#oh so you know more about psychology than I do because you have a degree in architecture? oh really? because you went to college? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starry-bi-sky · 1 year ago

Text

sO i got to part two of the daniel jason todd fenton au :)

>:) word count 8k+

So, first, taglist for folks who asked for it: @blep-23 @mikyapixie @isnt-that-grape @randomenglishmajor @illryiannightmare @the-navistar-carol

SECOND: this part needs a trigger/content warning list: - CW Mild Swearing - CW Slight Psychological Horror - ^ CW mild depictions of being haunted by your own ghost/death flag and not realizing it (other people do though) - CW Brief Emetophobia (Danny throws up during a second nightmare) - CW Danny has nightmares of dying - except its of Jason Todd's warehouse death. It's not explicit but it's implied - TW Mild mentions of perceived Blood - TW Depictions of Corpses (first is non-descript, and then second one is slightly more descript but its not anything uh, super descriptive) - TW Mild description of burns (the descriptive part above) - TW Depictions of Panic Attacks (Danny's nightmares)

I mentioned that this au was inspired by a song lyric from Jann's 'Gladiator' here is that line:

I know your addiction's attention, Let's start a show Is it everything and more than you were hoping for? Show us something we ain't never seen before

The day after Danny meets himself, he's downstairs having breakfast in the dining room with the rest of the family, listening idly in on their conversations. Tim Drake is talking about something about Wayne Industries with Mr. Wayne - and wasn't that a startling surprise to learn the first time? - and Damian was slyly trying to feed Ace under the table. Duke Thomas was mid conversation with Cass, much of it audibly one-sided as Cass swaps between ASL and verbal speech.

(Danny comes across her a fair few amount of times in Wayne Manor. The first time was in the library. She hands him a book about planets, smiles, and walks away.)

(He hasn't talked much to Duke Thomas yet, but he plans to - he seems cool. They just haven't had the time to run into each other yet. Danny might just have to corner him, he thinks.)

And finally Dick Grayson on his left, his Dick Grayson, was talking away with the other Dick Grayson - who had stopped by from Bludhaven for the morning for his day off. He was a cop, ew. They were comparing lives, specifically college lives. There wasn’t much to talk about in their childhood, it seems. Danny was quietly listening in.

(They both gave their Bruces headaches as children, apparently. Climbing the chandeliers and sliding down the staircase banisters. Flips and tricks only a child raised by the circus could do.)

All-in-all, a very quiet morning, Danny thinks. That is, until the other Dick Grayson turns to him and goes; "I'm sure you've been asked already, but what do your parents do, Mini Jay?"

Danny squints at him, and releases his grip on his spoon to raise a pointed finger. "First off: only my Dick Grayson can call me Jay, you have your own." He says, slightly playful and nodding to Dick - oh that was going to get confusing, fast. He should come up with a nickname for one of them, probably - "And second: you're the second person to ask me that, actually. Jason - er, myself? - asked me yesterday. My parents are ectologists."

Apparently, mentioning that he met himself is a set of magic words, because the whole table stops what they're doing, and Danny's half-sinking back into his chair when all eyes turn to him in varying degrees of surprise. Dick - Richard, he’s going to call him Richard - looks at him with wide eyes and furrowed, confused brows. "You saw Jason?"

(Danny sends Bruce a confused look, but he's not paying attention - looking at everyone else with threaded eyebrows and a faint frown. Well, at least Danny isn't the only one confused by the reaction.)

(What a comfort.)

"I guess that nickname is a dimensional constant." He mutters under his breath, and straightens up, eyeing the room warily. It... doesn't bode well to him that the Waynes were surprised by his other self's appearance -- was hisself estranged from the family?

...He hopes that doesn't happen in his world. Dick and Bruce may not be his adoptive family, but he likes them quite a lot. He wants to stay in contact with them when they get home.

"Yeah, he was in the library." He says, frowning at Richard Grayson. "He was sitting in my armchair." He supposes it was Jason's armchair first -- god, that was so weird to refer to himself in third person. "We talked for a little bit, and he asked me what my parents did. They're ectologists, by the way."

He turns to Mister Wayne and tilts his head, "Did you really not know that he was here?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. He wouldn't expect Richard to know, he doesn't live here. But Mister Wayne looks just as surprised, perhaps even a little remorseful.

(There’s a pit in his stomach that’s growing bigger.)

(His neck burns with a new pair of eyes, ones that he can’t see.)

