound for coming for a handful of seconds before he closed it and nodded, “Whilst you are correct, I wanted to show you something.”

“You couldn't have asked me to come down there?” Crosshair questioned, an edge of incredulity in his tone for Tech’s rack was directly under his thus it wouldn't have been very far to go nor any great feat to call up to him about it.

“Given the subject I wish to share with you has greater interest to me than you, it only seems fair that I come to you.” Tech gave in way of reasoning, which had Crosshair rolling his eyes.

“Then get up here and stop putting weight on your leg.” He retorted, it lacked any true venom to his tone, but the inkling of concern for the other’s injury had hardened his words.

Scooting back and drawing his legs closer to his body, he made room enough for Tech to crawl up onto his rack and over to sit on the other end of the thinly padded mattress. Crosshair didn't miss the softly emitted hiss of pain from the other either when Tech had dragged the leg still encased in the healing sheath across the mattress before turning to sit on his arse with his legs bent at the knees with his heels on the mattress. Somehow the other managed to not drop a single thing he held clasped in one of his arms.

Crosshair was quick to cross his own legs and gesture towards Tech’s still mending leg, “Here. Stretch it out and put it up using mine.”

“Are you certain?” Tech asked, tone appearing tentative and hinted with a genuine surprise at the offer.

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't.” Crosshair pointed out with less bite than he usually would have at being asked that question, but enough to have it wipe the mildly stupefied expression from Tech’s features.

“Right. Yes.” Tech seemed to say only to fill the silence left quickly in place of a proper reply as he folded his unaffected leg to him and slowly moved his still tender leg and extended it out to rest it on Crosshair’s thigh, who placed the chill-pac back along his shin.

A quiet sigh of relief came from Tech then, followed by a sincere, “Thank you.”

Shaking his head to brush off the gratitude, Crosshair motioned to the bundle Tech had brought with him, “What's that?”

“I will show you.” Tech set the bundle down and began to unpack the contents from the folded cloth, laying out each piece with reverence and in an orderly manner that seemed to only be identifiable to Tech himself.

As each one was taken out and placed down, Tech brought them up to his face to examine them closely before launching into details about them as he placed them out on the mattress between them. Explaining what they were and what purpose they served, or rather would serve once he repaired and adapted them.

Following along with the base mechanics of two different processors that was being spoken of, Crosshair as well ensured he took note of the bits that Tech offhandedly said he still needed or tools that would be required to achieve assembly. Wondering idly how the other even gathered this much material and how he could help procure the still missing essential materials.

But in hearing a brief noise of surprise that turned into a sound of frustration from Snap’s bunk, Crosshair looked up from the device innards that Tech was showing him to glance over towards his brother. At seeing him lean forward and shove a sequestered fold of hygienic tissue under his nose, which had already bled past his lips and down his chin, Crosshair’s brow furrowed all the more, adding an edge to his usual scowl. In contrast Tech, beside him, eyes widened near comically wide after he had squinted a moment in an attempt to focus his sight enough to catch what had altered Crosshair’s mood.

“I’m fine.” Came the quick assurance from Snap, though it was muffled and held a slight nasally quality to his voice, “It’ll stop soon.”

Crosshair’s frown deepened, “Oh yes because nosebleeds are a sign of perfect health.”

Snap’s glare wasn't hampered much by the fact he had a wad ofhygienic tissuepressed against his face, but at seeing red begin to seep through and stain the white a brilliant red, Crosshair gave up on the battle of wills before it began. He huffed irritatedly to show how he felt about the situation, then shifted to throw his legs over the side of his rack and reach towards the ladder.

Turning back towards where Tech was still seated, Crosshair gingerly wrapped his hand around the other’s ankle to lift the appendage off his own leg, mindful of its tender state, and lower it to rest on the mattress pad, adding a vague explanation thereafter, “Make sure he doesn't faint before I get back.”

“Cross!”

Was all Crosshair allowed Snap to gripe before he set his stocking-clad feet on the sides of the ladder and relaxed his grip to give way to gravity, sliding down the length of the ladder until he dropped to the ground. Bending his knees and following his momentum into a crouch, Crosshair hardly felt the impact and stood a moment later to make his way towards the refresher.

Although his and Snap’s racks were on a third level, he could just make out Snap reassuring Tech of his well being. Despite Crosshair’s words having not really been a lie, ( it had been one time , but he wasn't going to let Snap forget it ) he didn’t dare risk shouting any refute back. Best only a select few, meaning he and now Tech, knew about Snap’s nosebleeds.

It’d only be new ammunition for the regs to lob at them. And once word spread enough, the Kaminoans wouldn't hesitate to cart his brother off to their labs to begin a whole new regiment of experiments and exams of all sorts. With the professional cover of those tests being medical in origin there'd be no stopping them. Least not in any way that wouldn't land Crosshair in brig, which would be further counterproductive.

Gritting just teeth against those thoughts, Crosshair ducked into the communal refresher to grab a few lengths of hygienic tissues. Ensuring he did so quickly yet efficiently, taking the amount of time needed to fold it neatly so he could hide it underneath his shirt without anyone noticing he had something there. Though it wasn't exactly contraband, he’d rather be careful and forgo having to explain ( or come up with ) a reason as to why he was carting around a random small pile of tissue.

After making three fairly thickly-folded yet still concealable wodges, Crosshair tucked them away under his shirt to take them back to Snap. If pattern followed, two could be used to help stop the nosebleed now and the third could be hidden away in the stash Snap usually kept in his rack or on his person for whenever one of his nosebleeds may strike unawares. Thankfully, all had happened when a convenient excuse could be used, such as a hit taken in training or overenthusiastic ‘sparring’ match having caused them, or whenever out of sight of prying, ever-watchful eyes.

