#angstpril 2023

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Is It Enough? (Tower: Day 99)

for Angstpril, Day 19: Breaking Down

cw: imprisonment, beating, strangulation, vague noncon implications

prev ///// masterlist ///// next

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

"See to it he never does this again."

The command, spat at the guards, was the last thing Alexei heard before they threw him back into his cell, ears still ringing from the punch he'd taken. The door locked, and for a while it was quiet. In the cell, in the hall. Quiet everywhere but in his head.

The dread building inside him was so potent he was sure he'd be sick, and try as he might, he couldn't direct his thoughts away from it.

Cold blue of a clear sky—

(What are they going to do?)

Flaking rust, crumbled iron—

(What are they going to do to me?)

Clear, cheer, deer, fear, gear, hear—

(What are they going to do to me?)

He'd been stupid. He wasn't going to pretend otherwise. The city council had been invited on a tour of the prison, something about securing funding, or acquiring votes for a new bill. Wade had told Lex about it beforehand as he hosed him down, forced a comb through his hair, a toothbrush into his mouth.

"Even the mayor will be there. Be good, or else."

They'd unchained him from the wall and had him stand in the doorway, flanked by two guards. The warden had thought he was helpless. Half-starved and wearing power dampeners and missing his fucking arms. His mistake.

When one of the council members had reached out to touch him, like a child on a double dare, Lex had fought past the dampeners, focusing until he thought his very blood would boil, and set her expensive silk blazer on fire.

 And now he was about to find out exactly what 'or else' meant.

The cell door opened before long, guard after guard pouring into the small space. Lex knew what was coming; he curled into a ball and ignored them, waiting for the blows to start flying. And when they inevitably did, he tried to find a poem, or even a rhyme to cling to, make it all more bearable, but every boot in the gut only served to scatter his thoughts, and in the end, he was resolved to simply waiting for it to end.

The beating was the worst one he'd taken since coming here, leaving his body shuddering, blood oozing from his lips, breath coming in short wheezes—he'd felt several ribs crack during the assault.

The voices above him were fuzzy. He didn't care. He didn't need to know what the guards were going on about—

"But is it enough?"

That pulled his attention, shoving him into a cold-blooded clarity, words sharp enough to cut into his skull.

"What do you mean, 'is it enough'? Look at him."

"They get beaten all the fucking time. Lopez said—"

"What do you suggest? We're not supposed to do permanent damage."

"That's what the healer's for."

The conversation was quickly turning to argument, and the words were bleeding together. He could only catch scraps.

"...strung up." (Shut up)

"Nothing to tie on…" (Bygone)

"...in the break room." (Doom, plume)

An arm curled around his torso, pressure on newly-cracked ribs, and he bit back a whimper as more hands latched onto him and lifted his body. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, but it hurt to move. He could only hang there limply as they carried him out of the cell and down the hall. Going where? Why? (Cry, pie, lie, die.)

Movement stopped, a switch was flicked on, and Lex squinted as bright light flooded his vision. He could hear garbled words from a TV, music coming faintly from a radio, the slight squeak of boots on the floor.

Break room.

"Stand him up!" one of the guards called. Lex blinked away the spots in his vision, letting his eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights. As he did, he saw that the guard's number had dwindled down to three.

"I don't know if he can—"

"Well he'll remember to really fucking fast."

Hands held him up on either side, and something was looped around his throat, pulled tight against flesh and knotted. (Spotted, clotted, dotted, no no no—)

He was vaguely aware of the other end of the thing around his neck being tossed high, over a metal ceiling beam, and caught, yanked.

Lex's body jerked as it cinched on his throat, and he choked, trying to take in air, finding he couldn't unless he stood perfectly straight, and even then it was only barely. All his body wanted to do was curl in on itself, and his ribs throbbed as he tried to hold position, closing his eyes against the harsh lights. 

"Fucking hell man, this is gonna kill him."

"He passes out, you let him down. Hand me the whip."

"You sure we're allowed to touch it? Rentals—"

"Rentals won't give a shit as long as we return it clean."

A whistling sound pierced the air, followed by a sharp slap across his back. Lex arched forward reflexively, cutting off his own air with the movement.

"Dude. That was weak as shit, let me try."

Lex braced himself, but it wasn't enough. The whip cracked as it hit the air this time, striking him on the shoulders. Another was right on its heels, lighting a line of fire that ran parallel to his spine.

With every blow, it was getting harder to hold himself up, to keep breathing. It was only the fear that kept him awake, that animal terror that struck him when he couldn't reach the air.

A strike cut across several marks at once, and Lex cried out, his knees buckling.

"Maybe we should stop—"

"He's fine."

He managed to get to his feet, gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks. Wasn't it enough? How could this not be enough?

The next lash pulled a scream from him, cut off rapidly as he stumbled and the rope closed his throat. He didn't even have the energy to hold back a strangled sob. How could this not be fucking enough?

Another strike, and he lost his footing, the pressure on his windpipe crushing, legs shaking and useless and failing.

"For God's sake."

The rope suddenly went slack, and he crumpled, gasping, unable to choke down the whimpers that came crawling up his throat.

"Jeez, David. Buzzkill much?"

"I'm not losing my fucking job for your entertainment."

The linoleum floor was cool on his face, and Lex clung to the feeling, trying to focus on anything other than how much it all hurt.

"He literally tried to kill Senator Collins. He should count himself lucky right now."

"Lucky? He's practically dying at your feet."

"Yeah, we're supposed to ensure this never happens again. Gotta make sure he never forgets." Lex heard fabric shuffling above him, the faint click of metal on metal.

"Fucking hell, dude,"

"No one's making you stay and watch."

"He's already had the shit beat outta him."

Another sob escaped Lex. They were done now, right? Fuck, he'd hoped they were done, they had to be done—

"But is it enough?"

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing

#angstpril 2023 #fic #day 19 #breaking down #sorry lex #wildefire #assassin whumpee #prison whump #beating #tw strangulation #stress position #whipping tw #tw implied noncon #whump

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Undeserving

for Angstpril, Day 28: Trust Issues (alt)

cw: referenced beatings/abuse/torture, death wish, brief reference/allusion to self harm

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•

Even warm and dry, even in a bed for the first time in months, even utterly exhausted, Cerus could not fall asleep. In the time since his fall, not a single person had falsified kindness before hurting him, before taking from him, but nevertheless, Cerus didn't trust the soldier's intentions. He'd never given anyone a reason to love him. Never a reason to extend a hand. And even when asked directly, the soldier wouldn't give him an answer.

What did they want? Every possible reason for their administrations eluded him; beating him didn't require a bed. Taking vengeance in other ways didn't demand his wounds be bandaged. Anything they wanted from him could've simply been seized, be it the boots off his feet or the flesh off his back, and not a soul would bat an eye. Such were the rewards of the damned, and Cerus had come to expect as much. 