Mr. Wayne looks thoughtful for a moment, and then carefully, he goes; "Jason is rather... independent. He comes and goes from the manor when he feels like it." And the way he speaks sounds like he was choosing his words carefully. Danny suppresses the shiver of unease.

Something was not well in this house. Something unspoken was haunting the air.

(Jason would know about hauntings, wouldn’t he?)

He hopes history won't repeat itself, he likes Bruce quite a lot.

"...Alright," he says after a moment of silence, not hiding his wariness as he slowly turns back to Richard. His eyes flick towards Bruce, and then to Ricard. "Anyway, my parents are ectologists, as I've said for the third time now."

Richard, for his effort, takes the topic change easily, and his surprise shifts into one of curiosity - as does everyone else. (Did Danny really not mention what his parents did? Even Dick and Bruce look intrigued.) "That's... new." Richard says lightly, Danny commends him for the way he sounds non-judgmental. "What are ectologists?"

Danny quirks a dry half-smile, and deadpans; "Studiers of all things dead and afterlife."

...And there is that reaction again. A ripple of surprise and intrigue that spreads throughout the room as everyone looks at him, like a bunch of cats perking up their ears.

On the other side of the table, Damian scoffs quietly, a sound much like the one Jason - the other one - did when Danny told him. Danny's eyes snap over to him in an instant, he stares at him, trying to study him. Why that reaction - again?

He lets himself frown, briefly, before addressing Richard again. "Everyone just calls them ghost hunters, but the 'official' term is ectologists." He drawls, air-quoting the word 'official' with his fingers as he rolls his eyes. "They've been obsessed with ghosts since college. We even have a lab in the basement, and they keep liquid ectoplasm samples in the fridge."

Danny's been in the lab a handful of times, he and Jazz both have, either to clean it as part of their chores, or to listen to a lecture from their parents for their newest invention. The lab is cool, kinda, but Danny thinks it wouldn't look out of place in any evil lair of a Rogue with a doctorate.

…He’s glad that the Fentons weren’t stationed in Gotham. They would have blown up a street. He’s surprised they haven’t already.

"Ectoplasm?" Dick asks, leaning over to catch Danny's eye. Almost by instinct now Danny smiles at him, and then nods.

"Mom and dad say it's the stuff that makes ghosts." He explains, leaning back against his seat, his arms crossing. "It's invisible in its natural state, and it makes up everything. Kinda like the Force from Star Wars, or just, matter in general."

That cracks a few quiet, laugh-like sounds through the dining room. Danny halves a smile again, a swelling of pride in his chest that lingers for a moment. "My parents say that when ectoplasm condenses enough in one area, it can start taking on visible properties," he continues, "they say that ghosts are just the memories and emotions of a dying person or animal being imprinted on a concentration of ectoplasm, and that the ghost itself isn't actually the person or animal, just matter trying to mimic it."

Which Danny guesses makes sense, even if the way they talk about ghosts made him really uncomfortable. His parents insisted that ghosts weren't actually people, but he just couldn't shake the idea that they were. How close to ‘human’ does something get before they actually are?

Well, no, that wasn’t fair. Superman wasn’t human, and yet everyone treated him like he was. Let him rephrase himself:

How human-like must something get before they are considered as such? Before they’re considered sapient and sentient, and real?

"That's... quite interesting." Someone says, and Danny turns to see Bruce leaning his elbows against the table and putting his chin on threaded fingers. He looks genuinely engrossed in what Danny's said, and pride once again leaks into his heart. "You mentioned they kept ectoplasm in a liquified state in their... fridge?"

"Oh yeah," Danny says, putting his full attention to Bruce, "it's crazy. They keep little test tube racks in the freezer full of liquid ectoplasm, and it's this - uh - glowing, bright green stuff. It used to be the weirdest thing in the house."

(From his peripherals, Danny notices the room tense up again at his description — and he bites back the urge to slow his talking down and narrow his eyes. Suspicious. Suspicious. The Waynes weren’t scientists - why do they react to something like they are?)

(Nobody knows what ectoplasm is. To the scientific world, it's an unconfirmed theory of a state of matter. Why do the Waynes act like they know what it is?)

(Danny is not stupid. Even if his scientific family makes him feel like it, sometimes.)

Bruce gives him this half-tilted, confused smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "Used to be?"

