#swift writes

what if he gets the new body, and it's just very slightly wrong?

small marks that were hidden under his clothes are missing—they didn't have enough of a texture to be felt through the cloth. his ribs aren't quite where he remembers them being. his fingers are a different length, just enough to be noticeable when he tries to pick things up. the old breaks in his leg are in slightly different places and he has to readjust to a different gait all over again. he swears his skin is the wrong texture, things feel different to the touch. he's got somebody else's arrangement of nerves and sensation is heightened in some places and dulled in others, somebody else's nose and tongue and everything smells and tastes wrong. his teeth are shaped differently and when he closes his mouth they touch in the wrong places.

fandom: DC Comics (Young Justice, Batfamily)

characters and relationships: Tim Drake, clone baby, Kon haunts the narrative (Timkon isn’t explicit but. it’s a clone baby au)

warnings: almost drowning, infant whump

Summary:

@ailesswhumptober Day 29: Ownership, branding, “Everybody will know that you’re mine.”

Tim tries to clone Kon, but this time it works.

notes: I can write so many Timkon fics with this prompt list :fireElmo: Inspired by this post by @hyperblue which has haunted me from the moment I saw it please come bother me with interest about this AU or any of mine plsplspls on my knees in tears pls

—

Tim woke to the loud beeping of one of the many machines in his lab. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, frowning at his reflection in the powerless computer screen; there were sleep marks on his cheek from the sleeve of his sweater, but aside from that he barely looked like he’d rested at all. The circles under his eyes hadn’t budged, and he sighed and scrubbed his hands across his face. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see them, anyway. He rarely left his lab except to grab more snacks from Titans Tower when he ran out, his work far too important to abandon. 

Tim got up and trudged past the empty cloning chambers to look for whatever had gone wrong, picking at the plaster on his arm where he’d drawn his own blood. His tablet lay on a table across the room, and he needed to recheck the Kryptonian environment values he’d copied off the Batcomputer-

One of the chambers wasn’t empty. 

He stared at it for a second, seeing but not quite understanding. Attempt one hundred and twenty-nine successful, the green letters said cheerfully. He stepped closer slowly, as if it was an animal that would lunge and try to bite him, and gingerly placed a hand against the glass. It was near but not exactly room temperature — 99.2 degrees Fahrenheit, 37.3 degrees Celcius, to be precise, ever so slightly warmer than a regular human temperature. 

“It worked,” he said to the empty lab. The machines keeping 129 alive seemed to sigh in response, then the beeping got louder, and the infant stirred in its glowing pod. No, not just stirred. It flinched. 

Error, the screen read now in bright failure red. The small letters underneath would have told him the reason, but he didn’t read it because 129 was struggling, tiny lungs seeking desperately for air and only receiving fluid. Tim’s heart screamed, and then he realised he was screaming. 

He can’t lose him. Not again and not like this. 

One heartbeat, and he was rushing forward, smashing the glass with his bo staff and pulling the infant out of the pod. 129 coughed up liquid and was still for a terrifyingly long moment, and Tim’s heart froze in his chest. 

Then the baby took a shaky breath and let out a gloriously loud cry. Now he was wet and wailing, but he was breathing. At least he was breathing. Tim went to rub a hand across his face in relief and halted when he realised it was covered in thick fluid. “It’s okay,” he said, and realised his throat was choked with tears. 129 cried louder and kicked his little legs as Tim became painfully aware how austere and clinical his lab was, absolutely no place for a helpless infant. There was no milk ready for him, no swaddling cloths to wrap him up in. And it was so, so cold. He must be so cold. Get it together, Drake. 

There was a shirt hanging on the back of his chair, and Tim reached for it, wrapping 129 in the black fabric and holding him close. “Shhh. It’s okay. Shh, shh.” The baby’s cries lowered slightly in volume, but didn’t stop. Tim bounced him gently, folding the shirt over him to keep him warm better- 

The edge of a familiar red insignia peeked out from underneath the folds of the shirt, and Tim froze. Kon’s shirt had artificial amniotic fluid and a crying baby in it. Kon’s shirt was wet and soiled and ruined and gone and Tim can’t even protect this one last part of him can he-

Then he was sliding down the wall to the floor and realised he was the one crying now. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, to Kon and to 129 and to no one at all. “I’m s- I’m so sorry.” 129 made a soft sound in his arms, but that just made him cry harder. Tim couldn’t take care of a baby. He’d failed Kon and failed Bart and failed Bruce and it’d been barely a day and he was already failing 129. 

