#THIS EPISODE WAS HURT/NO COMFORT

[akiarathewitch]

Just watched episode 7 of fruits basket 2019 and why am I crying over a love story that doesn’t exist TwT

[wishfulsketching]

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[lucy-moderatz]

Sentiment is the greatest weakness of all.

[deoidesign]

My comic is so pretty...

The hiatus is letting me take a little extra time on these episodes, and I'm definitely putting it to good use!!!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I'm sorry I let down my guard.

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[stevebabey]

steve harrington but it's that jeff winger moment from community. if u have seen community, u will know... my first stobin-centric piece <3 tw for parental neglect and a prior act of self-harm. this is absolutely on the steve harrington has bad parents train <3

“Steven, this is ridiculous.”

Robin freezes in place. Her hand hovers over the remote she's just placed back down, her limbs locking up one by one at the sound of the voice at the door.

It is not a familiar voice. She knows who it is all the same.

She fights not to move, knowing the couch springs, old and rusted, threaten to reveal her hiding place, even if it is her house. Robin is very much allowed to be here. Expected, even.

But Steve? Steve is not.

It’s why there’s one Christine Harrington on the dingy porch steps.

It’s an unwelcome surprise — even after all the fuss of the 4th of July, a thousand police sirens, endless NDAs, and too much blood on his uniform, Steve’s parents hadn’t shown.

Out of town, Steve had said, his bashed in face making it impossible to read his expression. His eyes were haunted and misty but Robin couldn’t tell if it was from the horror of the night or… a loneliness far older.

So Robin had done the fussing. Had dragged him home with her, shooed away her rightfully nosy parents, and mended him up on her bathroom counter.

Steve had been silent, a little wide-eyed as she worked on each cut, each bruise — but with her gentle touch, he had been helpless to do anything but melt beneath it.

He’d called her Robbie for the first time that night. They’d fallen asleep with their hands intertwined, her arm hanging off the bed to reach out to him on her bedroom floor.

Robin still hasn’t met Steve’s parents, even though it’s been more than a couple months since that night.

She’s been to his house countless times too. She knows where the spare key is, if she ever loses her own copy, that is. Knows which stair squeaks on the way up to the second floor and how the lock on the downstairs bathroom gets jammed too easily.

She’s eaten the best grilled cheese of her life in their kitchen, sitting on the counter.

She’s laughed so hard she’s cried on their couch, getting the throw pillows wet with her happy tears.

She’s still never met Steve’s parents. Til right now.

Christine Harrington has her arms wrapped tight around her frame and Robin has no doubt that on her face is a frown that could make babies cry.

She can’t see her face though. Can only just see a glimpse of her tense body from where she sits. Steve blocks part of her view, his own tense frame in the doorway.

He’d answered the door instead of Robin only because he had the foresight to glance at the front window after the first rap at the door. It was late. Robin’s parents certainly wouldn’t knock at their own home and neither of them were expecting visitors.

The expensive car in the drive, a sore thumb along Robin’s street, had given away the identity of just who was knocking so late in the evening. So, Steve had opened it.

“Mom—”

“I mean utterly ridiculous.” Steve gets cut off without second thought, Christine continuing on as if she hasn’t heard him at all.

“Did you expect us to spend all evening chasing you around? Figuring out where you were tonight from the Carlton’s across the road?”

She’s got this snippy tone that Robin’s heard a thousand times from teachers. Patronising. Too cold for it to seem like a genuinely concerned parent.

“The Carlton’s?” Steve echoes, a bit meek. His shoulders have rolled forward, sinking down a bit and Robin can see his tight grip on the door. Still, she stays frozen, rooted to the couch.

“Yes, Steven.” Christine says his full name again, all bite. “Imagine the shame your father and I felt hearing that. Hearing who you had been associating with.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve grits out immediately, anger bleeding into his tone.

The muscles in his back ripple as he forces his shoulders back, as if he had remembered how to stand up straight at the mention of his friend.

Robin aches; at the reminder of the stark differences of their upbringings and at Steve’s unquestionable loyalty. She finally unfreezes, sitting up a little straighter and leaning forward more— ready to spring up from her seat.

She’s not sure what for exactly. She sorta really wants to go slam the door on Steve’s mom’s face and go back to being bundled up on the couch with him. The urge is strong enough to make her fingers twitch.

“Why are you here, Mom?”

There’s a strain to Steve’s question, even though he doesn’t falter in appearance. Robin can’t see his face either though. She hopes it’s got the bitchiest expression Steve can muster.

“Don’t be smart, Steven.” Christine reprimands coldly. “I know that we may have taken a larger absence than intended but that’s not any excuse to parade yourself around with the strays of this town.”

Strays. Robin feels the word pelt into her and burn into her skin, sinking all the way down. It feels like cold water has tipped down the back of her neck. An unwelcome pit forms in her stomach.

She had known, of course, the reputation of a family like the Harrington's. She hadn’t quite known the extent they would go to protect it. Policing your child's friends over a matter of image is absurd.

Somehow, Robin can see how Steve grows even tenser at his mom’s words— hackles raising like that on a dog. His knuckles turn white. But before he speaks, Christine is barreling on like she hasn’t just slandered every one of Steve’s new friends.