Danny opens his mouth, the answer already on the tip of his tongue -- and then he freezes. His jaw clicks shut as he frowns. Should he say what his parents' latest pet project was? Surely, surely, it would be fine? Their inventions never work - and a life-sized portal is just another thing on his parents' crazy ideas list.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, chewing on the skin as he rolls the answer over in his head. ...Surely, it would be fine. His face turns in hesitance, and his shoulders scrunch and twist to his ears, like he's about to admit something that could get him grounded by his parents.

"They... may, or may not, be building an inter-dimensional portal in the basement?" His voice steadily pitches upward nervously the longer he speaks. By the time he finishes, his voice is close to a squeaky pitch.

There is a horrified silence that follows him, sitting in the air so still-like that Danny could hear the whoosh of a pin drop. He should have expected that, nervously surveying the ranging horrified expressions on the Wayne family's faces. "...I promise they're harmless... to the living." He hesitates, "Mostly."

Bruce stares at him for a long moment. "Mostly?" He repeats, his brows arched high and pinched together. Danny cringes back a little.

"Dad's a little clumsy, that's all." He says, shrugging with a helpless smile. It doesn't help, he thinks, and the silence is strangling. Sitting up, he's a little frantic to add; "I really, really, doubt it's going to work, Bruce. Their inventions never do. Mom and dad built a mini portal in college and it didn't work either!" There's a moment of silence following him, before he quietly adds, wincing, "It- it did hospitalize the guy who was helping them, though."

He only heard about that when he asked his parents about the portal - it was still in production when they picked him up. Jack Fenton claimed it was safe as safe could be - they’d make sure that the ‘college’ instance never happened again.

Bruce - both Bruces actually - looked vaguely ill at the thought. Mister Wayne’s face was blank, his face sunk into his folded hands, and Bruce’s stare burned into Danny, intense like concentrated fire.

Danny for some reason - either through his panicked urge to make things better, or through temporary insanity - laughs forcibly. "The worst thing that could happen is that the portal could explode, but that never happens."

Next to him, Dick makes a stressed sound. "That's not better, Jay." He forces out. He looks even more horrified.

Danny sucks on his bottom lip for a long beat. Then lets out a breath.

"Yeah, I know." Danny sighs, deep and long while his shoulders slump. He watches the room for a moment, with their various stony-like expressions, and looks back at the very concerned-looking Bruce. "But Bruce, I swear it's fine. Nothing's gonna happen, please don't call the Justice League on my parents. They really are harmless."

Bruce looks conflicted.

"I was being dramatic when I said the portal could explode, it won't." He continues, giving Bruce what Jazz has called his 'cheating puppy eyes'. "My parents are eccentric about their line of work, but they understand lab safety. They'd never do anything to put me and Jazz in danger."

...Actively or on purpose, that is.

He and Bruce stare each other down. One second, two seconds; what feels like thirty seconds pass in silence before Bruce relents, sighing deeply and uncannily dad-like. He drags a hand down his face, and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "When we get back to our universe, you are giving me your phone number so you can contact me if anything happens."

Danny beams, nodding hurriedly. "Thank you, Buzz."

Bruce isn't able to hide his smile - small as it was - quickly enough. "You're welcome, Danny."

—-----

Danny has a nightmare that night. He doesn't remember most of it. There's a ticking sound, and high laughter, and there is a thumping heartbeat in his ears. Everything is dark and he is in agonizing pain.

He wakes up in paralyzing terror, a scream lodged in the back of his throat. His head pounds like a concussion and there is a shallowing ache in his ribs, like someone's kicked him, and kicked him, and kicked him until all air has been knocked from his lungs. He can't breathe.

Danny's hands scrabble for his throat, and even though he can hear himself gasping for air, it doesn't feel like he's taking any of it in. There is no relief in the action, no reassurance, and everything is so hot. He kicks at his blankets, his panic growing higher as they tangle around his legs.

He needs-

He needs--

He needs to move. He needs to get up. He needs to free himself. He needs to prove that he's not dying. He feels like he's dying. He feels like he's burning. There are tears swelling in his eyes as he finally gets the blankets off his feet, and he rolls - quite literally - out of bed.

He tries to catch himself, he does. But he doesn't. He hits the floor with a heavy thud and can hardly bring himself to care -- he catches himself on his elbows, and the sting it causes makes him feel worse. The air is knocked out of his chest again.

The ground is cold though, blessedly cold. And before Danny can realize this, he lifts his head and, disoriented, looks for the door. It's too dark, it's too dark. His head swivels blindly in search of it. He needs to get out, he needs to escape.

