#referenced character death

[h-didanart]

I did a thing

is it too early to start posting about my AUs? Probably, but oh well, my hand slipped and I drew my various Bloodmoons reacting to canon Bloodmoon Adaptation dying

enjoy

#tsams au #sams bloodmoon #Au bloodmoon #Various Bloodmoons from various AUs #All AUs mine #It’s only three but still #sun and moon show au #sams bloodtwins #bloodmoon fanart #idk what to tell you it’s literally just Bloodmoon #Art I made #referenced character death

[robthegoodfellow]

A Little Death Do Us Part

VANISHED from fandom to work on this thing. as usual it ballooned 🙃 warnings: necromancy, character death (hence the necromancy), dubcon (on account of the necromancy)

My entry for @bigbangharringrove with art I adore by LucaDoodleDoo who also served as cheerleader when I fell behind and suffered from near fatal narrative maximalism. Here's the first chapter, or read on AO3 💛 (3 chapters up, rest day by day)

Billy had been dead for four days when Steve finally made a breakthrough, muffled cracks as bones restitched and the crushed chest cavity filled, the rasp of rusted lungs expanding with breath. He waited, held his own breath like that would encourage another from the sorry test subject lying inert on the table.

The chest deflated, but only a little—his heart leapt as it rose again, an easier inhale, and Steve would have sobbed, except he had no air, could only manage an anguished choke. It wasn’t anguished, though, just pure exhausted relief, hope, after three nights without sleep, using every trick in the book to keep going, keep trying, not give up.

An ear twitched, then—the tail, the tip curling absent-mindedly.

Within minutes, Mews sat on his haunches, staring at Steve fixedly, even more fixedly than normal, before he’d been hit by that truck, but other than that, he seemed—fine? Fine! Even the sickly-sweet eau de rot was dissipating, ginger fur shedding the greasy dullness of decay.

So it took every ounce of self-control not to go haring off to the basement crypt and work his magic there, on the true intended recipient of his tireless trial and error.

Gods in hell, so many errors. And such a trial. One attempt had backfired so spectacularly that Mews had almost decomposed too far for restoration, crumbling before his eyes as Steve scrambled for the counter spell. Another had awoken the cat but hadn’t healed him, and also imbued him with a ravenous hunger for human flesh. The scratches that crosshatched Steve’s every limb had only just begun to scab under the bandages. He’d had to go for the bat that time, beating at the mangy monster like he was trying to win whack-a-mole at the fair, then gulped down every leftover antidote to zombie infection in the medicine cabinet he could find.

He'd been steadily working his way through the moldy copy of Untethered Netherworld: New Necromancies—several editions out of date, banned in every state but New Jersey—and he was running out of both spells and time. Reanimation for more nefarious purposes—raising undead armies and whatnot—had more wiggle room, but true revivification had to be performed within a week of the victim’s death, and the sooner the better.

He didn’t want a shell of Billy, something better off dead. He wanted Billy. Needed him back.

For that, he had to be patient, thorough; do this right. Follow the checklist. Consulting the items hastily scribbled on the back of a takeout menu, he frowned.

Responds when called.

Well, fuck. Did cats ever respond when called? Mews certainly hadn’t—and Steve still wasn’t sure whether that was due to aloof mulishness or because he maintained some preferred moniker that they weren’t privy to.

Nothing for it but to try, though.

“Mews?”

The cat blinked, swished his tail.

Good enough, Steve figured, checking it off. 

2. Reacts expectedly to stimuli.

Didn’t exactly have a toy mouse handy, but after rooting around in the junk drawer, he dug up one of those keychain laser pointers. Aimed it at the floor in front of the table, and… skittered it around.

Mews launched from his perch, paws extended—pounced on the zigzagging red and kept pouncing.

Another check. 

3. Craves appropriate sustenance.

What did cats even eat, aside from… cat food, which he’d neglected to restock. Tuna? Saucer of milk? Cartoons all seemed to think so.

“Stay here,” he said, though Mews had never been the kind of cat that talked. Locking the workroom behind him, he set off for the kitchen. Pantry had to have at least one can of Chicken of the Sea. 

.💀.

The thing was—Steve should’ve known Billy was possessed. Should’ve been able to tell right away. He’d slept next to that… thing at least two nights and hadn’t noticed. How hadn’t he noticed?

He’d kissed him and really been kissing it—wrote off the delayed response, a pause before the returning press, as simple distraction. Held him but really held it, and attributed the strange stiffness to stress, stroked the broad back until he slept—or seemed to.

Because while Steve slept, Billy had been a marionette wreaking havoc, his hijacker attacking at random, opportunistic, installing its brethren on behalf of its master.

On the third morning, the day before he died, when Steve had been watching coffee drip into the pot, the shatter of ceramic spun him round, disoriented. And Billy, eyes streaming, so blue, burning blue—he’d shoved his waiting mug off the center island, was gripping the counter, teeth gritted with effort.

“Go,” he’d grunted between clenched jaws. “Go.” His hand gripped the other mug—Steve’s—and his voice sharpened, urgent. “Run.”

Steve barely dodged it, the mug cracking into the cabinet by his head with far more force than humanly possible, and his childhood training had kicked in. For once, it paid to have been born to parents whose vigilance bordered on paranoid, always on guard against rival families, enemy estates.

He grabbed a kitchen knife, threw every chair in its way, and bolted for the door, slashing behind him as he fumbled with the locks. And ran. Because he trusted Billy with his life, implicitly, knew when a command was the kind performed without question—the tone, the bluntness, the context. It was how they’d survived as an unaffiliated pair, all these years.

But that also meant precious few allies to turn to in times of need. Billy’s sister wasn’t his first choice, but she lived closest, and fleeing on foot put proximity at a premium. To her credit, she’d tried—Steve didn’t fault her for her role in the outcome—Max had just placed her trust in the wrong people. In people that prioritized killing the thing in Billy, rather than saving Billy himself.

Of course, it didn’t help that Billy had been of the same mind.

Now that he’d found a means to bring him back, Steve could admit another reason he hadn’t closed his eyes longer than a blink since the moment Billy went slack: to avoid the endless replay projected behind his lids—of Billy standing between the girl and the monster, a conglomerate creature of melded prey, raw matter drained of humanity, remade into an ever-growing puppet of destruction.

He'd wrested control once more, like he had in the kitchen, long enough to speak the words to unmake the abomination—words he alone could know, unbeknownst to the puppeteer, as the son of a witch infamous for having contracted with a god of death so powerful none could speak its name and live. None could hear its name and live. And none knew it, save two, for a while. And then one. 

And then none.

Billy spoke it. Steve saw his lips shape unfamiliar words. For the sake of the girl. 

.💀.

A checkmark next to every item on the list—that’s what broke him, finally. Not the most dignified position, kneeling over a litterbox, scooping sandy nuggets into a trash bin while fighting tears of joy, suppressing hysterical, ecstatic laughter, but—Mews was a cat, just a normal cat again, to all appearances, which meant—

He could have Billy back. Had proven wrong every tutor who’d dismissed Steve’s lackluster abilities as beyond the help of instruction. Sufficiently motivated, he’d managed every spell he tried—so it wasn’t his fault he didn’t fully know what each spell would do. This was on his teachers for slouching on the job, handwaving him through his studies to collect a paycheck.

Closing the lid of the bin, Steve stood to wash his hands and swayed, so light-headed he would have toppled were it not for a steadying arm flung to the wall. He breathed slow, eyes closed—opened, and the room had stilled its spinning.

Even so—he needed sleep. If he attempted the most important magics of his life and fucked it up from fatigue, he’d endure the rest of his days tormented by curdling regret.

“Bed, Mews,” he called, out of habit.

They’d held out a week, after Dustin had entrusted them with Mews’ care while he was apprenticing with the bigwigs at Know Where Corporation for the summer. Mewsy prefers sleeping with a buddy, Dustin instructed, among a litany of other highly specific edicts. Well, I prefer fucking my husband without witnesses, Steve had replied, just to see him pull a face, and Billy had chirped, faux-innocent, Unless the price is right. Or unless plied with endless mournful meows and wide, shining, plaintive eyes, apparently, because in no time they had a mound of fur curled at their feet from dusk till dawn.

Despite his exhaustion, despite the comforting warmth of Mews that bled through the covers, despite the meditation exercise to clear his mind, Steve couldn’t drift off for hours, couldn’t stop the steady leak of tears that oozed from the corner of closed lids to his unwashed hair.

Because Billy’s side of the bed was an echoing void at his side, an emptiness cold and loud as an arctic gale. Now and then he nudged Mews with a foot just to hear him snuffle, like an anxious mother checking her silent newborn still breathed. 

Think of a wonderful thought, he heard—Billy’s voice, hushed and fond. And like he always did, Steve huffed, “Okay, Peter,” and finally sank into memories that didn’t stab at him the way they had for days.

Tomorrow, he reminded himself, and relaxed. By this time tomorrow, Billy would be whole and hale and back in his arms. He’d kiss him and hold him. Tell him he loved him.

Tomorrow.

Chapter 2

#harringrove bigbang #harringrove #this first chapter features #necromancy #magical abuse of a cat #angst #referenced character death #mild body horror #WAY MORE tags for other chapters on ao3

[luciferstit]

i think some people don’t understand just how much blood that is coming from a head wound. that is a genuinely horrific amount of blood. it makes my stomach upset to think that if it weren’t for ???!, Mob would’ve been dead long before the ambulance arrived

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #mp100 spoilers #mob psycho season 3 spoilers #mob psycho 100 season 3 spoilers #mp100 season 3 spoilers #referenced character death

[elmundodeflor]

If there's anything Levi Ackerman's learnt, is that things never go as expected.

He was born in a place where every day he was put up to challenge. He had lost his mom and friends.

He found it ironic— some kind of tragedy one almost wants to laugh at. Each time he thought he could finally sit back, get comfortable, relax, life showed him how wrong he was for it.

"Farlan and Isabel, right?", Hanji's voice makes him startle. Their words turn to drawings in the air— figments of ice that spiral through the night. "Were they your siblings?"

Levi shrugs it off. It's been a year since that day, but the memories still make his chest hurt. Like a wound that has yet to get closed.

"None of your business.", he says. Hanji looks at him through the corner of their eye, then lets out a soft giggle. He never understood them; — how they could still be light-hearted in a world so heavy. He was harsh and closed-off. They could have gotten offended at him for his distance— shouted at him for being this cold. But they hadn't. They hadn't and, instead, they could only graze him bright smiles in turn.

"You know...", they speak. They're in the headquarters' rooftop, watching the snow. It's New Years Eve; the first one where they can see the yard turn this pristine shade of white. "My father used to tell me that, upon celebrations, our big, big family table didn't start where he sat, nor ended where I was sitting."

Levi raises a brow. He can see their hair, poking out of their hat, dusted off with snowflakes. The slightest tinge of pink that burns on the bridge of their nose.

Hanji continues.

"He said that the table kept going, and going, and going, until it wrapped around the world and appeared right behind him.", they say. "That everyone we knew was sitting there besides us. Grandpa, my mom... even Farlan and Isabel could be there, too!"