“And to leave the house in such a state?”

Robin hears her sigh heavily, as though this really is the biggest problem in her life — which she can’t fathom in the slightest.

There was nothing wrong with Steve’s house. No mess beyond the usual evidence that someone, you know, lived there.

“Mom, I—” Steve starts again.

“Well, I’m sure you have your reasons. You always do.” She says it so pointedly, like Steve was known for peddling lies to weasel his way out of trouble.

It’s so un-Steve it makes Robin blink hard, wondering if she had heard right.

Steve was honest. He owned his mistakes and he took things on the chin. It was something she had liked most about him in the beginning.

Back when it was all snark and Robin told herself she was never going to be his friend, in this universe or anything other. That even then, reluctant co-worker and nothing more, Steve was honest and decent to her always.

“Now, come on now.” Christine Harrington huffs out her demand. “Your father is waiting in the car and there no use winding him up more than you already have.”

Robin’s stomach turns at her words. It had been a topic of discussion between them, one night weeks ago, lips loosened by the dark. I feel like a dog to them, Steve had admitted quietly, his breath against her pillow and his warmth under her sheets. Like they just leave alone most of the time but expect me to perk up and come running the moment they call. I hate it.

“I’m not coming with you.”

The words stammer on their way out like he had forced them out— and Robin wants to sing she’s so proud of her best friend.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not coming with you.” Steve repeats himself, the words a little firmer this time. “I’m… I’m spending the night here, with my friend Robin.”

He trails off, the words weaker, losing steam. Robin rises to her feet, the tell-tale squeak of the couch springs letting Steve know she was still here. Still right behind him.

It makes him stand a little straighter.

“I— I’ll come home in the morning.”

Christine Harrington makes a little scoffing noise, a high pitched faux laugh as if Steve’s said something amusing.

“Tell me when did I raise such an ungrateful brat?” She muses meanly and Robin doesn’t miss the way Steve flinches lightly. “We give you free rein of the house, apt time by yourself, and yet when we request you to spend a single evening with us—”

“You’re not asking, you’re demanding.” Steve cuts in, his voice more heated now.

“Oh hush, Steven. You act as if we’re so awful.”

It’s all dismissal. Everything, every word, a dismissal.

“I just can’t win with you, can I?” Christine sighs again, disappointment dripping from the sound. “Either we’re not here enough or we’re here but you can’t find time to have dinner with your family. Which is it, Steven?”

In the doorway, Steve begins to bristle. Robin really, really wants to slam the door now — if only to stop this conversation that seems to keep cutting deeper and deeper into her best friend.

She steps closer to him, moving as silently as she can, and makes sure to stay out of sight as she places a hand gently on the small of his back.

He’s shaking, she realises.

Her heart twists painfully in her chest.

Then, deathly calm, Steve says, “Did you know in 7th grade, I lied and I told everyone in my class that I got appendicitis?”

Robin blinks at the change in subject, the strangeness of Steve’s comment. She does remember that, vaguely. A boy in the year above— it had been a wildfire rumour that had turned out to be true.

Or so she thought. Staring hard at the planes of Steve’s back, the pit in her stomach yawns with an anticipation of devastation. Her hand on his back curls up a bit.

“You and Dad were gone for the whole month to Washington. It was the first time you had ever gone for that long and you didn’t even tell me until the day before you left.”

“Steven—”

“I just wanted someone to worry about me.” He steamrolls on, tone too casual for the story he was telling. “And it worked."

A beat.

"But then Cassie Lange asked about the scar.”

Robin’s hand on Steve's back twists up tighter. She feels like she knows what’s coming— but wishes it to be not true.

She doesn’t want to think of Steve, little twelve year old Steve, doing all that he can for a scrap of attention he was supposed to be getting from his parents.

“And rather than admit I’d lied…” The words come out too tight. “I went and found your sewing scissors and I made one.”

There’s this icy bite to Steve’s voice, his shoulders tensed back up. Christine still hasn’t said anything.

“I hurt like a bitch but it was worth it. I got a card from every single person in my class.”

“You wanna see the scar?” He asks— then he’s moving, his hand rucking up his sweater and shirt and exposing the skin of his stomach. Christine makes a noise like a muffled gasp. Robin feels a bit sick. Steve drops his shirt.

“And I kept all of those cards I got —all 17 of them stashed them under my bed in a box that I still have til this day.” He exhales through his nose. “Because it was proof that, at some point, somebody actually gave a shit about me. Because you didn’t. You didn’t then and you don’t get to now.”

His words hang in the air. There’s a long stretch of silence where Steve stares down the woman on the porch— someone closer to a stranger than a friend.

“So, I will see you at home, tomorrow.”

And then he slams the door to Robin’s house shut with a finality that shakes the air. Robin tenses up at the loud noise. Steve doesn't move, just stays staring at the closed door.

Behind them both, one of the noisy pipes in the house makes a loud noise. It sounds worse than usual as it breaks the silence.

Outside, Robin hears the click of heels on the pavement as they quieten, moving further away.

The pit in her stomach tightens immeasurably, a faint bile taste in her mouth. She finally remembers to smooth out her hand, pressing it flat against Steven’s back— another reminder that she was there.

If he wanted to talk or he didn’t, she was there.