Walking back towards their racks, Crosshair leapt up onto the ladder once he reached it and proceeded up the rungs. Hearing the wisps of conversation between Tech and his brother, one clear toned and the other a slight sniffled. He interrupted it however once he was level with his rack and Tech caught sight of him, seeming to physically cut through the question the younger clone was aiming to ask Snap and work to scuffle about the thin bunk until they found the same position they had sat in before.

“How often do these nosebleeds occur?” Tech asked once Crosshair was again seated in front of him criss-cross on the mattress of his rack and he had situated his foot to rest back on one of Crosshair’s intertwined legs.

“I already said.” Snap interjected before Crosshair had a chance to take a breath to answer.

Tech glanced towards him with a narrow look, “Yes, but there is a chance you wouldn't be entirely honest in your answer regarding your own health, whereas I know Crosshair will be.”

Crosshair smirked at hearing that, his attention turning to Snap to teasingly ask, “So what was your answer? Did you lie to our youngest squad mate, Snap?”

“No.” Snap levelled a glare at Crosshair, not appreciating the humour at his expense over this because he knew he had been caught, “I said they happen occasionally, but are no big deal.”

A snort came from Crosshair at that, “You do know the definition of ‘occasionally’ right?”

“‘Something that occurs at infrequent or irregular intervals’.” Tech supplied readily, looking between the two silver-haired clones with a squinted look, “Judging by Crosshair’s words, I would surmise these do not happen as seldom as Snap claims.”

“They don't.” Crosshair confirmed, side-eyeing his brother, “More like every few days now.”

“Fine, they happen a lot,” Snap admitted begrudgingly, having to pause to refold the hygienic tissue to a clean portion before it bled through onto his fingertips, “But the barracks is not the place to talk about this.”

“Whilst you are correct in that, this should be something that is discussed between us, if only to ensure our operation as a squad isn’t compromised.” Tech relented a fraction, appealing to the logic of the matter since it seemed Snap wouldn't likely bring it up solely for the purpose of his health.

Snap sighed, defeated, but nodded slightly, “We will.”

Tech returned the gesture, although he still hadn't met the other’s gaze, “If you should require any assistance though, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Don’t you start with the clucking too.” Snap groused heartily, his voice muffled by how he angled the bundled tissue against his nose when he leant forward in remonstration.

The most bewildered expression came to the other's features at those words, the baffled confusion seeped through to colour Tech’s tone when he spoke, “Clucking?”

Crosshair gave a scoff of a laugh as he rolled his eyes, exasperated with his brother yet couldn't help the mirth he felt at the younger clone’s reaction, “He’s telling you not to be a ‘mother hen'. He heard it from Instructor Nei once and now thinks it applies anytime he has a nosebleed around me.”

“It does. I already have you hovering, no matter how much you try to act otherwise,” Those words were said pointedly along with the sharp look he sent towards his brother before turning back to Tech, his words weren't spoken unkindly, firmly but no trace of malice, “I don't need another over my shoulder.”

“That was why I said for you to ask, I will not interfere should you not wish me to.” Tech plainly attested, then clarified, any and all inflexion having left his voice.

“See, he said for you to ask.” Crosshair chimed in, a larky, sardonic edge lining his words, “He gives you the space you want and you verbally attack him. That's cruel.”

Snap blinked, taking the implied seriousness behind his brother’s derisive words and Tech’s sudden retreat into account, “Wait, no. I wasn't. Crosshair, stop, I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Oh, so now you want to claim sympathy because of your nosebleed.” Crosshair continued, unwilling to relent just yet.

“Wasn’t Tech telling you his plans for all those parts he laid out before all of this? Why don't you go back to that conversation.” Snap sought to divert the topic, a subdued frustration creeping into his cadence.

“As time sensitive as it is to keep these components out in the open,” Tech interjected, “the conversation will keep if you wish to continue the current one.”

“No, I think I’ve talked to Crosshair enough.” Snap began to swap out the folded hygienic tissue against his still bleeding nose, a physical sign he had ended the conversation.

“So kind.” Crosshair mumbled with one last flat look at his brother before turning to face Tech, seeing the other fidgeting in uncertainty from where he sat on the end of the rack, the sharpshooter took the initiative, “You were telling me about the internals workings of a 6A processor versus the 4B ones. How the Kaminoans should allow you to test with the 6A rather than the other one since it has the power to run multiple decoding softwares and replicate the data cracked at the same time.”

Tech’s jaw had dropped open at hearing Crosshair recite exactly where he had left off in his explanation from earlier, staring a touch wide-eyed at the other clone, he stammered, “I-I, that is, yes. Yes, that's precisely where I left off.”

Crosshair nodded pointedly in a gesture for Tech to continue on then, listening with keen attention as the younger clone picked up the line conversation swiftly after that and launched into a full analysis of the processor he planned to build for the datapad he was going to assemble from the parts he was collecting.

The next several minutes were consumed by Tech talking, continuing his previous thread about the processor then trailing into identifying the pieces he had laid between himself and Crosshair. Going into detail on how they would come together to build his very own datapad. One that would be up to his standards and unknown to the Kaminoans with several terabytes of storage if he could manage to scavenge the correct parts needed.

“I have managed to salvage this partially complete circuit board from dismantled parts in the maintenance bay.” Tech pointed to a long segment of internal electronics that was dotted with a multitude of colours and pieces of various shapes, “So once I acquire the other components I need, I will be able t—”

“Who let you into maintenance?” Crosshair interrupted, his gaze darting up from the hardware neatly strewn across his rack.

“Ninety-nine did.” Tech answered after a moment’s pause, fiddling one of the sensor modules between his fingers, not looking up at Crosshair, “He was clearing the training grounds again and asked if I would be so kind as to assist him in carrying the fragmented droid parts back to the maintenance bay. I did, and he allowed me to peruse the pile of circuitry deemed too damaged for repair.”

