#AND THE WAY THAT HE CANNOT GRIEVE !!!!! the way that the world demands he be stoic and put on a brave face

[ravenheir]

thinking about it again — the fact that the only man who has ever actually been something of a father to wyll is abdel adrian. the fact that, while wyll is undoubtedly ulder's son (and francesca's son, something less acknowledged), much of who he is is because of abdel; the hero of baldur's gate. wyll's idol. someone he trusted, loved. and just … abdel's death was absolutely The Moment for wyll; the moment that he understood crushing guilt and grief, the moment that he understood what it meant to lose someone dear to you. i think it also laid … a very specific and complicated kind of foundation in his mind, given the nature of abdel's death — abdel, a man revealed to be bhaalspawn, a man turned monster, tearing apart and being torn apart by his unholy brethren. do you even get it

[gaysindistress]

Allies or Enemies - one

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on google/Pinterest

pairings: Dragonborn!bucky x f!reader

Summary: The reality of her cruel world is more evident than ever before when her stepfather sends her to her death under the guise of diplomacy. Y/n, the expendable daughter of a scared king, must find a way to secure her own protection among the Dragonborn and she will do that by whatever means necessary.

Warnings: mild cursing

Word count: 3.3k

series masterlist | main masterlist

taglist: @unaxv

“The king requires your presence.”

“But were I to require that he does not bother me, my request would be ignored. We cannot always have the things that we desire,” I sigh whilst continuing to read the journal in front of me.

The handwriting is terrible, so much so that I can barely finish a page in 5 minutes but given that the king has been demanding my presence at every chance that he gets, I continue with my struggles. An older woman stands in the doorway and I can feel her glare at me with a hatred that I imagine is reserved only for me. After all, my mother is the one who married her lover.

“Now.”

The finality in her tone would’ve caused a younger me to look up in fear but I’ve grown used to the stern reality of our world. As the eldest daughter of the queen, I’ve been educated in every form of manipulation that can be conveyed through the voice. As the child of the late king and the unwanted stepchild to the current king, I’ve been taught that I am the only protection that I have. No one will come to my aid or offer me guidance when I need it. No one will tend to my wounds when the cruel servants of the king lash me with their words. No one will care for me in the way that my younger sisters are looked after. No one would even bat an eye if I were to vanish into thin air. They might celebrate if that were to happen.

The woman whom I despise just as much as she me repeats herself with a heavy huff as if I have greatly inconvenienced her by breathing the same air as her or simply existing. Whether it be my existence or continued residence at the palace that is more vexing to her is yet to be determined I’ve decided.

The journal before me bound in precious leather and gold thread suddenly becomes unimportant. While it details the various races of creatures that occupy these lands and would prove to be useful in my studies, it will do nothing to shield me from the king’s wrath. My fingers drift away from the frayed edges and allow it to close by itself, prompting small dust specks to flutter around it. The black silk ribbon that I wound around the end of my braid is dangling above the curious journal, trailing its delicate ends over the monstrous illustrations hidden in its opulent bindings. The ribbon, much like my heart, yearns to open it once more and lose myself in its pages but is bound by duty to ignore such a yearning.

“Your highness,” she demands in a tight voice, “We are to leave now.”

Rolling my eyes would most certainly earn me a slap across the face but it doesn’t stop me from squeezing them shut in frustration. Standing up from my desk, I swipe at the dust on my lap, smearing gray streaks across the thick black fabric of my over skirt. She makes a small noise of disgust at the action, no doubt complaining loudly in her mind that being presentable is not something I know how to do. We make eye contact for a brief moment and she is quick to turn on her heel, forcing me to nearly jog to catch up so that I may follow this hateful woman to my certain death.

The Beloved King Anthony Starkov had been a wonderful king at first. After the invasion of the Dragonborn and the apparent failure by my father to protect his nation, Anthony seemed like a god sent. He rode in on a pure white horse with the head of the most fearsome Dragonborn knight on his sword as he declared that he was now king. My mother, the poor grieving widower queen, had no choice but to accept his proposal and promise to care for us. He’s doted on her, showered her with affection and gifts, and most importantly he treated me as if I were his own. Following my father’s death and living in fear of Dragonborn attack’s, a protective shield was all I prayed for. My mother could barely protect herself from the onslaught of the court’s cruel words and it became apparent that soon they would turn on me. It was not for a lack of trying surely but due to the fact that she was not a man. As the angry old woman who calls herself my advisor likes to remind me, a woman is only as powerful as the man that marries her and that meant my mother had no power until Anthony.

The moment that Anthony took the crown and later my mother’s hand, we’d all thought that this would be the bright moment in our bleak lives that we’d been looking for. The nation of York was at peace when it had been a foreign concept to me and many others after the Dragonborn had launched their attack. The love that Anthony and my mother shared burned brighter than the terror that my father had allowed into our land.

Until the rumors of his cruel actions behind closed doors began to spread.

The help always gossiped against themselves and no one truly paid any mind.

That is until evidence accompanies these rumors.

My mother did well to hide what she could but once again there was only so much that she could do to protect me. When my sisters came along, I presume that Anthony no longer felt anger towards her but instead towards me, the last reminder of the Failed King. I’d always had pitying stares and endured hushed conversations where my name slipped between their fingers as they whispered to each other.

Poor child.

I heard that she’s going to be married off as soon as possible.

I heard that she’s just as weak as her father.

Poor child.

I ignored them until I couldn’t anymore. I ignored them until I had been sent to live with a distant cousin to be “taught the art of diplomacy” and was told to never return to the palace. With this distant cousin, I did learn the art of diplomacy as planned but as the craft of cutting words and cunning actions. I’d grown rather talented at navigating the complicated relations of neighboring nations, so much so that foreign diplomats asked for me by name. My ability to seamlessly blend together warring cultures and broken bonds earned me fame beyond that of my late father. Of course like any wicked stepparent, Anthony demanded I return to court so that my talents may be best utilized to serve the nation.

What a wretched lie to shorten my leash.

So began my rebellion.

The older woman who is also my ill informed advisor, Pepper, stomps down the dim hall towards the grand battle room. Her reddish blonde hair hardly moves behind her as she makes a determined path to the king despite the curls it’s been styled into. It’s rather shocking to see her hair down at all considering she is usually the one to lecture me on the propriety of society and how as a member of the royal family, I must uphold that. After she’s red in the face and moments away from exploding with fury, I like to remind her that I’m the forgotten eldest daughter. No one thinks of me as the face of this family or that of modern society either.

Despite its name, the battle room cannot be considered grand by any stretch of the imagination. Much like the rest of the palace, it is old and worn from economic fatigue. Where gold used to be brushed across every inch, there are now only flecks of lackluster yellow. Where towering windows used to bathe the halls in sunlight, there are now curtains drawn to prevent the Dragonborn from seeing movement within the palace. There is no finery to be seen and what was once a regal sight to behold is the stark reminder that we are at war with enemies who have every advantage.

With a deafening boom, ragged guards who’ve past their battle prime push the battle room doors and alert the king to our arrival. Pepper stomps right to where the king is sitting among pillars of maps and letters and whispers something in his ear. I don’t need to know whatever lies she’s telling him because his expression tells me enough. His ever present scowl deepens when he looks up and settles his disgusted gaze on me.

Dust swirls from my skirts as I shift on my feet and hit the wood paneled floors beneath me with a silent loudness as he stares at me.

A single question hangs in the air as he attempts to peer into my soul, “Were you aware that the Dragonic bastards were planning to create an alliance with the Elven counsel?”

Of course no warm welcome or small talk. Straight to the heart of the reason he even dragged me back here in the first place.

“Was I aware of this alliance?” I calmly restate, arching a brow at the man who sits high on his worthless throne and judges me. “Had I been, I would have informed you the instant I knew, your highness.”

In truth, I had heard snippets of clipped conversations about something brewing between the two nations but nothing raised concern within me. Rather nothing could’ve convinced me to speak to this man willingly.

The throne is a disgusting sight to behold with its mangled wood and tattered black cloth that flows in the still wind behind it. Black as night and deafening as the ever present silence that fills when you’re dying, this throne is what haunted me as a child and whispers promises of my demise now as an adult. The throne smiles when it senses my anger and the man who is occupying it becomes a conduit for its emotions as that familiar sinister glint flickers in his dark eyes.

Anthony throws a glance to the dust that has fallen around me with disappointment before speaking, “Do not play games with me, child.”

My eyes narrow at his choice of words.

“I assure you,” I start as I take a step forward as the heels of my boots make light taps on the wood, “I am not playing games with you. As I said before, if I had heard anything about this rumored alliance then you would have been made aware as well but alas I did not know.”

Anthony’s hollow chuckle causes my hair to stand on end but my face is schooled into perfect indifference. I allow my expression to portray only mild concern for the safety of our nation and that gets under his skin more than anything.

“If that is the position that you wish to maintain, then so be it.”

I roll my eyes at him and his flash with rage for a brief moment. The king settles back into his chair as he smirks at me, “you are my most sought after diplomat, are you not?”

Where is he going with this? I think to myself while I nod.

“Of course you are. You have your father’s legendary silver tongue. I should think that you would be the perfect person to forge an alliance on the nation’s behalf.``

My heart stills while my body becomes completely frigid. Suddenly the thick fabrics of my skirts and tight corset are useless against the chill that has begun to creep up my spine. The king holds back an all out grin and clenches his jaw. The action tightens and sharpens his already pronounced jaw, giving him the appearance akin to a statue. A crown of graying black waves adores his head but it does nothing to soften the severe look on his tanned face. “I have arranged for you to travel to the Dragonic capital and broker a peace treaty of sorts between us and them. We cannot allow this war to rage on any longer if they intend to ally themselves with the Elven counsel. This nation will not survive.”

“You expect me to do what?” I snarl with a curl of my lip which sends the entire room on high alert. Pepper gasps as she steps behind Anthony and the guards have arranged themselves in a defensive circle.

The king on his feet in seconds, brandishing a dull sword and pointing it at me albeit still a safe distance away. My gaze makes a slow path from the pathetic sword to his furious face. It is not the first time that he’s drawn a weapon on me and I doubt it will be the least.

“Your father is the reason this nation is all but decimated and it will be you who corrects that mistake. You will do as I demand of you and you will do it well if you wish for your mother to live.”

“You would not dare.” I hiss at him as I step closer. He steps back and says my name but I interrupt him with a roar of anger.

“You cannot expect me to willingly walk into a viper’s den, provoke the beast within, and survive, let alone make it obey me. You must know that this means almost certain death for me and I will fail. It is an impossible task, your highness. I will not do it.”

He hesitates, something that I haven’t seen him do ever, and I want to take pride in being the one to cause his hesitation but it’s short lived. His lip curls up into a nasty smirk as he sneers at me and circles his desk to stand mere inches from me.

“We might share blood but you are not my step daughter or family in any sense of the word. You are an abomination, a blight upon this earth. You are a dark stain in the fabric of our history and one that I will spend the remainder of my reign trying to scrub clean. You are a beastly girl who knows no discipline nor manners and nothing can forgive the torment that you've put this court through. Understand that is a blessing and that I should sentence you to death outright for simply being the offspring of the Failed King.”

Too caught up in the king’s self-serving monologue, I’d failed to hear the sound of thundering wings and the dreadful slap of scaled boots marching towards the battle room. I’d missed how the palace seemed to shrink around us in fear while its enemy stormed its halls with permission. I’d missed how only Anthony and I remained while the others had fled for their safety. I’d failed to notice that the air grew hazy and thick with smoke instead of tension as I had assumed.

Just as I catch the scent of burnt embers, I turn to glance over my shoulder and see the most important thing that I had failed to notice; a knight clad in iridescent black armor who is standing just behind me.

Towering above everyone and everything in the room, the knight seems to be almost double the size of any mortal man I know. As I spin to face it, the hulking frame shrouds me in complete darkness. My eyes make the nearly seven foot long ascent to where a face might be if it weren’t for the helmet that chills me to my core as I recognize it.

It’s the helmet of a Dragonborn knight.

They all wear the same sleek black helmet that resembles their beastly forms; six large horn-like spikes that stretch from the sides and top while the chin comes to a narrow point like a dragon’s nose. The helmet is otherwise plain with engravings or markings to decorate it aside from two sets of ruby glass eyes that stare down at me. It covers the knight’s entire face and head, leaving not even a sliver of skin or strand of hair to be seen. Save for the nature creases where the armor is cut to allow for movement, it lacks any decorations or embellishments much like the helmet. I’d once been told that it’s iridescent quality was due to the fact it was made from their dragon form’s scales instead of metal like mortal knights’ but I’ve never been close enough to one to ask. This is the first time I've been close to a Dragonborn at all, knight or not. My father had allowed a handful of their diplomats into the palace before his death but they’d used they’re mortal forms and only stayed for however long was absolutely necessary. I scarcely remember them aside from their silently menacing presence that would engulf rooms before they walked in and the scent of burnt embers that clung to their skin. Aside from those few past encounters, my knowledge comes from the journals I’ve snuck into the palace but nothing would’ve prepared me for this moment.

The knight simply stares down at me with those double ruby eyes before lifting its head to look at Anthony. With its gaze off of me, I look around it to see that there are only three more Dragonborn knights. Given how hostile our nations’ relationship has been, I would’ve expected to see a small army. Instead it seems that their leader did not think they would face much resistance or maybe these knights are more vicious than I’d been led to believe.

Anthony lets out a shuddered breath before he speaks, “You will leave with them in two days time.”

The knight glances back at me. The clawed gauntlets that cover its hands make a small noise when they come to rest on the hilt of a onyx greatsword. It stiles a cord of deep rooted terror within me that I can’t stop from setting ablaze to my nerves.

they’re not like us

they’re not like us

they’re not like us

It echoes throughout my mind while we stare at each other. The knight cocks its head and I can only assume it's studying me as I am it.

Anthony’s unsteady footsteps stop me from getting caught up entirely in the knight before me.

“She’ll never forgive you,” I whisper without looking away from the knight. I don’t need to look to know that my cowardly stepfather is retreating to safety and leaving me with these monstrous knights.

“She’ll be more thankful that her true daughters are alive.”

The other knights approach us, causing Anthony to let out a shaky chuckle in fear and stumble as he steps back.

One speaks, his gravelly voice rumbles the walls of this weak palace and shakes dust all around us, “The binding ceremony will take place tonight. Have you made the preparations as requested?”

