#he wakes up from a coma to a dead wife paralyzed legs and a troubled but CARING son who wheels him around everywhere

[umbrellajam]

UGH I just read this a few weeks back and let me tell you, the literal SCREAMING CURSES I was ranting into my Notes column, like audibly pounding at my keyboard Steaming Mad lmao

Actually let me just go pull them from that file. Here:

"Somehow I failed. I'm not sure what I did wrong. Maybe it was giving in to your wish to attend a local public school." OH FUCKING SURE JACK, THAT'S IT. After Tim STRAIGHT UP FUCKING CONFRONTED YOU about not knowing who he is because you were always sending him off to boarding schools and jetting around the world, you're '~not sure what you did wrong~ uwu', and your attempt at a solution is to SEND HIM AWAY TO ANOTHER BOARDING SCHOOL??? FUCK YOU JACK, FUCKING FUCK YOU. Yeah Tim is legitimately acting out and you're completely out of your depth, so instead of buckling down and trying to be a parent you IMMEDIATELY give up and try to chuck him back into the system that he JUST TOLD YOU is a big part of the reason you're estranged!!! BRILLIANT MOVE FUCKWAD!!!! GOD YOU'RE SUCH A TOOL

‘Somehow I failed. I’m not sure what I did wrong. Maybe it was giving in to your wish to attend a local public school. I made a few phone calls. And I’ve decided that you’ll transfer to Fernwood Academy for Boys…in Metropolis.’

–Jack Drake to Tim Drake (Robin Miniseries III #4 – Fall From Grace)

[justthehiddleswrites]

Vulnerable | Loki x Reader

A/N:  So this is my first entry on my 4k trope/kink bingo.  Using the prompt: shaving/hair removal.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Summary:  Reader helps her husband Loki shave.

Warnings: mentions of battle, near death, coma, wounds, scars, loss of the use of limbs, other loss, nightmares, angst

Taglists are open!  Let me know if you wish to be added!  Thank you for reading!

-

Loki hadn’t adjusted well to being homebound. He had grown accustomed to coming and going as he pleased, magic teleportation or not. But this last battle changed all that. It had nearly killed Loki, spending months in a deep coma healing from his injuries. You spent it at his bedside, even when everyone told you to make preparations to go on without him.

“I WILL NOT HAVE THAT TALK!” you screamed at the palace advisors. “He will heal and wake.” you reassured yourself more than anyone.

And true to your word, Loki did wake, but there had been complications from his injuries.

…

Something clattered in the sink and you overheard Loki cursing all the way in the sitting area of your quarters in the palace. You glanced in the bathroom's direction, waiting and listening. The same clatter again, this time followed by what sounded like Loki’s fist pounding the counter.

You placed your book down and made your way towards him. As you stepped into the bathroom, you spied Loki towering over the sink. His one arm hung at his side, paralyzed. The healers couldn’t say when or if it would heal.

“My love,” You came up behind him, enjoying the soft fabric of his tunic. “what troubles you?”

Loki leaned over the sink, his jaw clenched. “It’s fine, dove.”

He had been moping for weeks. Frankly, you were sick of it. You spied the razor in the sink, shaving soap and brush on the counter.

“Well, good to know because I thought you only cursed when you were mad about something.” you smiled at his reflection in the mirror.

Reflected back for a very different Loki than most were used to seeing. Sure there was the raven hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that could reduce you to a puddle or ash depending on his mood. But now his jaw was covered with a dark beard.

“Do not mock me, darling.” Loki turned to walk away, but you grabbed his good wrist and pulled him back. He didn’t have the strength or magic to fight back.

“I would never mock you.” You reached up to cup his cheek, but Loki flinched away. “But you seem intent on making life around here as difficult as possible.” You grabbed him by the collar of his tunic. “Now sit down so I can take care of you.”

Loki’s brow furrowed. “I don’t need someone to take ca—”

“Sit down, Loki!” You squeezed your eyes shut in frustration. “Or I will tie you down myself and I know there is nothing you can do about.” You jabbed a finger at the nearby chair.

Loki’s shoulders slumped as he made his way over.

“And take off your shirt.” His eyes widened, and you smirked. “It’s not as though I haven’t seen you completely naked. I am your wife after all.”

“I’m not the man you married.” Loki struggled with the tunic, even with the buttons changed over to snaps to accommodate his arm. In a fit, he threw the tunic down to ground and plopped down in the chair.

Raised scars marred his chest, shoulders and arms. But you had seen them at their worst. When Loki had been brought home. Hell, you had helped carried his body from where he fell. Side by side in everything. Not that you told Loki any of that.

You smiled, grabbing the razor from the sink where Loki threw it down and the cup of shaving soap. “I’ve seen worse, my love. Remember, I used to work with the healers?”

Loki smiled. The first proper smile in weeks. “How could I forget it where we met?” He pulled you close, standing between his legs.

You set down the razor and shaving soap to straddle his lap. “You were covered in blood that day. Little did I know none of it was yours.”

“A mistake you would never make again.” Loki grinned, only to have it fall. “And now… where you there? When they heal me?”

