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#no. 27
ashintheairlikesnow · 5 months
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A Good Time Coming
Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below | Rolling Down | Won’t You Go My Way? | The Seas No More | The Nightingale’s Song | Bones in the Ocean | For She Was Afraid | Time for Us to Leave Her | To Unchain Me | A Good Time Coming|
CW: Creepy whumper, mind-controlled background characters, defiant whumpee, some brief references to past noncon
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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."
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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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sowhumpful · 5 months
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No. 27: “You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding.”
Matches | Scars | “Let me see”
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quietlyimplode · 5 months
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the language of flowers and silent things
Whumptober 2023: day 27 - Scars
Warnings: violence
Word Count: 1.3k (gif not mine)
Summary: the team tries to find out who infiltrated the tower, Natasha calls on old friends for another favour.
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A/N: 27 days we’ve been going. Thanks for all the likes/reblogs/comments and encouragement <3 whumptober is always a lot, but this makes it easier x
Masterlist
Whumptober Masterlist
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2014
NEW YORK
The tower remains standing.
Tony insists on being released as soon as possible and returns to his home with his arm in a sling and concussion that makes him feel sick.
It had taken three days for the Tower to be considered safe, and the holes that had been punched and the parts that had been leveled were supported structurally with more concrete.
The only thing not blown up was a scepter.
Having survived a direct blast, it seems it had created its own protective field and taken a brunt of it, leaving it in a hollowed out floor almost presenting itself to him.
He considers it dangerous, more than anything, and tells Sam to take it.
In a way, he doesn’t trust himself to not investigate the technology. It seems more powerful than any tech at his disposal.
He wonders it if was a bad idea.
He finds Jarvis up and running, and apologizes to his AI for not having a back up generator that even an EMP would be able to stop.
It’s his first project, he decides, so that it never happens again.
The second is cameras.
There’s no footage of the tower infiltration, but there is of the grounds prior.
He sits in front of his televisions and watches the footage over and over.
The Hydra team was organised and calculated, he sends the footage to Fury and then onto Natasha who’d asked for it with a look in her eye, and he knows she felt the same as he did.
He pushes the video back to the start, and watches them infiltrate his home.
.
Isla stands across from Natasha and holds her gun slightly higher.
“Why me?” she asks, walking two steps backwards to obscure herself from the sniper she knows is outside.
“You’ll know where they are,” Natasha says calmly.
“I got your sister out, and now you want more?”
The anger grows, and she fingers the trigger.
“How much more favours do you think you have Natasha? Because by my count, this is the last one.”
She takes two more steps back.
“I’ll see what I can find out, but Natasha I’m going to need something from you.”
She shoots the gun, grazing Natasha’s arm and smiling.
“An eye for an eye, I’ll be in touch,” Isla tells her, backing into the darkness.
.
“Show me,” Clint growls, his anger palpable.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Natasha replies, tiredly, removing the packing and showing him her bloody arm.
“Just let me see,” he says frustrated.
“She just winged it, it’s payback for something I did to her,” she confesses, taking the pressure off and showing Clint her arm.
“It needs stitches,” he says, poking at it, much to her annoyance.
“Fine, but do it quick.”
He makes her sit on the toilet, the bathroom warm as she removes her top.
The bruises from the Hulk peek out and Clint sighs heavily. Her battered body hurts him in ways he can’t describe.
Keeping her safe felt like a full time job.
Placing a tourniquet above the wound, he focuses on it, inserting an anesthetic with a thin needle.
He’s quiet as he starts to clean it.
“You just let her,” he grumbles, “she shot you and you just took it, carried on, like it was nothing, I don’t think your face even changed.”
She stares.
“Maybe I deserved it,” Natasha says softly.
“You didn’t deserve it,” he says just as quickly.
“You don’t deserve any retribution for anything, not matter what’s happened in the past, okay?” He squeezes her arm unconsciously a little harder in anger, finishing the stitch and washing the wound again.
He watches her closely.
“Isla made her own choices, okay? You’re not responsible for them.”
Natasha doesn’t make eye contact, the last year having more ties and contact with a long extinct part of her, clearly taking its toll.
He thought finding Yelena was a good thing, but even he saw the constant pain it had inflicted.
They’d both taken hits in the search for family.
Just differently.
“Come, the bath is ready,” he offers, placing the last stitch.
She nods, taking the rest of her clothes off.
Clint hops in first, the water hot, scorching his skin; but Natasha sinks in and sighs.
She lays against him, her back to his front and they both languish in the heat and the weightlessness of the water.
Gently, carefully, he traces the coloured bruises, making her shiver and sigh.
Slowly, so slowly his finger dance along the ridges of her ribs.
“I know I shouldn’t care, I know she made her choices but it’s twice she’s come through for me, and if she does it again, it’s a third. I feel like I should do something to help her,” she tells him, her eyes closed.
Then.
“We won’t be able to get married, will we? With everything going on?”
He draws patterns on her arms, sadness rolling over him as she voices something he had also been thinking.
“What makes you think that?”
She sighs heavily against him, drawing patterns on his legs, making all his leg hair go one way and then messing it up and starting again.
“Isla will come through, we will go and find them, then it’ll be Christmas. I thought maybe we would have enough time but what if we don’t?”
She pauses.
“What if we just did it now?”
He laughs, before he realizes she’s not joking.
“Nat, no,” he admonishes.
“Okinawa awaits, we will make it okay?”
He sighs.
“We will.”
.
Standing on the bridge, the stairs heading down the river, Amsterdam feels dark.
Isla appears out of nowhere.
Natasha, dressed in black, makes her presence known, stepping out.
“Put away the gun,” she taunts.
Isla shrugs and drops it.
The sound it makes on the concrete echoes throughout the night.
“Here,” she says, passing a folder over.
“The Hydra team was commissioned. Out of the ones who infiltrated there’s only the man who ordered it. Do you know someone by the name of Pogodin?”
Natasha’s shakes her head slowly, picking through the folder.
“Old war lord, gun runner, now Hydra.They’ll go after it again, you know,” she says softly.
“They have a legion, they’ll go after it and you won’t be able to stop them.”
Isla starts to move away, Natasha tracking her movements.
“But this one, this is the cell you are after,” she finishes.
Natasha raises her gun, and Isla smiles.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Come with me,” she finishes.
Isla laughs and shakes her head.
“No,” she says with finality.
“They’ll kill me, and someone has to keep the others safe,” she shrugs, looking around, to see if Natasha brought back up. She doesn’t trust this, and this line of discussion.
“We can take them down—“ Natasha starts, wanting to do something to repay the help. The Red Room shouldn’t even be something that was still functional. The fact it didn’t die when Dreykov did, is still something Natasha is working through.
Isla frowns.
“Not now, Natasha Romanoff, the Red Room serves as a purpose for orphaned girls, it’s either that or be trafficked, and this way, at least they get skills for life,” she reasons.
“And all the trauma to go with it,” Natasha says angrily.
Isla meets her anger, and takes the bait.
“Where would you have been?” she spits.
“Where would Yelena have been?”
She seems to grow in size as she reasons her position.
“What do you think would happen to them otherwise? Hmm?”
Natasha knows.
“It’s not enough,” she argues.
Isla shrugs.
“It has to be for now,” she replies.
She waves.
“We aren’t done with this,” Natasha says, taking strides forward.
“We are for now,” Isla walks off, waving behind her.
“Good bye Natasha Romanoff,”
.
“They’re in Berlin,” she tells Tony and Steve, passing the folder to them, and nodding.
“Tell the others,” Clint orders.
“We leave in the morning.”
.
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Whumptober 2023 - Day 27
"Scars, Let me see"
“Okay,” Bucky slurred. He reached for his glass, poured some vodka in it and emptied it before he rose. He pulled out his shirt and showed Clint the left side of his stomach. He could see a very small, very faint scar. “You wanted to see my oldest scar,”  he said. “This is it.” 
“What’s it from?” Clint asked, also slurring his words. He reached for the bottle, too, filled his glass and emptied it. 
Bucky blushed and Clint couldn’t help himself, he just had to giggle. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe not. Who knew?
“Appendectomy when I was six years old,” Bucky said. 
“Seriously?” Clint blurted and Bucky blushed some more. 
“I wasn’t always like this,” he mumbled and dropped down on the couch again. Maybe a little too close to Clint. He could smell him and it was irresistible. “So,” he added after a moment. “Your first scar.” 
“Oh no,” Clint burst out. “It’s not like…” 
“Let me see it,” Bucky said and now it was Clint who blushed violently. But then he sat up, pulled up his left pants leg and showed Bucky a faint but ugly and jaggy scar. 
“It was…” he said, stopped, and then he blushed some more. “It was a rooster.” 
“A what?” Bucky burst out and Clint scratched the back of his neck. “WhenI was a kid my family had chickens and there was this rooster. It was an awful beast and my dad said we were not allowed to ever enter their enclosure.” 
“But you went in,” Bucky said. It wasn’t a question. Clint nodded. 
“Barney and me, we were playing with a ball and the damn ball flew over the fence into the enclosure. Barney sent me in and the rooster attacked me.” He pointed at the scar on his leg. “Dad was furious and before he drove me to the doctor he used his belt on my ass.” 
“Fucking bastard,” Bucky growled. 
“He’s dead,” Clint shrugged. “I don't care anymore.” 