As if that wasn’t enough, he had the stark realisation that the child in his arms resembled old baby pictures of Tim himself a little too closely, the tiniest package of Kryptonian blue eyes in a round little face. “Everyone will know you’re mine.” This wasn’t supposed to happen. His DNA was supposed to stabilise Kon’s, not influence it. He’d given 129 the curse of being related to him, in addition to being the ghost of a dead man. 

i did… and then my hand slipped…

note: this kind of assumes Vader didn’t know Obi-Wan was still alive, but I wrote this on a whim and what even is canon anyway.

————————

It was the breathing that did it.

There were many terrifying factors to Darth Vader’s appearance, but it was the distinct mechanical hiss of his life-giving ventilator that scattered Keshian crew and nobles alike out of his way as he strode inexorably towards the bridge. A child stared in horror up at him from a side door before its mother pulled it away into the room. Metal creaked and bent before him as he pulled the bridge doors apart, stepping through the now-empty space like it was no big feat. The crew of the ship flurried around in a flustered rush, but at the middle one woman stood still, and there was something familiar about her as she turned towards him-

“Okay, what’s Jabba the Hutt’s middle name?” Hardcase grinned as the rest all shrugged. “The!” 

Jesse and Fives groaned, but Ahsoka raised an eyebrow as Feli let out a soft laugh. “Where do you get all these jokes?”

“From the Darth Maul,” Hardcase said cheekily. “What do you get when you cross a bounty hunter with a tropical fruit? Mango Fett!” By then, Rex was facedown on the table, covering his ears, and even Padmé seemed to be over it. Feli was the only one who seemed to appreciate the riddles, and seeing her laugh was so different to Anakin than how she usually was, calm, composed and-

It was her. 

The steadfast senator of Mochi (that idyllic Outer Rim planet that Padmé had dreamed of retiring to) was the very same woman who stood in front of Vader now. Feli Dashone. One of Padmé’s trusted allies, Hardcase’s one true love, the woman who hadn’t smiled since they’d gotten back from Umbara. 

He should say something. ‘Feli’ hurt too much to say, so he went with the better option. Not that it didn’t hurt, just that it hurt less. “Senator,” he rumbled. “Or should I say traitor?”

“Lord Vader.” She was as cool and collected as ever, meeting his emotionless black mask with no trace of the fear that normally dogged his adversaries. “I see you and the Empire’s cronies have decided to… inspect our vessel. There’s no need. We’re on a diplomatic mission to-”

Vader had heard it all before. “You are aiding the Rebellion.”

“I am delivering food to refugees on Alderaan. Surely that is not a Rebel act.”

“It is when you also smuggled weapons, Imperial blueprints, and supplies to insurgents on Lothal on your way there.” He took a step closer; his large build cast a sharp grey shadow over her slight frame, but she did not flinch. “We found the manifest of your ship. Did you think your actions would not be discovered? You cannot hide from the might of the Empire.” He clenched one black-clad fist.

To his surprise, she actually took two steps closer, looking right through his tinted red lenses. “Tell me, Lord Vader. Are you so cold and bitter inside that the suffering of peoples in your jurisdiction matters nothing to you? Don’t you care about the thousands and thousands of beings, couples, families, children, who are dying all over the galaxy?” Her voice had taken on a soft, glowing fury, and she seemed to catch herself, leaning back and straightening her posture. “If the Empire won’t help them, I will. All I am doing is honouring the wishes of an old friend.” 

He pretended nothing else she’d said had even reached his ears. “Then you know of other dissenters in the Senate.”

“Now? No. But many years ago, as I’m sure you’re aware, Senator Padmé Amidala passed away.” Padmé. There was a faint tugging in his heart, as if her memory, the mere mention of her name summoned longing of some sort inside him, and he did his best to dredge up all the anger and hate he could to squash it away. “Her last message in a hologram to me was to protect the people.” Among other things, Vader deduced, observing the way she seemed to be purposefully omitting something else that Padmé had said. “Surely you would not stand in the way of friendship. Surely you would not disgrace Padmé’s memory in this way…

“Anakin.” 

