#hurt and very little comfort

[afewproblems]

and there you go hurtin' me so good again with the continuation of your cheating!Eddie steddie fic.. thank you! <3

Based on Part One, and this Ask here,

I was chatting with @samcoxramblings yesterday about this and I think maybe there should be some Steve POV, as a treat.

If Steve thought about the last few weeks of his life alongside every other instant of sorrow and pain he'd experienced, his relationship with Nancy, the Upside Down, the death of Barb, his parents, he'd say he should be used to this sort of thing by now.

But perhaps he'd been spoiled.

He'd had more than twenty years of happiness, contentedness, with Eddie and their life together. He'd relaxed too much, and here was the other shoe crashing down.

The home phone line in their apartment has been ringing off the hook, reporters have been trying to get ahold of him to see his side of things, leaving messages and one bold enough to come to their apartment leaves a letter taped to their door.

Steve disconnectes the phone and installs another lock after that.

And speaking of letters, there have been a mix delivered to their shared PO Box, some in support of Steve, sympathetic to the situation, others are ecstatic --seeing it as their chance to wedge their way into his marriage just like the last person, that they've always hated Steve and can't wait to see him gone.

He only reads a few letters before letting them pile up on the side table by the door.

All because of that stupid photo.

There was no discernable face in the photo, or photos, that ended up online.

Just Eddie talking animatedly to someone facing away from the camera view. It pieces together the evening, a meet cute, a conversation, walking out of the bar together, and a passionate kiss before getting into a taxi.

Eddie confirms it, and it's like his heart breaks in two.

There are a million questions rattling around in his head.

How many times has this happened? How long has Eddie been lying to him, was this a one time thing or have they been secretly meeting one another for multiple tours? Does the band know? Have they been lying to his face as well?

Steve feels as though he's been on autopilot, walking around in a fog while at home, and mechanically moving through his lesson plans while at school.

To make matters worse, his principal calls him at home after the news breaks.

"Steve, how are you doing? I'm so sorry to hear," she tells him solemnly over the line, "if there is anything we can do please let us know".

"Thank you Liz, I, I really appreciate it," Steve hums, his voice much more level than it has been in awhile, "I'll take Spring break to finish up my marking and get my head on straight before we're back--"

"Steve, I'm sorry, I think," she hesitates, Steve can hear her pace around her office, her signature kitten heels click against the tiled floor, "I think it would be best if you take a little longer than Spring Break".

He feels his stomach drop into his shoes, no, no, they can't...

"What, what are you talking about, are you--"

"No, no, of course not," her voice shrill, panicked and tinny, over the line as she backpeddles, "no, we just think it would be better for you and the kids if you took some time away. We have a sub lined up and this wouldn't be permanent, just until it dies down".

"You can't be serious Liz, come on, their finals are coming up at the end of the month and I've never let my personal life affect my job before and I'm not about to start now, I don't need a leave of absence, I'm fine," he lies.

It has been difficult to get through class, to ignore the whispers from the kids during break or while they work in groups. He can feel curious eyes follow him in between the desks as he walks around for questions.

Liz sighs into the line and all at once knows the conversation is over, that it was never a conversation to begin with.

"Look, you're the best department head we've had in a long time Steve, and I want you back, fresh, for the kids. I can't imagine how you're feeling right now and I know this isn't what you wanted but I think it will be for the best".

"How long?" Steve manages to say, so softly that Liz asks him to repeat himself.

"Excluding the break, I'll say three weeks, so you can be back to see them through their exams," she sighs again, "the school year isn't over yet Steve, you'll still have lots of time with them".

Steve raises a shaking hand to his hair, running his fingers through it from root to tip. It could be good to take that time, Robin had asked him if he would when they initially spoke. It could give him a chance to think about what to do.

But, at this point, he worries if he stops moving, if he slows down, he won't be able to stop the grief he can feel, knocking at his window.

"Okay, okay, Liz, I'll take some time".

***

Steve finishes his marking in record time, but perhaps it's easy when one doesn't sleep.

He reorganizes the pantry twice, deep cleans all the storage closets, he throws every piece of clothing in the house into the laundry, including Eddie's, drops off the dry cleaning, and washes the walls.

He moves the furniture around and finds himself looking at rentable scaffolding to see about finally starting that painting project he's been thinking about.

It's only Wednesday.

One by one his family begin to reach out as the news begins to circulate more prominently in the regular entertainment news outlets. Hopper and Joyce call, Joyce asks Steve if he wants to come back to Hawkins for a bit, that their door is always open for him, just as it was when he was in his twenties. Hopper tells him all Steve needs to do is give him the word and he'll be in Chicago with a shovel, no questions asked.

Steve thanks Joyce and gives Hopper an emphatic, 'NO,' but he appreciates them all the same.

Dustin innocently brings up that he'll be in Chicago for a few days the following week, that Robin offered Steve's guest room to him, and Steve finds himself smiling while shaking his head at the co-conspirators.

All of the kids call at least once, but they are busy themselves, none of them are on a leave of absence after all, he thinks bitterly to himself.

Thursday afternoon there's a knock at his door, Steve is in the middle of changing out the old washer from the kitchen sink -finally getting around to fixing the small leak, he freezes at the sound.

He's not expecting anyone and even though he and Robin are nearly joined at the hip she still has the decency to call before showing up at his door.

Steve climbs out from under the sink and wipes his hands on the nearest towel before slowly walking towards the door. All the locks are still bolted from the night before, so he feels safer leaning in to peer through the peephole.

It's Wayne?

Steve feels his heart begin to race, what on earth was Wayne doing here? Was Eddie with him? Corroded Coffin was still on tour, he couldn't be.

He hazards another glance through the peephole but he can't tell if there is anyone else in the hall.

Wayne knocks again making Steve jump at the sudden noise.

Steve breathes in deeply through his nose and out through his mouth once, twice, before he unlocks both bolts and the chain with shaking hands, he opens the door a fraction.

"Wayne? What are you doing here?" Steve says softly, he steps aside to let the man through.

"I came to check on you," Wayne says after a beat, he wipes his feet on the second mat inside and shrugs off his red windbreaker. Steve tries to take the jacket to hang it up but raises his hands in surrender as Wayne waves him off and opens the closet to hang it up himself.

Steve takes him into the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee, they never did invest in one of those single serve coffee machines, Eddie drank so much coffee when he was home that it made no sense and, 'brewed coffee just tates better Stevie'.

Steve shakes the memory away and grabs two mugs from the cupboard, "Just sugar right?"

He reaches for the empty sugar bowl as Wayne nods, he hovers awkwardly as Steve flits around the kitchen.

Steve grabs the sugar from their pantry and fills up the bowl before placing it on the table with a spoon.

"So," Steve sighs as he leans against the counter next to the coffee maker, it hisses and bubbles filling the air with the smell of brewing coffee, "Eddie put you up to this, huh?"

Wayne frowns but nods, "Call it the first good decision that dumb-ass has made in the last few weeks," he scratches the graying scruff on his cheeks and steps closer, "how are you doing son?

Steve wants to tell him about how he hasn't let himself even think about the future. How he told Eddie he couldn't come home yet, how he's so achingly lonely despite the number of people that have reached out. How he doesn't want to think about a life without Eddie, but that he also can't imagine being in the same room as him for more that a minute without wanting to just scream at him.

How, Steve firmly believed that he would lose the man standing in his doorway, how his friendship with Gareth and Chrissy would inevitably fracture over Eddie, and once again Steve would be alone, picking up the pieces of his life to start again.

Instead, he manages to say, "I'm so glad you're here," before stepping into Wayne's arms, and allowing himself to be held as he finally, finally cries.

Wayne's arms come around him firmly, he reaches one hand up to cradle Steve's head while the other rubs his back, "its okay son, I gotcha," he whispers as Steves shoulders shake and his chest stutters.