Bucky looked at him and their faces were  close. Really close. 
“Okay,” Clint cleared his throat after a long moment of looking in each other's eyes. “Uh… a scar where you almost died. Your arm doesn’t count.” 
Bucky deliberated for a moment, then he grinned.
“Okay,” he said, reached for the bottle with vodka and poured some in his glass.
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ssa-atlas-alvez · 1 year
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Whumptober Day 27 (Derek Morgan x GN!Reader)
No. 27 PUSHED TO THE LIMIT
Muffled Screams | Stumbling | Magical Exhaustion
Warnings: kidnapping, abduction, wounds, knife to throat, guns (BAU)
Word count: 270 (sorry)
”(Y/N)?” You hear Derek call your name and you whimper. The unsub was pinning you against his chest, with a knife over your throat and a hand clamped over your mouth. Your best chance would be to wait until he got closer to the built in closet you were dragged into before you say anything. 
“Don’t make a sound,” The unsub whispers, you force a nod. Despite the situation, you still felt the struggle of staying awake. You were injured, had lost a lot of blood. You had only been missing three days, but three days passed agonisingly slowly with a serial killer. 
When you both hear Derek walk away, footsteps getting further and further away, he relaxes ever so slightly, removing the knife from your throat, his hand instead settling on your shoulder. His grip on your mouth is still tight. You gulp, shoulder throbbing beneath his hand. You force a deep breath and his finger slips into a wound on your shoulder and you scream, loudly. Despite being muffled with his hand, the team still heard it, surely. You pray they did. The grip on your mouth gets tighter and the knife on your throat is back. Thick tears drip down your face from pain.
It’s been maybe thirty seconds when the door’s being thrown open and Derek’s pointing a gun at the unsub. The unsub reluctantly put the knife down, kicking it towards Derek. JJ, who had now joined, slipped behind the unsub, quickly handcuffing him and dragging him off. With the unsub no longer a threat, you stumble towards Morgan, falling into his arms. 
Safe.
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aziraphalesbookkeeper · 5 months
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For a guy who never takes off his gloves, Varian sure does lose them a lot. It’s not really the gloves Hugo notices though—it’s the scars underneath them. Or: 5 times Hugo tries to take off Varian's gloves + 1 time he doesn't have to.
Whumptober Day 27: Scars AILESS Whumptober Day 9: Scar Reveal
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etoilehistoire · 5 months
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So the Whumptober prompt for 10/27 is "scars," and I couldn't help thinking about how vain Astarion is about his beauty (because it's all he really thinks he has to offer, all that's kept him alive for so long) and how horrified he'd be at the possibility of facial scars that threatened said beauty.
And then I thought about my "Tav," Xia, and how she has horrific facial scars that make her very unattractive, and how she might comfort someone dealing with that fear.
And so this was born. The premise: someone, some old enemy of Astarion's (working for Cazador? The sibling of someone he seduced and betrayed? Someone else, working for their own reasons? Dealer's choice, really), found and captured him and decided, not to kill him, but to torment him in ways he would never forget and that would leave lasting scars. And indeed, by the time the party found him he was messed up pretty bad, but it had already begun to heal, meaning that even with the benefit of healing magic the scars remain. Upset, he retreats to his tent; Xia follows.
I originally planned to write the whole thing - the abduction, the torture, the rescue - but I realized that I only really WANTED to write this conversation, and that fanfic has no rules and I can do what I want forever. So here we go.
“Don’t look at me.”
A sigh from behind him. “I’m not going away.”
Xia. Of course it was Xia.
It shouldn’t matter. It mattered.
A minute passed in silence before she spoke again. “You lost a lot of blood.” A pause, barely perceptible. “Do you need to…”
She’d never offered before, not since that first night. She’d never said no, but she never offered. Not until now. He should be touched. Instead he interrupted her, cutting the question short. “No.”
Silence again, so profound that he wondered if she’d somehow left the tent without him noticing.
Then, barely more than a whisper, she began speaking again. "...I was never beautiful. Not like you. I didn’t have as much to lose. And what happened to me… it wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t torture. So I won’t say I understand. Not everything.” A pause, and when she resumed her voice was just the tiniest bit shakier, the tiniest bit less composed. “But I remember what it felt like. How it hurt when it happened. How it felt to know the marks would never fade from my face, that it would always be the first thing anyone saw about me.”
A soft noise escaped him, not quite a whimper. When he trusted his voice again he asked, “How do you live with it?”
There was a rustling sound; his mind provided the image of her diffident, one-shouldered shrug. “A few ways. Reminding myself that anyone who thinks less of me for being ugly isn’t someone whose opinion I need to care about.”
“You’re not ugly.” He blurted it out, surprising himself, but… well, it was true. “I just mean. Your scars, they’re just… they’re part of your face. They don’t make you ugly.”
“Hmm.” An amused sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “In that case, maybe yours won’t either.” Her hand touched his shoulder – a warm, reassuring weight. “Star. Let me see.”
Childishly, he wanted to refuse still, but what would be the point? Unless he left the group forever she’d see it eventually. He steeled himself, closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see her reaction… and turned.
Silence.
Then gentle fingers on his face, tracing the lines he’d felt himself, running lightly over twisted skin. He forced himself not to shudder away, enduring when she tilted his head, examining him from different angles.
“Honestly?” she said after a long moment. “It’s not that bad.”
He scoffed, outrage immediately flooding him, and his eyes snapped open. “Not that bad?? He carved my face like a game hen! He burned me!”
Her eyes continued to roam over his face, critical, almost clinical. “The knife marks healed nicely. The lines are there, but they don’t look bad. Just like lines.” Her thumb brushed over his upper lip and he winced, remembering how the sharp knife had left him slashed and bleeding. “These… if I didn’t know better I’d think they were decorative. They’re delicate enough.”
She nodded, dark eyes calm. “He did. You’ve got visible burn marks here,” she said, brushing his temple, “and here. They’re not discolored, though, so they don’t stand out much." Not like hers, she didn’t say, but Astarion thought it anyway. "You got lucky.” Her mouth twisted in wry acknowledgement of the untruth in that. “Relatively speaking, I mean. As burn scars go.”
Her gaze traveled up. “The hair… I won’t lie, I miss your hair,” she admitted with a shrug, and he shuddered. “We’ll have to shave off the bits that are left – it looks messy like this.” She met his eyes, curious. “Will it grow back? Does your hair grow?”
He nodded slowly. “Not as fast as when I was alive. But with enough blood… yes.”
“Then we’ll make sure you get enough blood,” she said, amusement coloring her tone. “Not that you won’t be perfectly charming bald, but you’ll feel more like yourself with your hair back.” One gentle finger brushed over his exposed scalp. “It won’t grow where the scars are, but they’re small. They won’t be visible once it's long enough.”
Then she cupped his face in her hands, ducking down to look him in the eyes. “Star. The scars make your face more interesting. That’s all. You’re still beautiful. Always.”
His doubt must have shown in his eyes, because she shook her head even though he didn’t say a word. “No. Stop that. I’m not polite or tactful, and you know it. I would tell you if you weren’t, and do you know why?” She graced him with a small smile. “Because I don’t actually think it would be the end of the world if you were ugly.”
He closed his eyes then, the words – the possibility – twisting in his heart. “I don’t,” she repeated. “Star, that’s the other part of how I live with it. I know – I know – that my face is the least important part of me. I know that I have worth, and that that worth has nothing to do with being beautiful.”
“You do,” he replied, and ugh, it came out so bitter and ugh, he’d put far more emphasis on you than he’d meant to.
Her voice softened. “As do you.”
“Do I?” Eyes flying open, he stepped back, away from her gentle hands. Turned away from her. Words he’d held back for some time now were on the verge of spilling out, and it would be easier if he didn’t have to look at her when he said them. “Ah yes, the vampire spawn. I bring you so much value. All my enemies are yours, with bonus blood loss and a sore neck on a regular basis. Lucky you.” He laughed, a high, strangled noise. “I can offer you so much! Doesn’t a lifetime in the dark and the shadows sound appealing? Hiding with me during the day, never seeing the sun again once we deal with the tadpole? Being hunted by my former master and his minions, living in fear of any monster hunter who spots my fangs and decides I’m a monstrous thing that should be killed with impunity? Or how about being my own personal snack cabinet, forever? I’m certain that appeals!” His voice caught. “I don’t even… I don’t bring you physical pleasure. Xia. The only thing I’ve ever really had to offer you is my rather substantial beauty, and if that’s gone… how long?” He didn’t look back at her, didn’t acknowledge the tears forming in his eyes. Forced his voice to stay steady. “How long before your kindness and pity for this pathetic charity case runs out? How long before you realize how much better off you are without me?”
Silence reigned. He didn’t care. He felt scraped out, hollow, all the words he’d sworn he’d never say out loud just laying there in the dirt between them.
Eventually, Xia broke the silence, clearing her throat loudly. “You are… obviously having a rough time,” she said, a new note of steel sounding in her voice. “So I will let it slide, for the moment, that you called the man I love a pathetic charity case.”