There was always the possibility that the soldier wanted more than simple revenge. Perhaps they thought they could access his magic, the lifeblood that had been torn away from him at the trial where he should've been allowed to die. If that were so, the soldier was a bigger fool than he'd thought. In his early days as a slave to the kingdom, when he was at his most desperate, he'd tried to cut away the tattoos the priests had tainted his skin with. He'd despaired to learn it was a fool's errand; they kept coming back.

Even without the black marks of the holy mages, any spell requiring refined movements would be impossible with his ruined hands. He'd been allowed a healer after the trial, so that he could be put to work right away, but the woman who'd done it didn't bother to align bones, or even hold the larger gashes closed, and Cerus was left with ugly scars and uglier hands. Hands that could hardly grasp the tools he was made to use; fingers that still spiked with pain when he tried to curl them.

The soldier hadn't returned yet. Cerus was uncertain how long it had been since they'd closed the door, and as he lay shivering on the mattress, trying to suppress the painful coughs that wracked his body, he wondered if they'd come back at all. Despite their supposed determination to care for him, they didn't seem to enjoy it; hardly looking his way, hardly speaking. Perhaps they were only acting on orders. That would explain some of the situation, but still left the larger question of why unanswered.

He wished they would hurt him and be done with it; the fear of what was to come was worse than any pain they could inflict. At least then he'd know what to expect. A whip, a stick, a fist. Something that left him shaking and bleeding, something easier to understand than a gentle hand.

In spite of those hopes, Cerus still flinched when the door at last swung open. The soldier was back, a steaming bowl in hand.

"My uncle's gone to bed," they said as they crossed the room. "I'd thank you to not start shouting at me again."

Their uncle. Was that who had ordered him brought here? What did he want with him? A ransom, perhaps. Nurse him back to health and sell him to a lord who desired revenge. Cerus was very used to revenge.

At the mines, if a night was particularly dull, workers would pay him a visit. Reminisce about sisters and mothers, lovers and sons, lost to the war. Punish him for it, with whatever they had on hand, and let his screams soothe their grief. He couldn't pretend any of it was undeserved.

"Let me help you sit up," the soldier said. "You'll have an easier time eating if you aren't lying on your stomach."

Cerus didn't respond, but allowed himself to be lifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his damaged back. The feeling there wasn't what it had once been, but pain still found a way to sink its fingers into him.

The soldier propped him against the wall, taking care to avoid the wounded skin, and Cerus once again wondered why they'd bother. Even on orders, their master couldn't fault them for a moment of carelessness. They picked up the bowl then, holding a spoonful of broth to his lips.

"Shell stew," they said. "I'm sure you've had it since coming here."

He hadn't. A thin porridge in the morning, bread and a strip of dried fish at night. Enough to keep him on his feet, for the most part. 

Cerus took the broth, too hungry and exhausted to feel humiliated at the notion of being fed like a babe. Whatever the soldier's plans were for him, refusing food wouldn't help. He hoped the stew was poisoned.

In slow silence, the soldier helped him to empty the bowl; thin, salty broth full of bits of potato and seaweed and a chewy meat that reminded him of the smell of the ocean. He felt warmer after, though shivers still ran through his body.

The soldier rolled him back onto his stomach, then left with the dish, returning moments later with another blanket. They laid it on the floor, parallel with Cerus, and blew out the pair of oil lamps that lit the room; leaving nothing but the faint glow of clouded moonlight from the window.

Were they sleeping on the floor? Had they been commanded to watch over him tonight, so he wouldn't try and run? 

"Wh—?" he started to say, but the shift of air in his throat sparked another coughing fit, driving spikes of pain through his lungs and still-healing ribs.

"I hope you're not about to ask me 'why' again," came the soldier's voice from somewhere in the darkness. "Sleep."

Cerus was silent for a moment, steadying his breathing before trying again. "Are you meant to be guarding me?" His voice came out ragged and small. He hadn't had much reason to speak in the last months. Begging rarely granted him a reprieve, though sometimes his stupid tongue couldn't help itself, and conversation wasn't one of the labors the kingdom demanded of him.

"If you'd really like to leave, by all means, do it." The soldier's tone told him they were tired of this topic. Cerus was tempted to push it, to goad them into lashing out, into striking him, or throwing him back into the rain. Something that would shed a light on their intentions for him.

But he didn't, instead allowing his eyes to drift closed, though he knew sleep would elude him. Pointless as it was, Cerus hoped the soldier or their master could be convinced to kill him.

Put an end to this. Once and for all.

•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chibichibivale

#angstpril 2023 #fic #day 28 #trust issues #alt prompt #whump #penumbra: shadow king #fantasy whump #villain whump #royal whumpee #cerus when someone is actively healing him and outright states they're tired of seeing people hurting: ???? what can it mean #tw torture #reluctant caretaker #broken bones #beating tw #genuinely cant say how much i have left of this story

[hellowkatey]

duty and sacrifice

Summary: Obi-Wan's first night back at the Temple after Melida-Daan. Angstpril day 4: "why did you leave?"

Obi-Wan wasn’t asleep for long before being lulled awake by the bed beneath him shifting.

(Or rather, the couch. He had only been back at the Temple for a few hours and didn’t feel comfortable reclaiming his old room. Not while he was on probation.)

The living room was dark, but Coruscant’s nightlife brought enough of a blue-tinted glow to illuminate the outline of a familiar Jedi Master perched on the edge of the cushion near Obi-Wan’s feet.

“M’ster Jinn?” Obi-Wan muttered while wiping away the sleep. For the first time since they arrived back from Melida-Daan, Qui-Gon made eye contact with the boy.

“Why did you leave?” the question was not laced with bitterness or accusation like Obi-Wan would have expected it to be. It was soft. Uttered with the cautious cadence of someone who laid awake choosing each word with careful intention.

Even more surprising was the bitterness that Obi-Wan felt. His gut reaction was to respond with sarcasm. “You should know why. You were there,” felt favorable on his tongue. “Technically it was you who left me,” followed close behind.

Despite the small truths they harbored, neither was allowed to be spoken into existence. Obi-Wan had spent his own sleepless nights in deep thought over the morality of it all and knew exactly his answer.

“I didn’t leave,” he said, ”I stayed.”

Qui-Gon hummed with mild interest. “Is there a difference?”

“Well, yes. Staying meant fulfilling my duty. Leaving meant walking away from it.”

“So you believe your duty was to the Young?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I know it was.”

“How?”

“Because I could feel it in the Force, Master Qui-Gon.”

Qui-Gon looked away again.

“So what do you think I chose?”

“What?”

They were staring at one another again, but Qui-Gon’s gaze had hardened again. “Did I stay? Or leave?”

That was the question. The dilemma the Temple was buzzing about. The critical decision the Council had to make a verdict on. Was Qui-Gon’s primary duty to the Jedi and his injured friend, or to his padawan that was making rather radical decisions a few months into his apprenticeship?

The problem with the question was there wasn’t a clear answer. Even Obi-Wan fluctuated his positions. He understands the reasons that Qui-Gon had to return. He knows he didn’t exactly give his Master a choice. Time was running out. Obi-Wan was stubborn and Qui-Gon— whether he was willing to admit it or not— was scared.

