#no. 28 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ashintheairlikesnow · 6 months

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A Good Time Coming

CW: Creepy whumper, mind-controlled background characters, defiant whumpee, some brief references to past noncon

If Lord Guilford Wentworth were not the wealthiest man in seven kingdoms, he would have been perhaps the most easily forgotten person Kiraya had ever seen.

When Babbage led Kira into what the butler called ‘the small sitting room’, she found herself in the single largest such room she had ever been in in her life, with Wentworth seated at a table with tea and slices of thick freshly-baked bread laid out before him in quite the spread. He was lighting a candle using matches, failing repeatedly to get one to stay lit for more than a moment or two, before finally the fifth one caught.

He dropped the matches into a glass of water thoughtlessly, one by one.

Ceilings soared above her head, and artwork that must have cost a fortune was arrayed on every single wall. Sculptures and statues were settled here and there on tables or stands. In the center of the whole bizarrely luxurious mismatched mess was Wentworth himself, a steaming cup of strong black tea before him.

He looked like no one in particular, whatsoever.

He appeared to be a man in his late thirties or perhaps early forties, with average brown hair and average build, slightly squinty eyes behind spectacles whose color wasn't clear, maybe brownish, maybe not. Nearly the moment her eyes moved to gaze out the windows at the impressively designed and carefully landscaped gardens outside, she realized she struggled to remember any exact features on his perfectly normal, blandly handsome face.

He looked up at her, slipping his knife into a small jar. What came out was so strangely brownish-red and viscous that at first Kira thought he had dipped the knife into drying blood. Her breath caught, stomach turning as flashes of darker mythologies she had read during her studies ran through her mind.

Then she blinked.

It wasn’t brownish at all, it was just simple berry jam. She exhaled in relief. The strange moment with the creature locked away must have her nerves absolutely frayed.

The lord’s smile was firmly fixed in place, and his eyes were cold and pitiless. His voice was cultivated, artificially so. “My goodness. Is this the new magician?”

“It is, sir, yes.” Babbage cleared his throat slightly. He stood even straighter in the man's presence, as if he were worried he might be called out on any posture less than perfect. “May I present Miss Kiraya Losna of the Tiendra, sir. Miss Losna, this is Lord Guilford Wentworth the Fourth, advisor to His Majesty King Leonin the Brave.”

Kira would eat her tragically lost hat if he wasn’t the first, second, and third Guilford Wentworths, too, but it wouldn't do to bring that up again, after the strange way that Babbage had acted before. She forced herself to smile and dipped into a curtsy, her skirts swirling around her feet. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Wentworth.”

He did not stand, or bow, only tipped his chin to look her over. She supposed she had come as an employee, and maybe he didn’t give the same courtesies as he might do with actual guests, but the rudeness felt a little unsettling all the same.

He looked her slowly up and down, and Kira felt his gaze on her body like an oil slick might be felt on the wings of a seabird. She lifted her chin, just a little, and straightened her shoulders. Unsettling bastard that he was, she would show him no sign she noticed.

“You…” Lord Wentworth trailed off, and his smile shifted to a slightly quizzical frown. “You look quite awful, Miss Losna.”

“I-... what?” She glanced down at herself, and then winced. “Oh.” There were reddish stains at roughly the same height as her knees, from where the water and dried blood had mixed, and likely similar stains on the back of her skirts, too. The cloth was torn - apparently her protection spell hadn’t protected her clothing from the creature’s claws - and she already knew her hair was coming out of its updo and her hat was gone. She felt herself flush, embarrassed more at the simple fact that she felt ashamed of herself at all than at anything else. “My apologies, Lord Wentworth, I only-... well, I just…”

He waited, looking absurdly patient. When she simply trailed off, he tipped his head in curiosity. “You… what, Miss Losna? Were you caught in the storm? I was sure I heard the carriage arrive before it began…”

Oh, had he? And yet he certainly had made no effort to come and greet her with his butler...

“Miss Losna requested to have a look at the serpent in person immediately upon arrival, sir.” Babbage spoke hurriedly, and Kira fought the urge to smile gratefully at him for covering for her nerves so smoothly. “She was somewhat overcome by an attempt at an attack on her person."

Now Lord Wentworth stood, and everything about him changed.

He wasn’t particularly tall - Kiraya Losna was taller, actually, and would have been even if she weren’t wearing her walking boots - but he became quickly imposing when the leer fell from his expression and was replaced by an entirely different piercing stare. “You saw it? Alone? And it attacked you?”

His voice was meant to hold a tone of worry, Kira thought, but all she heard was something like… jealousy, which made no sense at all. Jealousy and anger, and she thought of the magic on the siren's skin, the look of resignation in the beautiful creature's eyes.

The way the siren had said, He named me Areyto, because I dance to his tune.

She set her jaw, and kept her posture ramrod straight. She fought the urge to take a step back even as Wentworth came closer. “I did, yes. I stepped inside and the creature did attempt to take me by surprise, but I had cast a protection spell on myself and so his goal was not achieved. He quickly abandoned whatever idea he had about such an attack and went back to his waters."

Wentworth’s eyes narrowed, shifted to the side and then back again. For just one single second, she saw in him an inhuman wariness, like one of the big lions in the hills eyeballing what might be prey… or another predator. Then he plastered the gentle concern back over it, but any chance she would have believed it to be sincere was already gone. "Were you much injured, then, Miss Losna? The creature should not have been able to even begin to mean you harm... but of course, that's why you're here. But if you are injured, I could have my physician see to-"

"This blood is not mine," Kira said quickly, voice brusque. Her heart raced but she kept her expression of perfect outward calm. "It was on the floor already. Based on what I saw, I believe it belongs to the creature himself."

The wariness in him only grew more visible, more obvious. His eyes went to the butler, thoughtfully, and then back to her. A serving-girl entered, with the same damn blissfully hazy smile so many of the servants seemed to wear, beginning her work on dusting the various sculptures and surfaces as if she were living out her wildest dreams. “The thing is injured? Did you… cause it to bleed?”

“No, Lord. As I said, there was blood there when I came in. There were marks on the doors, Lord Wentworth, and they are not the marks of a sea serpent as you stated in your letter.” Kiraya took a deep breath and told herself to be strong, despite the way the man’s eyes narrowed and both the butler and serving-girl turned - briefly - to look at her. “You are keeping a siren in magical chains, and he is trying to break out. He will break out, and within two months or less if I don't miss my guess."

Wentworth turned abruptly away from her. “Babbage. Nadette. Leave us.”

Babbage hesitated, glancing sidelong at Kira, then back at Wentworth, uncomfortable. His eyes were clear again, and Kira wondered if his own spellwork was fading fast, as the siren's faded. If the whole household would soon recall just why they found the work so wonderful. “My lord... the young lady is unmarried. You should not be alone in a room without a chaperone. The gossip, my Lord-”

“I said leave us. Send in Grant and Ellwen.”

Babbage swallowed, his eyes flickering into fog and out again, then he snapped his fingers and pointed as he turned on his heel. The serving-girl followed him as he left, carefully closing the door behind her, leaving Kiraya alone with a man she suspected was nearly two hundred years old… or more. Who knew how long he had been living as a series of men with the same name and face?

“Do you even… pay your staff?” She asked, once she and the lord were entirely alone.

“Of course I do.” Irritated, he went back to his seat, picking up his tea as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, sipping and making a soft sound of contentment. “They are not slaves, Miss Losna. Each was hired after being recommended by an already-employed member of my staff. They come with the highest of references from past employers.”

“How much?”

“I beg your pardon?” Wentworth’s eyes narrowed.

“How much do you pay them? Their salaries, sir?”

“... that is quite an impolite line of questioning, and frankly irrelevant to your work, Miss Losna, which is the only reason I have brought you here and all we need to be discussing. Rest assured my servants are well compensated-"

“It is-... my apologies for interrupting, sir, but it is very relevant to my work when magic rolls off of them as thick as heavy perfume,” Kira said, forcing her voice not to tremble under the strength of his regard. She had walked into a trap, in this house, one set long before anyone had ever heard her name or hired her. “They've been made to see a serpent where a siren sits, haven't they? They have been magicked into believing whatever you tell them, thinking themselves content? So that you have the household you desire, with none of the little troubles that come with human beings. You have committed a crime, Lord Wentworth."

He sighed, as if all of this was quite tiresome and not serious accusations that could have all his grand wealth taken from him by the crown. “I have not hired you for your detective skills, Miss, but because you are a magician. I expect you to enforce the spellwork on my siren before he breaks fully free, take the very generous remuneration I have offered you in return for your services, and be gone.”

“The use of magic of any kind to influence the minds or hearts of others is depraved,” Kira said, but she struggled to keep her voice even. The storm continued outside the windows, and it would be hours before the cab returned to take her back to her lodgings. “And it's damned illegal, at that. It’s a terrible crime, punishable by-”

“Death by drawing and quartering,” Lord Wentworth cut her off, voice dry and unbothered. “I am aware. I believe the head of such a person would be displayed on a spike for all those who use magic to see and learn from, as well. I intend to suffer no such indignities, Miss Losna. None whatsoever."

“Too bad.” Kira found her breathing coming faster, her ribs straining the boning of her dress when her lungs expanded, making her a touch dizzy. “Unfortunate, indeed, because I will not work in such a household, I will tell others not to accept you as a client, and the siren will break free very soon whether you like it or not. Will you walls come crumbling down on that day, my Lord?"

He was smiling now, and yet it was far colder than any frown. “No, dear heart, they will not. You will enforce the spellwork, you will take your payment, and be gone from here afterward… singing my praises.” He chuckled with good-natured humor, as if his hideous joke was truly quite hilarious indeed.

Kira felt her temper flare and forced it back down with every bit of determination she had. “I assure you, Lord Wentworth, I will do no such thing. I simply will not.”

“You will, I assure you, do just as you are told and then leave with no unpleasant memories to bother you. Although I am told there are nightmares, in some with stronger wills…” Some of his humor faded, something wistful in him then as he looked at the rain lashing against the windows, the way the trees blew in a violent wind outside. Thunder rumbled, seemingly further away, the storm moving on. “I could never quite do away with those. My wife used to take laudanum to sleep..."

"Which wife?"

His sharp eyes took her in all over again. "What did you say?"

"I said. I-" Kira’s mouth was dry, her fingertips felt chilled. Cold settled in her chest, laying like a weight over her heart and lungs as she fought to keep her voice even. “I said... which wife required laudanum?"

He gave a humorless chuckle. "I have had four. Three of them have been unable to sleep without assistance from either my siren or some sort of morphia. Four of my children so far have needed it, too. It's a family concern."

"Like tuberculosis? It does seem to do away with your wives quite alarmingly-"

"No." He shook his head. "No, no. That's wholly an accident of fate. That was not me."

"In... in any case. I must refuse this work, and take my leave of your home, respectfully. I will not contact you again, nor charge you for-"

“No.” He shrugged, taking another sip of tea, dainty and distinguished. “Simply put, love, you are going nowhere."

"Don't call me love-"

"The magicians who work for me are paid handsomely, you know, and they remember everything except for what exactly it was they worked on.” He smiled at her, as if they were having a lovely chat over tea and not the sickening litany of criminal actions that kept rolling so easily off his tongue, twisting her stomach in knots.

“I will-... I should report this.” She shouldn't have said that out loud. She was trapped in this man’s home as he casually admitted to crimes worse than nearly any other, and saying she would report him for it? What absolute stupidity.

The storm outside was too violent to risk and yet she felt a wild urge to run out into it and hope that the wind would somehow hide her from pursuit. This man clearly felt absolutely no fear of what could result from her knowing about the creature this early, when they had hardly spoken ten minutes of time and she was refusing the work.

“You could,” He acknowledged. He began to smear the jam on the bread again, the knife scraping in a way that nearly drove her mad. It seemed impossibly loud, despite the thrashing of the wind and rain and the nearly-constant roll of thunder outside. “I am personal friends with His Majesty, who I imagine would be quite upset if someone maligned my character.”

Her heart was pounding. “... have you even spelled the king? This... this is madness.”

His knife paused. He looked up at her without raising his chin, his perfectly average little face bathed in a malevolent smile. “I am a loyal citizen,” He said, gently even, as if speaking to a dim-witted child. “But I am well-read and quite experienced in the machinations of politics. I offer advice, and often he finds it worthwhile to listen. Simple as that.”

“I… I’m going to take my leave, sir.” Kira managed a bow - somehow. “I appreciate the generous of-offer of compensation, but I will… I cannot work on any job where my duties involve profane magics. It violates my most sacred vows. I will. I will leave the city when the weather clears and trouble you no longer."