He whirled, eyes wide, startled out of his misery for a moment – she’d never used that word before. Dark eyes met his, hard and fiery. “Yes, I’m kind. Yes, I’m sworn to help those who need it. That might make me stand with you against Cazador. It might make me offer you my blood. It wouldn’t make me sleep next to you night after night. It wouldn’t make me seek out your company, or hold your hand, or stay up late to sing with you by the fire when everyone else has gone to bed. It wouldn’t make me actively look for ways to make you happy, for gifts that might please you, for opportunities to make you smile.” Her eyes narrowed. “It wouldn’t make me say I love you. And I do. I love you. I didn’t think it needed to be said out loud, I thought I was fairly obvious, but apparently it does. I love you. For reasons that have precisely nothing to do with how pretty you are or what I think you can give me.”
He was staring openly by this point. “Why?” he finally managed, his voice strained.
She lifted shining eyes to meet his again. “We will deal with your enemies. We’ll deal with Cazador. And when the tadpoles are taken care of we'll find another way for you to walk in the sun, and until we do I will gladly walk with you in the night. After all.” One corner of her mouth quirked up. “The night is full of stars.”
She smiled sadly. “Why does anyone love anyone? I like being with you. I like being around you. You make me happy. I like your jokes, the way you talk. I like the way you move and fight. I like the masks you wear and the lies you tell – they’re fun! – and I like the glimpses you let me see of the real you behind them." He swallowed hard, the words ricocheting through his head, a feeling very much like fear - but not fear, something wilder and deeper - stirring inside him.
She wasn't done. "I like that you’re still fighting even after going through so much. I like that you can still be brave. I like that you can still be kind, even if it’s only now and then – it’s more than most people could, after everything you’ve been through.” Her eyes dropped. “I like the way I feel when I’m with you. Safe. Strong. Calm. Like everything will be okay in the end, as long as you’re by my side. Astarion, not only would my life not be better without you, it would be significantly, terrifyingly worse.”
Gods, he loved her. The realization settled into place like tumblers aligning in a lock, the way they were always meant to fit. “I…”
The words caught in his throat. Nine Hells, why was this so hard? He’d said the words a thousand times without meaning them; why should they be so difficult the one time he did?
Without changing her expression, Xia raised one eyebrow, slowly. He could feel the amusement radiating off of it. “Yes, all right, no need to be like that,” he complained. “Maybe it’s hard for me to say it, but. Yes. That. What you said. The same.”
“I know,” she said mildly. “Unlike some people, I can read between the lines.”
Despite his best efforts, a slow smile spread across his face. If she was teasing him, then all was right with the world. He stepped back towards her. “You’d really love me if I were ugly?”
“Gods, I almost wish you were.” An eyeroll really had no right to be so expressive. “Do you have any idea how intimidating you are? You act like you’re not worthy of me, but you do know that anyone who sees us together is going to think you’re excruciatingly out of my league?” She gave him a dry, baleful glare. “You could have gotten ugly scars, like a normal person, but no. You had to continue to be ridiculously, painfully pretty. Even now that you’ve joined the facial scar club, you’ve got me beat.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her waist. “Your scars look beautiful to me.”
“And that’s how I know you love me,” she shot back, comfortably. “Because that is objectively untrue, but you believe it anyway.” She wrapped her own arms around him. “I told the others we were taking a day off. That you needed time to recover.” She smiled. “Want to recover via cuddling?”
“Yes,” he replied immediately. “Yes I do. Lots and lots of cuddling, and also pampering, and maybe you can remind me how my new scars make me look more beautiful?”
She laughed, leaning her forehead against his. “I can do that. Again and again. As many times as you need, I can do that.”
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darkkitty1208 · 5 months
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Entry for Whumptober 2023, prompt no. 27: Scars & "Let me see."
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies), Doctor Strange (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange Characters: Stephen Strange, Tony Stark Additional Tags: Insecurity, Insecure Stephen Strange, Scars, Fluff, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Stephen Strange Needs a Hug, Established Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, sort of??? Series: Part 20 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:
Some mornings are gentle.
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aini-nufire · 5 months
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No. 27: "You drew stars around my scars"
A/N: Follow-up to No. 13
It was one of the biggest gambles Alina had ever taken, right up there with sacrificing Mal as the Firebird to use as an amplifier. Maybe it was because she had already experienced the greatest power of Morozova's three Amplifiers that the jurda parem's punch didn't take her by surprise. If anything, she felt better prepared to channel the sudden influx of magic under its influence.
Shadows spilled from her fingertips without her even having to think about it, but she quickly reined them in and turned her focus on Nikolai. His skin between the nexus of black webbing encasing his entire body was ashen, and he looked only half human at this point. Even his eyes had black striations as the shadow infection filled every vein and pore.
Since the shadows were rising to her presence, Alina reached out to connect with the essence inside him, hoping to extract it as poison would be drawn from a wound. She felt resistance, like the shadows had a sticky bond to Nikolai's cells. She pulled harder. His whole body gave an abrupt judder, and she jerked back in surprise.
Pursing her mouth in determination, she tried again. Again, the shadows resisted her pull, and she felt the reverberations of something…snarling in response.
Nikolai gave another convulsion and made a pained sound.
"Alina…" Zoya warned.
She clenched her fists. Why wasn't it working? It was supposed to work!
The nichevo'ya isn't yours, a small voice whispered.
Of course, it was Kirigan's creation, and even he with all his might couldn't control them.
Another voice inside her susurrated that she should try, that she could dominate it if she pushed hard enough. She had the power, greater than Kirigan's. She had used merzost. She only needed to use it again, to take control of this broken, mortal body and make it her own…
"Alina."
It was Genya who spoke, but Alina heard Mal's voice in her head. Mal, who had been her anchor, her compass. The one who pulled her back when she almost went too far. He wasn't here anymore, but that didn't mean she should let herself go unhinged.
She blinked and looked down at Nikolai's face twisted in anguish, his pained eyes mere slits as he gazed up at her, begging. The next sound that tore from his throat sounded more animalistic, like the nichevo'ya…
"I have the sword," Zoya said in a low voice.
Alina whipped her head up. "No! I can do this."
Shadow wasn't working, of course it wasn't. It was Kirigan's power and it was evil to the core. Alina clenched her fists to extinguish it from her hands and turned inward, searching for the light that used to warm her from the inside out. It had to still be there. Tainted by her use of merzost, perhaps, but still salvageable. It had to be salvageable. For all their sakes.
She hadn't realized she'd closed her eyes until she heard a gasp, and when she looked again, the room was filled with a radiant aura emanating from her hands. Nikolai's pale skin looked translucent under the glow, while the black veins pulsed and bulged. Nikolai arched his back and screamed.
Alina pushed the light into his body, and another inhuman shriek pierced the air. She winced but knew she couldn't let up. She concentrated on pouring her light into the open wound, chasing down the shadow infection and burning it out as she went.
Nikolai screamed again and began to thrash, and Zoya and Genya leaped in to hold him down.
"Alina—" Genya started.
"I can do this," she insisted. Nikolai was writhing in agony but she could feel the shadow being incinerated in the light. It was working.
She also knew she couldn't let one single wisp of it remain lest it reinfect him. And so Alina kept the light flowing, blazing…searing.
Pounding at the door almost disrupted her focus. Zoya let go of Nikolai to summon a gust of wind that slammed the door shut before the guards could barge in. By then Nikolai's convulsions were dying down, and Alina prayed to the Saints she wasn't going to burn him out too along with the shadow.
He fell still, his eyes closed and head lolling limply to the side. Genya climbed onto the bed and held her hands over his chest, moving them back and forth as she sought out his vital signs. Alina had to trust she had that covered as she continued to probe every inch of Nikolai's cells. Only once she had confirmed that there was no trace of shadow left did she withdraw her power.
The room grew almost too dark to see after the nova was extinguished, and Alina staggered back. She had burned through the parem and was beginning to feel the effects of withdrawal.
"Genya?" Zoya asked tautly, power still holding the door.
"He's alive!"
Alina sank to the floor in relief. She'd done it; she'd saved Nikolai, and with him the hope of Ravka's future.
The door banged open and there were shouts. Zoya must have used the air to amplify her voice because it bellowed like thunder, assuring everyone that Alina Starkov had just cured the king. Alina felt oddly disconnected, the world narrowing to a shaky point. Then Genya was kneeling beside her and tipping a vial to her lips. After that, exhaustion took her.
It was two days before Alina was recovered enough to visit Nikolai, time which he also spent recuperating from the ordeal. His door was open, what with servants standing by should the convalescing king need anything. Luckily, Genya was in his room and assured the staff Alina was safe to be near the king. She ushered everyone out to give the two of them privacy.
Nikolai was sitting up in bed, propped up with a great many pillows. "Are you all right?" was the first thing he asked.
Alina shook her head. "You nearly died and you're concerned about me."
"You could have died using parem," he countered.
"We had the antidote."
"An untested one." His expression softened. "I'm glad it worked."
Alina came closer, her gaze catching on his lax hands lying on top of the covers. "The shadow was gone; I made sure it was all gone—" she started in alarm.
"It is," Nikolai cut her off. "Genya confirmed there's no more trace of it. These are just…scars." He flexed his hands, the black marks stretching with the taut skin.
Alina sank onto the edge of the mattress and took one of those hands. "Are there more?" she asked softly.