"I gotcha".

[on-the-clear-blue]

So you know how there is a common fan theory that ghosts go through their death again on their death day? What about Jason going through it?

Feeling angsty crew, prepare yourselves

Trigger warnings: Jason death and all that comes with that, SA implications.

---

The first time it had happened it was in a LOA base, still catatonic and barely speaking, Jason was forced to train through the dark bruises that slowly appeared on his body, from his ribs and chest, to his fingers getting bent and crooked.

His trainers watched, not filled with concern but curiosity, an effect such a this had not been seen in the leauge in some time

As smoke was coughed up from his lungs and as bits of his flesh turned the same ghastly green as the pits, they watched, documenting it, unable to look away as the man boy seized and went still, finally.

---

The second time it happened, Jason was in Gotham, set up in a safe house, sirens and gun shots ringing out into the night, the sounds of his childhood.

He hadn't planned to stay long, only stopping by the safe house to grab a restock of ammo

Then came the phantom pains, tightness around his wrists, a deep, ever increasing sense of dread.

Jason staggered at the first ghostly strike to his head, hands flashing to his guns, scanning the room for what ever invisible foe that had struck him.

The next blow brought Jason to his knees, it hurt, oh God did it hurt, his head was pounding in a way that he barely remembered.

The feeling of his ribs crack robbed him of breath, a bone spur puncturing his lung, then came his hands, finger bones broke one at a time.

Jason curled himself up in a ball, just as he tired to years ago, tears streaming down his face under the metallic hood. The ticking demination of a clock ringing cruelly in his ears.

Then came the explosion, leaving his ears bleeding, eardrums ruptured, brain addled even more than the blunt force trauma caused.

With broken hands, Jason struggled to take off his helmet, as smoke poured out of his already damaged lungs. Smoke that clogged the helmet filters, that trapped it all around his face.

Jason Todd died a third time, the same way as the first two time that night.

---

It was a few years after the first time (that he remembered), that he found himself on a very bad day, he had found out that it always happened on the day he died, and he still didn't know what God had cursed him to relive it over and over again.

To add even more crap to his shittiest day, he was stuck in Wayne Manor.

The sense of dread was running though him, his hands were shaking terribly as he tried to just get away but his body wouldnt listen, he needed to leave get to his room, any room, hid away from his family, he didnt want them to see him like this didnt need them to be worried for him, he was so stupid, so idiotic to have forgotten what day it was, so wrapped up in having his family again that he forgot his curse.

---

Dick had a smile on his lips as he was about to jokingly throw a gaming controller at Jason, knowing he would likely start something to get his gaggle of siblings to do something together.

Yet it never left his hands, as he noticed Jason's eyes had gone glassy, a distant look in them, and a dull green sheen emanating from them.

Fear wormed it's way through him, Pit episodes had become less and less of a thing with his brother, something he was more than happy to see, but...this didn't seem to be the same thing.

Sending a concerned look to Tim, who has just walked into the room, even though he hoped (he thought they were over these, that Jason was getting better) Dick waved him back, if this was actually a Pit episode, he didnt need Jason to go off on Tim anymore than he had in the past.

Slowly approached his brother, Dick saw his eyes look into the middle distance, lost in his own head, "Littlewing? Jay I-I didnt..." His hand moved cautiously, coming into Jason's space and-

He flinched...Hard. Eyes flashing up at Dick but not seeing him, stuck deep in something else

Dicks heart dropped, Jason hadn't flinched when he had tried to touch him in years, not since a small boy in a ratty red hoodie was in Dicks old room, crying as he begged to not be sent back to the streets for them to "P-please don't t-touch me...I-Im sorry I-ill be good I promise"

But the words that came from Jason were far more haunting than what he uttered in fear, a voice hoarse and small came from him, slurred and heady with pain "Just...just let her go...C-can do anything to me...j-just let mom go..."

Bile, that was all Dick could taste as he held back what wanted to come up, he knew in a second what Jason was seeing, who Dick was to Jason's mind, trapped in memories.

He didn't know when he took a step back, didn't know when he had pulled away from his little brother until his back hit the wall, taking a shaky breath he forced himself back, He needed to be there, be there for his brother unlike...unlike last time.

"Jaybird it's me, Dickie? Jason..." he reached out agian, only to cringe back as his little brother flinch back, curling in on himself, his head tucked between his legs.

Dick didn't know Jason could look so small still, a distant thought bubbling up about maybe that's why he got so big, so he could never be that small again...but yet he was...

And Dick Hated It.

His hands fumbled for his phone, his fingers felt like lead, and all he could do is dial Ina number.

"Dad? Jason needs you..."

---

Bruce tore through the halls of his home with a fervor, his mind spinning with thoughts, from Dick’s description of what was happening this was a Pit episode of some sort, far different than any he had seen before.

The halls of his home never felt so long and never felt so claustrophobic.

Old demons in his mind cackled, bringing back the doubts of himself...if only he was just a little faster, a little less prideful...

Coming into the den, Bruce scanned the room, seeing his eldest kneeling by Jason, trying to be soothing while not touching him.

Dick face was hard and worried when he looked up at Bruce.

They shared a silent conversation, ending with Bruce taking Dick place on the floor, Dick in turn leaving to try and figure what was happening.

"Jaylad, Sweetheart, you have to breath, Jason?" It hurt to see his son flinch as he reached out, but Bruce pressed on, his fingers softly pressing against his son's pulse point on his wrist.

Dread spreads across Bruce's mind as he can hardly find a pulse, pulling his hand back the dread turns to horror as he see red and deep blue bruises start to from across Jason's face.

His eyes were open, dull instead of the bright they should be, his breathing sounded forced and-

It was his nightmares all over again.

Pushing past the fear, Bruce forced himself to pick Jason up, holding his dear boy so...so close to his chest, jaw shaking as he rushed through the halls once again.

He can't let his son die in his arms yet again.

---

Hours later, Bruce watches as Leslie called time of death, they did everything they could but it wasnt enough...his mind is disconnected from his body, a deep dark numbness burns within him and he just can't understand why...

Why the world seems to determined to make his family suffer? What had he done other than try and help, to cure the throbbing cancer that is Gotham? To help his fellow man live better and be happy...

His numbly looks around the med area, his children gathered, Dick is crying onto Cass's shoulder, Cass herself has tears but she refuses to shed them, Duke held his head in his hands, small shakings in his shoulders could only be crying, Stephanie was by Leslie, demanding answers and what happened with emotions think in her voice

Tim wasn't there, he was on the other side of the cave, running through data files, looking for anything that could cure this...Bruce would need to tell him to stop, that it was already over.

And Damian...his youngest just stood there, arms crossed and...politely blank was all Bruce could see, no mourning as the others. Just...waiting.

He was the only one not shocked when Jason groaned, sat up, cursed and promptly fell back onto the bed.

---

Damian sauntered over to where they had placed Todd, all of them still so careful with him, as if he would up and fall dead if someone was to as much as sneeze in his direction.

"Tt, Honestly it is as if they don't know this happens every year..." His own reliving of his deaths was far less dramatic.

Todd had the gall to look at him with confusion, and it took a moment for Damian to realize what his look ment "You never told them did you, Tt...Typical" shaking his head, Damian sat next to Jason's has-been death bed.

"Not all of us brought back from the dead suffer so spectacularly as you do Todd, as Jon would say...I believe this is a *Skill Issue*? Hashtag get good?" He didn't use the lingo lightly,

And of course, instead of being offended as he should, Todd just stared dumbly at him "This is when you banter, or has your repeated blunt force truama to the head bludgeoned you into stupidity?"