Levi scoffs. He can frame the picture in his mind, actually; vivid, and wild, and colorful. He didn't know Hanji's family, but he imagines them, as well; all with their same brown eyes and glasses. The table's filled with food; warm rice, roast-beef, potatoe soup. He can taste the sweet and spice on his tongue, smell the veil of smoke that comes from the kitchen. His mom sits next to him, graceful as she's always been. She wears a white shirt, a silver necklace ducked underneath.

He turns to her and smiles; a small tug at his lips that resembles hers. He's dying to tell her something, to ask her questions, to introduce her to Hanji.

"It's nice, I guess...", they say, once more. They're leaning on the railings, staring over at the skies. "Dad used to say that, in order to meet everyone again, we had to pretend that we were little kids. That it was important for us to believe in magic..."

Levi stays silent; his eyes closed when the wirlwind blows. He had always expected for miracles, back when Kuchel would return home late. He had always hoped for some force to make her warm again. To fill the tiny holes that'd crack his heart.

Now, little there's left of that child he once was. But he can play pretend, as Hanji's father would say. He can see, instead of just look.

Farlan and Isabel bicker over who'll take the spot next to him. There's a bouquet of flowers, front and center, surrounded by dry leafs and candles. He can hear Erwin's voice, as he pours up some wine for him. He can watch over at his squad, who he's proud of, all passing down the plates and drinks.

It's a sight he grows fond of. An image that's warm and makes him bubble up with joy. He feels less alone, now that he's allowed himself to believe. That he's let kid-Levi have this one wish turn true.

"Hey", Hanji elbows him, almost as if to wake him from his daydream.

He blinks at them, still dizzy, and his breaths swirl into white clouds. Now, they'll go downstairs to have dinner with everyone else, and there won't be roast beef or potatoe soup. The table won't have fresh flowers. There probably won't even be wine. Still, he thinks, Erwin will be there. And Mike. And Nanaba. And his squad, too.

They'll light candles, and there will be a trail of smoke coming from the kitchen. And so, when the clock hits twelve and everyone cheers, he swears, he'll believe in magic. He'll be a child all over. He'll see, and not just look.

He'll sit next to his mother, and ask her the questions he'd been dying to. He'll let Farlan and Isabel take turns on the chair besides him. He'll have champagne with Hanji's dad.

It's okay with him, really— that he'll only get to have this, a small portion of them, for the rest of his life. He's finally come to terms with one's own, human fatality. Erwin's the big brother he's never had, Hanji has that same grace of his mother's.

"Beep-boop", they wave a hand in front of him. "Earth calling Levi?"

He rolls his eyes at them.

"What is it now?"

They pout, then drag him by the sleeves of his parka.

"Have you even been listening? We have to get going!"

Levi stares at them, — at how their glasses have almost frosted. Petra tells Oluo that his cravat's ridiculous. Moblit's rushing over with the food. There's the clink of porcelain and the smell of bread. It all floats up to the roof, where they both have been, then fades off with the snow.

He's aware, this year there won't be dessert, or champagne, or his mother, either. But he has this, instead— these people he considers family. A big, big group of misfits that somehow fit together.

He feels less alone, now that he's allowed himself to believe, that love can take shape in such cruel world. This is what kid-Levi would have wanted, he tells himself. The warmth. The company.

"Let's go, then.", he says, and Hanji laughs at him, dragging him further down the stairs.

Truth is, spending New Years like this— being a Scout— comes as a complete surprise to him. That this isn't at all how he expected things to be.

Then again, he figures, however, he's alright with it. This, — Hanji, the family he's found, being a Scout, even—, is the one choice he won't ever regret.

#levihan #levi ackerman #hange zoe #hanji zoe #fanfiction #drabble #new years fic #new years eve #last fic of the year #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #angst #light angst #referenced character death #kuchel ackerman #farlan church #erwin smith #found family #levi's past #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #snk #aot #fanfic #family #holiday season

[whumpacabra]

New Tricks

Angst, crying, exhaustion, fever, touch starvation, scars, local anesthetic, stitches, painful wound treatment, pain medication, needle mention, fear of electrocution, anticipated violence, referenced character death, past torture, implied past noncon

[Directly follows Bad Dog]

The Wolf waited. He drank every second of gentle touch he could get and he waited for the price to be exacted on his already rent flesh.

It never came.

He cried himself to exhaustion, nauseous with the knowledge he was too tired, that it would kill him to take any more punishment. (He didn’t want to die.) But the hands that pulled his tear stained face from the agent’s tear soaked shirt were gentle, holding his jaw like it was a fragile thing. And the eyes looking down at him - alien with their pity - had no sharp edges trying to cut into his own pain glazed eyes.

“I - I have a medkit. Would you - do you need help, stitching up your back?”

The Wolf stared up at him, too tired to process the words beyond ‘help.’ He didn’t get help - he got treatment. He recovered enough to be broken again. But there was a finality to the way this man said that word, like it meant something more than a temporary state of being.

“Okay. I’m - I’m just going to get my medkit, alright? Alright.” Jackson was talking more to himself, and the Wolf was fine with that. The words were starting to blur together, the sound of a particular voice that didn’t come with hurt or insults or harsh hands. Jackson’s gentle hands propped the Wolf against the edge of the tub, an arm draped over the side and his head resting against the cool false porcelain plastic. He was so fucking cold. He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and sleep.

(He wanted to crack open Jackson’s rib cage and slot himself between his lungs.)

He was shivering intermittently when Jackson returned (had he been gone long?) but the Wolf was just happy to have that warm presence hovering near him again. The agent sat beside him, the space between the sink and tub a cramped and uncomfortable place to fit two grown men, but the Wolf didn’t mind.

(How odd, that just hours before he would dread having another warm blooded body close to his, and now - now, with this one, he wanted to cling to that warmth like a leech.)

The click and snap of a syringe being prepped had the Wolf open his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at Jackson, who offered a nervous smile.

“It’s a local anesthetic - is that alright?” The Wolf blinked at him, and then looked away. He didn’t know how to answer questions about his comfort, his wants. (He just wanted to sleep.) The kiss of the needle was expected, but the bloom of cool numbness it bestowed where it pricked his back was a welcome surprise.

“I’m - I need to clean these. Even with the anesthetic it might hurt.” The Wolf could feel those alien eyes watching the back of his head, so he nodded. “Sorry.” Jackson had nothing to apologize for.

The sting of antiseptic was absent, but the pressure and prickle of exposed flesh being prodded and debris teased away was a familiar sensation. His handler had cut into him on the first night, reckless with rage. The Wolf tried not to dwell on the memory, but a tremor shivered up his spine as Jackson worked, gentle hands pausing.

“Are you alright?” Another nod. Another soft ‘sorry’ that felt unwarranted. It was the Wolf’s fault for being weak. He tried to focus on the steady rhythm of Jackson’s stitches, oddly difficult to anticipate with his pain numbed flesh.

Three days of those deep cuts left exposed, open to the air and sweat and worse. They would scar, badly, like the cuts that ran from his right hip to his spine, skin ridged and thick with scar tissue. His handler wanted them to scar badly. He wanted the Wolf to remember - to remember that he -

A sob caught in his throat, the shock collar still heavy around his neck. It wasn’t set to voice activation - he didn’t think it was - but it had shocked him earlier. Had his handler done that? Had his handler survived and was watching and would kill Jackson or have him kill Jackson and - ?

“Easy love, I’m almost done. You’re doing so well.” A voice so soft and so different from the barking orders and snarled insults he was acclimated to. The Wolf blinked away fresh tears, struggling to find his voice, a hoarse whisper rising from his ragged throat.

“Is he dead?” Three little words; a question he couldn’t stand to know the answer to. A question he needed to know the answer to if he ever wanted to sleep again. Jackson’s hands, cold - so cold against the Wolf’s burning, numbed skin - stilled, a steady palm pressed to a small expanse of uncut flesh. But not too hard, mindful of his bruises.

“Yes. Agent Smith is gone. He’s dead.” The Wolf could hear a question in those words, but he was too relieved to consider it. Jackson - anyone - could kill him, let him die badly, alone, and bloody, and he would die happy. He outlived his handler. A victory he didn’t know he needed.

Jackson resumed his steady handed stitches, and the Wolf let his head drop, thoughts running watery and disconnected. The hum of the light above. The creak of the window pane holding back the wind. The footsteps in the room above - light, belonging to a child, a bed creaking and muffled voices soft with sleepy affection.

“You’re warm.” He sure as hell didn’t feel warm. The Wolf looked over his shoulder at Jackson, instinctively flinching as a hand came toward his face, but he relaxed into the icy touch pressed to his forehead. He almost missed it when it left. “Here, are you allergic to Advil?”

The Wolf looked down at the red pill and the almost comically small paper cup with a swallow’s worth of water. His stomach ached, hunger and nausea fighting for recognition even as he downed the medication and splash of liquid. He had taken harsher drugs with less in his stomach. (Not that what was roiling in his gut was pleasant or nutritious.)

With a shudder he rested against the tub once again, Jackson’s hands and sterilizing wipes traveling away from the oldest, deepest cuts. The antiseptic stung, a familiar pain that burned like acid over his wounds. But Jackson didn’t linger, didn’t press the antiseptic deeper into his flesh. He stitched the deepest wounds, bandaged the rest, and worried over surface level burns as though the Wolf could still feel them after the years of his handler’s habit leaving its mark.

By the time Jackson was putting away his medkit, the first grey glow of dawn was seeping through the rain dappled window. The Wolf hadn’t moved in hours, sitting still and as comfortable as he could be while Jackson worked. He was so tired. And when he limped out of the bathroom after Jackson, there was a wonderful nest of blankets and pillows waiting on the soft carpeted floor.

“You take the bed, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor - besides, your back could…” Jackson trailed off as the Wolf wandered to the crude bed on the floor, dropping harshly to his knees and collapsing into the softness.

In his daze of exhaustion, he barely registered the anxious horror of knowing Jackson wanted him on the bed. That was a problem for a well rested Wolf. That was something he could handle tomorrow, that he could survive tomorrow, that he could stomach tomorrow.

Right now, there was a soft surface below him, a heater humming to his right, and a painlessness to his injuries that should have frightened him.

But he was too tired, so he slept.

[Directly before In for a Penny]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode

#whump #angst #crying #exhaustion #fever #touch starvation #local anesthetic #stitches #painful wound treatment #pain medication #needle mention #shock collar #past torture #implied past noncon #anticipated violence #referenced character death #freelancers #shhhh he eepy <- my sleep schedule is so fucked. why do town council meetings run until 1 AM. #(it is kinda my/our fault for pestering them abt [redacted] buttttt whateves.)

[tsarisfanfiction]

The Wrong Brother

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Family Characters: Michael, Will Michael isn't the brother Will needs, but he's the one that's there. Whumptober day 2, "I'll call out your name, but you won't call back" and delirium! More of an emotional/angsty whump this time, as the prompts might suggest. Also Michael&Will, because there isn't enough of that in the world (there will never be enough!)

The raid on the Kronos supporters had been a success, technically.  Michael hadn’t enjoyed deferring to Clarisse, who had taken command as the head counsellor of their main war cabin, but capturing the flying chariot had had up for it – or would have done, if Clarisse would admit that the Apollo cabin had the claim to it because they had been the ones to seize it.  They’d disrupted the titan’s forces and gained something useful out of it, but Kronos’ supporters were good fighters, and the monsters were cold, ruthless, and numerous.