She didn't miss the slight wince Nikolai made, and he reached his other hand up to his shirt and slowly pulled it down one shoulder, revealing the wound that had started all of this. It was a gnarled scar now, ringed in black marks. But there was something else… Alina squinted and noticed the very faint, almost iridescently feathered burn scars woven around the black marks. She traced them down to the edge of the collar, then gingerly reached for the bottom hem and lifted it. Nikolai let her.
His torso was covered in a smattering mix of dull black and shimmery white scars, like galaxies painted across his body.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"For what? Saving my life?" He closed his scarred hand around hers and she lowered the shirt. "Thank you."
She turned her hand over in his and caressed her thumb over one of the lighter scars, one she had left behind. Both she and Kirigan had marked him, and there was no taking that back. If there was, Genya would have tailored them away by now.
"How will your vanity recover?" Alina asked, trying for the levity they had so often fallen back on.
Nikolai's lips quirked. "Well, you already married me. So I no longer have to try so hard."
She smirked, even as her heart gave a familiar pang for someone else. But Nikolai had done so much for her, been hurt badly because of her. And he cared for her. She cared for him too. It might not have been a romantic match, but there was love there. Enough to rebuild a kingdom on.
And each other.
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bearsinpotatosacks · 5 months
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I Think He's Enjoying This (Seeing Me in Pain) - Whumptober2023
Max finds Billy with a boy in the summer of 1984. She goes straight to Neil and a few days later, she and Susan are off to the cinema while Neil and Billy "talk".
What happens after is the furthest Neil’s ever gone. This is the aftermath.
For day 27 of @whumptober . Also on AO3. Shows the aftermath of child abuse so be warned
Words: 1078
His breath was whistling out of his nose. It felt like an elephant was sitting on him, every breath took every ounce of energy he didn’t have. The pain was past tingling, past being in one specific spot and now radiated from him. Like he was on fire, like he was made of sunlight and it was seeping out of the cracks. 
Neil’s shoes cracked against the debris on the floor as he went to the window. The way he opened told him that he had a plan. He didn’t move like he was angry. Every movement was simple, thought out, not rash. It would scare him if he wasn’t used to it.
Next, he moved to the bed, stripping the bed sheets in one smooth motion. He always talked about the army, how it cleared his act up and taught him what was important in life. Billy would argue with that, but he’d probably be sent to a military school if he did that. And he wasn’t getting a buzzcut. 
With an armful of laundry, he hovered over him with that long, hard stare. He hated that stare. And as he placed a foot on his chest, already heaving with broken ribs, he really made him feel like nothing but a bug under his shoe. That was something he was very good at, making you feel like shit. Billy was used to that too. He knew Neil back to front, although every time he said that, he threw something new at him that sent him reeling. 
“I’m going to call an ambulance and put these in the washer now, along with your clothes,” He nodded, despite how it made pain shoot up his neck. “So, because of the state you’ve got yourself in, I will help you get out of them.”
He left the room. Billy was in too much pain, spread eagle on the floor, blood seeping into the carpet, to move. What did he mean 'the state he got himself in'? He did this to him. Unless, no, unless he was making something up, giving them an alibi, or rather, giving himself an alibi so he didn’t get done for child abuse. 
This was the furthest he’d ever gone. Sure, he’d given him bruises and broken ribs a plenty, but this was something else. For one, he’d hurt him where people could see, slamming someone’s head into a bookshelf until the world went dizzy would do that to you. 
He’d found out he had a boyfriend, and it was all Max’s fault. He didn’t want to be her personal chauffeur for one day and made her make her own way to the skate park. She’d called her dad, spent the day with him and got home a little too early. Early enough that she’d caught him kissing Derek. And of course the little bitch had gone straight to his dad. 
So, here he was, three days later, bleeding on the ground. Neil had made Max and Susan go to the movies while they ‘talked’. They didn’t talk, they never did, Neil beat him to a pulp. Hitting him, smacking him against the bookshelves and kicking him until most of the bones in his upper body were broken. Even swallowing was difficult, the world was floating around him, it almost felt like he was high, although he didn’t know whether he’d pay for a high like this. 
His dad came back with medical supplies. Right, better make himself look like the doting father he totally wasn’t. As he knelt down, he lifted one arm, taking off the sleeve of his jacket, then lent over him to remove the other. Billy moved as much as he could to help him undress him. It went slowly, as he undid all his buttons and slid off his shirt. 
It should be weird, his dad being this close, this gentle, almost but it wasn’t. He felt like a toddler being bathed, not really aware of what was happening but still knowing something was going on. 
“I don’t like when you fight, Billy,” Neil said as he tipped a bottle of antiseptic onto a cloth. “You get hurt, you get blood all over your clothes and the floor, and I’m the one who has to clean it all up.”
He was creating a narrative. Instead of him finding out his son liked boys and beating him up, he was making it seem like Billy had been the no good delinquent he was and got into another fight, only to stumble home and pass out on the floor. It seemed likely if you were someone like him. That being, someone who the cops already didn’t like for speeding and making his face known at every party in town. They weren’t ones for underage drinking, or fun apparently.
“So, you’re not going to fight anymore, is that clear?” He said.
He nodded. 
“I didn’t hear that,”
He placed the soaked cloth onto one of the wounds and felt him flinch underneath him. He tried to hold back the hiss he wanted to let out at the scratchy feeling of the antiseptic cleaning him out. Speaking seemed impossible right now. But that’s what Neil was expecting. Despite the fact that his throat hurt so much he might as well have ripped his vocal cords straight out of his neck. It would’ve hurt less. 
“Yes, sir.” He managed to croak, feeling fire roar with just the two words. 
“And that boy, he’s getting you into a bad crowd, so no seeing him again, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Neil wet the rag again and placed it on another would as his chest, still crusted in blood, started to bruise. Old scars had hardened and warped. He didn’t always get this treatment. Most of the time he had to haphazardly wrap bandages around himself whilst also making sure not to disturb anyone else in the house, lest he feel his dad’s wrath again. 
Sirens that had been sounding far off in the distance, stopped outside the house. Blue lights lit up the room and the wrinkles on his dad’s face. 
“I’m glad we had this talk.”
That was the end of his summer fun, then. So much for being careful, so much for trying to be an individual in this house. He tried to scowl at his dad but the pain was too much, the headache spreading all over. He swore his dad was enjoying this.
----
If you read yesterday's fic then I hope you noticed how Billy’s internal monologue changed from the first time Neil hit him, to 'now' in this fic. He no longer cares about impressing him, at least not consciously, and is almost numb to it all. Also he's not the best to Max in this either, I feel like there had to be a reason he blamed her and she almost blamed herself in s2 for moving to Hawkins? So I made her go to Neil before she knew what Neil actually does to Billy when they "talk" so she didn’t intentionally try to get him hurt, she just didn't know. Doesn't stop Billy from blaming her.
Thanks for reading! @whumptober-archive
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one-piece-aus · 1 year
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Hi! Can I have whump no. 27 with Bartolomeo please? Thank you!
Of course! I hope you enjoy the story ^-^
Whumptober Day 27
Bartolomeo x Reader
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"This doesn't look good, Meo," you said checking your inventory for another health potion, you were down to the last one. "I don't think we can defeat the boss at this rate."
"We made it this far, Ms. [Y/n]," Bartolomeo reminded you, shielding the two of you with his magic shield. "And his HP is just past the halfway point, if we back out now, we'd have to start over again."
"We can go up level doing some side quests then rematch the boss later," you tried to reason with him, placing the potion back into your inventory. "But we can't take him down in our current state."
Barto frowned and popped open his spell window, all the spell slots were used up. Barto sighed, closing the window and turned to you. "Alright, let's book it, Ms. [Y/n]."
He grabbed your hand and took a running dash to the exit of the dungeon's boss room. You stumbled, not expecting the swift action, though you picked up the pace quickly knowing death will pounce if you don't haul ass.
You looked ahead, you could see the tall steel doors. Almost free, you could feel the handle in your hand. With all your strength, you pull the door. It would've easily opened if you didn't freeze up, but how else would respond to seeing your companion being impaled by the beast?
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
"Hey, you're pretty good with that sword," a green-haired man complimented you. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and tilted his head. "How come you're out here fighting monsters all by yourself?"
"No one wants woman front fighter," you simply stated, cleaning the blood off your sword. "Whether they think women are too weak or they should do something with more grace, parties only want females playing healers or sharpshooters on their team."
"They're a bunch of stupid jackasses then," he scoffed, one of his hands leaving his pocket. "Their loss but I'm not going to miss an opportunity." He held out his hand to you. "The name's Bartolomeo."
"[Y/n]." You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest as you shook his hand.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
"MEO!" All instincts of survival abandoned you as you cried. 
You retracted your hand from the handle and swung your sword down on the monster's arm. Blood splashed on your face and the part of the arm that penetrated Barto fell to the ground. You strike your blade at the beast once again, soul focused on taking him down. You didn't care if you were already pushed to the limit. 
Bartolomeo was the only one who treated you as human. He let you fight however you wanted to and he shared rewards equally with you, even if he made a lame excuse of why he did it. How dare this monster take him from you.
"I'LL MAKE YOU PAY!"
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The Next One
CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, referenced torture, noncon, choking, muzzled, collars, choke chain, leash, nudity, captivity, suicidal ideation ('death to escape this')
Death Valley | Lüge | Welcome Home | Didn’t Make It | Dead Body | Why Me? | The Next One |
Don’t worry, Finn. It’s always darkest before the dawn. Just give me a couple more days to give you some sun.