You stopped soaping up the brush. “You don’t want to hear about that.” The brush fumbled in your hand. “Let’s talk…”

Loki snatched your wrist as you reached to lather up his beard. “… about this. What are you protecting me from?” Loki’s eyes flashed at you. “Do not coddle me.”

You jerked from his grip and returned to the task at hand. The brush scrapped and scratched across Loki’s whiskers, softening them so you could shave them away.

“You haven’t answered the question.” Loki lifted his chin to allow you to soap up there.

“Bold of you to assume I am protecting you, my king.” You attempted to deflect. It didn’t work.

“My love, I…” Loki settled back against the chair. “Tell me. No matter how painful. Do not carry this burden alone.”

You shook your head, picking up the razor. “You do not need to be troubled by it, my love.” The cold steel of the blade hit Loki’s skin and he resisted the urge to draw away as you pulled it down his cheek. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” he stated plainly. You blinked at him as you wiped away the first swipe.

“How…?” You paused.

“You scream and cry at night.”

“So do you.” you countered, dragging the razor down his cheek. The nights were the worst, Loki yelling out as though he were back there.

“Then allow me to be your companion. Let us be a comfort to each other.”

You sighed, shifting in your seat on Loki’s lap, returning to shaving away the beard, taking care as you approached his lip and chin.

“I found you. Out there, blooded and broken.” The tears pricked your eyes. “I carried you home.” The last word came out in a garbled sob.

You took a deep breath to steady your hand and then returned to Loki’s face.

“I had no idea.”

“I made them swear to not to say a word. You needed to heal without worrying about me.”

“A lot of good that did.” His eyes darted to his useless arm, hanging at his side. Loki chuckled darkly, a smirk tracing over his lips. “I am still scarred and broken and my magic—”

You leaned away from him. “They told me to make preparations for your funeral. They told me to say goodbye, to make arrangements for Thor to return.”

Loki’s smirk disappeared. “They what?”

“By all accounts, you should be dead, Loki. I refused. Told them you would pull through.” You sobbed, dropping the razor to the side. A third of the beard remained. “I said if anyone would pull through, it would be you. Thank you for not making me a liar.”

Loki’s mouth dropped open. His mind reeling at what you told him. The healers had been vague about what happened. Loki shrugged it off. But he never imagined the anguish you must have experienced.

“I’m….”

“It’s okay, Loki. You are grieving too. The loss of your arm, your magic. All temporary, I hope.” You moved swiftly to finish up.

You flicked the razor up as it hit his chin for the last stroke. You dropped the razor and picked up the warm towel, pressing it against the newly clean shaven skin.

“But a price I would gladly pay to have you here. To touch your face.” You cupped his face and leaned in. “To kiss your lips.”

You pressed your lips to his. He wrapped his one arm around your waist, tentatively, pulling you against him. You sighed against him and inhaled the scent of the shaving soap, woods and spice. The Loki you knew. Tears ran down your face.

Loki stood, still holding you tight. While his magic may be gone for the moment, his strength remained.

“I love you, darling.” He nuzzled into your neck. You reveled in his smooth skin. Loki walked towards the door.

“Where are we going?”

“To bed. I need to thank you appropriately for my shave.”

“We don’t have to if you don’t—”

Loki kissed your lips. “Let’s have this moment, love. Let us be happy and content for now. We can worry about tomorrow’s troubles later.”

You nodded, and Loki smiled, carrying you to the bed.

[toldnews-blog]

New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/world/asia-pacific/for-sri-lankas-children-the-deepest-scars-are-not-physical/

For Sri Lanka’s Children, the Deepest Scars Are Not Physical

COLOMBO, Sri Lanka — In a room in front of the nurse’s station at Lady Ridgeway Hospital for Children, in the Sri Lankan capital of Colombo, a 5-year-old girl rolls around her bed at night, shaking and crying silently.

Doctors are worried about the girl, S. Diduni Nihansa. Dark pools have collected under her eyes. She will not talk. When a suicide bomber blew himself up during Easter Mass at St. Sebastian’s Church, killing around 100 people, she was blasted off a pew with such force that her lungs bled.

Diduni’s 8-month-old brother, S. Dinuja Matthew, was sitting a few rows away, on his grandmother’s lap, his mother, Disna Shyamali, recalled. As the air filled with panicked, full-throated screams, somebody picked up his lifeless body and yelled: “Whose baby is this?”

A little over a week after the terror attacks, Sri Lanka’s roads are no longer empty. Nighttime curfews have been lifted, and many social media platforms have been unblocked at certain times of the day. Life, for many, is beginning to get back to normal.

But not for Sri Lanka’s youngest generation. Of the more than 250 people who died in suicide attacks Easter morning, officials believe that as many as 50 were children.

Dozens more were badly wounded. A 7-year-old in the hospital lost an eye, a 4-year-old was in a coma. Many, sprayed with lethal shrapnel, suffered internal injuries, some were covered in burns.

The deepest scars may not be physical.

Countless young people bore witness to some of the most horrific scenes imaginable: broken, dismembered bodies; floors slicked with blood; parents virtually paralyzed with grief, clutching siblings’ coffins as they disappear into the earth.