“I think you did what you thought was right.”

“Leaving you on Melida-Daan was right?” Qui-Gon whispered. His tone was too neutral for Obi-Wan to deduce if he was being sarcastic or genuine. No matter the intention, Obi-Wan shook his head with matching neutrality.

“No. But staying with Master Tahl was,” The couch shifted with Master Jinn’s shift in weight. His lip twitched a few times as it struggled to decide which emotion would surface. When the silence started to become uncomfortable, Obi-Wan cleared his throat and fiddled with the seam of the blanket that was not there when he fell asleep. “How is Master Tahl, by the way.”

It took Qui-Gon a moment to snap out of his daze. “She’s doing… better. It’s been a long road since… well, I’ll let her tell you the story.”

Obi-Wan swallowed the lump in his throat. He had assumed the worst when the days began to turn to weeks and Qui-Gon hadn’t turned back up on Melida-Daan. Though he relinquished his apprenticeship by not getting on the ship, he assumed— he hoped— his master would return. When he didn’t, Obi-Wan prayed it wasn’t mourning that kept Qui-Gon from finding him.

Learning Master Tahl was alive was a relief.

Realizing Qui-Gon did not come until Obi-Wan pleaded for assistance sent a new wave of dismay through his mind.

“It’s late,” Qui-Gon said, even though it was he who awoke Obi-Wan in the middle of the night. “Get some sleep, Obi-Wan.”

And then he was gone.

Obi-Wan settled back down under the blanket that usually rests on the end of Qui-Gon’s bed. It smelled like the laundry detergent used in the Temple washroom and Qui-Gon. Home wrapped around him like the hug of a stranger. His senses were torn between the comfort of familiarity and the dread of having to let it go all over again.

Despite his physical exhaustion, sleep refused him.

#angstpril 2023 #day 4 #why did you leave? #fic #star wars #jedi apprentice #melida-daan #obi-wan #qui-gon

[solar-siren]

Angstpril 2023 Masterpost

A belated masterpost of my Tron Angstpril fics. You can also read them all on AO3.

Day 1 - Liar

Day 2 - Trust Issues

Day 3 - No Escape

Day 4 - “Why did you leave?”

Day 5 - Crisis

Day 6 - Abandoned

Day 7 - Sleepless Nights

Day 8 - Mind Games

Day 9 - Devastation

Day 10 - Sacrifice

Day 11 - Self-Sabotage

Day 12 - Confessions

Day 13 - Recovery

Day 14 - Cruelty

Day 15 - Lost In My Mind

Day 16 - “You Have to Let Me Go”

Day 17 - Running Away

Day 18 - Exhausted

Day 19 - Breaking Down

Day 20 - “I Can’t Go Back”

Day 21 - You’re On Your Own, Kid

Day 22 - Shadow of Former Self

Day 23 - Failure

Day 24 - “I Was Wrong About You”

Day 25 - Nothing Lasts Forever

Day 26 - Storm

Day 27 - Heated Argument

Day 28 - Loss

Day 29 - Cast Away

Day 30 - Lost Hope

#ren writes #tron #tron fic #angstpril #angstpril 2023

[psychologeek]

Unconditionally

Part of my "Jason's poems during his muordertour during Lost Days". You're welcome to leave comments/fake replys to add to the "Tumblr " I'll do once I'm better.

day 25: Nothing Lasts Forever.

Thaey say that love is a given

It's a free present you can't untake

(Unconditionally)

When I stand in front of you

Bloody hands

Sweaty palms -

Will you be my refuge on the hawling, stormy night?

Will you feed me, 

Keep me shelter from the haunting crowd?

When the fork lifters and the flame throwers

Stand upon your castle

Will you keep me?

(Or will you let them take -

Every pound of my body -

Pay my bills with blood

And pain?)

# Frankenstein #monster #real question #poem #sad

...

For more:

#batman #jason todd #red hood #jason's world murder tour #angstpril2023 #angstpril 2023 #day 25 #Jason todd's writing #poems and poetry #poems #Nothing Lasts Forever #my writing

[fanfictasia]

Angstpril Day 3

No Escape

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from Breathing Ashes

To even say he wants to be out from this would be lying to himself. He did that before. He wishes he hadn’t, but it… needed to happen. If Anakin hadn’t finally stepped forwards to demand more, something, they never would have made it to where they are now. At least here, they have… something. Some semblance of equality.

“That’s not what I treated you as,” Obi-Wan objects. Anakin glances at him, wordlessly – he could argue endlessly to that, but he… won’t. There’s no reason to, anyway. He catches Anakin’s look, anyway, and sighs. “That… was not what I meant to treat you as.”

“But you did,” Anakin tells him, quietly. “Everyone did.”

There has never been a way out. Not for him. How many others is that true for? And to think this is what he wanted so much to end that he left everything just to try. Because he had to try. But he failed that as everything else.

Obi-Wan reaches out, touching his arm. The sensation is… comforting at least.

“What do you want?” he asks. “If you could choose?”

He never wanted to reach this place, but he has. He’s become what all slaves try never to be. “I don’t know. It’s… unachievable, and irrelevant.”

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #angstpril #angstpril 2023 #angstpril day 3 #day three #angstpril day three #day 3 #anakin skywalker #anakin #obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan #anakin and obi-wan #anakin needs a hug #angst #hurt/comfort #no escape

[katierosefun]

so . . . i actually partook in angstpril this year. here’s my first fic, one that covers the first three prompts of @chaos-company‘s angstpril 2023: (1) liar, (2) invisible wounds, and (3) no escape.

please mind the tags on this one!!!!!

now we’re just liars  (star trek: aos, 5.8k words)

There’s nothing in Iowa,” Jim says.

“Yup, did my research. Miles and miles of corn and snow, if the weather’s freakish enough.”

“Bones,” Jim says quietly. “I mean it. You don’t have to come.”

[or: one year into the academy, and bones tags along with jim on a trip back to iowa. because reasons.]

#angstpril 2023 #day1 #day2 #day3 #star trek #mckirk #my fic

[diracsea]

yeah it kinda goes like that.

#storytelling #moment capsule #angstpril 2023 #câu chuyện chiều cao 3 #đôi khi chỉ là tiện tay vớ đại một cái tên các bạn hiểu hông #tag hoinguoisongtinhcam

[catgirl-catboy]

Angstpril day 2: invisable wounds

~1200 words | read on ao3

Mondo, after the accident.

When Mondo promised to lead the gang in Diaya’s honor, he didn’t know all he was committing to.

In the heat of the moment, the promise between men was the only thing that mattered. Unfortunately, the heat of the moment doesn’t last fucking forever.

He first noticed it when informing the gang of his “victory”. Hah! He got his ass whooped, and now he has to play it off like a victory.

He thought he couldn’t breathe due to his guilt. That the words he was forcing out, the first lies of many, were causing his chest to constrict. Nope.

