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mizmahlia asked: I love how we're both in the mood to write/putting requests out there. :D For the whump prompts, how about D (deprived) and W (woozy) with Tim and Dick :)
Tim was left gasping for air, his head feeling way too light than could possibly mean anything good, as he felt blood start trickling down the side of his head and ear. His arms were limp beside him as he lay there, slumped against the wall, lungs screaming for air that he tried to provide with rattling inhales, chest heaving for the little bits of relief that were gone all too soon.He watched with vision re-focusing as Dick continued to fight, blood oozing from several cuts on his arms and torso.It was a testament to how desperate Dick was when he took a solid blow to the back of the head that sent him to the ground with a cry.Pain fluttering in his heart, Tim tried to reach for his eldest brother, fingers stretched as far as he could make them go.But Dick was limp on the ground, unmoving.Gritting his teeth Tim tried to push himself up on unsteady feet.Slade stepped forward and crouched, simply having to place firm a hand on Tim’s shoulder and apply an embarrassingly low amount of force to have Tim’s feet slipping out from under him.Hissing at the pain the action elicited, Tim brought his leg up and kicked out at the mercenary harshly. The blow clipped Slade’s shoulder and forced him back a half a step.Tim wanted to cry in frustration.“I wanted him as an apprentice, you know,” Slade mused as he turned his torso but didn’t rise from his crouch before Tim to look at Dick, still unconscious on the ground.
“A while ago.”A sudden hatred for Deathstroke rose like bile in Tim’s throat and he swallowed, blinking away the tears in his vision.Deathstroke continued with his thought.“Now would be a damn wonderful opportunity to grab the kid and book it, too, but…” He turned to face Tim, the single covered eye on the mask suddenly seeming to taunt the Red Robin.
“There’s just such a high number on his head now.”Tim’s mouth was already open and he was seconds away from snapping something driven by rage and fear–body screaming for air be damned–when Deathstroke added:
“Yours too.”He was powerless to stop it with a sprained ankle, broken collarbone, head injury that needed attention, and broken finger; Tim could only watch with widening eyes as Slade yanked a sword from his back–the same one he’d used against Dick, a part of Tim’s brain couldn’t help but note–and drove it straight through the Red Robin symbol on Tim’s chest.It reminded him a little of that time he and Cass pulled one over on the Unternet, or whoever it was, as he watched blood start dripping.But this time it wasn’t a trick.Slade hummed as he shoved the weapon in deeper and Tim could barely form a cry with his oxygen-starved lungs as he felt it cut through his back at scrape against the wall behind him, back arching and hands curling.“No!”The hoarse cry had Slade lazily looking back over his shoulder to see Dick stumbling to his feet, clearly dizzy as he wobbled unsteadily.Maybe it was the tears streaking down his face, though, that had the mercenary giving a wicked and smug smirk as he twisted the blade a little.Red Robin’s consciousness was fading too quickly for him to be able to pay attention to what happened next, but what he knew was that, when Tim opened his eyes again, the domino had been removed from his face and Dick was cradling his limp body close as he sobbed. Dick’s tears dripped onto Tim’s face to fall from his cheek and he whimpered at the throbbing pain stemming from his chest.“I’ll hold you until you don’t want me to, okay?” Dick’s wobbling voice promised. “I won’t let you go, I’m right here, you hear Timmy? Hold on with me–Bruce, Jason, Damian, and Stephanie–they’re coming. They’re all coming, Baby Bird, you just gotta hold on with me, okay? I-I–fuck, Tim.”
God did Tim want to stay awake–coherent, at the very least–for his brother, but he couldn’t. He was trying and doing his best but he couldn’t.His limbs were giving up.
His lungs were giving up. His mind was giving up.His heart was giving up.And he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.
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boosyboo9206
asked: I'm sure I'm gonna regret this but C (concussion) and E (exhaustion) with my jaybaby! Thanks!
A baseball bat cracked against the side of Jason’s helmet, denting it and shattering the electronics. Jason reeled from the blow, generally aiming and firing off a few bullets, blinking hard to banish the dancing flashes of light in his vision.He focused on breathing, counting his breaths, his expanding and contracting lungs, the air filling his chest. Everything was swimming in his vision and Jason was just about ready to puke his guts out.Gasping, Jason yanked the useless helmet off his head and threw it, managing to whisper the words to make the helmet detonate somewhere through the thick haze in his head and cotton filling his mouth.Seconds later there was yelling as the lenses started flashing red and it self-destructed.Jason forgot that he was within the blast range, and was thrown back against a wall, someone’s body slamming onto his and forcing the air from his lungs. Shrapnel from the destroyed helmet embedded themselves in his exposed arm, the wall behind him, the limp body on top of him, and a particularly large piece flew into Jason’s tibia, tearing through muscle there to stick itself in the bone.Unable to stop it, Jason cried out from the pain.Well that was fucking brilliant, Jason managed to snark at himself mentally. Now how am I supposed to radio for help?His answer?