For @whumptober 2022, day 27: Muffled screams
-
Rancher's Rest, 2005
Finn waited in silence. 
Seated on the floor vaguely aware of Robert moving around the kitchen, he kept his legs crossed and his arms relaxed, hands resting with palms up and knuckles resting over his calves. 
He couldn't remember what pants felt like.
If he listened, if he tuned out the eternal drone of news radio, he could hear the softest swish swish swish of Robert's blue jeans, just barely. 
He tried to remember his own blue jeans, once upon a time. Had they been rough, or softly stretchy? Had they swished when fabric touched as he moved? He had owned a few pairs. How many colors of blue?
It was something useless to occupy him, a way to push back any stray genuine thought that threatened to rise and choke him from the inside out. So he focused on that, and on the dirty black and white tiled floor beneath him. 
A stain by the kitchen table leg could have been dried blood, but he knew it was barbecue sauce. Another over on the wall, scrubbed and faded but still stubbornly present in the faintest outline… that was blood. Had been blood, anyway.
It was just a suggestion, now, that someone had once been alive in this kitchen who wasn't any longer. Like the bones in the basement, the bodies in the barrels. Robert left with barrels sometimes, loaded them sloshing with awful liquid in the back of his truck and drove away. Came back with new ones, fresh and empty, a falsely neon green or blue. 
How many of the same kind of barrel could he buy before it became suspicious? Apparently as many as he wanted.
Finn narrowed his eyes at the remnants of the bloodstain, and he didn’t let himself try to guess which one of the IDs in the basket that blood had once belonged to.
The thin, barely-visible stain was a ghost of itself. 
Just like Finn.
Robert's hand dropped briefly onto Finn's head, but he didn't even flinch. 
He let heavy fingers dirty with oil and smelling like diesel ruffle his hair, breathing evenly behind the muzzle. He kept his eyes on the blood stain. 
On the stove, a can of beef vegetable soup bubbled cheerfully in a little saucepan, and even through the thick leather that kept his breathing humid, Finn could smell it. Salt, mostly. A little bit of beef and broth. 
His mouth watered, but it felt like someone else's mouth. Not his. 
A mouth that spent half its time locked shut and the other half open for-
He cut the thought off, and instead tried to remember how his mother made the little dumplings, pressed through the colander openings. The little squiggles of flour that cooked on top of the bubbling, simmering liquid.
Robert got himself a bowl of soup and a slice of fresh bread and took a seat, legs splayed under the table, humming happily as he smeared butter over the slice of bread. 
Finn's eyes followed the motion, dully.  His stomach growled. He blinked and looked down, vaguely startled. He hadn't even felt hunger. Just heard the sound. 
"You're getting boring," Robert said, mouthful, bread crumbs sticking to the overgrown stubble along his chin and at the corners of his mouth. He picked up his beer, taking a long drink, smacking his lips happily afterward. "You hear me, little Mouse? Boring."
Finn blinked. 
He nodded, but he hadn't, really. He barely listened to anything any longer. Robert ranted a lot about a war in Iraq, the President, how everything cost much more than it used to when he was a child. It was... hard to listen for long. 
"Now, we've been roommates for a while," Robert continued. Some part of Finn wanted to laugh - or maybe scream - at the word roommate, when here he sat with useless hands locked in the damn rubber mittens, an eternal limp where his leg never quite healed right, and the knowledge that soon enough Robert would have him earn his own dinner by moving under the table between his legs. 
Roommates.
The laughter died long before it could ever escape. There wasn't enough energy in him to laugh. There wasn't enough him in him to laugh anymore.
"But sometimes, you know, situations change. I think that’s where we’re at now, little Mouse. It's time to move out and move on. This is my house, so it's gonna be you who moves on."
Robert leaned over, grabbing the side strap for the muzzle and jerking it until, with a soft sound of pain, Finn turned to look up at him, shifting onto hands and knees. Usually a grab like that meant it was time for under the table. 
Finn didn't even shudder any longer at the thought of having to nose along the zipper of Robert's jeans and pretend to be salivating over the dick inside. He didn't care. 
What was one more time, after all the times before?
At least it meant the muzzle would come off for a while. 
Instead of what he expected, though, Robert turned to look at Finn, rubbing fingertips in little circles behind one ear. Finn's eyes closed, and he did shiver then. Robert had figured out behind his ears was a sensitive place early on, and barely ever touched him there. 
When he did… 
It nearly broke the careful wall Finn had built inside himself to hide behind. He couldn't help the soft sound of something like pleasure he made. It was just... nice to feel anything other than pain.
"I know, I know, you like that," Robert murmured fondly. "I never keep them long enough to get to know what they like. I don’t care. But I know what you like, hm? I put it on the listing."
Finn opened his eyes again, tipping his chin to look up from his place on the floor. Listing?
"Ah, there we go. Most alive you've looked in months. I told you, Mouse, you're boring now. But I've put so much work into you, can't just add you to my friends downstairs, huh? No, no… not after all the investment. I found this place on the internet, you buy and sell stuff there. People put couches, apartments, those WRU pets… and they have a whole section just for erotic services. I figure that's what you are, huh?"
Finn's eyebrows furrowed.
He made a sound of protest, but the muzzle kept his jaw too locked to speak. Mmmf was the best he could manage. He shook his head, slowly at first, then more rapidly. 
Robert snorted. "I'm not asking for your opinion, little Mouse."
No, Finn tried, but all that came out was a pathetic, weak, "Nnnnah." He barely spoke any longer, had nearly forgotten how. "Nnnnnah. Nein-"
"Shut the fuck up. I'm tired of you being a lump around my house, but look, just because your dog doesn't work out don't mean he has to be put down. Consider it… Rehoming, like when your yard's not big enough for your dogs, you gotta find them somewhere new."
"Nein-" Horror started to bubble up, breaking through Finn's careful distance. He had assumed Robert would get tired of him, kill him one day, and then this would end. Going to someone new, more time spent on his hands and knees with a dirty cock down his throat or-
Finn's breath caught, and he shook his head more forcefully, then. "Nein, Nnnnah, nnnno, no-... K-kill…"
Robert blinked, surprised. "What's that, Mouse?"
Finn thought of seeing his mother on the news once, having flown to America to give an interview at the park where Finn had vanished, standing next to his dusty car where it had gone off road. 
I do not believe my son is dead, she had said, so firm and resolute. He would not leave all this water without drinking it to walk into a desert. My son is smarter than this. Someone must have seen him. He must have asked for a ride.
Someone gave my son a ride but did not let him come home.
That had been more than a year ago. Maybe. He couldn't keep track of time. She probably thought him dead by now, right? She must. He probably should be, he and Karl Janssen together in the basement, Robert's foreign friends.
"Kill… mmmme," Finn ground out, struggling to push out the words around his locked-shut jaw and unmoving teeth. "Kill. Not… sss-sell. Kill. Bitte… bitte töte mich hier…"
There was a long, long pause. 
Then Robert threw his head back with laughter, slapping his own knee with his delighted amusement, leaning over to ruffle Finn's hair again. This time, Finn jerked back from the touch, crawling backwards to put space between them. 
"Töte mich…"
"You want to join my friends, huh? All my friends who stay for good? Is that it?" Robert picked up Finn's leash, giving the smooth leather a light tug. The chain around Finn's neck beneath his collar rattled, but the metal was never any less warm than his skin now. Finn barely remembered there had ever been a time he hadn't worn it. 
Funny, how quickly he’d gotten used to the collar and leash.
"Yes." It sounded more like yisssh, and that made Robert laugh, too. 
Finn felt a sob try to force itself up his throat. When had he last had the tears to cry? They burned hot in his eyes and he coughed, leaning over to press his forehead to the floor. 
His shoulders shook. 
No more. He couldn't be passed from wicked man to wicked man. He had already been hollowed out to nothing, he was already dead. He had just been waiting for Robert to let his body follow his mind into the darkness.
But this… 
"No, no, no…" He moaned, feeling the tears drip onto the tile floor. "No… kill me, kill me, please-"
"Shut up. I'm trying to eat dinner, I don't have time for your caterwauling-"
"No!" Finn jerked back upright, then shifted to get his feet under him, pawing at his leash with his useless hands in the awful mittened paws, trying to get the leash around his arm so he could yank it free of Robert's grip. "No! No!"
Robert's eyes widened and he stood, towering over Finn. "Get back on your paws or you'll regret it."
Finn screamed his protest, not even bothering with words, and his legs shrieked their own anger as he forced his calf and thigh muscles to stretch for the first time in weeks. His teeth were bared behind the muzzle. His bad leg throbbed. 
Parts inside him stung, too - Robert was never careful or kind, not about that. 
"No! No!" He saw the knife, serrated and long, that Robert used to cut the bread into slices, lying on the kitchen counter, and his breath caught.
He lunged for it.
Robert did, too. 
Finn would have won if Robert hadn't stepped on his leash. 
It pulled him up short and sent him crashing to the ground, coughing. He flipped into his back just in time for Robert to drop down on top of him, twisting the leash and winding it around one heavy forearm until he could pull the choke chain tight. Skin pinched between the links, a sharp bright pain.
Finn gasped, but air didn't come. Eyes wide, he stared up at Robert, who stared right back. 