"Bruce." He croaks, still trying to force air down into his lungs. His call comes out raspy, weak, and hot tears blur his vision.

"Dick." He tries instead when a minute passes and no one comes, and he thinks he can finally start breathing. No one comes to find him - his voice is too quiet to wake anyone up. The tears in his eyes bubble and pop, and stream down his face.

He makes a distressed noise. "Jazz?" He whispers, his voice shaky and uneven with an encompassing want for his sister. It's nearly been a month since they got here. He wants Jazz.

No one hears him. He's alone.

God, he doesn't want to be alone. Please don't make him be alone.

Danny eventually gets himself calmed down. But he is curled up on the floor, trembling with the lingering traces of fear from whatever dream had woken up. His fingers dig painfully into his arms, leaving crescent-moon indents by his nails. The contents of the nightmare are already fading further into his mind, slipping out of his hands like water. Like ash.

He feels no need to chase after it.

The back of his shirt is damp with sweat, and in between the trembling he is also shivering, goosebumps lacing up his arms. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, and he stares with wide, crying eyes at the side of his bed. His breath comes out in short, shaky pants.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, trying to comprehend what happened as his mind still hangs onto the edge of the dreamworld. It feels like there is something in the room with him, crawling along the walls.

Danny forces himself to get up, and the sudden standing makes his vision blacken and swim as blood rushes to his head. He stumbles, slightly, and lurches halfway across the room for the light switch.

He squints as the room is drenched in light, chasing away the lingering paranoia in the back of his brain. He is still shaking. His head still hurts. He still looks, wide eyed, around the room for anything out of place.

There is none.

But he still feels unsafe. He needs- he needs to find someone, or go somewhere else. He grabs a firm pillow off the bed, and leaves.

(He ends up in the library alone. He turns on the lights and grabs a book Dick recommended to him, and he curls up tight in his armchair. He ends up falling asleep just as the sun is rising.)

(He doesn't tell anyone about the nightmare.)

Progress in getting the three of them back to their home dimension is slow. Dimension Hopping is a rare experience, and what update Bruce gets he relays back to Danny and Dick: they're trying to figure out a way to send them back safely, from the exact time they disappeared, and to find what dimension they're from. It's complicated magic.

It's been three weeks.

Danny, for one, is getting homesick. He misses Jazz, Sam, and Tucker terribly, and his parents. Bruce and Dick are great, really, and Danny kinda wants to keep in touch with them after they return to their own world, but they aren't replacements of his sister and friends.

His nightmare from a few days ago still haunt his steps. He closes eyes, and that high-pitched laughter and blood-rushed pounding burns itself his ears and fills a level of unseen terror into his heart. Danny thinks that if he was hit with Scarecrow's fear gas, this is what it would feel like.

He tries to avoid falling asleep by reading in his room, by stargazing, but the place sets him on edge; an unsettling reminder of that nightmare. So he goes to the library when it gets too much, he's run into Bruce twice now doing it, and they both do reading.

Danny thinks Bruce can suspect something is up with him, but he doesn't want to tell him about that nightmare. Dick either, for that matter. He just wants to forget it.

They spend afternoons in the gym, they have it mostly to themselves - Tim Drake is at Wayne Industries, Damian Wayne is at school, so is Duke Thompson, and Cassandra Cain is... doing whatever she does during the day. Danny's not totally sure.

Dick in that time, tries showing Danny how to be more flexible. He says he's a fast learner, but Danny knows he's been slacking lately with his lack of sleep.

There isn't much they can do outside of the manor - Bruce and Dick can't go outside because they'll catch the attention of the paparazzi, and they are both significantly younger than their counterparts, and Danny isn't allowed out without a chaperone.

Which has its own unique set of problems because rumors could rapidly start if he's seen with any of the Waynes multiple times. The paparazzi aren’t dumb enough… okay, most — some — of them aren’t dumb enough to make a tabloid claiming there’s a new Wayne kid just because they see the Waynes interacting with one kid, one time. Multiple times however? That’s another story. And, he has the same issue as Bruce and Dick - he's a baby-faced Jason Todd. Who is Bruce Wayne's adoptive son in this world. He could be recognized.

And how do you explain a tiny Jason Todd to a world where Jason Todd is a full grown man?

So all three of them are... stuck inside, so to speak. And making do with what they can. Danny spends most of his morning and early noon with Dick, and then they both separate after to have time to themselves before dinner.

Bruce is in one of the studies, doing... something. Danny's not sure and he keeps forgetting to ask.

