#flashbacks of violence

[stargirl230]

ghost of you

super quick Sua screencap redraw to celebrate the new video release - no I was not expecting it to be Like That and yes I was devastated

(no reposts; reblogs appreciated)

[backhurtyy]

the thing that really broke me was the way ellie said ‘no’. like up until this moment she’s been so angry, so tough, so full of rage and bravado, that it’s easy to forget she’s still a child. but with that one word, that one single word when ellie’s voice broke, it all came rushing back. because it’s so quiet, so broken, so small, so childlike. and she’s been so mad at joel, but he’s him, and she’s her, and nothing is going to change that, and she just watched her dad die. and she’s just a fucking kid.

give bella their emmy now.

[astray-clangen]

[ Moon 6 ] [ Cold Rains ] [ Part 1/3 ] ⊲ [ First ] | [ Previous ] | [ Next ] ⊳

[ ??? suggests this might be a good chance to practice new fighting techniques with Freckle ] [ Proceed ] ⊲ [ Unfortunately, neither cat steps up to teach. It makes everything feel awkward and like a waste of time, and the cats give up. ]

[gravelsong]

What the fuck.

[irlangelsdiary]

just a shoutout to any survivors <3

i see you.

i hear you.

i know its hard

i know some days are more difficult then others

but i also know you are strong, and brave.

i know you are going to get through this

i know you are going to heal

i know it will take one day at a time

but i know you will heal

we will heal

we will live without our trauma ruining us, we will love ourselves, empower ourselves and laugh and heal and one day it wont hurt as much.

one day.

[literally-forever]

i was on my third rewatch when i noticed you can hear Charles pleading with his dad underneath the noises of the Devlin murders

[dramioneasks]

Only If For a Night - lululaments - E, 16 chapters - On record, Hermione Granger was an overworked and underpaid attorney for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, taking mostly cases involving the mistreatment and abuse of magical creatures. Her ten, sometimes twelve hour days started promptly at 7:30 am, her brisk walk across the Ministry atrium in her sensible work heels blissfully quiet before the morning rush of witches and wizards turned the cavernous space into chaos. Off record, however, was a different story entirely. Leave it to Draco Malfoy to barge in and tip the scales on the precarious balance she has on her life. [Or: Hermione Granger, disappointed and disheartened by the sluggish and antiquated way the Ministry of Magic handles Death Eaters and sympathizers, takes matters into her own hands. Draco Malfoy, never one to mind his own business, inserts himself into her narrative.]

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

it will never stop being funny to me that shadow is a great-uncle. imagine being put in stasis for fifty years and waking up to find that your like, six year old uncle you never met has now made like at least one sapient robot child while you were on ice and at least three more after and now you’ve got a fucking cube calling you grunkle shadow.

[mangemaw]

the ports; the night it happened

The backdoor of the Portside opens, fast and furious enough to send the thing half off it’s hinges. Yuisa storms out, and she too is moving fast and moving furious towards her motorcycle.

A shape dances out after her, edging his way through the dark to loop up around her. “Yui!”

She shoulders past Emilio when he grabs her wrist - Yuisa grabs his, wrenches it off, and flings him back towards the bar. He doesn’t fall - Matias is there, as ever - to catch him. The older brother steadies the younger, and even as Yuisa is moving to kickstart the bike, he’s rushing forward, in front of the thing, putting his hand on the handlebars, locking eyes with her. “This is fuckin stupid, Yuisa, you’re acting crazy, blowing this up.”

Yuisa goes to rev the bike, to pop the clutch, her anger is all that’s on her face, but before she can run her older brother over, he throws his arms, overturning the bike and sending her hard onto her side onto the pavement behind the Portside.

Yuisa scrambles to her feet, and her chest butts up against Matias’, rambles off a stream of profane Spanish so virulent and venmous it threatens to kill the fish out in the bay if it ever finds the calm enough to settle down onto the water. “I clean up our fucking messes, Matias. I fucking do. You’re soft like papa and you fucking know it, so let me get my hands dirty and you can go fucking play with your little friends. I’ll cut this fucking shit out before it spreads.”

She moves towards her bike and he shoulder checks her, shoves her off. “That is our fucking sister!”

“She is playing with those fucking mutt-fucking dogs, Mat!”

“Fucking lunatic, Yuisa. You got blood on your teeth from dad, you need more?”

Yuisa stares at Matias, incensed, her face sinks into a sot of blank thing, not furious or upset or sad.

“We are the last of our pack, Mario is going soft because of his fucking bullshit. Papa - gone soft because he’s tired. You’re fucking playing it too safe. You bring Espe back and you send a message that you’re okay with fucking traitors.”

She tries to move past again and he shoves her. Again. She falls onto her ass, looks up at him.

“This isn’t some fucking spy, Yuisa. This is your sister. She’s a fucking child, she’s chasing her fucking heart, this is a mistake, and you wanna butcher her over it? Fuck it. We get the Harford kid and we make an example of him if you’re in such a hurry to fucking make her hate you, but leave Esperanza alone. Kick her out of the pack, whatever. You fucking taught her how to walk, Yuisa. That is our sister!”

Yuisa’s eyes narrow on Matias, dart to Emilio, dart to the rest of the patrons watching all of this unfold. A thunderbolt brightens the sky, and a wince of thunder peels across the piers. Rain pitter-patters into a low roar as the winds push a storm into Port Leiry.

