#brain injury tw

[rypirotes]

ℹ️

ummmm. anyone else seeing this

[bittenmoths]

// ( danny ramirez . cis man . he/him ) . ⸻ rafael velazquez , a thirty year old , has survived another day in red creek where they have lived for his entire life . the quixotic is known for being equanimous and woolgathering and is often associated with ants burrowing into sugar cubes just to know what sweetness is ; what it could be , the engulfing warmth of a well - loved leather jacket ; cracking at every crease , and not recognizing the eyes that gaze back at you inside the mirror ; who are you , what have you become ? in a small town where they work as an owner / tattoo artist at devil's ink word travels fast . it’s hard to keep a secret , and it looks like the boogeyman knows that redacted . ( james , 25 , est , they/them )

content warnings for... drunk driving, car accident, familial death, grief, traumatic brain injury, anxiety, dissociation.

profile.

full name — rafael amaya velaquez.

nickname(s) — raf, rafa, velaquez.

place of birth — red creek, michigan.

date of birth & age — july 15th, 1994. thirty.

gender / pronouns — cis man, he/him.

sexuality — bisexual.

occupation — owner and tattoo artist at devil's ink.

astrology — cancer sun, libra moon, libra rising.

residence — a small apartment on the west - end of town; all brick walls and busted heaters; dozen of knitted blankets and coffee wafting through the air, clinging to the fabric. comfortably cluttered and warm - toned, it feels like a proper home.

interests — ink drawings and paint markers; poorly made ceramics. the smell of a sterile work station; mindless sketches. stretching, sometimes just to show off faded but well - loved ink. dungeons and dragons; mysticism as a concept. high fantasy, comfort in a well - crafted world. reading, though he wishes he did it more often. huddling beneath a pile of blankets in the middle of winter; star - gazing. herbal teas with just a touch of honey. the scent of fresh laundry, cloves, roses. helping others where he can. cooking, but especially for others; and especially old family recipes. journaling, keeping notes; trying to regain a sense of purpose - feeling normal. ice cold beer and a pack of cigarettes, the occasional joint. loud music; the riff of a guitar. the feeling of one in his hands. love, found in the faces of everyone he's ever known. love, as a concept. love, as something unreachable.

aversions — mentions of his brother; a wound still so fresh, so red, a mark upon his entire being. acknowledging the lingering stares of his parents, and wondering if they wish he were someone else. excessive selfishness, when survival means only sacrifice. empty gestures and meaningless words; promises he can't keep. lying, though he can't help it. grinding his teeth together ( wears a night guard to bed ). laying awake for hours at a time, just staring at the ceiling; no thoughts, but sleep too far in the distance. thinking about only himself. being a burden. geese, god help him. replacing old clothes that reek of nostalgia; forever condemned to a lifetime of sewing buttons back onto sleeves, patchwork over holes. .

quirks — rolls his knuckles over a flat surface in order to crack them. nails bitten raw and short. frequently caught staring at the sky, entranced by the clouds - wishing he could touch them. notes app full of the things the people he cares about enjoy, or dislike; so he never gets it wrong. gives too much of himself, even when it hurts. never knows when to say no.

most played — everything in its right place by radiohead.

notable features — an old, cracking leather jacket he refuses to part ways with and a mess of curls well - cared for. an expanse of tan, tattooed flesh that stretches over bone and muscle; always peaking beneath hemlines.

general disposition — a bright, well - lit smile and shoulders that seem only sometimes heavy. dim - lit eyes, and a small sigh of relief whenever eyes turn away from him.

character study — ponyboy curtis ( the outsiders ) & james wilson ( house m.d. ).

public records.

the velazquez' have lived in red creek for generations, rafael and his family no exception to that. his parents are both teachers, high school and elementary, and their family was as nuclear as it came. two parents, two kids, a dog; a white picket fence ( or damn well near enough ).

they're good people, well - respected in town. rafael and his twin brother, joaquin get into trouble from time to time; but only minor things, nonconsequential. kids being kids. they're close, growing up, as close as they can be. it's an ordinary childhood; but one filled with warmth and light, and life.