It was only due to extreme effort that he didn’t jerk violently away from her. How-

“Master Kenobi paid me a visit on Coruscant the day the Republic fell,” she said, eyes glittering with savage satisfaction. “How could you. How could you betray everything you’ve ever known, everything you fought for? The Republic, the 501st, your family. Obi-Wan, the Jedi Order, Hardcase, Padmé.” She took a step closer, and he felt the temperature in the room — or just in his suit, maybe — plummeting as her voice dropped to a sharp whisper. 

“Padmé would be ashamed if she saw what you’ve become.” 

His fist tightened, something invisible crushing down around him, and as he clenched it closed, she dropped to the floor, motionless. Blinking away the red haze, he gestured to the stormtroopers standing awkwardly at the door. “Take her away.” One of them knelt, then seemed to freeze. 

“Um, she’s dead, sir.”

Anakin.

Let her go!

It seems, in your anger, you killed her. 

He pushed away the memories as the overhead lights sparked and flickered. “Then dispose of her. And burn this ship to the ground.” As we soon will destroy the Rebellion. 

But first, he had one thing to take care of. 

Master Kenobi paid me a visit the day the Republic fell. 

Obi-Wan was still alive. That meant Vader had one last loose end to tie off. 

—————————

dw you'll see them soon >)

aaah i‘m loving these news 🌸🌸🌸🌸

it‘s so cool to be writing a few chapters in advance, i always feel like a boss entirely in control of her own life when i do that, love it 💪🏼

"Yes?"

What if... I was a worm?

"A—a worm?"

...Yes.

"Well—wait. What sort of worm are you talking about here? Some sort of parasitic worm, or just a, an earthworm, or...?"

I—wh-what? Why would I not be an earthworm?

"I'm just—trying to think about it practically. I mean, I would have to... what, carry a jar of earth around everywhere? Tie it to, to my belt, like we did Yorick...?"

You would... carry me around in a jar of dirt everywhere?

"Well, not if I didn't have to, that's why I'm asking! I mean, if you're really that committed to having a body of your own, but if you ask me, being a worm doesn't sound much better than—"

A-are you—wait, are you arguing in favor of a fucking—tapeworm right now?

"I'm thinking about logistics! You're the one who posed the hypothetical!"

characters and relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne - platonic, random gothamite citizens

warnings/additional tags: like one swear, Jaydeath flashbacks, character caught in explosion, physical hurt/comfort, collapsed lung, field medicine, scalpel and the use of, Jason being good with kids, sort of cuddles, good dad Bruce, somewhat awkward ending line

word count: 1287

Summary:

@ailesswhumptober Day 1: Collapsed lung | Contusion | "Well, that shouldn't have happened." Day 4: Frostbite | Heat | "I can make it all better." Day 10: Blood poisoning | Hypoxia | "What were you thinking?" Day 27 alt 7: Memory trigger

Jason and another explosion.

notes: HAPPY WHUMPTOBERRRRR! True to my me, starting off with some Jason whump because he's my special little guy

----

Jason brushed burning embers off his jacket before it could catch fire and kicked through a smoking door to find the last child stuck in the building. Goddamn cheap and lazy Crime Alley flat construction had made it just that much easier for it to go up in flames in the first place, but at least that also made it easier for him to hack his way through walls in search of the kid.

Panicked cries from the hall to his left made him swerve in that direction instantly, and he barged into the apartment next door to find the little girl wedged in a corner of her bedroom, as far away as possible from the smoking wreckages that cut her off from the door. 

“Hey! I’m gonna get you out, okay? Don’t panic.” Jason scanned the room, then shrugged off his jacket and held it away from the fire as he shouldered past the ruined roof beams. It was uncomfortably warm, but fortunately his suit protected him from the worst of the heat.

He stepped into the bathroom and tested the taps. Still working. At least the Gotham plumbing was functioning, if nothing else in this building. He doused his jacket in water, then returned to the bedroom. Closing the bathroom door, he knelt next to the kid, wrapping the wet jacket around her. “Easy. We’re getting out of here, okay? What’s your name?”

“T- Tenille,” she answered, visibly shaken. “You’re… Red Hood.” 

“That’s right. Your mom’s waiting for you outside with all the firefighters, so we have to go this way, okay?” He picked Tenille up and started to edge past the beams again. She whimpered and tucked her face into his shoulder, and he moved so she was as far from the fire as possible. “We’re okay. Almost past ‘em, I promise.” A few more steps, and they were out of the bedroom. “See, all done. Not so hard, right?” She nodded, sniffled, and clung to him as he strode back to the other side of the building.