Crosshair hmmed lowly, the noise a considering one that seemed to placate Tech’s sudden nerves over how he gathered these parts. The smaller clone actually glanced up to Crosshair’s face for a breadth of a moment before the minuscule line of tension that had came to his shoulders eased and he looked back towards the array of technology set between them.

“None saw us, I assure you.” Tech had correctly guessed at the heart of the issue Crosshair had taken with the other’s venture, which had Crosshair’s brow twitching up a notch, “It was after my slicing lesson with Chief Avuc, which as you know are private, thus no other cadets were present when he dismissed me, and no one was about the corridors when I was returning here. I took precautions to ensure I would not be caught.”

“Seems you thought of everything.” Crosshair quipped, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“Indeed, I did.” Tech agreed, which pulled a congested sounding scoff from Snap, who’d given himself away just then in eavesdropping on their conversation despite the barracks being one of the absolute last places privacy would be expected. The very little that was afforded to clones to begin with.

Crosshair still aimed a flat glare over towards his brother for the verballess remark. Snap still had a wad of tissue pressed to his face yet was grinning behind it, and Crosshair had to smother his own lip from upturning at the corners. He was unable to suppress the twitch that came to his lips and gave his internal humour away.

“You find it just as funny as I do.” Snap didn't miss the expression, nor the opportunity to comment on it.

“No, you just look like a di’kut smiling with that tissue stuck up your nose.” Crosshair amended, allowing a corner of his mouth to quirk upwards, to which Snap’s features immediately became unamused.

“Has anyone seen my left boot?”

The called out question reverberated throughout the barracks from a clone stationed near the entrance, the sentence was immediately followed by the muffled sounds of rapid scuffling and shifting as everyone present scrambled to hide any contraband they had before the door opened.

Crosshair uttered a quiet curse as he turned back and fumbled to shove the datapad parts Tech had strung out on his rack underneath the thin mattress with the other's help. They succeeded in making it look as natural as possible, and Tech was quick to shuffle past Crosshair, who drew his knees to his chest to let the smaller clone by, to the ladder and descend down to palm open his own rack and climb into it. A glance over to Snap’s place, revealed his brother to be wiping his face one last time and shoving the used tissue that he frantically wrapped in some clean ones underneath his blanket to deal with later.

Snap looked across the gap to Crosshair, asking as he indicated himself, “Any blood?”

The door admitted its telltale automated swish just as Crosshair shook his head, “No. You’re fine.”

Stretching out his legs Crosshair lounged, appearing nonchalant as he could and to cover the slight lump his thin mattress pad had taken on from having Tech’s mismatched collection of electronics underneath it. He hoped nothing would be damaged or broken by the weight of his legs, but it was better than having it all confiscated if it was found.

Snap too leant back on his own rack and propped up a leg whilst the other hung off the side, he swung it idly and struck up a random conversation with Tech beneath them about having seen a creature crest the surface of the endless ocean that was Kamino. Tech immediately latched onto the topic and began reciting a stream of information on saberjowls, which seemed to capture an edge of Snap’s genuine attention despite the circumstances.

Crosshair could tell by the slight tilt that came to his brother’s head whenever he was acutely listening to someone when they spoke. And whilst the conversation would have caught Crosshair’s attention as well, even if he didn't verbally participate in it as his brother did with Tech, his attention was more so on watching from his peripheral as Nala Se and one of her assistants, Alna Zhi, turned the corner and ambled down their row of racks.

Rapping a knuckle against the metal side of his rack twice in a patterned session, one that sounded accidental to those who didn't know it, Crosshair signalled to Snap and Tech that they were headed for them. The system they had worked out for warning whenever the Kaminoans showed even the briefest interest in them varied for what activity they were doing, even if it wasn't much of a warning, a few moments to prepare to be taken by the scientist or to correct a behaviour so as not to gain any further attention from them could make a difference.

He saw the other two sniffen fractionally, still trying to carry on without seeming affected, but there lay a fragility to their poise. It shattered entirely, replaced by the placid stoicism of a soldier at attention when the Kaminoans angled their walk to approach their section of racks. Crosshair moved as one with the present members of his squad to sit up and swing their legs over their racks to climb down by the ladder.

The progress was slower than their usual promptness due to Tech being the first one on the ladder due to his rack's location and the only one of them injured, but soon Tech dropped down first, wobbly but he managed to stay upright.

He was followed by Crosshair, who had snatched one of the crutches for Tech then Snap, who had grabbed the other, rung after rung until they could each drop down onto the floor and the latter pair to pass off each crutch to Tech. The other having balanced on one foot with a handhold on the side of the ladder until he could accept both crutches and stand to the side.

All of them came to proper attention then before the head scientist.

“At ease.” Nala Se’s serene voice slowly enunciated, waving a three-fingered hand towards Tech, she addressed Crosshair and Snap, “We only require CT-9919, the rest of you are free to continue with your preparations for the sleep cycle.”

Angling her head down to eye Tech, Nala Se dismissed the other two experimental clones without need of words, ordering in the same passive voice, “Come, CT-9919.”

Neither Crosshair nor Snap dropped from their parade rest, only glancing at each other once Nala Se and Alna Zhi turned around, both of the Kaminoans expecting Tech to follow without need for further command or guidance. Which is exactly what Tech had begun to do, but he threw a backwards glance to the others, the look of trepidation was clear upon the smaller clone’s pinched features. Eliciting Snap to offer a tiny smile and give an encouraging nod, whilst Crosshair merely stared hard and ground his teeth until Tech had to turn back round.

“You’re going to have no teeth left if you keep that up.” Snap said once they disappeared from sight, he leant over to bump his shoulder into Crosshair’s.

Shifting away from the touch with a scowl on his face, Crosshair reached up to rub at his shoulder despite the blow not having hurt, biting out in a harsh tone, “He didn't do well in our last sim or any sim we've done, now Mistress Nala Se comes with Alna Zhi to take him, and all you could do was smile and nod at him?”