For more than 25 years, ethnic tensions between the majority Sinhalese and the minority Tamils nearly tore this lush green island into two. But the war with the separatist Tamil Tigers ended in 2009, and the hope was that this generation would be Sri Lanka’s first in decades to be spared such violence.

Before Sunday, children under the age of 10 had never heard of a curfew, never felt the ground shudder as a bomb explodes or known what it is like to see death not as a mystery but as a fact of life.

For now, at least, Sri Lanka is back on a war footing. Soldiers are patrolling the streets. People start at loud noises. The government is putting in place old war rules, ended years ago, like requiring school children to carry their books in transparent bags to make sure they are not toting bombs.

On Monday, the country’s president, citing the limited state of emergency he imposed last week, banned “all forms of clothing that cover a person’s face and prevents them from being identified,” an order seen as being directed at the niqabs and burqas that some Muslim women wear in public.

Difficult questions keep coming up. Asanga Abeyagoonasekera’s two young sons ask him, repeatedly, “Why do people bomb?”

He and his family narrowly escaped the double suicide bombing at the Shangri-La Hotel, which killed 33 people, including three of the four children of a billionaire Danish clothing tycoon.

Rushing down a fire escape, the Abeyagoonasekeras were forced to traverse bloody ground littered with body parts. Mr. Abeyagoonasekera and his wife tried to cover the boys’ eyes, but they saw the carnage.

Mr. Abeyagoonasekera, a foreign policy expert for Sri Lanka’s Defense Ministry, who was 16 years old when his father was killed during the war, tried to answer his sons’ questions as best he could.

“There are bad people and sometimes they bomb,” he said, telling them not to worry because a superhero was coming to save everyone.

But the fear remains.

When he goes off to work now, his youngest clutches his waist and does not want to let go.

Having these conversations has also been hard for Renuka Kumari.

Outside a small home surrounded by plants near St. Sebastian’s Church, she tried to console her 7-year-old daughter, Biguni, who slumped in a chair in sticky, afternoon heat, dripping orange juice on a neck brace.

Biguni grunted in pain. Tiny pieces of metal sliced through her body at supersonic speed. Ms. Kumari tipped a capful of medicine over her daughter’s lips and she swallowed roughly. “It hurts,” Biguni said.

Of the eight sites attacked on Easter, St. Sebastian’s Church in the city of Negombo was the hardest hit. A suicide bomber walked into the crowded church with a backpack, his shoulders hunched under the weight, which authorities believe was more than 100 pounds.

The explosion blew off much of the roof above the high vaulted ceiling. Heavy clay tiles rained down on people’s heads.

The nights are hard. Biguni has trouble sleeping. Her father rocks her, but even when she does drift off, she has nightmares. When she wakes, she keeps asking if her grandmother is leaving the hospital. Ms. Kumari does not know how to tell her that her grandmother is dead.

“Something has been lost,” she said. “We are so broken.”

Near St. Sebastian’s Church, many parents are furious and bitter. They want to know why their elected leaders did nothing to stop the attacks despite clear intelligence warnings from Indian officials nearly two weeks before they happened.

In a large, sparse living room, Ranjeeva Silva trembled. His 12-year-old son, Eanosh Lakwin Silva — the one, he said, who could tell you about Sri Lanka’s kings, who loved Lionel Messi, who sculpted objects from clay and paper — was dead.

A relative approached him. They talked about how they would not care if all Sri Lankan politicians died. They said the outrage on display in the government was just a “show.”

“They’re all in front of the media arguing, but at the end of Parliament, they eat together,” Mr. Silva said.

His son’s “favorite thing,” he said, his voice cracking, was “hugging and giving.”

At Lady Ridgeway hospital, a child injured in the bombings dragged a leg cast on the ground. Down the hallway, relatives took shifts to keep watch on Diduni, who curled in the fetal position. Her eyes fluttered in the light.

Two months earlier, S. Dinesh Suranga Sanjeewe had moved most of his family to Sri Lanka from Naples, Italy, where he had worked in a garment factory for years, raising Diduni, another daughter and the 8-month-old baby.

He and his wife, Disna Shyamali, were excited to move back to Sri Lanka, he said. They wanted to enroll their children in better English-language schools, and more space to live in. They were building a house in Negombo. He recalled Diduni hopping through the gray, unfinished shell, cracking jokes, taking bunny ear selfies and serving relatives make-believe food made of sand and leaves.

Mr. Sanjeewe, who had stayed behind in Italy while the family was setting up in Sri Lanka, was frantic when neighbors in Negombo called and told him there had been a bombing. He rushed to book a flight. He got another call. The little one had died.

Sometimes his wife sleeps clutching a framed picture of her baby. She sobs when she sees his clothing. She mourns her mother, the grandmother who was holding Dinuja Matthew on her lap when the bomber pressed his switch.

They have not told Diduni about her brother, whom she tickled and spoke to in gibberish. They know there never will be a right moment.

Outside their house, they have hung a banner to commemorate his death. A blurry photo shows him dressed in a vest and tie. He smiles at somebody up above. Big, bold letters announce his name.