Once he finally managed to wave his gang away and get some fucking space, he wanted to take a shower. Unfortunately, when he stripped to get in, he found that the back of his shirt was soaked through with blood. Fucking fantastic. He didn’t need another reason to feel terrible, thank you.

His bathtub looked like a murder scene when he was done, and washing the wounds out fucking hurt. Gravel fell out of wounds he didn’t even know there was gravel in. He wouldn’t let himself cry out in pain. He didn’t deserve to.

Since he smashed the bathroom mirror during a fit of rage, he can’t get a good look at his back. He needed to get around to repairing that. Or finding the money to hire someone else, now that there was one less mouth to feed.

He’d have to throw away the shirt, since there’s no way to get that much blood and grime off.

No, he thought, I should go into the woods and burn it. But that would take time he didn’t have at the moment. He needed to get clean, and then he needed to fucking pass out.

He wasn’t sure why the shirt was such a big fucking deal to him right now, with his brother’s blood on his hands and the weight of the promise on his shoulders. It just felt like a huge thing at the moment.

It was near impossible to dress his own wounds, but he’d have to get used to it now that he was alone. He got all the power and respect he’d wanted. He was still alone.

He settled for tying bandages around his chest, and hoping they covered it well enough. He knew he had to be careful. If this got infected, he’d have to go to the hospital and come clean about what happened. And he was taking this shit to the grave.

(It got infected. He managed to fight through the pain enough to avoid having to pay for a doctor. He still went riding, because a leader has to set a standard for the rest of em.)

Being injured fucking sucked.

He didn’t mind the pain. Some days, he even came close to enjoying it. It was what a bastard like him deserved for what he did. He was lucky that he didn’t get worse.

He disliked that he couldn’t move the way he used to.

Not only did raising his arms above his head hurt, they got slow and shaky. Doing his hair took twice as long, and he didn’t fucking bother on days when he didn’t meet up with the gang.

(He can’t think of it as his gang. Not yet anyways.)

He had to get a shitton of sleep medication. He didn’t think he got any sleep at all the first night after the accident, and that wasn’t just because he tried to sleep in Daiya’s bed. Saying he tossed and turned all night would be misleading. He was in too much pain to fucking move, but his mind raced a mile a minute.

He tried to ignore the odd looks he got when picking up multiple bottles of the stuff. He couldn’t punch his brain to get it to shut up, so this was the only option.

The shitty desks at his school made his back feel like it was on fire. Slumping in his seat did not fucking help. Eventually, he just sat on his backpack as a makeshift cushion, and cussed out the shortstack behind him that couldn’t see because of it.

He trained himself not to grimace when he got on his bike. He needed to do this, for Daiya. His body would just have to fucking deal with it.

Everyone chalked up the lack of fights to the recent change in leadership. Thank fucking god.

He can’t get injured again. They’d find his wounds and figure out how he got them.

The pain got better, but it never completely went away.

The guilt did not get better.

Eventually, he stopped running from fights and started winning them. He never stopped running though.

Chihiro was a determined little brat. Practically dragged Mondo to the gym today, because fuck his own plans, right?

His own plans happened to be to sit in bed all day and try not to think about the pain.

He always forgot how much his back could fucking hurt until it got bad again. And it got bad for no damn reason! At least when he ached after a fight, it was for something he did.

Every rep he did with Chihiro hurt that day. Spotting for him hurt that day. Someone looking at him wrong hurt that day.

Chihiro was bold enough to trust him with his secret, and someone like Mondo wouldn’t return the favor, even though not telling him fucking hurt.

He’s spent enough time hanging around Chi to be sure that if he knew, he’d immediately demand Mondo go home or go to a doctor. He was surprisingly forceful about other’s wellbeing for such a quiet person. But Mondo still couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth.

He really was a cowardly piece of shit.

The only surefire way of relief was heat.

When Mondo first figured this out, he practically lived in the bathtub. He didn’t even mind the burns he managed to give himself, just because different pain felt so much better than what he currently dealt with.

He did, however, mind the fucking water bill. Holy Shit.

It took a long time before he felt safe enough going to the Sauna again. He specifically chose right before it closed, when the place’d be a ghost town.

He checked which of his shirts didn’t get transparent when wet before going. Even though it’s probably empty, you can’t be too careful.

Once he realized that something about the sauna magically made the pain in his back lessen, he never wanted to leave.

He managed to convince the gang that wearing clothes into a fucking sauna was a feat of badassery and not cowardice. Some of the dumbasses even copied him. He can appreciate thoughtless loyalty like that.

Before the fight with one of Daiya’s fiercest rivals, he pulled Michi aside.

“If I die… Bury me in this jacket.”

Michi wasn’t the type to question orders. It was a valuable trait in a second in command, but not a leader.

“Boss, don’t worry about it! You’re too strong to die here.”

Mondo’s glare shut him up far too quickly.

“You got it. Buried with the jacket.”

#danganronpa #fanfic #mondo owada #chihiro fujisaki #dr1 #thh #trigger happy havoc #danganronpa spoilers #Angstpril 2023

[christina-stark-skarlet-stileto]

Angstpril Day 1 Liar

Liar: Day One

There were days when it was rough, and he barely felt like fighting at all. When all he could think about were the lies and the pain from his past. There was a time when he thought the world was good and he had loving parents. Until that day. He was five years old walking down the street with his parents. They had told him they were taking him to a summer camp, and it would be fun. They had told him it would only be for a week, and that they would come get him. They dropped him off at a building. It was black and red, with silver accents. He was surprised he remembered it. When they went inside he was still naive enough to think that it was a summer camp. Then his parents left. He soon found that this was not a summer camp at all. He would train or he would be punished, so he trained his hardest to be the best. A year later he met Christina, his light in the darkness. They escaped five years after they met. He wondered where his parents were. What they were doing. So he researched them, and with the help of Christina and Tony he found them. What he found hurt. They were Hydra agents who had willingly given him to Hydra. He wasn't just taken by accident. They lied to his face, and as far as he could tell they had no remorse. He went downstairs and found Christina. He really didn't want to go anywhere, but they had school today. If he didn't get moving they would be late. She was standing at her dresser debating on what to do with her hair. He went and stood behind her putting his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulders. She looked up at him.

"You've been dwelling on it again haven't you."

"It's hard not to. I feel like I must have done something wrong to make them give away like that. Was I not good enough for them?" Damian replied.

" No Dami, they weren't good enough for you. They left you, it is their own fault not yours." Christina said, standing up and tilting his chin up to look at her.

"You are amazing, wonderful, trustworthy, my soulmate, my best friend, and technically my husband. Therefore no more putting yourself down. I love you. You're way better than they'll ever be."

Damian smiled,

"It's a good thing we found each other then, but today is just one of those days. School is going to be rough." He said. He started braiding her hair, and when he was done they walked out the door. They arrived at their school thankfully on time. Flash is still going to school even though he is still being sued by them. His ego is the only thing bigger than his attitude.

"If it isn't the little Parker and her orphan boyfriend. What happened? Did someone else leave you?" Flash asked, stepping closer to them.