Suddenly Steve sighs, an exhale so large that he shrinks down a couple inches, his shoulders dropping. It sounds exhausted.

He finally turns away from the door, to Robin, and she can only hope her face conveys every ounce of love, of support, she feels within her chest.

“Steve…” She breathes softly.

He wasn’t crying but just the sound of his name, spoken so delicately, seems to inspire tears. Robin catches the tremble of his lip and moves without thought— throwing both her arms around his neck and wrestling him into a hug.

Steve goes easy, his arms snaking around her middle and holding her back so tightly it nearly makes her squeak. She doesn’t though— just lets him bury his face in her neck, taking these big shuddering breaths, these half-formed sobs that break her heart clean in half.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there. Car engines drone as they pass by the street. The streetlights seem to get brighter. Steve presses himself so close to her, as close as he can, and Robin hugs back just as tight. She gives him all the time he needs.

She wonders if there’s an indent of him on her when he finally pulls back — a Steve Harrington shaped outline imprinted on her soul. It feels like there is.

If she could trace it, she thinks, it would be whatever shape love takes.

“Thanks Robbie.” He croaks out. He’s started scrubbing furiously at his face and she can see the wet sheen of tears as he wipes them away.

Robin doesn’t move far, just unwinds her arms a bit and lets them fall back to her sides. There’s an ache between her brows from how long she’s been frowning in concern. Steve looks more disheveled than usual, his usually perfect hair looking flatter — but he looks lighter too, somehow.

“No need to thank me, dingus.” She says, voice soft. She faux punches his chest and then regrets it when his lips don’t even twitch upward. It’s weird to see Steve all undone.

Robin thinks back to that conversation and the callousness of Steve’s mom. Her uncaring tone, the use of his full name like an insult.

She thinks of what Steve had said.

“I’m sorry you felt—” The words get stuck in her throat which grows thicker as she thinks about it. About a self-made scar on Steve’s abdomen, made by a twelve year old boy who just wanted someone to worry.

“—That you felt like you had to do something like that to yourself. I’m sorry no one noticed what you really needed.”

Steve nods slowly, his eyes glazed with a far away look as he stares somewhere over Robin’s shoulder. He gives this little shrug, a little huff through his nose.

“It’s okay.” He says, voice a bit distant. “I mean, it’s not but… even if I hadn’t meant to tell you, I’m glad someone knows now.”

It takes another second before he finally seems to shake himself from his thoughts, turning to properly look at Robin. His eyes are red-rimmed and the tip of his nose is pink. Tell tale signs of tears.

“I’ve never told anyone that before.”

Robin swallows thickly and it takes effort to choke down the urge to cry.

“Well,” She starts. It comes out too high pitched and tight and she clears her throat. “Thank you for telling me.

Some kind of smile plays on Steve’s lips, as if he can tell that she’s fighting off her sniffling and it’s sorta funny to him. It is, a little.

Because instead of being embarrassed or feeling pitied, he feels… delightfully surprised to have her care so much. To be so upset on his behalf.

“Oh, c’mon Robbie,” He gives her that same faux-punch in the shoulder she did earlier and it actually succeeds in making her lips pull up at the edges. “None of that.”

“You’re such a dingus.” Robin says. It comes out a bit wobbly still. Sue her— she doesn’t have Steve’s insane ability to bounce from one emotion to another in a single second.

Steve grins. He wanders back to the couch and flops down onto it. Robin follows and when she sits down, it’s a fraction closer to him this time. He gives one last scrub of his face, wiping the last of his tears away.

She nudges him with her thigh. She has to check just one more time.

“You alright?”

Steve smiles, crooked in that way that lets her know it’s completely sincere. He reaches forward and presses unmute on the remote, the film they’re watching starting up again with a buzz.

Steve presses his thigh back against Robin’s and in the dim lighting of her living room, his eyes glitter with an emotion that threatens to make her want to cry once more.

“Course.” He says. “I got someone checking up on me now,”

Another pointed nudge of his thigh against hers. “I’m better than ever.”

[reddbl]

He too dreams about it.

[mediumgayitalian]

At around half past one, Nico gets a Feeling.

He gets feelings a lot. Nothing he can quantify, just something telling him that something is up, somethings wrong. Or something’s about to be. At this point, he’s learned to trust his intuition, based purely on the number of times it has saved his life; a number he’s long since given up counting. (He’s only ignored his gut feelings three times in his life: when Bianca went on her quest, when his father promised not to hurt Percy before the Titan War, and when he went looking for the Doors. He has learned his lesson.)

So when something at the bottom of his stomach tells him to get up, to check things out — he does.

He knows it could be nothing. (The last time he had a Feeling, it turned out that he had placed a book precariously on the edge of his desk, and it had been about to fall. Not exactly world-saving stuff.) But regardless, he steps out of bed, shoves his feet into his shoes, and creeps out of his cabin.

Camp is kind of beautiful at night.

There’s an eerie calmness to it without so many human disasters running about, and the quiet reflects that. All Nico can really hear is the hooting of owls in the distance, the chittering of nocturnal animals and monsters alike, the distant screeches of curfew harpies, and the pleasant crashing of the waves. The air is clean, when he inhales, and he takes the time to hold it in his lungs for a bit, imagining the sweet breath is healing his burned lungs, turning the scar tissue back to something flexible and normal. Whether or not it actually works, he doesn’t know, but it feels nice.