Kira turned, ready to run.

Instead, she found herself faced with the single largest two men she had ever seen in her life. She hadn’t even heard them enter, but now they blocked the door.

They watched her with impassive, fogged-over eyes in flat faces, arms crossed before them. They must be twins, they were so similar as to nearly be identical - men with dark hair and dark, close-cropped beards and dark eyes. She had to look up and up and up to see them, and they looked down at her, even though she was not a short woman by any means.

Lord Wentworth’s chair scraped behind her.

When she spun to look back at him, the two men behind her made their move. She darted to one side, but she wasn’t fast enough.

Wentworth caught her by her skirts, sending her crashing without dignity to the ground as the cloth ripped with a sound that seemed deafening. The breath was knocked out of her and she gasped, mouth open like a fish out of water. One of the huge men grabbed her by the arms and dragged her back upright, holding her like a squirming little girl as she coughed, begging her lungs to work, finally inhaling audibly.

She caught Wentworth across the chin with her boot, and felt a brief flash of fierce joy in the sight. Then his hand slammed palm-flat into the side of her face with a crack and she slumped, the world a dizzy spin. A trickle ran down from her nose, and she tasted copper when she licked her lips.

The strap of her magic kit was pulled off of her, and she groaned, struggling weakly to grab at it and failing. “No, giv-... giv’t back…”

“Take her to her room,” Wentworth commanded. All the quiet artifice and nobility had gone, leaving something altogether coarser and far colder behind. Kira’s vision blurred as she tried to look back up to see his face, and he slapped her again, and again, and again until she stopped trying to look up at all, until she hung boneless in the rough, thick-fingered hands of the guards.

Her hair hung in her face, fallen loose entirely now. Her face felt hot on one side, throbbing with her racing pulse.

Wentworth sighed. “What a pity it had to begin this way. Well, no matter. I have had at least one marriage begin much worse than this. We have accommodations already prepared for you, Miss Losna. My staff here will see you to them.”

“No,” She said. It came out a croak. “Nnnn-... no.”

He slapped her - a backhand this time - and she cried out. The thunder swallowed it up, as if the very sky was mocking her. At her sound of pain, Wentworth's smile finally looked sincere. “Do not refuse me, Miss Losna, it isn’t wise. Ask any of my wives or children, and they will tell you it's best to simply do what I wish. You will do the work. You will be paid, and then you will leave remembering only a fearsome serpent and a normal house, and what delightful company I was. Or… you can continue to refuse, remain a prisoner in my home until I tire of you, then find yourself utterly adoring each and every moment of my time, giving up your freedom and future in service to your morality... and then losing all those things anyway, as everything about you becomes mine."

He moved one hand up into her hair, fingers sliding along her scalp until he gripped tightly and wrenched her head backwards, forcing her eyes up to his. His forgettable face burned with an old fury. Her throat was bared to him, her vision blurred and swimming. She had a moment of irrational terror that he would open her veins, somehow, with the butter knife covered in jam. Simply slit her from ear to ear, and there would be no way to tell the difference between strawberry and sugar and blood.

“Refuse me and it may as well be a farewell letter to all you love,” Wentworth whispered. “Lose your future, lose the promise and dreams you have had. Find yourself washing my dishes as if it were the greatest future you ever could have imagined… and find yourself in my rooms at night, if I want you. There's nothing all that new or interesting about you, but perhaps you'll surprise me. Refuse me and lose the life of a renowned magician. Instead ,spend it being content in drudgery. Sacrifice all that you are and become whatever tiny, mean little thing I command you to be, and love every single second of it."

She spat in his face.

He wiped at his cheek. “Fine. Lose your life to my desires, if you wish. That is a sacrifice I am quite happy to make. Better women than you already have."

He let go of her hair and went back to his chair, sitting down, picking up his little cup of tea, and going back to his morning as if nothing had happened at all.

The men dragged her away, all her kicking and pulling and struggle meaning nothing to their strength and solid, immovable obedience to command.

“Oh, and Miss Losna?” Lord Guilford Wentworth called after her smugly, “Let me be the first to welcome you home."

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee

For @whumptober 26, 27, 28

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ajpendragon · 6 months

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You'll have to go through Me

The lightning lit up the dark alley, momentarily making everything as bright as day. The resulting crash of thunder was deafening. And then the rain started, as if the heavens had simply decided to dump all the water they contained simultaneously. Scott tried to stand, but his legs refused to take the weight and he crashed to the ground again. It hadn’t been supposed to happen like this. They should have been home right now, not trapped in a dark street, unable to fight back, leaving a little brother to bear that weight.

They weren’t even on a rescue, just out for dinner, spending some of his rare down time trying to catch up on his brother’s life. But on their way home, they had gotten distracted by the entertainment options on the boardwalk, and had spent far too long chasing each other around with bumper cars. It was his fault. He should have paid better attention to the time, and not taken them through the back streets in a hurry to get home.

They had been jumped as they passed the entrance to the alley. He had fought back with the one weapon he carried on him at all times, an old habit that he had never broken. But one small knife wasn’t enough to fight off so many men. Two of them ended up on top of him together, forcing his knife down until it struck his flesh, digging deep. The humiliation of being stabbed by his own knife was nearly as bad as the sting from the wound. They pulled the weapon out, tossing it carelessly to the ground. They underestimated his brother, though, and that was their mistake.

Quick as a flash, he moved, scooping the weapon from the ground and inserting himself between them and Scott. Blood dripped from the blade, mixing with the rain as it fell to the earth. Alan stepped back into a crouch, holding the weapon in front of him. “You want him? You’ll have to go through me.”

#whumptober 2023 #no. 28 #bloody knife #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #alan tracy #blood tw #knives tw

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quietlyimplode · 6 months

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the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: day 28 - Alt prompt - aftermath of failure

Warnings: drugs

Word Count: 1.2k (gif not mine)

Summary: the team goes to find the man responsible for blowing up the avengers tower.

A/N: a little late.. I’ll try and put this one and the next one up today <3 give your loved ones a big hug for me.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

2014

BERLIN

Steve looks at his friends in the quinjet.

Natasha sits flying the plane, concentrating on the way ahead, Clint sitting next to her.

True partners, he thinks, and he feels a pang for Bucky, wanting what they have in someone to always fall back on. Sam shifts in his chair and nudges Steve.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently.

Tony sits across from him, his arm in plaster, and bruises still visible, though his eyes are closed he knows he’s not asleep.

“I’m fine,” he answers.

Bruce sits on the other side of him, and he can feel his nervousness.

It feels hard to believe it had been less than a week since the infiltration.

Christmas was fast approaching.

So was the wedding… if there was going to be one.

Happiness had felt just around the corner.

Until it wasn’t.

He wants this to be over.

“How long?” he calls.

“Thirty minutes,” Natasha replies immediately.

There’s a castle in the middle of the forest.

It’s picturesque and Tony thinks that it’s probably a place he’d like to buy if it wasn’t swarming with Hydra operatives.

He grins to himself, sends the address and cloaking codes and tells Pepper to buy it.

Jarvis guides Tony, and he flies high over the others.

The Iron Legion flies around, two either side of him.

Natasha drives, towards the base, Clint in tow; whilst Steve circles around on his bike. Bruce remains in the jet, ready to go if needed.

He’d apologised but they’d all reassured him that this was for the best.

Tony hoped that they wouldn’t need him.

He saw the toll it took on Bruce, the pain of the aftermath. He felt oddly protective of his friend and shielding him from the pain of his life.

He shoots the first missile at the tower, the deflection hitting; as Jarvis tells him that there’s a shield over it.

“Thanks Captain Obvious,” he says sarcastically, sending the other four suits to provide back up for the others as Natasha and Clint meet a small resistance.

They surge forward, with no regard for safety.

He watches Natasha smile.

Flying back to Steve, he has Jarvis scan the building again.

“Basement floor,” he confirms.

Relaying the information to the others, he finds the building junction box and sets his own directional EMP.

“See how you like it,” he mutters.

Sam flies overhead, seeing all the electricity leave the castle and the panic of a couple of soldiers below. Tony sends the coordinates to his HUD display and he smiles, flies low to Steve and yells.

“Basement! He’s in the basement!”

Tony lands and Sam nods.

“There’s not as many as I thought,” Sam says, heading through the entrance door.

“No,” Tony thinks, “there’s not.”

Steve, Natasha and Clint catch up.

“It seems quiet,” Natasha observes.

Even more-so, as they traverse into the castle.

They come up against one more, that Steve throws his shield at, knocking him out.

The head down; Tony heading their formation, as there’s… no one.

No one comes to greet them and as they move further down, the sense of unease deepens.

Natasha’s grip on her gun tightens.

Clint’s arrow raises higher and Steve stands side by side with Tony, shield in front of him and Sam.

They reach the door, Jarvis confirming that someone is inside and communicate non verbally with each other.

Tony blows the door.

The dust clears and reveals… nothing.

“Jarvis?” he says, a warning tone.

Steve steps forward and stands on a plate, much like the ones at the base of the Avengers Tower.

“Shit,” he says, stepping off and protecting the others from an inevitable blast; only it doesn’t come.

“What was that?” Sam laughs, as he heads into the room behind Steve and Tony, seeing the hallway leading further down.

When they’re all in the room, the door slams behind them, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“It’s not like we can’t blow a hole in the wall,” he smirks inside the suit.

Jarvis assures again that the only heat signature is from below.

“You’re sure it’s Pogodin?”

Jarvis confirms and Natasha doesn’t feel good about the inevitable trap that lays ahead.

Steve takes the lead.

Pogodin stands ahead of them, arms up and large smile on his face.

“Hello Avengers.”

He puts on a gas mask, his face transforming into one of nightmares.

Tony steps forward.

“Do you know what The Raft is?” he says, threatening.

“Tony—“ Clint starts.

But it’s too late, smoke and gas fill the room and Pogodin laughs manically.

“Do you know what you fear?” he asks, “I know what I fear. It’s certainly not you. I know that whilst you are here, then there’s another team after the sceptre, no one protecting it.”

Tony reaches him, pulling him up with one hand, ripping off the mask.

“It’ll be on a submarine and no way to get it,” he laughs, as Tony throws him against the wall.

“All the want for revenge, and you’ve failed to protect… anything, and it will be your downfall.”

Sam drops first, coughing heavily.

“You didn’t think we knew you would come?”

Sam’s vision blurs and he tries to pull himself to stand, holding onto the wall. Clint is next, and Natasha rushes to him.

He looks at her like she’s a ghost and he touches her face.

“Nat?”

Breathing becomes difficult for all of them except Tony and Steve as more smoke and gas heavily sits in the room.

Tony blows the wall, only to be met with more bedrock.

Pogodin laughs.

“We are in the lower recesses of a castle, where do you think you’re going?”

Tony punches him, his anger rising, again and again with his one good arm and swinging fist, until he’s held back by Steve.

“We need to go,” he says urgently, gesturing to the others.

Natasha points weakly upwards, then raises her gun and shoots Pogodin in the head.

Tony holds Clint and Natasha under his arms, depositing them into the quinjet with Bruce.

Both unconscious.

Both sweating.

“Help them,” he says, before flying off to help Steve and Sam.

Urgently, he tries to reach Shield.

Jarvis confirms with Fury that the sceptre is in fact gone and anger curls around him.

He returns with Sam and Steve drives in, all of them back together.

“What happened?” Bruce asks, taking their vitals, as the jet takes off.

“Gas,” Steve says glumly.

“Are you okay?” Bruce asks, checking over Sam.

He sits heavily on the seat next to Tony, and rests his head in his hands.

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ssa-atlas-alvez · 1 year

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Whumptober Day 28 (Aaron Hotchner & y/n Hotchner)

No. 28 IT'S JUST THE TIP OF THE ICEBERG

Anger Born of Worry | Punching the Wall | Headache

Warnings: toxic parents, abusive childhood, abusive dad, gun, argument, heated argument,

Word count: 1222

Major thanks to @wolf-knights for running this through with me :)

“Er, Agent Hotchner,” Your head snaps up, you give Anderson a small smile, not paying attention to the person behind him. “There’s someone here to see you,”

You finally turn your attention to the person behind Anderson and you feel your brain short-circuit. “Wh-What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What sort of a silly question is that?” The woman gives a laugh, “Come on, let’s go somewhere private so we can have a one-on-one chat without prying ears,”

Unsure of what else to do, you nod dumbly and lead the woman to the roundtable room. No one would be there, but they’d still be able to see you, should things turn bad.