"Flash stop, I just can't today." Damian replied, trying to deescalate the situation.

"What, did I hit too close to home? Oh wait, you don't have one do you." Flash taunted.

"For your information, Flash, he has a home. He lives with me at Stark Industries. He is, after all, my soulmate and fiancé. He also has family, so take your nonsense somewhere else." Christina interjected, Damian grabbing her hand for comfort. He was that close to flipping out and having a mental breakdown. Of course, Flash couldn't take the hint.

"Oh poor little West needs his girlfriend to stand up for him." Flash continued, ignoring the static growing in the air, and the storm clouds growing outside, As well as the fact that Damian's eyes had lightning crackling in them. He also ignored the frost on the windows, the temperature dropping, and the icy stare Christina threw him . Peter walked into the room as this was going on.

"Flash, I'm going to say this once. It takes a lot to make my sister angry. It takes even more to make her boyfriend this angry. You might want to run. What did you say?"

Flash being Flash thought Peter was actually asking him what he said, opened his mouth and repeated what he said. That was a horrible mistake. Flash started talking trash about Peter. He was still blissfully unaware that he just angered a fire-wielding spider-powered superhero who had a flaming temper, pun intended. He also infuriated a water- and ice-wielding spider-powered superhero, and her fiancé, the heir of Asgard, a lightning storm spider-powered superhero. The only good thing for Flash was that the spiders were not allowed to fight him back. If they did, they could give him wiggle room to escape getting sued. If they caused an elemental storm, it could be disastrous. Christina was looking for a way out and to their place, so she could calm Damian down before he accidentally electrocuted something. Finally, Flash was distracted, and she pulled Damian away down the hall. She walked into her Aunt Carol's classroom. Carol took one look at them and dismissed her class to the library.

"Need help, Chrissy?" She asked,

"Yeah, Aunt Carol, Flash is running his mouth about Damian's family. He was already upset about it before we got here, and Flash just made it ten times worse." Christina replied.

"Alright, well, try to calm him down. I'm going to excuse you from Mr. Harrington's class. Is MJ here today? Peter is probably going to need her after he finishes his chat with Flash." Carol asked

"Yeah I'm pretty sure she's here. We're going into the safe room and enabling the soundproofing. If you need to talk with us, use Korean please. He probably is not going to understand, but it's better than the class understanding us. He's been speaking Italian, so you could use that instead." Christina said.

"Why is he using Italian?" Carol asked.

"He goes all angry-Italian-Hebrew when he's mad. It's adorable under other circumstances. He even does the Italian hands when he's ranting." Christina laughed.

"Got it, see you later." Carol replies, as Christina opens the safe room door. Christina nods and drags Damian through the door. Once they enter the safe room Damian walks over to the punching bag. After he's sure the sound proofing is enabled, he punches it. He gets most of his anger out, and now he's just sad. His parents were liars. He was so sick and tired of it. Now other people were lying to him. Flash included. It hurt him. Why did the two people who raised him til he was five turn out to be liars? He hadn't told Christina yet, but someone had reached out to him asking to talk claiming she was his mother. She said his father died in a Shield raid, and that she regretted giving him away. What if she was still a liar? What if he got close to her and she lied again. Damian was fully sobbing now. Christina was the only one who ever saw him cry. She was the only one capable of calming him down. He hadn't realized he had been talking out loud until Christina put a hand on his back and said.

"Dami, look at me. Your mother may be a liar, and if she lies to you again I will personally put her in jail myself. But you deserve to at least have hope that she isn't. If you want to meet her I will set it up, okay?."

"I want to meet her, Ari. I really do, but I'm scared that she will lie to me, and then leave me again." Damian said, He had finally calmed down enough to speak. All the anger was gone, only the hurt remained.

#angstpril2023 #MCUSpiderman #Star Wars #christina stark #damian obadia #cerulean #Angstpril 2023 day one #fanfiction #Liar #Christina Stark/Damian Obadia #Peter Parker/Michelle Jones #Steve Rogers/Carol Danvers #Pepper Potts/Tony Stark #Anakin Skywalker/Padmé Amidala

[nyamadermont]

2023 Year-End Fic Round Up

Thanks @rotschopf-thedrow for the tag!

Words written (published or not, WIPs totally count too!):  Published has hit 84,800. I have 4 major WIPS with about 18K words among them. Then there’s the short stuff that I haven’t been as focused on this year for some reason.

Smut scenes written (if applicable): 1, but I suspect it’s too boring to bother publishing.

New things I tried: Technically, my collaboration with @slowdissolve started in 2022, but it was late December, and most of the work happened in 2023, so it counts.

Fic I spent the most time on: Red Jade, hands down. This one-shot joke has turned into an amazing experience working with Slowdissolve. It’s now twice the length of my other long stories, and I think we’re at about 60% done.

Fic I spent the least time on: I Just Wanted You. Written at the end of a very bad, terrible, no-good day.

Favourite thing I wrote: Other than Red Jade? Probably First Day Jitters because I was actually happy with what could be a really wrenching idea if I go with it.

Favourite thing I read: Nope. This, I cannot do. There’s the Hands that Heal series. There’s @wishingforatypewriter’s Linzolt stories. There’s @orangepanic Irohsami oeuvre. There’s Slowdissolve’s Discipline of the Mind. And there's so much more - and this is only in the ATLA/LOK fandom.

Writing goals for next year:

Bring Red Jade to a satisfying conclusion.

Accomplish Angstpril.

Start on a new Kyalin project with @slowdissolve.

Y'all jump on in and add! @yellowsalt3 @linnorabeifong @itsmoonpeaches @chocomd @slowdissolve @master-sass-blast @i-put-the-ass-into-sass @frogblast-the-ventcore

And if I didn't name you, that's just Tumblr's fault. Tell us what your 2023 was like!

#slowdissolve's art #linzolt #kyalin #nyama's longer stories #nyama's answered asks

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Obedience

for Angstpril, Day 11: Self-Sabotage

cw: death mention, creepy whumper, manipulation, very vague noncon reference, adult language

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

וווווווווווווווווווווו×

Alexei was back in Uriah's office. Same chair, same cinnamon candle sitting cold on the desk, same shock collar weighing heavy on his throat, reminding him that he couldn't run; he was still a prisoner.

Even before the Tower, he'd been no stranger to electrocution, but the pulse the handler had dealt him had been especially strong. Lex was exhausted. Every muscle was sore, as if he'd been slammed against a wall, or thrown down a few flights of stairs, and there was a tremor in his shoulders that wouldn't go away.

Uriah Fox took his time coming in. A quick glance at the clock told him it was 3am, and Lex wondered if the CEO had been woken up when he'd turned on the handler.

Defective tool. Faulty weapon. 

Fox had used the Tower as a threat, implying he had another chance to stay free of it, but Lex was still on edge. There was no way he'd escape punishment, even if he was still useful enough to stay out of the cell.

"Well well," Fox's voice came from behind, and Lex tensed instinctively.