Under the light of the brightly shining new moon and billions of stars, he starts his patrol. Around his own cabin first — there’s nothing, as he expected, the warning doesn’t seem overwhelming like threats tend to be — and then he makes his way around the circuit, checking behind gardens and shrines and inside braziers. He hums quietly as he walks, something preppy and bright the Apollo kids have been hollering for days, and waves to Lady Hestia, sword heavy at his waist.

“Come sit,” she calls, patting the seat next to her.

Nico does.

“Haven’t seen you out at night in a while.”

He hums, toneless this time, leaning back on his hands and mirroring her gaze at the sky.

“Been sleeping, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

He smiles, knowing that she means it. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she picks up his sword, sliding it from his belt loop, and uses it to stoke the flames. She doesn’t seem afraid of it, or wary. To her it’s just a stick of metal. It’s nice.

“You have you been, my Lady?”

She pokes at the embers a few more times, scooping a few to balance at the tip of the blade for a while. It glows with the heat, and he knows he’ll have to sharpen it tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind. Maybe he can do it while Will is in the archery range. It’ll give him an excuse to be at the armoury at the same time, anyway.

“I’ve been well.” She breathes deeply, small smile pulling at her face. “It’s calmer, and more people wave to me. I like it.”

“Good.”

She dismisses him a few minutes later, sending him off with a promise to chat again soon. She doesn’t need to worry about him promising — he makes a point to sit with her at least once a week — but it’s nice to know someone wants his company, so he appreciates it. He leaves with a wave, walking towards the eastern half of the cabins.

Nothing’s amiss. He can hear campers snoring, and see the odd reading light. Malcolm catches his eye as he walks past the Athena cabin and winks, sending a cheeky salute when he sees the sword held loosely in his hands. So far, everything seems fine. He’s beginning to think the Feeling might have simply been about Lady Hestia, so he decides to do one last check around the Big House and then head back.

Of course, that’s where the issue is.

The infirmary lights are always on. They’re dimmer in the night, more of a glow than anything, but there’s an extra brightness streaming out from the windows, and when Nico peeks inside, he sees Will, standing with his back turned at the nurse’s station.

He takes a moment to check his strength, making sure he has the energy for it — dinner last night was pho and he had three bowls, he most definitely does — and sinks into the shadows by the door. He materializes back in the little alcove by the bandage & wraps cabinet, lurking silently while he blinks the dizziness away.

The first thing he registers is soft singing.

He’s facing Will, now, and can see the glow coming from his hands, enveloping a bowl of some kind. He has both hands coated in some dusky pink substance, massaging and gently pounding it against the sides of the bowl, working it through with great care. As his voice gets higher, the glow gets brighter, fading as he dips lower. He sings something about hills and meadows and the breeze, about wing-song, about the sound of flower stems bending in the wind. For a while Nico stands, listening to the melodious ancient Greek, swaying with every pitch and hold. It’s captivating.

Will is almost haunting when he heals.

There’s a divinity in him — in all of them — but he glows when he sings. Not just his hands, and sometimes his head if he puts enough power in his words, but there’s an almost shimmer to the air around him, a shining warp. His skin gets clearer, and his hair goes more metallic, almost, like spun gold rather than blonde. His freckles make his skin into an inverse replica of the night sky, dark specks surrounded by bright empty between them. His long fingers pluck through bright strands of light like a harpist strums their chords; lightly, carefully, skillfully; like a braider weaves their hair. There’s an undeniable age to his magic, a practice that’s visibly replicated millions of times over thousands of years, as if every healer who has come before him links their arms with his, breathes their strength in his lungs. Sometimes, when he does something truly unbelievable, amazingly beyond reason, he flickers — his orange camp shirt fades into a white chiton, or long robes, or a white coat, or a blue tunic. Watching him heal is like watching the sunrise — breathtaking and unique, every time, but powerful in its cyclic archaism.

It takes Nico a long time to realise Will is swaying.

Snapped out of his trance, he begins to notice Will’s long, slow blinks, the unsteady way he stands, the weight he has leaned on the counter. Even his face looks plainly exhausted under the glow, face pillow-creased and eyes bruised, hair mussed, limbs leaden. Footsteps as silent as he can manage, Nico creeps over to the schedule posted by the door, scanning through the scrawled pen ink.

He curses quietly. Will is not supposed to be awake.

There are really only three people who can work the infirmary to its fully capacity, barring Chiron. Kayla, Austin, and Will are the only ones who can magically heal, as much as the volunteers are imperative, so when the camp is in full swing one of them must be stationed at all times. That’s how Will sets it up. A bit of a waste of time, he acknowledges, but Nico knows he has memorized every time a camper who should have been saved. He carries far too much guilt to ever let it happen again, as inconvenient as his rules may be.

Night shift, though, is a need-be basis. If the infirmary is as empty as it is right now, then there truly is no need to keep one of the three of them awake outside their circadian rhythm, staring at nothing. Instead, they take shifts in the on-call room — asleep, but prepared should anything go wrong, should a monster chase a new camper at an odd hour. It’s Will’s turn for on-call. It’s two in the morning. He should be asleep.