Dick likes Danny - Jason? - Jay. Danny said that he can call him Jason, and he doesn't protest to being called Jay.

Point is: he likes Jay. He's a delightful kid to be around; he's funny, and clever, even if he doesn't realize it himself. And Dick's a little upset that Jay isn't his brother in his world, he would've loved to have him around the manor. He probably would have visited more if he was around.

Something that he and Bruce were still slowly trying to fix...

He likes spending time with him - getting to teach him his acrobatic tricks was not something he expected, but he loves showing Jay how to do them. He thinks this is probably how Bruce felt when he was training Dick how to be Robin, all those years ago.

Speaking of which, Dick was still not over the Robin jacket that Jay wore. The origins of it weren't the best - Jay started wearing it to take back the insult the other kids at his school were throwing at him - but isn't that what part of what being Robin was about?

Cheesy, he knows. But his point still stands.

He thinks that if he had to pass the Robin title down to anyone, it would be Daniel Jason Todd-Fenton. Or perhaps just Jason Fenton-Todd? Jay doesn’t seem all that attached to the name Danny.

(“Mom and dad just started calling me it when they picked me up.” Danny — Jay shrugged when Dick asked him about it, the two of them swinging from bar to bar. “I wasn’t tellin’ ‘em my name at the time, so they gave me a new one.”)

If he had met Jason before the Fentons had, Dick thinks maybe he would have adopted him instead. And what would that future look like? Would he have been able to, when he had to go to college and classes? Would he have been able to keep going out at night, and keep that secret to himself?

He’ll never know, he supposes.

“I think that’s it for today.” Dick says, swinging off the jungle gym and landing on the mats with a cat-like thump. Behind him, Jay groans, and drops with a less graceful thud as Dick stretches out his spine. There’s a satisfying pop-pop-pop of his back as he leans back.

He turns, and sees Jay going for his water bottle. He looks tired — from what, Dick doesn’t know. But there are dark bags under his eyes and a sleep-distracted look on his face. He’s been distracted, and their lessons have been suffering from it.

Dick wants to know what’s bothering him, but Jay hasn’t said anything, and Dick doesn’t know what he could say to make it better.

“I can still keep going.” Jason insists, but he tiredly slumps over to grab his water, and straightens up sluggishly. It’s probably not a lie, but anything Dick shows him he doubts that Jay will retain it. “You don’t have to stop.”

“Oh but I want to.” Dick says, walking over to grab his own water. “I’m human too you know—” and Jay snorts at him with a grumbled ‘doubt it’. “—so I also need my breaks.”

“With the way you can bend I really don’t think so.” Jason mutters, eyeing him up and down. Dick laughs quietly and takes a long sip of his water. “Seriously, circus boy, what do they feed you? Actually - what did they feed myself?”

Dick’s laughter doubles as Jay’s eyes grow wide and wild, his head shaking with spasming arms. “No, seriously! I don’t know if you’ve seen the other me yet, Dick, but he- he’s fucking huge!” He exclaims, and jumps as high as he can as his arms try to make a silhouette above his head. “I- I’m almost as big as Jack Fenton, and we’re not even biologically related! I don’t know where he got that much height to him, ‘cause- ‘cause Willis, that drunk bastard, was never that big!”

Dick hasn’t seen the elusive other Jason Todd, and he’s been so curious about him. Both he and Bruce have — especially considering that everyone else doesn’t seem to want to tell them about him. He tried stopping his other self to ask about Jason Todd of his world, and his other self just said that he was his little brother and the second robin, and that he did a lot of his own stuff.

It was a whole bunch of fucking nothing. And he and Bruce were growing suspicious about it. They hadn’t thought of it before because, well, they were busy adjusting to being in a new world and trying to figure out a way back. And then Jason was never really brought up, but neither was Dick Grayson unless Dick asked about it, and he didn’t think to ask about Jason Todd before.

It was all just strange.

But Jay’s exclamation over the size of himself distracts Dick long enough that he forces himself to put the mystery of Jason Todd on the backburner for now. “I’ll- I’ll have to see him for myself, Jaybird.” He says when his laughter subsides, and he straightens up.

“Seriously,” Jay stresses, and he starts to make his way towards the gym door. “He’s fucking massive, Dick. Built like a brick shithouse.”

Dick almost starts laughing again, “Where did you even learn that phrase?”

Jay rolls his shoulders back and grins at him slyly, “I read.” He says, and it’s so clearly not how he learned that word that Dick barks out a laugh.