I’m not.
Wow, what a great fucking way to solve his bone-deep fatigue, huh? ‘Just go and blow yourself up when you’re feeling tired’, a novel by Jason Todd aka Red Hood.…in retrospect, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Yeah, his ears were ringing, he had a headache that could kill, he had zero clue what he’d been doing in the first place, and he still wanted to hurl until his stomach was settled, but his debility was winning out and darkness slowly started eating at his vision.Hey, who knew? Maybe someone would come for him. He had blown up his tracker in the helmet, after all, so there was a chance Bruce or Dick would come for him.Yeah.Maybe.
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an-all-write-life
asked: Alright, Angst Master™, hows about B (broken) and L (limp) for the whump prompts with either Dick or Jason? (Or both, completely up to you :D)
“How’re you holding up?”“Peachy, thanks.”“I could be better, all things considered, thanks for asking.”“I didn’t.”“I know.”How Dick could beam that brightly with a blooming bruise on his cheek and a nose that was looking worse for wear, Jason had no clue. But he envied it at the moment, and when he said envied it, he loathed Dick for it. There was no one specific reason Jason could pin–he just hated it.But did that stop Dick from smiling like that?Of-fucking-course not.Jason glared at his brother, straightening from his previous crouch to leave.Right when he was about to shoot off a line and go back to pretending he didn’t give a rat’s ass about his so-claimed family, he heard the muffled thud of something hitting the ground behind him and Jason paused, turning a little in curiosity.He felt the blood drain from his face when he saw Dick there, head on the ground right with the rest of him, body turned away from him, and blood running down his back.Dick…Had he been that hurt without saying anything?Scowling a little at the utter stupidity the Bats could display, Jason put the grapple gun away and moved to Nightwing’s aid.And he, being a model Bat in idiocy, fucking forgot that the people he’d just helped Dick take down decided to take base in one of Riddler’s old, booby-trapped, bases, and stepped right into one of the aforementioned security measures.Immediately a bear trap popped out and snapped shut around his ankle, positively shattering the bone there and ripping through muscle and ligament, even with the leg guards he wore.He screamed at the sudden pain and his leg buckled beneath him, forcing him to collapse awkwardly and make the injury worse.What worried Jason the most was that, when he forced his tear-blurred eyes open, Dick was still unconscious. He was in the same position with blood now pooling beneath him and spreading a little there was so much.“Fuck,” Jason hissed, hating that his voice cracked on the word. He tapped the emergency beacon on his uniform and tried the comms that, mere minutes ago had been functioning, now blasted static in his ear.The noise forced a surprise yelp and Jason threw the helmet off, ripping the comm out of his ear.And he regretted it thirty seconds later when he heard opera music start playing from speakers he hadn’t noticed before.For the second time that night, the blood drained from Jason’s face as Professor Pyg stepped into the light.
“Help.”
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an-all-write-life
asked:
Soooo, how about T (torture)? Possibly a sequel to the other one I requested? :D (Or something totally different, whatever you wanna do.)
Dick shivered from where he was, arms around a pole and cuffed together, back and neck steadily bleeding, eyes shut and mouth open in an attempt to suck in clean air. It was pointless to try, really. The air was laden with the scents of blood and chemicals. You could probably taste their screams if you tried to.When Jason yelled Dick’s eyes snapped open and he jerked, pulling at his shoulders dangerously.His throat was dry, he kept blinking away starts, and his gut hurt like he’d decided to slam a club on it, but he still tried to protest as he just watched as someone–the worst part was probably that they didn’t even know who this person was–stabbed a blade into Jason’s thigh, careful to avoid hitting the artery in his leg.“Stop,” he pleaded, voice a hoarse cracked whisper.Of course, there was no answer as Stranger twisted the knife and Jason tried to choke back another shout, and Dick wanted to scream in frustration.“Leave him alone.”Ignored.
“Please.”
Did someone say something? Torture person didn’t hear anything.“What do you want?” Dick finally sobbed. He couldn’t really cry, but his voice took a desperate note that bordered outright begging, and that seemed to catch torture-stranger’s attention as they turned.Torture-Strager nudged at Jason’s broken ankle and Dick watched Jason try to choke back a reaction. He jerked in his restraints harder and he finally pushed over the limit, a shoulder slipping out of the socket and forcing a sharp inhale from Dick.Jason’s eyes were glazed with tears and Dick felt his own drip from his chin. If Jason could talk–God Dick wished the tape wasn’t over his mouth–Dick felt like he’d be pleading for a break in his own way. He’d never heard Little Wing beg before, and he did not want to hear it now.No, he could do the begging.“What I want?” Torture-Stranger asked, advancing on Dick. They paused to answer.“Nothing.”Soon it was Dick’s screaming filling the air.But he didn’t mind, because Jason had passed out. Yeah, maybe that was a bad thing, considering all the blood covering him, but the knife was still in his thigh and preventing him from bleeding out any quicker.So, as Dick lost more and more blood, he didn’t mind the thought of dying like this. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but he was keeping Torture-Stranger away from Jason, buying his little brother time to live until their family reached them. He didn’t mind.Dick would fall a hundred times to keep them safe.He’d die a thousand deaths to save his family.