Stop. It's no use here.

"I wasn't sure you'd actually come back. Color me pleasantly surprised."

(Surmise, demise, unwise.)

Lex watched him move around the desk, take a seat across from him.

"You said you wanted to re-evaluate."

"I did. I understand you're upset. Misleading you about Overkast was unkind of me, I'll admit—"

"Misleading? Lying."

"Let me finish." There was an edge to his voice that made Lex oblige, and Fox smiled at his silence. Like he knew he was holding his leash.

"I think we should start again. I'll offer you more transparency, and in return, I ask that you offer your services." Fox reached into the cabinet beside him, retrieving a crimson folder, opening it, spreading the papers inside across the top of the desk. Headshots. Codenames and personal details. Lex recognized the people in the photos; the same ones he'd encountered at the apartment a few hours prior.

"Each individual here has been Redlined," Fox began, using a term Lex was very familiar with.

It was what happened to a powered person when they committed a crime; a warrant was put out for their arrest, and worse, they lost any legal protection. Sometimes civilians would band together to hunt Redlined. On the occasion that they caught up with their quarry, there wasn't much left to bury. Lex was Redlined himself, along with plenty of his Neath acquaintances.

"What'd they do?" Lex asked.

"Broke contract with Titanium. They're unpredictable. Dangerous."

Dangerous. He thought of the round-faced woman, reading her book. The girl in pajamas. Even when Fox told him there would be a team, he hadn't mentioned the kid.

"And you want me to kill them?"

Fox sighed. "I want you to ensure that they can't run rampant through the streets. Whether that means killing them, or bringing them to me."

"What will you do with them?"

"They'll be dealt with by the company."

Dealt with. Locked up in the Tower, then. The book woman and the girl whose fire could rival his own. The skinny young man who'd stood frozen in the street. The woman with a red streak in her hair, who'd offered him her hand.

The Tower wasn't meant for people like them, it was for people like him. They wouldn't last a week.

"What happens if I say no?" Lex said.

"What makes you think you can?" Fox raised an eyebrow. "Well, you certainly can, but you know where you'll end up."

(Cup, pup.) Lex swallowed, reaching out to pull the papers closer to him. How many times had he done this, before the Tower? How many files had he been handed, to familiarize himself with a target? But never someone he'd met, never someone who'd wanted to help him, however stupid that notion was.

Sarah McCloud. Codename: Spyglass. Twenty five, able to enhance her senses.

A danger.

Akeela Harris. Codename: Firebrand. Fourteen, pyromancer.

Fourteen fucking years old.

"You want me to kill a child?" He pushed the datapage back. 

"Harsh way to put it. Apprehend."

"A kid."

"I didn't think Cinder cared about those details," Fox said, tucking the pages back into the folder. "I thought you followed orders. Indiscriminately."

"I don't hurt kids." He folded his arms, a gesture he'd honestly missed. 

"You'd rather go back to your cell?"

Lex tried not to let his fear at those words reach his expression, forcing his voice to come out calm. "Thought you wanted to make use of me. Is one rogue team enough to make it worth it?"

"What are you suggesting?" Fox leaned back in his chair.

"I know how it works. Corporate loves using prisoners to do their dirty work." He mimicked Fox, leaning back as if he were capable of relaxing. "You wanted me for that, so why limit it to this one job? Surely you have other problems you want taken care of."

"And you think that's enough leverage to make me let up about the rogues?" Fox seemed amused by the notion. "Any prisoner in the Tower would kill to be in your position."

(Addition, commission, intuition.)

"But you chose me." His heart rate was picking up with every bit pushback from Uriah. Was it really worth it? Why should he risk going back to save a bunch of strangers?

"That looked bad."

"We aren't your enemies."

"Are you okay?"

Fuck.

To his relief, Fox chuckled. "You are bold. I can't say I don't admire that. And someone with your particular skillset can be hard to come by…" He put up his hands. "Alright. Say I indulge you. Are you planning on defying me every other mission? Attacking your babysitter?"

"No." Lex clenched his jaw. "I'll follow orders." He added, "No kids."

Uriah tapped his chin. "Fortunately for you, most of my enemies aren't children. Now you say you'll be obedient. How will you prove it?"

Lex looked up. "Prove it?"

"Yes. I'm not about to agree to your terms unless I know it'll be worth my while." He grinned. "Why don't you get down on your knees for me, Alexei?"

His breath caught. "What?"

"True obedience is without question. Or are you having second thoughts?"

Lex grimaced, getting up from the chair and moving to kneel on the floor, pushing away any shreds of damaged pride. It's been worse. I've done worse.

His pulse quickened as Fox stood, walking over to him. He placed a hand on his head. 

"Good boy."

Lex said nothing, eyes glued on the ground, jaw clenched.

(Ploy, coy, annoy. Toy.) He swallowed.

Relief washed over him when Fox's hands didn't trace down his throat or fiddle with a belt buckle, instead taking a half-step back.

"Kiss my shoes," he said, "and we have a deal. I'll forget this little incident, and you can forget about the rogue team. Stay out of the Tower. Work for me."

I've done worse. It could've been so much worse.

Lex leaned forward, slowly lowering himself and planting his mouth on the leather.

"Shoes. Plural."

He fixed his glare on the floor, holding back from directing it upwards, at Uriah, then moved to repeat the motion with the other foot.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?" He lifted Lex's chin with the toe of his shoe, a smug smile on his face. "I'll arrange for you to have a room here. Life will be good for you Alexei, just wait and see. All you have to do is keep that obedience."

Lex stayed on his knees while Uriah circled around him, moving towards the office door.

"And remember who you belong to."

וווווווווווווווווווווו×

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing

#angstpril 2023 #day 11 #fic #self sabotage #wildefire #yeah Uriah is a controlling person and he likes to flaunt it #sorry lex 😢 #whump #assassin whump #creepy whumper

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Uncertain

for Angstpril, Day 24: Trauma (alt)

cw: whump aftermath, wound cleaning, mentioned weight loss, non-sexual nudity, discussed death wish/suicide attempts

prev ///// masterlist ///// next

note: please mind the warnings. If you'd like to read a version of this chapter without a specific element, feel free to PM me and I'll send you an edited version. Stay safe, everyone!

•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•

It was a mile's trek back to their great-uncle's house, made all the longer with the pelt of the rain on their back and the weight of the injured man in their arms. Cerus had begun the journey upright, stumbling along with a thin arm wrapped around Tansy's shoulders, but it had soon become apparent that he was in no condition to walk. They'd lifted his shaking form, trying not to think about how light he was, how his flesh radiated heat even through the wet clothing. How the shipwrights had him working out in the cold anyway.

Neither of them spoke a word throughout, and when Tansy spared a glance down to check on Cerus, his eyes were closed. For his own sake, they hoped he was unconscious.

Aldon was still not home when they opened the door, but that was perhaps for the better. They weren't certain he'd be all too happy at the idea of sheltering the former tyrant. For now, Cerus would have to be their secret.