“Oh so glaring at him is the better option?” Snap quipped back, matching Crosshair’s venom, “That's certainly the last thing someone wants to see before you-know-what, Cross…. If that's even what they took him for, it could be a check up for all we know.”

An abrasive scoff came from Crosshair then, as he turned to ascend up the ladder once more, however his tone had lost its sharp edges when he spoke next, “You're not that naive.”

“No, but unlike you I can hope for a better outcome.” Snap shot back, again mirroring the easing of Crosshair’s tone in his own, as made to follow his brother back to their racks, “Besides Tech’s brain is too useful for them to just you-know, the Kaminoans aren't wasteful, especially not of any asset that they can exploit.”

Crosshair merley hummed in reply, not wanting to place any stock in his brother’s hopeful words, despite his reasoning and logic making sense. The Kaminoans cared about the clones insofar that they could profit from them, either through work here on Kamino or by the large sums the republic was paying for the creation of their army. Every investment was utilised, only when they were truly lost causes with no worth nor ability were they decommissioned. Reconditioning however was a more prevalent solution, costing more time rather than more credits.

But it was no comfort to Crosshair, for the affliction harming Tech’s field work scores wasn't something that could be fixed by mental or physical reconditioning. The issue with his eyes would persist even if the Kaminoans tried to recondition him. So unless Nala Se, and more importantly Lama Su, thought Tech was worth eye surgery or cybernetic replacements that's bring his vision up, decommissioning seemed the only outcome. Or diverted from field cadet rosters to planet-based, likely rendered to maintenance or perhaps intelligence if his vision didn't continue to worsen to the point words became impossible to read.

That knowledge had Crosshair’s stomach twisting, an odd dark feeling settling deep within his centre. Even if Tech wasn't to be decommissioned, he would be reassigned. And that still was little consolation if whatever was causing his vision to fail ended up worsening.

Settling down onto his back on his rack, Crosshair placed his hands behind his head and crossed his legs at his ankles. His features were pinched, his thoughts growing increasingly pensive and, if he was being honest with himself, worried for their youngest squadmate. Growing up as they had, unique amongst physical carbon copies and experimented on even before they held proper shape within their growth tubes, had left the concept of trust a tentative, fragile thing between anyone but him and his batchmates. Which was continually being chipped away at with all the tension that continued to increase between all of them.

To accept an outsider, another clone from a different batch who they hadn't spent the last four years coming to know seemed an impossibility. But Tech hadn't been some reg they decided to plop into a random squad, the smaller clone had been an experimental clone just like the rest of them. Tested on since before he had a proper heartbeat when his coded DNA had blipped an anomaly on the Kaminoan’s screens, a deviant from the very beginning with exceptional skills just like them.

Feeling a tap on his thigh, Crosshair was pulled from his internal musings by abrupt poke and turned towards where Snap had his leg stretched out to poke Crosshair in the leg again. The gesture had him glaring at his brother in annoyance.

“You're thinking too loud.” Snap said in a way of explanation, a tense smirk uplifted a corner of his lips, “Someone had to intervene before you started smoking from your ears.”

“Jagyc.” Crosshair growled, which only caused Snap to chuckle, unaffected by Crosshair’s sour mood.

A moment of silence reigned between them after that, until Snap spoke up again, softly yet with surety, “He won't be reconditioned either, Cross. They wouldn’t risk his mind like that. He's too valuable, even at his age.”

Crosshair huffed and flipped over onto his other side, his back facing his brother. Unwilling to admit that his brother’s words had wormed their way into his chest, allowing the seed of hope to take root, replacing the hollow feeling that had taken residence there when Nala Se had escorted Tech away. Although every instinct was warning against the wisdom of expecting a good outcome, as he listened to his brother shift to lay back onto his own bunk and settle down to sleep, Crosshair figured if he could trust anything in this world, even on chance things such as this, it'd be his brother.

“‘night, vod.” Came the quietly utter sentence from Snap behind him before the hydraulic hiss of his rack retracting into the wall was heard.

Waiting a few moments more, until he was able to pick out the sound of the rest of their batchmates returning from the showers, before Crosshair too turned to depress the button on the wall that would retract his own rack into the wall so he could sleep. There was only eleven minutes before official lights out anyway, so none would question his nor Snap’s earlier turn in.

Thus shifting further down into the thin mattress pad, he pulled the standard-issue blanket up over himself and closed his eyes to wait for sleep.

TBC.

#bayze's writing #my writing #star wars the bad batch #the bad batch #swtbb #tech #crosshair #tech tbb #crosshair tbb #original clone characters #swtbb fanfiction #swtbb fanfic #star wars the bad batch fanfiction #star wars the bad batch fanfic #tech fanfiction #crosshair fanfiction

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whump-captain · 2 years

Text

No. 7 - The way you shake and shiver

Shaking hands | Seizures | Silent panic attack

1k words | OC: Ghost Ambulance, Apocalypse, Run storyline following directly from here

ok of this one i am Certain it doesn't make that much sense. but we're killing our perfectionism here baybeeee

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CN: lady whump, emotional whump, angst, panic attack, hyperventilation, past death of family members, past grief, mentioned gunshot, apocalyptic setting

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The two lights are alternating in glowing slow motion. As one fades in, the world gains a magenta tint that paints spirals in the swirling smoke. The other one replaces it when it fades out and at that, everything goes blue. Then the red blurs in again. Then it blurs out.

There is sound, too, but Elaine can't hear it. The buzz of commotion is muted, as if coming to her from under a thick blanket, as if she's five years old again and hiding her head under a pillow to stop the world from bringing her any more news. Her hands are numb, as if she's bitten her nails until they bled. But she hasn't done it in so long, so she must be fifteen again and the ambulance's open back door must be a ravenous maw, ready to swallow another person she cares about, devour them, and only spit back the news that they have died and left her alone again.

She can't breathe.