I hear Anthony mumble something along the lines of ‘yes’ with a rambling of nervous explanations. The only words I can focus on are “binding ceremony”. They fall off my tongue in confusion and disbelief without me realizing.

“For your protection,” another more guttural voice answers. It’s quieter, one could not call it gentle but the low tone might be considered such to their kind. The knight before me waits for me to say something and when I don’t, he adds, “you will be safe with us. No harm shall befall you under our guard.”

A sarcastic chuckle wants to spill out but I keep my lips sealed. Safety is an illusion for any member of the royal family and it’s one that I saw through many years ago. I have no doubt that the knights will protect me as long as I prove useful but the moment an alliance is forged, that protection will end. Anthony will kill me the moment I step foot back into his nation and I have no allies of my own to rely on me.

The reality of this cruel world is more evident than ever before; I must find a way to secure my own protection and I will do that by whatever means necessary.

[thegnomelord]

Shark

- 🦈

(WOBSVHDVUH. HOLY MOTHER OF SHARKS. HOW DO YOU WRITE SO GOOD. Gosh you, darn you, daum you. Fuel my god daum brainrot.

Now im thinkin of angst. DONT WRITE IT, I CANNOT HANDLE YOUR WRITING IN ANGST. THIS IS JUST A BRAIN BLURB.

Price is close to death whether it be the ultimte battle between the destruction of all that can die or of a horrid enemy, they have yet to defeat.

Price is alive, but too far to be ever saved. The boys want to summon their captain's ole friend, to say a well had goodbye, maybe even save him. But no books, no scrolls, nor anything etched in stone on the surface depicts them. Nothing.

Price dies knowing hes lived a good life, praying to all the gods that his beloved eldritch dosent destroy the surface he called home.

The only way the poor eldritch finds out, are when Prices ashes are swallowed by the waves.

In every storm, waves tower over the heights of skyscraper, to the point not even those that could fly can cross. Death is quick when it comes to the ocean, like it trying to collect all power it can withhold. Creatures are cruel when it comes to what has killed their gods beloved, relentlessly acttacting what they can. Sharks are rare, to the point their sighting have come near myth or legend. Yet, they will always come come towards any that is draconic for they miss them. Ocean creatures, humanoid or not, would cry with no control, close to fire, dragons or smoke. They grieve. They all grieve.

But, Dragons seem to live longer when close to the waves. Saving them in dire situations when the fall from they sky, wounds healed when submerged in the salty sea. Even if you were pure fire, absolute whole magma. You'd be saftely cradled in any and all water. Water is the safest, the safest they have ever felt in all of their exsistence. They know this feeling, it is old, it is familiar, it is embedded in blood.

For the ocean rembers, it always remembers.)

Okay honestly your brain farts are always so good but. . . But . . . I'm so sorry sharky. This came to before you even wrote your ask and now I have to do it, you're just the sacrificial goat. . .

CW: SFW, angst, made myself cry :/ Got some idea inspo from @heliumknife

John Price doesn't die on a notable day. He doesn't die on the day of reckoning, doesn't die on the day fire rains from the sky and blood muddles your oceans, doesn't die alongside human gods, doesn't die on the day he may meet what made him and hear he was a good man.

John Price dies on a regular Tuesday night.

Not even a blip on the radar.

Having saved the oblivious world yet again he retches a bloodied cough as he stumbles on the beach he'd ended up on. His legs give out, the course sand rubbing his skin when he falls, red blood slowly seeping between the grains. Distantly he can hear his boys calling for him, watching the waves wash onto the shore, the tide too low to reach him; too low for you to sense him.

He can feel Gaz scrambling to stem his bleeding, Soap desperately searching through the first aid kit, Ghost barking on the coms that Price is hit. And as the world begins to grow quiet, the low murmur of waves washing upon the sand filling his ears, washed up amber glittering in his blurring eyes, the scent of seaweed and brine filling his rapidly slowing lungs—

Price smiles — he'll slumber with you soon.

Only when the morning tide comes in do you sense his blood, do you rouse from the depths like lightning, waking from a nightmare to find it has followed you to the waking world.

You're too late.

Like always.

He's so still.

Peaceful — worry lines and wrinkles smoothed out and face relaxed you could delude yourself into thinking he's just sleeping. Oh those dragons with their slumber; he'll grumble when you go to wake him, demanding five more bloody minutes of your attention as if he's the god here. Cling to you like a barnacle and growling like a kitten until you give in and lay down next to him. Give a rumbling purr and laugh at how he got a god wrapped around his finger until you shut him up with a kiss.

But you can't.

Your vessel's eyes keep darting to the blood staining his clothes, the crusted red lines trailing from his lip down his chin, the stillness of his chest, the silence.

They tell you John Price died protecting his team from a brutal foe. John Price died protecting the world. John Price died protecting the very people who in your recent shared memory had been happy to sharpen sticks and melt rock into to steel all in an vain attempt at glory. . .

John Price died a hero.

Your John died.

And you weren't there.

"Hey. . ." You look at Gaz when he speaks, standing on the opposite side of the medical table they've laid his body on. ". . .I know you two were, close." He chokes up, voice rough and nasally, fresh tear tracks staining his cheeks.

You envy him for it. For once you wish you were the ant on a circuit board instead of it's maker, just so you could see the world like they do, mourn like they do — open, visible, showing you cared, showing he wasn't just a toy in your sandbox. That Price was the voice you'd hear when loosening the noose of the rope, the beckoning call beyond the reach of your waves, the one that held that wretched excuse you call a heart.

But you can't.

All your treacherous vessel manages to achieve is a small dip in the corner of your lip. "So were you." Your voice is low and garbled like you're drowning, the rumble of icebergs scraping on the ocean floor filling the silence behind each syllable.

Gaz flinches like he'd been slapped, unable to look at the man he loved as much as you did. "Yeah," His gaze flickers everywhere like fleeing fishes in a reef, "I'm sorry." He blurts out.

"Don't be." You don't look at him, your cold hand reaching out to trace Price's jaw, coarse beard scratching your flesh. "You loved him when I couldn't." A part of you wants to be angry at Gaz for harboring John's affection and attention, that it's not fair for him to be able to mourn when you've known your John long before Athenians and Spartans decided to throw hissy fits in your waters. But you can't call yourself a lover he deserved when you met him so rarely, a blink of the eye for you and a century passes.

"Are you going to kill us now?" Kyle asks, not scared, as if he's expecting it.

It shames you, but you thought about it; of sea life growing gigantic and voracious under your influence, of making the sky weep in your stead, of violent waves rising up and devouring the planet for taking away your world. What's the point of it's existence when the one who made it shine has been snuffed out?

"No," You sigh in resignation. You can't, not while there are still people and places John loved, not while vestiges of him remain. You can't kill what's left of him, protect them like you couldn't do with him.

Gaz tells you they plan to cremate him in line with dragon customs, only to take a step back when you pick your John up to cradle in your arms, his loose wing draping over your shoulder, his head resting on your shoulder, nose buried in your neck as if he's scenting you once again.

"I'll come to collect the rest of you when you pass." You say before disappearing with Price, because if you had to answer Gaz's questions — Why are you taking his body when you weren't even there when he died? Why do you act like you care when you saw him so rarely? Why are you taking him away from Gaz when he was the one who loved Price? What gives you the right? — you would have drowned a country.

Water rushes around him the moment you are back in your element, holding him in a cradle made of your waters like the first time he'd fallen into the ocean so many millennia ago. Water bubbles escape his open mouth as your waves caress and kiss each inch of him, crusted blood muddling the brine around him as you pull him as close to your real body as you can.

Searching.

You can feel his soul once your waters have kissed every inch of his skin, faint yet stubbornly clinging on somewhere in the aether, no doubt giving Death a headache.

You were once a soul too were you not? Just a dead thing too dumb to know it died; somewhere deep beneath the individual writhing sharks and decaying corpses and fossilized bone making up your body resides your original one, nothing but a chunk of rock with the imprint of what you had as a skeleton at the time.

For if Death doesn't come to claim it, a soul won't die until the body's gone. You had slipped past the cracks, grew fat and large on the other souls until Death could no longer touch you without fear of being swallowed whole.

You doubt it would let Price slip through like it had with you, fortunately you put claim on his soul long ago. You swim to the deepest part of the earth where burning geothermal vents spew minerals into freezing cold waters, where you slumber and feed on the souls of the dead.

You curl around him, living and dead bodies parting until Price rests wrapped around the oldest part of you.

Embracing you like he always wanted to.

He waited so long for you.

Now it's your turn to wait. This time you will be there.

And if the oceans above rage for months, if the season long rain floods the streets, if the weather makes it so that in the crushing depths no one can pick out your tears from the ocean brine, all the better.

[railingsofsorrow]

do you need me?

[spencer reid x reader]

summary: the one where emily's death takes a toll on you. based on the prompt “don't come over, I can handle it.” from this prompt list.

pairing: s.reid x gn!reader

w.c: 3.5K

warnings/content: mentions of skipping meals; grief; mourning the loss of a friend; jemily (implied); blood; non-graphic descriptions of violence; character death (mentioned/not the MCs); addiction; intoxication; survivor's guilt; crying; unhealthy coping mechanisms; this is... heavy, be aware.

A/N: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!! I wish that we all have an amazing 2024. here's the blurb you voted for. hurt/comfort at its best <3

navi

masterpost

cm masterlist

would you like to enter my taglist?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝ it did not kill me and it did not make me stronger. it simply was and always will be scorched upon my heart. ❞

— d.j

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You don't know who took Emily's death the hardest. Pain is not something that can be measured or compared, people deal with it in different ways. Some are quieter in their grieving, others are loud. And although each one of your teammates knows how to compartmentalize their feelings, there was a fog in their eyes, a heaviness in their shoulders more than usual. Things you could relate well after all that has happened. You wish you didn't. You wished all of that was just a strange and far-off memory.

JJ was different — you noticed it during one of your night outs.

Penelope had forced everyone to hang out after a case, to relax. It had been a few months after what happened to Emily and the team was still... sore. Rightfully so.

Hotch and Rossi left earlier, leaving you, Derek, Spencer, Penelope and JJ at the bar. The only ones who weren't intoxicated were you and Spencer. You were pretty sure the conversation Penelope and Derek were having in their own little world was not PG-13, anyway.

“Do you think she's alright?”

Spencer asked, casting a look towards JJ. It's been half an hour she was nursing a glass of water — you had purposely brought her this one since she'd lost count of her shots —, staring at it with her stare unfocused.

“She will be.” You had said and when he told you he was leaving, you asked if he wanted a ride home. You hadn't drank anything but orange juice. He refused it, hugged you and, before he left, he demanded that you'd let him know once you got home.

You ended up being JJ's designated driver that night.

It was when you first saw a crack through the mask she had put on. Emily and JJ shared a deep bond. You knew their friendship wasn't just friendship, even before Emily had revealed to you that she had feelings for the blonde a while back. When Emily was gone, you saw how JJ took it hard. Not that everyone else didn't as well, but the love from each person in the team carried for Emily was different from the love JJ had for her.

Between the gibberish she was mumbling in the passenger seat of your car, she let escape a faint “I miss her”. Her voice cracked and your heart ached.

“D’ you think...” She muttered as you were helping her into her bed. “D'you think she miss— a hiccup — misses us?”

You refrained from saying that dead people cannot miss anything. Instead, you waited for her to fall asleep, placed a cup of water and aspirin on her bedside table before leaving her apartment.

She pretended nothing happened in the next day and you did the same.

You thought JJ had it worst, until Spencer showed up at your door at 3 a.m craving for something he hadn't touched in three years.

Again, pain is not comparable. One does not hurts more than another; people deal with their hardships in life differently, even if they have gone through the same life-changing event.

Some let it show, others just know how to hide it better. You no longer knew if you were the former or the latter through the eyes of your friends.

The current case you were working on had rendered you mentally exhausted. A victim had been taken hostage and for two days you tried to negotiate with the unsub, but to no avail. You almost had it. Almost. When you thought you had succeeded in releasing the woman, she was shot right in front of you.

She died in your arms and there was nothing that you could have done to prevent.

Or was there?

There was nothing that you could have done. You have heard that before. Countless of times. People tried to inject that into your head as a way to make you feel better. And they have their best intentions, you do not doubt it. But it was no use if you couldn't bring yourself to believe these words.

This was just one of those days, when you didn't know how to cope with that overbearing sadness that crippled your mind.

There was nothing that you could have done. There was nothing that you could have done. There was nothing that you could have done. There was nothing that you could have done. There was nothing that you could have—

“Hey.”

You flinched, startled at the voice. As you came back to reality, Spencer turned up in front of you.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” His face twitched into a grimace.

You cleared your throat, placing your stuff in your bag. You were so distracted that you didn't realise you had been holding the bloodied shirt you were wearing in the morning; you shoved it inside carelessly. I'm gonna burn it.

“You didn't,” you said. “What's up? I thought you had left already.”

Spencer leaned on the door, fingers playing with the strap of his satchel as he waited for you to leave the room. He followed you to the corridor, an unspoken silence that said a million things. His fidgety hands weren't just mindlessly stimming, he was nervous.

Everyone else seemed to have left, meaning the bullpen was fairly empty. You wondered how long you stayed frozen reminiscing as the minutes went by.

“I was waiting for you.” He responded as soon as the elevator doors closed.

You turned to him with widened eyes. “Why? I'm sorry I kept you waiting—”

Spencer quickly waved you off, “It's alright.” He gave you a soft smile. The one you felt warm inside. “I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

Oh.

“Of course I am.” You replied and you really hoped the tight smile you gave him was convincing enough for him to not question further. You weren't sure if you'd be able to not crumble down completely if he asked again.

“Are you sure?”

Damn, Spencer.

Yes, everything is good. I just need to get home, take a shower and have a good night sleep without interruptions.

Everything is good.

You don't know how many times you repeated that until he walked alongside you to the parking lot.

Arriving home was all that you needed to let your armour aside. God you were so tired. You didn't even reach your bedroom before the tears came like a waterfall. Falling into your couch, with no strength to stand, you finally stopped fighting against the sadness and let it lead you for the time being.

It's hard trying to be strong all the time, isn't it? Not admitting you need someone to be there for you because you only know how to be there for people. You tell them it's going to be okay. You let them be vulnerable. You say it's okay to not be okay.

Why can't you treat yourself the same way you treat the people around you?