Tansy carried him upstairs, to the sparse room their uncle had set aside for them, and lay Cerus on the bed. Their shoulders burned from the effort of getting him here, but now was not the time to rest. They discarded their waterlogged cloak, and began to cut away Cerus's soaked rags. The man seemed to be awake now; half-lidded eyes above hollow cheeks, staring dully at the ceiling. He made no move to struggle, or even speak.

He was considerably thinner than he'd been at his trial, the sharp outline of ribs and hip bones jutting against pale skin. Scars and bruises, old and new, covered his body, and when they rolled him onto his side to check his back, they were met with a horrific number of whip marks, some still oozing blood, darkening the bedsheets.

Though his eyes were open, Cerus responded to Tansy's examination as if he were unconscious, offering neither remark nor resistance, and Tansy was left wondering if it was the fever that had left him numbed to the world around, or if it was simply how the man protected himself from the constant maltreatment.

"I'm going to clean your wounds," they said, watching for a response. To their surprise, Cerus's eyes sharpened.

"And wh—" He let out a cough that shook his body. "Why would you do s-something like that?"

Why indeed? Wanting to help the suffering was human nature, but when the sufferer himself was the cause of so much misery, what was one to do? They did not reply, rolling Cerus onto his stomach.

"Wait here," they said, though they doubted he was capable of doing otherwise, and walked down the stairs, toward the kitchen.

Why indeed. The strangeness of the situation was starting to take hold of them. How could they do something like this? Saving the very person they'd sworn to depose, bringing him into their home, tending to him. Would anyone else in the village, in all of Feyadel, do the same, or was Tansy mad for making such a choice? What would their comrades in the battalion think of their decision, were they here to see it?

More than why they'd done it, another question was heavy in their thoughts; what were they going to do, now that they'd chosen to help? Cerus was under sentence. He lawfully belonged to the shipyard, regardless of the abuse he'd suffer there. Even if they could grant him a reprieve from the rain, he couldn't very well stay here; eventually someone would come looking for him. Still, they couldn't in good conscience just hand him back over to the docks, not when he was clearly ill, not when he could barely stand.

For now, they'd try and curb their worries, and think only of tonight. Whatever tomorrow brought, they'd handle it in the morning.

They gathered linen cloth and water from the kitchen, tucking a small bottle of brandy under their arm as well. Tansy was a soldier, not a medic, but they'd still treated their fair share of wounds. The parcel of clams watched them forlornly from the wooden counter, and Tansy cast a glance back at it as they climbed the stairs. First they'd tend to Cerus, then get a start on dinner before their uncle returned. And hopefully, he wouldn't notice if they cooked for three.

Cerus flinched when they opened the door, as if startled from sleep, and Tansy knelt by the bed, depositing their supplies beside them.

"This will sting," they warned, as they wetted a cloth with brandy, then wondered why they bothered. Couldn't they at least find catharsis in the necessary pain that came with cleaning his wounds?

Cerus inhaled through clenched teeth as Tansy touched the cloth to his back, his next breath turning into a whimper when they began to gently scrub the torn, feverish skin. As much as they wished they could, Tansy found no solace in his pain. They finished cleaning and binding the cuts without another word, then covered Cerus with a blanket, trying to ignore the way he stared at them.

"You're not a priest," he said bluntly. "Nor a healer."

Tansy lifted their chin. "I'm a soldier," they replied. "I fought to end your reign."

He showed no reaction. "And you did. So why?"

Tansy turned away. They didn't need to have this conversation with him, of all people.

"Y-you should've left me."

That halted them in place. "To die?"

Cerus let out a bitter laugh that rapidly degraded into a coughing fit. "Do you think I don't desire an end? Do you think I fear death enough to cling to a life such as this one?"

Tansy frowned. "If that were so… would you not have found your own end?"

 "If I throw myself into the sea, they haul me out. If I cut a vein, they hold me down and send for a healer. I am not allowed to escape. All I can do is wait for my body to fail."

"You'd rather I'd left you to be beaten, then."

"I have received more beatings than a man can count. What's one that goes unfinished?" His words dissolved into another vicious cough. "You were a soldier. Certainly, you saw friends felled by my troops. Family."

"You'd have difficulty finding a soldier who hasn't," Tansy answered, their tone flat. Why would he bring up such a thing now? Did he wish to turn them against him, to drive them to throw him back out into the rain?

"Then you have as much reason to hate me as everyone else," Cerus said. "Why bring me here? Why not leave me to die, or even end me by your own hand?" He tried to push himself up with shaking arms, but fell back onto the bed with a cry. "Y–ghnn—you've lost family by my hand. This very village burned by my hand. Why let me draw another breath? Why not strike me down?"

Tansy shook their head. It seemed that Cerus was trying to goad them into anger, but why? Whatever the reason, they would not allow themselves to be persuaded by him.

"I've seen enough bloodshed for one lifetime," they answered.

"And I am at fault for that," Cerus protested.

They closed their eyes against his words, reaching for the door. "Rest."

"I felt no remorse, no regret," Cerus called after them, voice rising, shaking. "Will you not take vengeance?"

Tansy closed their fingers around the door's handle, clenching it tightly. They almost wished they could, and certainly wished they didn't feel this odd, misplaced pity. But it wouldn't be vengeance anymore, it would be simple cruelty. An honorable execution was seven months too late, and they could never bring themselves to raise a hand against someone as weak and sick and hurt as Cerus was right now, especially not at his behest.

When they glanced backwards, the former tyrant was wearing an expression they couldn't quite place. Was it anger? Fear? Simple disbelief that Tansy would dare tend to him?

"Will you not take vengeance?" he repeated, his voice now barely above a whisper, and Tansy shook their head.

"What vengeance is left to take?" they murmured, and finally opened the door, stepped through, and pulled it closed behind them.

§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump

#angstpril 2023 #fic #day 24 #trauma #alt prompt #penumbra: shadow king #whump #fantasy whump #whipping tw #painful wound cleaning #royal whumpee #villain whump #villain whumpee #reluctant caretaker #tw deathwish #tw: suicide attempt #tw abuse #tw weight loss #tw sui ideation

[pandora15]

Angstpril 2023 Day 1 Prompt: Liar

tw: character having trouble breathing, open ending

Obi-Wan knew, from the moment that he agreed to take on this mission, that it would be difficult.

Faking his death, having to pretend to be someone he wasn't for the sake of his own survival, having to interact with the likes of Cad Bane and Count Dooku himself without getting his cover blown…

Well, he knew from the beginning that it would not be easy.

But none of that was as difficult as it was to return.

The transformation from Rako Hardeen back to his own body was uncomfortable — painful, leaving him shaky and somewhat feverish. The vocal emulator wreaked damage to his vocal chords, and Master Che had confirmed that there was likely some infection in his throat that she'd like to monitor over the coming days.

Which obviously meant that he was stuck in the Halls for now. It wasn't ideal, but considering the fact that he couldn't keep down most foods because of his throat and his entire body ached any time he tried to move at all, he supposed it made sense.