She stands motionless among the ruins and the cracks on the asphalt blur together in her eyes. Her lungs have no space to expand. There's an grip around her ribcage and it hurts, a piercing pain as if she's the one who just got shot. Everything rushes around her, like she's the one being wheeled away on a stretcher. Everything is swaying and they're pushing that stretcher into the devouring dark and Cutter is going to die, she knows it, because nobody who disappears in an ambulance ever comes back to her alive; and the air is so hot she can't stand to take another breath, she's frozen still and she can't breathe. Her face is wet and so are her hands and oh, Gods, she killed someone; she attacked without thinking because there was a gunshot and she had to protect them and Joy could have died too but that's no excuse; and there are hands on her shoulders but it must be fake because everyone who loves her is dead; and the voice barely makes it through the pounding of her heart but it's so sharp and high and like a melody, and it repeats something, rhythmical like the swaying all around her:

"Breathe," it says. "Elaine, you're okay. Just breathe."

The shivering blur of her vision gathers, a single stain of colour forms a face in tear-glazed soft focus. Joy is there, right in front of her. She's alive, she's holding her shoulders, but there's soot and blood all over her clothes and she's crying too, and she could be hurt, and-

"Breathe," Joy repeats. "Sit down. You're okay."

Gentle pressure is enough to buckle Elaine's knees and Joy sits down with her. "Come on," she says. "I'll count for you. Breathe in now."

She raises her hand and counts slowly: one, two, three, four, five. Elaine can't focus on anything but the blood staining the fingers that she raises with each number. Pain constricts her chest again and she opens her mouth to speak but her voice dissipates like smoke.

"Breathe in," Joy says. "One, two…"

Elaine forces herself to look her in the eyes. How are they so calm even through the tears, how is she counting so steadily, how can someone go for so long without breathing and how does she even begin to get her lungs to obey her again? Where does she start? There's number one again, maybe this is the place. But the moment's passed, now it's three, four, five. But then it's one again and she gasps, like a drowned woman discovering air all anew.

Once she starts inhaling, she can't stop. Her chest hurts so she keeps gasping and the world wobbles again - but Joy's voice is still there. Counting. Repeating.

"You're okay. Just breathe. You're okay."

Over and over. Until Elaine believes her. Until she remembers that she has to breathe out, too, and waits for another number one to let out air on a long, shuddering hiss.

"That's good." Joy's voice is gentle, even. "Now in."

She leads Elaine through it breath by breath: five seconds in, five seconds out. Then, slowly, the world begins to gain detail again and as Elaine's heartbeat slows, she realizes her hands are shaking. She feels it rather than sees and she's not brave enough to look down and find them covered in blood. Instead, she takes in Joy's face, allowing her presence to become fact. She's here and she's okay. She's got one of Elaine's hands in hers and their fingers stick together but the warmth of her skin is enough to keep Elaine anchored to the cracked asphalt and the biting smoke. The flowing tears do nothing to ease the burning in her eyes.

She wants to explain, but she can't force her words out. Her body feels impossibly heavy now and she sways with a sudden rush of departing adrenaline. Joy catches her by the shoulders again.

Elaine marvels at the embers of determination in her dark eyes. How can she be so calm even with tears still running down her face? She wipes at them almost with annoyance, leaving a smudge of dirt and makeup across her cheek. She sighs.

"Let's go to the hospital, yeah?" she says, voice rough with smoke and exhaustion.

Elaine wants to protest. She wants to tell her, wants the memories to spill out and turn her back into a five-year-old who was too young to understand that people died in hospitals. She wants to be fifteen and feel the loss afresh, she wants to be numb with it so it can't hurt her again. She wants her parents back. She wants to talk to her sister. She wants to never speak to anyone again. She wants to roll everything back and not care whether Cutter lives or dies. She wants him to be okay. She wants Joy to stay with her. She wants to be alone. She wants to sleep.

She shakes her head. It could mean anything and she lets it.

But she follows when Joy stands up and together they watch the ambulance slowly drive away into the chaos and fog.

"Let's go," Joy says quietly. "It's gonna be okay."

And because it's her, Elaine finds it within herself to believe her.

#whumptober2022 #no.7 #silent panic attack #oc #writing #panic attack fic #grief #loss of family #captain's stuff #captain's ocs #ghost ambulance #i do love making elaine cry #anyway this one's a post-and-forget i had a real struggle w/ this prompt #but i don't vibe with most of the alts either tbh so i have to ration them :|#i'll probs start slowing down this weekend ive got some stuff coming up #but that's chill bc im here to have fun

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a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all · 2 years

Text

How Was Your Day?

Fandom: Batman, Batfam, Jason Todd x Reader

Word Count: 4335

TW: Whump, Aftermath, Pain, Blood, Treating Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, Angst

Note: Can be read as a stand-alone piece or as part of the Questions series of interconnected one-shots

As you descend the steps into the Batcave, you can’t help but feel a little nervous. You have only ever been down here a few times, and always with Jason. But, right now, you need help and don’t know where else to turn. Glancing around the darkened room, you feel a slight wave of relief at the sight of the man in the black and blue costume currently working on the computer. Thank God it’s him and not Bruce. Jason would never forgive me if I brought the Bat into this.

“Hey there, Dickwing. Whatcha doing?”

Without looking up from the screen, Dick mutters, “Yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before.”

“Oh, come on. I thought it was pretty good.”

“The first time Jason called me that was when he was fourteen.”

“Okay, fine. I guess I’ll have to try harder to come up with something original then.”

Dick just shakes his head with a grin as he turns to face you. His face falls a little when he sees you are alone. “Speaking of which, where is Jaybird?”

You shift uncomfortably as you let your forced smile drop from your face. “Um…That’s kind of why I’m here. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean, he left on a stake out or undercover ops or something on Monday. I don’t really have any details. You know he doesn’t tell me what he’s getting up to. But technically, he said he might not be back until next week sometime.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I haven’t heard from him the last two nights.”