The eyes on her from behind Matias bore into her. Make her feel like the world is watching this moment unfold. Deciding things. About her. About Matias. About their place in Warwick. It forces her to make a decision. To put aside what she wants, to make a decision for the good of the family. The good of the pack.

She nods. “You’re right.” She nods. “You’re right. Esperanza’s our sister. And she’s being stupid. We can fix stupid.” She swallows back a bit and Matias holds his hand out to his sister. “C’mon. Let’s go in, have a drink. Cool off.”

She nods, stares at his hand. At her brother. Her brother who taught her how to walk and who has always walked her back from her worst instincts and impulses. Who always, always had her back, even if it meant not having her back.

He pulls her up and pulls her close. “C’mon, lets get out of this storm. We’ll work this out.”

Yuisa nods. “Yeah…”

Matias turns to go back inside, pulls her bike upright, and Yuisa follows him, and it’s out of body the way she feels. Her hand runs for his belt, and he looks up when Emilio shouts out, turning to grab at Yuisa’s hand as she pulls it from his hip and pushes it in to the meat of his shoulder.

Mattias rips himself free of it, but she’s on him again. One. Two. Three. Chest, Shoulder, Side. Matias snarls and his eyes light up gold in the rain. Yuisa’s on him again. Four. Five. Six. Chest. Chest. Gut.

He flails and she’s on him again. She’s knicked something important, because even with all his wolfish strength bristling in him, he feels like he can’t breathe.

Emilio rushes in and tries to break them up. Yuisa lashes him across the neck and he falls back, holding his throat. The onlookers look on.

Matias lurches at Yuisa, wraps bloody hands around her throat, and now she can’t breathe, but she can focus.

Seven. Eight. Nine Ten.

Gut. Gut. Gut. Gut.

Matias falls back and Yuisa falls on top of him, takes a deep breath as he claws at her face.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Emilio comes back and she throws him off again.

Sixteen.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

Twenty-one.

Twenty Two.

Thunder cracks again and she lets the knife sit in his heart, trying to catch her breath.

Emilio is up again, rushes to her side, throws her off, and she looks at her little brother cradle the red mess of her older brother.

“Yuisa! The fuck did you do, What the fuck did you fucking do?”

She paws at an itch on her face, and scrambles to her feet, rain rinsing into her blood spattered face. She throws him to the blacktop and pulls the knife out of Matias, pushes it to his jaw.

“I did what I had to do. I’ll do it again.”

She looks to the onlookers, staring slack jawed.

“He was gonna sell us out! All of you out! He was gonna open the door to a bunch of traitors, and then what? You all want to fucking be thrown in with Harford? You want dirt inside the house?”

The onlookers, one by one, begin to recede into the Portside. The rain redoubles its efforts, moving from drizzle to downpour.

Yuisa’s eyes flare when they scan back to Emilio. “Get a boat. Get a boat, and get rid of him. Do it.”

[goldendastuff]

PALM Asks About Jaded Y/N Eye Scar. This Is Inspired By @akbrain Work For The Sisters :>

TW/CW: Talk About Violence/Injury, Talk About Trauma/Body Trauma, Artwork For Trauma/PTSD And PTSD Flashback

PALM And Y/N Are Sitting On A Couch Eating Some Graham Crackers Waiting For Green Tea Mousse And Choco Drizzle To Come Back Home From Whatever Place They Went To.

PALM: "Hey Y/N...?"

Y/N: "Yea Pudding?"

PALM: "How Did You Get That Scar?" *She Asks Tilting Her Head A Little In Curiosity*

Y/N: "Oh Uh..-" *They Thought Of What To Said To PALM. Y/N Had Been Staying With The Sisters For About 2 Years Y/N Hadn't Told Either Of The Sisters About Their Past Let Alone Their Scar. Y/N Thought PALM Deserve An Explanation But The Look On PALM's Face...*

Y/N: "I Got It By-" *They Said Still Trying To Come Up With An Explanation For Her In A Way That PALM'S Innocence would Stay Intact. As They Thought The Image Of Him Flashed Through Their Head Remembering The Pain And Adrenaline Rushing Through Them As They brawled. The Image Went Away As Soon As It Went As Y/N Continued To Think.

Y/N: "I Got It When In A Scuffle Happened Between Someone I Used To Know." *They Said Trying To Collect Themselves To Not Worry PALM*

PALM: "Why Would Someone Do That To You?"

Y/N: "They Just Got Carried Away" *They Said Patting PALM'S Head To Calm Her Down*

PALM: "Oh Okay :3"

Y/N: "How About When Makes Some S'mores? You Can Put As Much Chocolate As You Want" *Y/N Said With A Small Grin Thankfully PALM Took Y/N's Words. As Y/N Got Up To Get Everything Ready To Make The S'mores They Thought To Themselves 'How Much Time Do I Have To Tell Them All My Past?..'"

Artwork:

[sleepyfan-blog]

Older Brothers

Author’s Note:This is the next fic in Cedric’s Adventures. First. Previous. I have borrowed Brother Roland and Brother Arnault from @kit-williams with permission and Brother Petras from @gal with permission. Thank you!

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @whorety-k @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts

Warnings: abuse of power, flashback, minor character death, canon-typical violence

Summary: Cedric is introduced to a couple of firstborn black templars by Captain Ash’val. 