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anonymous asked:
What about dick and B + L? Whatever you want really i just live for the wump, especially batfamily/batbros! Love your stories!
Dick staggered down the alley, cradling his broken arm against his chest, head throbbing. It felt like the sockets behind his eyes were throbbing right along with his headache, and he was ready to claw them out because of the head-splitting pain.He was ready to just give up and start crying when he heard feet splashing in puddles in the maze of alleys behind him.Please pass this one, please pass this one, please pass this one, he mentally pleaded, pressing his back and head flat against the brick wall behind him and trying to flatten himself as much as he could.Shifting the weight to his good ankle, Dick held his breath when he watched the beam of a flashlight rapidly flick around the alley. He wasn’t the most religious person in the family but he prayed for his life.Relief made him slide down the wall and go boneless against the ground, his upper body supported by the wall, when there were shouts of
“He’s not here!” and the footsteps pounded away, further along the row of passages.In hindsight, he probably should have taken Tim’s offer and had back up on patrol tonight.Eyes fluttering shut, Dick breathed through his mouth, a low moan slipping out when his sprained ankle started throbbing harder. He rotated it to check if it was a bad sprain or one that would heal soon.Not to say that he could really come to that conclusion himself, there, in the alley, bleeding from a cut in his shoulder with a broken arm and headache threatening to blow his head up, but it was the thought that counted, right?As he shifted his good arm to click the emergency beacon on his uniform, Dick’s hand started shaking.The voices were making their way back.Panicked, Dick pressed the button as quick as he could, berating himself for not having done it sooner as the flashlight beam returned.He held his breath as it did, renewing his mental prayers to any deity or gods that existed…And slammed his head back against the brick wall hard–which he regretted immediately–when the light stopped on an exposed foot of his. It was too late to try and pull the leg back, especially since it was his broken ankle that’d drawn the attention. Pulling it in would be too slow.When the voice raised and more started to get closer and closer, Dick closed his eyes in resignation.He’d run for as long as he could.Now he was helpless.
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an-all-write-life
asked:
Oh oh oh, H (hallucination) and K (kidnapped) with a character of your choice? (You can ignore this if you want 😂)
happyharper
commented:
Can you do part 2 of the last chapter with dick in the alley?
He woke with a start, mouth curling open in a silent scream as fire laced throughout his body.Dick’s brain was way too slow to catch up to his consciousness, so he was left to wildly look around and heave for air when the fire turned off, blinking to clear his vision rapidly. Where was he? What happened? Did fire just turn off now? Dick was pretty sure that technology wasn’t invented yet, right? You can’t just turn fire off like that?Well, like, unless you had a lighter maybe.But wait. The fire was all over his body. You couldn’t just turn that much fire off like that.…could you?No. No, he was missing something.Forcing his eyes open again–when had he closed them?–Dick looked around, trying to focus harder this time.One of the first things he noticed was that, geez, his head was trying to start an aneurysm with a headache, and the rest was that his ribs were probably broken, his ankle was definitely broken, so was his arm, and he had a small cut that itched on his jaw.It itched.Like, a lot.Dick made a face, trying to relieve the itch some. But it didn’t work. His face still itched.Moving on, Dick looked around, brain catching up to him and bringing with it memories of what happened before.Ohh, yeah. The headache was his fault. Damn previous Dick.
Ha. That was funny.