Dick chuckles. “Is that what’s got you so worried? I’m sure he’s fine. He just probably can’t get service or lost his phone or something.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get it. Jason always calls me every night to see how my day was and to let me know he is alright. Or if he can’t, he at least sends me a text. And I mean he always checks in. One time he broke his phone and he somehow managed to track down the only pay phone left in town just to check in. And I still haven’t figured out how, but he even managed to call me last year when you guys were dealing with that villain in the middle of outer space. He never misses a check in. Ever. And I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help thinking about the last time he didn’t come home…”

You feel your voice start to quiver as you try to hold back all the emotions that are threatening to overwhelm you. While the two of you had only been best friends at the time, you had already had to deal with losing Jason once. Now that he was back and the two of you were in a serious relationship, you weren’t sure how you could survive losing him again.

Dick stands up and pulls you into a warm hug. “Listen, I’m sure he’s fine. Jason can take care of himself. It’s not going to be like last time. He’s come a long way since then. And even if there is trouble, he can handle it.”

You sniff. “I know. But I’ve patched him up enough times to know all it takes is one small slip up, one overlooked attacker, one well-placed gun shot. No matter how good he is, something can always go wrong, and it often does. You guys aren’t like Superman or Wonder Woman. Bones break, bullets hurt, you can die.” A sob tears from your lips. You have been trying so hard to stay strong, to tell yourself you are just being stupid and overreacting. But ever since the first night Jason didn’t check in, all you can do is relive that moment years ago when you opened your front door to find Bruce solemnly standing there. When he had shattered your world into a million pieces.

You never told Jason how much his death still affects you. How some nights you wake up in a cold sweat, tears streaming down your face before you remember he is no longer dead. How some nights you can’t fall asleep until he comes back from patrol just to prove to yourself it wasn’t all just wishful thinking. How some nights when he wakes up to find you wrapped tightly around him it is because that’s the only way you can convince yourself he is really alive, by experiencing the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart. And now that you haven’t even been able to get a word of reassurance, you have been left drowning in these fears.

Finally, after you are all cried out, you pull away slightly and wipe the tears from your face. “I’m sorry. I feel so stupid. He’s only been out of contact for two days and I just fall apart. I thought I was stronger than this.”

Dick puts his hands on your shoulders and stares steadily into your eyes. “Listen to me. It’s okay to be worried. When I say Jason’s going to be okay, I am not trying to minimize or downplay the danger involved with the work we do. We both know what can happen. And being worried about him while he is out there does not make you weak. It makes you human. And it means that you care.”

You nod softly. “I just need to know. One way or another, I don’t care how bad it is, I just need answers.”

“I get it. I’ll reach out to some people and see what I can find out. Maybe he told Roy or Kori what he was doing.”

“Thank you, Dick…. And I know things are still not the best between you all, but I hope you know how much Jason still loves and respects you. We both think you are a pretty great big brother.” You give him a small peck on the cheek, causing him to blush.

As you turn to leave, he grabs your hand. “Hey, as for the other reason he might not have called you or come home…” He hesitates as he tries to figure out how to put this next part delicately.

You cut him off with a chuckle. “Oh, I’m not worried about that. He knows better than to step out on me. I would make what the Joker did to him seem like a deep tissue massage.” Your voice becomes more serious. “Besides, I know he loves me too much to do that to me.”

Dick nods. “I know that, but I just wanted to make sure you knew that too.” He gives your hand a small squeeze. “I’ll check in in the morning but let me know if you hear from him.”

You squeeze his hand back. “I will. Thank you.” And with that, you leave the Batcave, feeling slightly better than you did when you arrived.

It is close to midnight by the time you get back to your building. It’s been a long day, so you forgo the stairs and decide to take the elevator up to your ninth story apartment. As you dig through your bag, trying to find your keys, you replay your conversation with Dick in your head. You are so grateful he was the one in the cave tonight. You were pretty sure the conversation would have gone quiet differently if it had been either Bruce or Damian. You chuckle to yourself, imagining the kind of advice Jason’s youngest brother would have given you.

The chuckle dies in your throat as the elevator doors open and you are confronted with a scene straight out of a horror movie. Blood is smeared across the walls and floor, in a clear path straight from the stairwell to your door at the end of the hall. Your heart leaps in your chest as you take off running. When you reach your front door, you see it is slightly ajar. The handle is slick with blood and you can clearly make out a large, gory handprint on the frame. Trembling, you push the door open, afraid of what you will find on the other side.

The inside of the apartment is in a similar condition to the hall. Blood is scattered and smeared all over as if someone had erratically stumbled around the room. As you round the corner, you spy a familiar red helmet abandoned haphazardly on the floor. The front face had been shattered leaving nothing but a dark, jagged hole. Picking up your pace, you rush down the hall, past a pair of discarded, bloody boots. As you approach the bedroom door, you stumble in the dark on a heap in the middle of the floor. Picking it up, you recognize the familiar leather jacket but it is now slashed in multiple places and darkened by large bloody splotches. Clutching it to your chest, you reach out hesitantly to rest your hand on the knob of the bedroom door. You are terrified of what you will find on the other side. After several deep breaths, you finally work up the courage and push the door open.

Jason is curled up in a ball on his side of the bed. The covers are pulled up to his chin and his hair is limply concealing much of his face, making it difficult for you to make out much in the dim lighting. However, one of his arms is draped over the edge of the bed. You can see as blood trails down it and drips off his fingertips into a growing pool on the floor. Tears immediately spring to your eyes as you take a small step forward. Oh, baby. Who did this to you?

You try calling out to him, but it just comes out as a strangled whimper. He doesn’t move. You slowly approach the bed and place one hand gingerly on his shoulder, this time saying his name with more strength and urgency. Still no reaction. As you remove your hand from his shoulder, you notice it is now sticky with blood.