Cedric silently follows after Captain Ash’val, his mouth dry and concern clawing it’s way through the depths of his hearts. If… Or more accurately, when it’s found out that he helped four teenage baselines out of the base, rather than bringing them to holding or to one of his older Cousins or Imperial Fist Brothers, he had no doubt that he’s going to be in more trouble. But the young apothecary truly felt that he’d done the best he could in a rather fraught situation. Even if Cedric had merely taken the four teenagers to holding, the fact that they were there would have caught Captain Petras’ attention, and…

The Black Templar Chaplain had a firm and heavy hand when it came to punishment, and while Cedric would like to say that he didn’t think that the older Black Templar would permanently harm baseline humans who had been born and lived on Holy Terra… Especially the young and adventurously foolish - 

Cedric was half-way through checking the inventory of the tertiary infirmary aboard the Sigismund when his vox was pinged. One of his fellow Primaris brothers was in critical condition and needed immediate medical aid, or it was likely that he was going to die. Considering the fact that the Sigismund was weeks from the last engagement and they had taken minimal casualties, the ping had startled the young Apothecary.

Dutifully he set down the medication he’d been counting, grabbing an emergency kit and sprinted out of the medication room, hearing the medication room door close automatically behind him. 

It took him five long, agonizing minutes to reach the location of his critically injured Brother, who continued to get worse and further injured by something. He’d also made sure to grab his bolter - they were flying through the warp and if the Gellar Field had weakened where the Brother was and had allowed a daemon or other sort of warp-predator onto the ship, they were potentially in much greater trouble.

Cedric skidded to a halt, staring in confusion at the entrance to the cathedral room, which was where his dying brother was. It was one of the most holy and sanctified parts of the entire ship, how could an agent of Chaos bear to stand in a place so entirely lit by His Holy Light? The young apothecary mentally shook himself and charged into the room to see-

Honorable Chaplain Captain Petras standing over the prone body of Alois, one of Cedric’s fellow Primaris marines, sneering down at the young marine, who had been stripped of both armor and clothing, and knelt before the older marine, head bowed low and arms crossed behind his back. Petras was wielding an electro-whip in one hand, the other was wielding a charged powerfist. The chaplain’s voice was full of disdain and wrathful fire as he thundered loudly “YOU WILL BE PUNISHED FOR YOUR MANY SINS, AND BE MADE TO BLEED AND CRAWL IN PENANCE!”

Alois was barely breathing, and was weeping silently but freely, shi shoulders trembling. He didn’t so much as flinch as Petras whipped him across the face, carving another bloody stripe from the younger marine’s body. 

The primaris Marine did go flying over the pathway between the metal pews, sailing towards where Cedric stood transfixed as Petras punched Alois square in the chest with his charged powerfist, a low wheeze of pain leaving Alois as the blow struck, and when he landed with a heavy, meaty thud on the metal plating of the deck.

The sound shook Cedric out of his shock-stillness as he rushed over to his brother’s side, his vitals worsening further. “H-Honorable B-Brother Chaplain Captain, this M-marine’s vital signs are d-dangerously close to death. M-May I suggest that you s-stay your h-hand of punishment until he is recovered enough to c-continue to endure the… The punishment without r-risk of dying?” Cedric asked, as his hands flew over his brother’s body, checking where Alois was most critically injured as he started to administer the life-saving medications and treatments that the other primaris would need in order to survive the brutal beating he’d endured.

“And what if I tell you that I have decided that he is Unfit to continue to serve as an Astartes, little Apothecary? What if I told you that I have decided that he should be culled for his weaknesses, for his sins?” Petras sneered, stalking down the walkway towards both primaris marines. 

Cedric didn’t dare take his eyes off of his patient, knowing that Captain Petras in particular saw direct eye-contact from an aspirant or a squire as a punishable offense unless he ordered them to look at him directly. “Th-there is a p-proper procedure for that, H-Honorable Chaplain Captain, that a-allows the Apothecarion to harvest certain useful critical organs from the to-be-culled marine so that those organs may be properly r-recycled sir.” He hated the fact that his voice was trembling, but was glad that his hands were stone-steady as he continued to tend to his barely conscious and badly injured Brother. 

Cedric mentally shook himself as he desperately tried to ground himself in the here and now. He knew of over a dozen Primaris Brothers who had been killed by the infamous temper of Chaplain Captain Petras and that was before he’d… Before he’d killed his own apprentice, Ramiel and had openly declared that he found all Primaris Marines to be heretical abominations unworthy of existence. He had reported the deaths of those primaris marines and who they had been kill-culled by to his mentor, who had responded by restricting Cedric’s movements on the Sigismund alone more and more until the near-schism had almost torn the Black Templar chapter apart. 

Cedric had never been able to save any of them, their injuries too severe and Petras’ orders absolute. The fact that Ramiel had actually been sent to Ancient Terra half-dead instead of actually dying was… Surely that had been an intervention by the God Emperor, as Cedric had been within hailing range and had been able to actually save Ramiel with proper supplies and firstborn brothers uninterested in seeing a Primaris brother slowly bleed out to death at their boots. 

Part of him silently hoped that he would be able to find more of his thought-dead primaris brothers having also been spared by Him on Terra and be able to patch them u properly, allow them to heal and prove themselves as worthy Astartes. 

Shit, Captain Ash’val was talking! Better pay attention. Cedric mentally reviewed what his ears had been hearing while his mind wallowed in past agonies. 

“We’ve been able to find a couple of older Black Templars who have expressed a desire to meet with you. Both of them also have bonds, and have been on Ancient Terra for at least a couple of years, if not longer.” Ash’val explained, a small smile appearing on the Salamander’s face. “You’ll be meeting them in the base, in one of the public rooms. They should be here relatively soon.”