Which, yeah, it was, but Dick was supposed to be focusing and trying to get himself out.He blinked and shook his head (which was a bad idea he regretted immediately) to look around for the third time goddamnint.So, he was two things.Number one: trapped and kidnapped. Which, yay, these are always fun.Wait that probably came out wrong. He meant fun dryly. Not like, excitedly. Fucking–he was moving on.Two: Fucking screwed.Directly in front of him was a gun, laser sight pointed straight at his forehead (which he could only guess, since he tried crossing his eyes to see to only worsen his headache, hell), and timer ticking down happily behind it.According to the bright blue numbers Dick only had five minutes left to live.Funnily enough, he couldn’t really muster up a reaction for that. He just, kind of, stared.…and pouted. Because, that was either a figment of his imagination, or fucking Bruce was standing there, arms crossed, facing the gun.Not Batman, though. Bruce.So, yeah, he was probably hallucinating.Joy.Well, at least he had company for the–Four, it was four minutes.At least he had company for his last–wait now it was three minutes, whoops–few minutes left alive.Dick hummed, because Not-Bruce was so much like actual Bruce in the way that he didn’t say anything, and it occurred to him that he probably had a concussion. It didn’t really seem like a big deal, though. He was dying anyways. He heard you didn’t have to deal with stuff like phantom pains when you were dead, which, actually, didn’t make sense.Phantom. Aren’t they those things that are like ghosts? So shouldn’t they feel pain too?He wasn’t sure. Dick could be wrong.A-ha. Another funny thought. Dick was wrong. Haha.Wait he probably looked crazy.The thought made Dick pause and sober his expression, for a minute at least.Then he was cracking up, both inwardly and outwardly.According to that little timer he had a whole minute left to live–what did he care how crazy he seemed? He was about to die. Who the fuck gave a shit?Not him was who.Dick watched the timer tick lower and lower and a thought had him wondering if Jason felt like he did or worse. Concussions tended to make things weird. Did Jaybird have a concussion before he blew up?Well, Dick wasn’t blowing up. He was getting shot through the skull. So maybe it was a different feeling. But maybe not because both things ended in death, anyways, right? Did Jason die immediately? Dick would.Maybe he’d come back to life too, like Jason did, but Dick doubted it. It would be funny though, for Jason not to be the only zombie in their family.Or, Damian was one too, technically, right?Jason should have started a dead Robins club. He’d have been the spokesperson, and Damian the senior board member. Ha. What a morbid and exclusive club.Hey, there were only thirty seconds left. Why did he hear screaming coming from behind him? What was behind him? Dick tried to look and realized he was laying on a bed. The gun was above him, pointed down, which made sense now. That was why his back was cold.Except, was he naked? Damn it. Why did everyone want to see him naked? Even that doctor chick in Spyral saw him bare-assed. Dick was tired of being naked.Which he realized he wasn’t when he noticed his butt wasn’t as cold as his back was.Cool. He’d die with some dignity then.The timer tick, tick, ticked, and Dick closed his eyes.He’d be seeing his parents sooner than he thought.
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He didn’t know when the last time he’d slept was.Which was sort of funny, in the situation he’d found himself in. You know, the kind of situation where he’d gotten captured by some person or another–Tim didn’t remember–and torture ensued? Yeah that kind.But this was a form of torture Tim hadn’t even dreamt of.At this point he was ready to cry, the craving for sleep overriding everything.“Oh, just close your eyes Tim!” one might say.
“It’s so easy!” another might say.It wasn’t that simple.Every fucking time he blinked there was the feeling of being stabbed everywhere at the same time, little needles jabbing at his skin simultaneously. Heaven forbid he even try to sleep. The longest he’d managed to keep his eyes closed was a minute.One minute. Out of lord-knew how many hours he’d been taken.Tim, by this point, would have preferred broken bones. A concussion. Lacerations.Not to say he wasn’t injured–he was, just with only a bruised eye and broken rib or two.“Give us what we ask for, Red Robin, and this will all cease.”He’d almost forgotten how thirsty he was when he tried to speak.The
“No,” he’d said came out as more of a cracked whisper, and it took a try or three to be able to actually say itWhat made it funny, he mused, was that his family thought he never slept as it was. Tim was maybe ninety percent sure he was going to go into a coma after this was all said and done.…if he made it out anyways.“Very well. Patience is a virtue that I have. We will wait until you break.” A pause.
“Or until you die. Either, really, though we prefer that you break. Then we could dump you back on the streets easier–no body to get rid of and whatnot.”Tim smirked.
“I should die just to spite you,” he responded in that cracked whispery voice of his.He received no answer.Well, he thought to himself, I guess it’s hold out
‘til you drop.And he really wanted to start crying, because he didn’t even know if his family was looking for him. He wasn’t sure. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t, but he wasn’t holding on to any false hopes.No.He knew he might die.
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The world flickered back into focus the way those old TV’s turned on. His ears were ringing, the noise cutting through his head and disorienting him even more, and he felt what could only be blood drip from his right ear. His vision was spotty–also like static on a television, but with little bits of reality clearing the black and white walls.His arms were up above his head, something firm pressing against his chest and over his left shoulder.Dick opened his eyes wide, trying to see more, brain muddled as he tried to make sense of his surroundings
Oh, he thought to himself. Yeah.Flashes of the past raced under his eyelids every time he blinked: Driving along the road for Gotham- blink. A deer jumping down the cliff to his right- blink. The deer on the road and profanities- blink. Rolling, glass shattering, jerking in the seat, the airbag going off- blink. The car’s hood on fire.Remembering the accident made Dick realize his hands were on the roof, the seatbelt was stiff over his chest, the airbag was deflated and drooping, and there was blood.Shuddering once, Dick also noticed his burning and aching lungs and nose. The stench of gasoline was thick and rancid in his nostrils, making him cough and choke, instincts screaming that heat and gas don’t go together.Dick was inclined to agree.Groaning, he started moving his arms to get himself out of the car as fast as he possibly could.Four minutes later, with some difficulty, Dick staggered away from the burning car just as it erupted into larger, more deadly flames.Pausing, he glanced back at the blazing vehicle. Stared for a little bit, holding his bleeding arm as small rivulets of crimson forced their way between his fingers. More blood was running from his forehead.…there was a lot of blood.As he stood there on unsteady and trembling legs, watching, Dick was numb. The entire time he’d been disconnected from reality, eyes seeing but not fully comprehending, ears still ringing, body moving robotically.He turned away.Still numbed out, he stumbled down the road. Eventually the ringing in his ears stopped and he was slapped in the face with the odor of sea salt.Dick blinked, realized he was next to a small beach, decided that there would be a good place to rest.When he reached the water, he tripped and fell. His energy was spent. Dick didn’t get up, the cool ocean waters wetting his right hand, which stained the once-clear water crimson.Turning his head, Dick closed his eyes.And he bled onto the sand.