Shaking his head, Damian tutted "Clearly I have to do everything in this poor excuse for a social interaction" clearing his throat Damian put on a deeper voice as to mimic Jason "Shut it Demon Brat. I do truly hate that nickname. Oh woe is me why am i just a little bitch that can only suffer. Worry not dearest fuck up of a human being I can help you. Oh glory be you, you turly the greatest Robin. Oh only you say it now~"

Damian gave a dead pan stare at Todds slackjawed look, "Shut it, Jon is rubbing off and me and i cant for the life of me make it stop...but honestly if you wish to know more, seek out Phantom, though...you look pathetic enough that he might just find you first."

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

fear was the first and last defense of all your kind. and yet, you had not thought you would ever find yourself so paralyzed by it, especially not like this. not with him.

aka i think abt what it must be like to be a mouse in a world where animals are people a lot and i bet it would especially suck if ur love interests suddenly got infected with some kind of virus that made them murderous and bloodthirsty lmaooooo

[just-null]

Wowie rly digging the yandere clone headcanons… how would each react if their darling tried to run away from them?!

You said tried so I assume this was a failed attempt!

Short answer: they get really upset and try making it your fault (shocker.) Ain't no way any of these mfs think they're the problem. Good news! you're mostly unharmed and alive.

This will just be purely writing bc i mostly had thoughts! sorry no drawing this time!!

[cw! mentions of potential harm to reader (no actual harm done), manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics (yandere flavor), obsessive behavior]

Sekido

You're always being hunted the moment the sun comes down and you don't return home in time. Reasons like that are exactly why he hates it when you part from him. 

This time is different.. he can't find you in your usual spots. There's no fucking way, right?

How could you.. No, how DARE you? Do you think that he's some joke? That his feelings for you are something that you can run away from like it's nothing? 

The second he's sure the sun won't harm him, he's already white knuckling his khakkhara, swinging at anything and everything in his path until he gets to you.

They know how to sense if you're near or not, hell, they probably know how your specific blood type smells like. 

Did you think cuddling up to you and memorizing every detail about you was for nothing? Don't be stupid. All he needs is a trace of you and he's gone in the blink of an eye.

You better enjoy running while you can because when he catches you, and he will, those legs of yours won't have much use after he's done with them. 

Sekido doesn't WANT to do this, but you honestly give him no choice. After he trusted you enough to stop looking over his shoulder, you do this? How can he ever put any faith in you again!?

On the bright(?) side, Sekido's rage wouldn't be solely on you, it'll ricochet onto everyone, especially the other clones and himself. 

They were supposed to be looking after you! But they can't do anything right, even a task as simple as this. 

And why did he think it was a good idea to trust them with something of big importance when all they do is fuck everything up!? Everyone's idiocy is rubbing off on him!

The entire time on his search for you, he's cursing and wanting to crush anything he can get his hands on, especially your bones. 

He doesn't even bother with speaking to the others, too busy spewing out all sorts of hurtful and frustrated comments about everything. 

The brutal thought that you’d rather run away than be with him isn't one he wants to entertain, but it's echoing in his head.

At least, once the other clones get there, Karaku and Aizetsu brawl with Sekido so you're unharmed while Urogi carries you overhead. 

Sekido's jealousy flares up when he sees you in Urogi's arms, making him even more pissed if that's even possible. Great, now he looks like the bad guy and the other three, the saviors. Fucking perfect.

There's a lot of yelling and a lot of blood, especially with Urogi making things so much more annoyingly difficult in the air. Karaku and Aizetsu aren't helping. Why is Sekido suddenly the problem?! You ran away!! 

But when he calms down enough, he's cursing at everyone through clenched teeth. Sometimes trying to convince the others that you don't even need your legs anyway!!

Once you get back home (or temporary prison until you somehow regain favor), Sekido will eye your legs while gripping his staff from time to time. 

Exactly why he's forbidden to be in a room alone with you for a while until he settles down..

He glares at you more often and grows colder than before. Arguments are more common where he twists your words just to have you talk with him and be angry within reason. 

Any other type of conversation makes him so irrationally upset that the others need to step in so that he doesn't lose his temper again.

Karaku

The calmest out of the group. He brushes it off as “you're playing hard to get” again, and if he makes a ruckus, you'll scamper back and beg him to stop like always!

Then it gets darker out.. and when Sekido left, he seemed pretty pissed. Like more than usual..... shit.

Karaku sprints after Sekido when it clicks that he's found you. His mind starts reeling, unsure whether he should laugh at the absurdity of your decisions or get pissed off because you didn't even bother to give a hint! 

Not like that would do anything aside from give you away but regardless!

Everyone needs to relax, this is obviously something they can sweep under the rug. This isn't that big of a deal and you're just having a fit, but things like these can get you hurt, y'know? 

They're fun and all, sure, just maybe give him a heads up next time, yeah? Sekido can't take a joke, you know this!!! Still.. There's a way Karaku can work with this.

He'll be able to swoop in, save you, be your hero, and remind you why staying with him is kinda important. Just in case you forgot~ 

You don't wanna be out and about without his charming grin and protective hold would you? Don't answer that right now, he has a feeling you'll say something wrong!

Yet.. what if you need a firmer hand to remind you of what Karaku provides? What if you got a little too comfortable being protected so you thought you'd be alright leaving them? Man, who knew you could be spoiled!

Because of this, he would purposely fumble, letting Sekido get near you just so he can stop him at the perfect moment. He purposely gets hit too and makes sure some blood gets near you. To remind you how that could've been yours.

When Sekido calms down, Karaku laughs in your face and would pinch your cheeks if you weren't up in the air with Urogi on the way home.

You should've seen your face! It was really cute~! Maybe getting scared is your thing? He'll note that for later.

He offhandedly advises you not to do things like that all the time, fighting Sekido always kinda sucks, but it's not like you actually had a chance of successfully running away so he won't chastise you too much for it. 

That's not his job, and his heart hasn’t pumped that fast in a long time.. not even in a fight! You're so amazing~~

And delusional if you think he's not going to milk this “heroism” thing back there for some extra affection points with you. 

Don't be so mean. he got his head blown off twice and jaw dislocated thrice, not to mention everywhere else on his body. Don't you think those parts of him need some extra loving? more than usual?

There's not that much Karaku can say after that aside from reminiscing like it was a funny story. He's not upset about it, mostly a little miffed you got kinda far without him noticing, but he gets over it. 

The usual routine starts back up for him when you're back home. It's like nothing happened, but he keeps a closer eye on you since everyone's so tense.

Urogi

If you're not home before the sun sets, Urogi's clawing at the walls with stress. He usually accompanies Sekido to go find you, but this time is different. Urogi could just barely tell you were around.. When Sekido bolts, Urogi's flying as fast as he can, trying to find you first. 

You're so far.. you must've gotten kidnapped!!!!!

The stress from before burns into anger, expecting to see someone having their hands on you while you're calling out in vain. How could he let this happen?! Damn sun! 

He darts through the skies even faster imagining it, and when he finally reaches you, you look.. fine? and alone. and looking at him like he's the danger. He's here to save you, dummy..

Urogi falls to his knees, burying his face against your stomach and finally wrapping his arms around you again. Your fists violently hit his head and yank fistfuls of hair back, but it doesn't phase him. 

Your comforting warmth is back, that's all that matters. And god, your smell.. it's almost making him dizzy. He missed you so much.

There's many holes to the story in Urogi's head as to why you're so far from home, but he fills them in with more convoluted delusions. It's just a peaceful reunion right now.. 

That is until Sekido finally arrives and starts swinging his khakkhara way too close to your fragile bones. 

Now he's back in defense mode where he scoops you up and tries flying out of reach. This is so stressful!!! There's lightning everywhere and he keeps having to dodge the multiple staffs thrown his way. 

He shields you with his wings as best he can while trying to stay in the air, so you don't get hurt during Sekido's outburst.

In the skies, it's much clearer to see the hurt behind the haunting glow of Urogi's eyes. Did you care about how he might feel? Did you miss him at all? Did you not feel loved enough? Did someone say something to you? 