“Yes sir.” Cedric responded with an obedient nod, making sure to stand in a spot that wouldn’t impede the foot traffic in the room. He briefly checked to make sure that the civvie clothes he was wearing was clean and in good condition. He felt woefully underdressed for meeting any of his older brothers, with no armor and not even a simple weapon on his belt… But he hoped that they would forgive him for that, as it wasn’t as if he’d wanted to be taken to Ancient Terra in his night clothes. 

The young apothecary immediately spotted the older Templar as he walked into the room, armor shining in the artificial light of the room. He was holding something in one of his hands, although what it might be, Cedric could only guess. The style of the other’s armor put his home timeline likely in the mid M-40s. Well before the rollout of the Primaris Marines. He nearly startled when the older Brother approached and spoke, offering him the sourdough loaf. “Thank you sir.” He murmured. It was slightly warm to the touch and it smelled delicious. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do with the sourdough loaf, and would either be told or ask Pyrus later. 

Cedric’s eyes went huge as one of the Emperor’s Champions walked over to the two of them. He could barely breathe, awed and incredibly intimidated as the well-known and revered Champion Arnault Wach walked over and actually talked! To him and Brother Roland! Cedric felt his ears go warm at the light call out of him being embarrassingly unarmed unarmored and managed not to squeak as he murmured a meek “Yes sir.”

The young apothecary briefly lost the thread of the conversation - especially when the two older brothers switched to one of the local languages - one he was unfamiliar with. But Cedric was well aware of the Rule among Black Templars that younger brothers were not to speak unless spoken to, and stayed quiet, still holding the loaf of sourdough uncertainly in his hands. 

The Emperor’s Champion looked at Cedric directly again, which froze the air in all three of Cedric’s lungs. It took him a moment to process what Arnault asked of him. 

His… Favorite food? “N…Nutrient paste?” The young apothecary offered, deeply confused. Ration bars were drier and tended to be chalky. Nutrient paste could be heated up and had a couple of different flavors to them. Not that he had a definite preference. 

Then Brother Roland asked “Have you been allowed out?” clearly referring to the base.

Cedric shuffled his feet a little. He refused to apologize for attacking the Slaaneshi bastard and didn’t think either of them would punish him for following his training… But with him on-base, anything was possible “No sir… I attacked a patient.” 

He would be happy to explain the full details of what happened, but a look of understanding passed between the Emperor’s Champion and the Battle Brother as they said together “Right, unbonded.” 

Was there really such a difference between bonded and unbonded Black Templars? Just what all was involved with these bonds? Cedric had tried to ask before, but the explanations he got were confusing and didn’t make much sense… They also boiled down to you’ll understand when you get a Bond yourself. 

“Well, little battle brother, you’ve got Brother Roland and myself, Brother Arnault in the area to keep you company.” The Emperor’s Champion declared, a smile on the older brother’s face “Now let’s enjoy the brot that Bruder Roland brought.” He ordered, silently gesturing for Cedric to follow him.

Cedric nodded and followed after the two firstborn Black Templars, staying a respectful two and a half steps behind the others as he had been taught, surprised and honored beyond words when Brother Roland and Brother Arnault invited him to walk alongside them, as if they were equals. “I… I haven’t had sourdough bread before, sir.” The young apothecary admitted shyly, holding the item in his hands “How do we enjoy it? It smells delicious.”

“Have… Have you never had brot before? How long have you been on Ancient Terra?” Brother Roland asked, blinking a little in surprise. 

“About six months or so? The Older Brothers and Cousins have been keeping me busy in the base. Occasionally they supplement my meals with local fruits and vegetables, which has been a fascinating experience so far, sirs!” Cedric answered earnestly, careful not to look either of them directly in the eye. He didn’t want to seem as if he was challenging either one of them.

“What have you tried? What have you enjoyed most? Brot can be enjoyed a number of ways, but here, hand the brot over and I’ll tear off chunks for each of us to eat.” Roland instructed Cedric, who immediately complied.

The bread had a more intense scent when it was torn open, and Cedric took a cautious bite. The savory-tangy flavors were almost overwhelming to his senses, but in a very good way. He found that he devoured the piece of sourdough within seconds “This is really tasty, sir! Thank you for bringing it. I very much liked the pink apples and the little green tree-vegetables. They have a subtle earthy taste and take all kinds of spices really well.” 

Both Arnault and Roland smiled in response to Cedric’s enthusiasm, as the two lead him on a tour of the city, pointing out places that they liked to visit, as well as chatting about the different kinds of food that they liked - and disliked. Cedric listened closely to their words, doing his best to retain everything they told him, honored and delighted to spend time with two of his firstborn brother templars. The Imperial Fists, Ultramarines and Salamanders were almost distressingly kind, but it really wasn’t the same. 

[sphacelating]

About the repost on the "rape as a response to domestic violence" thing...I don't know. I've never experienced this is any kind of way, but the idea of rape as a *reaction* is iffy to me. Like, to me, rape is a very clear CHOICE of action. It's telling that Ashley waited until he was drunk off his mind to do anything bout it, and even then... She could have done something else? Beat him up? Kidnap him again? Bring him back to demon realm forever? No. Exsert the maximum amount of control and disrespect of his choices by violating him. And arguably taking away the chance of him getting something he truly wanted, which was having a meaningful physical connection with her. Which she tainted. I mean he literally says "not like this". He probably had an image of how the first time they were intimate was gonna be, and she literally destroyed it forever for him, which obviously isn't the worst ramification of fucking raping her drunk brother, but it's just sad to think about.