You count every raindrop falling down your window, it helps you focus on reality. It was grounding and a few minutes later you have stopped sobbing your heart out.

It was raining hard outside. When you open the window, the cold slips right in and you stay there, enjoying the wind pushing your hair back.

You dial a familiar number tonight. And you don't hang up after two rings. You think about doing it in the fourth, but the person picks up, apologizing before they say hello.

It actually makes your lips twitch slightly. You don't smile, but you feel like doing it after crying so hard.

“Spencer.” You say through the phone interrupting his incessant apologies for taking too long to answer, your brows creasing after you hear how strange your voice is. “You don't have to apologize. I was the one who called you at one a.m. Why are you even awake?”

“I was reading. Lost track of time. I— have you been crying?” Well, shit. Too much for thinking he wouldn't notice through the phone.

“Why do you ask?” You ask rather pathetically. Why did you call him? Why did you bother Spencer at one a.m when he could be sleeping? You should feel sorry for yourself. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called—”

“I was thinking about you.”

Your breath hitches. You close the window and sit back on the floor and you feel like crying again, you don't know why. Maybe it's his voice. Maybe it's the fact that he makes you feel everything that you're allowed to feel.

He takes your silence as his cue to continue. “I know how much you love thunderstorms so I...” he trails off as if he's uncertain about what he will say. “I remembered you.”

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Spencer could take pride in saying he knew you better than anyone else.

He recognised the sound of your voice was different when your were excited about a particular topic and when you were discussing a case at work. He knew you brushed your hair behind your ear when you felt shy, but the same action could happen when you were uncomfortable. It heavily depended on the situation.

He was aware of your odd behaviour by the way you kept on touching your index finger throughout the day. The week, actually. Spencer could tell you were bothered by something, he could tell you were deeply upset. You skipped breakfast and you never had lunch with them. Not that past week.

And judging by the dark circles around your eyes, you weren't sleeping well either.

He saw himself in you a month back.

See, Spencer was the kind of person who didn't like being vulnerable around anyone. If anything, he mastered the act of not communicating his feelings, he just expected them to disappear, which didn't happen but he was getting better at understanding that.

After Emily's passing, the only one he opened up to was you. And it was the hardest and best choice he ever made. You made him feel seen. It was so easy to talk to you about anything that he didn't notice until a few days ago that you were a very good listener. Not that he didn't notice that before, no, it was not that. But you just listened. You comforted. You held.

Spencer was really concerned about your coping mechanisms, because he knew he didn't have the most healthy ways of dealing with things. He hoped you were better than him. He hoped you didn't let it build up until you were suffocating.

So when you called him, he wasn't lying when he said he was thinking of you. His lie laid on the reading part, he was trying to fall asleep but his concern was keeping him up.

I'm here for you too. He wanted to say. Please, let me be here for you.

“I know how much you love thunderstorms so I...” He sat down on the bed, shifting until he found a comfortable position. “I remembered you.” This is what he started with.

Your ragged breathing through the line cut off his rational thinking. So you have been crying.

He called your name softly.

“Hi. I'm here.” You say, forcing out an exhale.

“Talk to me.” He pleads.

He hears a faint sniffle, “I'm here, Spencer.”

No, you're not. You're far away.

“I'm here too. You know that right?”

“It's been a hard week.” You admit through your shaky voice. “I just needed to hear your voice.” You cut him off quickly. “I know that I saw you a few hours ago, but I—”

“Do you need me?” He was the one who cut you off this time. He couldn't bear you explaining the reason you called. You could call him as many times as you wanted. Every five minutes, every second. He wanted to tell you he missed you when your shift was over for the day even if he spent the entire day by your side, and that you never ever could bother him because he cherished your company. He wanted you close. And he just wanted you to be okay now.

“... It's one a.m, Spence.” There is some shifting through the line, sounds like you were moving around. “I— I can handle it. It's fine.”

“Do you need me?” He repeats, shuffling out of his room to the living room. He couldn't care less that it was one a.m. He found his coat hanged and didn't wait for your answer to put it on. Really, Spencer should have done it sooner.

He's half way on tying his left shoe when you breath out in resignation. Your voice much closer to his ear as if you were telling him a secret you should be ashamed of. “Yes. Yes, I need you.”

He let out a hum, standing up to grab his car keys and sprinted out of his home to go to yours.

“I'll be there in ten.”

You lived twenty minutes away from him, but he'd make in ten. He wanted to see you. More than anything, he wanted to tell you everything that you hadn't heard when you were too busy comforting people instead of yourself.

He stops short before knocking on your door, deciding on sending you a text to let you know he was there so you wouldn't be startled at the noise. He didn't get to click send as the door was yanked open. Your bloodshot eyes and swollen lips are the first thing he sees.

“Hi.” He says, slipping his phone into his pocket. As soon as he did that, your arms envelope his shoulders which caused him to let out a sound of surprise, but he quickly recover and wraps his own arms around you, squeezing your shaky body against his. “Hi.” He utters into the croak of your neck, his hand trailing up and down on your back gently. “I'm wet because of the rain,” he apologises halfheartedly. “Sorry.”

The laugh he hears through your sobs might just have made his day.

He was cold immediately after you slips out of his arms. You pull him inside your place and shut the door, claiming you would be back with a towel despite his protests that he didn't need it.

Spencer lost count of how many times he visited your place. He knew every corner of your apartment, every place you left books that you keep losing when you didn't found them on the shelves, every painting and drawing you had on the walls. The ones he happily convinced you to put on because you made them and they were beautiful, you just didn't believe it.

The two of you spent long hours on your couch, either reading a book and saying your favourite quotes out loud or just watching bad movies and TV shows to pass the time.

He'd ramble on and on about the inconsistencies of any plot and you'd engage in his refutations until you'd disagree and some bantering ensued.

“Here.” Spencer turns around to see you offering a towel for him to dry off. The middle of your forehead furrows slightly, he feels the need to smooth it out himself but he refrains from doing so. “It's dangerous to drive when the weather it's like this. I'm sorry that I made you come all the way here for nothing.”

“Nothing?” He shakes his head as if it's the most absurd thing you've ever said. “You're not nothing.” He accepts the towel and what he recognizes is a jumper of his he must have forgotten a while ago.

When he's completely dry, he walks to the kitchen where you had ventured off to make some tea.

Two mugs are placed on the kitchen counter, the smell of camomile slowly filling the room. You are lost in your thoughts again, mixing the honey in your tea with a spoon for forty-three minutes, your gaze unfocused. Lost.

His fingerstips trails down your wrist to your hand, proceeding to take one of your hands in his, thumb running across your palm. “Can you please look at me?” He requests softly, head tilting until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It” are a lot of things. But he doesn't know if you feel comfortable enough to talk about all of them tonight. He'll just follow your lead and respect your time.

“I don't want you to see me like this.”

He feels your fingers tighten around his hand and he squeezes back as a form of reassurance.

“Like what?” He can't help but ask. Vulnerable? Human?

“Weak.”

“You could never be weak in my eyes.”

This time, he does smooth down the frown between your brows with his thumb, surprised that you don't reject his touch but welcome it by leaning into his hand.

Neither of you drink the tea. Instead, you move back to the living room, settling down on your couch. You end up cuddling, which wasn't strange because you have done it many times before. Now it just feels more intimate. His hold never strayed from yours. This time, he listened. He comforted. And he held you.

“I'm used to blood, we see it all the time.” you carry on, speaking directly to his chest as he looks down at you. “But I... My hands. There was just so much of it and I couldn't, I couldn't save her.” Your fingers play with the straps of his jumper to distract yourself.

There was nothing that you could have done.

“She knows you did everything you could.” Spencer reassures. He was well aware that you weren't just talking about the victim that you had lost today. “Wherever she is right now...” He lifts a hand to cup your face stroking your cheek with the utmost care in the world. “She knows.”

Your bloodshot eyes study him carefully, searching for any indication that could make you not trust anything he just said. He knew how hard it was to believe that you had no fault in the loss of a friend. Maybe if we had gotten there sooner... Maybe if we had figured everything out sooner...

A little bird told him once that you can't dwell on the past for long or else you'll be stuck in it. And those words — your words — helped on his healing process. He hoped he did the same to you now.

You were laying on his chest, one of your hands positioned right where his heart laid as your other arm involved his middle. His arm wrapped around you as his fingers were trailing up and down your back in the way he knew calmed you down. Spencer felt the most rested he hasn't felt in months and he wasn't even sleeping.

“Tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable.”

He shook his head in response, finding that statement completely absurd because it was not possible for you to make him feel uncomfortable. He's not a fan of PDA, but he found that he didn't mind it with you. So he lowered down on the couch, moving your body with his to be more comfortable, lips grazing your temple in a soft kiss.

“You're not.” He says brushing your hair away from your neck. Your eyes were shut and he could feel your breathing evening out. “Try to sleep a little.” He let out in a whisper to not disturb your peacefulness. He knew you needed it.

“Don't go.” You croak out, tucking your nose in the croak of his neck, breathing into him.

The corner of his lips quirk up. “I'll be here when you wake up.” He promises as thunder rolled outside. Fluttering his eyes shut when you have finally dozed off, he ignores the warnings in his head about sleeping on the couch and how bad it is for one's neck.

No, he could deal with that tomorrow. For now, he would just hold you.

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❝ all I know of strength, I have learnt from breaking. ❞

— sahiba

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taglist: @lilyviolets

[blancheludis]

Whumptober 2024 Day 10: "I can't think straight"

Fandom: Batman Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth Tags: Cuddle Pollen, Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Implied/Past Child Abuse, Implied/Past Prostitution, Family

Summary:

Jason knows what is going on. Someone slipped him a drug, the kind that leaves you awake and always wanting more, and set up a nice little roleplay fantasy with Robin and the fucking Batman. The thing is, he craves touch so badly, he cannot think of a way out. Too soon, they are in a car and it is too late to run.

(Only then Batman leaves all of his clothes on and does not demand anything of Jason. Maybe Jason does not know what is going on.)

- Jason, cuddle pollen and his family getting him through a hard time.

Jason is trying to be as still as humanly possible. Something is very wrong. Underneath his skin, his flesh buzzes, falling and rising in waves but continually insistent. Heat rolls through him, roaring at every touch, demanding more, hungry for something.

He has been drugged, that much is clear. His thoughts are sluggish and when he moves, his eyes have trouble following, turning every step into a stop-motion film with a lot of pictures missing.

He wishes suddenly, fervently, that his mother was still alive. She would know what to do, would be able to tell him whether to fight or to succumb. Because this, the hunger, is worrying.

Jason knows the kind of drugs that people slip into drinks to make others drowsy, pliant, knows the way limbs grow heavy and every pair of arms holding him upright is welcome. He knows that, afterwards, there is just enough memory left to feel ashamed.

This is different. If anything, he feels energized, ready to jump up and fly, ready to take something that is just out of reach, ready to be devoured by it.

He leans against a wall to steady himself, but the cold cement has him flinching back, too abrasive against his feverish skin. He needs something softer, warmer.

Jason breathes. He looks down at himself and sees red and green and - somebody put him into a Robin costume. He cannot think of a single reason for that to be a good thing.

"Robin," someone calls, voice low and gravelly. 

Jason's brain might not be in top working condition, but he knows what he will find when he looks up. And, yes. Batman. Or a pretender. Someone with a very specific fantasy in mind.

Batman reaches out and clasps a hand on Jason's shoulder. Immediately, thousands of nerve endings fire and the heat soars. More, he thinks. Before he even knows what is happening, he is pressed against Batman's side, some animalistic instinct inside him purring with pleasure.

He knows what is going on. Someone slipped him a sex drug, the kind that leaves you awake and always wanting more, and set up a nice little roleplay fantasy with Robin and the fucking Batman. Jason screws his eyes shut. He is actually very glad that his mother is dead, because no one should witness this.

"We're leaving," Batman commands and the hand on Jason's shoulder tightens, if not painfully so.

Jason nods, because what else is he going to do? Some deal apparently went down, no matter whether he was present for it. He is at least seventy percent sure that he is here not willingly, but when has that ever fucking mattered?

The world spins around him. The only thing he can clearly focus on is the point of contact where his body is pressed against Batman, warmth and want constantly firing, making him want to curl in on himself and, overpoweringly, get so much closer.

They walk. Jason is distantly aware of his feet moving, one step after the other, and then they stop. A car is in front of them and Jason knows this part. He gets in, immediately grieving the loss of body contact.

Soon enough, Batman slips into the driver seat. Strange. This would be much easier with both of them on the backseat, which - ah, does not exist. The motor comes to life with a quiet hum, the vibration echoed by Jason's bones.

Oh. They are going somewhere else. Don't ever let them get you to a secondary location, someone once told him. Probably someone well-meaning but otherwise completely uneducated in how real life works.

"Robin," Batman says, his tone sharp. It has Jason sitting up straighter on instinct. "Are you all right?"

What a stupid question. He is drugged, does not know how he got here or where here even is. Or what kind of job he got offered for.

"Yes." See, he can be polite. He can play his fucking part.

Except - is he supposed to initiate? In the car? Or wait until they are wherever they are going?

He is cold and his skin screams, demanding some kind of contact, so that makes his decision easy. Leaning over, he very deliberately puts a hand on Batman's thigh, closer to the knee, so he does not appear too eager. The muscles underneath his palm tense, and not quite in an inviting way, but the warmth is overwhelming.

He shifts closer. "I can blow you right here," he offers, his hand already looking for a way to get into Batman's costume.

The car comes to a stop so abruptly that Jason would doubtlessly have crashed into the console if not for Batman's arm shooting out to hold him back, muscles like iron, not moving an inch. The part of Jason's brain concerned with survival, drug or not, notes down that this was not a good idea; no more offers for blowjobs before they reach their destination. By far the bigger part of him, however, simply purrs in pleasure at Batman's arm in grabbing distance. The logical next step is to try to curl around it, chasing the release of endorphins.

"Robin." Where, before, Batman was sharp, he is now brittle. "Jason?"

That is not good sign. Real names mean something is wrong. Obviously, there was some kind of script and Jason mucked it up. Usually, these things are not so complicated.

"Sorry," he mutters, face pressed against Batman's arm. "Was I supposed to wait?" If at all possible, the arm tenses even more. "I can make it good, though."