As he maneuvers the sky, he holds you as tightly as possible, lightly digging his talons into your skin.

Being without you for a couple hours is agonizing enough on its own. If you HAD left him, abandoned, cold, alone.. he doesn't want to think about it. All that matters is that your kidnappers or liars or whatever influenced you are gone, and you're back safe with them!!! 

You.. you still like him, right? Of course you do, fate wouldn't force your paths together if it wasn't for a reason!

Coming back home is uncomfortably tense, especially with how violently Aizetsu kicked Urogi across the room, nearly through the wall, when he tried to lick your wounds clean. It really hurt! 

When you're patched up, Urogi is ten times as clingy if that's possible. He has his arms looped around you constantly so you can't stray too far, and if his hands are busy, he always has his wings!

As happy as he is that you're back, he can't help but cry into your chest sometimes. Everything is so tense nowadays, he hates it! How could you go and do something like that? Apologize immediately! Or at least hold him too? Doubt creeps in a lot, and your attitude isn't helping.. 

His mood swings are stronger. From sobbing uncontrollably into your clothes to being all smiles and radiating with joy the next just because you said something vaguely decent.

Aizetsu

The demotivation started to creep in the second you left. During the day, Aizetsu sits by the door, wanting to be the first one you properly greet. Sekido and Urogi usually bring you back and he'll be the one in your good graces without lifting a finger. That sounds nice.. 

But as the footsteps fade and the silence lingers, Aizetsu feels miserable the longer he waits... Hold on, silence?

Before he realizes what's happening, he's already dashing to where the familiar commotion is coming from. Dread sets in as his legs take him as fast as they can whilst being the slowest of the four. This doesn't feel like they're rushing over to you after a long day, it feels.. dangerous?

What did you get yourself into..? Why do you insist on going to places Aizetsu can't follow? Are you safe? He hates not knowing.

Usually you're the one who's fine. You deal with four demons almost daily! Please please please be okay. He can't fathom it if you were hurt. 

When he gets there, the puzzle pieces fall into place and Aizetsu gets even more depressed, but at least you're not hurt. Well, not if he interferes. His movements are sluggish, a perpetual frown plastered on his face as he tries holding Sekido down. 

Aizetsu wants to dissolve into the floor, and he does sometimes. Not wanting to fight Sekido off anymore, he slumps over. 

This could've been a regular day where you came home.. Are you serious? Leaving? How pitiful could you be to actually think you could get away? Or was it that you wanted to play some sick joke on them? Well, it's not very funny... It's terrible actually.

Aizetsu stays silent on the way home, walking with a bit more energy knowing you're near despite his heart ache.

You can feel the harrowing disappointment radiating off of him the moment you all go back home.

He's tired, annoyed, and so unbelievably upset. Aizetsu grimaced when Urogi got near your scratches with his tongue, so he “politely” ushered him away. 

Knowing a human's weak points is good in battle, but he started trying to learn how to heal them, specifically because he knew these types of things might happen.

As he cleans your scratches, he's actively scolding you for leaving in a cold emotionless tone. And by scolding, he's using manipulative language, trying to make you guilty for everything you did. 

He barely has the energy to live, but now that he finally found his light in the darkness, you want to leave? Is it so wrong he wants to hold onto what makes him even a smidgen happier than usual? He reminds you that he'll wither away without you, but he's not really too keen on dying just yet.

When he tries to get back into a routine, he just can't. He knows why you left, but he doesn't want to hear it. Even if you're sweet to him or not, he'll hold you from behind when you rest.

Looking at you is too much, but being away from you is even worse. Aizetsu compromises this way, but gets quieter, occasionally sniffling when he hides his face behind you.

There's too much going on and he's so tired.. If it weren't for the others, he probably would've held you so tight for so long so that you both would perish together.

Maybe that’s why he's only allowed to hold you when you're asleep. Just please don't do that again.. He NEEDS you. Please, please, please.

Safe to say you gave them a scare. When they double down on the protectiveness, living is ten times more difficult for EVERYBODY. when you lose their trust, it's pretty difficult to gain it back, but not impossible!!

Sekido and Urogi will always assume the worst if you're gone for too long while Karaku and Aizetsu give you a little more freedom until the others drag them along into their worries.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings

---------

for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons

TW: Major Character Death Warning

-------

Not all deaths are created equal.

That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 

They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 

They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.

Not all deaths are created equal.  

Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.

Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 

But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 

Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 

It happens like this: 

Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  

Something had to give. 

Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 

He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 

Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 

He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 

So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 

He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 

It is not his fault. 

One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  

Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 

He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 

This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 

It’ll never happen again. 

His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 

The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 

She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 

Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 

That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 

Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 

Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 

Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 

Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 

Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 

It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  

Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 

Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 

There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 

To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 

He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 

At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 

Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 

He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.

‘Where are you?’ 

He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 

The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”

A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 

He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;

“Mom? Dad?” 

Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 

Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 

The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 

“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 

It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 

Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 

He checks the garage, the car is still there. 

“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 

Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 

He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 

He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 

There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 

Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”

Not all deaths are created equal. 

But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.

Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 

He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 

Not all deaths are created equal

But all of them are unforgettable. 

[gardenofnoah]

cw: implied sexual trauma, panic attack, intimacy struggles

You don’t notice it happening until it’s buzzing under your skin. Loud and unavoidable, the only thing you can pay attention to is the irregular flutter of your heart and the way it seems that all the air has been vacuumed from the room—

“Hey.”

You blink, and Katsuki is no longer above you. He’s not touching you at all—you turn your head to find him next to you, propped up on an elbow and only worried.

“Too much?”

The panic flares at the question, because what if this is the last time? What if he’s tired of this?

Your exhale is shaky—your laugh is forced and sounds out of place. “No, it was fine, I just—“

“Oi—“ he says, gently, “tell me the truth.”

The truth burns your eyes and keeps them on the ceiling, away from his. You nod, helpless and resigned to whatever comes next.

“What’s goin’ on in your head?”

You feel the tears spill over before you can catch them. You swipe them away with the back of your wrist. It’s still numb. “I’m just sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

He grunts a little in acknowledgment—a displeased, ugly sound—and then there’s movement that finally draws your eyes to him. You watch him cover himself with your duvet—all the way up to his chin.

“S’it okay if I hold you?”

He reaches for you and you let him pull you in. His hands stay above your shoulders and pointedly avoid your neck—cradling your head, letting you hide in the curve of his throat. His pulse is steady and constant against your forehead—or you imagine it would be, if it wasn’t muted by the fabric.

“Nothin’ is ruined,” he murmurs against your hairline, “s’my job to keep you safe.”

Your chest shudders against the cushion of the blanket and you feel a little guilty about crying all over it but Katsuki keeps you there, tethered to him. The ringing in your ears subsides, just a little. Just enough to hear the panic in your own voice.

“I promise I want it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m sorry—“

“Hey, hey,” he shushes you, careful not to tighten his arms around your shoulders. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. S’too much today—that’s all.”

It’s quiet, then, save for your sniffling. He keeps his mouth pressed to your hair, and his arms wrapped around you. There is a noticeable absence of his fingertips tracing along your skin—you don’t feel them there at all, and it’s on purpose. He’s considerate and it makes you anxious.

“Can hear you thinkin’.”

“I just—“ you inhale, trying to be brave, “I don’t want you to leave. I know I can’t—give you this—“

“Oi,” he gruffs, a little sharply, “I don’t give a shit about that. M’not a barbarian.”

You feel the expansion of his lungs as he draws in a slow exhale, and lets it out against the crown of your head. “Don’t think so little of me,” he murmurs, tone laced with hurt.

“You’re right,” you whisper, because he is, “I love you.”

“Love you.” He kisses it into your skin, soft and barely there. “Always will.”