I hope I could be clear. I have a lot of thoughts on it, I hate both those endings, my mind gets kinda jumbled when thinking on it.

you’re right. rape is indeed a very clear choice of action and not a reaction, and that’s what sets it apart from physical violence. nobody reacts with rape. andrew’s violence is a reaction to ashley’s abuse, the rape ashley inflicts on him is not.

i will always leave it at that. i refuse to entertain any deeply uncomfortable line of thinking where ashley sexually assaulting andrew can be justified, where rape is a reasonable response to his actions, because her decision to rape andrew has nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.

[mommybookwyrm]

Play Me A Song Of Longing On Your Heartstrings | by Mommybookwyrm

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairing: Astarion/Wyll

Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate) | Wyll (Baldur's Gate) | Tav (Baldur's Gate) | Shadowheart (Baldur's Gate) | Gale (Baldur's Gate) | Lae'zel (Baldur's Gate) | Karlach (Baldur's Gate) | Halsin (Baldur's Gate) | Sune (Dungeons & Dragons)

Tags/warnings: Past Rape/Non-con | Past AbuseCanon-Typical Violence | Slow Burn | Vampire Spawn Astarion (Baldur's Gate) | Astarion Being Astarion (Baldur's Gate) | Astarion is Bad at Feelings (Baldur's Gate) | Traumatized Astarion (Baldur's Gate) | Astarion Needs a Hug (Baldur's Gate) | Devil Wyll (Baldur's Gate) | Wyll Needs a Hug (Baldur's Gate) | POV Alternating | Canon-Typical Astarion Violence (Baldur's Gate) | Canon-Typical Astarion Consent Issues (Baldur's Gate) | Flashbacks | no beta we die like cazador | Drow Tav (Baldur's Gate) | Druid Tav (Baldur's Gate) | Named Tav (Baldur's Gate) | Asexual Astarion (Baldur's Gate) | Traumatized Wyll (Baldur's Gate) | Warning: Mizora (Baldur's Gate) | Eventual Happy Ending | No Smut | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Healing | Soft Wyll (Baldur's Gate) | Soft Astarion (Baldur's Gate) | Spoilers for Act 1 (Baldur's Gate 3) | Spoilers for Act 2 (Baldur's Gate 3) | Spoilers for Act 3 (Baldur's Gate 3) | Spoilers for Quest: The Pale Elf | Astarion's Companion Quest (Baldur's Gate) | Spoilers for Quest: The Blade of Frontiers | Wyll's Companion Quest (Baldur's Gate)

Summary:

What if the Absolute Crisis had been foretold and the gods had already had it all figured out and fixed with a neat little bow with six heroes hand-picked for the job?

The gods certainly have no need for a vampire spawn in their plans, all but one that is.

For 200 years, Astarion had thought all of his prayers unanswered, but one goddess was meddling in the other god's plans, risking unraveling them at the seams, for the sake of the spawn that had pulled on her heartstrings.

This is a reimagining of the events in the game, with my own creative twists and an emphasis on Astarion's fight for freedom and his journey of healing.

A Prayer is Heard

The Beach

Before: The Master’s Rules

The Ruins

Long Rest

[flowersandskeletons526]

"Over the Edge" - Warriors Concept Album Fanfic (part 1/3)

Rembrandt's recovery after a fight gone wrong is going slower than she likes. While she struggles to get back to her old self, the world marches on past her.

This is a continuation work to my other fic titled "Don't Let Anything Happen To Her." Read that if you haven't yet or this one will not make any sense. Enjoy!

--------

Cochise lifted Rembrandt’s arm up from her side. “Does this hurt?”

“No,” Rembrandt mumbled.

She lifted her arm higher until it was level with her shoulder. “How about this?”

“That hurts.”

“Alright.” Cochise dropped her arm and leaned back where she sat on the edge of the coffee table. “Have you been wearing the knee brace I gave you?”

“Yes, for the tenth time, I’ve been wearing the brace.”

Rembrandt had, in fact, not been wearing the brace.

It had been three weeks since she’d been thrown off a fire escape on a tagging mission with Mercy. Well, three weeks since she woke up after it. She barely remembered that night. It came to her in brief flashes and fleeting nightmares she couldn’t decipher. She remembered running, remembered Mercy’s hand in hers, the weightlessness as she went over the edge. She remembered the sky above her when she hit the ground. Everything after was fuzzy, blurred by pain and terror, coming in and out with glimpses of faces and muffled voices in between all the agony. 

Cochise let her take off the sling after week two of being tied up in it. The knee brace had to stay on longer. She was allowed to leave it off at home but “not while you’re out walking around,” as if Rembrandt had been able to go anywhere but between apartments since that night. She hated the stupid thing. It was clunky and annoying and the way her pant leg bunched up around it irritated her. But no matter how many times she asked if she could just ice her knee and take it easy, Cochise insisted, and she had Cleon and Ajax backing her up so Rembrandt had no choice but to follow orders.

Maybe if it helped with the pain, she could get over it, but it didn’t. Nothing did. It didn’t matter how many painkillers she popped or how drunk she got. The dull, pulsing ache in her leg and shoulder was ever present, distracting her through the day and keeping her up at night. Most of the bruises had faded to ugly yellowish green blotches by then, but even they still hurt if she twisted wrong or bumped into something.