When you lead her there, you stay silent, not knowing what to say. This was the woman that left when you were five years old. What was there to say? “Well?” She prompted, before sighing, “Aren’t you going to offer your mum a drink?”

“Sorry, I haven’t exactly done this before,” You bite back, “My mum left when I was five, I guess I don’t really know what the protocol is,”

The woman turns to you, face sour. “Is that really how you respect your elders?”

“The ones that abandoned me and my brothers?” You say, “Yes.”

“How dare you,” She exclaims, “I knew we should only have had two children, I told your father, three is too much. The last one will come out wrong and it seems I was right.”

Your face drops, “What?” You hadn’t expected her to bite back like this, you were expecting maybe one or two comments and then for her to apologise.

“I only wanted Aaron and Sean,” Your mother says slowly.

“Mum?” Your mother turned around, hearing Aaron’s voice.

“Aaron!” She chimed, face lighting up immediately. “How have you been? I’ve missed you,”

“I’m going to ask you to leave,” Aaron said, ignoring her question and not reacting when your mother began to yell loudly in protest. “I won’t ask again. Either you leave or I have you removed.”

She scoffed loudly, “Never would I have thought my own son would treat me so!”

“Leave. Now.” Scoffing once more, she picked her bag up, storming out of the room and down the stairs and out of sight.

“Who was that?” Derek asked, sticking his thumb over his shoulder.

“That would be our mother,” Aaron answers with a sigh.

“I’m just gonna- I’ll be back in just a-” You say, desperately trying to blink the tears from your eyes.

“Take as much time as you need,” Aaron says immediately, “My office is free if you need a moment in there.” You nod, silently making your way to the office.

You weren’t quite sure how you felt. You were feeling something, it was swarming throughout your body. Rage. Frustration. Disappointment. You had stupidly let yourself hope that she had changed. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t changed at all.

Aaron walked into his office, ten minutes later, making sure to clear his throat as he entered the office, he didn’t want to startle you. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he walked in, maybe you crying, perhaps he’d see you throw something unimportant from his desk against the wall, something that showed the intense emotions he knew you were feeling. But no. Aaron didn’t see any of these. Instead, what he saw was his younger brother sitting, staring ahead at the wall, expression blank.

He makes his way to you quickly, kneeling in front of you. You don’t acknowledge him. “(Y/N)?” He asks gently. Your eyes flick to his, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” You whisper, swallowing. You stood up, “Come on, we don’t have time for this- we’ve got a case.”

You make your way to the door, Aaron hot on your heels. “(Y/N), wait, we need to talk about this-”

“I’m fine, Aaron,” You reply, not giving him a chance to reply before you’re closing the door.

You ignore the others in the bullpen, Penelope trying to get you to sit this case out, Rossi telling you that you should stay home and rest, the others agreeing. You pay them no attention. They didn’t think you could do your job. You grab your duffle bag before heading to the jet, choosing to sit on the couch, in the corner. You needed all the security you could get at this point.

The case was tense, but flew by. The unsub had a hostage, a young girl, seventeen maybe eighteen. Not thinking, you had rushed in without a second thought (or your bulletproof vest). Aaron had kept it together at the crime scene, waiting until the team was alone in the police station before stalking up to you, the police were still at the crime scene, leaving just your team there.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Aaron yells, stalking towards you, face like thunder.

“What do you mean ‘what the hell were the thinking’?” You asked, glaring up at him, “I got the guy, didn’t I?” You said, gesturing to the unsub.

“Yeah, and nearly got yourself killed in the process!”

“I was perfectly fine!” You defended, scoffing, “What, you don’t trust me to do my job? That it?”

“(Y/N)-”

“What Aaron?” You ask, folding your arms as you continued to glare. “You gonna give me another self-entitled big brother lecture? Don’t talk back, do as I say, follow my orders, all that crap? Don’t bother.”

Seeing his nostrils flare and fists clenched in anger, you step closer. “What you gonna do Aaron, hit me?” You sneered, “You gonna take all that anger out just like dad used to?”

“(Y/N), stop. You need to calm down, now.” Emily’s voice is strong, but you ignore her. Derek steps in front of you, preventing you from getting closer to Aaron and trying his best to edge you out of the room and away from the situation.

“I know you want to,” You yell, “You get that look in your eyes. Same look he used to get when I messed up after you and Sean pissed off and left me alone with him!”

Rossi found himself stepping forward, preventing Aaron from doing anything he may later regret. “(Y/N), shut up!” Aaron growls.

“What’s wrong? Having trouble accepting that we’re both exactly like him?!”

“How dare-!” Aaron begins to exclaim, pushing past Rossi, finger pointing harshly at you. “How dare you say that.”

“We are,” You sneer, “Look at us! You drove Haley away, just like he drove mum away and I’m not much better!”

“You have no right to say that! No right! That is my family, they are my family!” You stop fighting against Derek for a moment, face dropping. My family. My.

You let Derek push you back and away from Aaron. “My family, huh?” You don’t say anything else, simply turning to Derek, who watched as most of the anger drained out of you.

“There you go, running off again,” Aaron picked, “We all know that’s the real reason you don’t have anyone else except this team.”

Rage floods through your stomach, as you exit the door, you slam your fist, hard, into the wall. Not paying attention at the dent it leaves, or the small smear of blood. You just continue walking.

#whumptober 2022 #no. 28 #anger born of worry #punching the wall #toxic parents #abusive childhood #abusive dad #gun #arguments #heated argument #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x y/n hotchner #male reader #y/n hotchner #derek morgan x reader #derek morgan x y/n hotchner #emily prentiss #david rossi #anderson

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i-am-still-bb · 5 months

Text

No. 28

“We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.” | Bloody Knife | Sacrifice | “You'll have to go through me.”

Pairing: Fili/Kili Rating: T Universe: Book Words: 2066

A/N: I haven't read The Hobbit in quite a while, so the sequence of events and the timing between them, etc. may not be accurate to the book.

The tunnel smelled strongly of dragon. Kili had not been expecting the smell. Fire? Yes. Claws? Yes. The smell? Absolutely not. It was like rotting meat and overturned earth. There was also the smell of smoke, but he had been expecting that smell. And it was not the main thing that you could smell.

Everyone had laid out their bedrolls along the passage way. They were uncomfortable being too far from the hidden door and the crack of light that let in fresh air and a little bit of day light, but the exposure of it made them uncomfortable as well. And if they went deeper into the tunnel then they were closer to the opening that lead them into the throne room where Smaug lay curled on his hoard of gold while brooding and plotting. So they were situated nearly half way to between the two ends.

They had to be quiet because any sound they made echoed down the tunnel. A kicked stone, a hissed curse made them all freeze. Waiting. Listening. To see if Smaug had heard them, if they were moments from discovery. When there was no rumbling or glow of fire they would relax enough to lay down or return to whatever hushed conversation they were having.

Desiring some privacy there was some distance between different groups of them. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur all sat together, talking, and sleeping as a group, while Oin and Gloin were bunked down with Ori, Nori, and Dori.

Fili and Kili had set up their bedrolls some distance away from the others. Bombur snored and neither Fili nor Kili could sleep well if they were still awake when Bombur fell asleep.

Right now they were all waiting for Bilbo to come back with word about what he had seen and heard in the throne room. Some were sleeping, but Fili was slowly but steadily sharpening his swords, knives, and axes. They all started on his right side. And, when sharpened, he would set them down on his left. He was nearly done with the small pile by this point.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Kili asked.

Fili’s hand paused its continuous motion. “I don’t know, Kili.” He started running the whetstone down the length of the sword again. “There’s still a dragon to kill, so I imagine there will be fighting at some point.

Kili sat down and scooted so that his back was against the smooth stone wall. He was impressed with the care that his ancestors had taken with crafting even this small hallway that was not meant to be used by many. They could have easily left rough edges, and an uneven floor, but Kili had looked and had been unable to find anything that could cause you to trip in the dark, or a chip in the wall that could slice open a finger as you felt your way along. He could not help but compare it to the halls of Ered Luin. He missed those halls. He had longed for their rough warmth more than once in the past months. But Erebor was something else entirely. If they were successful. If they reclaimed the mountain then things would not be the same. And there were bound to be good ways, but also bad ways.

He probably would not get to see those halls again. Amad would travel with the rest of their kin to Erebor to take up residence in the halls of their fathers.

“Do you think that there are enough of us?” Kili asked hesitantly. “We’ve never fought in a battle. Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin did, but that was a long time ago.”

“Gandalf seemed to think that fourteen was the right number.”

Kili hummed.

“What do you think it will be like if we do manage to evict Smaug the Terrible?”

“I think there will be a lot of work at first,” Fili replied.

Kili nodded and watched Fili’s hands continue their work while he spoke.

“Obviously there will be a lot of cleaning to do, repairs to be carried out, furnishings, dealing with the hoard of treasure won’t be the least of all those tasks. I imagine Thorin is going to want the Arkenstone found as quickly as possible.”

“The Right to Rule.”

Fili nodded. “Then there will be dealing with the land around the mountain. Sorting out what to do with the ruins of Dale. Then there will be the political aspects of it all, Lake Town, the Elves of Mirkwood, and anyone else who lives nearby.”

“What about us?”

“I imagine we’ll be busy.”

“Yeah…” Kili trailed off, trying to think of how to phrase what he wanted to ask. What about them? What about their futures? Clearly living here was going to be very different from living in Ered Luin. There would be a great deal more pressure, a lot more expectations, more people watching and commenting on their actions.

What about marriage?

Kili had never really thought about that before and, therefore, had not been bothered by the prospect of either of them marrying. But now, with Erebor, nearly within their grasp, the thought bothered him. Fili had been just his for so long. And the prospect of having to share Fili with another, much less multiple others of Fili had children with whomever he married, was… discomforting.

“That’s not really what I—” Kili started to say.

He was distracted by Bilbo running down the corridor at full sprint, his cheeks pink, and he was breathing heavily. Everyone took notice, some standing up, others remaining seated, but their attention was clearly fixed on Kili.

“What’s happened?” Thorin demanded.

Bilbo was bent nearly double, hands on his knees while he fought to catch his breath.

“Smaug…” he gasped.

“Figured that much,” Dwalin growled.

Bilbo saw the sliver of light at the end of the tunnel where the door was still propped open. “We should close the door.”

“What! Why?” Many of them exclaimed at once.

Then they all heard the rumble and rush of wind as Smaug took flight via the main gate. They all looked at one another, their eyes wide with fear and surprise. Smaug had not left the mountain in nearly 60 years, or so they had heard.

“Please shut the door,” Bilbo pleaded. “I fear that he will see it and know where we are.”

“But then we will be trapped in the mountain!”

“With no way out!”

“We’ll be stuck in here with Smaug until we either starve or he eats us.”

“Please!” Bilbo repeated. “You were not there—”

“Shut the door,” Thorin ordered.

“But,” Nori started to protest.

“Now,” Thorin barked.

Dwalin and a few others went to the door and managed to heave it back into place. It closed with a sharp crack. And they were left in complete darkness. Kili had thought the air had been close, thick, and stuffy before, but without the fresh air and light from the outside it quickly became worse.

They all stood in silence in the pitch black. Kili had never been comfortable with this level of darkness. He knew his eyes would eventually adjust and he would be able to see a little, but it had nothing to do with sunlight, starlight, or moonlight. And Bilbo’s eyes would not adjust to the same level, he would be left in the pitch black darkness of the pungent tunnel.

The roar was closer.

Then the earth shook.

Kili grabbed for Fili’s shoulder.

“Kili?”

“I’m okay,” but Kili’s voice shook. There was the distinctive sound of metal on metal while Fili quickly returned all of his weapons to their sheaths. Fili knew each weapon by touch and worked quickly.

The earth shook again. This time knocking some of them from their feet. Kili caught himself on the smooth wall.

“Away from the door!” Thorin shouted.

There was the unmistakable sound of stone cracking.

The plink of small stones that preceded a landslide.

Fili dragged Kili down the tunnel by the placket of his borrowed jerkin. There was the metallic sound of at least one of Fili’s weapons being left behind on the floor of the tunnel as they ran. Kili was nearly jerked from his feet by Fili’s speed even before the next earthquake hit. The earth shook so violently that none of them were able to remain standing.

“Keep moving!” Fili’s voice came from behind Kili, though how he had ended up there was a mystery.

“I’m trying,” Kili said before the moving earth pitched him sideways and then forward on to his face. Fili’s hands were on him, checking. “I’m not hurt,” Kili assured him, answering the silent question.