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V: Vomiting
tw: vomiting, mentions/referenced child neglect
Tim groaned, both arms clutching his stomach, resting his forehead on the cool
bathtub, closing his eyes. It felt like he’d just upchucked his meals since Monday–it was already Saturday.Abruptly Tim’s eyes snapped open and he lurched toward the toilet, leaning over the lip of it as he threw up some more.
Gee, why don’t I lose a lung while I’m at it?
It was rhetorical. Tim didn’t actually want to vomit up a lung. That wouldn’t even be possible, technically, but Jason technically wasn’t supposed to be alive, but, well, here they were.When he was done losing that croissant he’d eaten yesterday, Tim took a deep breath and rubbed at an eye with his palm. This whole being sick alone thing reminded him of when his parents would leave and the nanny was unavailable. On his own then as he was now, huh?“Tim?”He groaned at the sound of Bruce’s deep baritone. Tim didn’t want Damian’s dad anywhere near him, especially not now. Where the Bat went, the Demon did too. Tim didn’t need to be reminded of his insignificance, right now, thanks. He’d like to pass.The sound of Bruce’s boots on the floor of Tim’s apartment paused, and Tim wanted to hit himself. Damn Bruce. Damn him anywhere that wasn’t Tim’s apartment, because Tim didn’t want him within three thousand feet. He wanted Bruce–all of them, really–further than he could throw him.…but he ended up throwing up some more.
Loudly.
Sure enough, the footfalls started in his direction again.“Stay away,” Tim croaked between heaves. At this point he was throwing up stomach acid more than he was any virus or food.“You weren’t on patrol tonight–”
Of course that’s why he cared.
“–and I was concerned.”Bruce’s voice was almost on the other side of the door.Sudden ager flared up within Tim’s chest and he hissed, kicking at the door to firmly shut it.“I said go away, Bruce,” he said, raising his voice and wiping at his teary eyes with his knuckles.
“I don’t need you.” Tim felt like a child, but he didn’t care then. He was being petty, yeah, but the only reason Bruce’d even noticed his absence–Tim hadn’t been to the Manor in three days–wasn’t because he’d missed him at the Manor; he’d only come because Tim took tonight for his health.“Tim–”“I said go away!”
And, to Tim’s utter despair, Bruce did. But it wasn’t Bruce who was leaving him then.It was his parents, and he was eight.Tears slid down Tim's face, pooling at his chin and dripping from it, and he jerked over the toilet again with another wave of nausea.He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t wanted them to leave.Why did they always leave?
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Dick came-to in someone’s arms, and he was alarmed to a certain degree. He found, however, that he didn’t much care. God, he just wanted to go back to sleep.But Damian, his mind whispered. Bruce. Alfred. Cass. Jason. Tim. You can’t not care–you can’t afford it.Weakly he began to struggle, squirming as much as his hell-blessed body could, and he heard a cruse from above him.Slowly he cracked his eyes open for them to focus on Jason. He knew for sure it was Jason because of the scar on the upper lip, the one across the edge of his right eyebrow, and the eyes. Nobody else’s eyes were the bright, luminescent green his little brother’s were, except for maybe Ra’s’.“Fuck, Dick, I’m risking my neck for your dumbass as it is. Wanna sing the Friends theme song while you’re at it?” his brother hissed, grip tightening as his muscles tensed and he looked around.“Jas’n?” Dick slurred, blood crusting his eyes.
“Jas’n,” he whispered, going limp and carefully reaching out to brush his fingers against Jason’s face. He was real. It wasn’t some twisted illusion.There was a small sigh and Jason answered,
“Yeah. Yeah, Dickie, it’s me. I’m right here.”Eyes watering, Dick closed them and felt a tear escape to cut through caked and dried blood on his cheek.He felt Jason tense up a little more before relaxing and shifting his hold on Dick.“You’re gonna be fine, Big Bird,” he reassured in a whisper so silent the wind nearly stole the words for itself.
“I’m gonna call Tim or something–fuck, whichever one of them is available–so they can pick you up.”Dick’s brow furrowed a little. Why couldn’t he go with Jason?