With firm movements, Batman pushes Jason back into his seat. When he makes to pull his arm away, a truly pitiful sound escapes Jason's throat, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. Batman freezes and then, mercifully, leaves his arm where it is. Jason does not hesitate even a moment to make the best of this situation and rearranges himself into the best snuggling position he can while in a car. It probably does not look very sexy, but he already offered the blowjob and even that is honestly more than irresponsible while driving.

The car starts moving again and Jason tries to see where they are, but the stop-motion thing is still going and his position does not offer the best view anyway. He will just have to trust that they will let him out again once the job is over. Or that post-drug Jason will find a way. He usually does.

---

Despite every lesson he ever learned, Jason falls asleep. The next thing he knows is that Batman is carrying him. The body armour is anything but comfortable but the drug apparently does not care much because Jason's skin is singing, soaking up warmth like this is his last opportunity to do so ever. Which he hopes it is not.

"We're almost there, Jason," Batman says in his low rumble, which warms something entirely different in Jason, some spot behind his sternum. "You'll be all right."

As long as they keep touching, yes, he definitely will be.

He can barely spare any thought for their surroundings, only that this very much does not look like a bedroom. The craving gets worse, however, so he does not care whether they end up on a bed or anywhere else as long as they finally get to it.

Then there is a couch, which Batman sets him down on, way too gentle for someone with that mass. When he withdraws, Jason does that whimper again, but it is only for a moment, then Batman sits down next to him, pulling Jason into his side. They are both still wearing too many clothes, but the buzzing inside Jason gets bad enough that he can barely hear himself think.

"What happened?" a different voice asks, appearing out of thin air for all that Jason knows.

He does not look up. If this is going to be a three-way thing with Batman and Nightwing, he does not want to know. Introducing panic into this scenario will not make anything better. He is not sure why else there would be a third person here. It might be the pimp who sold Jason. Might be someone with worse drugs to give to him.

"Some kind of drug or pollen," Batman says in his deep rumble. Jason notices the vibrations in his chest more than the actual voice. "I'll get a blood sample and see what we have on hand."

There is some rearranging Jason and a slight sting, but then Batman just holds him in this kind of side embrace for a minute, warm and solid, not demanding anything for now.

"Is he all right?" the other voice asks, sounding closer now.

"He cannot be left alone. He needs body contact."

Jason snorts at that, tries to muffle the sound against Batman's side. Body contact. This sounds like a line out of a very bad porn clip. Oh no, the poor kid is sick, he needs to be warmed up with body warmth while naked.

A sudden thought stills him. If this sounds like very bad lines in a script, it is entirely possible they are filming this. Even drugged out of his mind, Jason knows he would never agree to that. His life already is a shitshow, he does not need any more physical evidence for when he finally makes it out of there, out of Crime Alley, and into a better life.

He struggles - or tries to. His skin screams when he withdraws from Batman, distracting him enough that he does not notice that the other voice apparently does have a body and has sat down on Jason's other side. He freezes, tries to think. But the other person is not wearing body armour and he is so, so warm. Later - if there is a later - he will curse himself thoroughly, but right now there is nothing he can do as his body moves on autopilot, seeking out this new heat source.

The person hums. It does not vibrate as much as when Batman does it. "Cuddle pollen, then?"

There is a woosh of fabric and a black shadow moving at Jason's side. "We are not calling it that," Batman says, sounding ridiculous in his indignation.

"Master Dick seems to disagree."

Master Dick? Okay, okay. Definitely bad porn. Also worrying, because now there is a third john he has to worry about, even if he is apparently not here yet. Those are the worst anyway, always coming in when things are winding down, all hungry and still full of energy.

"Alfred."

Jason does not know what to think anymore. What kind of scene is that? Batman and Robin make sense. Master Dick might make sense but in a completely different scenario. And then someone named Alfred? Nobody has even removed their clothes yet. Nobody does any touching other than hugging.

"So, he is not in any immediate danger?" Alfred asks, shifting so Jason can fit more comfortably against his side.

"No. Stay with him," Batman orders. "I'll be back shortly."

And Batman leaves. What are they waiting for? Is the drug going to make Jason worse?

Jason looks up at the man holding him and is taken aback once again. He is old, wearing a suit, and looks down at Jason with unexpected softness.

"No offense, sir," Jason says, knowing better than to speak but unable to stop himself. Things are just too weird. "But I thought I was here for some Batman-Robin roleplay, not to fuck a random old guy." 

Too bold, too crass. Alfred's face falls, and although he recovers quickly, the damage is done.

"We will have a talk about that once you're back to yourself, Master Jason. Nobody will touch you in that way, I promise you that."

Jason does not know this guy, does not know what is going on. Yet, he finds himself strangely soothed by the words, relaxing into Alfred's loose, fully-clothed hold.

---

He drifts off again, and then Batman is back. The sharp sting of the needle barely registers because all Jason's brain can concentrate on is Batman's big hand sprawled on his back, drawing circles that make fireworks go off in his brain.

"Now we just have to hold him." Batman says in his low rumble, growing tense when Jason shifts closer to him.

"No reason to sound so reluctant, Master Bruce," Alfred responds, still calm, still utterly non-threatening.

Batman makes a sound like he is choking. "You're not the one he offered to - offered sexual intercourse to, Alfred."

Alfred stills briefly, every muscle in his body going taut, belying his age. The moment passes. Alfred does not mention Jason's earlier slip of tongue. Maybe this is not porn, after all.

---

Jason wakes with a headache. He is still down in the cave, still wearing the Robin costume and - he is lying on a couch with Bruce? He stares at the strange scene with the nagging feeling that something is very wrong. That is until Alfred enters with a tray and three steaming mugs on it. Three. Meaning one is for himself. Meaning something is definitely wrong. He puts down the tray and pulls a chair closer. As he sits down, he notices that Jason is awake.

"Master Jason, are you feeling better?" Alfred greets him, the kind of intensity in his voice that is usually reserved for serious wounds or missions that went wrong in another way.

Jason does not feel wounded. Well, he is sore all over, but it feels like the kind of sore on gets during a fever not after a firefight.

"I'm fine," he says and attempts to sit up without jostling Bruce. Were they cuddling? 

Bruce might be a worse sleeper than Jason, though, because he immediately stirs, going from asleep to alert in no time at all. The first thing he does is seek out Jason, looking him over and reaching for his shoulder as if to make sure he is really there.

"Everything all right?" Bruce asks, neatly slotting in to a pattern that leaves Jason only more concerned.

"What happened?" he asks, also looking down at himself now. Perhaps he missed something. No, all limbs accounted for, no body part in more pain than the others.

"You don't remember?" Bruce narrows his eyes, somehow looking uncomfortable now. "You were hit with some kind of pollen."

"Cuddle pollen," Alfred interjects helpfully, although he does not sound amused. Now that Jason thinks about it, neither of them look very happy. 

Then the words hit, and Jason's memory returns with a vengeance not long after. The drug, the hunger, offering to - So, that was not a nightmare.

"Fuck," Jason says, with feeling.

"Language," Alfred scolds him immediately, although somewhat lacklustre, like he is trying to hold onto normalcy but manages only barely.

It is not funny, but Jason bursts out laughing anyway. He can admit to himself that it sounds slightly hysterical, and if he can hear it then Bruce and Alfred can, too, so he should really stop. He should really not make things worse. It is hardly going to get worse than him offering a blowjob to Batman, of course. He did not even do that the first time they met, when he thought Batman would make him disappear or, worse, put him in an orphanage.

"Jason?" Bruce asks, too gentle for the situation. Jason does not want gentle. He does not know what to do with gentle.

"I'm sorry," he says, not quite sure what he is apologizing for. There is too much to choose from.

"You have nothing to apologize for, dear boy," Alfred says. He does a better job at looking neutral than Bruce does, but Dick often jokes that Bruce's face was made only for scowling.

Jason straightens, withdrawing completely from Bruce. There is no way he can have this conversation while touching the only positive father figure he ever had in his life.

"If I remember correctly, I offered to f-" he clears his throat, tries again. "I offered to sleep with you."

Nobody denies it. Nobody offers something to explain the ugly truth away. In fact, Bruce does something worse.

He asks, "Why?"

Alfred shoots a glare at Bruce but does not say anything. Clearly, he does not approve the bluntness of the question but wants to know the answer nonetheless.

What a way to go, Jason thinks. How could he even answer this? How far back should he go? Why people from Crime Alley who are drugged jump to the worst conclusion available?

He shakes his head, exhausted already. "I mean, it all made sense at the time," he offers and really does not want to go further. He has to, though, judging on the blank look Alfred and Bruce share. He drops his gaze, stares at his own hands as he wills them to stay relaxed. "I couldn't remember I was Robin, but I wore the costume and then Batman took me to his car. I knew I was drugged. That's honestly the only scenario I could think of."

That was not the answer anybody wanted to hear, even though it is not the worst he could give.

"And you just went along with it?" Bruce asks, sounding hoarse.

Perhaps Jason should remind them that Alfred brought drinks. Instead, he keeps his eyes down, unwilling to see their reaction to any of his words.

"I mean, have you seen Batman?" he scoffs. He does not laugh. It is not a joke. "Not like I could fight him off, drugged or not."

Tension thickens the air. When Jason chances a glance, Bruce's face has hardened into Batman's, at once impassive and thunderous. 

"So, you get dosed with an unknown substance and immediately think someone bought you for sex?" Bruce asks, voice deadly calm. And then again: "Why?"

Jason is very sure he is not the only one who fervently wishes they were not having this conversation. Yet, he is not brave enough to deny them answers. A part of him has always been waiting for Bruce to come to his senses and send him back to the streets. If he had had the full picture earlier, he might have never taken Jason in.

"You know where I'm from," he says trying for nonchalance but ending up desperate. "It's not exactly uncommon." Bruce knows that. They are fighting that every night.

Bruce inhales deeply, while Alfred is deadly silent. Jason does not dare to look up again.

"Has anything like that happened to you?" Bruce asks. His tone is not the one he uses for interrogations but also not the one for victims. Beyond anything else, Jason is glad for that.

Quietly, he says, "It happens every day, Bruce."

"That's not an answer."

As if Jason does not know that. Now, he does look up, fuelled by the hot, churning anger that helped him survive long, cold winter nights on Gotham's streets.

"Maybe I don't want to fucking answer," he snaps and cannot quite regret it. 

Bruce opens his mouth, but Alfred gets there first. "Master Bruce, enough."

First, Jason is grateful for Alfred's intervention, but then he actually looks at him and sees the concern, the grief, and knows Alfred will not let this go either but simply disapproves with Bruce's interrogation methods.

"I'm not broken," he says, raising his voice to almost a yell. "I don't need to talk about this. It's over. I'm here now." Although perhaps not for very long. Who wants a ruined kid?

"Nobody said you're broken," Alfred says, just as stern with him as he was with Bruce.

"You don't need to mince your words. You think you need to pity the poor traumatized Crime Alley kid." Jason is on a run now. He has become complacent here, feeling secure in the Manor when the first thing he learned about life is to never, ever let himself feel completely safe. He snaps his eyes to Bruce, accusatory "Did you think I was stealing your tires for fun? That's loads better than standing on street corners. Doesn't pay as well, of course. But that's all you'll ever hear from me."

Bruce's face grows, if possible, even more blank, every little thing he might feel pushed so far down that not a hint of it shows. "I just need to know if -"

But Jason is done. "You need to know nothing. My blood tests were clean.” Feeling more than a little petty, he adds, “And I rescind the offer, I do not want to sleep with you anymore. Happy?"

Nobody is happy, but Jason cannot feel guilty about it. This is his life, and if he does not want to talk about it with a sanctimonious asshole like Bruce Wayne, who is living in his Manor above all the stink of the city, that is his right.

"Jason," Bruce snaps. Once again, Alfred comes to his rescue.

"Enough," he thunders, looking at both of them in turn before settling on Jason. "Master Jason, why don't you go up to your room and get a shower. I'll prepare breakfast."

For a moment, none of them moves, suspended in the thick tension, unwilling to cede the fight, although Jason is not quite clear what fight they are having exactly. Is it just Bruce wanting to know everything that is going on, as usual? Or does Jason really have to fear for his place here?

Finally, Bruce stands, not even glancing at Jason. "Thank you, Alfred."

---

The door to Jason's room opens, not long enough after they all left the cave. Jason wishes he could be alone with his racing thoughts a while longer, but, at the same time, he is glad someone interrupted them. They tend to end in a spiral and pull him mercilessly down. 

"Master Jason, I'll put your breakfast on -" Alfred stops, noticing Jason on the windowsill.

Jason has not made it into the shower yet, has not even taken off his clothes. As soon as the door closed behind him, all energy went out of him, all fight. Bruce must think the worst of him, must wonder right now whether it was right to take Jason in. He cannot - he does not want to go back.

"It wasn't like that, Alfred," Jason says, small and quiet, still unwilling to talk about it but also knowing he cannot ignore it. If he can make Alfred see, then perhaps they can convince Bruce, perhaps Jason does not have to talk about it with him.

Alfred nods, but puts down the breakfast tray on Jason's table before coming closer. He silently gestures at the remaining room on the windowsill. Jason makes place for him gladly.

"Nobody is judging anyone here for what happened in their life," Alfred says once he is seated, looking at Jason without a trace of doubt in his expression. "Master Bruce is simply worried, but you don't have to talk about anything that you did or that was done to you ever. You can, if you need to, but we will not judge you either way."

Jason hums. He wants to believe Alfred, but he knows that Bruce never lets anything go. Except for, perhaps, talks about his feelings.

"Is he angry?" The words slip past Jason's lips without permission. He hates how he sounds, like a child left at a train station, wondering whether his parents will come back to him.

"No," Alfred responds immediately, leaving no room for argument. "Last night shook him. Us. But not because we're angry or because we think we have a right to know everything about you. We are worried, and we want to help."

Jason is silent for a long moment, wondering whether he could simply believe Alfred, whether that is something he is still capable of. Believing that some people are good and only want what is best for him.

"Do you want a hug, Master Jason?" Alfred then asks, open and gentle, utterly unafraid.

Jason tenses. "I'm not drugged anymore." There is no need to coddle him. No need to touch him after what he revealed.

"I know," Alfred says and shrugs like there is nothing more to it. "That is not why I asked."

"I'm not weak." What he means is that he does not want pity.

Alfred studies him, before saying, "Master Dick hugs people all the time. Do you think he is weak?" The worst thing is that he sounds so calm about it, like there is nothing wrong with making a false assumption.