[adrift-in-thyme]

for the prompts, maybe smth with Twi and Hyrule? :) *hands you the whump bat*

- hero-of-the-wolf

*takes the whump bat and slaps it against my palm*

Ohoho I’m gonna make good use of this >:)

CW for blood and injury, dehumanization, and torture

———————————————————-

The screams have long ceased and yet Hyrule still hears them. They echo in his ears, screeching louder, faster, than his pounding heart.

Everywhere, it smells of blood.

He has tears on his cheeks that he can’t recall crying. His wrists are torn from the merciless rub of the manacles clamped tight around them. His head aches. There is something warm and sticky on the side of his face. His left leg has an unnatural tilt.

Hyrule lunges forward and thinks nothing of the pain it brings.

“Twilight!”

His voice is so hoarse it is hardly his own. It is so quiet that Twilight doesn’t even twitch at the sound of it. He remains where he is, lying only a short distance away in a pool of darkest crimson.

Someone kicks Hyrule in the side, yanks on the chains that restrain him, and with a cry, he falls backward. This time, when agony explodes through his every part, he feels it like knives in skin and muscle and bone. His vision whites out. When it returns, there is someone leaning over Twilight, fury in his gaze and blood on his fists.

They had left — at least, Hyrule thought they had — stepped out of the room for a moment to converse. And it had been enough, just enough to try and catch his breath, to try and reach for his brother.

Yet, really, it had never been.

“Your friend is a monster,” the man spits, as he looms over the strong boy whom these people have reduced to a crumpled heap of mangled flesh. The way he spews the word with such conviction, it is as though he thinks Hyrule will actually believe him this time. “He is a danger to Hyrule and all who live within it. Don’t cry for him. Stop wasting your paltry breaths attempting to save him.”

“He’s doing you a favor,” comes a sharp voice in Hyrule’s ear. “Everyone will be better off with that thing gone.”

The statement makes his blood boil and breath hitch.

“He’s not!” Another kick sends him into a coughing fit that threatens to burst his lungs. “He-he’s not a thing.”

His vision has decreased to shades of gray and black. His ears ring with a different melody now, grainy and high-pitched. But Hyrule pushes himself up off his side anyway and grits his teeth.

“You are the monsters.”

They begin to laugh. Great booming guffaws that ricochet in his skull and fling themselves off the walls. Hyrule flinches back.

He had expected anger. He had expected a violent outburst of rage like the one that landed him and Twilight here, born of seeing a wolf become a man.

Somehow, this is much, much worse.

“You truly are a fool, boy,” one of them sneers. She wipes imaginary tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes, grins a toothy grin. “He’s enchanted you too, hasn’t he? Is that why you haven’t stopped trying to save him? Or maybe…” She stalks closer. “Maybe, you’re just like him. An unnatural being. A savage beast lurking in human skin. Only, you seem to be better at hiding it.”

A hand grasps his shoulder. Fingernails dig into the space where muscle meets bone.

“Either way, it doesn't matter. You’ll both meet your maker before this day is through.”

Hyrule has a split second to realize the sudden increase of tension in the air, a split second to try and evade. And he spends it staring with dazed anguish at his brother.

Something collides with his skull and sheer agony explodes within it. Like the blink of an eye, the snuffing out of a candle, the world goes black.

….

With the first bits of returning consciousness, he drags himself to Twilight. It is hardly more than a desperate impulse. He can barely think past the pain that worsens with every moment he is awake. But the room seems vacant now, and nothing stands between him and his brother. Nothing but the failing vessel of his own body.

His heart pumps blood dutifully and yet, it leaves him in jagged trails of iron-scented liquid. The taste of stomach acid is pungent on his tongue. The feel of the chains against his flesh, the way every movement sends his head throbbing, makes him want to scream.

Maybe he does. Hyrule isn’t certain of anything anymore.

He drapes himself over his brother’s body, presses his head to his chest just as he had when the blows had poured down like summer rain and he had been helpless to shield Twilight from them.

They had tossed him off, chained him more securely, shouted obscenities for his efforts to rescue a beast.

The land of Hyrule has many demons. So many are a product of Ganondorf’s hatred. But not all of them. Not all.

“Traveler…” Twilight gazes at him. One eye is sealed shut, the other half-lidded and hazy. “‘M sorry.”

Hyrule breathes and it feels as though someone has taken a knife and begun to scrape his insides out. Like one would when preparing a gourd for stew.

“N-not your f-fault.”

Twilight blinks, long and slow. Somewhere deep within where rational thought still resides, Hyrule fears that if that eye closes, it will never reopen.

Get him to safety.

It is the unspoken command that has beat upon his brain since they awoke in this place, that screeched when Twilight screamed, that sang with every burst of agony upon his own flesh. He knows now more than ever that he won’t be able to obey it.

“Not y-yours either.”

Hyrule holds the rancher’s gaze for a moment, too exhausted to accept or deny his kind words. Then, he slumps forward. He fists his hands within Twilight’s matted pelt, thinks of his glorious fur. The fur their attackers had seen as cursed.

“They’ll come…” he whispers and prays that conviction rests within it. “T-they’ll find us.”

Twilight smiles, tremulously.

“Yeah.” It is a breath, a whisper.

Hyrule cannot bring himself to ask for more.

And so they lie there, in blood and gore and darkness, until the world erupts with sound and light. Until familiar voices call their names.

[muirmarie]

honestly the funniest thing is coming across ppl who are like "bones is so mean to spock 😡😡😡" like spock doesn't go out of his way to be just as big a cunt to mccoy??? it's their LOVE LANGUAGE!!! some of y'all didn't grow up watching tv shows with old broads and old queen-coded men being as cunty as possible to each other OUT OF LOVE. spock spends half his shift on the bridge coming up with mean things to say to his dr the moment mccoy flounce onto the bridge to flirt with jim (affectionate) and spock (derogatory and bloody, there will be no survivors except for them, THEY'RE having a BLAST).

listen when the cards are down they will be thoughtful and worried and touch each other SO gently and fight over who gets to die for each other. all of that is the floor they're standing on. they KNOW that. but GOSH in the meantime they're BOTH having an absolute blast bullying the shit out of each other, bless <3

[marmastry]

Agent 3s

[mikeyisbrooklyn]

We’ve got progress, fairies and frogs, and I’m itching to share. (There’s a part 2 here! And a part 3 here!)

Tags: @on-a-lucky-tide @etanesnil @jgvfhl @roachs-pet-roach

Before reading, some notes…

- This is a WIP, so not finished and subject to change, kinda a part one of sorts

- Has only been partially beta-read

- Author is not: British, Russian, a medical professional, or sane; so beware of inaccuracies abound.

- Not quite NSFW (brief reference to sex and blink and you’ll miss it gross-out moment; safe for teens, not for tots)

All that said, enjoy what’s under the cut (or don’t, I’m not your dad).

Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

(working title)

Price groaned gently as he slowly rejoined the land of the living, croaking like a dehydrated frog was caught in his throat. His groan only got deeper as his eyelids creaked open enough to let in the bright overhead lights. A professional even at his lowest, he took no time to run a checklist of his senses in his head.

Sight? Bleary, but he could see the unnecessarily luminous white beams above him.

Touch? Sore, as all hell, even. There wasn’t a single part of his body that didn’t feel a steady throb of ache, but he could tell his head and right leg seemed to have the worst of it.

Smell? An odorous cloud of antiseptic and disinfectant seemed to be ever-present.

With that information alone, even the most daft man could figure out where he was, but the taste of iron lingering under his tongue and the sound of steady beeping sealed the deal. He was in a hospital.

Price cursed to himself internally. He meant to verbalize it but the words he attempted to form came out as further groans.

An almost imperceptible gasp came from Price’s right and he groaned again as he tried and failed to turn. Then, he felt a warm hand grace his cheek—as his brain started twisting back in gear, he could tell there was a considerable amount of bandages covering his face—and saw a figure take up his entire line of sight, forcing his vision to readjust again so soon after barely adjusting to the lights.