Then it stopped. As quickly as the earthquakes began they ended.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Thorin shouted from the front.

“More or less,” Bofur grumbled.

“Yes.”

“But we lost any of the supplies that we had brought inside.”

Everyone was present and accounted for and other than bumps and bruises, and a bloodied nose everyone was uninjured.

“What exactly happened with Smaug?” someone demanded of Bilbo

And Bilbo told them.

… Smaug sticking his head in the hole

… the fire he had unleashed that had singged the back of Bilbo’s calves.

A few of the dwarves went to check on the tunnel’s entrance. But it was thoroughly gone. Everything had been smashed and there was the scent of smoke even though there had been nothing to burn anywhere near the door.

Kili wondered if dragon fire could melt solid rock. And he wished Gandalf was there, because he would probably know the answer.

“That’s just great,” Nori grumbled. “We’re trapped between a cave in and a pissed off dragon who is interested in what Hobbit tastes like and is still willing to eat Dwarf even though he’s tired of it.”

“We’ll stay here and wait,” Thorin said authoritatively, interrupting any discontented grumbling. “Smaug might not come back. If he does not then we will find our way out through the treasure chamber.”

“And if he does come back?”

Thorin did not answer.

They all settled down in the dark, overly warm tunnel to wait.

“What were you going to say before?” Fili whispered. The tunnel echoed at this point, and the sound of the others’ breathing filled their ears along with the rumble of Bombur’s snoring, and Bofur’s cursing when he woke his brother every few minutes only for him to fall back to sleep shortly after waking. And then shortly after falling asleep he would start snoring again.

Kili shook his head. “I’ll tell you later.”

“We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.”

Kili swallowed hard. Then he reached for Fili in the dark. He could now see the outlines of Fili’s face, the broad gestures of his features in the dark. And the longer they were underground without any light, the more detailed his sight would become.

“I just… I…” Kili struggled to find the words.

Fili did not say anything. He listened and waited.

“I…”

Fili squeezed Kili’s knee. Kili covered Fili’s hand with his own.

“I love you,” Kili said so quietly that he could barely hear his own words over the sound of his own heart beating.

“I love you, too.” Fili replied.

“Not like that—” Kili started to explain.

“I know.”

“You do?”

Kili could see the line of Fili’s jaw and his quick smile, and the glint of his eyes when he looked past Kili for a second.

Fili kissed him then.

Kili made a small surprised sound before he could stop himself. Fili’s lips were warm and soft, but there was a pressure to the kiss, and urgency. Fili’s beard rasped against Kili’s skin. Kili moved his hands to keep Fili close. He had stopped thinking full sentences or even anything coherent the moment that Fili’s tongue touched his lower lip. His fingers caught Fili's braids, tugging and tangling them.

“Like that?” Fili asked on an exhale when they parted.

Kili nodded and took a deep breath. “Like that.”

Fili dropped his head forward so their foreheads were touching.

Fili started to speak then, his fingers dancing on the neckline of Kili’s shirt. But his words were interrupted by Thorin starting to rouse the company. It had been a night and most of a day. It was time to move.

Taglist

Everything: @silvermoon-scrolls @metztlilua @i-am-pinkie

Fili/Kili @dubhlachen

If your tag is not working, you may have to adjust the searchability of your blog.

#whumptober2023 #no. 28 #lyrics #the hobbit #fic #bb writes #fili/kili #fiki #durincest

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whumpacabra · 6 months

Text

Day 28 - Sacrifice

Military setting, captivity, graphic character death, self sacrifice, forced to choose, forced to watch, dissociation, restraints, shock collar, electrocution, dogs, rabies, referenced torture

[Directly follows Devil's Mercy]

It took Harrison’s brain too long to figure out what was happening, the shouting voices and strangled sounds around him echoing too close, too loud, too much like his own screams in the Box. By the time his eyes were open, he was next to Elias, hands bound behind his back where the pair knelt in the cell.

Merrick was shivering - half with rage and half with pain - fresh blood bubbling over the shock collar. The Wolf held him by his hair where he knelt, forcing the captain to look at the pair still in the cell. Harrison flinched, aware of the pistol muzzle teasing the back of his neck.

“You lied to me, little pig.” The Wolf crooned, tutting softly as he used his grip on Merrick’s hair to drag him up into a full kneel. “Now, I have to make this more unpleasant for all of us.”

He roughly let go of Merrick, the man dropping back to sit on his heels, blood stained teeth bared in defiance.

“I didn’t - ”

Harrison winced in sympathy, his captain seizing as the shock collar crackled to life. Merrick dropped forward, forehead pressed to the concrete as he fought to stifle his too-loud gasps of pain.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to bark, American dog.” The Wolf crouched to his level, eyes alight with cruel glee as another shock sent a spasm down Merrick’s spine. He nodded over his shoulder to one of the guards. “Bring it in.”

Elias was panicking next to Harrison, sobbing gasps too loud in the silence of Merrick’s strained wheezing. Harrison couldn’t look at him, knowing the helplessness and terror that would be painted on the younger man’s face.

“What did he lie about?” Harrison’s voice croaked as he spoke, the water lingering in his lungs making every breath raw. The pistol behind his head moved, and he braced for the snap of a blow to the back of his skull.

It didn’t come; the Wolf had raised a hand, staying the guard’s own. Harrison shuddered under his gaze, something hungry - something curious, dripping with saccharine mock pity.

The Wolf opened his mouth, some silky lie surely on his silver tongue, when the door to the holding cells opened.

It was the most miserable animal Harrison had ever seen - skin hanging loose on its skeletal frame, its mangy fur falling out in bloody clumps. Some kind of shepherd, though it was hard to tell with its degraded condition.

The dog was muzzled, syrupy drool slathering the thin iron cage that rattled with its smothered snarls. The guard that brought it in held it on a pole - no leash, as though it would turn around and bite him in spite of the muzzle.

The Wolf stood, knees cracking as he smiled at the beast. Two guards dragged Merrick up, tossing him unceremoniously into the cell opposite Harrison and Elias’ own.

“This is a very simple choice, Captain Merrick.” The man shivering on his hands and knees still glared up at the Wolf, but the spark of fear in his eyes couldn’t pass as defiance. “Someone needs to answer for your lies. Save yourself, by all means - I’m the last person who will judge you for self preservation. But if that’s your choice…”

Those dark eyes slid over the pair in the opposite cell, and Harrison could swear he saw a crack in the man he knew as the Wolf. It was a hairline fracture, something glued back together almost perfectly - but the seam remained. The Wolf didn’t want to be doing this; at least, Harrison reasoned, he was sad to see some of his toys go.

“Well, we’ll put it down before it mauls both of them to death. Give you time to see the other waste away…if he lasts long enough, maybe we can turn him on you - human bites are surprisingly powerful.” The Wolf smiled, clacking his teeth together for emphasis as he turned his back on Harrison and Elias. “If one’s lucky enough to avoid getting bitten, I’ll leave them be. Like I said - self preservation isn’t something I want to punish, seeing as it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

Merrick lowered his gaze, neck unsteady and eyes faltering as he stared at the pair on the other side of the aisle. Harrison shook his head minutely, movements stiff and eyes hardened with determination. They may be cuffed but the cell was fairly large - that dog was on its last legs anyway, if they could coordinate and tag team turns as bait and switch -

Elias had stopped shaking, the silent tears falling from glassy eyes. Harrison couldn’t count on him to stay sharp (and he didn’t blame the poor kid, as much as it pained him to admit). The exchange Harrison had with his captain the night before settled like a lead weight in his stomach.

“Take care of each other. Wake me if I start dreaming.”

There was no waking from this nightmare.

“Choose, captain, my patience is not infinite and time waits for no one.”

Merrick’s eyes met Harrison’s, the captain’s swollen, bruised face still managing a fond expression before he blinked, and looked up at the Wolf.

“Me.”

The whisper set off the shock collar, even expecting it Merrick fought to choke back his sobs as blood ran in thick rivulets from his burned and bloodied throat. The Wolf nodded, no gloating speech or orders spoken as he gave the guard and dog a wide berth.

The growling animal pulled at the cord around its throat, attention firmly on its handler as the cell door rattled closed.

“Unmuzzle it.”

Harrison looked up at the Wolf, torn between screaming at him and begging. Begging for enough mercy to just shoot both the poor creatures in that cell across the aisle and put them out of their misery.

But why draw this out, in all its theatrics, if the Wolf didn’t want this to be a show.

Merrick crawled forward, hands shaking as he reached for the muzzle’s clasps behind the dog’s head. With the dog’s focus still on its handler, its only reaction to its freed jaws was to bark between ragged, salivating gasps.

The metal cage clattered to the concrete floor, drool from the dog’s jowls pooling as it snapped at the pole still holding it in place. Merrick inched away, to the very back of the cell - almost hidden enough in the shadows that Harrison wouldn’t have to see his face.

The cord around the dog’s throat loosened, the beast slipping free in an instant, barking and pawing at the handler beyond the bars. A soft, pitchy whistle came from Merrick’s corner of the cell, and the dog’s ears twitched, frantic and futile attacks on the door shifted to an unsteady, panting prowl towards the source of the tune.

The whistling stopped abruptly, the dog’s snarls smothered by the sounds of rent flesh and a stuttering scream. It had bit his leg, not his throat - and the shock collar was still active. Harrison squeezed his eyes shut, as though that would stop the horrible sounds echoing around him.

“Do your captain the honor of bearing witness to his sacrifice.”

Harrison almost didn’t realize the Wolf had spoken, the words so soft he barely registered them over the spasming screams and crunching bones. Harrison looked up at the gory scene, almost wishing he could go wherever Elias had gone, eyes open but unseeing, ears deaf to the cacophony of suffering around them.

It felt like hours. Days. For agonizing minutes Harrison hoped he was still in the Box, the smell of dog and death and blood a bad dream. But finally - finally - the screaming stopped, wet gurgles melting into a death rattle as the rabid dog kept tearing at the dead man’s throat.

A single pistol shot downed the dog without so much as a whine, its maddened brains spilling on top of Merrick’s disemboweled corpse. The two lay entwined in death, soaked in blood that seeped toward the drain in the center of the cell.

The Wolf and his men filed out of the holding cells silently, ghosts stalking from a successful haunting.

[Directly before Finish Line]

(Part of my Freelancers: Swansong series)

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firstdegreefangirl · 6 months

Text

It Hurts Before It Bleeds

It hurts before it bleeds.

The angry red line takes a moment to come to the surface, but as soon as Tim drags the edge of the knife through the pad of his thumb, he feels the pain. It stings, then it throbs, then he looks down.

He yanks his arm up, raising the bloody hand above his heart. The blood drips down his hand, tracing warm streaks along his forearm as he spins around to hold it over the sink.

“Lucy.” There’s urgency in his tone. “Grab the first aid kit.”

Read the rest on ao3 here!

#katie writes #kw23 #chenford #lucy chen #tim bradford #the rookie #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #no. 28 #fic #bloody knife

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clintbartonruinedmylife · 6 months

Text

Whumptober 2023 - Day 28

"You'll have to go through me"

When he saw the cars driving up to his farm Clint’s mouth went painfully dry. He knew what it meant. They wanted one of his kids.

“Laura!” he yelled. “Hide the kids!”

Laura looked out of the window, saw the cars,too, and hurried away. After the war, when the New Order was established, every district had to send fifty children to the capital where they were raised and educated to become Elite, the administration of the New Order. Every person recognized the cars that came to drag the children away from their families. That was the day Clint built a secret bunker under one of the barns. Laura would bring the kids to it and hide there with them. No one would find them.

Clint grabbed his bow and a quiver filled with arrows and waited for them.

The three cars stopped in front of him and he nocked an arrow and aimed at the one guy that looked like the big cheese.

“Not a step further!” he growled and saw that the other men wanted to reach for their guns. “And you, keep your fingers where I can see them!”

“Mr. Barton,” the big cheese said and raised both ads to show that they were empty. “Your daughter Lila is designated as Elite.”

“No!” Clint snarled.

“Mr. Barton, listen to reason. It is…” the man said again and stopped when Clint shot an arrow only one inch before his feet into the ground, nocked an arrow in the next moment and aimed at him again.

“The next one goes through your brain,” he growled.

“Mr. Barton,” the man said and cocked his head. “You will hand over your daughter or you will have to face the consequences.”

“If you want to get to my children you’ll have to go through me,” Clint snapped.

“Well, if it’s that what you…” the man started but Clint interrupted him.