Wordlessly, Jason shakes his head and watches as Alfred turns towards him and opens his arms, slow enough for Jason to protest if he wants to. He does not. Instead, he lets Alfred pull him into a hug. It is warm and soft and strong in all the right places. The pollen is gone, but Jason still feels the buzzing underneath his skin subside. He is safe. He is home.

"Thank you, Afred," he says, quiet enough that they can both pretend he said nothing.

Alfred, of course, does not. "Any time, my dear boy. Any time."

[ciaossu-imagines]

Ryohei Sasagawa and grief

Amazingly, I do think Ryohei, along with Lambo, are going to be the ones who are the best at dealing with any amount of grief they feel. Ryohei’s going to be one of the best at expressing any amount of grief he feels and at allowing himself to deal with it and can do so in surprisingly mature ways.

It really comes down to the fact that Ryohei is someone who is incredibly true to who he is as a person. He’s consistently himself, no matter what. It doesn’t matter what emotions he’s feeling or what is going on in his head. He doesn’t try to hide any of it. He lives his truth and lets everyone around him know just what’s going on with him. Because of that, when he is grieving, he allows himself to fully feel everything. He’s not going to put on a brave face and pretend he isn’t feeling anything. He’s not going to play pretend and fake like whatever is causing the grief didn’t happen. He’s going to talk about whatever situation is causing the grief; he’s going to be upfront and honest, at all times, about whatever he’s feeling during his grief cycle, in the simplest, most straight-forward terms. If he needs something from the people around him to help with that grief, he’s going to ask for it, if not demand it.

Despite being accused of being simple-minded or childish, Ryohei is actually a really mature individual in how he does process, show, and deal with his feelings and this helps him grieve in ways that not only speed the process along but leaves him without regrets or lingering feelings of that grief.

Ryohei is someone who gets easily attached to things and people. He’s a great big ball of emotions, someone who thrives on connections and pure love for life and all the things in it. Because of this, he’s prone to several small moments of grief. He cherishes everything that was made for him or specially picked out for him. He still has crafts that Kyoko made him back when she was in preschool, all displayed in his room as an adult. He’ll keep every ticket stub, photobooth picture, love letter, and memento from every date he’s gone on in his romantic relationships. All these little precious memories of his life mean a ton to him and losing any of those things would feel like the end of the world to Ryohei. He would freak out about it. No matter how much someone told him it really didn’t matter that much, he would not buy that. It matters a lot to him and that’s the only truth he’ll acknowledge. He’ll do everything he can to find the lost item, even roping his friends and his sister into helping him search for it. If he cannot find it, he will loudly proclaim how sad he is and will kind of beat himself up for losing the thing. He will insist on finding the person who he made that memory with and apologizing to them for losing that thing. It is not only a one-time thing that Ryohei has insisted on finding the new number for someone he dated five years ago just so that he can profusely apologize and ask forgiveness for losing something like a picture they took together on one of their anniversaries. He even tried his best to ask that ex if they still had a copy of it and, if so, could Ryohei get a copy of that picture? It’s really just what he knows he needs to get over that small moment of grief and to be able to feel better about it.

That tendency of listening to what he needs and finding the things that will make him feel better about the situations also applies for bigger moments of grief. When his first car stopped working well and he knew that it could no longer be driven, he was so sad. He was very attached to that car. It was his baby, he’d given it a name, and it had been his reliable friend in many ways. He was so upset and sad over knowing that he would never take any more trips in it. He allowed himself to cry a little over the loss and then, because he felt so strongly that his reliable friend and companion, Honda-kun the car, deserved a proper burial and send-off, he insisted that all of his friends, along with his parents and Kyoko, get together for a party where Honda-kun would be lit on fire (the fuel tank was thankfully emptied) after eulogies were given. He insisted that, after the eulogy, everyone pour a bit of their drink on the ground for Honda-kun and nobody was allowed to leave until the fire was a smolder (or until the neighbours called the firefighters to come put it out). When Gokudera made fun of Ryohei for crying during the send-off, Ryohei didn’t even let it get to him. He made it very clear that a proper man allows himself to feel sad when he’s sad.

For things like break-ups, that carry heavy emotional baggage, Ryohei finds himself grieving hard. He goes into every romantic relationship firmly believing that that is his one and only, forever kind of person. It’s just as hard on him to break up with them as it is for him to be dumped. He allows himself to cry. He talks to his friends about everything he’s feeling. He demands his ex hear out his emotions and seeks closure. He finds the things that will make him feel like he’s closer to being okay again, whether it be watching rom-coms with his sister, whether it be setting up as many boxing matches as he can, whether it be going to a speed-dating event at the urging of a friend, or whether it be taking the plunge and temporarily blocking his ex’s number. He allows himself the room and the space to get it all out. Hell, after a particularly nasty breakup, he allowed himself to just go for a run where he ended up just standing in the middle of a street yelling to the sky about everything he was feeling while he cried. Sure, the people who lived on the street yelled at him and threatened to call the cops afterwards, but emotionally, after doing that, he felt a little more healed and more level-headed so it was totally worth it to him.

Those big, unexpected moments of grief, like suddenly losing a loved one to death, are keenly felt by Ryohei. As mentioned, he’s someone who deeply feels whatever emotion hits them. With Ryohei though, he doesn’t deny that grief in any way. He loved that person in whatever form he loved them, be it as part of his family, as one of his dear friends, or as a lover, and now they are gone. It’s just not okay. He beats himself up – if he’d just been there, he could have saved them. He doesn’t know how he could have done so, but he would have. He openly weeps over their loss. He carries their coffin on one of his shoulders while sobbing. He sits in front of their tombstone or a little shrine to honor them and he pours his heart out about how much they meant to him. He tells them all the things he loved about them, all their favourite moments together, his words sometimes becoming unintelligible beneath the snot and tears that are flowing. He talks to his other precious people, opening up to them all his grief and thoughts and hurts about this death. He gets paranoid about the other people in his life leaving him – he starts calling everyone at least once a day, just to check up on them, make sure they’re healthy, are they eating well, please don’t die on him, he can’t lose anyone else. He tries a crossroads ritual from some foreign book that supposedly claims you can make a deal with a demon to get anything to try to bring his loved one back…it doesn’t work. He acts pretty crazy for a couple months but at the end of those couple months, he’s exhausted almost everything he needed to feel, and he works on starting to heal and rebuild his life. Thankfully, most of the people in his life are well aware of his eccentricities and have stayed beside him all that time.

[wifiwuxians]

Au where Baoshan Sanren didn't change XXC's eyes to Song Lan's

HO HUMMMM...

BSSR turns them away. she refuses outright to break her word, and, more than that, to harm someone she considers a son. she just can't do it. she can't spill XXC's blood. so he's gotta head down off the mountain again lmao with SL unconscious against his shoulder, because XXC doesn't want him awake for any of this so he's been giving him sleeping aid TM

when SL does eventually come to, it's in a little run down house that XXC is repurposing into a clinic so he can dig out his eyes himself and hand them off to his bestie once he can find someone willing to assist him for any price necessary. just a regular Tuesday. SL can smell all the medicine and he can feel all the open books and scalpels and shit and in that moment all his issues are completely exacerbated and he blows his top. but in a 'what the hell do you think you're doing here' way. demands to know how XXC could ever think blinding himself for him would ever fix anything or make him feel better, it would just cause more misery and pain and if it went wrong they'd both end up blind

XXC is eating himself with guilt, especially now that he's overwhelmed SL who is already grieving with even more shit to feel bad about, and SL is genuinely fighting with the urge to tell him to go away and just leave him alone and to not play god with him and his fate. he eventually realizes he cannot be alone as being alone would be so much worse even if the solitude would help him process or whatever. XXC doesn't know how to make it up to him and SL eventually has to swallow everything down and tell him it wasn't his fault. it takes a bit but it's basically just cutting out the 2 years of yi city lmao

SL just tells XXC to please be his eyes until he gets used to this new world and that they can navigate it together if he's willing to stay with him. XXC battles with feeling unworthy of that but still does as he asks, and little by little SL learns to navigate the world just as well as he would've when he could see. So it's a SL!XXC AU here because he gets to wear the blindfold!

SL also eventually confesses to having preferred being blind at first since he doesn't have to Literally See the world in which he lost all his family. he prefers the darkness. he's not plagued with images of their bodies as much as he thought he would be. instead, he sees what XXC tells him to see, and he's happy like that. as happy as he can be anyway. this also enables him to slowly become more comfortable with touch since he's one sense down

and whatever happens beyond that point is up to you...........

[kingedmundsroyalmurder]

AU game: the grandmother dies when Jane is ten 👀

Five fun facts meme. Interpreted as 'five things that would happen' because I don't know how many of these are, uh, fun. Also it's more than five, because I have no self control.

Jane goes to the funeral, of course. She does not cry. She wears a new dress that Aunt Sylvia bought her, when it became clear that Mother would not be able to pull herself together enough to handle the logistics of preparing her daughter for the funeral. Everyone keeps assuring Jane that the grief she feels is normal, and that she will feel better if she can cry and let out her feelings. She is given a week off school to mourn. Aunt Sylvia offers to let her stay over with them for a few days.

Jane does not tell anyone that, although she does not know the word for what she is feeling, she's pretty sure that grief is not it. She feels very dreadful indeed, that she cannot grieve her own grandmother.

The house on Gay Street seems to have died with Grandmother. Aunt Gertrude fades ever more into the wallpaper. She continues the routine perfectly, almost aggressively. It is as though Grandmother will return at any moment and Aunt Gertrude will not be the one to be scolded by her mother for letting the house go. Mother fades into herself. She stops going out, stops putting on her pretty, expensive clothes, barely leaves her room. She alternates between wild grief and furious merriment, dotes on Jane and refuses to see her each in their turn. Robin is devastated that her mother is dead. Robin is overjoyed that her mother is dead. Robin is finally free. Robin is more trapped than she has ever been.

It's Mary and Frank who keep the house going. Frank runs errands and takes Jane to school and sees to it that she has new clothes when she starts to outgrow her current ones. Mary keeps them fed and stocked and makes sure Miss Robin eats something every day. She lets Jane help her in the kitchen as much as she likes, because the poor child should have something to cling to, with her world in upheaval.

Irene Fraser learns that Victoria Kennedy has died. She makes some rapid calculations and decides that her brother must never know. If he is ever to move on from his youthful mistakes, he must never get wind that there is anything out of the ordinary in Toronto.

But Andrew Stuart bows to no one, and that spring he gets it in his head that he must see his daughter again. Irene tries to talk him out of it, argues and manipulates and, when all else fails, pleads with Andrew to leave the past in the past and let things lie. Andrew will not be swayed. He writes to his wife and demands that she send him their only child. 

Andrew's letter sends the house on Gay Street into renewed chaos. They had just started to claw their way out of the pit, to find a new balance and start living again. Aunt Gertrude continues to live by her schedule, keeping the house spotless and presiding over Jane's evening bible reading. But somehow, without Grandmother, she seems softer. Not more approachable, or kinder, or anything perceptible, but somehow Jane doesn't dread the evening bible session anymore. Mother, meanwhile, is slowly, timidly, starting to emerge from her overwhelming grief. She is fragile still, and rarely gets through the day without crying, but even that seems to soothe her. She doesn't go out, can't bear to face her pretty, glittering friends, not when her feelings are so big and so complicated and so overwhelming, but she resumes some of her correspondence. Jane is still dreadfully worried about her, and conspires with Mary to make all her favorite dishes. She asks Miss West if Jody couldn't come over in the afternoons, after the lunch rush, to sit with Mother and keep her company while Jane is at school, and Mother finds some life back teaching Jody to play the piano and taking her out for nicer clothes. Mary, who sees everything even if she doesn't let on, calls on Miss West and negotiates a fee for Jody's time, so that the poor girl won't find herself punished for wasting time.

When they receive Andrew's letter, they almost lose Robin again. Jane, who is by this point accustomed to thinking of herself as the secret head of the household, takes it upon herself to answer the letter. She shall not go to him, she writes. He has not wanted her until now, and she cannot leave Mother alone in her grief. Please do not write them again.

Andrew does not write to them again. Andrew goes to Toronto and knocks on the door.

It is very ugly, at first. Robin cries. Andrew demands to know why she didn't write to him to say her mother was dead. Robin, in a fit of bravery that could only be fueled by sheer emotional exhaustion, asks why he didn't write to her first, all those years ago, when she left.

The room goes silent. Andrew says he did write to her. Robin says she never got the letter. All three Stuarts, silently and with utter certainty, realize what must have happened to it.

In the end, Jane does go with Andrew to the Island. Andrew invites Robin along too, but she refuses. Better for father and daughter to spend time together without her, since she's had Jane to herself all these years. Privately, she knows that she couldn't bear to exchange so much as one word with Irene Fraser, not when she is so fragile and everything is so new. She and Jane write to each other regularly, and with no forbidden subjects. Jane discovers freedom, true freedom, on the Island, and Robin spends her time doting on Jody and, slowly, venturing out into the world. She wants to be brave for her daughter, wants to have things to write about that won't make Jane worry. To her own surprise, she realizes that, when she can set her own schedule, she does not mind going out. She missed the parties and the socializing, now that she can refuse an invitation when she wants to and choose for herself whether or not to spend an afternoon in. Robin and Andrew slowly get to know each other again, first through Jane's letters and, eventually, through their own correspondence. They continue writing after Jane comes back to Toronto for the fall.

That year, Andrew comes to Toronto for Christmas.

Next summer, Robin and Jody visit the Island for a few weeks.

Slowly, the family heals.

Send me an AU and I'll give you five an amount of things that would happen in it!

[janaknandini-singh999]

The Tragic Love Story of Aurangzeb & Hirabai Zainabadi Mahal

Aurangzeb's portraits may depict an austere man reading the Quran, but there once lurked in him a passionate young man who had considered the "world well lost" for the love of his life.

This story is not an average Valentine’s Day tale. It is about a love affair of a different kind, of a prince known today only as strong-willed, calculating and devoid of a loving bone in his body. It is about Aurangzeb falling in love at first sight.

In 1636, Aurangzeb was a prince and the Governor of Deccan. En route to Aurangabad, he stopped at Burhanpur to pay his respects to his maternal aunt, who was married to Saif Khan, the Governor of Burhanpur. What followed varies in detail in different tellings. But all of them agree that the austere prince fell in love at first sight with one of the women in his uncle’s harem. Her name was Hirabai.