As his eyes settled, Price could finally see who was in front of him, as if the hand on his cheek didn’t already tell him all he needed to know. Nik stood over him, whispering sweet assurances in both Russian and English—some amalgamation of “No, don’t move”s and “You’re alright”s and pet names, it all blended together for Price. Price could see a small grin on the Russian’s face with lines across his mug that reflected an endearing relief, but the first thing Price could see in clear, complete detail since opening his eyes was that dogged glimmer of worry.

It made him sick. Literally.

Poor Nikolai, having already pressed the call button for the doctors upon Price’s stirring, now shouted for aid in shock and distress as Price sat up as much as his broken body would allow and spit up bile that couldn’t have more than stomach acid, saliva, and blood in it.

The door of the room opened and quickly nurses and a doctor were upon Price. A half dozen hands checking bandages, assessing vitals, and touching places that made Price groan in what he meant as frustration which only came out as pain. Nik was gently pulled away in the heat of the moment and despite the pilot’s clear desire to cling onto the injured captain like his life depended on it, he allowed himself to be moved to allow the professionals to do their jobs—if only because he knew it was the only way for Price to get better.

After a few minutes—the hectic storm waning as it became clear that Price was not experiencing a life threatening complication—the nurses left, leaving only the two men with the doctor: a short and plump woman with dark skin and curly black hair tied into a bun, with grays streaking from various places.

“Well, it’s good to see you awake, Captain,” she began, looking down at Price, ”I’m Dr. Omar. It’s a pleasure to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Price grunted, and Dr. Omar smiled warmly but with a bit of mirth. “Your injuries shouldn’t affect your speech ability. I suppose you’re just not in a speaking mood.”

“The captain can be man of few words.” Nik chimed in. “Forgive him.”

“No forgiveness necessary, I’m only teasing, Mr. Nikolai.” Her smile had widened.

Nik shook his head returning a smile of his own. “I have already said, Nik is fine, good doctor.”

“I’m flattered to be considered enough of a ‘friend’ to call you that, but I hope you forgive me for maintaining some professionalism, at least for now.”

Price grunted again, this time with more vitriol than before, feeling ignored despite being the one banged up in bed. At the thought, he looked down and couldn’t properly see the damage—being wrapped comfortably tight in blankets—but from what he could see and feel, there were bandages, splints, and gauze littering his body.

Dr. Omar cleared her throat. “Right, well,” she lifted her clipboard to partially cover her face, “you’ve more than a few cuts and bruises, but the worst of it is a concussion and about a half dozen fractures in your right leg.”

“Should see the other guy.” Price groaned, his voice still thick with disuse. Despite his attempt at humor, Price internally kicked himself as he remembered what really happened.

In truth, it was out of Price’s hands when the informant stabbed them in the back to the kingpin they were hunting, but he still blames himself for the op going tits up. Mostly because what was in his hands was his call to try and finish the mission anyway—an effort at salvaging the unsalvageable. It was only after Gaz took lead to the shoulder that Price realized his stubborn tenacity might get his team killed. But in the retreat, he must’ve stepped right into the bastard’s trap without noticing. If it weren’t for Soap calling out the ticking explosive—thanks to the sergeant’s keen awareness of all things demolition—he likely would’ve been blown to smithereens rather than crushed in rubble. A holy man would remark their survival a miracle, but Price was no holy man; all he figured was that his team kept themselves and him alive, despite his frustrating sudden ineptitude.

Nik’s bark of laughter took Price from his thoughts. “Da! The captain is hard to kill.”

“I’m happy to hear that you've got the mind to joke. Based on what your lieutenant told me, it was quite the close call.” Dr. Omar locked eyes with Price. “But I imagine you’re gonna want the prognosis unless you have any more jokes?”

“As much as I’d love to try out my stand up routine, doc, what I want more is to know when I can get out of this bed.”

“Well, this bed? If you’re insistent on spending most of your recovery at home, just a bit of observation and you can be out of here by tomorrow.”

Price’s lips twitched into a near-frown at “recovery” and lifted a single eyebrow.

Dr. Omar sighed and gave a smile full of more pity than warmth. This look also made Price sick, though he kept down the threatening bile. “You’re primarily on bed rest for a week or two, with crutches or a wheelchair to help you get around if you must. After that 4-8 weeks of physical therapy and continued rest. In short,” she sighed again, knowing the weight of her words, “I’ll be recommending you be put on medical leave for at minimum two months.”

“At minimum?” Price winced as he felt a headache coming on, compounding his concussion. Nik, who had moved closer to the bedridden man, quietly snuck his hand into Price’s grasp and gripped firm but carefully. At his touch, Price huffed from his nose—like a bull.

“It could be longer if you don’t rest and rest well, Captain.” Dr. Omar kept her attitude polite but her tone was assertive. “If you’ve been doing this long enough to earn your rank, then I think it’s safe to assume you’re smart enough to know I’m not wrong.”

Price groaned and looked away, wanting nothing more than to argue but begrudgingly agreeing with her assessment. If it were Simon, Kyle, or Soap he’d have leveled them with a single gaze and made sure they stayed on their ass as long as the docs demanded. Fucking hypocrite he was.

Dr. Omar’s lips tightened like she was about to press him further. Nik spoke up instead. “Da, your expertise is welcome and cherished, good doctor. Instead of tomorrow, could I bring Captain Price home by tonight? He will get better rest in a familiar bed.”

Price looked up at Nik who spared him a brief glance with a wink before returning his gaze back to the doctor. Dr. Omar herself looked between the both of them twice and then three times before sighing heavily but with a more amiable smile.

“I suppose I can see what I can do but no promises, Mr. Nikolai! We need to make sure there won’t be any surprises or complications while we still have him.” She pointed at the Russian accusatorially.

“Da! Da! I understand.”

Dr. Omar smiled as she lowered her hand. “Alright, well, I’ll leave you alone if you don’t have any other questions.”

Price looked back at the doctor finally with a blank expression though with a nod of gratitude.

“Thank you, good doctor, we will call again if needed.”

“Please do.” She patted the end of Price’s bed, eliciting a grunt from the man and then she left the room.

Nik dragged a chair back to the side of Price’s bed and tightened his grip on the hand he was still holding. “You are terrible patient, Jonathan.” He chided with a shit-eating grin.

“Bugger off.” Price shifted his face away from Nik, not being able to move much.

Nik chuckled and kissed the man on the cheek, enjoying the way Price’s face turned bright red. “I hope you are better to me.”

It took a moment for that to sit with Price before he turned slowly back towards Nik. “You wot?”

“Oh, you did not think I meant I would take you back to your own bed, did you, Captain? When mine is much better?”

“Oh, bloody—are ya gonna try and fuck me while I’m crippled? Filthy bastard.”

Nik’s grin turned wolfish. “If you would like. Though, I only meant that I would not let you out of my sight while you heal.”

Price’s face got hot again but worse, his gut churned with a wave of nausea that he barely held down. “I’m not a boy needing supervision, muppet.” He grumbled the last bit.

“Nyet, you are very much no boy.” Nik damn near purred. “But can I not take care of you, even after such an injury?”

Price grunted and turned away but made no effort to move and even returned the briefly tightened grip on his hand Nik still had—an implicit surrender, at least for now. Price knew he was in no state to turn Nik down, especially as his options were the Russian or the hospital. At least with Nik he’d stay somewhere with some damn eye candy and that didn’t reek of sick and despair.

Maybe, just maybe, he could trick himself into have a nice leave. Price laughed at the absurdity of the thought.

[spotaus]

Hi guys, this is usually what a doodle page ends up looking like <3 (oh, and @ancha-aus thought you might like this! Not writing but certainly fuel to my fire lol-)

This one is New Age filled!!! (Close-ups abd Lore beneath the cut!)