“But let me tell you about my time with the Avengers,” he said. “And let me assure you, I’m still the world's best marksman!”

“Is that so?” the man started to grin and gestured at his men. “Grabbed him. And then get the girl.”

And Clint fought…

#whumptober2023 #no. 28 #you'll have to go through me #marvel #fic #clint barton #hawkeye #laura barton #claura #barton family

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jellicle-shifters-au · 7 months

Text

Found

for Demelurina Week Day 2: Anniversary and (a little early) @whumptober day 20 people don't change, time does; and day 28 you'll have to go through me

TIMELINE: six years after demeter's first captivity

The air tastes different here, on the outskirts of the town, than it does in the heart of it. It’s not the same as the green, there’s still a tinge of smoke and exhaust and restaurant fare in the green, but here in the park there’s less of that, and Demeter can smell more of the greenery and squirrels and other small things lurking in the grass. That, and the hint of ice cream still drifting from the pink-and-white truck parked on the other side of the street. There’s a kind of cold that drifts across the wind, that kind that she recognizes from winter but with something more metallic to it, each and every time the man opens the freezer.

She and Bomba had already been to the truck, and now she sits on a nearby bench nursing a cone—plain vanilla, of course—while Bomba has run off to the bathroom. It’s nice, to just sit there with nothing to do and nowhere to be, with all the time in the world.

The wind blows gently into her face, and with it comes the scents from across the park, the squirrels tucked away in trees, the dogs and their humans, the pines and oaks and the maples. There’s the faint scent of cat, too, others who have been this way but none of them are familiar to her.

None of them except—

“My, my,” she hears, in between the crunch of leaves and the creak of the bench as he sits, and not without a soft, strained sigh as though something about the motion hurts, “it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

The cone breaks under her fingers.

Six years. It’s been six years since she ran off, since she climbed out that window in the dead of night and disappeared into the dark. Six years, that smooth, silky voice has haunted the edge of her dreams, the center of her nightmares, has made her so afraid of her own name she goes by something else entirely.

Six years he had the chance to come after her and he waited until now, six years later, to find her again.

Six years later, when she thought he would have searched the town up and down, every nook and cranny, tore the place apart just to find her—

And all it took was a day at the park.

Cold ice cream runs over her fingers. The taste of it turns to ash in her mouth. The air around her turns bitterly cold, the hint of ice from the truck turns sharp and sour; the cold seeps deep into her bones, not even her compression shirt can keep her warm. The blood drains from her face. She grips the cone a little tighter in her hands, feeling the brittle waffle cone crack under her fingers.

Why? Why did he wait six years? Why now, why not then, why wait so long to come back for her?

And he is coming back for her. Demeter had always known he would.

It’s a feeling that’s been sitting somewhere so deep inside her she’d almost forgotten it was there, but it had always gnawed at her like a flea when she let it.

She’d known, since the day she ran out, that this would always happen.

Her mouth is dry. Her heart races. She can’t look at him. It’s over already, but if she looks at him, she might never come back.

If he ordered her to, she’d get up and follow him back to his car, back to the rats and the dark and the terror and the sensory assault—to her own death—he wouldn’t give her a choice and she wouldn’t give him a fight.

And Bomba—

She’d never see Bomba again.

“You look…well,” he says slowly.

The park blurs. She can’t remember how to breathe.

I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t hurt anyone. I haven’t come looking for you. I haven’t felt anything.

I haven’t done anything wrong.

She doesn’t know how she responds, but she feels a sound catch at the back of her throat. Warm tears run down her face when she blinks. The park comes back into view. There are parents and their kids on the other side, at the playground. A pair of joggers passes by. A group of adult women mingles around another bench. None of them look at Demeter.

“Where have you been hiding these days?”

She doesn’t know how to answer, even if she could. Every word she wants to say catches and dies at the back of her throat. She shivers, cold vanilla ice cream dripping over her knuckles, and imagines herself to be a lot like that cone—cracking, cracking, cracking under the pressure of Macavity’s hold until she shatters completely.

Bomba, she thinks—Where’s Bomba?— I’ve been living with Bomba—Bomba—

It feels like Bomba’s been gone for hours.

What if something’s happened to her? What if the rats found her? If Macavity found Demeter, then he certainly could find Bomba, his rats could jump her as she comes out of the bathroom, anything could happen—

If he doesn’t know…she can’t give him Bomba. If he knew, if he knew Bomba had been hiding her all these years, there’s no telling what he’d do to her, what he’d do to both of them. She can’t give him Bomba.

The narrow scope of her world goes quiet for a moment, filled with nothing but cold and the ice cream running over her fingers and the terror in her heart. Then Macavity inhales heavily; Demeter whimpers at the sound.

“I asked you a question, Demeter.” And there it is, that patronizing, prodding tone, I want something from you and you’re failing to give it to me, the tone that’s made her so afraid of her own name.

She squeezes the cone tighter, takes a sharp breath, tears running down her cheeks and gives him another whimper. It’s all she can manage.

She’s forgotten how to speak, how to call for help, how to call for Bomba; she can’t reach the phone in her pocket with the fractured cone glued to her fingers, the only lifeline she has.

Another moment, and then he sighs heavily, hisses softly. She’s in trouble, she’s in so much trouble—Demeter would scream if she could—

“Now you’re being rude.”

Demeter’s head snaps up, there’s something in that tone she can’t resist. She looks.

His eyes are glowing orange, his magic grips her with warm claws; he holds her gaze right where it is, even as he looks her over and takes in her new appearance, now that she’s regained all the weight she’s lost and her clothes fit her and she wears compression shirts and she’s not a grimey, matted mess anymore—

And his face, it hasn’t changed in six years. His fiery red hair has a little more gray now than it did then, but there are no new wrinkles around his eyes or mouth or in his cheeks. His eyes still hold the same intensity they did then, still hold her just as easily.

I’m sorry, she wants to say, but still she can’t. Her voice is gone.

“Yes,” he says, tilting his head, frowning thoughtfully, more to himself than to her, “you’ve certainly managed to do well for yourself.” The light goes out of his eyes, but Demeter can’t force herself to look away.

You’re being rude.

“Where have you been?”

She stares at him, wide-eyed. That note in his voice, he knows, he’s known for years, he’s always known, now he wants her to confirm it. She doesn’t know how.

She can’t.

Hkk, is the most she can manage, a thin, choked sound at the back of her throat.

“Hm.”

Demeter shivers. Ice cream drips onto her pants.

It’s not like she’ll have them long, anyway. Her dark jeans will be replaced by frayed gray sweatpants soon enough and the ice cream stains won’t matter then, not that they even matter now, really—

Macavity takes a breath. It’s enough to make Demeter’s head spin; the blood’s drained from her face, the oxygen’s gone from her lungs, she can’t think clearly and yet the way inhales sets off alarms in her head—he’s taking her scent, she smells like Bomba, he’ll know she’s living with Bomba.

He narrows his eyes. “I see.”

Demeter sobs.

No, no, he can’t know, he can’t know about Bomba, if he knows about Bomba, he’ll come after her, he’ll do worse than the three scars on the back of her leg, he’ll kill her, he’ll kill her and he’ll take his time doing it.

Please not Bomba, it’s not her fault, she didn’t do anything wrong, she didn’t do anything wrong—

“What the hell is this?”

Demeter squeezes the shattered cone tighter; freshly melted ice cream runs around her fingers. She gulps in air, the tension in her shoulders fading out as Macavity’s hold on her is broken. The feeling and control comes back into her body, a weight finally lifted off her shoulders. She inches back until she’s pressed against the arm of the bench.

He turns to meet Bomba, his eyes narrowed. His lip curls just enough to show the tip of one sharpened fang. “Bombalurina.”

Terror grips Demeter’s heart again. Bombalurina. No one calls Bomba by her full name, it’s either Bomba or Rina, never Bombalurina.

“I didn’t realize Demeter was your…ward.” There’s a hiss in his voice, a hint of displeasure, annoyance. Anger.

He knows now, he knows about Bomba, he was never supposed to know about Bomba, he can’t know about Bomba—

“Yes,” Bomba answers. Her voice doesn’t betray anything; the one word is laced with venom. She crosses her arms as she moves to put herself between Macavity and Demeter, blocking Demeter from his view as much as she can. “She is. It was my choice.”

For a moment, Macavity says nothing. Then he nods his head to Bomba, and says softly, with careful consideration, “So it was.” He stands, crossing his arms, looking Bomba over with careful thought. “Tell me something, Miss Ford—how much thought did you put into this little…venture?”

“Enough.” A snarl lines Bomba’s words. Demeter looks up. Bomba’s chin is raised, her hair is clipped up at the back of her head in a curly red bun. She stands with her spine straight, looking ever like the Protector she is. “Be warned, Mister Stern, there’s not a Jellicle in this town that wouldn’t fight to keep her out of your hands.”

“Do you really think, Ms. Ford,” Macavity says slowly, “that a handful of Protectors could stop me from taking her again if I so desired?”

He does. He wants her back. But why did he wait six years to do it?

“We'll die trying.”

“Hm. I’m sure.” He takes a step closer to Bomba. “Tell me something else, Miss Ford, since Miss Mayweather is currently incapable of doing so herself—” and it’s not without a sharp glance at Demeter. She shrinks back into the corner of the bench, shivering with fear and cold, the ice cream now a thin liquid still running over her knuckles and between her fingers, the cone a soggy, broken mess. “Has she showed any signs of relapse?”

Bomba lurches forward with a fang-filled growl, her hands forming into fists as uncrosses her arms, only to stop at the last moment, tucking her arms back across her chest. She backs away. “You had your time with her,” she snarls. “If you wanted to be so sure she wouldn’t…relapse—” she spits the word out like a maggot— “then you should have come for her that night. Not six years later.”

“Perhaps,” Macavity answers. His orange eyes flash to Demeter. “But do consider that some symptoms are best measured with time.”

It’s too much, it’s too—

The cone falls from Demeter's hands as she lurches forward and vomits into the grass, the weight of Macavity’s words finally crushing her, pushing her off the bench. Bomba doesn’t have the time to yell at him, tell him to go away, get away from us, get away from her, don’t come back before the man slips away and she’s on her knees next to Demeter, pulling her hair out of her face, rubbing circles on her back, politely declining help from the few passersby who finally stop to see if Demeter is alright, and it makes her sob harder amidst her retching, she burns with anger, they couldn’t help her before, but they could help her now, couldn’t they? Why couldn’t they help her before? Why couldn’t they help her when she sat there sobbing in terror as the man who ruined her life sat there and threatened to ruin it again?

Where were you? she wants to ask. Where were you when I needed you?

Where was Bomba?

Taking too damn long in the bathroom—

She coughs into the grass. It’s not Bomba’s fault, she can’t blame Bomba—

Bomba was the only one to help her—

“It’s alright, love,” Bomba says softly. “It’s alright, you’re alright. I’ve got you, Metra, I’m here.”

Demeter’s retching turns to sobs. She falls into Bomba, the strength and energy sapped out of her limbs. She cries into Bomba’s shoulder, gripping her with what little strength she has left, leaving a sticky, sloppy mess of ice cream on her blouse. It’s a distant thought that occurs to her, under the terror and the frustration and some symptoms are best measured with time.

She cries until there’s nothing left; and later, when they’re in the car, Demeter will stare at the mess of ice cream and shattered cone on her shaking hands and her pants and the mess she’s left on Bomba’s shoulder, and say with her mouth dry and her voice reedy, I’m sorry about your blouse.

Bomba will sigh, heavy and sympathetic, and reach over to take Demeter’s sticky hand in her own. A blouse can be replaced, she’ll say, her own voice tight, but you can’t.

#demelurina week #day 2: anniversary #whumptober 2023 #no. 20 #people don't change time does #no. 28 #you'll have to go through me #demelurina #demeter #bombalurina #macavity #hoping for a brighter day: demeter #cats the musical #cats 1998

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keeper-of-all-the-random-things · 7 months

Text

v. EVIDENCE

Whumptober | No. 28 Bloody Knife | No. 29 Troubled Past Resurfacing

In which Sam sees Thomas from a new perspective.

Previous | Next

*****

SECURITY FOOTAGE FROM xx/xx/xxxx.

Thomas stands apart from a small group of boys, each around his age. they back away, jeering but their eyes full of fear.

The body at his feet provides no obstacle as Thomas stalks towards the group.

One boy steps forward to meet Thomas’s knife. A dare.

Thomas pleads silently, but when the other goes to take the knife, Thomas does not hesitate.

The boys scatter.

Thomas takes his time. They have nowhere to go.