They reach the door, and Jay holds the door open as Dick reaches for the light switch. He looks behind him, surveying the room quickly to make sure that there’s nothing they could have left on the floor, before turning off the lights.

Bright green eyes stare at him from the mirror. Right where Jay is standing.

In an instant, the lights are back on. Dick’s heart has been kickstarted into fifth gear, suddenly and loudly racing in his chest as he darts his head around the room. It was only two seconds, perhaps only even one, but fear has been shot like an adrenaline needle into Dick’s veins. An inhuman, skyrocketing fear alike to Scarecrow’s fear gas.

What was that?

WHAT WAS THAT?

But there’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. There is only Jason where the eyes were.

From the mirror’s reflection, Jason turns his head — he hadn’t been looking at Dick, he hadn’t been looking at Dick — and stares up at him. There is confusion written on his face as he glances up at Dick, and then at the mirror. He meets his eyes - Jason’s blue, blue, not green, eyes — and Dick forces himself to look away from the mirror and down at Jay.

“What was that for?” Jay asks him, perfectly normal and perfectly confused.

Dick feels like he just ran a marathon. He’s panting, he doesn’t know why, and he forces himself to sound like he wasn’t as he wets his lips and furrows his brows. “I thought I saw something.” He says, frowning.

He didn’t think. He did. He did.

What did he see?

It was standing where Jay was. Those eyes. Those green-green eyes. It was where Jay was. He forces himself to shake his head, his frown deepening, unsettled. Jason peers around him as if to see what he had, and Dick puts a hand on his chest, stopping him. “It was nothing, let's go.”

He turns Jay around, and ignores his bewildered look. That lighthearted mood he had earlier has plummeted, replaced with an eerie paranoia as he takes the door from Jason’s hand and flicks the lights back off.

When he looks over his shoulder at the mirror, there’s nothing there.

—------------

Danny has another nightmare. It’s the same one. It’s dark again. That high pitched laughter fills his ears. The ticking is louder, louder, louder. It’s counting down, but to what - he can’t see — he can’t see what it’s counting down to.

There is still so much pain. His head hurts, his body hurts. He has a body now, he can remember he has a body. He’s in so much pain. He looks down at his hands and pooling around his knees is a bloody yellow cape, it’s torn and bloody and his hands are bloody and torn and he’s wearing green gloves.

He wakes up just before the ticking stops. He doesn’t know how he knows that the ticking stops.

Danny rolls over and hangs himself sideways off the bed, gasping for air that doesn’t come. He wants to scream again, to shriek with such terror that it sends everyone in the manor running into his room. He doesn’t, he can’t, he has no mouth and he must scream.

Danny gasps for air instead, and then dry heaves until he throws up onto the floor. His head is spinning with the fadings of a dream-made concussion, again. His chest hurts deeper, more, it’s no longer shallow and as if someone was sitting on his chest, like someone had beat him in the stomach and chest and head.

He feels like he’s choking. He is, he’s choking on what bile he can’t get out of his throat, and he forces himself to swallow it back down. He’s crying, he realizes, and dragging in air down into his lungs to the point it hurts.

What is going on? He thinks through the haze in his mind. With what lucidity he has he brings a hand to his head to make sure he’s not bleeding. His palm swipes against sticky skin, and all that comes back is sweat. He’s not bleeding. He feels like he is.

Make it stop. His inner mind wails as he finally, finally, starts to calm down again. He’s still crying. The tears burn down his cheeks, and he absently sticks out his tongue and licks the ones that gather at his lips away. He wipes at his face again, and when he looks at his hands, all he sees is skin.

He’s not wearing gloves.

His hands reach for his back, and grasp his sweat-soaked shirt instead. He’s not wearing a cape. It soothes him, just a little bit. But not enough to keep him feeling safe.

Danny peers over the side of the bed, and through his dark-adjusted eyes he sees the sitting puddle of throw-up on the floor. He cringes, sniffling. He can’t keep that there. He needs to — he needs to clean that up.

Alfred must be sleeping by now — what time is it? He doesn’t know. He can’t wake him up. Where does Alfred keep the cleaning supplies?

Danny throws his legs over the side — they’re not broken, he thinks dazedly — why would he think they’re broken? — and he stumbles to the door. He avoids, somehow, the sick.

(He passes by a mirrored vanity on his way to the door. He doesn’t see his reflection staring at him with green-green eyes. He doesn’t see those eyes following him.)