Unfortunately, the chariot hadn’t been the only thing they’d brought back with them.  No-one from the raiding party – the entire Ares and Athena year-round campers, almost all of the Apollo year-round campers, most of the Hephaestus kids, and several of cabin eleven – had come back unscathed, and in several cases the injuries had been severe.

Will was the only year-rounder from the Apollo cabin that was more than simply passable at healing, and he’d pushed himself too hard patching everyone else up.  Chiron had helped, but there were some things only Apollo kids could do, and Will had borne the brunt of the responsibility, much to Michael’s frustration.

He carefully didn’t think about why Will was the only skilled healer in camp all year around, or about the yawning gap where an older brother with healing at his fingertips should have been.

Michael had done what he could, but despite his own accelerated healing, he’d been part of the casualties and it was a lot harder to force people to not overwork his brother when he was covered in bandages himself.  Even if he hadn’t been injured himself, there wouldn’t have been much he could’ve done to lessen Will’s burden.

But perhaps Will would’ve been okay, if exhausted, if they hadn’t somehow ended up with an illness passing through the camp – one of them must have caught it on the raid, and while most campers were shrugging it off without much difficulty, Will’s exhaustion combined with being in close contact with several infected had eventually resulted in a very ill younger brother.

Chiron had isolated him in a small room off of the infirmary, both for his own protection and to make sure there wasn’t a more violent strain about to break through the rest of camp.  Most of the demigods were banned from visiting, to be safe, but after a few arguments, Michael had forced his way in.

Will might be the camp’s top healer, but Michael was the head counsellor of cabin seven, for all that fact hurt if he thought about it for too long, and technically that put him in charge of the infirmary, even if his bedside manner was shit and he couldn’t do much more than administer the basic medicines or wrap up open wounds.  He was also Will’s big brother, and refused to leave him alone while he was sick.

Unfortunately, Will didn’t seem to register his presence at all, barely reacting when Michael tipped nectar down his throat or changed the cool cloth on his forehead.  It hurt, and it was worrying, but there was nothing more Michael could do except try to keep him comfortable, and send agitated prayers their father’s way.

The second day into Will’s quarantine, Michael nudged the door open with his foot, arms full of cloths and worried siblings behind him.  Just like the first day, Michael didn’t let any of them follow him in to the room, and was immediately glad when he entered to find Will crying.

“Will?”  The cloths were discarded at the foot of the bed with no ceremony as Michael hurried to his brother’s side.

"Lee?" Will sobbed, hand reaching out for empty air, and Michael’s heart twisted.

"Lee's not here, Will," he said, ignoring the way his voice broke on their brother's name.  He caught Will's reaching hand with both of his, hooking a foot around the chair he’d left in the room to drag it close enough to sit on without letting go.  "It's me, Michael."

"Lee!" Will protested, and Michael had to tighten his grip as his younger brother tried to reach out again, muffling a curse when Will started to reach out with his other hand instead.

"Lee's not here," he repeated, hating that he had to say it at all, that it was the truth, that Will was too sick to remember - or maybe sick enough to hallucinate.  Lee had always sat bedside vigil whenever any of them got sick, even before he became head counsellor, and Michael could understand why Will was calling for him.

Gods knew he might have done, if it was him sick in that bed instead.

"He's not here," he said again, shifting to catch Will's other hand with one of his and trying to place it down on the bed again. Will fought him, tears seeping down his face, and Michael’s own eyes were prickling with poorly-buried grief, too. "It's just me, Will. Just Michael."

Illness sapped Will’s strength enough that his hands couldn’t break free from Michael’s grip, but that didn’t stop him from trying, or from getting more and more agitated when he couldn’t.  “Lee!”

Fuck if it didn’t hurt, hearing Will call for Lee so desperately.

Michael had always been awful at the bedside manner thing, but he’d been Will’s big brother for five years now.  Hugs weren’t really his thing, but they were Will’s, and various siblings had dished them out at various points during Will’s time at camp.  Michael had, on rare occasions, been one of them.

Clearly, one was needed now.

He dropped Will’s hands and wrapped his arms around his younger brother instead, leaning awkwardly onto the bed as he pulled Will half-upright and guided his head to rest in the crook of his neck, leaving one hand buried in tangled blond waves.  The old cloth that fell from Will’s forehead went ignored.

“Lee,” his brother sobbed again, quieter, and Michael found himself being hugged back, Will clinging to him like a limpet.  “Lee, don’t leave me.”

The quiet plea tore into Michael, not just because Lee was gone, had left them for good, but because Will was talking to him like he was Lee, and Michael could never be Lee.

“It’s Michael, Will,” he repeated again, and fuck, his eyes stung and there was salt trickling into the corners of his mouth.  “Lee’s g-”  His throat closed up entirely, stifling the word gone until it felt like he would choke on it, or throw up.  “Not here,” he amended, and if he buried his face in Will’s hair, well no-one else was allowed in the room to see.

Will didn’t get the message, more tearful pleas for Lee assailing Michael’s ears, and Michael felt completely useless.

Lee would’ve been able to do something.  Lee would’ve got Will’s attention, had enough healing skill to bring down his fever and break whatever was making Will think he was still there, still with them.

Michael could do none of that, assaulted by grief he’d tried to bury because he was head counsellor, he didn’t have time to break down and grieve when everyone else needed him to be strong for them.  Quiet sobs dragged themselves out of his throat, muffled in Will’s hair.

“I miss him, too,” he admitted to blond locks and unhearing ears, his words drowned out by Will’s increasingly desperate cries.  They raked through Michael’s chest, a reminder that he wasn’t a healer, couldn’t even comfort his little brother properly.  “Fuck but I wish he was here.”

He hiccupped and hid his face further into Will’s hair, hating himself for it because he shouldn’t be using Will as a shield from the world but he was, because it was the loudest he could be without worsening his siblings’ grief and it was obvious that Will wasn’t registering anything he said.

“Lee,” Will whimpered, and Michael couldn’t even tell any more if he was being somehow mistaken for their brother or if Will was just begging Lee to come back.  “Lee.”

Michael pulled him tighter.  It wasn’t like there was anything else he could do; he wasn’t a healer, couldn’t magically get Will’s fever to break if the medicines weren’t already working on it.

He wasn’t a necromancer, either.  Lee was gone and never coming back, and Michael was absolutely shit at everything Lee had been good at – listening, comforting, helping.  He was Will’s big brother but right then he was the wrong big bsicrother and that wasn’t something he could even try to fix.

All he could do was hold Will as he cried, and try to pretend he wasn’t breaking in the process.

#whumptober2023 #no.2 #lyric #i'll call out your name but you won't call back #delirium #percy jackson and the olympians #riordanverse #fic #referenced character death #sickfic #percy jackson fanfiction #riordanverse fanfic #michael yew #will solace #lee fletcher #tsari writes fanfiction

[writersmorgue]

Febuwhump Day 16 - Came Back Wrong

Thank you @lethxia for helping inspire this!

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 847

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

The doctors called it a miracle, but after 31 years of performing these so-called miracles , Shouta knew they were no step above fiction. 

And yet, there Oboro was, sitting in a hospital bed. 

If the DNA match hadn’t confirmed it, Shouta would’ve believed it was an entirely different man. 

When they did the Nomu reversal procedure for the first time, on some kid with a wing quirk, the doctors had to remove his entire quirk factor. Oboro’s situation ended up being sort of the opposite. 

Kurogiri had been some mass of black matter, not quite solid or gas, but present enough to be tied down by quirk suppressants. 

Oboro’s hair, now, is that same black misty color where it used to be stark white. His eyes shine yellow in the light and a strange TV static surrounds him at all times, like he could phase out of existence at any moment. 

The rest of him is generally the same, though he’s grown since Shouta had last seen him. No longer the lanky, energetic 15-year-old, now a solemn old man, who had been held prisoner in some hell limbo between life and death by the world’s most powerful supervillain. 

”Oboro?” Mic asks quietly, startling both of the other men. 

Oboro’s hair stiffens, like a cat raising its hackles, before softening when he catches sight of them. 

“Hey fellas, do you have any news?”

But that’s one thing the years of torment hadn’t changed, he was still selflessly devoted to helping others.

Hizashi shoots him a glance, sighing, “Yeah, we found the documents you mentioned.” He pulls said files out of his book bag and places them on the bed at Oboro’s feet. “They’re not-“

“I know what I’m getting into. I spent years looking after him, remember?” Oboro picks up the Manila envelope, the image of one Tenko Shimura stapled to the front. Big red letters marking him as Missing Deceased. 

”You’re sure this is him?” Mic presses, picking at the skin on his thumb. Shouta nudges him, silently telling him to relax. 

Oboro looks up at them, flipping the folder around and pointing at the image of Tenko as he might have looked aged up. The young man in the photo looks much healthier, with fuller cheeks and bright eyes, but he unmistakably resembles one Shigaraki Tomura. 

“I was All For One’s right-hand pet, I saw the kid when he first took him in, and it was Tenko.” He turns the folder back around, looking at the picture with sad eyes, “I wasn’t able to help him when he was young, still impressionable, but he’s only twenty now,” Oboro looks up at Shouta, “I know there’s a chance we can help him. Him and the rest of them.”

Mic huffs, “The bastard almost killed Shouta.”

Oboro’s eyes flit over the rest of the page, scanning details about the investigation and presumed homicide. Testimonies of family and friends claimed Tenko was a shy, kind boy; Nothing like the psychopath he was molded into.

His eyes pause on the line that gave Shouta doubts about this entire thing. 

Tenko had been born quirkless. 

“All For One forced a quirk on him that his body and mind couldn’t control.” Oboro reminds him, “He was picked up off the street after losing his entire family. The first person to show him kindness, a warm bed. Of course he was under his spell from the beginning. He was a child, Hizashi.” Oboro’s gaze is ice cold as he stares the hero down, “Mentally, he’s still a child.”

“I didn’t sleep when I was Kurogiri, and often I would hear him wake up screaming, crying for his mother or sister.” Oboro squeezes his eyes closed, shutting the folder and setting it back down on the shitty hospital blanket, “He was severely traumatized, and groomed to be a weapon, a tool for a supervillain.”

Mic has the sense to look guilty, scuffing his boot on the floor, “You’re right, Oboro. I know. It’s just… hard to forget.”

Oboro’s eyes soften, looking between Shouta and Mic, “I know I missed a lot, but I want you to trust me. I’m on your side against All For One, but Tenko, Dabi, Toga, Jin…” He shakes his head, “They deserve a chance.”

As much as Shouta hates to admit it, he’d had a hunch from the start. The first time he’d seen Toga she’d been so young, learning she was barely older than his own current class was as heartbreaking as it was right. 

And Dabi… Touya Todoroki. The shit he must have gone through as a child if Shouto’s habits are any indication. 

Fuck. 

“I agree with Oboro.” Shouta nods, “It’ll be rough, but they deserve our energy. Jin will be the hardest to make a case for, but I think we can do it. If I’m in, so is Tsukauchi.”