He knocked the remaining glass from a stairwell window and leaned out to see the firefighters gathered around a huge air cushion. “Look, there’s your mom.” Tenille peeked and let out another sob at the three-storey height.

“How- How are we gonna get down?” She stared up at Jason in terror, and her grip on him might have bruised if not for his armour. 

“You’re gonna hold onto me real tight, then we’re gonna jump and land safe on that big pillow the firefighters blew up for you, okay? We’ll be perfectly fine, I-” The building shuddered, and Tenille wailed as Jason grabbed the wall to steady himself. “It’s okay, we’re okay.” But there was another loud boom, the gas mains finally rupturing and spraying fuel onto the already raging fire. Oracle had given him a generous estimate of 10 minutes, and he’d already used 7 of them.

In the next few seconds, before the child could protest or Jason could second-guess himself, he threw Tenille out the window. 

He watched her scream as she fell, but it seemed like slow-motion as he tensed his muscles to jump after her. She would land straight into the cushion they’d prepared for her. He knew he’d aimed right, and she’d be safe. His own safety was a different matter. 

The flames reached him first as if in slow motion, licking at every part of him that wasn’t covered by armour, lighting up his cargo pants and gloves and eating into his skin.

Milliseconds later came the concussive blast, hitting him like a train at high speed, slamming him through the flaming wall and dropping him down into thin air. 

As he fell, he recognised the feeling of burning alive, and he thought he could feel his bones shatter and hear a madman’s laughter resounding in his ears. He thought he could feel himself gasp for air but only receive smoke as the ruined warehouse crushed painfully down on top of him. 

As he fell, he thought he could remember hearing Bruce call his name, but the life ebbing slowly from his body left the hollow shape of a boy far too young and weak to call back. He thought he could remember his last breath, the soft light that carried him gently away from his suffering and pulled him up into eternity as it called his name. 

Jason. 

Jason. 

Jason! 

The light hadn’t sounded that scared. 

Jason! 

Jason!

“Jason!!”

He cracked one eye open to see Bruce hunched over him, the feed through his helmet glitchy and barely coherent, but undeniably Bruce. 

“Jason, wake up. Please wake up.”

He tried to say something — anything — but it came out as a thin, wheezing gasp as his battered lungs refused to pull in any more air. Bruce moved to take off his helmet, then started scanning him for injuries. 

“Jason, it’s okay. I’m here.” Practiced fingers prodded experimentally at his ribs, and Jason let out a strangled cry of pain. “I know, Jaylad. I’m sorry.” Bruce continued checking him over, furrowed brow the only sign of concern or fear that made it through his dark cowl, as Jason continued frantically trying and failing to breathe. 

“You have a collapsed lung. I need to let the air compressing it out of your pleural space.” Bruce dug out a small kit from his utility belt and opened it to take out a small scalpel. Jason was still gasping for oxygen as darkness started to cloud his vision and his struggles weakened, consciousness slowly slipping away. 

“It’s okay, Jaylad. I’ve got you.” Bruce sliced deep and steady into Jason’s chest, then pushed a small tube in, and Jason gasped desperately as the shadows receded and air came flooding back into his lungs. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. You’re okay.” Bruce sat back, let out a controlled breath, then gently pulled Jason into his arms. He let out a whine of pain but burrowed into the warm hold instinctively, rapid, panicked breathing beginning to slow and even out. “I know, I’m sorry. You’re going to be okay.” 

“Ten- Tenille. The girl. She-”

Bruce smoothed his hair back from his face, gently shushing him. “She’s safe, with her mother, and probably breathing better than you are. Let’s get you back to the Cave, okay?” Jason let out a faint sound of assent and leaned against Bruce, his head thumping softly onto his father’s shoulder. 

His feet wouldn’t obey when he tried to get up, and Bruce practically lifted him off the ground, steadying Jason against him. Jason let out a strangled cry as his ribs, leg, and chest — and almost every other part of him — seemed to cave in on itself with sharp, stabbing pain. His vision blurred, and he grabbed weakly onto Bruce, breathing laboured and desperate.

“I know, Jaylad, I’m here. I’ve got you.” Bruce adjusted his grip so he half carried, half supported Jason. 

He blinked the spots in his vision away, trying to stabilise his breathing, and caught sight of Tenille clinging to her mother halfway across the bustling lot, a near-perfect mirror. Then the crowd closed around them, and Bruce pulled Jason away. “Come on, sweetheart.” They would have their own family waiting for them at home.