"Listen, Mouse," He said, voice low. "Deal's done. Already got someone interested, just gotta show him a photo. I did my research, this guy… he'd gonna be good to you just like I am. And he's gonna trade me for a new truck."
He jerked the choke chain again. 
Finn whined helplessly, barely having the breath to make the sounds, his stupid paws batting desperately, pointlessly at the chain. His fingers, closed into the oversized mittens, never able to grip. 
"No-" His voice was a hiss.
"Yes. Now stop your bullshit and let me eat my damn dinner that you were rude enough to interrupt."
"No, no-... Nein, bitte-"
"I said shut the fuck up!"  Robert leaned over and screamed in his face, spit flying and landing on Finn's forehead, his cheeks, the muzzle. His hands were around Finn's neck, then, closed tight. Thumbs pressed to his windpipe, pushing and pushing in.
Finn's traitor heart raced.
His mind wanted any way out of Hell but his body refused to quit, even now. 
Finn managed just enough air to stop his head from spinning, and he screamed back. 
His own voice was wordless and hoarse, muffled and weak, but still he screamed with all the terror and rage he had hidden silently within himself for months. He screamed through the muzzle as Robert shoved his legs apart. Screamed in pain when Robert forced himself in, tearing already-torn places, smearing blood on the floor as it flowed. 
His grip loosened, his attention torn between his hands around Finn’s throat and his cock inside him. 
Finn found another breath.
He screamed.
His air grew less and less with each snap of Robert's hips, gradually tightening the grip on his throat again. Each scream quieter and weaker... less than the last. 
The world went dark when all he had left was a whisper.
Robert let go, stood up and tucked himself back into his pants, left Finn staring sightlessly up at the kitchen ceiling, eyes moving over the popcorn-textured ceiling with no real understanding. He could breathe again, in a throbbing, painful whistling inhale. 
Robert had stopped, like he always did, just before he went too far. 
Now Finn would go to someone new, to be tortured all over again by a new face and touched by new hands. Treated like someone else’s animal to fuck, to beat, to eventually kill.
Finn’s eyes slowly closed. 
Maybe the next one would let him die.
-
For whumptober: @whumpworld 
Finn tag list:   @astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whumperfully @pigeonwhumps  @squishablesunbeam  @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot  @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature  @d-cs @honey-is-mesi ask if you want to be added to the taglist  
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i-am-still-khel · 5 months
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No. 27
“You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding.” | Matches | Scars | "Let me see."
Pairing: Fili/Kili (mentioned Kili/OMC) Rating: Teen AU: Fast Car (formerly Dead Batteries) - Ao3 / Tumblr Words: 1076
--
Warnings: self harm, scars
(and probably some typos and tense switching, I'll get around to fixing them after NaNo and before this goes up on Ao3)
--
There were scars on Kili’s arms. 
They started out angry, red, and bleeding. He would press his fingers to them to distract him from his other feelings. The physical pain overwhelmed any and all thoughts including those about…
Kili dug a fingernail into one of the fresh scars and that thought stopped there. He most certainly did not follow that thread of thought and feeling to wonder what it would be like to…
No. 
He wore long sleeves even when it was warm. When he was asked if he was hot he just shrugged and said no. And that was that. 
Then the scars faded and no new wounds joined them. They faded to silver or a faint pink on his skin. And they were really only noticeable if someone were close and looking for them. Kili saw them. Sometimes they bothered him and he would wear long sleeves again, but mostly he forgot about them and no one asked.
Then Fili asked.
Fili had parked his car, the one that was held together with duct tape and hope, in its usual place near the shed. Hidden from the house by the shed, shielded from the neighbors by the tall wooden fence, and much warmer than the shed they sat in the car talking until they were not talking anymore.
Fili was sprawled on the back seat that was far too small for such a thing. His face was lit by the cool light of the security light that was on this side of the shed. Their cheeks were pink, eyes wide, and the windows of the car were fogged enough to filter that bright light to something that seemed to fit the mood. Kili had one hand planted on the seat next to Fili’s head, the other on Fili’s chest, a seatbelt buckle dug painfully into his knee. 
Fili had taken hold of Kili’s wrist, eyes closed, with a sharp inhale. He turned his head and Kili’s inner forearm. Then his eyes widened and his brows furrowed. “What’s this?” He ran a finger over one of the scars. 
Kili pulled his hand away, quickly shifting back and away from Fili until his back was pressed against the wall of the backseat with its small inset window and molded armrest. “Nothing.” Kili crossed his arms. 
The light cast start shadows on their skin. Fili pushed himself up, his bare chest rising and falling steadily. He pulled one leg up to better balance on the narrow seat. “Let me…” he reached out and took hold of Kili’s hand, pulling Kili’s hand toward him and turning it so that his palm and inner arm faced up. Fili ducked forward to see them more closely. “Kili…” his voice was soft. “When did…” Fili ran a finger over the scars.
Kili twitched. “A long time ago.”
“When?”
Kili shrugged and looked past Fili to the fogged and smudged world through the back window. “Middle school, maybe Freshman year.”
“Do you do it now?”
“No.” Kili exhaled and looked at Fili again. “Not in a long time. I don’t really remember when I stopped, but it’s been years.”
“Will you tell me if you want to start again?” Fili asked quietly.
“I guess. If you want.”
“I do.” 
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry I missed it the first time.”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“But I’m your best friend. I should have known.”
“I’m not your responsibility,” Kili said. “I can take care of myself.”
“I want to help.”
“I know…” Kili relaxed, moved away from the molded plastic wall. 
Fili had lifted Kili’s hand then and pressed a kiss to the palm and then moved to Kili’s wrist. He lingered on each scar, lips caressing the rough yet still sensitive skin. Kili shivered. It became a thing that Fili did regularly, a way of showing Kili that he was loved and accepted, even his darker parts. 
And then there was the time when they were supposed to be doing their homework and Fili had started doodling on Kili’s arm instead. With a red pen he had drawn small hearts and flowers on the scars.
And then one time he had drawn stars and galaxies swirling across Kili’s skin with gel pens. He had used a silver one, highlighting the scars and turning them into something beautiful. Kili had not washed his arm for a week after that. He had traced over the silver glittering lines and not thought about the pain that had caused them in the first place. 
After Kili left he had pressed fingernails into the scars again, remembering the pain, but he did not create any new wounds. He could only think of Fili’s sad and disappointed expression and that stayed his hand. The indentations from his fingernails faded quickly and eventually he had learned better coping skills. He started running, using a stationary rowing machine (a torture device that caused callouses and blisters that tore his hands apart), he wore a rubber band on his wrist to snap himself when he had the urge to harm himself—all things suggested by the school’s therapist.
And then he did not need them anymore. He did not have to remind himself to distract himself; it became a habit, just something that he did. On Fili’s birthday he would wake up early and go to the gym, he would make plans with friends. Later he would schedule meetings with the escort that he was seeing from time to time. But he did not have to remind himself to do any of those things anymore.
Now Kili does not even notice them or remember that they are there most of the time. Occasionally they itch and grow red and irritated, and sometimes they would catch in the light and were highlighted by the sun. He occasionally traced a finger over the thin lines and wonders if a tattoo could hide them, if he wants them hidden, and he feels regret for the boy he used to be, and glad that he lived to see himself get better. 
And he no longer lied if anyone asked about them. Fili’s acceptance had made him feel less shame regarding the scars and how they came to be, and that was something Kili carried with him even though it was a decade later. And sometimes he wished he could thank Fili for all he had done and all the ways that Fili had healed him without even trying.
--
Taglist Everything @silvermoon-scrolls @metztliluaa-blog @i-am-pinkie
Fili/Kili @dubhlachen
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sardonic-sprite · 1 year
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Rocks Under Tide
written for Whumptober 2022, days 1, 27, 29 (see tags)
author's notes on ao3
"Hey, Dad," Tim called, sloughing his backpack off his shoulder and onto the kitchen table. "I'm home!"
No answer, which was unsurprising. Jack wasn't one to acknowledge Tim's existence unless that existence was beneficial.
He wandered into the living room, frowning when he found it empty. The TV was off, which meant his dad wasn't on a simple bathroom or snack break. 
Tim slid into a fighting stance.
"Dad?" he tried again, creeping out of the living room and hoping he wasn't about to find his father crumpled on the floor, "Are you here?"
The study was empty, but it looked the same as when Tim had last seen it. All of the rooms looked the same, actually, which fairly debunked Tim's Intruder theory.
"Hello!" he hollered. "Dad?"
"Timothy?" 
Tim would have sighed in relief if not for the ice in his father's voice.
"Come up here, now."
Tim swallowed tightly. "Coming!"
He tried to stifle the flood of anxiety, telling himself Jack was just... volatile, and was probably annoyed Tim hadn't cleaned his room or something. Maybe today had been rough for him physically. It didn't necessarily have anything to do with Tim himself.
Tim's bedroom door was wide open, light on. 
He took a deep breath, pressing his hands against his thighs to keep them from shaking.
He probably just saw my report card or something.
Tim had meant to get help with English, really, but his essay - which would make a good 35% of his grade - was supposed to be on To Kill A Mockingbird, and the one time he brought it up, Dick cried and Bruce could only explain that it was one of Jason's favorite books. Tim couldn't ask them to pore over it with him after that.