“Jay?”“I’m doing some undercover work, D. I can’t abandon it completely–I’ve been in for about two weeks. Almost got enough to bust the guy I’m after.” Jason hesitated before adding,
“Sorry if that disappoints you, or something.”He shook his head minutely. Dick understood. It was fine. Jason helping had risked a hell of a lot, and Dick wasn’t going to ask for anything more. The simple gesture made his heart swell with appreciation and love; Jason leaving the whole mission on the line showed enough of the fact that he valued his family before the mission for Dick.“Th’nks, L’l W’ng,” he whispered.There was a pause where Jason crouched and lowered Dick to the ground, a wall supporting his upper half, and wiped Dick’s brow with a sleeve before Jason answered with a quiet, quick,
“Always, Big Bird.”Then Dick opened his eyes and Jason was already disappearing around a corner, their eyes meeting for a year of a second before he was gone.Dick’s eyes fluttered shut and the next time he opened them his head was in Damian’s lap.He blinked blearily up at the roof of the Batmobile and smiled a little.He was going home.
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Jason sat there, in front of the mirror, staring at himself, gauze and bandage roll in each hand. Blood dripped off his chin, landing on his chest and tracing one of the innumerable scars that marred his skin. More blood oozed from a long cut in his shoulder to join the small drop in its race down his chest.If he were to be honest, Jason didn’t know what to think of his scars.Many people were ashamed of theirs, hesitant to ever let them show, but Jason didn’t care if people saw them. Others displayed theirs like trophies, walking around without shirts for the world to see; constantly flaunting them every chance they got. But Jason didn’t do that.His scars just were. He wasn’t proud of them, he wasn’t embarrassed by them, he wasn’t ashamed of them.Congrats, you survived whatever the fuck caused that, there’s your trophy, it’s permanent.Some he could recognize as crowbar-inflicted, others Crime Alley induced, and yet others as Robin garnered. Lighter, more recent ones were Red Hood earned.None of them held any personal, psychological, haunting meaning, though.
It depended on the day.
Some days he’d wake up, crowbar scars burning and screaming, and other days it’d be the Crime Alley ones that wanted to be recognized.
Then there were days that he woke up numbed out; days he woke up that felt…
Not bleak, but not happy. The day just was, same as his scars, and so was he. Jason went through his everyday dead man’s routine.He had happy days, too. Ones where he didn’t notice his scars in a different way than the blank days; where everything was the same, but he still felt the undercurrent of contentedness in his veins; some days he felt a spark of something when he saw his scars because they meant he was alive.Not today, though. Today he felt nothing as he stared at them.Jason’s eyes were scars in their own right, just the same way the stark of white in his hair was; scars Lazarus-pit foisted.But he felt nothing looking at them. He shook his head, moving to finish patching himself up, and didn’t care if the cut scarred over.It’d just be added to the collection.
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Oooh I love it when you pop into my askbox because you send the BEST of things. Since I always write Dick being hurt, let’s try switching it up… (and include some baby Jay) >:D
tw: vomiting, Dick is a bit of a dick but he’s learning.
“Damn it, Robin,” Dick hissed, tripping and nearly dropping his little brother. “I told you to stay with B.”In his arms, Jason muttered something under his breath before speaking up.“I can walk,” he slurred. “Lemme down.”“No,” Dick snapped. Jason scoffed at his tone, but Dick continued, ducking under a pipe that was level with his head. “You took a hard hit to the head.”“M'fine,” Jason insisted, struggling in Dick’s hold. “Lemme down–I’ll prove it.”Irritation flaring, Dick said, “Alright, brat, fine. Prove it,” and released Jason abruptly, the kid cursing as he tightened his arms around Dick’s neck to keep from falling.Jason slowly lowered himself to the ground, but Dick wasn’t waiting for him, and he kept walking as Jason stumbled after him.If the new Robin wanted to be an idiot, how was it Dick’s problem? He’d tried to get him to listen. He’d done his part.Dick muttered something under his breath when he heard Jason trip and throw up. The concussion was that bad, then. He sighed and turned around, watching as Jason moaned and curled up, guilt lurching in his gut.No, he thought to himself. It’s not my fault. I tried helping him. He didn’t listen.But then again… Maybe Jason just wanted to prove himself like Dick had so often when he was younger and even now as Nightwing. Maybe they had their differences but were more alike in their similarities than they thought…“Damn it,” he grumbled before walking back over and scooping Jason into his arms carefully. “C'mon Little Wing. You don’t have anything to prove, you know.”“Yeah I do,” Jason weakly replied in a raspy whisper, curling closer to Dick’s chest as they started walking again. “T'Bruce, n'you, n'everybody. I always do.”Dick sighed, heart heavy, and curled his arms tighter around his little brother. He needed to talk to Bruce about this later. For now, he was focused on getting out of the compound safely. He could still hear distant shouts and footsteps.“Just don’t worry about it. Count with me, okay? Don’t fall asleep.”“But m'tired,” Jason mumbled. “Lemme sleep.”“No,” Dick replied. “You can’t–you have a concussion. Count with me. One.”“Two.”“Three.”Silence.Dick glanced down at Jason and noticed, for the first time, the blood trickling down his head and his heart lurched in immediate concern.“Jason?” he called. “Robin. Robin, answer me; what comes after three?”Jason was entirely limp in Dick’s arms, mouth slack, lenses of the domino thin white slits.He didn’t respond.“Little Wing,” Dick said harder, shaking Jason a little in his arms, aware of the desperate hitch to his voice. “Robin. Jay, please.”But there was no reply, and the footsteps were louder now.“Shit,” Dick murmured, looking around frantically. “Shit, shit, shit.”There was nowhere to go but up, into a vent, but Dick couldn’t do that with Jason in his current state. Dick was supposed to have come alone.But everything had gone wrong, and it seemed like time was running out.Fast.