He runs into Bruce in the hallway. He should have guessed it so. Danny freezes in his tracks, fear shooting up into his throat as Bruce turns towards him, already a smile pulling on the older man’s face.

It drops immediately when he sees him. It twists down, and his face burrows into concern. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and Bruce is kneeling before him before Danny can blink. He looks worried. Danny must look awful then.

(He does. He looks pale as a ghost, and his face is splotchy red and shiny with tears.)

Danny blinks at him numbly, trying to get his thoughts in order. Bruce’s hands are on his shoulders, Danny throws his hands over them, squeezing the knuckles and blinking widely. “I had-” he licks his lips, “a- uh, nightmare. And then I threw up.”

Fuck, he feels like a toddler. His eyes burn with embarrassed tears. He’s fucking thirteen. He’s not a baby. But he feels like a little kid going to their parent’s room. Bruce isn’t even his dad. He shouldn’t feel this way.

But Bruce doesn’t make fun of him, or scold him, and Danny didn’t really expect him to, but the concern that melts over his face as his eyes soften makes him feel all warm and fuzzy anyways. “Okay,” Bruce says, expression softened but no less worried, and stands up. “Okay, we can go find Alfred then.”

Danny’s lips press together, uneven and wobbling. “Please don’t.” He says before he can stop himself, and his voice cracks. He feels like such a baby. “I can clean it myself. We don’t have to wake him up.”

“Do you even know where the cleaning supplies are, chum?” Bruce asks, and in the dark hallway he can see him raise an eyebrow. Danny’s lips press tighter together. He doesn’t. But he can find it.

They wake up Alfred. Dany feels like shit the entire time.

“I’m sorry.” He croaks as he follows Alfred and Bruce down the hallway with a mop and a bucket. He’s so embarrassed. He’s going to cry again, and he hates it. “I can do it, Mister Pennyworth. Please.”

“You sound,” Mister Pennyworth starts, his voice soft, “just like young Master Jason when he started living here.” He turns to throw Danny an endeared smile, and Danny thinks it’s supposed to make him feel better. It does, a little bit, and it also makes him feel worse.

“I am Jason.” He says, and tears spill down his face again. He is Jason. That’s his name. It’s not Danny, it never has been. The time he’s been here has slowly been pointing that out to him. He may be Fenton, but he’s not Danny.

Alfred gets it all cleaned up, and Bruce sticks with him after he leaves. Danny’s grateful and resentful of it — hasn’t he embarrassed himself enough tonight?

Bruce leads him to the library, a funny parallel to the first time. “We can ask Mister Wayne —” Bruce’s face scrunches up slightly, and Danny laughs under his breath. At least he’s not the only one still weirded out by it. “— about getting you a new room tomorrow.”

Danny sniffs dryly, “How’d you know?” He didn’t think it was obvious that he didn’t want to go to sleep in his room. Bruce smiles knowingly at him, sadly, and they both sit down in the lounge chair next to the fireplace. It sits across from Danny’s armchair.

“I know a thing or two about nightmares.” He says softly.

Oh.

Yeah.

That’s right. His parents.

He probably had nightmares about that.

Danny looks away from him, his eyes drop to his hands. His bare, non-bloody hands. He leans into Bruce’s side. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” He mumbles. He doesn’t want to talk about dying. Or what he thought was dying.

“And you don’t have to.” Bruce says, slinging one arm around him and slumping against the curve of the chair. Danny reluctantly follows his falling, and finds himself trapped between the back of the chair and Bruce’s side. His ear is pressed to Bruce’s heartbeat. “We can just sit here, and talk about something else.”

Danny blinks at the empty fireplace. “Okay. Tell me about films again.”

Bruce’s fingers dig gently into his hair, and scratch slowly against his scalp. “Okay, Danny.”

Danny frowns. “And don’t call me Danny. It’s Jason.”

He doesn’t look up to see Bruce’s smile, but he can hear it as the man thumbs over the shell of his ear. “Okay, Jason.”

(Danny falls asleep halfway through Bruce’s telling of the history of the Grey Ghost. Bruce knows by the way his breathing slows into a steady rhythm and his eyes don’t open.)

(He smiles for mite a moment, before it drops and his eyes turn to the bookshelf in the corner. Standing there is a small black figure, with two burning green eyes.)

(They stare at each other for a long, long minute, Bruce’s heart rising slowly. The figure tilts its head, and disappears. Bruce doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.)