Shouta looks into the eyes of his oldest friend, a man he wished every day for over a decade could’ve had a second chance at life, and he makes a promise. 

”We’re gonna help them.”

#a day late but enjoy! #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #oboro shirakumo #league of villains #referenced child abuse #child abuse #tw grooming #referenced character death #trauma #murder #homicide #unsolved murder #canon typical violence #tenko shimura #shigaraki tomura #dabi #touya todoroki #toga himiko #jin bubaigawara #twice bnha #morgue's febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump #febuwhump 2024 #llyn writes shit #febuwhumpday16 #came back wrong

[munacy]

Bar

@wolfstarmicrofic

Remus never punishes Sirius over his misdeeds. Sometimes Sirius wishes he would, wishes Remus would put on his insufferable old Prefect Face and Prefect Voice and say something pretentious and self-righteous, like: “You’ve always had the power to surprise me with just how low you can stoop, Black.”

Sometimes he wishes Remus would snap and get proper angry, snarl something like: “You’ve been drunk every night for weeks over a blood supremacist brother you never even cared about! Stop taking it out on us, we’re not the ones who killed him!”

Sometimes he wishes Remus would hit him.

Remus never says or does any of those things. Remus doesn’t agree with any of the things Fantasy Remus claims in Sirius’ sadomasochistic daydreams. Remus does something much worse. He is kind to him.

He catches a stumbling Sirius as he’s flung out of The Leaky sporting bruised and bloody knuckles. Tom, the bartender, casts an uncharacteristic scowl at them both and shakes his head. Remus gives him an apologetic grimace. Sirius tries to flick them both off, but his fingers are too blurry. Then, the sight of his odd, blurry fingers (they’re long and horrible and white and knobby and Sirius imagines that he doesn’t have skin on them, just gory finger bones protruding straight from his pale hands) and the stinking hot night air catch up to him all at once, and he’s retching violently, and Remus, wonderful, beautiful Moony, is holding his hair back and propping him up. He rubs Sirius’ back as he purges his sins and murmurs soothing nonsense words, and suddenly, Sirius is weeping, and, for once, it’s not over his stupid dead Death Eater brother.

No, he’s weeping because he feels deja vu. He realizes abruptly that this—Remus being perfect and lovely and compassionate, and holding his pathetic drunk form close, as if protecting something precious and fragile in equal measure—has happened many times in recent days, and he feels what is a rare emotion for him: shame. Naturally—fucking perfect, wonderful, sodding Moony, goddamn it—well, Sirius must be cruel to him in response. “Isn’t it a Saturday night?” He slurs crassly. “Haven’t you got somewhere better to be than cleaning up my sick?” He leers at Remus’ impassive face. “Or are you that lonely? This the highlight of your days, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t look angry. He never does. He looks like he hurts for Sirius. Like he’s a mindreader and he knows Sirius is just trying to hurt himself the best way he knows how, and somehow, that part, and not his malicious words, hurt him.

“I’ll always be there to pick you up from the bar, Pads. You’ve never given up on me, even though you could have, and I’ll not give up on you,” he replies quietly to Sirius’ awfulness (shame shame shame). He hesitates. “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

He says that, sometimes, when he knows Sirius is blacked out like a shattered lightbulb in a back alley. In the near future, Sirius will start getting better (this too shall pass and this too shall pass and this too). Sirius will start being better, and Remus will mistakenly tell him this again, on a night that Sirius seems further gone than he is. And Sirius will finally, finally remember it in the morning, this important, holy thing (the most wonderful person he’s ever known loves him, and isn’t that just insane?). And that will change everything. Not tonight, though. Sirius won’t remember this time.

What he does remember the next morning is that, this time, Remus grabs him by the hand instead of the elbow (as he’s done countless times before) to Apparate them back to Sirius’ flat. That little detail. In the morning, he remembers that little detail and finds that it’s been the only spot of peace, the only reprieve he’s had in months. Not the copious drink and the unprovoked fistfighting and the drugs of questionable content and the anonymous sex. It’s Remus’ sure hand in his, guiding him home. It’s a light in the dark. It’s everything.

#wolfstar #wolfstar microfic #cw alcohol #cw binge drinking #Angst #referenced character death #remus lupin x sirius black #Hurt and comfort #bad coping methods #life-changing handholding? #Hopeful

[ktkat99]

Two Weeks Of Whump Challenge Day 7. Blindfold

Sometimes people wore blindfolds because there was something someone else didn't want them to see.

And sometimes… they kept those blindfolds on because they themselves didn't want to see.

Alfred knew this well. From his military past. From his life with Batman and the rest of his heroes. This wasn't new information to the butler.

What was new, however, was the desire to keep his on. To just pretend that the day was normal. So, maybe, he wouldn't have to see what had become of his family.

"'Mornin'." Tim grunted as he staggered into the kitchen. He wore a thick bathrobe over his sweatpants and an old, faded t-shirt that used to belong to Duke.

"Hey. Did you get any sleep last night?" Jason asked, scrambling eggs. He was still one of the only members of the family allowed in Alfred's kitchen.

Tim, baby stubble showing on his cheeks and chin, chose to respond by making his way to the coffee maker.

As Alfred watched, Jason huffed and removed the half-cooked eggs from the heat and grabbed Tim's coffee cup out of his hand.

"Go sit." He pointed at the table.

Tim glared at him.

"Go sit. You'll have food in a second."

Tim rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand. "Not hungry."

"Did I fucking ask?" Jason grabbed him by his upper arm and dragged him over to a chair. "Sit. Food will be done soon."

"It's alright to take a break, lad." Alfred knew his words were falling on deaf ears, as Tim laid his arms on the table and rested his head on them, eyes already slipping shut. "It's alright to take care of yourself."

Tim's breathing evened out and he was softly snoring in seconds.

Alfred patted his shoulder sadly and straightened up.

Jason had already returned to the pan of eggs.

Cass slipped into the room next, silent as a shadow, and grabbed an apple out of the fruit basket. She had wrapped herself up in her favorite one of Bruce's housecoats, but had had to roll up the sleeves several times.

She pulled out the chair next to Tim and sat down in it. She then carefully slipped her arm out of one of the sleeves and laid half the coat over her little brother's sleeping form, curling up around him almost protectively.

The apple ended up sitting on the table in front of them, untouched.

Dick was next to enter the kitchen, dragging his feet and looking haggard.

"Hey, guys."

"Hey, Dick." Jason turned to greet him solemnly, already preparing a plate of eggs and toast and handing it to his older brother. "How's he doing?"

Dick sighed and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "He hasn't changed since the funeral."

"Do you need any help? One of us could sit with him for a while." Jason offered.

"Listen to him. Please, lad. You don't have to handle this alone. It's alright to accept help." Alfred tried, but Dick shook his head.

"Thanks, Jay, but I've got a handle on him. Besides, it isn't the first time I've seen him like this."

Alfred and Jason sighed, both feeling slightly helpless as they watched Dick leave the room with the plate of food.

Alfred then heard the tap running and frowned as he watched Jason start cleaning the dishes he had used to make the eggs.

"You didn't set any aside for yourself." The butler observed.

Jason ran the sponge over a cutting board, lathering it with soap.

"Lad…" Alfred started, but stopped.

He watched as Jason worked.

How his eyes glazed over until he blinked rapidly, forcing the memories away.

How he kept moving from task to task to keep busy, finishing with the dishes and setting plates quietly in front of Cass and Tim.

How he then removed his own jacket and draped it over Tim's sleeping form so that Cass could eat.

"Jason."

He opened his mouth to say more, but then closed it and sighed.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

Jason returned to the sink and started drying and putting the dishes away silently.

"I'm sorry you've lost yet another person who loved you."

Jason finished with the dishes and, using the damp rag he'd dried the dishes with, started wiping down the counters.

"I'm sorry you feel the need to hold your family together."

Jason stepped closer, and then through Alfred, stopping briefly to shiver at the sudden chill.

"I'm so sorry I left."

Jason kept cleaning in silence, never once hearing the ghost.

#alfred pennyworth #batman #jason todd #red hood #nightwing #dick greyson #tim drake #red robin #cassandra cain #orphan #twoweeksofwhump #twow #referenced character death

[elisabethrosewrites]

Sunlight

Content warnings: vampire whump, referenced character death, protective caretaker

The young ones always forget about the sun. Sunlight is mostly a benign danger when you are human. Of course, there is the risk of blistering red skin if one stays outside for to long a time, but on the whole, it is harmless. For newly reborn vampires though, it can be the kiss of death. The resistance to the sun grows as the centuries pass, but a newborn is incredibly susceptible to the harsh rays. Oliver had watched one too many newborns get caught in the early morning sunlight after a night of prowling and hunting. The burns start small, sometimes even going unnoticed if the newborn is enraptured by prey. But as the morning sun crests the mountain, the true pain starts.

This time though, it was his fault. It was a morning not long after they buried Angel. The broken bond was tender between them. There was a tenuous thread holding theirs for the moment. It would rebuild, reshape, and change to accommodate the loss of Angel’s amber line, but it would never feel the same again. Leo was newly turned. Still testing the new found abilities that went with vampirism. The increased night vision, the strength, the hearing, everything became so new and interesting. The smallest movement from a firefly would send Leo’s focus into oblivion. Taking him out that night had been his attempt to help bring some peace to the chaos that had happened. Nothing would take away the sting of losing Angel, of the all too vivid memories of his broken, bleeding body. The flash of silver entering his chest. That last moment of light leaving his eyes. It hurt. It hurt to think about. It hurt to not think about. He had made Angel and Leo an impossible promise, that they would be safe with him forever. But he never imagined that this would be the consequence of that promise being broken.

Leo stopped in the middle of the path, grabbing hold of Oliver’s hand to pull him to a stop. It had been a rougher action that Leo had intended, the sudden force of his hold jerking Oliver backwards a step. He quickly righted his footing and turned to look at his mate. The soft rush of water underfoot reminded him of where they were. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t realized they had already reached the bridge. They were nearly back in town. Nearly back to the once happy home they had built together, the three of them. Now it felt empty and cold without Angel’s presence.

“What is it my star?” Oliver asked, pitching his voice lower than usual.

Leo flinched regardless of his care, his hearing very sensitive to sound so close but he wasn’t looking at Oliver. His gaze was fixed out over the water. Leo moved to the stone wall, letting his hand slide out of Oliver’s, leaning against the damp stone. The morning dew was settling in around them, dotting the grass, and cooling the air. Oliver stood back and just watched Leo. His mate’s hand brushed over the stone and he jumped, his gaze suddenly very far away. His gift of psychometry was stronger than ever. An ability barely present as a human, it had grown to a capacity that Oliver had never seen. It would take time for Leo to gain control over it but for now, every time he touched an object that had a strong imprint on it, he was dragged into a vision. If Oliver wasn’t careful, he would become stuck in the visions. He had learned how to gently pry the visions hold away from his mate and bring him back, coaxing him to talk about what he’d seen.

A pleasant smile crossed Leo’s lips. It was the first smile he had worn for days and Oliver was content to allow him this. He would give him some time, see if he could start to work his own way back, and hopefully enjoy whatever peaceful memory was attached to the stone beneath his fingers. Oliver moved closer, leaning against the wall beside Leo, admiring his beautiful profile. The world slowly lightening around them.