You start hyperventilating as you stand over Jason’s motionless body. Not again. Please, not again. I can’t lose him again.Placing two fingers against his neck, you try to check his pulse but the shaking of your hand makes it difficult. Just when you think you can feel something, Jason emits a series of painful, hacking coughs.

You feel relief sweep through your body. Thank God! He’s still alive. Mercifully, you watch as his eyes flutter open, though they are cloudy and unfocused. Finally, he notices you standing over him and his face spreads into a pained, yet familiar grin. Weakly, he rasps, “Hey, babe. How was your day?”

All the fear you had built up morphs into anger in a second. “How was my day? How was my day! I don’t hear from you for two days, then I come home to find you like this, and the only thing you can say to me is ‘how was your day?’” You jump up and storm to the other side of the room. “Screw you, Todd! No, you know what, you want to know how my day was? I had a productive morning at work, followed by a nice long walk in the park to clear my head, then I went and had a lovely heart-to-heart talk with your brother-” Jason started to say something but you cut him off- “only to come home to find my apartment turned into a scene from a slasher movie and you bleeding out on my new bed! How do you think my day is going!”

He gives a small sheepish chuckle at your outburst. “I would bet probably still better than mine. And, since we are living together now, technically it’s our new bed…”

Your face is a stony mask of fury. “I know your poor excuse for humor is your way of coping with terrible situations, but I. Am. Not. Laughing.”

Jason tries to respond, but his words are drowned out by another coughing fit. His entire body spasms violently, and, through the darkness, you think you see blood spray from his lips. When he finally settles back down, you run your hand wearily over your face. “You always know how to win an argument, don’t you?” You approach the bed once more. “Let me take a look.”

Jason feebly tries to stop you, but you flick on the light and pull back the covers. As you take in the extent of his injuries, it takes everything in you not to immediately burst into tears. His right eye is swollen shut and the white of his left eye is a bloody mess from what you are assuming is a burst blood vessel. His nose is slightly crooked and the dried blood trails leading from each nostril suggests it had been recently bleeding. His hair is matted flat to his face from a combination of blood and sweat. However, the damage to his face is nothing compared to the rest of his body. Listening to his breathing and the way he is curled up in the bed, you could guess he had a few cracked, if not broken ribs. You can see at least three places where he had been shot and half a dozen places where he had been unable to avoid a knife. It was one of these slashes that was causing the blood to drip down his arm onto the floor. Looking him over, you didn’t even know where to begin patching him up.

“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guys.” Jason tried to sound lighthearted, but you could hear the underlying pain in his voice.

You scoff lightly. “Are they dead? Because if they are worse off than you, I don’t see how they could still be alive.” When he doesn’t answer, you softly whisper, “Jay, I need to get you to a hospital. Like now.”

“No hospitals. You know the rules.”

“I don’t care about the damn rules! You’re going to bleed out if I don’t get you help soon! Honestly, judging from the amount of blood in the hall and on the floor, I don’t see how you haven’t bled out already.”

“No hospitals.” Jason repeats firmly. “How are we supposed to explain this? What could we possibly say to rationalize how Bruce Wayne’s son, who has been dead for over five years, came into the ER alive but with multiple bullet holes and stab wounds? The media would have a field day.”

“I don’t care! At least you would be alive! Besides, I think this would be the perfect opportunity to reintroduce Jason Todd to the world. There is a perfectly logical explanation for both issues. Just say you were kidnapped five years ago and were just injured making your escape.” You see him start to protest again, so you cut him off with an exasperated sigh. “Fine, no hospitals, but I’m taking you to the manor. Bruce or Alfred can patch you up with the equipment in the cave.”

“Over my dead body,” Jason growls.

“It will be if we don’t do something soon!” you shoot back.

“Listen, I’ll be fine. You know I can withstand a lot more than most people due to the aftereffects of the Lazarus Pit. Most of this will be gone by morning.”

“You’re not immortal Jay, you can still die.”

“Yeah, but not tonight.” He tries to sit up but winces in pain and collapses back into the bed. Looking up at you, he sees the concern on your face, the tears threatening to slip from your eyes. He sighs, “Listen baby, I’m hurting pretty bad right now. Can we finish this fight later? You’ve patched me up hundreds of times before. It doesn’t have to be pretty, just deal with the big stuff and my body will heal the rest.”

You pause. No matter how many times he has come home injured or no matter how badly he has been hurt, you had never heard Jason acknowledge the fact he was in pain. If he was admitting to it now, he must be really bad off.

“Fine. But this fight is far from over.” With that, you hurry to the bathroom to gather the necessary supplies.

You figure it is probably better if Jason doesn’t lapse back into unconsciousness, so as you grab various items from the bathroom, you yell back to him, “So what happened? I got really worried when you didn’t call these past two nights.”

“I know, I’m sorry babe. I was trying to gather intel on this drug cartel who’s been making waves in the Gotham underground for the past few months. I guess I was spotted by one of their men because the next thing I knew, I was waking up strapped to a table. They used some not so nice methods to try and gather some intel of their own. It just took me longer than I expected to break free.”

“I thought you promised me you wouldn’t take on entire gangs by yourself anymore.”

“Based on the info I had, the cartel was supposed to be pretty small, only a few guys. But apparently, that wasn’t the case.”

Finishing in the bathroom, you quickly go to the kitchen and grab the big bottle of whisky you keep under the sink for these situations. You know it is the only form of painkiller Jason will take and you have a feeling he is going to need it. Luckily, you had just bought this replacement bottle on your last trip to the store. “So, how many guys are we talking?”

“Just like fifteen or so. Twenty max. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“JASON! Twenty cartel members by yourself! Seriously, why didn’t you call Dick or Roy for backup?” You hear him mumble something, but you can’t make it out from across the apartment. “WHAT?”