Ma’asir al-Umara, written by Nawab Shams ud Daula Shah Nawaz Khan and his son Abdul Hai Khan, in the 18th century provides a detailed description of the episode:

“One day the prince went with the ladies of his harem to the garden of Zainabad Burhanpur, named Ahu-khanah [Deer Park], and began to stroll with his chosen beloved ones. Zainabadi, whose musical skill ravished the senses, and who was unique in blandishments, having come in the train of Khan-i-Zaman’s wife (the prince’s maternal aunt), on seeing a fruit-laden mango tree, in mirth and amorous play advanced, leaped up and plucked a fruit, without paying due respect to the prince’s presence. This move of hers robbed the prince of his senses and self-control.”

Despite his extremely religious bent, Aurangzeb was a connoisseur of music and a proficient Veena player. Hirabai’s looks, combined with her musical accomplishments, proved irresistible for the prince. He is said to have been so infatuated with her that he gave in to her demand that he taste wine. But before he could, Hirabai revealed that she was just testing his love for her.

A religious prince ready to taste wine, that shows the extent of his feelings for her.

Akbar, in his bid to regulate the harem, had ordered that all concubines should be named after the place they belonged to. So once Hirabai entered Aurangzeb’s harem she was called Zainabadi.

Grieving in solitude

In Ahkam e Aurangzeb, written in 1640, Aurangzeb’s biographer Hamiduddin Khan Nimchah recounts the Burhanpur encounter differently. According to him, the meeting took place when the prince entered the harem unannounced. He fell into a swoon and, on being asked by his aunt, described the reason for the malady and asked for a remedy. He was given Hirabai in exchange for one of his concubines.

The ensuing passion and infatuation is described the same way in Nimchah’s account.

It is said in Ma’asir al-Umara that Aurangzeb’s love affair proceeded to such lengths as to reach Shah Jahan’s ears. Dara Shikoh, who had no love lost for his brother Aurangzeb, is said to have remarked to their father Shah Jahan, “See the piety and abstinence of this hypocritical knave! He has gone to the dogs for the sake of a wench of his aunt’s household.”

But as destiny would have it, Hirabai did not live for long. Her death affected the prince greatly. She is buried in Aurangabad.

Ma’asir al-Umara records that Aurangzeb was so upset by the death of his beloved that he left the palace to go on a hunt. When reproved by the poet Mir Askari (Aqil Khan) for risking his life in that agitated state, the prince replied:

“‘Lamentation in the house cannot relieve the heart,

In solitude alone you can cry to your heart’s content.”

Aqil Khan then recited this couplet of his own composition:

“How easy did love appear, but alas how hard it is!

How hard was separation, but what repose it gave to the beloved!”

The prince could not check his tears. He committed the verses to memory after vainly trying to learn the modest poet’s name.

Incomplete portraiture

Niccolao Manucci, the Italian traveller and writer (1639–1717), too describes this period in Aurangzeb’s life:

“Aurangzeb grew very fond of one of the dancing-women in his harem, and through the great love he bore to her he neglected for some time his prayers and his austerities, filling up his days with music and dances; and going even farther, he enlivened himself with wine, which he drank at the instance of the said dancing-girl. The dancer died, and Aurangzeb made a vow never to drink wine again nor to listen to music. In after-days he was accustomed to say that God had been very gracious to him by putting an end to that dancing-girl’s life, by reason of whom he had committed so many iniquities, and had run the risk of never reigning through being occupied in vicious practices.”

Source: https://scroll.in/article/706290/how-the-heartless-emperor-aurangzeb-fell-in-love-at-first-sight

Picture: Mughal paintings

[melishade]

Oh my God, that deleted scene makes me think of how Pixis would react to Elita-1.

Previous Episode of the Beloved Timeline

Pixis would be so jealous, and so proud that Optimus managed to bag a woman like that. So proud.

So after Optimus and Elita have a really good cry session and hug at the fact that both of them are alive, they begin to talk about what exactly happened with each other and how they ended up here on this planet. Elita explains how the crew saved her life after she went into stasis lock, but the Decepticons attacked the ship with scraplets, causing the ship to crash land. But the ship fell apart and flung her into the water, sparing her the fate of getting eaten alive. But instead of going back to save the people on the neutral ship, she ran, and she had been running and surviving on this world for twenty years.

Optimus is absolutely devastated at the fact that Elita was all alone, and it's very apparent the horror and guilt is etched in his face. Elita has to prompt him to tell his side of the story, and Optimus explained what happened during the war, how he got the Matrix, fleeing the planet and ending up on Earth where the war continued. He tells her how the Autobots did win the war and how he had to sacrifice himself in order to ensure that the Well could create new life.

"So, I could very well be talking to a spirit right now?" Elita tried to tease, but Optimus could see the guilt and shame in her optics, trying to cover up her pain.

And both end up apologizing at the same time, which startles them both. They explain why they're apologizing. Optimus is apologizing for letting his anger get the better of him in that moment. For not realizing that she was in stasis lock and going into a fit of rage instead of grabbing her and taking her to safety. She wouldn't have been left alone, and it was his fault. Elita retorts by saying that he was grieving in that moment, and to know that she was loved like that made her spark happy. But Elita still has to apologize for not coming back. Not finding a way back to the war and back to Optimus. She had been scraping by to survive instead of putting her life on the line for the Autobot cause. Now to know that the war was over and that she didn't really do anything to stop it, on top of that, somehow managing to survive while so many more noble had fallen? Oh, it fills her with such shame and grief. Optimus has to tell her 'no'. It wasn't her fault. She couldn't have been able to control what had happened and how. She did what she had to do to survive. It happens in war. Maybe it was the part of him that was so happy to see her, but Elita is not feeling any better. 20 years of guilt doesn't go away.

"Optimus...I...I'm not the same person I was when we last saw each other," Elita proclaimed.

Optimus was stunned at the statement, but Elita merely chuckled at his confusion.

"I mean, look at me." Elita gestured to her faded armor, "I look like scrap. I haven't been able to talk to someone in 20 orbital periods. I'm...damaged."

"...I am not the same mech you once knew either," Optimus proclaimed, "The war has taken its toll on me. To lead and to guide has been...mentally draining."

Elita couldn't help but smile bitterly at that, the survivor's guilt eating at her.

"But...I cannot wait to learn about you all over again," Optimus declared with a small smile.

Elita stared at Optimus in surprise before she began to laugh, and her laughing caused Optimus to chuckle. Somehow them laughing together, ease the pain in their sparks just a little.

Meanwhile, the Survey Corps are still freaking the fuck out. Because WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S OPTIMUS' GIRLFRIEND?! Hanji demands to know why in the fuck Levi knew about this shit! And Levi explains that he knew after Levi's squad died because Optimus wanted to empathize with him. Also, how the fuck does Mikasa know?!

"Bonding?" Mikasa guessed, wiping her mouth of the water she choked on.

"So Optimus tells the two of you about his long lost love, but not me?!" Hanji exclaimed, "I am insulted!"

"Hanji, that's not even the point right now!" Levi reminded.

"It is very much so!" Hanji declared.

"Optimus has a girlfriend," Jean could only mutter, "I never expected someone like him to get...anyone. He just seems so quiet?"

"So does that mean that Optimus has had sex?" Sasha raised her hand.

"Sasha, what the fuck?!" Eren yelled, "That's not something I need to hear right now!"

"It's a simple question!" Sasha retorted.

"It's a gross question!" Eren declared.

"It is a valid question!" Hanji agreed, "Did Optimus get laid and how does it work?!"

Eren could only scream and cover his ears, trying to block out the mental image that was trying to form.

Everyone is just going through it, and it is something that takes up hours of conversation. The military heads do get wind of this because of the commotion it initially caused, but they don't know that Elita is Optimus' love. Out of respect, the Survey Corps will keep that under wraps, but they are certain someone heard it with all the commotion they created.

Optimus eventually does have to leave Elita for the time being to allow her to recover and to explain his absence. He tells the military that Elita is a high ranking Autobot that was considered deceased during the war and that the neutral ship that they found was the one that she was on before she got stranded on the island. He omits the fact that the two are in a relationship, which the Survey Corps are relieved about because they made the right call about keeping their mouths shut. When they hear the fact that she's been on this world for 20 years, they are understandably frustrated because she could've help, but Optimus says that she tried to come to the walls and was immediately met with cannon fire. So they all come the the conclusion that Rod must've covered it up. Optimus explains that for now, she needs to rest and recover and she will be caught up to speed about what their current situation is.

The military accepts this. The Survey Corps do not. Once the meeting is over, Optimus is immediately pulled aside in a makeshift classroom and the Survey Corps immediately sit down in anticipation for a god damn explanation.

Optimus took a deep breath. "You are allowed to ask questions."

Everyone's hand immediately shot up.

"None of which are inappropriate," Optimus declared.

Half of the hands went down. Optimus stared at Hanji as she kept her hand raised with a tight expression, tapping her foot on the floor.

"Hanji-,"

"Dear Optimus Prime," Hanji began with an innocent smile, "It's me. C'mon. You know my shit's gonna be inappropriate."

Honestly, Optimus should've expected this reaction.

Ymir and Historia kind of come into the middle of this, ready to give their own demands, but the bomb is dropped on them that Optimus has a significant other that's alive and is here right now. The two decide to politely sit and listen in, trying to process what the hell is going on.

(So it's gonna be just a little bit more before Elita is introduced to the Survey Corps because she just needs a moment of rest right now. And the Survey Corps are trying so hard to comprehend. But it's gonna be a while before other people find out too.)

[borntobekings]

Just barfing up a Fate/stay night fanfiction idea to work on refining and writing

Unlimited Blade Works True End. The action starts about twelve years later or so.

After the events of the visual novel, Saber and Archer disappear and so on, and Rin and Shirou go to London to train in magic so that Rin can teach Shirou to be a proper hero of justice. This lasts until 2011, when Rin receives word that a couple years earlier Sakura disappeared after the destruction of the Matou estate.

Rin and Shirou go back to Fuyuki to investigate. They cannot find anything more than that the estate was destroyed, Sakura is gone, and Shinji and Zouken are dead. But they stay a while as Rin mops up local business and then grows reluctant to leave again.

Around 2014-15 Rin participates in a great battle with Waver Velvet/Lord El-Melloi II, as stated in supplementary material, to destroy the Greater Grail. She sees this as an opportunity to say goodbye to the memory of Sakura. Still, she lingers in Fuyuki.

Shortly afterwards, Shirou tells Rin that he needs to go off on adventures as a hero and he will come back to her when he can. A year later he dies on an adventure.

Around late 2016 rumors of a spreading plague or curse begin to stir in Fuyuki...Rin investigates and finds it's a deadly magical humanity-destroying plague that will wipe out anyone who doesn't have rudimentary magic circuits to fight back against it.

She vows to make a contract offering her soul to the World as a Heroic Spirit in exchange for the power to grant simple magic circuits to all humans (even though this would devastate the mage world she was raised in).

But the mediator for this deal who she summons is Heroic Spirit Emiya, aka her Archer.

In her powerful presence, he quickly remembers his experiences with and feelings for her, and he refuses to simply let her make that deal. He insists that she investigate and find any other possible way.

They investigate and find out the curse/plague came from Sakura's last wishes as Zouken was taking her body.

Eventually, grieving her sister and seeing no other way, Rin decides to go through with her contract, but Archer demands to fight her before he'll let her do it.

After that...I don't know? So much more to figure out when I've reread more of the original VN and checked up on spinoffs.

[theawkwardterrier]

Of Grief (post 7x02 Outlander fic)

Shock and denial

Their granddaughter is perfect — flawless, miraculous. He's known that the same way he knew that Claire was meant for him, that instantaneous, unquestionable resetting of the world.

And yet Claire says it is not so, that there is something within Amanda that must be fixed, that cannot be fixed.

"Even with the ether?" he asks, as if his wife might have forgotten that tool, as if with that remembered she can reverse this nightmare. Claire had healed him, after all — hand, heart — when he'd tried to die. She can do anything. It is impossible that she cannot do this.

“No.”

Pain and guilt

He has the McCallum lad exercising the foal. He tells himself that it is practice, accustoming everyone to the routine for when they leave, but knows in his heart that he simply cannot stand doing it himself, cannot face the idea that he will never see girl and horse grow alongside each other, never guide his granddaughter's hands on the reins or race her along the Ridge.

It is such a small thing to ache for, overcome by the vastness of his need for Mandy to be well. And yet it hurts, because he had allowed himself finally to hope.

Anger and bargaining

He has his prayers, his peaceful face, strong shoulders for the others to lean on, but there is so much rage in him. At night, he stares at the inn's ceiling, demanding to know how this is just.

I have sinned uncountably, and You saved my leg at the final moment. You allowed me the choice to return here. You have kept me from harm that should have rightfully struck me down. Would my life not be fairly traded for this innocent?

And yet he continues to breathe, remains healthy and whole, forced to give up his precious ones again.

Depression

Later, Claire says, raw-throated, "I didn't grieve them this way before, and I thought they’d left just as permanently. Why does it hurt so much more now?"

Because we still had Fergus and Marsali then. Because we're worried over Mandy's heart atop everything, and you blame yourself for not being able to fix it. Because this was no one's choice.

"Because when they came back before, we lost the fear that they would leave," he says. "Because we convinced ourselves that we'd have them forever."

He finds that his own tears have fallen. He does not bother wiping them away.

The upward turn

Sometimes he wishes his missing would expel in a draining gush. It is a perpetual haunting instead, each time he sees the abandoned cabin or hears a child laugh like Jem.

But Claire is here, still. The days cannot remain dark forever.

Aidan McCallum falls ill, and Jamie must work the foal himself. The simple act, done a hundred times, hurts between each rib. And yet seeing the way the creature has grown helps him picture the way Mandy must be growing too - a joyous thought, even if he is not there to watch.

He names it, finally: Mirren. Beloved.

Reconstruction and working through

There are things which help: convincing Lizzie that she needs time alone with her (Christ) husbands and having an infant's weight in his arms once more, someone to soothe through the night; receiving word from New Bern that all is well; reading the latest news or corresponding with the Sons of Liberty as Brianna's America takes shape around them; holding Claire and remembering the children with her, or simply being reminded that she has remained.

There are things which help, and although he knows that there are parts of him which cannot ever heal, sometimes it can feel like enough.