And, yet.

Nico recognizes the look in his eyes. There’s a — frailty, to them, a deep-seated, animalistic fear, one he recognises from the hours after his own night terrors. A single-minded panic that cannot be unseated in any logical way, cannot be comforted with any gentle hands.

Nico handles his fear with slashing swords and bruised knuckles. Will, he knows, handles his fear with obsessive, endless preparation.

Knowing full well nothing is going to drag him away from his focus bar actual cardiac arrest, Nico walks right by him. Will doesn’t move. He settles behind him in the old, creaky leather office chair, curling his legs under him and resting his head on the soft arm. He watches Will, watches the almost machine-like movement to his kneading arms, and falls back asleep to his humming.

———

“…Nico?”

He wakes up warm and a little cramped, in the same position he fell asleep. Sun is streaming on from the many issues, blocked from burning his eyes by Will’s hunched frame, facing towards him now, hands and shoulders shaking with equal violence.

“What time is it?”

His voice is croaky and wrecked from hours of singing. Nico is willing to bet his throat is burned as badly as his hands, cooked from non-stop, sun-borne glowing. The divinity that had emanated from him before has abandoned him and he looks young, lost.

“Early,” Nico says softly. He unfolds himself from the chair, stretching slightly — gods, he is going to ache today — and wraps a slow, careful hand around Will’s wrists. “Probably around six, if I have to guess.”

“I don’t remember waking up.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s okay.”

His breathing is heavy, laboured.

“I don’t —”

Nico squeezes gently. “It’s okay, Will.”

Will swallows and says nothing.

“Come on.”

Carefully, letting Will’s stiff joints set the pace, Nico guides him out of the infirmary. The sun shines brighter as soon as he steps outside, but he doesn’t seem to notice bar a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch at the change in lighting. Nico switches from holding his wrists to laying a hand on the small of his back, half-worried he’s going to fall over.

Luckily, he makes it to the Apollo Cabin upright, although the stairs take them a while. The hinges of the old screen door creak as Nico pushes it open, and he sees both Kayla and Austin, up and dressed, jump.

“…Will?” Kayla asks softly, eyebrows creased in concern. She walks over to him when he doesn’t answer, frozen still, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Will leans — almost hesitantly — into the touch. The same blankness from before clouds his eyes, although this time there’s less of the fear.

“Hey.” Nico walks over to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to meet his eyes. In the minutes it takes, he hears Austin pad over, standing opposite to Kayla, hands clenching and unclenching like he can’t decide what to do with them. “You think you can sleep?”

Will doesn’t answer verbally, but drifts after a moment to his bed. Nico follows, helping him out of his shoes and shirt. After a beat of hesitation, Austin hurries over, turning down Will’s sheets and helping him crawl in. Soft guitar music begins to play, and when Nico looks over Kayla is fiddling with the CD player, turning the dials carefully. Without much fanfare, Will’s eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows to something deep and even. His twitching fingers still.

“I don’t think today’s an activity day,” Nico murmurs. “I checked up on him a while after midnight; he’d been at it for hours. He didn’t stop ‘til sunrise.”

Kayla rubs harshly at her eyes. “Fuck.”

“He’ll be okay,” Austin whispers. He runs a gentle knuckle over Will’s forehead, then turns his careful, imploring gaze to Nico. “You kept an eye on him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Nico inclines his head. “Had a feeling.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Kayla admits. “He was —” She trails off, staring at something in the left half of the cabin — the empty half. “He was like this after the Titan War, too. I think he spoke maybe two words for the entirety of September.”

Nico almost can’t imagine it. The very thought of it makes something twinge in his chest, clench in his stomach.

“We’ll figure it out.” He nods, to convince himself as much as Kayla and Austin, who look to him with way more trust than he deserves. “We won’t let it — it won’t get that bad. We’ll help, and if we can’t figure it out we’ll get help. It won’t be as hard as last time.”

It won’t be as hard as last time because there won’t be twelve shrouds, Nico doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Both Kayla and Austin nod, looking at their sleeping brother with firm resolution.

“This time, we’ll be there.”

[ancalimas]

Jack & Joker - Episode 5

I need to post this scene in its entirety, it’s just so so good.

Joker gets beat up while others are forced to watch, and he doesn’t try to fight back. He’s hit on the head with a bottle that practically knocks him out. The pain in his face, spitting out blood, the eye fluttering, the way he can barely talk in his weakened state on the ground...

He is barely conscious when they call his love interest, Jack, to taunt him as they injure Joker more. They move and play with Joker like he's a puppet. Jack is forced to watch him get punched and sees him cough up blood in pain, barely being able to talk or sit up.

[sophsun1]

Queer As Folk – 2.03: Hypocrisy: Don't Do It

[leo-artista]

Y'know something I think is kinda funny is that while I love both Stans dearly the way I express that love for each of them is very different

With Stan I'm like "I love him he has gone through so much I want him to have a nice cup of coffee and sleep in a comfy bed with warm blankets and to feel safe and loved for the rest of his life" while with Ford I'm like "I love him he has gone through so much I want him to suffer and be in pain and tortured psycologically while he's shaking and crying and being haunted by every single choice he's made- and to also feel safe and loved for the rest of his life"

[xserpx]

"It's going to be tight and quite tender for the next few days, so, bed rest. And my finest broderie anglaise notwithstanding, don't exert yourself overmuch." "The girl's still missing, I've got to get back."