Louder, he grumbles. “I said, it was Roy’s week with Lian and it was Dick’s nights off.”

“So? Call him anyway.”

“The past two nights were the first ones he’d taken off all month and he kept talking about some big plans he had. He sounded so excited, I didn’t want to ruin it.”

You feel your tears threatening to fall again. Like you had told Dick earlier in the cave, you knew Jason still loved his family even if there was some rocky history there. But you also knew that this was the closest Jason would get to actually admitting it. You thought it was so sweet that your boyfriend had wanted to give his big brother his special night. You didn’t have the heart to tell Jason that Dick’s big plans had been him sitting on his couch for two days straight eating pizza and playing video games with Wally.

Instead, as you reenter the bedroom with your supplies, you simply say, “That’s really thoughtful of you Jay, but I think your death would ruin his plans more than your phone call. So please, next time, call for backup.”

Jason just grunts. You roll your eyes as you toss him the bottle of whiskey. As he takes a few big swigs and you wait for it to kick in, you take a wet rag and gently wipe the blood from his nose. You have to be careful since you are fairly certain it is broken. Next, you try to clean some of the blood from his matted hair. You discover a small head wound which seems to be the cause of the mess, but it has already clotted so you don’t think there is much more you can do for it. You place the bag of frozen peas you had grabbed from the freezer and lay it over his right eye. Jason winces slightly from the cold but still says nothing.

Once you are finished with the damage to his head, you help him remove his shirt. You flinch when you see the blue and purple bruises scattered across his ribs, but instead of commenting, you just help him wrap them up. Next, you move on to the bullet wounds. Luckily, they all seemed to be through-and-throughs so you don’t have to try and dig them out. You shutter as you remember the last time you had attempted that. You quickly sew the wounds and softly kiss the stitches as you finish each one. Jason smiles as you tie off the last one and he takes another long drink from the half empty bottle. His visible eye is slightly unfocused and that worries you. Jason has an incredibly high tolerance for alcohol and it normally takes almost a bottle and a half before he starts having this kind of reaction. However, you still have to deal with the injuries caused by the knife, so you push the thought to the side for the moment.

Once you have finished sewing up the last of the knife wounds, you survey the end results. At this point, Jason is more bandage than skin but at least there doesn’t seem to be any blood soaking through. At least not yet. You chuckle as you head to the bathroom to put the supplies away, “Too bad it isn’t closer to Halloween. I think you make a pretty good mummy!”

You hear him mutter something that you can’t make out. As you reenter the bedroom, you notice that his good eye is half closed and he is shivering slightly. Hurrying over, you place a hand on his forehead and promptly jerk it back. “Jason, you are burning up! Why didn’t you say something?”

“You were busy,” he mumbles. “’Sides, this happens sometimes. Body goes into overdrive. Heals faster. Pit side effect.” He shivers again, this time more violently.

You grab a fresh blanket from the closet and gently drape it over him. He wraps it tightly against his body as he once again curls into a fetal position. You run your fingers through his damp hair, ignoring the remaining blood and sweat. “Is there anything I can get for you? Anything else I can do?”

Jason doesn’t answer. You figure he probably fell asleep. However, as you turn to leave, you hear a small whisper, “Can you just hold me?”

You gently kiss the top of his head. “Of course, baby. Always.” As carefully as possible, you climb into bed trying not to jostle him. You gently slide beneath the blanket so you are pressed against his bare back. Gingerly, you wrap your arms around his bandaged chest and pull yourself closer to him. You feel him relax into you.

After a minute, he whispers, “Thank you. For everything.”

“Don’t think we are done talking about this. But right now, I’m just glad you’re okay.” You kiss his shoulder and nuzzle your face into his neck. “I love you, Jay.”

“I love you too, baby.” After a few minutes, his breathing slows, and you can tell he is fast asleep. It is only then, with your broken hero in your arms and the vibrations of his heartbeat pulsing through your chest, only then that you let your tears fall.

You are both awoken a few hours later by your text alert. You groan and roll over to see who is bothering you this early. Glancing at the name displayed on the screen, you feel a twinge of guilt. But before you can read the message, Jason growls groggily over his shoulder, “Who the hell is it?”

“Your brother.”

“Which one?” comes the muffled reply.

“The only one who would text me at 5 am to check in on you.”

Jason just grunts and repositions himself under the covers. Glancing over at him, you are pleased to see most of his visible wounds have healed significantly and there still doesn’t seem to be any blood showing through the bandages.

Sleepily turning back to your phone, you open the chat with Dick.

- Any news? Ive been asking around but no luck

- J was here wen i got bak. pretty hurt so took while 2 fix hm up. we kinda passd out after. sorry i didnt call

- No I get it. Just glad you found him. Is he ok?

- will be. needs rest but should b fine

- Ok, let me know if you guys need anything. I will come check on you in a day or 2. Tell him Im glad hes ok.

- i willll. Thx for evrythng Dick. ill call u l8r

You turn off your phone so you won’t be disturbed again and you return to your spot snuggled up close to Jason. Just as you are drifting back to sleep, a bloodcurdling shriek comes from right outside the apartment. Both you and Jason bolt up, prepared for an incoming attack. However, as you hear more yelling and commotion from the hall, it dawns on you what the fuss is about. You groan as you scramble out of bed, quickly tearing off your clothes from last night which are stiff and stained with Jason’s blood.

Jason turns to you confused. “What’s going on?”

You quickly grab the first clean outfit you see. Already halfway out of the room, you call back to him as you pull your shirt over your head. “Go back to sleep. I was so focused on you last night, I forgot to clean up the blood you left smeared all over the hallway. I have no idea how I’m supposed to explain this one.”

You hear Jason chuckling, just as someone begins loudly pounding at your front door. You shake your head. That boy is going to owe me big time for this mess. Just before you open the door, you plaster a smile on your face and take a deep breath. You can already tell this is going to be a long day.

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