the only notable dispute that rafael and joaquin ever had were their positions in life; rafael's smart, but he's always been more practical, more artistically inclined. joaquin was valedictorian - there's a craving deep inside him for a life outside the one they know in red creek. he wants to leave, rafael wants to stay; he can't imagine a life without his brother, but he can't imagine a life where he leaves red creek either.

joaquin moves soon after; away from red creek, and away from rafael. it's a loneliness that he's never felt before; one that eats at him. it's not long before he's visiting joaquin at college every other month. it's a long drive - but it's worth it. he's his twin; it would always be worth it.

drunk driving / car accident / familial death; one weekend away, one visit to joaquin's college nearing his graduation, and they're driving home too late, too drunk from the party they've just left. rafael knows they should call an uber, a taxi, a friend, anybody, but joaquin insists - it's fine; they've driven the same length of road so many times before. it's fine. it's fine, he says. rafael sees the other car before he does - joaquin doesn't see anything at all. he dies on impact.

grief; it's weird, mourning someone you've known all your life. grown up next to. their parents are beside themselves - blame themselves for joaquin's death more than they blame rafael. their relationship's never the same - but red creek is home, where else would he go? the grief is heavy, all - consuming; rafael breaks up with his long - term partner at the time, and for a while there - it's like he's nothing more but a ghost.

he doesn't think time can ever heal the wound he feels, so viscerally - but little by little, time does pass. it does move - his parents warm up to him again, and he can breathe a little easier. he rebuilds his life - comes into ownership of the local tattoo shop; and it's been peace since - until daniela estrada.

disposition & details.

a lover by all means; loves his friends and his family deeply, and when he does fall, he falls hard. quiet, but charming; kind. the boy next door, all grown up. he would do anything to protect the people he loves.

will always go out of his way to help someone in need; whether it's a ride home after they've drank too much, or they need somewhere to stay - or they just want someone to accompany them on errands - rafael's the first one to the door, the first one to call. never asks anything in return - never asks much for himself. a lifetime of brotherhood's left him more than willing to share what he has of his own.

grief; he knows he's not at fault for the accident that claimed his brother's life; but there's guilt in the survival of it all. he would turn back time just to switch their roles, just so joaquin could have the life he wanted. it's made him quieter, less enthused than he used to be - and it's not for lack of trying. years ago, he was angry; now he's defeated - stuck knowing that nothing could bring his twin back.

traumatic brain injury; the accident left rafael with a significant brain injury that effects his ability to hold and process memories; over the course of the years, his ability to retain past information has improved - but there's a constant struggle to remember the new. it's overwhelming, overpowering; it's terrifying.

anxiety / dissociation; appears naturally laidback - a quiet confidence; but anxiety lingers beneath his skin. he doesn't talk about his mental health often, or the things that consume him, the dissociative state he finds himself in more often than not. it's better this way, he thinks. ultimately self - sacrificing; by putting others at a constant first, he's only hurting himself.

not someone who beats around the bush; but he's gentle all the same. it's not tough love, just - love. despite any worries - he's never afraid to speak up, speak out; voice his concerns for others. stubborn, sometimes; he doesn't drop topics, even when they make him sick with worry, with fear, with anxiety. is someone who has to talk it through to the end, or else he can't sleep, can't function. can't live.

a better person to sit in silence with in quiet comfort than be offered advice; he falters, sometimes, because how can he give advice that he himself doesn't follow? tries nonetheless, but he's never been much of a motivational speaker.

cares deeply about his profession, his craft - the work he does. doesn't tattoo as often as he used to, before becoming the owner of blackest ink; but he'll make time for others, when they ask. his work is still precise, near methodical; laced with years - long practice and love. it's just that he's also handling the business side of things, the finances. he's constantly sinking under, but trying to remain afloat.

wanted.

the long term ex — it's been maybe six years now since they've broken up, with little to no warning or explanation on rafael's side. loose ends, and unanswered questions - things he still avoids to this day. why?

childhood friends — without them, he'd be lost; he needs people to anchor onto, to keep him from floating away. they've known him, his family, all their lives.

something more — he's always so hesitant, so afraid of messing something up; they're not sure where they stand, or what exactly they mean to each other. but it's - something, right?

clients, neighbors - people he's grown up around, but aren't necessarily his closest friends. family friends. enemies from youth; unresolved conflicts. exes, friends of joaquin's.