The scars were the worst part. The other Warriors let her get drunk when Cochise removed her stitches, not because it necessarily hurt, but because of how fucking uncomfortable it was. Rembrandt held Ajax’s hand in a death grip and screwed her eyes shut as she felt the pull of every single thread exiting her skin. The scar on her head she could mostly forget about, hiding it beneath her bangs and reminding herself to not touch it. The scars on her torso were a different story. 

She caught sight of them after getting out of the shower one day. Twisting in front of the mirror, she traced the long, jagged, angry red strip that carved its way from her hip bone to the bottom of her ribcage. Her back looked like someone had wildly taken a knife to it, crisscrossed with a patchwork of deep slashes and puncture wounds that she’d just barely been allowed to keep uncovered. 

She remembered the intense, stabbing pain when she hit the ground. She remembered something sharp dug into her flesh and the warmth of her blood soaking her shirt. The night sky. Mercy’s voice. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t-!

Ajax had found her with her arms braced against the edge of the sink, head hanging, face blank but with tears pouring from her eyes. She wrapped her in a towel and just held her for a long time before she was lucid enough to get dressed. She’d been exclusively wearing flannels and jerseys stolen from Ajax, anything loose that buttoned or zipped because she couldn’t lift her stupid fucking arm high enough to put a shirt over her head.

Back in present day, Cochise handed Rembrandt a book titled “An Introduction to Physical Therapy.”

“I don’t know much about it but this has good advice,” she said. “I marked the parts that talk about shoulder dislocations and knee sprains and highlighted the exercises I want you to do. You might need someone to help you with some of the stretches, so have Ajax do them with you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Rembrandt said quietly. “I’ll tell her.”

“How are you feeling overall?”

“Shitty.”

“Shitty how?”

“Shitty like I got thrown off a fire escape and landed on broken glass. Everything still hurts.”

“Is there a new type of pain or it just hasn’t gotten better yet?”

“It’s not any better. The only thing better is I can finally talk without almost passing out because my ribs hurt so bad.”

“Well, you know, that means you didn’t puncture a lung so that’s good.” Cochise moved to sit beside her on the couch and squeezed her hand. “It sucks and I’m sorry to tell you, but it’s going to hurt for a while. I’m not being dramatic when I say it’s a miracle you didn’t break your neck. This was honestly the best outcome we coulda hoped for.”

“Best outcome would’ve been not getting thrown off a building,” Rembrandt scoffed.

“You know what I mean. Just keep using the brace, take ibuprofen, and do the physical therapy and it’ll get better. Promise.” 

The front door opened. In walked Ajax and Cleon, whispering between themselves. Their conversation cut as they crossed the threshold so Rembrandt couldn’t discern the topic, but Cleon’s eye twitched with severe irritation and Ajax wore a scrunched up expression that Rembrandt knew was her “I’m pissed but can’t cuss out my leader” face. Rembrandt honestly did not want to know what the issue was now. 

Ajax sat beside Rembrandt opposite Cochise and kissed her temple before sinking back into the couch, sulking with her hands in her pockets. Cleon sat in the armchair across from the three of them wearing a similarly upset expression. Rembrandt looked between them as cold anxiety blossomed in her chest.

“Rembrandt,” Cleon said after a moment, “I’m sending you on a tagging mission tomorrow night.”

“What?” said Cochise. “She can’t-”

Cleon raised a hand. Cochise silenced herself so sharply that Rembrandt was acutely reminded of just how long Cochise had been under their leader’s command. “Those rich punks from Seagate have apparently forgotten what the word ‘territory’ means,” Cleon continued. “I sent some of the new recruits to pinpoint the blocks they’re encroaching on. I want to double the tags through there to remind them to stay behind their gate.”

“Okay,” Rembrandt said slowly. “I can find a way to get up somewhere.”

“You’re not climbing anywhere.”

“You want me to keep my tags low?”

“You’re not tagging. You’re supervising.”

“What?!”

Rembrandt jumped to her feet, only to immediately drop back to the couch as white hot pain shot through her leg. It was not the first time she’d done that. Any explosive movement in her knee landed her right on her ass. That meant no climbing, no running, no doing fucking anything that made her a good tagger and a useful member of the Warriors.

Cleon pointed at her leg. “That’s exactly why. Business has to continue but I’m not going to allow you to make yourself worse because I let you do something you weren’t ready for.”

“But I am ready.”

“Physically ready. Which you obviously are not.”

“I can-”

“Put your arm above your head.”

That was mean. Cleon knew she couldn’t, which was exactly the point. Rembrandt turned to Ajax, looking for a bit of support, but she didn’t find it. Ajax just bounced her leg impatiently and kept her eyes on the floor.

Rembrandt looked at Cleon. “You’re sending me, your tagger, on a tagging mission, but you won’t let me tag?”

“It’s just for now.”

“How long is ‘for now?’”

“Until you’re better.”

“Who’s gonna tag? Ajax?”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Ajax said defensively.

“Mercy,” said Cleon. 

Rembrandt’s throat tightened. She held no ill will towards Mercy. Truly, she didn’t. Not one bit. Mercy was the only reason she got out alive that night. But… But Rembrandt was the tagger. Rembrandt had been the tagger from day one and now Cleon was sending their newest recruit to take over her job because - what? She wasn’t as fast as she used to be? She couldn’t reach far enough? She could tag just fine! Why was Mercy doing her job for her!