When he’s the last one standing, Thomas finds the cameras. His stare is a challenge. He holds his arms out, beckoning for the spectators to come stop him. If they dare.

Some accept the challenge. They try and fail.

Others start but falter at the door and change their minds. Thomas does not chase them.

When they stop coming, Thomas gives the camera another look, gaze blank. He leaves the knife beside the first boy and walks out.

#whumptober 2023 #no. 28 #bloody knife #no. 29 #troubled past resurfacing #OC #writing #murder #lots of murder

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kageyuuki · 7 months

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Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Mach GoGoGo (1997) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Characters: Hibiki Gou, "Racer X" Hibiki Kenichi, Hibiki Daisuke, Kazumi Mai, Takumi, Accela Additional Tags: Whumptober 2023, Stabbing, Blood and Injury, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Disguise Series: Part 12 of Whumptober Fics Summary:

Unable to sleep, Gou decides to head out for a drive around an old and familiar track. The attempt to clear his head is brought to a halt when he encounters a familiar face, one that's supposed to be dead.

A Whumptober 2023 prompt fill.

#Mach gogogo (97)#mach gogogo #speed racer #fic #whumptober 2023 #no. 28 #bloody knife #the first fic for this series on ao3 #and it's nice and angsty

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cynicalone94 · 6 months

Text

Sacrifices

“We know who you are.” Antonio shouts as he leans over his teammate, waving the badge in his face. “This comes back on us, we’ll find you.”

But as he turns to step away, Mike speaks up.

“We’ll take this guy with us. You call the cops old man, go through the procedure and make your statement but you better not tell them anything about us. We’ll be listening. Once we know you’ve followed orders, we’ll drop your pal somewhere.”

Antonio starts, looking over at Mike. Technically this follows the no bodies agreement but this crew has never done something like this before.��

“If you gotta take me fine, just don’t hurt the old man.” Jay says, lifting his head from where he’s doubled over on the floor from Antonio’s punch.

Antonio stares at him before looking back at Mike.

“Whatever. We need to get out of here.”

Hastings grabs Jay’s arm and drags him to his feet, shoving him toward the door with a gun at his back. Jay keeps his right arm curled around his abdomen and Antonio really hopes he’s faking to look like less of a threat. He doesn’t think he hit him that hard.

They reach the van without encountering resistance and Antonio accepts that Voight is going to let this play. Hastings shoves Jay into the back of the van and Antonio busies himself helping Martin stack the bags of stolen Oxy against the front partition. Mike throws a roll of duct tape to Hastings.

“Tie him up. And find something to blindfold him with so we can ditch the masks.”

He slides the door closed and Antonio turns his gun on Jay, backing Hasting’s order for him to lie on his stomach. He’s grateful for the mask in that moment as it hides his clenched jaw. Once Jay’s hands have been bound, Antonio sets the gun aside to unzip the jumpsuit he wears, shrugging out of the flannel he had on underneath it.

“For the blindfold.” he says, offering the shirt to Hastings. “Tear it up if you need to, its a Wal-Mart special.”

The man shreds the shirt, wrapping one strip over Jay’s eyes before forcing another between his teeth. Antonio bites back a protest to the unnecessary gagging of his friend and works to school his features as Martin takes off his mask next to him. As Hastings sits back, taking off his own mask and spraying another misting of his drugs into his nose, Antonio takes a deep breath and takes off his mask.

“So how long do you think this will take?” he asks.

“Hard to say.” Hastings says. “Police don’t always have the fastest response time. But they usually actually care about opioid thefts so maybe a couple of hours.”

He kicks Jay in the side and Antonio can’t stop his surprised exclamation.

“Best get comfortable.” he jibes.

They reach the dumpsite and the three of them pile out of the van, leaving Jay lying alone while they move the bags of drugs to the trunk of the car. Then Hastings brings out a six pack of beer and the four of them sit around, joking and laughing while they wait for the all clear.

It’s three hours before Mike’s phone rings and Antonio is twitching to check on Jay and make sure that he’s doing okay. He knows Voight is nearby and that he’ll be here in a heartbeat to untie the younger man and make sure he’s alright once the robbery crew have cleared the site.

When the phone rings, Mike stands up and paces away from the group. After a few minutes of hushed conversation, he pockets the device again and comes back.

“Alright. Torch the van.”

“We can dump him over there.” Antonio says, pointing to an open area. “Should keep him away from the fire but make sure he gets found when the fire department gets called out.”

“Change of plans. He’s hanging around a little longer.”

“The heist went off smooth. Why go around drawing unnecessary heat? Just let the guy go.”

“Red’s had a job on the drawing board for a couple weeks. Taking this guy with us wasn’t exactly according to playbook but now that we have, we get to run with it. Because making that job work requires a hostage.”

“I don’t like it. Too much risk.”

“Then you can leave. You did okay tonight, I was gonna let you tag along with this one too but if you can’t stomach it…”

“Is there a good payout?”

“Oh yeah. It’ll be worth your while. And nobody is planning on killing this guy.”

“Alright.” Antonio reluctantly agrees, wanting to talk to Jay, to see if he wants to let this play.

“I’ll call you when we have a time set up.”

“I’d rather stick close.” Antonio says. “No offense but Hastings already got twitchy and almost blew the no bodies agreement. And I really don’t want to end up tied to a homicide.”

“Sure. We can do that. Help Martin get him in the trunk.”

Martin leads the way back to the van, sliding the door open. Jay has managed to sit up and is leaning against the wall of the van. Martin reaches in and grabs his leg to drag him forward. Jay jolts upright but the inefficient flailing of his motion tells Antonio that he’s faking his surprise at the movement.

The two of them get him to his feet and lead him toward the other vehicle. As they walk, Antonio tries to figure out a way to let him know about the change of plans and ask if he’s okay letting this continue without tipping off the others that he knows him.

“Change of plans, buddy.” Hastings jeers as he approaches them and Antonio has to suppress a smirk. “You’re hanging out with us a while longer.”

Or he could just let the unhinged addict do it for him.

Jay tenses and Antonio shifts to place himself between his friend and the other man. He put a hand on Jay’s forearm offering a gentle squeeze and hoping the man knows what he’s asking.

“Red needs a hostage for a priority job so you’ve been voluntold.” Hastings cheers, oblivious to their communication. “Told you ya shouldn’ta been eying me back there.”

On the surface, Jay’s reaction shows fear and disapproval. He pulls back, shaking his head with a muffled protest. But he “bumps” against Antonio as he does so, hand landing briefly on his arm with a returning squeeze. He wants to let this play.

“Stop taunting the guy.” Antonio tells Hastings, pushing Jay toward Martin and then stepping forward to push Hastings back.

Mike comes over.

“Hastings, stop making their job harder. Just get in the car.” he orders. “And you two, get him in the trunk and torch the van.”

Antonio turns away from Hastings, trusting Mike to keep him away from Jay for now. Jay fights back, and it takes both of them to wrestle him into the trunk of the second car as Mike and Hastings drive away with the drugs. But Antonio has fought Jay before, has seen the man fight when his life was in danger. If he wasn’t game to seeing this out, they wouldn’t have been able to get him in the trunk, even restrained.

They torch the van and then drive to a house in Englewood. Antonio and Martin take Jay down to the basement on Mike’s instructions and Antonio hangs back while the others head back upstairs, taking a minute to kneel next to Jay, taking one of his hands.

“Hey squeeze once for yes, twice for no, understand?”

One squeeze.

“You want to pull the plug?”

Two squeezes.

“You sure, man?”

One squeeze.

“Alright. Hang in there, Jay.”

He rises to his feet and sprints up the stairs.

The night is spent playing cards, drinking beer and watching hockey on an enormous tv. The bags of stolen oxy are picked up just before midnight by a runner that Antonio doesn’t recognize. He knows that Voight will have the team on the street, running the man’s ID and following him back to the drop point. He can’t help but hope that he will lead them back to Irving so that Voight can pull the plug on this end of the operation.

Just after the man leaves, he decides to speak up.

“Should someone run our new friend upstairs to take a leak? Cause I really don’t want to clean it up if we don’t.”

“You volunteering?” Hastings growls, looking up from his cards to glare at Antonio.

“They dealt with him at the dumpsite.” Mike says. “You go escort him to the bathroom. Diaz is right. I don’t really want to smell that.”

“He’s just doing this cause he’s losing.” Hastings says, throwing his cards down and taking another sniff of drugs.

Mike gives him a look and he rolls his eyes but stands up, heading for the stairs. When the door opens again a few minutes later, Antonio’s attention is drawn by a thud and a muffled grunt and he looks up to see Jay angling his head away from the door frame, a red spot near his temple.

“We need him in one piece for the robbery.” Mike points out lightly.

“Not my fault the guy’s a klutz.” Hastings says, grinning as he shoves Jay toward the hall and runs him into the corner of the wall.

“Just avoid his head.” Mike says, rolling his eyes.

Hastings snorts and the two disappear down the hall, various additional thuds sounding as they go. Antonio throws down his cards (which true to Hasting’s accusation, sucked) and leans back in his chair.

“So,” he says, “What kind of job are we doing that requires a hostage? I thought the brute force grabs were going well?”

“There’s a place downstate that has some different drugs. Red thinks it could be real profitable but the security is tighter so a different approach is called for.”

“How do you like working for Red?” Antonio asks. “You ever get face time?”

“We’ve talked on the phone once or twice but Red doesn’t do face time with anybody except the guys who oversee the stash houses.”

“But its a good gig?”

“Running a heist crew is a pretty sweet gig. Pays a solid cut and even between gigs I manage the sandwich shop which pays a decent salary.”

“Do you sell product out of the shop or just screen customers?”

“Screening only.” Mike tells him. “Pickup takes place elsewhere after I put them in touch with a middleman.”

“Are you cool with running a heist gig or do you hope to move up to stash house level?”

“Trying to get my crew?” the man jokes.

“Hell yes.” Antonio laughs, “Job security, in this economy?”

The three of them are still laughing when Hastings drags Jay back down the hallway. He rolls his eyes.

“Sure, you guys are having a great time while I get stuck with the annoying jobs.” he scoffs.

“Just get him back downstairs.” Mike says, rolling his eyes. “And quit yer bellyaching.”

The door to the stairs slams behind them and Antonio takes a drink to conceal his wince. He really hopes Hastings won’t take his foul mood about this assignment out on Jay anymore than he already has.

There’s a crash from behind the door and both he and Mike jump to their feet. He allows himself to fall behind Mike as he throws the door open and peers down into the basement.

“He only fell a few steps.” Hastings says from where he’s standing over Jay who is sprawled across the basement floor, kicking his foot. “Get up.”

“I told you to watch his head.” Mike growls, jogging down the steps to push Hastings back a step.

Antonio runs down and crouches next to his friend, examining the blood welling up from a gash at his hairline.

“You said he wouldn’t get hurt.” he hisses.

“I said nobody was going to kill him.” Mike says, shoving Hastings up against the wall, “And you said yourself that Hastings is a little unstable.”

“It’s not like I pushed him.” the man whines. “Idiot tripped over his own feet.”

“He’s blindfolded, you jackass.” Antonio scoffs before turning to Mike, “We may need to consider letting him go. Drop him off somewhere. You can find another hostage for the job but.. head injuries are tricky man.”

“I’ll call Red.” the man says, “Get a medic over here to look him over. Go home, Hastings.”

The man grumbles but seems to realize he’s on thin ice and heads up the stairs.

Jay groans at his feet and Antonio looks down, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Take it easy, man.” he says, “Don’t try to move.”

Mike kneels next to him, pulling the gag free from Jay’s mouth.

“Hey buddy.” he says, “How do you feel?”

“Like I just got pushed down the stairs.” Jay growls. “What the hell is wrong with you people?”

“A lot of things.” Mike says, sounding amused, “I sent that idiot home so you should be safe for the time being. Anything besides your head giving you troubles?”

Jay is silent for a long time before he grumbles.

“Right side. Shoulder hurts pretty good.”

Mike hums sympathetically.

“I’m gonna get someone out here to look you over, just try to lie still until they get here, okay?”

“Please just let me go.” Jay begs, his voice losing it’s hard edge.

“We’ll talk after the medic gets done.” Mike says.

“Can you at least cut my hands loose?” Jay asks, “I won’t try anything, I swear. But my shoulder is killing me.”

Mike thinks for a minute before nodding to Antonio.

“Stay with him. I’ve got to make a few calls.”

Antonio nods, leaning over to cut Jay loose as the man jogs up the stairs.