When the sun broke over the mountain, chasing away the early dawn pinks and purples, Oliver came back to his senses. Leo gasped as the sun shown against his sensitive skin, small burns forming far too quickly along his cheeks. Leo’s gasp of pain was more than enough to pull Oliver from his reverie. He quickly grasped Leo by the shoulder and dragged him down into the shadow of the stone wall. The pain appeared to have wrenched him from the vision, he was blinking rapidly with reddened eyes. He grunted as the sunlight quickly coasted higher, burning pain beginning along his back and shoulders. Though he was much older than Leo, he wasn’t of an age yet where the sun wouldn’t affect him. Leo curled more closely to him, trying to escape the light that was now arching over the wall, diminishing the shadow.

“I’ve got you,” Oliver murmured, adjusting his hand to grab the edge of his cloak and draw it over Leo to create better protection between him and the cruel light. He grunted at the pain that sparked along his burning skin, like an overly tender sunburn. Gritting his teeth he tried to cradle his startled mate. Their bond sparked to light around them, swirling and reflecting like a beautiful ribbon. The sight of it shouldn’t have brought tears to his eyes but it did. It was the first time he had seen it since that night. If he looked very hard, he could still see the beautiful amber, so faded and weak but still there somehow. Leo reached up with trembling fingers, brushing against the bond. Leo’s mouth opened and closed like he was struggling to find the words he wanted. He caressed the edge of the bond, tears sparkling in his own eyes. “It’s still so beautiful, even without him.” He finally managed, the tears glittering down his cheeks, the sunlight reflecting off them and leaving red marks in their wake.

Oliver didn’t realize how much he had needed to hear those words. The reassurance that even without Angel, their bond would survive, that they would be okay. He couldn’t find the right words to reply and the sun was only getting harsher, welcoming in an intense summer heatwave. “Put your arms around my neck.” Oliver said and Leo complied, hissing as the sun burned his arms and hands. Oliver gathered him close to his chest and took off as fast as he was able into the canopy of the trees they had come from. The forest path would provide them some relief. More places to take refuge until the evening. The relief for Oliver was more immediate. Without the sunlight directly on his, the burning pain ceased, leaving only tenderness in its wake. It would fade to a muscular pain by the end of the day and by night, it was only be a faint ache. Leo wasn’t so lucky. He hissed as he moved his arms off of Oliver’s neck, and Oliver gathered his hands close. The skin had blistered just that quickly.

#whump #vampire whump #protective caretaker #referenced character death #wip: a dance of stars and curses #oliver doesn't know what to do with a sad leo #leo just wants to explore his new vampire abilities

[philsleftnut]

I Wish My Father Loved Me.

Chapter Summary:  Steve’s parents meet him at his house after the Battle with Vecna. Notes:  I actually have a funky little playlist I made while I wrote it. If you wanna take a listen.

Find me on Ao3!

Word Count: 4963 Tags: Angst, hurt/no comfort, themes of abuse, face grabbing, choking, hair pulling, degradation/belittling, PTSD.

Wind blew through the crack in Steve’s car window. There was a quiet hum of music that played through his car speakers. He couldn’t even hear it over his clogged, ringing ears, but he acknowledged it's calming presence. The wind brushed the greasy, unwashed, tainted hair out of his face. Tickled across the red bruising on his neck and mud caked face and skin. It swam into his eyes, drying them out in a foolish attempt to keep them open while he drove. They drooped low, seconds away from closing. Steve was afraid his tiredness might cause him to actually fall asleep behind the wheel. He shut them tightly for a second, blinking them open wildly, staring out his windshield to the pitch black empty road in front of him. Lit by his headlights alone.

He looked over at his dash, the time reading just a little past five o’ clock. In the morning. It was so late, well early. He’d been up since two days ago, preparing weapons, stealing vehicles, fighting demons you should only hear about in your nightmares. Yet here he was covered in the blood, sweat, tears of those exact dreams. And now he was driving home so casually, exactly like he hadn’t.

People died. And Steve was driving home.

Steve took one of his hands off the wheel dragging it down his dirty face, like his hand wasn’t just as. He could taste bile in his mouth. It combined with the muck that caught on his lip and dissolved in his mouth. He turned and spat it out the window. Saliva just continued to collect. He chose to swallow it this time, and all it wanted to travel all the way from his stomach, up his esophagus, and back out of his mouth. Onto the dash. But he couldn’t. Not now. It wasn’t his time.

Right now Steve had to focus on keeping his eyes open long enough to not crash his car before getting to his driveway. The familiar crackle of his neighborhood street could be heard under his tires when he turned. He slowed his driving, knowing when to stop. Steve stops a house early. His way too tired eyes are making images appear that aren’t there. He rubbed hard circles into them, looking back at his house. Nope, still there. A car. There was another car in his driveway. And it belonged to his father. He already begrudgingly started his car back up, driving up into his spot next to the second car. Steve just stared through his passenger side window at the vehicle. His mother's sunglasses hang from the center mirror. Along with a tassel for a graduation cap of the year he graduated. It didn’t belong to his cap. It was bought second handedly, almost not at all. There was luggage packed into the back seat. They hadn’t even bothered to pretend like they were staying. Steve had to wonder if they were home out of concern for him, or simply their own image. It made sense that they had returned home. Hawkin’s had gone through one of the biggest tragedies since the “mall fire”. God forbid his parents not be around to dote on little old Steve for their gracious community to see.

He shook his head, laughing to himself and turned his car off. Five a.m. It’s early. Early enough that there was time to wash the Upside Down off of him. Cover up the bruises. Act like he’d been asleep in his bedroom this entire time before they even woke up. If they asked where his car was he’d just say he had lent it to Robin or Nancy or something way more believable in the morning.

Moving out of his car was hard. His whole body ached. Simply opening the door used more strength than he was willing to admit. He pathetically pushed it open, swinging his legs to the side to step out. Sucking through his teeth at his fatigue. He sntached the keys out of the ignition and got out of his car, closing and locking his door as quietly as he could. Each step toward his front door was worse than the last. Like his body knew he was getting closer and closer to a bed, to losing adrenaline.

His thighs burned through the porch steps, and the walk to his door. It shot up his spine, leaving him in an uncomfortable bent position as he unlocked it. The second he heard the click, the knob turned and he’s using nothing but his body weight to push the door open. His feet followed by muscle memory. Steve shut the door with his back, placing a hand behind him to quiet the blow to not wake his parents. His legs wobbled. They might as well give out underneath him. Steve let them, just for a moment. He slid down onto the ground, legs falling out in front of him. He tilted his head back to rest against the door, arms lax to his sides and falling to the floor. It’s the first time he thinks he’s sat down without actively trying to focus on something in the last two days.

“Steven?”

Steve gained a sudden shot of energy. His head jerked up from its position, and he raised his eyebrow. Someone was in his dining room. And Steve would have normally ran to his room or car to get one of his well used bats if the voice didn’t sound suspiciously like his mother. Steve tilted his body to the side, looking down the hallway, and into the room where the light was on. He hadn’t even noticed it when he entered. From his place on the floor he could only see a pair of feet coupled with a pair of legs across the table.

He slumped the rest of his torso onto the ground. He wanted to just let the linoleum suck him in. Let him disappear. Because of course they were both awake and waiting for him. Pretending like they cared. At least the cold floor gave him something he needed. He pressed his cheek into it, curling his face further into its coolness. His dirty exterior was getting everywhere. Falling off of him and creating a ring around him. His face was a paintbrush and the floor his canvas while he felt the cold stimulate his nerves. There was an anxiety that was calming, but he couldn’t tell which one. The one he had just ran away from, or the one he had just run into.

Shoes stopped at the tip of his nose. His eyes raked up the body in front of him. Brown loafers, khakis, brown leather belt, with a blue dress shirt tucked into a nice lovely package that was his father. His arms were crossed across his chest, with a stern look across his face. Steve knew his father hated how late he stayed out. And he knew he hated catching him even more. Have to keep up appearances for those college apps, right dad?

And here Steve was, laid in front of their front door, looking as if he had just crawled out of a grave, wearing nothing his parents would consider presentable, at five in the morning.

Steve turned his head to look at his father. He plastered a smile wide on his face, as if nothing was wrong, “Hi daddy.”

“Get the fuck-” His father mumbled before reaching down, grabbing Steve by the vest, and pulling him up to his feet. Steve’s body is limp. He couldn’t have much of a reaction if he tried. He let him push him into the wall behind him. He let him hold him just a few inches off the ground. He would let his dad do anything right about now.

His arms go up instinctively. He dropped his keys to the ground, and fell to submission. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay” Steve whispered quickly. It was an apology without actually saying it.

The breath of his fathers is right up on his face. It smelt like pure tobacco and wine. His mint toothpaste covered up some of the smell. He was probably drinking it with his mom. They could finish a whole bottle off pretty nicely. Smoke a pack. Call it a day. Steve turned his face toward the door as his father's face inched closer. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited.

“Not okay, open your eyes.” Pressing his forearm into his chest to hold him, he grabbed Steve's chin with his other hand, pulling it to face him. His cheeks squished together through his father's fingers. Fingerprints melted into his jaw. Steve blinked his eyes open, avoiding any sort of eye contact. “Hey. Hey!”

He pushed him further into the door. Steve winced, shutting his eyes again tightly. “You look at me when I talk to you.”

A part of Steve feared his hand wasn’t gonna stop at his face. The things he said would just anger his father off enough one day he would drop it down to the giving space around his neck. Push against Steve's windpipe until he couldn’t respond. His brain would lose enough air that the only thing he left he knew was ‘yes sir, no sir, I’m sorry for everything sir.’ And an even worse part of Steve wanted it to happen.

He opened his eyes in defeat, “yes sir.” staring down at his father. Steve looked dead into his dad’s eyes. Him looking back into his. His father's eyes were dark, like all empathy for the person in front of him had left a long time ago. Steve tried to find it. He searched. He swore he did. Maybe some time ago he would’ve spent more time. But he heard the patter of his mother's feet down the hallway and his eyes tore away and over his father's shoulder.

The hold on his chin was still strong. Dad’s arm wavered, losing the strength holding Steve in the air against the surface. A small act of weakness. Never to be seen again. He was thrown from the door by his jaw back onto the ground. He crumpled, looking up as his father stood above him.

“Do you know what time it is? Where have you been Steve? Why in the world do you look like this, and at this fucking hour?” he spat, questions one right after the other.

Steve’s mom came up timidly behind his dad. She was a good few inches shorter than him when she wasn’t in her heels. She wrapped her arm around his gently. She stood above Steve now too. “We were really worried about you sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Love. Baby. Dear. Angel. Steven. It was endearing. It wasn't real.

He didn’t have an answer either. Not a good one. He smoothed his jaw and maneuvered himself back into sitting against the door. Legs into his chest, arms resting on his knees. “I mean, you probably saw the news right? Hawkins just fell in a major way, kind of hard not to get caught up in at least some of it.” That wasn’t entirely a lie.

His father scoffed, “Some of it? You look like you caused it. What, were you right dead in the center of it?” And that wasn’t either. Steve had been in the middle of taking down Vecna, causing the four point intersection of gates to open directly in the middle of Hawkins. How do you explain that to your parents? They already didn’t believe a word out of his mouth.