[merrock]

CHARACTER INFORMATION

face claim: arjun rampal

full name: ravi mohan

nickname(s) / goes by: ravi, rav

pronouns & gender: he / him, cis man

sexuality: bisexual

birth date: july 29, 1977

birth place: bellevue, washington

arrival to merrock: since 2004

housing: the coast

occupation: chief operating officer of mohan prime retail

work place: n/a

family: vikas mohan (father), riya mohan (father), two sisters

relationship status: single

PERSONALITY

Ravi is blunt to a fault, often bordering on insensitive, but he just does not have the bandwidth for bullshit nor has any interest to be well-liked. He can be cold and calculating and has always lived his life by the numbers, though is recently trying to learn how to play a few things by ear and listen to gut feelings rather than logic.

WRITTEN BY: Frankie (any pronouns), gmt+8.

BACKGROUND / BIO

triggering / sensitive content: assault, brain/head injury

Ravi grew up used to luxury, having nannies and maids and cooks to cater to the family’s every whim. Vikas, Ravi’s father, was a business tycoon, and so was Vikas’ father before him, and so on. The Mohans were well-known in the retail, hospitality, and real estate industry, having founded the Mohan Prime Investment Group which had a variety of subsidiaries that operated mall chains, department stores, restaurants, hotels and inns. They even branched out to property development in later years, though they’re much less known for these ventures.

Ravi was involved with the family business since his teenage years, so it came as no surprise to anyone that once he graduated business school, he started working directly under his father’s wing, moving through the ranks until he was appointed COO of the Mohan Prime Retail in his late twenties.

Vikas was known to be a ruthless businessman, unafraid of running over anyone and anything that stood in his way. While Ravi didn’t always agree with his father’s ways, he trusted that he knew what he was doing, and that his decisions were always in the company’s best interests. So when Vikas sent his son to Maine in order to oversee operations of their shopping centers in smaller towns where competition was scarce, Ravi played the role of the obedient son and carried out his father’s orders with no questions asked.

It’s no secret that the Mohans have garnered a number of enemies who wish to see their empire fall over the years and with Ravi essentially acting as an extension of his father, it was easy to see him as a big red target for those the family had scorned. Ravi was at a nightclub in Merrock when he was drunkenly assaulted by a former employee who had been laid off a week prior. This incident had landed Ravi in the hospital, sustaining a brain injury that he would gradually recover from, but would affect his cognitive and fine motor skills in the long run. He’d grown to be quite explosive with his temper, often getting violent outbursts that, while often triggered by circumstances, can sometimes be random. He would also become quite forgetful, missing meetings, failing to return phone calls and reply to emails. He’d also have trouble with his penmanship and often prefers typing over writing with a pen. Having a personal assistant makes a lot of these things much easier for him to deal with, but he often can’t help but feel held back and weighed down due to his condition.

Lately, he’s been reassessing his role in his father’s company and the hand he plays in so much destruction that it leaves in its wake. Having lived in Merrock since 2021, he’s grown quite charmed by small town life and is slowly being humbled by its hardworking residents that he can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for several jobs lost, businesses shutting down, and even land bought out from families in the name of capitalism and urbanization. He’s been thinking about diverting from his father’s legacy and making a name for himself but has yet to act on these thoughts.

[ghosts-and-glory]

Is Shamura training martial arts after being taken into Lamb's cult? If they enjoyed complexity and bloodshed of war than it'd be probably dissapointing for them if they had to... drop it all

Full under the cut because this turned out really long

Upon joining the cult Shamura was a shell of their former self. They join the cult dissenting, the long term effects of the crown still clawing at the edges of their mind, but after a few days they’re mortal, just themself. Without the crown to hold them together they suffer like their injury was yesterday.