ENDEAVOUR 1.2 Fugue

[oatmealdaydreams]

Thinking about Fiddlestan but with Fiddleford struggling with an amnesia episode and Stan helping him out.

Major hurt/comfort, plenty of angst implications of what damage the memory gun does to Fiddleford, and plenty of comfort via 1980s Fiddlestan (bc I say so). Let's say Fiddleford is struggling through an episode where he forgets who Stan is, forgets what the shack/Mystery Shack is, and has a panic. He struggles with massive anxiety on a daily basis, because, y'know, I'm projecting, and so him having panic attacks isn't a new thing. So this is a very fucked-up episode Fiddleford is going through, and once he's out of it and back to the present and such, he feels so bad about the fact that he forgot Stan. He cries, he pleads, he's so sorry, he didn't mean to forget him, please don't leave--

And then Stan is there, a steady presence, helping him calm down because he can't blame Fiddleford for having fucked-up memory problems. He can't blame him for feeling so scared and unsafe that he felt a literal memory gun was the only way to cope. He can't ever blame Fiddleford for what he went through, especially since it's not his fault that he experienced terrifying things.

So, Stan helps him breathe, calms him down, and they rest on the couch together. He reassures Fiddleford that he's not going anywhere, it's not his fault that he forgets people sometimes, he doesn't have anything to apologize for, it's okay, why not watch some weird knock-off TV shows that only Gravity Falls has as a nice distraction? Maybe he can talk about how dumb some of the sci-fi shit is or how inaccurate the portrayals of Southern folk are in popular media.

And, yeah, hurt/comfort with an amnesiac Fiddleford. Bc I say so.

[misspoetree]

KinnPorsche + Text Posts: a quick Ep. 11 Rewatch Edition [Ep. 7 | 8 | 9 | 10]

[mellowthorn]

"Did I have a fit last night?" A small silence preceded his words. He kept his voice casual. "A small one, perhaps. You tossed your head about and trembled for a time in your sleep. I held you still. It passed." He did not want to speak of it any more than I did.

[coffeebanana]

This was supposed to be for the Ladrien June prompt "morning", but I didn't feel like waiting another week or so 😂.

Excerpt:

[CW for grief/mourning and recent character death (Gabriel)]

Adrien cleared his throat. "I...ran into Chat Noir outside. He said he had to go, but he told me..." He took a deep breath, continuing in a whisper. "I know my father's dead." It was the first time he'd said it out loud, and the words came out surprisingly clear. It was only afterwards, when they hung in the awkward silence following Ladybug's sharp intake of air, that he felt like they were eating him from the inside out. Ladybug's grip tightened. "I'm sorry, Adrien. I'm so sorry."

Read on Ao3, or under the cut!! 💜

The rising sun hit Adrien's back as he forced his front door open, its light casting an eerie glow over the mansion’s battle-torn foyer. Half the ceiling was caved in. The staircase was all but destroyed. And scraps of metal amongst the wreckage glinted gold, like the dying embers of a fire. Like the end of an era.

It wasn't the victory it should have been.

As the door slipped from his fingers, Adrien squeezed his eyes shut and stopped to take a few steadying breaths—a dangerous idea. Police officers were still on site, gathering evidence amidst the wreckage. One of them could easily notice him, and then he might get stuck answering their questions. He needed to move. He needed to remember the simple instructions he'd outlined for himself before walking back inside.

Sneak into the kitchen. Grab food for Plagg. Get out.

Run.

He could cover his tracks later. It wouldn't be too hard to find an excuse for Ladybug as to why Chat Noir hadn't come back after he allegedly went outside to recharge. It would definitely be easier than facing her as his civilian self—as Monarch's son—right now.

But hesitation had cost him. "Adrien?"

Ladybug.

Unable to reply or to so much as glance in her direction, Adrien stared resolutely at a piece of rubble by his feet—a piece which he thought used to be part of the bannister. Tears burned the corner of his eyes, but he did his best to blink them away.

He tensed when he heard her approach, something he wouldn't have noticed so quickly if it weren't for the debris scattered about. Any other day, her footsteps would have barely made a sound against the marble floors.

Too soon, her feet stopped in front of him. He struggled to keep his breaths even, fighting to remain upright when it felt like the entire world was closing in around him.

"I...I thought you were at Nino's," she said.

Had he told her that? He barely remembered any of the excuses he'd made last night. It was hard to recall much aside from how he'd awoken a few hours earlier to find his father's body splayed unnaturally across the floor, his vacant stare somehow still bearing traces of disappointment.

The ambulance had pulled away maybe an hour ago, with no sirens to accompany its departure.

Adrien only realized Ladybug was probably waiting for a response when she grabbed his hand, pulling him back to the present with a gentle squeeze. His stomach swirled. Couldn't she have reached for his other side?

She deserved better than the hand he'd used to destroy his own father.

When he finally managed to look up, he only felt worse seeing the sympathy in her eyes. He quickly looked back to his feet, panic drowning out any response he tried to cobble together in his head.