He meant to go for a casual What's up?, but when he stepped through the doorframe his voice died.
His room was utterly, completely trashed. Dresser drawers all open, contents strewn around the room. Posters torn down, hamper overturned, even his mattress yanked half off the bedframe. His desk had been pulled away from the wall, and everything down to his pencil case had been spilled on top. His laptop was open to his browser history, blessedly clear of anything damning.
Only, that didn't matter.
Because Jack was holding Tim's Robin uniform. 
"What. Is. This?" he hissed, brandishing the kevlar at Tim.
"A cosplay." Tim didn't know how he managed to keep his voice even. He couldn't quite stop himself from blinking too many times. "Forgot I had it, I haven't worn it in--"
"Bullshit."
Tim flinched as the uniform made a loud thwack against the wall. Jack stalked closer, and Tim backed up, tripping over a broken picture frame. Jack pulled him back up by his shirt collar, and Tim had to force down the instinct to strike his attacker and break free.
"Robin, Timothy? What the hell do you think you're doing? At least if it was a gang, there's ways to get out of jail, but--"
"If... what?"
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice you sneaking out of the house every night? For god's sake, how blind do you think I am?"
"I don't--"
"You explain to me, Timothy, you explain to me right the fuck now, what the hell were you thinking? Running around with a madman every night, getting into fights, and getting fucking shot at?"
Tim swallowed hard. "I think I'm helping people."
"'Helping people?'" Jack sneered. He kept walking, pushing Tim in front of him until Tim's back hit the wall. "How naïve are you, Tim? No, how stupid are you? Is that what Batman's been filling your head with?"
"I'm not naïve. And I'm not stupid. I'm saving lives." Under his breath, Tim added, "Some people call me a hero."
"I call you a goddamn idiot! So puffed up on the glory you can't fucking see that that... thing is just using you to give the freak club something else to shoot at. How long did you think you were gonna last, boy? The last Robin fucking died! You're just gonna throw your life away to save one drunk from another?"
Tim tried to blink away the sting behind his eyes. "Batman didn't want me to fight at all, let alone to use me. But I wanted to do something worthwhile, and if I do die--"
"You're sixteen, Timothy," Jack snapped, shoving Tim harder against the wall. "You will not say another word about dying or so help me--"
"Don't tell me you'd miss me," Tim hissed. "Be honest, Dad, you'd be glad if you never had to deal with me again!"
A burst of pain against Tim's cheek and his head whipped to the side. He was still frozen in shock when Jack grabbed his chin and forced them face to face again.
"Timothy Jackson, don't you ever speak to me that way again, do you understand me?"
Tim... Tim... slowly nodded, staring at his father's white face. His cheek was starting to throb. It would probably bruise.
Jack finally let him go and backed away, shoes crunching on several CD cases.
"Good. And this Robin nonsense ends now, do you hear me, Timothy? You're grounded indefinitely. You go to school, you come right the fuck back here and you do not leave this house until school again. If you ever try to sneak out again, I swear to god I'm going to take a belt to you. Count yourself damn lucky I'm not doing it now."
Jack was half out the door when Tim found his voice.
"No."
"No?"
Jack slowly turned around. His eyes were darker than Tim had ever seen them. Tim stepped away from the wall, fists clenched at his sides, and this time when Jack stalked closer, he stood his ground.
"No," he repeated. "I'm not going to stop being Robin."
"This is not a choice, Timothy. I am your father and you will obe--"
"No!" 
This time it was Tim who stepped forward. His breath was coming fast, and his body felt hot and flushed. 
"You don't get to call yourself that. Maybe you made me, but then you left me. You never once acted like a father unless it benefitted you, so don't expect me to give up the one thing that's ever made me feel worth something just because you say so!"
"You will never," Jack roared, spit flying, "go out at night and play superhero again!"
"I'd like to see you stop me."
Tim saw the shift in his father's eyes a second too late. An unnerving mixture of resolve and calculation piercing the pure rage.
And he didn't react in time.
Jack lunged, tackling Tim to the ground. Tim's head struck something hard, and by the time he blinked the stars away, Jack had turned him over, knee planted squarely between Tim's shoulder blades.
"You want me to stop you?" he muttered. "Fine. I'll stop you."
"Get off!" 
Tim bucked, trying to throw Jack off, or get his hands planted to lever up. Jack dug his knee deeper into Tim's back, grabbing his wrists hard as he flailed. He wrenched Tim's arms behind him and shifted to pin them against his back. Tim grunted at the weight.
"You will learn to respect me, Timothy," Jack growled, accompanied by the jingle of a belt buckle. "And I don't care what I have to do to get through to you!"
"Newsflash," Tim snarled back, still squirming and kicking, looking around at the debris for a weapon, "if beating me worked, I'd have quit the first time I ran into the mob!"
"Dear god, boy, do you fucking hear yourself?"
Tim yelped as Jack yanked his wrists back even further, and froze for a fatal second when he felt leather wrapping around his upper arms. His heartbeat kicked up five gears as his father wrapped the belt around and around his arms, tying it off around his palms.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"If this is what it takes to protect you from your own idiocy--"
"FUCK you!"
Tim finally landed a kick against Jack's back. He grunted and toppled right, and Tim tried to roll left only to be blocked by the mattress. He scrambled to get his feet under him and stand, swaying for a few precious seconds before he could stumble towards the door.
He made it a quarter of the way before a sharp tug on his ankle felled him with a cry. Jack clawed his way closer, despite Tim's continued kicking. 
"You... Will never... Go out... there... again!"
Tim's knee jabbed Jack's throat, making him gag, but he was too late. Jack had one hand fisted in Tim's hair. He jerked his head up, then backwards, slamming it into the dresser, and everything went dark.
Tim's head was pounding. His arms and shoulders ached, and the rest of his body felt stiff and sore. He lay on a hard floor, pitifully cushioned by... a blanket?
He opened his eyes, seeing nothing but a sliver of light just in front of him, coming underneath a door and illuminating a hardwood floor identical to the hallways in Drake Manor.
Oh.
Fuck.
Tim bowed his head against the ground, making the throbbing worse. 
That had really happened.
His father had found out Tim was Robin, Tim was stupid enough to openly defy his order to stop, and... and Jack had attacked Tim, tied him up with his belt, and locked him in a closet.
Tim bit his lip, not sure if it was to stop a sob or a scream.
His dad was never supposed to know. Never, because Tim knew he would be livid, knew he would go completely off the rails. 
Yet he'd never imagined something like this. Being kept prisoner in his own home under the excuse of protection.
How had it gotten so bad that Jack locking him up to 'keep him safe' was the only way he could show something like love?
Tim's eyes burned. He bit his lip and kicked at the door, then kicked it again, over and over until his toes were throbbing.
"Stupid," he hissed. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
Yes, Dad. Whatever you want, Dad. I'll quit, Dad. Then wait for nightfall and go out anyway.
Then maybe he'd at least be tied up by somebody he could hate.
He shut that thought down, following it immediately with Robin's thoughts, with the process Bruce had drilled him on over and over and over again: what to do if you're captured.
Tim knew where he was, and that he was alone. He didn't know how close his d- captor was, or what his plan was. Keep Tim locked up until he broke? Even after? Forget he ever existed and then stumble on his corpse years later looking for spare linens?
Tim took a deep breath. That line of thought wouldn't help anything. The next step was to determine what was keeping him trapped, and how best to get out of it.
The belt was his most immediate problem. It was tight enough that his arms were starting to tingle. His fingers were already numb. 
Tim closed his eyes and breathed, focusing on what he could still feel. The belt was actually fastened just above his elbows, with the tail wrapping around his forearms and hands until it knotted in his left palm. He picked at the knot with his fingers, hoping it was big enough and loose enough that he could pull it free. 
It took longer than he wanted, but Tim did manage to untie the knot at his hands. The tension around his forearms slackened, and he was relieved by the sting of bloodflow coming back into his fingers.
Only, he could do nothing about the buckle. Tugging the belt's tail failed to do anything other than hurt his arms, and the blanket confounded any attempt to drag the loop against the ground. And not even Dick could have contorted himself to undo it with his hands.
And just like that, Tim was powerless again. The only answer Robin had was endure and wait for rescue or for a better opportunity. 
So Tim waited in the dark, unsure how long it would take for anyone to realize he was missing. Unwilling to hope anyone would, because it only ever made his disappointment worse. Unable to turn off the memories of everything that had gone so wrong.
Uncaring to stop the tears streaming silently down his face.
By the fifth time Bruce checked his phone and set it back down with an anxious Hn, Dick had had enough.
"For the love of God, just call him!" he pleaded.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Tim never answers phone calls, you know this."
"He would for you!"
Bruce's next hum was considering. Dick waited for a short eternity before one of Bruce’s anxieties overrode the other, and he opened his phone to contacts.
After a minute of ringing, the line beeped and Tim's voice said, "Hey, you've reached Tim's cell. Please leave a message, or text if it's urgent."
Bruce sighed and hung up. His eyes slipped to the seat across from him. The empty one where a different boy would sit. Until he stopped answering his phone. Until he was too far away for help to reach him. Then too far for any force on earth to reach him.
Dick stood up.
"I'm going over to check on him," he said.