The Lamb has the doctor, Puar, perform their usual tests on them. Shamura is hardly there. They don’t know their own name, can hardly speak, can’t stand or track movement.

There was no wisdom in their slurred words. No power in the way their hands shook.

The outlook is bad.

The Lamb doesn’t really want to help them, after everything, why should they. Shamura who had The Lamb’s entire race and family killed, who killed them aswell and countless of their followers. It would cost them so much, to try and help someone who spent so long just trying to destroy them and everything they had. The time, energy, resources it would cost and they didn’t even know if they could get better.

Deciding it wasn’t worth it was one thing, but getting the other ex bishops to understand was a whole other, even the doctor disagreed with them.

Dr Puar took on being their primary caregiver. They’d been a doctor for the past hundred years and seen concussions and dementia but nothing nearly as severe as this. They wanted to help Shamura but didn’t know how.

It wasn’t until Narinder joined the cult that The Lamb saw any reason to help Shamura. But there was something wrong with him and Shamura knew something, they just had to get to it.

Kallamar was the ex bishop Puar wanted the help from the most. He was scared of the lamb and red crown but he loved Shamura more.

The Lamb took Puar and Kallamar to the ruins of the temples in Anchordeep and Silk Cradle. They spent days digging through the decimated remains of the libraries for something, anything on this type of injury.

It seemed that they where looking down possible years of intense recovery. Needed herbs and medicines that may no longer exist, techniques Puar had never heard of. But they would try.

Puar took careful and detailed notes. Timed Shamura’s responses, wrote down everything they said, tracked eating, drinking, sleeping and every symptom they displayed. Improvements where slow and sometimes nonexistent at first. They took full minutes to respond and only in single words, barley moved, couldn’t feed themselves and suffered constant migraines.

The one thing that seemed to help them the most was their siblings. They didn’t remember them most days but every time one of they came to check in it raised their spirits. One of their faces was the only thing they could focus on sometimes.

Kallamar insisted he wasn’t a doctor but still worked around the infirmary, helping Shamura was the only thing he’d do without complaining. Heket spent hours sitting in silence with them, brought them food and flowers and changed their bandages. Leshy was the only thing that could get them to smile and they where the only person he would ever lower his voice for, he told them stories even though they hardly listened.

Improvements brought new challenges. They got better at speaking full sentences and following conversations but it revealed how fractured their memory was. Forgetting names, places and important events, how often they forgot where they where, they asked the same questions over and over again.

They complained of seeing and hearing things, phantom pains with seemingly no rhyme or reason. The sun hurt their eyes, rain gave them headaches, always sleeping but always tired. They would suddenly backslide constantly. One day could walk with minimal help and the next, couldn’t even hold a pen in their hand. Have a full conversation one day and hardly spit out their name tomorrow.

Until the day Puar looked Shamura in the eye and for once they saw him. Didn’t look past them with their blank stare but looked at them. They would ask to sit outside at night in the fresh air. They seemed to know now who they are, what they where, what they lost. A tinge of grief in their words.

Improvements brought frustration. On days they remembered who they where they were overcome with a mix of anger, guilt and despair. They where a god. They had bore down on armies, killed men with a twitch of a finger, brought other gods to their knees, and now they could hardly bring a cup to their mouth.

Emotionally, their siblings said they’d never seen them like this before. Before Shamura could be frustrated but their temper was cold and quiet. Now they wore a short fuse and suffered constant mood swings. It angered them that they couldn’t read, that their hands were numb, that they couldn’t walk without a cane, couldn’t go out in the sun, couldn’t string a full sentence together, couldn’t recognize their siblings faces, couldn’t feed themselves, couldn’t sleep without drugs, everything they lacked and lost wore them down.

Regardless, they where unusually steadfast. They would always pick back up. If they got frustrated they would try again in a few days. They tried anything Puar asked of them, anything for the smallest iota of improvement.