“God, Jay.” he mutters, “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better,” Jay mutters as Antonio helps him maneuver his arms from underneath him, cradling his right arm against his chest. “That jackass pushed me on purpose.”

“I’m calling Voight.” Antonio says, reaching for his phone. “We’re getting you out of here. We’ll find Irving another way.”

“No.” Jay protests, “I’ve already shed blood for this, let’s give it a chance to pan out.”

“You might have a concussion.” Antonio argues.

“At least wait until the medic looks me over.” Jay says, “If he says its a concussion, you can call Voight.”

When he hesitates, Jay presses.

“There’s a cop missing, Tony. Maybe dead.”

“Well, I’d rather not stand by and watch them kill another one to maybe save the first one.” Antonio bites back.

Mike steps out into the backyard, dialing Red.

“Hastings messed up, didn’t he?” she says, sounding annoyed.

He sighs.

“Pushed the bastard down the stairs. He looks okay but he says his shoulder hurts and he took a knock to the head.”

“I’ll send Tuck over to check him over. If he says concussion, you dump the guy at Chicago Med. Killing one cop is bad enough.”

“Understood.”

“And it’s time to cut Hastings loose. This is one too many. If we do end up proceeding, leave him and Martin behind to set up the ‘job’.”

“Martin too?”

“The guy already wants out. He just doesn’t know how to ask. Give him what he wants.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Antonio looks up as a man dressed simply and carrying a medical bag jogs down the stairs, Mike at his heels.

Jay pushes back against the wall that Antonio has helped him prop himself against.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” the man says, crouching in front of him. “Just want to take a look at that shoulder and head of yours. Okay?”

After a moment, Jay nods slowly.

“I’m going to have to take off the blindfold to check for a concussion so you boys either need to put your masks on or clear out.” he warns.

Antonio slides his mask on and Mike does the same, none too subtly resting a handgun against his leg. The blindfold is removed and Antonio watches as his friend blinks against the sudden light.

“You can call me Tuck.” the medic introduces himself. “Can you tell me your full name?”

“Ryan Alexander Sommers.” Jay says and Antonio feels some of the tension leave him. If Jay is coherent enough to remember his full undercover name, he can’t be hurt too bad.

Tuck runs through a few more questions before checking Jay’s pupils and his ability to track movement.

“It doesn’t look like a concussion.” he says, sitting back. “I’m going to advise against gagging him again. If he gets nauseous or complains of being dizzy at all, drop him at the nearest hospital. Let’s take a look at that shoulder.”

Jay reaches to unbutton his shirt and winces. Tuck gently bats his hands aside and undoes the buttons himself, gently tugging the shirt over Jay’s injured shoulder.

“I’m going to go ahead and just cut the t-shirt off.” he tells him and Jay nods.

A pair of medical shears make short work of the cotton fabric and Antonio swallows back a gasp at the yellowing already starting to appear on his side.

“Took the brunt of the impact on your shoulder, I see.” Tuck comments as he starts probing the joint.

Jay gasps but doesn’t pull away. Tuck continues probing the joint, completely ignoring his reaction. Finally, he pulls back.

“Well, you’ll definitely need some x-rays when you get out of here tomorrow afternoon. I would recommend a follow up with an orthopedic specialist as well.”

Ignoring the look of annoyance that crosses Jay’s face, he turns to Mike.

“Don’t restrain him again if you don’t have to.” he says, “It could cause further damage to his shoulder and Red wants to avoid long-term injuries if possible. I’m going to put him in a sling to support the shoulder but I’m green-lighting tomorrow’s robbery.”

He turns back to Jay and gently maneuvers his right arm into the sling he pulls from his bag. Once he’s done he stands up.

“I’ll walk you out.” Mike says, holstering his gun and tossing a roll of duct tape to Antonio. “Get the blindfold back on and tie his ankles. Still gotta be a little careful. And stay with him. If he gets dizzy or nauseous, let me know.”

Antonio nods, watching as they retreat up the stairs before crouching next to Jay.

“Voight can be here in twenty seconds.” he tells him. “You know the whole team is probably watching the house right now.”

“I’m okay.” Jay argues. “The sling is helping. My shoulder barely even hurts anymore.”

“You are the most stubborn twat I have ever met.” Antonio growls.

“You know you love me.” Jay says with a smirk, “Now put the blindfold back on.”

Antonio rolls his eyes but ties the blindfold back into place over Jay’s eyes. Then he wraps tape a few times around his ankles before going over to the stairs and settling in, setting his mask on the steps next to him and pulling out his phone.

Jay’s asleep, or at least doing a good job of faking it, by the time Martin relieves him around noon. He’s managed to scoot along the wall to put himself in the corner and is leaning his head against the wall.

The cut at his hairline has stopped bleeding but the skin around it is already moving past yellow and starting to darken. Antonio doesn’t want to leave him but he trusts Martin to at least not deliberately hurt him so he makes his way upstairs and ends up falling asleep on the couch.

Antonio is loading gear into the van while Martin and Hastings get their hostage ready. He hates letting Hastings anywhere near Jay when he isn’t there to protect him but Mike had dismissed his protests, so he reluctantly allows the two men to disappear into the basement, Martin already hefting his automatic weapon from the previous robbery.

He regrets the choice when he finishes loading the van and hasn’t seen them ten minutes later. He jogs down the steps only to freeze in horror at the sight of Jay curled on the floor, hands bound, tape over his mouth and strapped into a bomb vest while Hastings kicks at him.

Martin is standing back, weapon loose in his hands as he looks between Antonio and the scene before him.

This time, Antonio doesn’t hesitate before pulling out his phone and dialing Voight.

“Breach now.” he snaps as soon as the line connects. “And shut down cell towers in the area.”

He brings up his own weapon, focusing his attention on Hastings.

“CPD. Step away from him, now.” he snaps, “Martin. Just put the gun down and keep your hands where I can see them.”

The man stares at him in shocked betrayal but doesn’t raise his weapon so Antonio ignores him to keep his weapon fixed on Hastings.

“Step back.” he snarls. “Don’t give me a reason.”

The man finally takes a step back, eyes blazing with fury.

“Is it armed?” he asks.

“Yeah.” the man snaps. “But I don’t have controls. Red has them. Maybe I should make a call.”

“Reach for your phone.” Antonio says, “I dare you.”

There’s a thud behind him and he shouts,

“In the basement.”

Then his team is at his back. Al takes Martin into custody, leading him back up the stairs while reading him his rights. Erin pushes past Antonio to kneel next to Jay as he presses forward, keeping his weapon up while Kevin slams Hastings up against the wall.

As soon as the man is headed up the stairs, Antonio drops his weapon and turns his attention to Jay. Erin has cut his hands free and removed the blindfold. As she pulls the tape away from his mouth, Antonio can’t take it anymore.

“We should have pulled the plug after the bastard pushed you down the stairs.” Antonio yells at him.“We’ve got nothing more right now than we had yesterday morning.”

“Sure we do.” Jay gasps, blood dripping from his lips. “Because he may be a jackass who pushes people down staircases but he’s also a dumbass who doesn’t know when to stop talking. They’ve got Irving out at the Daisy Field Meat Packing Plant. He’s still alive.”

“Stay with Halstead until bomb squad gets here and then make sure the idiot gets to Med.” Voight orders, stepping up behind him. “The rest of us will take care of Irving.”

Antonio nods and crouches next to Jay while Erin stands,

“Try not to break anymore bones while I’m gone.” she orders her partner before following the rest of the team out of the basement.

“You’ve still got zero sense of self preservation.” Antonio tells the man once they’re alone in the basement again.

“So the answer is no if I ask for your knife so I can disarm this myself?” Jay asks.

“Depends on if you actually know what you’re doing.” Antonio snaps back.

“I hung with some EOD guys over in the sandbox.” Jay says.

“Yes or no.” Antonio growls, “Do you know how to disarm this specific bomb?”

Jay sighs, coughing as the motion aggravates his injuries.

“Then I’m going to make you wait for the experts. We’ve blocked the surrounding towers. It’s safe to wait.”

“Says the guy not strapped to a bomb.” Jay grumbles, easing himself back against the wall.

“What happened anyway?”

“I think Hastings was pissed about being sent home like a misbehaving toddler last night.” Jay says. “Came in, told me the other guy had a gun on me and would shoot me if I tried to fight back. I guess I twitched wrong when he was buckling the vest on cause he slammed my head against the wall, tied my hands and gagged me, and then just started kicking.”

“You nauseous now?”

“A little.” Jay admits. “Can I go home now?”

“Yeah, if you’d agreed to us pulling you out yesterday morning…” Antonio says, “I mean you still would have gotten some x-rays on your shoulder but they probably would have sent you home afterward. Now though….”

“Definitely have a concussion now.” Jay says, sighing again and then grimaces, “Maybe a broken rib.”

“Hurts to breathe?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry bro. I should have fought harder to be the one to help load you.”

“Hastings only told me what we needed to know because he was having fun whaling on me.” Jay says. “If that brings Irving home alive, I don’t mind getting worked over.”

“Yeah.” Antonio says, “Like I said. No sense of self preservation.”

Voight is standing in the hallway, rubbing at his temples. Jay is finally free of the bomb vest and on his way to Med to be checked out. He’s just gotten a full debriefing from Antonio on what went down in that house and isn’t sure whether to put the kid in for a commendation or strangle him. Maybe he’ll do both.

A few doors down from where he’s currently waiting, Kyle Irving has been settled in a room and is being debriefed by his own superiors.

His phone rings and he glares down at the screen, annoyed when the number is unlisted.

“Voight.”

“Hello Sergeant.” a highly distorted voice says.

“Who is this?”

“You know me as Red. I see that both of your officers have been extracted.”

“You knew they were cops.” he says, pissed off anew.

“After discovering that Joey Mortenson was actually an undercover cop, it wasn’t too hard to guess that the man who suddenly appeared to fill his newly vacant spot on the crew was another cop.”

The smugness is undeniable and Voight wants to scream.

“Then why agree to let him join?”

“Because I, correctly, guessed that you would replace the security guards at the next robbery with your own people.” is the answer, “And to be honest, I couldn’t resist conducting a little experiment to see how far your boys would go to maintain the Detective’s cover.”

“An experiment?” he growls.

“Detective Halstead’s dedication to his job, and his determination to see Officer Irving come home safely, is truly admirable. It really reflects quite well on him and you as his superior.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know you were impressed.” he says flatly.

“It’s truly a shame that Officer Irving is so undeserving of his efforts.”

“Undercover ops go sideways. Getting made happens.”

“I’m sure it does. But he didn’t get made.”

“So you had him chained up in that warehouse for fun?”

“I had him chained up in that warehouse because he stole money from me and I wanted it back. He told me he was a cop hoping that it would keep me from killing him.”

Voight is silent, rage building as he digests the information.

“You have a nice day, Sergeant.”

The line goes dead and he feels his feet moving before his mind has processed the decision. All three men look up as he storms into the exam room and Commander Perry starts to speak.

“Hank, I thought I-”

“You son of a bitch.” he growls, only having eyes for the officer seated hunched over on the exam table.

“Hank!” Commander Perry protests.

“He told them he was a cop.” Hank growls, holding the man’s gaze.

“Why the hell would he do that?” Lieutenant Granger asks.

“Because they were going to kill him for stealing drug money from them and he hoped finding out he was a cop would change their mind.”

“Is that true?” the Commander asks, turning to the officer who has paled.

“I-” he starts but Hank cuts him off.

“Jay Halstead let himself be held prisoner for almost two days to keep his partner’s cover intact long enough to find you.” he growls. “He got shoved down a staircase and still refused to be pulled because it would ruin our chance to save you. He could have been rescued at any time but he turned it down every time it was offered because he didn’t want you to die. Even after he was strapped to a bomb and beaten he still said it was worth it because it got the intel we needed to bring you home alive.”

“Hank.” the Commander says in a warning tone before turning to Irving. “Did you take money from Red?”

“Yes.” the man admits, looking at his feet.

“I will handle this, Hank.” the Commander tells him. “Where’s Halstead now?”

“They finally got the bomb vest off him maybe ten minutes ago.” Hank says, “He should be arriving downstairs any time now.”

“Why don’t you head down and meet him.”

It’s not really a suggestion and Hank nods, giving Irving one final glare before leaving the room.

He arrives downstairs just in time to watch them wheel Jay through the sliding doors. The paramedics have the stretcher at a forty five degree angle and he’s resting tiredly against it, an oxygen mask over his face.

Will Halstead comes out of a treatment room and hurries over to his brother.