"Has anyone told you what happened?" she asked.

Adrien almost said no—which would be the truth, technically. Nobody had told him, unless he counted the clarifications Plagg had provided after the fact, details of what occurred after Ladybug and Chat Noir fell victim to Monarch's Akuma. Part of him wondered how Ladybug would tell the story, which parts would she soften or leave out. He wondered what she really thought.

But maybe it was better not to know.

Adrien cleared his throat. "I...ran into Chat Noir outside. He said he had to go, but he told me..." He took a deep breath, continuing in a whisper. "I know my father's dead."

It was the first time he'd said it out loud, and the words came out surprisingly clear. It was only afterwards, when they hung in the awkward silence following Ladybug's sharp intake of air, that he felt like they were eating him from the inside out.

Ladybug's grip tightened. "I'm sorry, Adrien. I'm so sorry."

His gut coiled tightly with some unbearable emotion. He tried to think up something else to say, lips parting as he raised his head to look at her. But the second he met her eyes—so wide and blue and sad—speaking was a lost cause.

His lips quivered. A sob clawed its way up his throat, tugging another one up behind it before the first had even broken free. Ladybug's hand rubbed up and down his arm, and that was all the encouragement he needed to finally release the tsunami inside him.

Adrien had killed his own father.

For months he'd been suffering. Adrien had assumed, when Monarch reappeared from his brief hiatus, that he was okay. That the Cataclysm hadn't been fatal. Instead he'd had a front row seat to his demise—to all the times he cried out in pain while cooking breakfast, trying to pretend everything was fine whenever Adrien noticed.

But if it weren't for that Cataclysm, if Monarch's health hadn't been weakened, then the world might have ended a few hours ago, torn apart and rebuilt in his father’s image. With his parents and Nathalie still alive.

How was he meant to feel about that?

He didn't even know where he was supposed to sleep tonight.

But at least Ladybug didn't hate him. At least he still had one friend in this crazy, twisted world.

She pulled him into her arms as he broke down in tears, as he crumpled like the ceiling and shattered like the windows. As he was reduced to nothing but a shaky foundation, to the dying embers of who he used to be.

Adrien and his cold, lonely home finally had something in common.

...

"Here you go," Ladybug said, sliding a mug of tea across the kitchen counter as she settled onto the stool beside him.

Adrien wrapped his hands around the mug. The water was still too hot, but it took him a few seconds to notice. By the time he loosened his grip, his fingers already stung.

"Thanks," he croaked, his throat raw from crying. He wasn't really the biggest fan of tea, but it had seemed to make Ladybug feel better having some way to help him.

The least he could do was pretend she'd succeeded.

For a while they sat in silence. Adrien stared blankly at his tea, vaguely aware of how Ladybug kept shifting around like she couldn't get comfortable.

"Do you...have any questions?" she asked eventually.

He shook his head. None of his questions were for the living.

"Well," she said, "if you think of any later...I'd be happy to answer if I can. And if there's anything else I can do..." She reached out slowly to touch his shoulder, and it was all he could do not to shake her off. "Is there anywhere you'd like to go? Someone you'd like to see?"

Adrien fiddled with the string of his tea bag, watching it bob up and down. "Am I even allowed?"

"What do you mean?"

"To leave."

"Why wouldn't you be?" When he shrugged, her hand slipped from his shoulder. She slid her stool closer. "Adrien, you're not in trouble. Nobody thinks you had anything to do with any of this."

Maybe they should.

Adrien swallowed. "But...don't I have to talk to a social worker or something?"

"Oh. I, um...I don't know. I guess so, but there's nobody here right now, so...I don't think anyone would mind if I took you somewhere else to wait."

He nodded slowly, hand moving automatically to his pocket. He shifted to pull out the lucky charm he kept there, wrapping his fingers tightly around it. "Maybe I could go to my girlfriend's house."

"That sounds like a great idea," Ladybug said, jumping to her feet. "Let's go!"

Adrien remained glued in his seat, his stomach swirling. Seeing Marinette probably would make him feel better—at least on the surface. But how long could that last? Hiding his identity hadn't really come between them since they'd gotten together, but this was different. How could he hide the worst thing he'd ever done?

But what if he told her and she never looked at him the same way?

Ladybug's stool scraped against the floor as she sat back down, and she sounded upset when she spoke. "Do you not want to go?"

Adrien set the lucky charm on the table and watched the beads blur behind fresh tears. "I'm...scared."

"Why?"

"Because...what if Marinette sees me differently."

"Do you really believe she would?" Ladybug asked in a small voice.

He thought for a moment. "No? I don't know. Probably not, but...she could."

She grabbed his hand, and when he glanced her way there was an intensity in her eyes he couldn't interpret. "I'm sure she won't."

"You can't know that."

"But I do! I—she loves you, right?"

Adrien's stomach clenched, but he managed a nod as a hot tear rolled down his cheek.

"Exactly!" Ladybug said, gesturing nonsense with her free hand. "So there!"

He mustered a small smile for her enthusiasm, but it was short-lived. "It doesn't matter," he said, wiping his eyes. "Things are different now."

"Sure. But...that doesn't mean everything has to change, right?"