1) Night and Cross!

Night is actually very clingy once he's a teen. He doesn't usually realize it, but around the castle he'll snake to be closer to his Knights so long as there's no one he needs to keep his composure infront of is nearby. Cross is the one who's not used to physical touch (when it's not Ink ofc) so Night in his personal bubble makes his heart melt but also scares tf out of him <3

2) Error and Night's Meeting!

Error was carrying his whole life on his back and trying not to get arrested for unintentional property damage at this point, so when he saw the chance to get back at his brother and prove he was strong enough? Yeah, he got that on chance instantly. And was VERY smug when Nightmare chose him. (Also, Error is wearing gloves, so less Haphephobia)

3) Dream and Blue designs!

I think these are good tentative designs! Dream probably has a more regal fit, but he likes to play up that rugged exile look- He's inspired by Archers, while Blue takes on that classic Knightly-vibe. Their equipment is mostly stolen from Night's troops or brought with them from Blue's home kingdom.

Also, Dream is approx Killer's height at this point, shorter than Cross and *much* shorter than Apple!Nightmare. (Hc that Skeletons tend to be tinier in stature thanks to weird monster beauty standards. Horror and Geno's fam are outliers.)

4) Horror and Dust designs!

Horror is naturally a very *large* monster. He's very malnourished when Nightmare meets him, but by the time he's a Knight Nightmare has made sure that's no longer the case. He actually loves comfy, simple clothes, but to play up the whole 'strong mysterious' bit he wears a more barbaric Knight's garb. He doesn't mind acting scary, it's more fun that way :]. Dust is very very small, and envies horror sometimes for his size, but his tiny stature let's him control his body and move a lot quicker. He's very much based on a rogue, and usually covers the lower part of his face w/ a black cloth, and the upper part w/ his hood or mask. Dust only removes both to bathe, eat, or relax in a safe location. (Ignore that I can't draw the stupid gaster blaster lmao-)

These last two were space-fillers, but Cross and his Borzoi (Windmill, otherwise known as Milly (Killer named her-)) and really bad first wips of Ccino! I think Ccino was a chubby, happy toddler, but lost a lot of 'weight' (bone mass? Magic?) due to stress and pressure and bad eating habits. So it isn't until a while after the Coronation that he starts to relax abd feel safe enough to eat normal meals (Nightmare used to guilt him into eating snacks together, but as his boss (and younger brother) he can encourage it more often). By the time Killer shows he's still not quite healthy, but he's better. As more weight is lifted off his shoulders, the better he is. (That 'beauty' most people saw was a more stereotypical slimness, but Killer never stopped seeing Ccino as beautiful-) I think he never looked traditionally underweight, so no one noticed, and it was only much later that Night processed it. (And maybe it's why Dream hardly recognized him later on-)

[seventh-district]

Sam: "Look at me. Hey- look at me a second. I know. I know you're tough. I know how strong you are. You have every right to be proud of that. But being able to handle somethin' doesn't mean you should have to. Least of all when I'm right here trying to help. Please let me help. If not for you then for me, because I don't like knowin' you're hurtin', especially when there's somethin' I can do about it."

Me, shaking my head, fighting back literal tears: "B-but it's gonna give you another headache!"

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Unsuitable Home

Dick can't live at the circus anymore. They say it's in his best interest, but no one even asked him what he wanted.

---

It’s a sunny day. Painfully so. Dick has never been particularly averse to the heat - circus tents and bright stage lights aren’t exactly cold - but today, he can feel his skin crack and blister under the sun’s harsh rays. Everything is just too bright. Too loud. Too hot.

He’s suffocating.

“Today, we honor two people. Two very dear friends.” Mr. Haly’s voice is steady, but it’s clearer and heavier than Dick has ever heard it before. Laden with emotion but certain in its message. “John and Mary were some of the kindest-”

“No.” Dick doesn’t even realize he’s making the sound until it has already silenced the carnys. He can’t stop the trembling of his lip or the raggedness of his breath. He just can’t stop.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Gillie puts a gentle hand on his back and tries to lead him away.

“No,” Dick gasps, wrenching himself from the fire dancer and rushing up to Mr. Haly. He grips the man’s sleeve and shakes his head desperately. “No, please. Please don’t.”

“Dickie, kiddo,” Mr. Haly says gently, nudging Dick back towards Gillie. “Sit this out. We’ll talk after.”

But Mr. Haly doesn’t understand. If he gives this speech, if they have this wake…

Dick takes in a shuddering breath, so loud it makes his own heart skip a beat. But he allows Gillie to lead him away. They walk to the Graysons’… to Dick’s trailer. As they go, Dick’s vision blurs, the words behind him echoing for miles.

“John and Mary would give anything for their family. They were a mother and father. A brother and sister to us. Family.”

“Please, no,” Dick murmurs. “No, no, no.”

“Shh.” Gillie holds his hand tightly. Dick doesn’t know if it’s to ground him or to make sure he doesn’t run away. “Come on.”

They climb in the trailer, and Gillie pulls the door shut with a slam. If Dick shuts his eyes and buries his face in his bedding, he can block out the noise outside. He can pretend that it’s two days ago. That he’s waking up to the sounds of his parents talking. That nothing can ever hurt them.

But he can’t close his eyes. He can never close his eyes again, because every time he does… Every time he does, he sees his parents. After the fall.

So instead, Dick crawls onto the blue vinyl bench by the window and hugs his knees. Gillie is close behind, sitting beside him and wrapping an arm around him, holding him close. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

Dick doesn’t cry. He doesn’t have the tears left.

For many, many minutes, they say nothing. Gillie rubs his shoulder. Dick leans on her.

And then Dick gets impatient. “Are they done?”

Gillie shakes her head. “I can hear them still.”

Dick hums. He shifts away, and Gillie lets go.

“I can’t stay here, can I?”

The dancer hesitates. “We can stay here as long as you need.”

“No. Not the trailer. I mean… They’re gonna take me away, now that I don’t have parents. Right?”

“I don’t know.”

Dick kicks his legs. He grows restless, climbing the bench and hanging from the bar along the ceiling. Upside-down, things are still terrible, only now the blood has rushed to his head.

But it’s a distraction, and Dick will take it.

The door to the trailer opens, and Dick drops from the ceiling.

“Dickie,” Mr. Haly greets.

Dick nods back, and Gillie slips out the door. Dick wonders if she’s giving them space or if she can’t stand to be in the same trailer as him.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Haly says. “That was… I know that was a lot. And I’m sorry you had to hear any of that.”

Dick stares at his shoes. His mom bought him those shoes last month. She’d said Dick was growing out of shoes faster than the shoe people could make them.

“Kiddo.” Mr. Haly is in front of Dick, one hand hovering over his shoulder. “Do you want to be left alone?”

Slowly, Dick shakes his head. “I… What’s wrong with me, Mr. Haly?”

That grabs his attention. He sits down and motions Dick over to do the same. “What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I… I didn’t catch my parents. We’re… We’re the Flying Graysons. We’re supposed to catch each other. And I just… watched.”

“Oh, no. No, no, kiddo, that’s not true. You weren’t supposed to - you can’t catch your parents. They catch you. That’s the routine. You aren’t old enough to catch them.”

Dick picks at the callouses on his palm. “I don’t care. I should’ve anyway.”

“That’s not fair.”

“But that’s why you don’t want me anymore.” Dick finally looks up, guilt and frustration and regret piercing his eyes.

“We’d love to have you,” Mr. Haly insists. “But without parents, they won’t let you stay.”

“Adopt me,” Dick insists. “Or Gillie. Or Appy. Or Luka. Someone.”

Mr. Haly’s expression breaks. “It’s not that simple, kiddo. They won’t let us adopt you. Not when we’re always on the move. Believe me, I tried.”