Acceptance and hope

"I'll remember you to the children," Roger Mac said — a historian's particular gift, one well-received by a man who thought the legacy of his generations lost more than once. So Jamie must believe that his grandson will recall him and this place, that his granddaughter will be raised on tales of those who loved her here: her grandmother's healing hands and sharp mind (and sharper tongue), her grandfather who was stableboy, soldier, laird (but liked husband and father best).

There are, Claire promises, still horses in the future. Even if he cannot teach her, his strong wee Mandy will ride.

[sideblogformindtrash]

CW: It’s all discussed/implied/talked about and non graphic, but themes of: loss; child death; pregnancy; forced pregnancy; infertility; implied noncon; grief; angst;

He’s received a letter, a Scorpion pressed onto the wax sigil was enough for him to know exactly what it was about. 

They had gone too far by torturing Crow, so much so he had to carry him all the way back to his home by fear of him not making it on his own and becoming food for the beasts that roamed the borders at night.

And when he knocked on the door, the woman received them with a cold rage, helping Crow in and slamming the door back on Wolf’s face.He also caught a glimpse of a white board, their plans scribbled all over it, the bird-like thing drawn over it.

So now he has a very rude letter on his hands demanding some form of compensation from The Lamb’s group, addressed to Raine himself, and Wolf takes it up to his room.

He’s about to call him, but he stops. Raine is sitting on the balcony, red robes loosely draped over him falling over a shoulder and exposing up a breast, all bathed in twilight and the torch lights in the balcony, his hands gently rubbing circles on the skin of his belly, their own golden light gleaming from his fingertips. 

As beautiful as it is tragic, the Lamb does his best at healing himself, his insides. But scars aren’t wounds, and cannot be fixed, not even when he’s the most powerful healer of the City.

He knows that well enough himself, as he uncomfortably shifts the weight of his body back to his left leg, now far too aware of the metal limb to want to weigh upon it.

He walks quietly to his side, pocketing the letter because it's not time for that now, when he’s so fragile. This scene repeats itself sometimes. Its always painful.

For a while he doesn’t speak so he isn’t sure Lamb even realized he’s there. But finally, Lamb tilts his head just slightly, flapping his ears, eyes closing to keep the tears from falling.

"Do you think I'd be a good mommy?" He asks in his little broken voice. They've done this before, but much like scars, emotional wounds are things he cannot heal, so all there is to it is… grieve. Over and over and over and over, till it stops hurting so much.

"The best" Wolf says softly, just standing close by, and for once, it’s genuine. Lamb  might really really be good, even with the cards they were dealt.

He notices the tears falling, faster than Lamb can afford to clean them. 

“Maybe one day you’ll be able to” Wolf says, very very cautious. This prompts Lamb to just stop the healing spell, the golden light subsiding, his hands pale and shaky, exhaustion drawn all over his face.

Lamb lays against him, eyes closing, sniffing and nuzzling on Wolf’s chest. He stares at Wolf’s fake leg, guilty ridden.. Wolf would never, ever hold that over Lamb’s head, and they don’t really talk about it anymore… But sometimes Lamb still seems to look so very distraught about it. More so than the wolf himself does.

“I wonder if any of them survived” He tears up again, a lump forming on his throat and strangling his voice “...They said they didn’t. But what if they lied? Are they alone now? In that awful place, just crying and wanting their mommy back? And mommy isn’t there to hold them… Do they think I abandoned them?” He breaks down, hiding his face on his palms and sobbing hard, as Wolf pets the wooly hair., Lamb keeps punishing and torturing himself with those thoughts, over and over. The idea of the babys’ death was terrible, but it's not worse than the perspective of them being alive in a world as miserable as the one Lamb originated in. 

“They are okay Lamb. One way or the other… I’m sure they are okay” he nuzzles, letting him cry it out. 

"It 's unfair. They should have survived, not me”

 Lamb looks up, staring at the torches who hold the fire, the god he chose to worship “It’s not fair”, he repeats out loud, accusatory, at the god he himself elevated and raised a cult around. All consuming, light-giving, but still mute, uncaring “Not fair”

“No. It’s not fair” Wolf agrees, even if the plea was not for him. 

“I… I didn’t even love them, back then. Or- I think I didn’t. I- It was just so cold, so dark and they kept… kept hurting me. And I hated that they were there, growing inside me… but…” he sobs “But I sang for them and I talked to them sometimes and… and whenever they took them from me… And I… It was always too late you know? I loved them, but I loved them too late and I can’t take it off my head now”

“Even if you had… that would only have hurt you more” he whispers.

“No, no. They deserved love” he sobs. 

He can’t speak anymore, just sobbing himself into exhaustion. By the time he quiets, the darkness has fallen over Patchwork City, its many disjointed neighborhoods falling silent.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Lamb asks, sniffing away and swallowing the hiccups.

“Oh-” he pulls it out his pocket, having completely forgotten about it “Scorpio sent a letter”

“Of course she did. I beat up her pet” He rolls his eyes and pouts, looking a little more like himself even when they are still watery and red from the tears “She should be glad I even sent him back alive”

He nods in agreement. He can’t really say otherwise, not when he’s already so angry about them sleeping together… And not after a moment like this.

“Something about Plague Doctors too, I’m afraid” 

“Plague Doctors?” He sounds alarmed, getting up and walking to the edge of the balcony, taking up a binocular “Where? Fuck we can’t have another infestation of those - Okay here’s what we’ll do-”

He smiles, watching Lamb frantically walk around the room, getting some paper and starting to take notes, now having forgotten his grief, at least momentarily, as he seeks to protect his part of the city.

I think you’ll see it anyways but @whump-blog​ hi lol

[tworoadsandapenny]

What You Wish For: Chapter 13. London Bridges

This chapter had originally been written to come before the last, but I switched them because I liked the break up of perspectives. As always, if it's confusing at all, please let me know. I'd love any and all feedback.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Raph’s gone.”

The room skid to an abrupt halt, the meaning of those words taking a good long moment to settle in. No one moved. No one spoke. No one breathed.

And then panic hit. Fast and hard.

Mikey was already halfway through the door as he shouted, “We have to go find him!” before Splinter’s voice stopped him.

“Calm, my son. We cannot go bounding around the surface searching aimlessly.”

“But Sensei—!”

“He’s right.” Don nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the blood on the wall nearest him. “We need to think this through. Figure out where he might be headed.” As his younger brother was about to object, Don tossed him his shell cell. “Call Casey. He’ll know the best places to look.” Keep Mikey busy. Keep him from panicking. “Sensei, call Leatherhead and the Mutanimals, see if anyone’s spotted him anywhere. I’ll try tracking his shell cell and listening for anything he might chase after on the police scanners.”

Splinter nodded, then watched as his son—normally quick to action once decided on a plan—stood frozen in place, the only movement in his body the quaking of his hands. Stepping forward, the father placed a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder and waited for eyes to meet his before speaking. “Donatello.”

“I shouted at him. I practically called him a murderer. He ran off because of—“

“—Pain. Raphael ran because he is in great pain.”

“I drove him away. I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t… I didn’t mean…”

Splinter gripped his son’s shoulder tighter. “There will be time for apologies later. Right now, we must find your brother before he finds what he’s looking for.”

Don paused, finally working his way past the knot in his chest to breathe properly. “What do you mean? What’s he looking for?”

Splinter moved towards the door, not willing to waste a moment longer, as he spoke gravely over his shoulder.

“Danger.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

His knees felt shakier than they had an hour ago. His hands quivered, his bones creaked and his eyes were dull of their usual wisdom. In this moment, standing before this wooden door in this old cabin, Splinter felt utterly and entirely lost. This door that separated him from his son. Grief was a monster that consumed its victims in different ways, he knew this, but sitting and watching his family be attacked so intimately was too much to bear.

Raphael was extremely emotional, his passion and fire helped him cope with a world that demanded his protection but rejected his existence. With Raphael, it was feel nothing or feel everything, there was no middle ground. So Splinter could easily imagine what something as consuming as grief could do to his son. And he did. Imagined it vividly and constantly. And was desperate to do something.

He knew his son well. He knew he would need time. He would need space. He would need to work through the pain in his own way without having to worry about the world around him. Raphael possessed incredible strength; strength of spirit and strength of heart. But it was precisely that strength that worried the old father. Raphael cared so deeply that loss was not something he coped with well. And Splinter feared, if left alone, his son would be consumed by it.

Standing outside this door, only feet from his grieving child, Splinter never felt so far away. Gently placing his paw on the wood before him, he closed his eyes and let the pain radiating through the door wash over him. Loss, anger, but more than anything… guilt. Whatever had happened on that roof, Raphael blamed himself for it.

“Oh, my son.” Splinter sighed his worry, his every thought wishing he could take away his son’s pain with a hug and a word of love, like he could when his children were young. Going inside wasn’t going to help. He knew that. Trying to force Raphael to open up would only make things worse. He knew that too. But there wasn’t a nerve in his body that refrained from screaming at him to do something. To help. He could not rid his family of this pain, but he could help them cope. He could… he had to try.

Sinking slowly to his knees, his tired muscles relaxing into familiar seiza position, Splinter kept his hand on the door and his eyes closed, spiritually reaching for his son.

“I am here, Raphael. I will always be here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“No, Don, nothing yet.” Casey cursed, catching his breath as he came to a stop on the far end of the roof. “Yeah. I’m sure.” He listened a moment, his fists clenching as he glared at the rooftops in front of him. “The park, the back alleys, the pubs, everywhere we usually go. I’m tellin’ you, he ain’t here!” The voice on the other side of the line was calm. Too calm. Forced. And Casey hated that it was for his benefit; so he wouldn’t freak out and go swinging at every thug he saw on the street. “Yeah, sorry, I’m listening. …Downtown?  … Yeah. But isn’t Pier 36 a little crowded for— … Ok, I’m on my way.”

An angry growl churned his lips as Casey put his phone away and stared out at the city skyline before him. He heard people singing in the nearby karaoke bar, drunk partiers laughing as they stumbled down the street, couples planning their next date night. He heard televisions blaring the daily news, car horns honking at slow drivers, and friends arguing over which Marvel movie was best.

He heard people living. Happy. Safe.

It pissed him right off.

Turning sharply, he let his frustrations out on the nearest chimney, punching it hard enough to draw brick from brick and blood from his knuckles before surging off towards his next destination and silently cursing the peaceful world around him.

“It just ain’t fair, Raph. It ain’t fair.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Anything?” Mikey asked, eyes still wild with worry.

Don hated that he couldn’t offer any comfort as he shook his head. And seeing his brother’s eyes almost tear up with fear only made his gut churn all the more. He could hardly think he was choking so hard on his own anxiety. It had already been an hour and they hadn’t seen shell or tail of Raph anywhere. But what worried Don more was that they hadn't seen anything of the Purple Dragons either. Not a thug or gangster in any back alley or washed out pub. And he didn’t need a keen intellect to know that was a bad sign.

Something was very wrong. And Don was utterly terrified that Raph was in the middle of it.

They had to find him. They had to know he was okay.

“I’m telling you, he’s in trouble. He’s not thinking clearly and he’s gonna get himself hurt.” Leo was practically crawling out of his shell as he waited for Don to finish typing on his computer.

“He’s a strong guy, Leo. Wherever he went, I’m sure he can handle—“

“He’s off, Don. Has been for weeks now.”

“So he’s probably just out blowing off steam. You know how he is.” Leo didn’t seem to take to that answer, so Don paused his typing to face his brother. “Maybe he needed some space. I know you want to run out there and make sure he’s not jumping into an unnecessary fight, but maybe that’s what he needs right now.” Leo grunted, turning away to lean on the desk and cross his arms. Don remained as gentle as he could, not wanting to sound insensitive. “…I know you want to help him through this, but it’s like Sensei said… he’ll come to us when he’s ready. We can’t force him to—“

“He almost died, Don. They kidnapped him, tortured him, brainwashed him, and nearly took his life. I… I nearly took his life.”

“He was trying to kill you, you were just defending yourself. Everyone here knows you never would have—“

“I almost did! I wasn’t trying to… I just…” His brother’s arms tightened their fold as he kept his face turned away so Don couldn’t see. “We almost lost him. I know he’s got to work through this on his own, I do. But...” Finally locking eyes, Don was surprised to see  Leo’s face softened with worry. “I just need to know he’s okay. Please.”

Don was speechless as he watched his eldest brother’s worry wall itself back up behind his usual impassive expression. He shook his head. “Fine. I’ll start tracing his phone. But if we interrupt a night of frivolous violence and he wants someone to take it out on, I’m volunteering you.”

“Fine.”

Always worried. Always making sure they were safe. Always playing protector. If Leo were here now…

“I’ll call Casey, see if he’s found anything.” Pulling his shell-cell from his belt, Don turned away from his family so they couldn’t see the quake of his hands.

Or the tear running down his cheek.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of his heart pounding in rhythm with his running feet was all Mikey could hear. He knew Don was talking on the phone with Casey, he knew Splinter was saying something about where they were headed next, but he couldn’t focus well enough to hear specifics. His mind was running on high speed, but it centered only on one thing: Raph.

First off, how did he get out of the lair without anyone noticing? Mikey had replayed the last twenty-four hours in his head at least half a dozen times and he couldn’t think of a moment where he left the living room long enough to have missed his brother leaving his room, let alone the lair. He would have seen him. Or at the very least heard him. After all the training they’d done together, they’d all grown accustomed to each others tricks and techniques, making it near impossible for them to sneak up on each other. The only one who could consistently ninja their way around without being noticed was…

Mikey would have seen him. No way Raph snuck passed him.

And even if he had managed to somehow make it out of the lair without anyone noticing (had to have been when he was grabbing a drink of water, it had to. No way Raph got past him otherwise. No way), where would he be going? If he left to blow off steam, they would have seen signs of it by now: piles of thugs in an alleyway, a raucous brawl spilling out of a seedy pub, police sirens screaming after a warehouse recently set ablaze. Raph was never one for subtlety, whatever he was after he would go for fist first, headstrong, and without mercy. You’d be able to see his ire from Jersey. So how was it they hadn’t found so much as a drop of blood? Raph should have been toppling buildings by now, how could they still not have a clue where he was? How could Don not outthink him? How could Casey not know where he’d go?

How could he not have seen it?

Leave Raph be, let him work through it his way, give him space, let him heal; it all sounded like the right thing to do. Mikey hated it—he wanted nothing more than to cling to his family with all the strength in his body so no one else could be pried away—but Raph dealt with things differently. Raph hated to be coddled. Hated to deal with things in front of others. Raph pulled away, figured things out on his own, and came back when he was ready to face the world again.