He didn't answer, trying to ignore the feelings swirling inside him by poking at his tea bag again. The water was cool enough now that it didn't hurt when he accidentally dipped his finger in, but the idea of actually taking a sip and swallowing seemed foreign. So he kept staring at it until a sniffle came from beside him. He turned to see Ladybug with one hand covering her mouth, tears trickling down her cheeks.

"My lady?" he said without thinking, reaching over to set a hand on her shoulder. Panic spiked through him when he realized what he'd called her, but she didn't seem to notice.

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I didn't mean to...I'm f-fine! It's just that you—I just want to help you! But maybe I c-can't. And it's not f-fair, that you're hurting. And..."

Her next words were drowned out by a sob. She slumped down on the table, hiding her face in her arms. All Adrien could do was sit there rubbing her back until she calmed down, at which point she pushed herself up slowly, wiping her eyes.

"I'm sorry I let this happen," she said.

"What?" Adrien replayed her words in his head, certain he'd misunderstood. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was my job to stop Monarch from making the wish, and I...failed. Even if he didn't succeed...someone's still paying the price."

"That's ridiculous." It was his fault.

"Adrien, it's fine. You don't have to..." She drew in a shaky breath. "If you're mad at me, I understand."

None of the morning had felt real, but now Adrien was sure he must be caught in some sort of alternate reality.

Maybe the wish had worked. Maybe his mother would walk into the kitchen at any moment.

If only.

"That makes no sense," Adrien said slowly, still trying to wrap his head around things. "If anything, it's Chat Noir's fault."

Ladybug's eyes went wide. "Did he tell you that?"

How was he meant to answer that? "Not...exactly. But he told me about the Cataclysm, and—"

"Please don't blame him for that. I know he feels terrible enough already."

"Because Monarch's dead thanks to him. It's his fault!"

"It's not," Ladybug pleaded. "He was just following my plan, and Monarch caught us off guard, and then..."

"But...but you..." Adrien trailed off, his body shaking.

He didn't know what to say, because technically Ladybug was right. But he didn't blame her at all, and he certainly didn't want her blaming herself.

"It was my fault," he said, knowing it was true. He felt it with every inch of his body, with every useless breath he took.

The guilt consumed him.

"Adrien," Ladybug breathed. "It's absolutely not your fault. How could you even think that?"

Only once he processed her words did he recognize his own misstep. But she hadn't caught on yet. He could still walk this back.

But he wasn't sure he wanted to.

This secret took too energy much to hide.

"It was me,” he said shakily. “It was my..."

He couldn't finish the sentence. He could barely even breathe. But he could see in Ladybug’s eyes that she still didn't understand, so he raised his hand to mimic the motion, stretching out his fingers the way he would if he'd really called on his power. He tried to mouth the word too, but he wasn't really sure his lips obeyed. Slowly, he lowered his hand to the counter, letting it collapse into a fist when he made contact.

Cataclysm.

He watched as realization slowly dawned on her. Then she blinked hard, shaking her head as if trying to dismiss the idea. But her eyes flew to the ring on his hand, widening further.

“Chat Noir?”

"I did this," he said in a broken whisper. "I killed him."

"Oh, Chaton. No." Ladybug stood, wrapping her arms around him. "It was an accident. It's not your fault."

Adrien thought that maybe, if he kept taking breaths so small they barely counted, if he let his mind float away the way it had been threatening to do all morning, then maybe—maybe—he could keep from crying again. But Ladybug rested her head on his shoulder, her warm breath ruffling his T-shirt. And that was all it took for him to come apart again.

...

They ended up on the floor, wedged between both stools. Adrien wasn't sure if he'd fallen off his seat at some point or if Ladybug had carried him here. He didn't care. As long as he could keep lying here with his head in Ladybug's lap and her fingers in his hair, he could somehow keep the guilt at bay. He could stop it from devouring him whole.

But he couldn't stay here forever.

Marinette's lucky charm was clenched in his fist again, and he was afraid to let go.

"Should I tell her?" Adrien asked.

"Hm?"

"Marinette. Should I..." He closed his eyes. "Do you think she'd hate me if I told her the truth?"

Ladybug let out a shaky breath, her fingers freezing in his hair. "She won't hate you. And...yes. I think you should tell her."

"Okay. Maybe I will."

"How about this?" Ladybug said. "If she breaks up with you, I'll date you instead."

Adrien managed some semblance of a laugh. "What about your boyfriend?”

“Mmm." She twisted another strand of hair around her finger. "Somehow I don’t think he’ll mind.”

“All right then. It’s a deal.”

Her offer was a joke—he knew that. But somehow it still felt like a promise.

"Would you...like me to take you to her now?”Ladybug asked. “I still can, if you want."

"Maybe." He thought of the bakery. Of Tom and Sabine's welcoming smiles, the smell of croissants, and being wrapped up in one of Marinette's hugs. It sounded nice. "Give me five more min—" He broke off in a yawn.

Ladybug laughed. "Or you can get some sleep first." Her voice was gentle and steady and safe. "I'll stay with you."

He tried to reply, but his words were engulfed by another yawn. So he settled for mumbling his agreement, squeezing the lucky charm to his chest, and letting his eyes flutter closed.

Maybe in his dreams, the world wouldn't hurt so much.