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Jason’s knees buckled underneath him when a two-bit drug dealer nailed him in the abdomen, the intense pain making him see white for a few seconds.He was glad to have forgone the helmet when blood spurted from his lips and he gasped for air.Dimly was he aware that someone else must’ve shown up because there was no follow-up blow, but Jason was busy gasping from the absolute agony he was dealing with, sudden headache pounding behind his eyes.“–ason? Red Hood?”The voice beloged to a person Jason knew, but he wasn’t sure which person it was. Stars continued dancing in his vision and Jason trembled from the pain, body shuddering, mouth opening and closing, the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.Someone peeled the domino off his face, but he couldn’t do anything because it hurt and he wanted it to stop.“Shit,” the voice hissed, flashing a light in his eye. “Damn it, Jason, this is bad.”What? What was bad? His abs were probably shredded up and bleeding like no tomorrow, because that’s what it felt like. Maybe he was going to die again, and that’s what was bad.Jason didn’t know. All he knew was it hurt, and he wanted someone to make it stop, and he wanted some sort of relief, but it really really hurt and he couldn’t black out for some reason–There was a sharp pinch on his neck and Jason groaned at the pain but it was hardly anything compared to his lower-body.But the world started to fade away, and the pain did too, and relief crashed over him in waves so he closed his eyes–had they been open the whole time?–and let the darkness pull him into her warm embrace.
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One thing Tim hated about being alone was how… Utterly lonely it was.Don’t get him wrong, he knew that his parents archeological digs were more important, but even when they were home they didn’t… They didn’t touch him. He was left standing or sitting there like a forgotten toy. Something that was likely given as an unwanted gift and therefore left abandoned on some shelf, or in some box, somewhere.Was it too much to ask if he wanted a hug? A pat on the shoulder or ruffled hair?There had been one nannie, he remembered. Her name had been Stephanie. She’d been all smiles and warm words, always having a meal for Tim when he’d gotten home from school with a quick hug that Tim knew she wasn’t supposed to be allowed to give him, or a kiss on the crown of his head.She’d been his favorite. Always happy, always bright and warm, always… Always treating Tim like he was any other kid. Like he wasn’t some prize made of glass that would break if you touched it.And then she’d been fired, just like all the other nannies had been.For some reason he still expected her to be there when he got home from school, arms open, smile bright and youthful…It ached to think of her, sometimes. It ached because he missed her, because she’d been the only person in Tim’s entire nine years of life who’d shown genuine love and care, because he had loved her like a sister or a pseudo-mom, and he only realized it when she was gone.Sometimes Tim wished she’d been his mom. He wouldn’t have cared if he’d had a dad or not–as long as he had her he’d be happy and okay and loved, and he knew it.But he knew he was stuck with the family he had. The family that treated him like an experiment, a dismissed toy, an abandoned project, or a semi-relative specimen.As he sat on his bed, he hugged himself because nobody else would. He told himself that he was loved because nobody else did. Tim reassured himself that one day Jack and Janet would realize their mistake in abandoning him, that they’d start paying him more attention than an absent-minded early birthday present, that they’d hug him and kiss him and play catch with him…It was a dangerous lie and a malicious fantasy to harbor, but harbor it Tim did.Because what else did he have?
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tw: blood
I met the devil in the hills last night
Jason’s body shuddered violently with a gentle breeze, and he coughed into his hand, but he didn’t dare move. They were counting on him. His brothers needed him. Red Hood only had one job to do in the bust, and he could go home.But until then, his brothers needed him, and he refused to let them down.Underneath him blood started to soak through his armor.
I was driving by myself alone
Alarms blared out from the complex the Bats had infiltrated, and there was two loud crashes, Dick’s body flying through a window with Damian jumping out right behind him and Tim making his own hole in the glass.Jason moved his eye to the scope and wiped at the warm irony liquid on his mouth before shifting his finger over the trigger of his sniper rifle.“Breathe,” he whispered to himself.
“Just breathe.”In his ear the comm link beeped, and he turned it on.
He said
“Boy what you running from?”