“Hey.” He says, placing a hand on his arm, “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts.” Jay admits. “Chest is tight.”

“What did you give him for the pain?” Ethan Choi asks the paramedics as he joins them.

“10 mg tramadol.” Chout tells him. “We kept it light because he’s showing signs of a concussion. But a couple of his ribs are definitely broken.”

Will rubs his brother’s arm.

Choi positions himself in front of Jay, checking his pupil reactions and asking a series of questions.

“Alright, let’s get him in treatment one and get him on the monitors.” Choi orders. “Just hang in there, Jay. We’ll get you feeling better soon.”

“Thanks Ethan.”

Hank follows at a distance as they wheel him into the room, rolling his eyes as Halstead tries to sit up and assist with the transfer to the exam bed.

“Just let us do the work, Jay.” Ethan scolds gently, “We really don’t want you moving around too much until we can get a look at those ribs.”

Jay rolls his eyes but sits back. The doctors transfer him with practised ease and he can’t quite hide the wince.

Hank and Antonio step into the room as soon as the paramedics wheel their stretcher back out but stay back in the corner as the doctors work.

A nurse flits around him, attaching monitors and Ethan pulls back the blanket that is tucked up over his bare chest.

Another flash of anger passes through Hank as the developing bruising is laid bare. His right shoulder and upper arm are the darkest, having had a day and a half to develop. Even so, they are overshadowed by the reddened outline of a boot print on the left side of his chest.

Will freezes, eyes fixed on the injury, but Ethan maintains a professional detachment, bringing his stethoscope from his pocket.

Jay winces a few times as the man places it against his chest, listening carefully for a moment before moving on to another area. After a minute, he pulls back.

“Well, you’ve got good breath sounds bilaterally so I don’t think there’s any damage to your lungs but I’ll want to get a chest CT just to be sure. You’re definitely breathing more shallowly than I would like but that’s to be expected. Will, can you help me with the x-ray?”

The man shakes himself, giving his brother’s arm another gentle squeeze before letting go and moving to help bring the portable x-ray machine over.

They get several images of Jay’s chest and a couple films of his shoulder before letting the injured man relax, standing shoulder-to-shoulder to assess them.

After a moment they return to the bedside, Ethan making notes on his tablet.

“Alright,” he says once he’s finished, “You’ve got a relatively simple fracture to your shoulder, just on the ball of the joint. I’ll get an orthopedic specialist to look over the x-rays and they may want to come examine the joint themselves but from what I can see you should be good to go with a sling for six-to-eight weeks. I’ve got orders in for a head CT just to double check but it looks like we’re looking at a grade one concussion. You’ll feel miserable for a couple of days but I don’t anticipate any complications. Though we are going to make you stick around for a twenty-four hour observation just in case. We’ll also get a CT of your chest just to double check your lungs and your abdomen to check for internal bleeding.”

“Awesome.” Jay grumbles.

“It gets better.” Ethan says, giving him a sympathetic look. “You’ve got four broken ribs. Straight in a line under that nice boot print on your side. They should heal just fine without surgery but it’s going to be a miserable couple of weeks. We have to stay light on the pain meds at least for a couple of days because of the concussion so we’ll get you started on ice therapy and corticosteroid injections to ease the inflammation. And you’ll need to do some positively enjoyable breathing exercises to help reduce your risk for pneumonia.”

Jay groans.

Once the kid is wheeled off to CT, his brother taking the chance to go check on another patient, Antonio turns to Voight.

“You look ticked off. You’re not going to yell at Jay are you? Yeah, it was stupid to stay as long as he did but I don’t know that we would have found Irving if he hadn’t.”

“It’s not Halstead I’m pissed at.” Voight says, cutting the other man off as he starts to protest, “And it’s not you either. He was the one getting kicked at, he deserved to call the shots on when to end it.”

“Then who? Hastings? Cause I’d like to have a go at the bastard myself.”

“Irving didn’t get made.” he mutters and Antonio’s features twist in confusion.

“Then why was he-”

“The bastard got greedy.” Voight growls, “ Helped himself to a better cut. And then when they realized what he was doing, he told them he was a cop trying to get some kind of immunity.”

“Jay had to go through this, is going to spend the next six weeks forcing himself to breathe, because Irving is a greedy son of a bitch?” Antonio says tightly.

Voight just nods.

“Red called me.” he adds after a minute. “I think once we stopped them from killing the bastard, the back up plan was to at least destroy his life. Irving didn’t even try to deny it.”

“Then the brass are taking care of it?”

“Commander Perry is handling it personally. Should probably keep the news in house. I doubt they’ll want it broadcasted to the masses. But I figured you deserve to know. So does Halstead.”

“Feels like kicking him while he’s down.” Antonio mutters and Voight has to agree.

Jay glances between them when he’s brought back from CT, clearly worried he’s about to get yelled at.

“Sarge, I know -” he starts, falling silent at Voight’s raised hand.

“I’m not going to yell at you, Jay.” he says. “Staying in there was your call. As much as I wish you hadn’t been hurt this badly, you got the job sone.”

Jay’s eyes narrow in confusion.

“Then why do you look so pissed off?” he asks.

“What I’m about to tell you is need to know only.” Voight cautions. “Brass wants to deal with it in house and hope they can avoid too many people finding out about it.”

“Okay.” Jay says slowly.

“Kyle Irving didn’t get made.” Voight says. “The bastard got caught stealing money. He thought telling them he was a cop would keep them from killing him.”

Jay frowns.

“He got greedy.”

“I’m sorry, Jay.” Voight says. “I know that’s a kick in the pants after what you went through to bring him home.”

“He still didn’t deserve to die.” Jay says with an aborted shrug.

He can’t quite cover up the hurt that he’s feeling, no matter how nonchalant he tries to be about it.

Voight shakes his head. The brass had better make sure that Irving pays for this.

Or he’ll take it into his own hands.

#whumptober 2023 #no. 28 #sacrifices #Chicago PD #fic #undercover #kidnapping #Jay Halstead

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bearsinpotatosacks · 6 months

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Blood Dripping Down the Alley Walls - Whumptober2023

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

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

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

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

Words: 687

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading!

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nerdywalkingencyclopedia · 6 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: NCIS Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jessica Knight/Jimmy Palmer Characters: Jessica Knight, Jimmy Palmer, Nick Torres, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Whumptober 2023, Whumptober, Established Jessica Knight/Jimmy Palmer, Hurt Jessica Knight, Hurt Jimmy Palmer, Stabbing, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Short One Shot Series: Part 28 of NatK - Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Whumptober 2023

Day 28 - "You'll have to go through me" / Bloody Knife

A cold crime scene heats up...

#whumptober2023 #no. 28 #you'll have to go through me #bloody knife #ncis #fic #jimmy palmer #jessica knight

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another-whump-sideblog · 2 years

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Jane’s Pets Pt. 44: It’s Just the Tip of the Iceberg

TWs in the tags

Masterlist

Anger born of worry | Punching the wall | Headache

Your head hurts really really bad. You haven’t been able to get out of bed today. Wait, are you on a bed? It feels like you’re lying on concrete, but why would you be lying on concrete?

The world spins and spins and your ears ring and your head hurts really really bad. It’s the worst pain you’ve ever been in.

“I’m dying!” You groan.

“You’re not dying.” Oh, Kit is here. When did they get here?

“You sound awfully confident for someone who’s brain isn’t exploding.” You trail off towards the end and cover your ears. It hurts! Make it stop, make it stop!

You hear Kit yelling, but it’s distant. “What if it’s an aneurism or a stroke or something! It’s never been this bad. He needs to go to the hospital.”

A voice responds. “Please. I have more experience than all of those doctors put together. He’s fine here. Probably just stress triggering worse symptoms.”

“He could die!”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you. He’s fine.” The voice gets closer to you. You whimper, it’s too loud!

“Smile for me, Bunny.”

You force yourself to smile.

“Good. Can you sit up?”

You sob and push yourself into a sitting position.

“Good Bunny. Hold your arms up.”

You hold your arms up for what feels like forever.

“See, not a stroke. You can put your arms down. Is your vision blurry, Bunny?”

“Mhmm.” You don’t want to nod, moving your head at all hurts.

“Alright. I’ll give him an MRI scan, just so we can be positive nothing life-threatening is going on. Happy, Kitty?”

“No, I’m not! Look at him! Look at what you’ve done! This is just the tip of the iceberg! Even if it is just stress! He’s going to have to deal with this shit for the rest of his life! And it’s going to be really short if you keep doing what you do!”

The voices start to move away again. You want to lie back down but you know the movement will hurt.

“I thought we were making progress. You’ve been so much better lately, and now you’re throwing it all away. Who do you belong to, Kitty?”

You hear a sigh. “You, master.”

“Who does Bunny belong to?”

“You, master.”

“Exactly. He will hurt if I want him to hurt. It’s my decision, not yours. Your yelling and defiance mean nothing.” Jane appears next to you and gives you a water bottle. “Drink this, you’ll need to be hydrated.” She vanishes.

You drink eagerly, until the bottle is empty.

There’s a sound of something banging against a wall. You cry out, not enjoying the sound at all.

“Oh, sorry. I was just punching the wall, you don’t need to worry.” Kit’s voice is softer, but still simmering with rage. “Do loud noises make it worse? I’ll be quiet. I wish I could get you an ice pack or something…”

The idea of cold against your head makes you whimper. It would eventually numb it a bit, but it would hurt at first and you can’t imagine having to deal with more pain on your head.

“She’s going to give you an MRI. It’ll be okay.”

Even as confused as you are, you can tell that they’re reassuring themself more than you.

—

You can’t walk. Jane forces you to your feet over and over again, and says that if you fall you’ll be punished. You fall. She whips you, over and over again, until she’s satisfied that you’re telling the truth. The whip doesn’t even hurt that bad, compared to your head.

Jane has Dollie carry you to a door in the basement you’ve never been in before. Every slight jostle sends waves of pain through you. It leads down another staircase, which leads to a hallway with many doors. Jane leads Dollie through one of the doors, and then through another, into a room with a big machine with a large tube inside.

“Lay him down there.” She orders. You can’t see what she’s pointing at, but Dollie lays you down on something soft. Softer than concrete, at least.

Jane sticks a needle in the crook of your elbow without warning. You hope it’s for the pain, but you know it’s probably not. You feel something press against your arms, and something over your ears. Headphones. You groan as even the slight pressure increases your pain tenfold. Something else goes over your head, with a rectangle at the top that you can see through.

“Alright, Bunny. You’re going to stay still and stay quiet, okay?”

You don’t have a chance to respond before what you’re lying on starts moving up. It takes you a second to realize that you’re actually moving and the sensation isn’t just dizziness.

The thing you’re lying on starts moving backwards, and you’re in the tube before you know it. You think it’s good that your vision is blurry and you can’t see how tight of a space you’re in.

You lie still and focus on your breathing. This could be worse. She’s just going to scan your brain, it’s not going to hurt.

A sudden, loud, alarm-like noise plays. You jump in fear and pain. Too loud, too loud, what’s happening!?

You hear Jane’s voice through the headphones. “It’s supposed to make noises, calm down. I know you can stay still, so you’ll be punished severely if you move again.”

You force yourself to stay still, tears leaking from your eyes. You’re in agony.

The alarm noise stops, giving you a momentary relief, before a ticking noise starts. The ticking isn’t so bad, but it’s periodically interrupted by loud blaring beeps. It happens enough that you can count the beeps. It’s always nine.

Counting the beeps and ticks distracts you a little. It’s very hard to focus through the pain, but you manage it.

The ticks and beeps stop, replaced by a buzzing sound. The tube vibrates. You shriek in fear, because all you can think is ‘that’s a drill she’s going to drill into my head that’s a drill!’

“Hold still!” Comes through your headphones again. “It’s just the machine. There’s no drill. You’ll be punished for your disobedience.”

You freeze in fear. You’re going to be punished, she’s going to hurt you and you’re already in so much pain.

The noises cycle through the alarm, the ticking, and the buzzing. Finally, you’re moved out of the tube again.

But not all the way. You feel Jane do something with the needle in your arm, and then you go back in.

The noises cycle again. You stay as still as possible.

Finally, it’s actually over, and you are brought all the way out of the tube and lowered. Jane removes the needle from your arm and the thing from your head. You whimper as she removes the headphones and the room becomes louder.

“He’s fine. Take him back up to the room he was in before.”

Dollie picks you back up. You can tell she’s trying to be as gentle as possible, but it’s not helping.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset @scp-1296 @fuzzybucketz

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