The outlook was better.

—————

This got out of control and took me like three days between the art and write up. I got really excited when I saw this ask cause the answer is so devastating. If I was taking Narinder’s trauma seriously I’m not gonna just ignore Shamura’s traumatic brain injury.

As a side note, I’m very unsure how to write the medical stuff, my guess is that cotl is based around 1300’s-1700’s but that’s a wide net to cast. My excuse for the stronger understanding of medicine and trauma is magic.

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three 

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition. 

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place. 

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip. 

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck. 

 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital. 

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten. 

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled. 

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but. 

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.) 

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen. 

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair. 

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants." 

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him. 

Would Harrington pitch a fit? 

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did? 

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper. 

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life? 

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it. 

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--" 

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out." 

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.  

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying. 

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness. 

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone." 

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box. 

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home. 

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope. 

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet. 

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand. 

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list. 

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that." 

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face. 

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him. 

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?"  He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?" 

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years. 

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here. 

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder. 

Several somethings, in fact. 

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck. 

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick. 

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie. 

An unfair advantage, really. 

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly. 

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie. 

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting. 

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie." 

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

 "What do you mean Si--Wayne." 

"Nice catch.”  Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.” 

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much. 

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither. 

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat." 

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked. 

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?" 

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret. 

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt." 

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle. 

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end." 

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink. 

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?" 

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when  he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be. 

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless. 

"Anybody else?" He asked. 

"Nobody human." Steve replied. 

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that. 

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?" 

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency,  I'd be happy to." 

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through. 

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation. 

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus.  "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER." 

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword  home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it. 

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair." 

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound. 

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble. 

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…" 

"You take any today son?" 

Steve his head. 

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack. 

Course he hadn't. 

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in. 

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once. 

[frownyalfred]

imagine how smart Bruce would be if he didn't get hit in the head all the time. "Lex Luthor is the smartest man on Earth--" "Tony Stark is--" right but if Bruce is holding his own up there AND he's been playing fast and loose with TBIs for a few years, that ranking is flawed.

[amethyst-halo]

yet another au on my mind lol what if everyone stays

[positivelybeastly]

Burning ice cream.

Now, that had been a long time ago, hadn't it? He'd been a different man back then. Two faces ago, in fact. And that was to say nothing of how much he'd changed up top. Many neurochemistries ago. Many brain injuries ago. Many psychic assaults and knocks unconscious ago. If you wanted to be kind and assume the best, you could almost think that Beast had developed some kind of brain injury. That was a likely explanation, wasn't it? Chronic traumatic encephalopathy. He'd pondered it, when he found himself contemplating actions he'd never have thought about before.

The first-stage symptoms were confusion, disorientation, dizziness, and headaches. Second-stage symptoms included memory loss, social instability, impulsive behaviour, and poor judgment. Third and fourth stages include progressive dementia, movement disorders, hypomimia, speech impediments, sensory processing disorder, tremors, vertigo, deafness, depression and suicidality.

He'd pondered it. The problem was that the only way you could properly diagnose it was to examine the brain after death. What did it say about his new state of mind that he'd considered cloning his own brain and dissecting it to find out? Perhaps that was all the proof you needed to think he truly was just sick.

But something inside of him told him that wasn't it. That he'd always been this way. He'd just stopped hiding it. That was the truth.

Then again, Beast was a practiced liar now. He found it hard to keep track of his lies these days.

He backed up as she planted herself in front of him, so very like a tree of truth, and he almost wanted to smile. The concern was . . . well, frankly, it was more than anyone had expressed for him in a very long time. It was all derision and snideness these days. Rogue at least looked at him like she had a glimmer he had ever been anything except this.

Then a twisted fancy came to him, and he held out a hand, his eyes an inky black.

"Since you don't trust me, perhaps you'd like to verify the facts for yourself. Touch me. Find out. But I should warn you that you shan't like what you'll see. Any illusions you still retain as to who I am will not survive the experience."