Now he was gone.

And Mikey should have known. Should have known this was different. Should have known Raph needed help, how badly he was hurting. Should have known he needed family—they all did. They were all tearing apart at the seams.

But now Raph was out somewhere doing god-knows what, probably getting into trouble, probably getting hurt, maybe even—

And Mikey hadn’t done a thing to stop it. He should have done something. Should have forced Raph to let him help. Should have sat outside his door until he was ready to come out.

Should have done something.

“There’s nothing you could have done, Mikey.”

The younger turtle couldn’t pry his eyes from the battered body of their red-masked brother, horror still dancing through his veins. “He shouldn’t have been there alone. We should have been with him. “

“He chose not to tell us. You couldn’t have known.”

“But why did he go alone?” Mikey cried, turning away from the bandages to stare with wide, hurt eyes at his eldest brother. “We could have helped him fight, we could have—“

“No, we couldn’t.”

Mikey was aghast. “Why not!?”

“Because Raph needed to do this.”

“Why?”

“Because Mikey,” Leo swept a hand over the dome of his head, breathing in a deep, low breath, the same way he usually did when unable to find the proper words to say. “It’s who he is. I can’t say I fully understand it myself, but I know it’s what he feels he has to do. He has to deal with things on his own to… prove himself or something. I don’t know…” He paused. “… I’m just glad I got to him in time.”

Mikey could see the frustration brewing in the leader’s face, clearly as unhappy about this as the rest of them, but that still made him wonder, “What if… what if he doesn’t just get hurt next time? What if …”

“I’d never let it get that far, Mikey. Never.”

The adamancy was reassuring, but it still didn’t answer his question. “What if you’re not here? What if you’re off on a mission with Donnie and Sensei and it’s just me here with him and he runs off to do something as stupid as tonight?”

The warmth that touched his shoulder brought Mikey’s gaze to Leo’s hand. “Then he’d be in good hands. If there’s anyone here who can understand Raph, it’s you little bro. You’re more compassionate and empathetic than anyone on earth.” Mikey felt another light squeeze on his shoulder. “You’d know how to help him.”

It didn’t really answer his question, but the unwavering trust in his brother’s voice was more comfort than Mikey expected. His eyes grazed over the bandages covering Raph’s body, sending a shiver of fear through his body again. He leaned into Leo’s hand. “Only on earth? Are you saying there are more compassionate Utroms out there?”

“I was thinking Triceritons, but Utroms as well, probably.”

Mikey chuckled lightly. Leo was making jokes, that was a very good sign. Raph was definitely going to be okay. “Does this mean you’re not gonna shout at him when he wakes up?”

“No. But I get the feeling his meditation sessions are going to be extremely long for the next few weeks.”

“You are cruel.” He watched his brother smile and shrug.

“Older brother prerogative.”

Mikey was so lost in the memory, he nearly tripped over Don who had come to a stop on the roof of a warehouse. He could still feel Leo’s hand on his shoulder, comforting and strong. He could still feel fear coursing through every nerve. “Did you find something?” He already knew the answer, but anxiety demanded he ask anyway.

“No.” Don replied over his shoulder. “ We’re meeting up with Casey to regroup.”

“Regroup?”

“Figure out our next move. We’ve already scoured most of the city, there’s not many more places he can be.” He offered his younger sibling a nod of comfort. “We’ll find him, Mikey. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Right.” He tried, but Mikey honestly couldn’t take the words to heart. Finding Raph wasn’t what frightened him, it was finding him in time. Before he did something dangerous… Casey appeared on the edge of the roof, mercifully interrupting that train of thought, and Mikey was already waiting for Don’s go ahead to keep moving. “Where else can we look? Shouldn’t we split up? Cover more ground?”

“No.” Don was suddenly very adamant. “We need to think this through.”

“Think what through?” Panic peeked into Mikey’s voice without his consent. “We need to find him, Don. We need to.”

“I know. We will. But we need to take a minute to—“

“We don’t have a minute, dude. It’s been too long as it is!”

“Yes, which is why we need to stop and think for a second instead of running around without a plan.”

But Mikey could feel the cold hand of dread squeezing his stomach at even the thought of waiting any longer. “Then I’ll keep looking while you guys—“

“We’re not splitting up!”

“But we have to do something now! We have to find him!”

“My son,” Splinter tried to sooth the tide of emotions swaying his youngest to the brink of panic. “Be patient. We will find—“

“No! No more waiting!” Mikey smelled rain. It was going to rain. It was going to rain and one of them was missing and this was all feeling far far too familiar. “I can’t wait anymore. You all said to wait, to let him deal with it in his own time, and look what happened! He wasn’t dealing, he was rotting away in there! All alone in his room, blaming himself for what happened, and none of us did anything! We can’t just let him stay out here. He’s not himself! He’s gonna get hurt because we’re not there! He could already be—“

“Don’t.” Donatello, rigid as a brick wall, finally found his voice. “Don’t even think it, Mikey. We’re going to find him. It’s not going to be like that last time. It won’t. Raph isn’t going to die.” Because he couldn’t. Because if he did, Don didn’t know what would become of them. One brother lost was agony. Two was unthinkable.

They would find him. Alive and well. They had to.

Mikey paused before speaking, his orange bandana fluttering in the wind and nearly drowning out his suddenly meek voice. “…What if… what if he… Don, what if he—“

“—He wouldn’t.” The only reason Don even knew what his brother was asking was because it had been running through his head all night. Ever since they found Raph’s bedroom empty and blood on the walls. “He wouldn’t leave us like that. Not on his worst day would he even—“

“It’s been his worst day for three months!”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He’s been dealing with this alone from the start. What if it was too much?”

“He wouldn’t do it, Mikey!”

“But what if—“

“ENOUGH!” Don was in his brother’s face now, not two inches from his nose, and not entirely sure he was in control of his actions. “He wouldn’t kill himself. He wouldn’t. We know him better than that—you know him better than that! So stop thinking it!”

A gust of wind shot across the pier, blowing around leaves and garbage as the four stood frozen on the warehouse rooftop.

Splinter was the only one who dared speak. “My sons,” he looked to Casey. “My family. This is not the way to find Raphael. Giving in to our deepest fears does not aid our cause, Michelangelo. Nor does attempting to ignore them, Donatello.” He stepped forward to look out over the water. “We are all afraid for your brother. We all know too intimately what the worst scenario feels like. But let us not resign to that fate yet. Your brother needs his family. And no matter what, we will bring him home. We must.” He turned to face the three once more, a resolute calm emitting from every feature. “Now think. Is there anywhere your brother might have gone that we have yet to check?”

Silence fell over the group as all found stillness enough to think.

Casey paced the roof, rubbing his chin while going through a mental checklist of all their favorite hangouts. When Raph got angry, he wanted to vent. And they’d already checked all the areas in the entirety of Manhattan where he and Casey usually went for such revelry. So what else did Raph do when he got angry? He got pensive. Usually thinking about how a mission had gone wrong and what he could have done to—

And he always returned. When he felt he’d failed, he always went back to where—

…Well shit. This wasn’t going to be easy for any of them. “I think I know where to go.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was like watching a funeral march. They climbed to the roof, not a word whispered between them, all four rigid and tense and terrified of what they would find. Or what they wouldn’t. Splinter and Casey looked around, taking in the surroundings for the first time and trying to fit the pieces together. All of them noticed the blood. Dried blood in the middle of the concrete, pale and diminished, but still as haunting as ever.

Mikey couldn’t look at it. Couldn’t look at anything. And couldn’t close his eyes because he would see it all again, every detail of that horrifying night. That moment… the one he’ll have nightmares about for the rest of his life. A pale body lying in his brother’s arms, limp and void of life. Eyes that would never open again. Blue bandana dappled with blood. He couldn’t catch the whine that shot from his throat, he was too focused on remembering to breathe.

Don couldn’t look away. His eyes trained on the blood stain immediately, staring at it as though he could he wish it away with a glance. The closer he got, the dizzier he felt. His knees suddenly buckled and he fell to the ground in front of the dried smear. He was going to be sick. But he couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop seeing it. Couldn’t stop feeling the cold touch of his brother’s skin beneath his fingers as he methodically searched for a pulse. This plain run-down apartment in this dirty part of the city was where his brother fell. Where their lives all changed. And this stained patch of cement was one of the few things left that proved his brother ever existed. Bile nearly slipped past his lips, but Don breathed deep to keep it at bay. Raph. Focus on Raph. Had to find Raph.

Casey watched as the family took in the scene and it was all he could do to keep his anger in check. Splinter looked like a ghost with how hollow his eyes were, and the other two looked like they wanted to crawl into their shells and never come out. And Casey couldn’t blame them. If he had a shell, that’s what he’d be doing right about now. “Raph?” He called, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Now wasn’t the time for his righteous fury. But soon. Very soon. His hands curled tighter in on themselves as he looked about the roof. “Raph?”

His voice managed to pull Splinter from is thoughts and fears, his own eyes now remembering to look for his lost son. But just as he turned around to face the street below, he caught sight of two blue bandana tails whipping in the wind. His heart stopped as he followed the blue to the adjacent roof, climbing with fervor until he reached the top.

And there, standing before him with fear in his eyes and guilt on his lips, was Leonardo. Splinter could only stare, pain in his chest flaring and spurting with the desperate need to hold his child. “My son!”

But he knew it not to be real. Only an apparition. A faint trace of his son’s spirit left behind to guide him towards something. The pain turned to a fierce ache, but Splinter quickly swallowed it and directed his attention to where the spirit worriedly pointed. He walked to the chimney and lost his breath once again.

“No…” As he feared. As they’d all feared. His heart sank to his stomach and he fell to his knees, staring at the taunt before him.

In the center of the chimney amidst a rained-washed blood stain, a sai protruded from the brick—it’s red leather handle and faint gold trim a familiar sight—stabbed through a note that fluttered in the wind. Three words. And Splinter’s world was crumbling all over again.

“Come get him.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Previous < - > Next

Not sure how much I like this chapter. You be the judge.

End of Line.

-TRAaP

[dangermousie]

Ramo flat out refusing to believe his Sibel is dead and demanding a DNA test!

Part of it is intuition and part of it is he simply cannot believe in a world without he. I did cheer when he went for the orderly’s throat. Ramo sees thru you, dude!

This is a caged beast...

His brother brings DNA test that shows it’s Sibel and Ramo’s response is basically fuck it, it’s not her. GUUUUH

He’s basically lost his mind screaming it’s not her and punching the wall. Man!

I swear it’s like coming down from a panic attack for him...

So much blood is gonna be spilled...

When he gets out, he’s all “I am not going to the funeral, I have something more important” and part of it is his wild hope she’s still alive and a way to find her but part is total inability to be around the burial because it means admittance

When he hallucinates her...

He finds the orderly who was the actual hitman and starts beating the shit outof him for information and the man is “she suffered and pleaded.” Dude, that car hitting you during your attempted your escape was the luckiest thing that happened to you!

He’s accepted she’s dead...

That is not a look of a man who will grieve quietly.

He shows up to her grave telling her “don’t you dare to forgive me, I failed to protect you” and “save me a place underground, I will come to you soon and put a blanket under us.” Get you a man who loves you the way Ramo loves Sibel (minus all the illegal activities, of course.)

Meanwhile Sibel is alive - her fake death is both a test for Ramo from the senior psychos (they want to break him and to either execute him for betraying them or turn him into someone so broken and obedient he will move on past the death of his woman and serve them) and a treat to Mahsar (that is why she’s alive not just killed - he wants to torture her for Taner’s death.)

And then she calms down, caresses the empty place on her finger where Ramo’s ring used to be and comes up with a plan...

[positively--speculative]

The thing I like about AMC's Interview with the Vampire is that it can be taken at face value as a horror gothic about vampires and as metaphorical.

One line that stands out to me is this one: "All vampires are born out of trauma."

Like many vampire fans, the Twilight era frustrated me, but at the height of its popularity in the late 2000s/early 2010s, I couldn't put my finger on what exactly bothered me about the series. Later as I entered my 30s, I started to realize what it was. The Meyer-esque vampire stripped the archetype of the things that made them interesting--mainly, their queer-coding--in order to make them appealing to white cishet audiences (I wrote more extensively about this on my Medium).

The Meyer-esque vampires are not written with outcasts in mind. And by outcasts, I don't mean people who are made to feel like outcasts due to minor inconveniences in life or the trials and tribulations of typical adolescence. I mean queer people, disabled people, people of color, or anyone who was othered due to factors beyond their control.

Vampires exist in folklore from all over the world, and examining that folklore can help us learn a lot about the world outside of it--the world we live in. The act of draining the blood or energy from their victims, to me, is a metaphor for the way a real-life person (even a person who is well-meaning) can drain another person of their time, energy, and overall well-being.

Louis was vulnerable to Lestat from the beginning because he was already fighting his battles silently inside (racism and his internalized homophobia) while he maintained a tough facade on the outside.

It is agreed by many who've experienced trauma that we can easily spot someone going through similar battles. And, unfortunately, what happens with many who have gone through trauma is that they take on the toxic traits of their abusers. These people will cling to others who share similar experiences but demand too much from them. This is why many recognize abuse as a vicious cycle that is difficult to break, because when we don't take time to ourselves and evaluate our feelings about what has happened to us and seek some sort of help, we can become vulnerable to our limited understanding of "love."

Lestat loves Louis, but Lestat does not know how to love unselfishly. He does not allow him space to grieve his brother (and we don't even know for sure whether or not Lestat played a role in his suicide since we cannot trust anything he says), he alienates him from his remaining family, and he enjoys the benefits of an open relationship (likely because he enjoys how jealous it makes Louis) but is upset when Louis enjoys those same benefits.

It's been a long time since I read The Vampire Lestat, but I do remember that even before Lestat was turned, he was living a messed up life. He had issues with his controlling father, his relationship with his mother was...well, let's say not okay...he was kidnapped by the vampire who turned him and said vampire committed suicide before properly preparing him for his new life, and then he turned his first love, Nicholas, who committed suicide shortly after. He has abandonment issues that were clearly never addressed properly, and probably thanks to his mother, he has a very messed up perception of boundaries.

Yes, Lestat, Louis, and Claudia are vampires in the literal sense, but their stories can serve as cautionary tales for trauma victims who don't take the time to properly process and heal from their trauma.