Out of the corner of her eye, Rembrandt watched Ajax sink further into the couch. No way in hell Ajax had agreed to this. No one trusted her to be in the same room as Mercy without Swan and at least Cowgirl there with them. 

“Swan and Ajax will be with you two,” Cleon went on as if she could read Rembrandt’s mind. “I don’t want a repeat of what happened. Honestly, I’d come with, but Masai and I are still figuring out exactly how to handle the Princes and neither of us can really afford to be away from the phone at the moment.”

Rembrandt bristled at the name of the gang who attacked them. She saw a flash of purple and a poorly embroidered crown. Rough hands grabbing her collar. The garish jacket rapidly fading from view as she plummeted-

“Rembrandt!” 

Ajax was shaking her, hand tight around her wrist. She blinked back into her body. Lifting a hand to her face, she found her cheek wet with tears. She looked up to see everyone staring at her, leaning in where they sat with expressions of confused worry. The only one who didn’t look completely weirded out was Ajax. 

Ajax knew exactly what it was, but Rembrandt had made her promise not to tell. She didn’t need anyone thinking she was more fragile than they already did. 

“Rem, honey, don’t be upset,” said Cleon gently. “It’s just for now. Once you’re better, it’ll go back to normal.”

“No, it’s… it’s not that. I’m fine.” Rembrandt shook her head to clear it. “Does Mercy know she’s doing this?”

“Yeah, I told her.” 

“And Swan?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, fine. Whatever. I’ll teach her the tag.”

On the walk back to their apartment, Rembrandt refused to look at Ajax. She still held onto her arm but only because she kept tripping from the stupid brace not letting her fully bend her knee. Ajax kept glancing down at her, catching her when she stumbled, being there for her to lean on like always but waiting for her to start any conversation. Rembrandt hated it. She didn’t like starting conversations. Ajax was the one who talked and Rembrandt chimed in or played off of her, not the other way around. 

Rembrandt didn’t speak until they were in the apartment and getting ready for bed. “I can’t believe you fucking agreed to this,” she snapped as she struggled to pull on a tank top.

“I didn’t,” Ajax said from her spot on the bed. She looked up from the physical therapy book she held in her lap. “Do you want help?”

“No. I got it. I’m fine.”

“Alright. Whatever you say.”

“You’re seriously okay with Mercy taking over my tagging work?”

“I wanted to go kick the shit out of those Seagate bitches so bad they’d never go past their gates again. Cleon insisted we tag to send our message instead. If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be doing this at all. You think I want to be out with Swan and Mercy?”

“You aren’t going to start a fight with them, are you?”

“No, I’m not going to start a fight! I’m fine being around them,” Ajax protested. Rembrandt shot her a look over her shoulder. “I’m mostly fine being around them. I don’t want to punch either of them in the face, is that good enough?”

“Yeah, that’s good enough.” Rembrandt sat beside Ajax on the bed, leaning her head on her shoulder. Ajax put her arms around her and held her close. “I could tag just fine if she would let me.”

“You’re recovering. Just let yourself get better.” 

“I am better.”

Ajax sighed. She didn’t try to argue. Planting a quick kiss on Rembrandt’s cheek, she got up to turn off the lights before laying down beside her and pulling the covers over them both. Rembrandt laid on her side, keeping pressure off her hurt shoulder like Cochise said. She couldn’t bear to sleep on her back. Every time she tried, the ceiling morphed into the night sky and she felt the stabbing pain through every single scar. Ajax settled in behind her, curling around her and looping an arm around her waist. She rested her forehead against the top of Rembrandt’s spine. 

“I wish you would just let yourself rest,” she whispered, her breath warm across the back of Rembrandt’s neck.

“I hate this feeling,” Rembrandt muttered. “I can’t do shit.”

“You’ll get better soon.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks.”

Ajax just held her tighter.

The next morning, Rembrandt stood with Mercy in the alley next to Cleon’s building. She laid out a couple sheets of cardboard pulled from the recycling and handed Mercy a paint can and a mask.

Mercy rarely looked at her anymore. Not fully. She would only give quick glances here and there, trying to hide the fact that they were aimed at her knee or her shoulder or the scar on her forehead when the wind blew her bangs out of place. Rembrandt knew she still blamed herself for what happened. She wore the guilt splattered across her face like blood.

After they talked the day Rembrandt woke up, she thought they were cool. She thought Mercy was okay. But during that first week, when Cleon insisted Rembrandt stay at her apartment to keep an eye on her, she would walk by their bedroom late at night and hear Mercy crying.

Grabbing her own paint can, Rembrandt sprayed a small version of the Warriors tag in the corner of a sheet of cardboard. “Copy that,” she said. Mercy did. Well, she tried. “No, move with your whole arm. Don’t flick your wrist like that.”

“I’ve seen you do that,” Mercy said, frowning.

“When I’m painting. You need strong, clean lines when you’re tagging.”

“I thought tagging was painting.”

“No, it’s-” Rembrandt took a deep breath and shifted her weight off her bad leg. “They’re different. Give me the can, let me show you again.”

She showed Mercy the tag again. She made Mercy copy the tag again. And again. And again. And again until she truthfully did have it down to an acceptable degree, but Rembrandt couldn’t look at any tag that wasn’t her own without finding fault in it. She could see Mercy growing more and more self-conscious every time she made her repeat the tag. Eventually she came around and took pity on the girl because she could admit she was being mean at that point, but in her defense, this was her job. Her tag that she designed. And now Cleon wanted her to-!