He opened his mouth to explain away further but his father just continued, “And what's with the damn JROTC getup? It looks stupid on you. Practically swallowing you up.” He walked away from his mother's grip and crouched down to Steve’s level. Steve stared at him afraid to look away. His mouth still open, ready to defend himself against nothing. His dad dragged a slow finger along the cloth of his forearm. “You’re so dirty Steven, how about you tell us the truth?”

Steve raised his arm, speaking with his hand. “The army is here, so the-” there was an abrupt smack as his father gripped his wrist. He held it tightly in place in the air. Every single touch from him seared its way onto Steve’s skin. He swore every time there were going to be red aching burn marks.

“Oh! The army is here! So you couldn’t even defend yourself, had to get the army to save our poor little Stevie.” Steve grazed his eyes from his wrist to his father's empty eyes and over to his mother. Their eyes met. His tired, scared, beautiful eyes. To her pitiful ones. His mother leant against the wall, watching. She looked as if she had words on the tip of her tongue. If she truly wanted to stop him. She would.

He ripped his arm from his father's grasp. “If you would let me explain sir,” He scrambled to his feet, almost knocking his father over in the process. There were two seconds where Steve looked down and his father looked up. And Steve stood over him.

Then his body ached, his wrist and jaw throbbed. His neck pricked in the memory of his ventures the days before. Steve’s legs were moments from giving out again. Dad standing next to him, they came to about the same height. His father standing a few centimeters taller. He glanced between the three of them for a moment. It was quiet. They were angry. And Steve was. Well Steve was.

He huffed and walked the three of them into their dining room. Steve sat in the chair at the head. A seat normally reserved for someone with great importance. Head of the family. When Steve sat there during times like these; it was more a seat of shame. His parents in the surrounding seats scolding him for the things he’s done. They sat down in their seats they had previously made comfortable and waited.

This was it. The moment Steve hated the most. The moment when the next few words were either taken with grace, or out of context. All depending on how his parents decided to wake up and feel about him that day.

“I’m sorry sir, for coming home so late.” An apology. Good start. “And dirty.” He added quickly. “I went out with Robin, Nancy, and some others earlier today before the earthquake. While we were out the earthquakes started and as I said we got caught up in some of it. It was kind of hard not to miss it. The car is fine, I got some minor injuries, my clothes got kind of messed up, which is why I had to get a change of clothes. And the army and the homeless shelters set up at the high school are here, which is why they look like, well, this.” Steve said, in all one breath. Inhaling another huge one after he had finished. His eyes wide as he looked for a reaction from his parents.

His mother stared at her manicured nails. Peeling the skin around them. She was thinking, except she wouldn’t speak before his father would. His father held a hand to his mouth, staring at him with disbelieving, disproportionately wide eyes. He barked out a laugh. Steve flinched. “If that isn’t the largest crock of shit I’ve ever heard.”

“Well I don’t think that it’s too unbelieva-” she started.

“For the love of God, don’t humor him.” He put his hand up to quiet her. He kept his glare at Steve. “After all the trouble you’ve put us through the past few years, you really expect me to believe that your story is that simple? That moronically put together?”

She pursed her lips, and stuck her fingers in her mouth chewing on the skin around them. A nervous habit. Steve felt a twinge in his heart for his mother. The small indications of submission to his father they both admitted to. She would never say it aloud. And neither would he.

Steve rucked his hands through his mucky hair, letting it fall back into his face. A nervous habit. “I-I don’t know wh-what you want me to say dad.” Voice wavering.

“I-I-I, want you to tell me the goddamned truth!” He said, mocking the fear in Steve’s voice. His hand slapping the table to accentuate his words. Both Steve and his mother cringed away from the loud noise.

“I am!” Steve defended. Leaning back in his chair, back hitting the frame. “There’s nothing more to say, I promise!”

There truly wasn’t. There wasn’t anymore to tell. Vecna pressed on him like an aching nerve. He couldn’t move without a nagging ping of remembrance. The people who he fought with. The people who he loved so painstakingly. And the people who died. Steve didn’t have the words to even articulate what he had been through in the last 72 hours to himself let alone to his wanting father.

“Steven I swear to go-”

He was tired. He was in pain. His fear bubbled into an uncontrolled anger. He couldn't blame himself for saying what he said. “Dude just let it go, this one fucking time!”

That’s all it took.

His mother widened her eyes, spit ridden fingers, slowly falling out. “Steven…” She whispered. It was a warning. Only one her and Steve could hear.

Before she could stop him, his father darted out of his seat and over to Steve. Hand gripped around his throat pinning him to the back of the chair. Finally.

It rubbed his already red neck raw. “Is that the kind of respect we give in this house? The kind you think I deserve?” He pierced his nails into the skin on the sides of his neck. Crushing his trachea. Steve couldn’t talk, there was no answering him anymore, just listening. “What have I told you about talking to me like that? Like I’m one of your goddamn sorry ass friends.”

Steve fumbled with his hands, wrapping them around his dad’s wrist. There was an attempt at pulling them away but his father was stronger, pressing harder. Steve’s mouth was open, his throat contracted trying to let out a word. All that was heard was a choked out whimper. He rolled his eyes around staring at his ceiling, his mouth clamped down, almost locking on his tongue, biting. A small amount of blood filled with the collecting saliva.

His thoughts wandered with his breath. Thinking that maybe if he tried answering he could gain at least some control back. Steve inhaled through his nose, the air getting caught where his father's hand started. He opened his mouth, teeth glistening with his own blood. The noise he let out was pathetic, “It’s-it.”

“It’s a bad look. That’s right.”

There was a shock of relief in his chest as his dad let him get a singular breath in. It singed his lungs, he was so desperate for air he breathed in everything in his mouth. Steve tried coughing out the blood, spit, dirt that entered him, but it was blocked again in an instant.

His hands pushed, pulled, tore against his father's wrist, tearing at the skin, there was no moving it. He was weak and unprepared against his father. His face was flushing, the fingerprints bruising into his neck. He couldn’t find another choice but to limp his entire body. Held to the chair, the universe by his father's hand. What he wanted, Steve was willing to give.

Steve dropped his arms and they settled next to him. He relaxed his body, small whimpers searching for breath that weren’t coming.

“Look at that. Our little boy is finally learning his place.” His dad’s face inches away, breathing the words onto his cheek. Mocking. His hand slowly let go of Steve’s throat. Red hand print painted across. “Be a good boy and keep it that way.” He tapped Steve’s cheek quickly, “disrespectful piece of shit.”

He stood. Steve fell forward, coughing. His hand coming up to his mouth catching all that was in his mouth, anything that was willing to come up.

His bloodshot eyes met his mothers gorgeous ones for the final time. They were empty. Sympathetic. In a way Steve didn’t need them to be. “Steven, please it doesn’t have to be like this.” She said, in her voice, that only he could hear.

“No, please mom,” He rasped out, voice raw. “Stop, just stop.” Steve leaned over the table rubbing his sore neck, attempting to swallow, attempting to breathe.

His father placed two hands on the table beside him, inching closer to Steve leaning into him. “I’m going to give you one more chance to explain yourself.” He talked slowly, threatening.

Steve shut his eyes. “I already told you what happened.” All he could see was the flashes of things he couldn’t explain. Ethereal things, other dimensional things that haunt the back of his head. And his father. He sighed out shakily. “I don’t know how to get you to believe me sir , but it’s the truth.”

“I bet you were a part of that satanic Hellfire shit. Following that freak murderer Edward Munson around like a lost puppy, huh?”

Eddie.

People died.

Eddie, Max, half of fucking hawkins.

“Don’t talk about Edd-”

“No? Why? You have something to say about what you were doing Eddie ?” His voice was low in Steve's. Implication shooting through his veins. He was testing Steve. Trying to get him to blow again. Pushing his limits through the fucking roof so he could have a chance to reprimand him. He loved it. He had an image to uphold. And beating the image into Steve was his favorite pastime.

Steve knew what his dad wanted. He wanted to give it to him. Some sick, twisted part of him needed to be choked, slapped, spit on, and told what to do.

He wasn’t good friends with Eddie. They had maybe three conversations in total. Yet, walking back up to Dustin Henderson holding the 20-year-old corpse shattered a huge part of his heart. Steve imagined he would never get those parts back.

Steve looked over to his dad, his holed out eyes. He made a quick decision. “No. No sir.” His breathing still ragged, he tried calming it.

“Good.”

“Good.” Steve repeated.

His father straightened. He looked down at Steve. Witnessing the mess he’s made. The expression on his face is almost jovial. Steve wished he had the strength to reach up and wipe the damn thing off. But all he could do was wait for his father's instruction, who had moved his eyes over to his mother. Having a silent conversation. Deciding what to do with the pathetic little boy sitting at the table before them.

Steve dropped his head, his breath shook, dripping sweat onto the tablecloth below him. If he thought hard enough tears might begin to join them. He refused to cry in front of his father. He felt them burning onto his waterline. He began to look up to stop them, his father finishing the job, pulling his head up to look directly at him by his hair.

He leaned into Steve’s face. “We’re not done, we’ll finish this conversation in the morning.” He let go of Steve's hair, tossing his head back down. “Now get the fuck out of my face.”

Steve didn’t respond. He didn’t look at his father. He didn’t look at his mother. He pushed his hands against the edge of the table and got up. Walked out of his dining room, down the hallway, and to the end of the stairs. He didn’t exactly know what energy was making his movement capable. He couldn’t feel his feet. Some smarter part of him allowed him to walk without permission, he thanked it.

He held the railing at the bottom of stairs, about to go up them he caught a glimpse of his parents arguing. Faint whispering, “We shouldn’t of even come back,”

“That’s not fair-”

“Why are you always defending him, it’s not like he has any respect for us anyway.” His father spat back. “The way that boy parades around, making us look bad, the company look bad, hell the entirety of Hawkins is an embarrassment.”

His mother sighed. He could hear the scraping of her chair as she stood. “If you think you’re any better than him you’re lying to yourself.”

“Any better than him? What the hell does that mean?” He was angry, his voice was raising.

“You know exactly what I mean, don’t play fucking dumb. You may have Steven wrapped, but not me.”

That stung. His moms admittance to being better than him. Handling his father. He wasn’t allowed to say the things she could when they were alone. Because he had cheated on her, and she held it over his head. Steve was just a child who watched and got abused. He would never be on her level.

His father's voice gained more volume, “Watch your damn mouth,”

“Watch yours.”

There was a slamming noise. A hand slapping wood. A scare tactic. His dad never hit his mother, just him.

Steve’s body jumped, one foot on the bottom stair creaking. Fuck.

“Steven?” His mother called out.

He ran. He sprinted up the steps. Avoiding any contact with his parents. He could hear his mother following him down the hallway, continuing to call for him up the stairs. Ignoring her he found his bedroom, shutting the door abruptly. He stood in the middle frantically looking, like it was his first time he had ever been in the room. His eyes met the door the bathroom adjacent to his room and he headed over.