Dick’s voice shouted,
“Cover fire, cover fire!”“I got you,” he replied in a too quiet whisper, trying to smother his cough and suppress a shudder.Tim spoke up. “Hood?! Are you alright?!”No, his mind supplied, flitting to the stab wound in his waist.“I’ve got your backs,” is what Jason dismissed them with, sneezing afterwards before realigning his eye with the scope and taking out a thug directly behind Tim with a bullet right between the eyes. He moved on to a new target trying to sneak up behind Damian and took her out too. One at Tim’s back, then not. One at Dick’s back, then not.He kept the pace up the entirety of their fight, blinking the little stars out of his vision furiously, one kill after the other to prevent the deaths of his brothers.Jason couldn’t let them down.
I said
“I don’t know.”
Dick wiped at his brow with the back of his hand one all the thugs had been taken out by either them or Jason, and he let a long exhale pass his lips as he looked up at his little brothers.“I’d say this was a success,” he grinned.“Sure,” Tim answered, holding his shoulder.
“More casualties than we’d expected, but we did what we came to do.”Damian rolled his eyes, shaking out his hand, and said,
“Tt. It would have been a success regardless. Red Hood’s aid simply added a body count to our endeavors.”Dick opened his mouth to stop Jason’s sharp remark, but he didn’t end up saying anything.Because neither did Jason.He hadn’t said anything in a while, actually.Frowning, Dick looked to where Jason was holed up in his sniper nest, and he said,
“Red Hood? Are you alright?”No response.The entire atmosphere shifted from something calm to something cold and unforgiving, and Damian and Tim both sharply turned in Jason’s direction.Glancing at his little siblings, Dick shot out a line and grappled up to Jason’s location.When he landed, he wished he hadn’t.
Because everything is not alright.
“Jason?”
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They’d taken too long. That was Tim’s first thought when he saw his brothers.Jason was unconscious and strapped to a chair, thick ropes digging into his arms, his ankle looked severely fractured, there was a knife in his thigh and blood dripping from his lips–there were cuts all along his arms, and his fingers looked broken.Dick looked worse than Jason.
His fingernails looked like they’d been pried off, there was a blade through his hand, he had a bullet wound in his side, there was a long cut on his forehead, and there was a note pinned through the skin of his chest.Behind him, Tim heard Damian suck in a sharp breath.“Get out of here, Robin,” he heart himself say as he forced himself to move.
“Check in with Batman.”That Damian didn’t protest spoke volumes in itself.When he reached Jason, Tim took the bloody rag out of his mouth with shaking hands.His voice shook a little when he spoke. “Red Hood?”Jason make a small sound that Tim couldn’t place as he started to stir, his eyes fluttering open.“T’m?” he slurred, eyes unfocused and a little to the right of where Tim actually was, and a little more blood slipped from his mouth.“Yeah, Jason,” Tim answered, eyes flicking across the wounds Jason sported.
“It’s me. We’re here.”His brother hummed and closed his eyes.
“Late.”Tim rolled his eyes, internally relieved with Jason’s attitude. He was going to be fine.“Whatever.”“Dick?”Tim looked over to where their oldest brother was slumped against a cement pole.“He’s fine,” he lied, the little fib slipping off his tongue before he could think about it, as he turned back to Jason.
“Let’s get you out of these ropes.”Damian reappeared as Tim finished cutting off the last of the ropes. Bruce wasn’t far behind him, and he stiffened at the sight he was met with, beelining for Dick.“Grayson?” Damian whispered.
Tim glanced over at his little brother, a pang in his chest, and said,
“Go home, Dami, Tell Alfred to call Leslie.”“You don’t tell me what to do Drake,” Damian responded monotonous. It sounded like he was only saying that because he was looking for something to be normal–like he wanted something to ground himself with and hang onto.Softening a little, Tim said,
“Yeah, well, I’m older. It’s like my job to tell you what to do when you don’t want to do it.”Damian tutted before leaving.Jason was unconscious again, and Tim was growing more and more concerned by the minute. He could hear Bruce whispering something to Dick in the background, but he couldn’t make out what, and he could hear his brother’s small gasped sobs.“Bruce,” Tim said in a trembling voice.
“B.”“They’re going to be alright, Tim,” Bruce’s baritone rumbled.The words were supposed to be comforting.Why weren’t they working?
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It was stupid. Brainless. Reckless.But he didn’t really care. Didn’t care at all.He thought he could hear a distant and muted, “But, Tim, that’s not like you!” and he figured that, yeah, it was true. It wasn’t like him to not care.That didn’t mean anything. He still fought, with a laceration in his forearm. He still fought, two fingers on his left hand broken. He still fought, bone-weary and ready to drop.Penguin’s thugs continued to swarm around him, bats and guns out, and Tim kept taking them out.He was almost surprised he’d lasted so long.A gunshot to the knee took him out of the running.Tim thought, finally, and cried out as he faltered.It was an opening blinking neon and the henchmen descended upon him, vultures ready to tear apart their prey.By the time he was hauled to dangle between two meaty thugs, he was spitting blood.Tim closed his eyes and let himself be dragged.He was tired.