But Dick doesn’t believe him. “What did I do wrong? Is it because I didn’t catch them? I…” Angry tears well up, but Dick doesn’t let them fall. “I tried. I tried to, but they were up there, and I was on the ground and-”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve got to believe me. Your parents are so proud of you. They wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Dick ducks his head. “Please leave,” he whispers.

“I…” Mr. Haly stands, but the trailer door doesn’t open.

“Please.” Dick can’t look at him. “Please just go.” He doesn't turn to see if Mr. Haly left, but he hears the door open and close again.

And then, alone, Dick screams.

---

Protective services take Dick away the next day. 

“We’re his family,” Irene insists. “He needs family right now.”

The social worker shakes her head. She can't be that old, but the fatigue lining her face makes her seem ancient. “It's not for me to choose. Juvenile services found the circus to be an… unsuitable home for a young boy. Not without his parents.”

“Can't it wait a few weeks? At least until the kid has some time to process things?” Mr. Haly sounds desperate, and Dick can't bear to hear it anymore.

“It's okay,” Dick says, stepping out from behind the troupe. “I can go.”

And no one wants to argue with Dick. No one has tried to argue with him. Not since the fall. Maybe they're trying to give Dick his space. Or maybe they're just scared that Dick will break down at the mildest of confrontations. Either way, Dick wishes they would just argue instead.

“Listen, kiddo.” Mr. Haly kneels down so he's at eye level with Dick. “You need anything - anything at all - you call us, y’here me?”

“Thanks, Mr. Haly.”

The man places a heavy hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Hang tough, kid.”

Dick nods once, eyes and throat burning.

“All done?” The social worker is looking at him cautiously.

Dick steals a hug from several troupe members before wiping his face with his palms and nodding.

“Let’s go, then.”

The ride is quiet, driven by a man in a sheriff's jacket. Dick isn't sure why the sheriff is involved. Maybe he should ask. Maybe he should be more concerned about this. But all he feels is numb. You can only take so much before you have to just… shut it out.

“Here,” the social worker says, and the sheriff pulls into a parking lot. The adjacent building is old, with ornate architecture sweeping across the roof and spilling down its columns. It'd almost be pretty if it wasn't so worn from centuries of acid rain and smog.

“Where are we?” Dick asks, unclipping his seatbelt and exiting the car.

“Gotham City Youth Center.”

Dick isn't sure what a youth center is, really, but context clues suggest that it's a temporary place for kids. Just until they get foster homes. It can’t be so bad, can it?

Dick was wrong. He learns that the hard way over the next week.

“Hey, Circus Boy,” someone says on his second day at the center. “You're in my spot.”

Dick frowns. “I was sitting here first.”

“Yeah,” the guy scoffs. “But it’s mine. Buzz off.” He folds his arms, and two other boys step forward, one with a baseball bat and the other with a two-by-four.

There are a lot of things Dick could do. He could argue back. He could yell for security. He could just give the kid the damn seat.

But Dick has had it up to here with people telling him what to do and where to go. He’s done taking orders. So instead, he folds his own arms and glares at the group. “No. Go get your own seat.”

The kid with a two-by-four rushes him, and Dick easily jumps out of the way. He’s been in plenty of fights - bound to be, if you grow up in the circus - so this doesn’t scare him. He doesn’t even feel excited. He’s still numb.

“Wh-?”

Dick backflips onto his hands, pushes off onto the wall, then jumps off the wall to throw a punch at one guy’s back and a kick at another’s face. But there’s still a third guy, and it really only takes one. A savage right hook wrenches Dick’s head to the side, teeth vibrating from the impact.

And then it’s all over. The other two recover, and suddenly three guys are wailing on him with fists and a bat and dirty sneakers. All Dick can do is curl up on the floor and try to protect his head. He’s pretty sure he’s going to die here.

Then there’s shouting, louder and angrier than the bullies’ cheerful whoops. Another violent blow to his jaw knocks him out, and then he’s waking up to two guards above him.

“Tough luck, kid,” one guard says apologetically. The other guard pulls Dick to his feet.

They walk to the infirmary together, and as they do, Dick thinks that maybe he should be angry about this. Why did those kids have to pick him? Why couldn’t they just mind their own business?

But Dick isn’t angry or sad or even upset.

He’s numb.

---

Dick escapes the youth center a week later. He slips out the door and sneaks past the night watch. Then he opens the flue of the fireplace and climbs in. With his back and hands pressed against one side of the chimney and his bare feet planted against the opposite side, Dick shuffles his way up. He thinks he might make a pretty decent ninja, if he ever gets out of this place.

Once Dick has reached the top, he crawls out onto the roof. Then he scans the area for an exit route. Maybe he could make it to the scaffolding? Or maybe there’s a fire escape around here-

“You should have brought shoes with you.”

Dick jumps. But the dark shadow with the gravelly voice stays as still as the gargoyle beside it. “How far do you expect to get in bare feet?” it patronizes.

Wait. Dick has heard about this. He’s been to Gotham a few times - it's a staple in the Haly Circus Route - and he’s heard all about the city's demonic night creature.

“Are you-?”

“I am the Batman.”

That's enough proof for Dick. He sprints back to the chimney. Better to get beaten bloody at the youth center than to have the muscles ripped from his bones by an evil half-bat, half-bear with a taste for human flesh.

But the evil half-bat, half-bear seems to have other ideas. He snatches Dick’s t-shirt, dragging him back. “Wait a second, Dick. I’m here to help you.”

How did he-?

“I know your name,” the Batman explains. “I know your story. It's not so different from mine. And I know your parents were murdered.”

Dick sits on the peak of the roof and hugs his knees. “But it was an accident. The police said-”

“The police don't know what I know.” His tone is sharp. Icy. Dick shivers. He hadn't realized how cold it is out here.

“The trapeze line showed no evidence of being cut, and that satisfied them,” the Batman continues. “But I found minute traces of an organic acid on the line. It mimicked natural wear. It was supposed to look like an accident.”

It's a lot of information. Dick doesn't process any of it. He just wants to forget about it. He doesn't care what the evidence is. He wants to stop talking about it. Forever.

“What difference does it make?” Dick’s eyes are watering, and he tells himself it's just the chill. “They're dead! I’m alone!” He sniffs. “Just let me go. Let me get away from here.” He’s pleading at this point, but he no longer cares.

“No,” the Batman rasps. “You have to stay here. You can't help me if you're a fugitive.”

But Dick doesn't want to help the Batman. He wants to go home. He wants to go back to Haly’s.

… he wants his parents back.

“You won't be here long,” the Batman continues, melting back into the shadows. “I promise you.” And then, when Dick doesn't look relieved, he adds, “Trust me.”

And just like that, he's gone again.

Dick considers getting up and continuing his great escape, but he knows what will happen. This freak bat man will find him again and send him back to the youth center. And Dick might be a decent fighter, but he’s still aching from the beating he took last week. His face is still taped and bruised, wrist still sprained and ribs still busted. He’d immediately lose to the Batman, and then he’d wake up back in the youth center.

So, dejected, Dick slinks back to the chimney and un-escapes. Trust me, the Batman had said. But he goes around in a mask, so how is Dick supposed to trust him? And honestly, in this cruel new world Dick finds himself in, he can’t trust anyone.

[nugatorysheep]

YOU AND I ARE GOING TO GET TO THE FUTURE WHERE EVERYTHING WILL HAVE BEEN WORTH THIS

They're sweet and cute and they love each other, your honor

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

once again thinking abt cult leader geto and his hissy cat of a reader who scratches and bites him while he does nothing but coo over them on the daily. no one speak to me for ten business hours please

[battleonthebigbridge]

"Not looking down on me just yet Vahju~"

Childhood friends who went through a lot of suffering but found each other again and treasure each other's friendship save me...