Steve shut the door to his bathroom quickly. It was completely dark. He doesn’t bother turning the light on. He took one long stride over to the sink, holding himself over it. His hair hung in front of his face, it brushed along his cheeks and nose. His hyperventilating breath pulled the hair in and out across his face. It tickled his senses, heightening them. Steve’s air came quickly, leaving just as fast. It hurt his lungs, burned his nose, his head started to lose circulation, it pricked, throbbed at his bones.

He had way too many clothes on. They weighed on him. Some throw away camouflage shirt. A brown leather jacket patterned with patches, with a green army vest with heavy pockets atop. His father was right. They didn’t belong on him. Ripped and bloodied. But Steve felt as if the only thing keeping him from collapsing was the sink beneath him. He couldn’t move to take them off. Stuck in heavy, wet, muddy clothes, pressing on his tender joints. All that was left with Steve was to take impossible breaths and feel every nerve inside of him light on fire. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want an answer. He just was. Steve always just was.

He glided his eyes to the mirror. He couldn’t really see himself. There was a low glow around his silhouette when his eyes adjusted to the darkness around. It was low. His body was slumped. The things he couldn’t see, but knew were there. Cuts, bruises, burns, thick dried blood sticking the strands of Steve’s hair together. Trauma etched into his pores. He was broken. Ready for the cracks to finally break apart at a moment's notice. His eyes began to collect tears once again. They were warm and unwelcome. Moistening his overly dry eyes. That hurt too. The heavy implication of what was behind them, not just the physical sting. The love his parents refused to give. Falling down his cheeks, and into the marble sink. Soaking into his lips. Steve could taste the nuance of the tears he shed for his parents, but the ones they never cried for him. It was disgusting. Tasted like the bile that was already rement in his mouth.

Steve swallowed the taste in his mouth. The salty water mixed with his saliva. His face cringed as he choked on it, got stuck in his throat, attempting to itch its way back up with the rest of his stomach contents. He took a deep breath, fighting his body, swallowed anyway. The acid burning down his throat.

He trained his eyes directly on his own in front of him. The shadow of a reflection that stared back at him. He couldn’t see much, but his eyes were noticeable. Dark and scared. Wet and streaming worthless tears. If eyes were the window to the soul, he was looking into one that was so utterly tortured. Behind his pupils Steve was screaming. And not a single soul could hear it. His mouth wide open, with no one willing to listen. His family locked him behind a cage a long time ago, and Hawkins threw away the key.

Steve wanted to let it out. Let out the voice no one wanted to hear.

Anger boiled in his nauseated stomach. His knuckles wrapped around his bathroom sink gripped tighter. His hands an irritated shade of red and white. Steve squinted his eyes at himself. Challenging. Tempting. There was something thrilling about the way his depression turned so quickly into anger. A self hatred that dug deeper than Steve was ever thought about admitting aloud.

It happened in seconds. His tear soaked face swung back. And then swung forward. He let out a winding yell as his forehead collided with the mirror in front of him. “Fuck!”

Glass cracked, skin cut, blood splattered. Steve kept his face attached to the mirror, regaining his breath.

And then he did it again.

And again.

And again.

#who doesn't love a little morning angst with their coffee #steve harrington #steve harringtons parents #steve harringtons parents suck #hi daddy issues #angst #hurt/no comfort #hurt steve harrington #steve harrington angst #tw: abuse #abuse #child abuse #choking #hair pulling #degrading language #self harm #tw: blood and violence #ptsd #canon compliant #referenced character death #post-vecna #stanger things #stranger things season four #st4 vol2 #fanfic #ao3

[lbibliophile-sw]

Shuffling Numbers

Also on AO3 [500 words] For Whumptober 2022 - day 29: Defiance

Everyone in the GAR knows that the Coruscant Guard is a cushy posting. Everyone in the Guard knows this is a lie; Coruscant has its own dangers. Most of these, Fox can’t do anything about. He sets up procedures and precautions and specialised training, but the risks are all part and parcel of the job. Not quite what they were trained for, but close enough.

Requests for decommissioning are a different matter. They can come at any time for any reason, lives resting on the whim of Senators who see them as less than droids. There is nothing Fox can do to prevent the properly filed requests (and only the properly filed ones, the others he has an excuse to ignore)… but he does have discretion over how the request is carried out. It’s not even that hard; all it takes is shuffling paperwork.

The Senators who give the order are hardly going to take the time to personally ensure the relevant clone gets on the shuttle back to Kamino, or do more than a cursory follow-up. So he marks the clone as decommissioned on the official roster, assigns them different duties, and the Guard continues on with one more member than officially registered (two more, twenty more, fifty more) with the natborns none the wiser. Some weeks, it honestly feels like those extra bodies are the only reason they are even vaguely able to keep up with the workload anyway.

Of course, there is a downside to this scheme. Supplies – food, equipment, medicine, space – are allocated according to the official garrison size. And because the Senate is cheap, the Guard are allocated the bare minimum they can get away with supplying. They don’t begrudge sharing their bunks and their meals with their rescued brothers, but the shortages are just one more thing wearing them down.

The solution, of course, is to juggle the paperwork back the other way. Decomissioning is hardly the only – or even the most common – way for Guards to die. It should be easy enough to just not record a trooper’s death, allow a ‘decommissioned’ brother to take their place on the active roster.

The only problem is where to change these records. Fox refuses to allow them to change mission reports, particularly with alterations of this magnitude. You never know when a case might become relevant again, or who was watching and what they noticed. Fox has fought hard for the minimal protections that come with running perfectly according to procedure; as soon as the Guard are caught using a loophole, a dozen others will leap to exploit it.

So that means the lie needs to come from within the barracks, the medbay. A critically injured trooper entering, and a healed one walking away.

Their medical casualty rates decrease.

Clearly their problems aren’t so bad. Clearly the needs of the frontline troops are more urgent.

Their medical supply allocation is cut.

More brothers die.

But at least they had a chance.

#whumptober2022 #no.29 #defiance #star wars #clone wars #fanfic #decommissioning #referenced character death #paperwork manipulation #coruscant guard #commander fox #bingo fill

[whumpacabra]

In for a Pound

Headache, fever, anticipated violence, implied past torture, implied past noncon, referenced character death, referenced medical treatment, firearm mention, stitches mention

[Directly follows In for a Penny]

The Wolf felt himself drift in and out of consciousness, the din of the street outside and soft warmth around him surreal. He didn’t want to open his eyes, to wake up from the bizarre and ethereal dream of safety.

A sharp pain behind his eyes pried him from the embrace of sleep, the waking world reigniting the pain that laced his body. Every breath burned, his skin broke out in goosebumps, and he could feel every itchy inch of bandages, medical tape, and stitches strewn around his torso and arms.

(His legs were still sticky with drying blood and burning where raw flesh was left exposed.)

His headache was making him nauseous with pain, eyes barely open as he navigated to the bathroom on unsteady feet. The Wolf swallowed back a whimper when he stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed and knocked his tender shoulder into the doorframe - odd. He was so used to this room by now; had his handler moved the furniture last night - ?

His handler was dead. The Wolf had killed his handler.

(“Agent Smith is gone. He’s dead.”)

(Whose voice was that?)

The Wolf stumbled, eyes gradually opened as he braced against the bathroom sink. He sucked down lungfuls of air, grounding himself in the pain of each breath stretching the stitches in his back.

In. Out. He was alive. His handler was not.

In. Out. He was in a different hotel room. The agent’s name was Jackson.

In. Out. The wounds above his belt were cleaned, closed, and covered with tenderness beyond his understanding. But the agent had wanted him to sleep in the bed.

The Wolf’s breath hitched, then silenced, holding his breath as he listened to the room. There was no other heartbeat, and at a glance, the bed was still empty and clean.

(He had left the other hotel bed a bloody, filthy mess, intent on changing the sheets in the morning - )

He was alone. The Wolf ran cold water from the tap and splashed his sweaty face, vision sharpening and brain focusing on the mirror in front of him. It was instinct to shy from the face in the mirror, a person he didn’t know, a person he once was and could never be again. But today he stared at bloodshot eyes, widening with understanding.

His handler was dead. Jackson tended his wounds. Jackson left him alone. (Even if he had wanted the Wolf on the bed.)

There was a time when the Wolf would have jumped out the window and run until his legs gave out. (Which, if he did so now, wouldn’t get him very far.) There was a time when the Wolf had tried to run, and faced the consequences of that cowardice.

But Jackson wasn’t here. His handler was dead. The Wolf was alone.

He limped out of the bathroom, blood stained t-shirt and rain damp jacket in hand. (Would Jackson want him dressed?) The bed was indeed still made, seemingly untouched. Where had Jackson slept? Had he simply left after the Wolf passed out?

(Did he want the Wolf conscious and lucid for whatever he had planned?)

The Wolf shivered, shrugging his still damp jacket over his back. Maneuvering to put on his t-shirt might be difficult with his stitches, and his feverish skin quickly warmed the inner lining of his jacket.

He listened for the tell-take hum of electronics - bugs, cameras, whatever the agent had left behind to monitor the Wolf. There was nothing but the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the distant gurgle of a coffee machine. (Coffee. God, he would kill for a good cup of coffee. How long had it been?)

The only thing out of place was the notepad on the desk, hotel branded pen left uncapped beside it. It took some staring for Wolf’s eyes to decipher the handwriting. (It wasn’t particularly sloppy, it had just been so long since he had the opportunity to read something - )

“Be back soon - 1-2 hours (around 10 maybe?) -Jackson”

The digital clock on the desk read 9:23. The Wolf wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do during the interim. He picked up the duvet and pillow from the floor, tossing them into the laundry bin - the bloodstains were almost imperceptible, but who knew what standards Jackson had. He pulled a new pillow cover and blanket from the dresser, setting the bed as he supposed it should look. (He couldn’t remember seeing it last night.)

The digital clock on the desk read 9:27.

God, he hated the waiting. It wasn’t the shivers that wracked his body or the way his legs cramped where he knelt on the thick carpet that made him miserable. It was his own brain. Running too fast and too hot and with too many new variables to settle into that far away place he went to when his handler was too close for comfort.

(Was Jackson his new handler now?)

(If so, what was the consequence of killing his previous handler? Even biting back could be punished with liquidation at the bunker. The Wolf was obviously still alive because he didn’t deserve the mercy of even a messy death.)

(But Jackson was…wrong. He talked about helping the Wolf, not treating him. He talked about an asset his handler had stolen, like he didn’t know what the project was. Not that the Wolf knew what the project actually did, but - )

There were footsteps he recognized. And footsteps he didn’t. The Wolf let a tremor run down his spine before steeling himself, eyes half-lidded, hands limp and nonthreatening.

Even with the stranger’s pistol aimed at his head, he didn’t flinch. The Wolf lifted his eyes to acknowledge Jackson.

“Sir.” He didn’t make eye contact. That would be too direct. But the Wolf did let his eyes flick to the newcomer. A white, well dressed woman - was she an overseer? The Wolf thought he remembered an overseer, or handler or two that were women. (They were never any softer than the men. Sometimes they seemed worse - sharpened by the hostility and competition of the bunker.)