No. No. This was not Mercy’s fault. She would not be mad at the girl who got her out of that night alive because Cleon was keeping her benched.

While Mercy threw out the painted cardboard, Rembrandt sat on a busted milk crate to smoke. Mercy leaned against the wall beside her. She wordlessly passed her a cigarette.

“Hey,” Mercy said after a moment, “I’m sorry. I know you’re not happy about this.”

“I’m fine,” Rembrandt said curtly. “I get why Cleon wants you to do it. She’s still figuring out exactly where you fit. She does it with everyone.”

“I thought Ajax recruited you specifically to be a tagger?” 

Rembrandt gritted her teeth and stubbed out her cigarette. “She did.”

Rembrandt dreaded going out that night. She and Ajax met Swan and Mercy outside their apartment. Mercy wore her new vest that Cleon had finally finished making for her. Rembrandt had the very beginning of a new vest, only a few spikes and her tag across the back, missing all the scuffs and charms and paint stains that she’d gained over the years. The fall had destroyed her old one to the point where it was completely unwearable.

Ajax and Mercy stood far away from each other, neither of them quite over what happened yet, but Mercy could finally look at Ajax again and Ajax wasn’t trying to beat the hell out of Mercy anymore. Swan pulled Rembrandt into a gentle, lingering hug. Rembrandt buried her face against Swan’s chest.

“How are you feeling?” Swan asked.

“I’m fine,” said Rembrandt, which seemed to be the only answer she had for that question anymore. “Let’s do this.”

Ajax and Rembrandt walked behind Swan and Mercy. Rembrandt didn’t want them to see her stumbling, didn’t want them to see how she held onto Ajax just to keep herself upright. It was a long walk to the edge of Coney Island. When they reached the building Cleon wanted double-tagged, the Warriors stood in a line beneath the fire escape, looking up over the brick face. Rembrandt couldn’t look for long; she just kept seeing herself hanging over the edge of the railing. Ajax discreetly took her hand.

“Alright,” Rembrandt said, looking over at Mercy. “Go to the top of the fire escape to the ladder that goes to the roof. Lean out as far as you can and spray the tag.”

“How far do you go?” Mercy asked.

“Mercy, I love you,” Swan said under her breath, “but you can’t go as far as Rem can.”

Of course, she couldn’t! No one could! So why wasn’t Rembrandt doing it!

Instead of screaming that to the sky, Rembrandt said, “Just reach as far as you can.”

Ajax had a few inches of height on Swan and just a little more raw muscle, so she had to boost Mercy up to the ladder of the fire escape. Rembrandt thought of her first mission years and years ago, how Ajax’s strong hands felt on her waist as she lifted her, and for some reason the sight of Ajax helping Mercy do her job sent a fiery bloom of jealousy ripping through her chest. Pursing her lips, she put her hood up and glared at the sidewalk.

Swan put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not forever,” she mumbled.

Rembrandt glanced up at Mercy climbing the fire escape. “I know.” She raised her voice. “Mercy! Tag it there!” 

She watched Mercy reach out with the can and completely miss the wall. She held the can wrong, the nozzle outwards, and ended up spraying her hand and the top of a window. Rembrandt bit back a growl of frustration as Mercy fumbled the can and nearly dropped it. She recovered well enough and managed to correctly spray the tag to where Rembrandt could admit it looked official. 

Mercy was all smiles when she came down. Rembrandt plastered a smile of her own across her face, praying it didn’t look too forced. She was proud of Mercy - really, she was - but this whole experience left such a bitter taste in her mouth that she couldn’t think of much else. 

Mercy ran right up to her. “Good, right?” she asked. “That works?”

“Yeah,” said Rembrandt. “You did great. Ready for the next one?”

“Yeah! Let’s go!”

Swan smiled as she coaxed Mercy down the street towards the next building. “Don’t drop the spray paint this time.”

Rembrandt couldn’t hear Mercy’s indignant comeback over the ringing in her ears. The world rocked. 

The night sky. The taste of blood. Stabbing pain in her side-

Ajax touched her arm. “Rem?”

“I’m fine.” 

[heath-morgan]

@lcstbcy

the chill of the night air seeped through heath’s jacket, but the coldest touch was the metal pressed against his skin. the weight of the gun on his hip was a familiar sensation, not uncomfortable, but a constant reminder of the balance he had to strike. its grip rested snug against his side, the textured surface rough yet reassuring beneath his fingertips as he brushed it on instinct. his eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the dimly lit street ahead as he caught the faint rhythm of footsteps. just far enough back to be cautious, just close enough to be deliberate. that presence was back, the one that had lingered on the edges of his awareness for days, always out of sight but never truly gone. no matter where he’d been - downtown, the east side, or slipping through the shadowed streets of brooklyn - he’d felt it. always lingering, always watching.

when the moment came, his hand moved with practiced precision, fingers curling around the grip as though it were an extension of his own body. the pull of the holster gave way to the solid heft of the weapon in his palm, its balance steady and exact. heath turned in one seamless motion, his arm raised, the barrel now aimed directly at the stranger behind him. the weight of the gun wasn’t just in the metal; it was in the decisions it carried, the line it could draw between threat and survival.

"stay right the fuck where ya’re standin' or i’ll brain paint this street when i blow yer damn head clean off. ya got three seconds to spit out who ya are and what the fuck do ya want”

[carnation-damnation]

I'm interested in imagining what Shadow the Bathog's relationship with firearms is