Bruce looked up at him and nodded silently. Dick didn't wait any longer before hurrying out the back door from the kitchen and starting across the lawn. Logically he knew getting a car or his bike would be faster, but he needed to move.
Speed-walking became jogging became running became sprinting, until he reached the wall between the properties and had to brace against it, breathing hard. He wished he could go up and over, climb in through a window, but with Tim's father around (for once) that would raise too many red flags. So he walked along the wall until it turned the corner and the driveway came into view.
Drake Manor was as imposing and forbidding as ever, too white and square and filled with priceless things to be anything but a museum. Certainly not a home. Dick didn't know how Tim could live alone there so long and not be insane.
He rang the doorbell, bouncing slightly on his heels while he waited. And waited. And rang again. And waited some more, worry building with every second. He was about to go around and find a window when finally footsteps beat towards the door and it swung open.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Jack Drake snapped, glaring.
Dick didn't like the look in his eyes. Fortunately, he was good at charming people he didn't trust.
"Hi, I'm Dick Grayson. My father owns the house next door? We took care of Tim while you were, ah, unable."
"And?"
 Drake's expression shifted from outright hostile to wary, probably triggered by the aside to Bruce Wayne. Every so often Dick was glad to have a famous father.
"Well, traditionally, Thursdays are game night. I just came over to see if Tim was planning to come, since he hasn't been answering his phone."
"Timothy is grounded."
Dick blinked. "Grounded."
"Yes." Drake started to close the door. "Some other time, perhaps."
"Well, could I just say hi?" Dick tried, very nearly sticking his foot in the doorway. 
"No."
And with that, the door shut and the lock clicked. 
"Damn," Dick whispered. 
He didn't like it. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly was setting him off, but there was an uncomfortable twist in his stomach, which only got worse as he turned back down the driveway. 
Was it so impossible for Tim to be grounded? No. Dick loved the kid, but he was wild. He was reckless and independent and never quite knew when to shut up. All reasons Drake could have grounded him.
Taking away Tim's phone with the grounding also made some kind of sense, and Dick knew Drake didn't much like him or Bruce, so it wasn't surprising he'd shut Dick out, but...
The nagging feeling wouldn't go away, whispering over and over that he needed to see Tim safe or risk failing him the way he'd failed Jason. By not being there when his brother needed his help.
Dick waited until he was out of sight of the house, then doubled back around the side towards Tim's room. He climbed up the oak tree outside the window and dropped down onto the eaves to look inside.
Tim's room looked like a hurricane had hit it. There wasn't a single surface not littered with personal debris. Clothes, books, papers, CD cases, school supplies. The furniture had been yanked away from the walls, and the mattress was half off the bed frame.
The pit in Dick's stomach sank deeper.
He pulled open the window and slipped inside, consciously calming his breathing. He had to stare at the ground to avoid tripping on or breaking anything, and the view showed him that other people had not been so careful.
"Tim?" he called softly. "Are you here?"
He knew Tim wasn't. Tim wasn't a neat freak like Jason, but even he would never just leave his room in such a state. Dick could try to hope he was just... getting a trash bag or dust cloth, or, or in the bathroom. But then he saw an all-too-familiar shade of red.
Robin. Robin's suit just crumpled against the wall, and Dick could feel his heart speeding up because Tim would never treat his and Jason's legacy that way.
"Tim!" 
Dick yanked open the door and started into the hall. He didn't much care if Jack Drake found him. In fact, he'd like to ask the man a few questions. 
Timothy is grounded. No, you can't see him.
Was he trying to cover up that some villain had found out Tim's secret and kidnapped (not killed, not killed) him?
Or was he the reason Tim was nowhere to be seen?
"Tim, can you hear me?"
"What the hell?" 
Jack Drake came storming up the stairs, face scarlet when he saw Dick.
"How the hell did you get up here? This is private property!"
"Where's Tim?"
"I'll call the police--"
"And explain to them why your son is missing and you're not doing anything about it?"
"What are you talking about?" Jack sneered.
"This!" Dick pointed to Tim's open door and the trashed room inside. "It's nothing short of a warzone, and Tim would have been right in the center of it! What are you hiding, Jack? Where is Tim?"
"My son is not your problem anymore. Leave. Now."
"Tim!" Dick hollered, staring Jack in the eyes and daring him to make a move. "Tim, if you're here, answer me!" 
"Dick?"
The horrible twist in Dick's stomach finally relaxed, even as he narrowed his eyes at Jack.
"Dick, I'm here!"
Tim's cry was distant and muffled, but Dick could tell he was farther down the hall, behind Jack. Jack clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists as he hissed, "Get. Out."
"I will fight you," Dick warned. "And I will win."
Jack yelled and threw a punch. Dick pivoted and let Jack's force carry him on, sweeping his legs out from under him with one kick. Jack snarled and tried to get up, but Dick pinned him with one foot against his back.
"If Tim has been hurt or violated because of you," Dick murmured, "I will make you pay for it, no matter what it does to me."
"Who the fuck do you think you are!?"
Dick leaned down, Jack grunting at the shifting weight, and whispered, "Well, if Tim is Robin..."
Jack went utterly still. He didn't move even when Dick let him go. Dick scoffed and turned back down the hall, running towards Tim's voice.
Tim kept yelling, "Here! Dick, I'm here!" and kicking the door until he could hear Dick just outside calling, "I got you, Tim, I got you!"
He stopped kicking and a minute later the lock clicked and the door swung open.
"Tim?"
"Down here," he sobbed.
Dick's knees folded to reveal his face. Tim had never seen it so tight and angry.
"Hey, kiddo," he said, voice incongruously soft with his expression. "Let's get you out of there."
He took hold of the blanket and backed up, sliding Tim out of the closet. He snarled when he saw the belt binding his arms.
"I'm sorry," Tim stammered, "I couldn't get it off--"
Dick shushed him, leaning over to fuss with the buckle. Tim bowed his head to rest it against Dick's knee, soaking his jeans with tears. He felt the tension give, and seconds later was swept into a bone-crushing embrace, Dick stroking his hair and whispering, "It's ok. It's gonna be ok."
"I didn't... I... How did you...?"
"You weren't answering your phone," Dick breathed. He pulled back, taking Tim's face in his hands and turning it side to side, then taking his arms and squeezing his hands to warm up his fingers. "We were so scared, baby bird."
"I'm ok," Tim tried, "really--"
But Dick was shaking his head.
"Tim," he said slowly, forcing Tim to meet his gaze. "Has your dad hurt you like this before?"
"It's for his own damn good!" 
Tim jumped at his father's voice, shrinking behind Dick as he stood up, squaring off with Jack, fists clenched.
"He's a child, my child, and I refuse to let him out on those streets again."
"Tim hasn't been your child since you took that first flight to Cusco," Dick hissed.
Jack flinched.
"And if you hadn't given up your right to him then, you sure as hell did when you tied him up and locked him in a goddamn closet."
Dick reached down a hand to Tim, never breaking his stare as he pulled Tim to his feet and nudged him behind.
"I'm taking Tim home now."
"You can't just--"
"For his sake we'll give you the chance to sign over custody quietly."
Jack gawked, mouth hanging open despite the fury in the rest of his body. Tim shrank against Dick as he carefully led him around his father and down the hall, never letting go of his hand.
"You're gonna be ok," Dick promised again.
"Did you really mean--"
"I'll tell!"
Dick yanked Tim behind him again as he whirled to face Jack, recovered from his shock and with the same crafty look in his eyes that had ended with Tim bound and imprisoned. 
"You take him away, I'll tell the whole city your secret!"
Tim's breath caught, but Dick squeezed his hand.
"Try it."
Jack's smugness faded to confusion. Even Tim glanced up at Dick anxiously, not knowing where he was going.
"Tell the whole city. See how many Rogues and mobs all come after you, asking how you found out and what else you know. See how long they'll bother to ask nicely. See how long it takes them to recognize Tim and go after you as bait. See if he saves you after everything you've done."
Tim shivered. When Jack's eyes slid to him, suddenly fearful, he wanted to throw up. He pressed even closer to Dick to steady himself.
After a minute of silence, Dick scoffed, "That's what I thought," and gently tugged Tim onward again, leaving Jack standing stupefied in the hall.
"Dick, I-"
"It's gonna be ok, Tim. We'll make sure he doesn't--"
"Did you mean it? About taking me back?"
Dick stopped and turned to him, putting his hands on Tim's shoulders and looking straight into his eyes.
"Tim, we never wanted you to go in the first place. Bruce was ready to adopt you outright before your father woke up." Dick tugged him into another tight embrace. "And you have always been my baby brother."
Tim blinked hard, but it still couldn't stop the tears from spilling down his cheeks.
"Oh, sweetheart," Dick sighed, brushing away the tears. "C'mon. Let's go home."
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firstdegreefangirl · 5 months
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It Helps Your Heart
The sounds of laughter filter in through the glass of Roy’s front window. He adjusts his position on the couch and smiles, turning the page in his book.
How lucky is he?
Phoebe is playing in the front yard with Jamie, each of them equally enamored with the other. Last time he looked through the curtains, they were racing the length of the driveway with the matching scooters Jamie had purchased for the two of them.
Two of the most important people in his life, and they love each other just as much as he loves them.
Then the laughter stops.
Read the rest on ao3 here!
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exquisiteagony · 5 months
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skydweller au, pre-series
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