And neither will you, he thought with clinical cool. All he needed was a moment of disorientation, a moment of shock at what she would feel him to have done, and he could simply break her neck, jam his claws into her eyes until he hit the occipital lobe. Rogue would wake up none the worse for wear, having forgotten the last few hours since her last back-up. All the awkwardness of this conversation would fall away. Efficient. Neat.

Monstrous.

"Well?"

“Forget? Last Ah checked Ah got the stink eye from people for a long ass time on account of the trainin’ momma gave me and who Ah ran with before Ah joined. Ah didn’t forget anythin’. And Ah’ve seen you give more of a shit over the demise of ice cream.”

She flew after and planted herself squarely in his path, arms akimbo and green eyes hot. How else was she supposed to get any kind of real answer out of him? He was walking around a shade of the person she had come to be fond of. Was she really so very busy? Was everyone so busy in this mess of an island that no one could see?

“‘As Ah was’ kinda just bit the dust! Seein’ as you’re bent on lyin’ t’me. So did some kinda mind control bug this place cooked up crawl up your big blue butt, or do you got shit you need t’say?”

[sarathrwizard]

Did someone ask for Donnie angst? (rottmnt)

Oh, and maybe some brains & brawn duo art as well! 😁💔

[demynom]

You stood up and paid the cost, I guess that truth and justice lost

So much for fighting like a Fey

[birrdify]

im obsessed wiht your AU mister moloch ...... @can-your-kinitopet (for Some reason i cant tag your main sobs)) i Will draw more whne i come back from the Dread. Dinner

[cosmicourple]

y’all, Neal Illustrator’s vers of Poseidon n Zeus are giving me,,,,,,, thoughts. Lots of Ody’ involved thoughts :D. specifically masochistic, power-shifting, and wound fucking thoughts—

[wildaboutmnhockey]

Today on the NHL once again has it's head up it's own ass: CTE Edition

NHL enforcers as a whole live roughly 10 years less than other NHL players on average and this is a known statistic.

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

My brain came up with a situation™

Enjoy?

So, Jespers playing with Wylans hair and notices a scar just behind his hairline. He asks how he got it and Wylan explains that shortly after his Mother died (but didnt die) he was really unwell with the flu and had a massive fever

He was walking down the hall towards his room to rest and his Father started talking to him so he was stood there for a while trying to listen when he eventually passes out

He smacks his head open on the floor and instead of helping him his Father just walks around him…

Wylan eventually comes to, alone on the floor with blood all down his face

Although Jan didnt cause the injury the complete lack of care and concern has Jesper fuming. Like imagine just stepping over your severely unwell, unconscious 8/9 year old as he bleeds on the floor… (all for the “crime” of not being able to read)

Wyalns just like ‘I did say you weren’t going to like this story!’

Anyway do with this what you will

[drinkinboilingcoffee]

It didn’t all go dark the moment the jaws clamped down on Evan’s skull btw. He passed out about halfway through the drive to the hospital. He was awake for Mike panicking and apologizing, for William rushing in and wrapping his head in a towel and eventually taking it off because the blood just started caking it to his face and he couldn’t see. He was awake for a lot of the drive. He could hear William shouting at Mike to keep him awake, Mike shaking him and apologizing and dripping tears all over him while Elizabeth just stared in shock. At some point in the drive he wasn’t lucid enough to understand what was going on, only that Michael had hurt him and now he wouldn’t stop touching him, talking to him as all he wanted to do was drift off. He tried to pull himself away, but that just opened the wound even more.

The last bit of consciousness he remembered was driving past their house and trying to ask through the haze if he could go in and get his toys. No one could understand what he was saying by then, which didn’t matter, since he didn’t get to finish his sentence anyway.

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Lunar: Say one smart thing, I dare you.

Eclipse: Well, I call what you did bullshit, but Solar would call it taking a premeditated, well-thought out risk.

Lunar: *donkey-kicks Eclipse in the throat*