He couldn’t suppress a shudder, part shiver from cold and part tremor of fear when she stepped into the room, back turned to the Wolf as she faced Jackson. The Wolf looked to his new handler savior, eyes damp and dark and begging:

Don’t. Don’t let her touch me. I can’t. Not now - not like this - his old handler had promised he wouldn’t share the Wolf again - never again -

The far away came quickly, their hushed tones heard but not understood. He didn’t need to be present. He didn’t want to be. And with an unsteady breath, he was gone.

[Directly before The North]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode

#whump #headache #fever #anticipated violence #past torture #implied past noncon #referenced character death #medical treatment #stitches #firearms #freelancers #brought to you by: how I woke up the other day #another one today [canon this time!] because i have SUCH a backlog to post lol #ikik normally something you want to preserve but...i am a social animal and i crave attention

[moblitberner-bunch]

Rivers of Regret

Rivers of Regret (1126 words) by Veniality Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Levi Ackerman/Petra Ral Characters: Levi Ackerman, Petra Ral Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Hange Zoe to the Rescue, Near Death Experiences Summary: Levi is swallowed by the river of his regret until Petra's voice ends his void, and he starts fighting again.

Rivers of Regret

The void was here for reckoning.

His head hang low, silent tears streaming down his face. They carved rivers of regret into his roughened face, they could just as well form his scars. Be his scars. Scrape new scars.

It didn’t even matter anymore. Nothing really mattered anymore.

He flew across the unwavering, still earth. The cold air would not ease his scorched skin nor cease the burning of his cape. Only the waters beneath him could. And they would, as he sunk beneath the surface of the cobalt blue waters. All his fire and his drive began to fade as the cold of the river embraced him: his molten skin, his tattered cape, his drive to fight, his will to live... He was drowning, his lungs filled up with the rivers of regret. He should die today.

Though he felt like he had already left it, Levi was still here suffering in this world, still existing within his cruel existence of killing or being killed. Death would taste bittersweet to him. The real world had been a void for such a long time. A black hole of grief and ache had sucked all his happiness out of his heart and mind.

He kept his eyes closed as the water surrounding was pulling him down, like a siren dragging him to the bottom of the ocean. He let the waves cradle him like he was still coddled in his mother’s womb, just the silence and warmth of the amniotic fluid: Levi wouldn’t fight this river.

He could as well have cried it himself. It was made of all the regrets he had ignored, disregarded and rejected throughout his lifetime – a testament to his commitment of living with no regrets, as Erwin had always preached. Now regret has gotten back at him. It nibbled his skin like the salty water of the river did, pressuring his lungs and chest until they were too heavy to expand, like chains weighing him deeper down into the depths

Levi couldn’t win this battle against the crashing of waves, for once he wasn’t humanities strongest, he was just human. What human could challenge death and win that battle?

His cold and heavy bones met the bottom of the river, the waters cleansing his skin of all the evil he had committed in the time past, the floors on the river entombing around him, his honorable name fading into history like the fire within him had already done. He would not struggle as sand encompassed him in life’s final embrace, become one with the earth, a bed to rest forevermore.

The void inside him had grown, and now he would be at peace within it. He would finally meet his end by the silky hands of the river of his regret.

He saw her again.

She came into his office and sat by his side, eventually took his hand in hers. He did not seem to notice or to care. The world around him a silent film.

Petra positioned herself exactly in the ray of sunlight his face was warmed by. With her soft face and grace, angelic in so many ways, she looked at him. Her ginger hair lit up like a crown: the sunrays might as well have been a halo. As if a deity had come to earth, she had come to visit him.

She tried to speak words of hope, planting thoughts within his troubled mind. They were simple, no subtlety to it, he would not have to decipher the cosmic galactic universe, she would not make it too difficult for him.

“Fight your way to the surface, do not let the rivers of regret swallow you.”

He could not let himself drown in regret now.

“I will.” He answered the voice inside his head - and so he did. With the little strength he had stored in his bones he would fight, defy the gods and the odds that were against him, Levi would challenge the power of this river, death that was looming, as he would with any other Titan.

Would he be able to reach the surface? Conquer the gnarling regrets? The sadness of the world had been heavy burden to bare. Death a returning sight, it weighted like a rock inside his body pulling him back down under. Wasn’t he humanities strongest after all? Would his name mean nothing?

No. If his name had no meaning, he would give meaning to his name. He would fight until he could not fight anymore, honor his name, would let the world know once again he could outplay even death.

“Fight your way to the surface, do not let the rivers of regret swallow you.” 

He promised himself, if he fought his way back to the surface, he would find Petra’s imagery in the sun and her voice in the sweet rustling and whistling of wind.

“Fight your way to the surface, do not let the rivers of regret swallow you.” – it echoed in his mind.

“I will, Petra, I will.” Levi broke the silver lining of the surface, out of breath, gasping for air, coughing up water, his lungs greedy. His feet clumsily treading the water, aiming to make it to the river bank.

“Do not let the rivers of regret swallow you.” He would make it, at least out of the river. He had promised her. One arm reached the river bank, and with the last of his strength he pulled himself out of the gushing water, let the rays of sunshine like the wetness from his skin. Was Petra still there?

Petra’s ghost had disappeared, left him behind with the living again. Levi rested head in the tingling grass. He was still above the green now, perhaps he would find his place buried underneath soon. Perhaps he would see Petra again. Perhaps… Petra… 

From the distance horses were approaching, their stampede heralded their arrival. A mishmash of loud voices arose from beyond the horizon. Could they not shut up? He was trying to rest… Levi closed his eyes another time, ready to face the timeless spaced out hole of nothingness he had longed his world to become. 

A warmth came closer. He was incapable to move or speak, pain aching his body. He was soothed by the coos of a familiar voice, held by familiar arms.

Hanji had him in her grip - she would not let him slip back into the void.

There would be not much time for him to rest, for his time had not come. He would have to rise again, fight once more. An angel had told him so… Petra’s voice had told him so!

Petra had told him so. And so her voice had ended his void.

#check tags for warnings #aot #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman #petra ral #rivetra #angst with a happy ending #platonic levi x petra #levi x petra #hange zoe #hanji zoë #referenced character death #passive suicidal ideation #near death experience #angst #15 years on this hellsite and i still don't know how to neatly post stories

[sheepgirl3]

#whumptober 2023 #no.4 #shock #“you in there?” #clone wars #star wars tcw #star wars clone wars #fic #torture #electrocution #foreshadowing #referenced character death #tw #commander fox #cc 1010

[writersmorgue]

Febuwhump Day 23 - Presumed Dead

Read Part 1 first!!! This is a continuation of Day 4

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 921

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Katsuki opens his eyes the second the nurses' voices are out of earshot. 

He rolls over, tucking the shitty hospital blanket up to his chin. 

Luckily whatever healing Recovery Girl had been able to do worked wonders, and he could freely move when he wanted to despite the extensive bandaging. His shoulder had been nearly unrecognizable when he’d been admitted to the hospital, from what he’d inferred from his chart. 

He’s been conveniently asleep when anyone comes to visit- no one suspecting otherwise when his eternally angry face is peaceful with sleep. 

Two days now he’d been coherent. He’d awoken a few times before that, still heavily under the cocktail of drugs they had him on. 

It wasn’t enough to keep him from seeing Uraraka’s dead body out of the corner of his eye no matter where he turned. 

He looks over at the corner, the murky figure of her dead body disappearing when he looks directly at it. 

His mind can’t seem to completely erase her blood from the walls, sticking hotly like his guilt in his hospital prison. 

Aizawa had tried to come to talk to him, but he’d freaked the fuck out and the nurses had kicked him out before he could say anything. 

Now he just gets to sit in his reality. He killed one of his best friends, he killed her with his quirk from his arm. 

He can still see her face right after he fired, the betrayal in her expression. There was anger there, something he would never forget. She would never forgive him for it, and her friends wouldn’t either. 

Maybe Aizawa will expel him like he deserves. 

His name is whispered in the quiet room. 

Another one of her tricks, something he’d put too much hope in the first time. 

Naïvely he thought she may have lived, maybe he’d hallucinated the entire thing? As soon as he’d turned around he was met with her horrified face, blood coming from her mouth. The glazed-over look in her eye broke something in his heart that would never be fixed. 

And he’s not falling for it again. 

“Bakugo are you awake?” It calls again. 

The voice is uncanny, the little warble her breath gives when she’s trying to be quiet. His brain must be trying to torture him. 

“Aizawa, I think I should come back later…”

“No, he needs to see you.”

You need to face what you’ve done, Katsuki.

He groans, squeezing his eyes closed and scrubbing them with his palms. 

“Oh,” The voice gasps, soft footsteps padding toward his bed. 

No no no no, go away!

The softest touch on his shoulder, the soft velvet of her finger pads unmistakable. 

Fuck.

Tears fall onto his pillow without his permission, he reaches out to the hand when it leaves his arm, grabbing her wrist like a lifeline. 

“Bakugo you’re awake!”

His eyes fly open and he sits up, looking first to the door where his teacher stands, then to the girl by his bedside. 

She’s pale, the light from his window hitting the back of her head like a halo. Her chocolate brown eyes looked at him with so much innocent concern. He liked the bloody one better. 

Katsuki squeezes his eyes shut, jerking his hand back to tug on the back of his head as he folds into himself. 

“Not real, you’re not real, she’s not real.” He mumbles, whining into the dark of his safe cave when Uraraka places her hand on his back, rubbing gently. 

“Bakugo, they got Eri just in time, I’m okay.” She explains, “You’re the one I’m worried about.”

His teacher clears his throat, “This is what I was trying to tell you before, but you had a panic attack.”

“I was at home, but I came as soon as I could. Now that you’re awake- Bakugo, can you look at me?”

Her hand moves to his shoulder and she squeezes gently. 

It’s too good to be true, but he wants so badly for it to be real. His skin burns where she’s touching him and his breathing is uneven. 

His mind is screaming at him to run, to hide so deep inside himself that they never find him again, but he wants so desperately to see her again. 

His neck creaks when he raises it, the room fuzzy as it comes into focus. 

Uraraka takes the opportunity to bend down to sit at his eye level, crawling partially onto his bed. 

He looks into her eyes, trying to confirm what his mind refuses to acknowledge. 

She’s okay. 

She allows him to reach out to her, letting his arm rest tentatively on her shoulder. 

Dressed in a sweater and leggings, it looks like she has been okay the whole time. 

“There’s no way- I blasted a hole straight through you.” He whispers, gaze drifting down to her chest. 

She winces, “Well, I was dead. Or enough so that the mind control quirk was convinced. I’m fine now though!” Her eyes soften, and she takes his hand in hers, “Bakugo, I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what happened. It was a terrible situation and, as Aizawa has already assured me, it was not either of us at fault.” 

He pulls her into his chest without a word, ignoring her squawk of protest to press their bodies together. 

He can feel her erratic heartbeat against his own, and he feels like he can finally breathe. 

“You promise?” He mumbles when she finally relaxes. 

“I promise.

#ochako uraraka #bakugou katsuki #aizawa shouta #referenced character death #hospitals #ptsd #hallucinations #trauma #injury #bnha #mha #bnha fic #mha fic #llyn writes shit #morgue's febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump #febuwhump 2024 #febuwhumpday23 #presumed dead #reunion #tw blood #whump #angst #hurt/comfort