Obi-Wan didn't exactly like it, but even that wasn't the worst part.

Anakin wouldn't speak to him. On the ship when they were returning from Naboo, he'd maintained his distance, and once Obi-Wan had gotten his commlink back, he'd sent Anakin messages frequently, only to receive nothing.

Obi-Wan knew that the deception had upset Anakin. He understood why — more than most, he understood.

But he had hoped that Anakin would also understand why he did it.

"You lied to us," Anakin had said, when Obi-Wan had approached him on the ship. "What else have you lied to me about? Do you even care about any of us?"

Obi-Wan had no response to that — how could he, when he knew that Anakin was right? He did lie to them, after all.

And now he was here, alone, because he did what he knew to be right. Anakin wouldn't speak to him, Ahsoka wouldn't speak to him, Cody wouldn't speak to him, the Council wouldn't speak to him.

He'd succeeded on his mission, and yet —

He'd failed them all.

Letting out a sigh, Obi-Wan placed his commlink back on the table next to the bed. He winced as his throat spasmed at the rush of air, and then he coughed, bending forward slightly to gasp for air.

That seemed to trigger a chain reaction of sorts. The more he gasped for air, the more it irritated his throat, causing him to gasp even more. And the air wasn't even traveling down his throat properly, which meant that —

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

The room seemed to tilt on its axis around him as he shuddered and gasped and placed his forehead on his knees. There was a ringing noise, muffled by the blood rushing in his ears, followed by the sound of footsteps. Voices surrounded him, but he couldn't make them out, not until —

"Obi-Wan?" A hand on his shoulder, pushing him back until he was lying back again, head arching backward in a desperate reach for air. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't —

"Okay, okay, just hold on." The voice was gentle, soothing. "Your throat has swollen up too much. You're not getting enough air."

There were hands holding him down, the hiss of a hypospray, followed by the feeling of everything getting floaty and blurry, until…

His eyes snapped shut, and the memory of his lies that constantly plagued him faded away.

#angstpril2023 #no. 1 #liar #obi wan kenobi #pandora writes #does this fulfill the prompt? kinda? but it's angst and that's all that matters #anyways! i'm definitely not going to be able to do all the prompts but i'll do a few maybe? #i have some free time today but that won't be the case in the coming days #also i spent way too long trying to read about the medical stuff that comes with laryngitis + difficulty breathing complications #and i went too far down that rabbit hole so i just. decided to end this here instead asldkjfjalksdlkfja #especially since it wouldn't fill the prompt anyways #i thought about writing a followup where anakin finds out what happened to obi-wan here. maybe for a future angstpril prompt? #i shall ponder this further

[solar-siren]

Angstpril Day Thirteen: Recovery

“I think he’s coming around,” a voice says. Tron’s inputs reboot too slowly; he can’t make out who that is or their location on the system. 

A hand touches his shoulder, gentle, and suddenly he has more power. The world comes into sharper focus. His User smiles down at him.

“Welcome back,” Alan-One greets.

Tron whirrs, still lagging. Back? Had he gone somewhere? 

“Just take it easy. The medics said it’ll take some time for the new code to sync properly. Try not to move around too much.”

Everything seems to ache in agreement. Tron sits up, carefully, taking in the stark whiteness of the room. He’s in a med center, then. He tries not to sigh. He hates these places. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

“You lost a fight.”

Tron startles at the second voice. He hadn’t noticed Sam was here—a testament to his damaged state. Far more alarming than that, though, is the expression on his counterpart’s face. Sam is reserved somehow. Distant. Crammed into a chair in the corner, he can’t seem to look Tron in the eye. And he doesn’t sound happy. 

Alan looks between them. 

“You were injured,” he says, carefully. “There was a virus on the Grid. You managed to take it out, but…” He’d been outmatched by sheer brute strength. He remembers now. He almost wishes he didn’t. Alan doesn’t bother finishing the thought. “What matters is that you’re alright now.” He smoothes a hand through Tron’s hair, oddly paternal, and the program is too tired to resist leaning into it. “I’ll let you two talk,” Alan says. And then he leaves, taking every trace of warmth with him.

“Sam?” Tron says. His voice comes out smaller than he means for it to. Sam steps forward, still eyeing the floor. 

“I’m glad you’re alright.” He takes Tron’s hand, and the contact is desperate for all that his voice is detached. “But I’m also… frustrated.”

“With me?”

“A little.” Sam runs an errant hand through his hair. It looks like he’s been doing that a lot lately. “Do you know what Klax said? That you were alone when you provoked that thing. You called it in, but you didn’t wait for backup. All the security programs we’ve brought in—there was no excuse for you to do something like that.”

Sam does meet Tron’s eyes then. Far more than he looks angry, he looks hurt. Tron blinks.

“I’m not designed to find threats and wait. My directive—”

“No. Don’t give me that. We both know you’re capable of thinking, Tron. You don’t have to throw yourself at threats blindly. Which is why I can’t understand why you did this.”

Abraxas, Tron thinks. That’s the answer, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. 

“Clu’s attack started with a virus,” he says, before he can change his mind. “He released a virus on the Grid to create chaos before he turned on Flynn. It destroyed nearly all of the other system monitors. Including one that had just been rezzed that cycle in order to assist me specifically.”

Anon had been so young, had had such promise. Such personality, even though they couldn’t speak. They kept fighting for the Grid even after Tron fell. They died protecting the system. 

“I didn’t know that,” Sam says quietly.

Tron shrugs minutely. It hurts. “I never told you.” 

He doesn’t like to talk about it. He doesn’t like to think about it. It’s just one more failure to add to the pile. 

So was this; but he can still learn from it. 

“You’re right,” he says, squeezing Sam’s hand. “I realize now that I should have been more careful. But when I saw that virus I just—reacted. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Sam sits next to him on the bed. “I understand that. But I don’t want you getting hurt, either. I–I was stuck in a meeting when the medics pinged me. I didn’t see it until almost an hour later. Do you know what that felt like? To get a message saying you needed me right now , and realize nearly three days had passed already? I thought—” Tron’s core aches as his voice breaks. “You are not expendable. Do you hear me? If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I would do.”

He understands, feels the same way about Sam. But.

“My function is dangerous,” he says. That isn’t something he can change.

“I know. And I don’t blame you for that. But you can control whether or not you throw yourself into danger needlessly, without help or a plan.” Sam wraps a careful arm around him, nuzzles close as he lies back beside him. “Please don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Tron holds him back, but says nothing. He isn’t sure that’s a promise he could keep.

#angstpril 2023 #tron #tron legacy #tron evolution #fanfiction #day13 #recovery #sam flynn #sam x tron #alan bradley

[psychologeek]

I DID A THING!

(well, another thing)

Or: jason share his feelings about "Frankenstein".

For Angspril23, day 14: Cruelty

#batman #jason todd #Tumblr #Frankenstein #thoughts #did i write a book review about a book i never read? #yas #yes i did #angstpril2023 #angstpril 2023 #angst #Cruelty