—-------

Danny stares down Bruce. Bruce stares him down back. It’s morning. It’s breakfast. Everyone is at the table eating, and he and Bruce are having a silent staring contest. Danny has to ask Mister Wayne about moving to a new room, he thought he would be able to do so after breakfast.

(Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going to ask at all - why bother Mister Wayne about something he can get over?)

(Bruce, apparently, wasn’t having it. With that stupid knowing look on his face.)

But Bruce wants it to be now. Danny narrows his eyes at him, and Bruce raises an eyebrow back. Dick Grayson, his world, was going to notice soon. He was sitting next to Bruce this morning. That traitor.

If you don’t do it, I will. Bruce’s face says. Bastard. Danny was going to take away his Jason rights.

Danny’s the first to relent, pressing his lips together into an annoyed, thin line, before he lets out a silent sigh and turns to Mister Wayne. “Mister Wayne?” He says, cringing slightly when Mister Wayne looks up at him - as with most of the room.

“Yes, Danny?”

He spares one last look at Bruce, who nods curtly at him, and Danny throws him one last annoyed look before turning back to Mister Wayne. “Would it, uh, be fine if I changed rooms?” He asks.

Mister Wayne tilts his head, slightly, to the side with a look of interest. “You can, but what brought this up? Is everything okay?”

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Danny was expecting that question. He glares at Bruce from the corner of his eye. And then smiles shakily at Mister Wayne. “Um, uh, yeah. Everything’s fine— it’s just, it’s stupid. Some, some stupid nightmares keeping me up.”

Mister Wayne’s brows furrow, and Dick looks concerned from Danny’s peripherals. “It’s not stupid, you can change your room. I’m sorry you’ve been having nightmares.”

He doesn’t even ask what they’re about. Bruce didn’t either — he thinks he would’ve, maybe — but fuck, jeez. Danny laughs uncomfortably, scratching his jaw. “Yeah- um, thanks. It sucks.” He just barely stops himself from blurting out that he was dreaming that he was dying.

That was not a can he wanted to open. They would have questions, he knows they would, and he doesn’t want to think about it. The image of his bloody, torn hands are already seared into his mind.

Everyone goes back to eating.

(Dick keeps looking up at him with a shadow of a frown on his face, like he’s keeping an eye on him. Quick enough that Danny doesn’t notice it. Bruce does, and watches his son from the corner of his eye.)

(Danny doesn’t see it, but his reflection turns its head. And peers around the back of its chair. Its eye burns green and it stares at Dick. The next time Dick looks up, it catches his eye.)

(He doesn’t straighten up, he forces himself not to react. He just keeps staring at it, his breath locked in his lungs, his limbs filling with a low, buzzing static. He doesn’t know what it is. It’s terrifying him.)

(The reflection doesn’t react to him, but its eyes seem to… glitch. And an eye appears next to it, and another one appears in a line. The pupils slowly turn to look… at Danny.)

(The window begins to crack.)

“JaSON!” Dick suddenly yells, standing up so abruptly that his chair falls back and slams against the ground with an echoing bang. Danny jerks back in surprise, and stares at Dick, who looks at him with equally wide eyes.

Dick looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face pale as a sheet. He looks ill. He’s panting, there’s a sheen going over his forehead, like he’s just run a mile. But he’s gripping the table like he may just vault over it.

And everyone is looking at them both once again. Bruce looks incredibly concerned.

“I— what?” Danny says, pushing his back into the chair as far as he could go.

Dick blinks, and heaves a breath. Like whatever trance he was in was just… snapped out of. His brows furrow, and he moves, suddenly, peering over Danny like he’s trying to look around him. Left, right, and over, and then back again.

“You—” he pauses, breathing in, “you looked like you were about to disappear.”

Danny stares at him in disbelief. And he looks behind him, laughing nervously. There’s nothing there but his own reflection in the smooth glass window. “What- what kind of fucking—” he turns back around to look at Dick. “Why would you say that?”

“There was something in the window.” Dick says immediately, and Danny is immediately rising to his feet and rushing around the table. Nope - nope, nope, fuck that. He’s by him and Bruce in an instant, as the other Waynes stand up and turn to the window as well.

Dick’s arms are around him the moment he’s within reach, tugging him into his side as one hand presses down against his chest, keeping him close. Dick hasn’t taken his eyes off the window, brows furrowed and serious.

Everyone looks so serious. It’s freaking him out a little bit.

“What was your nightmare about, Jay?” Dick asks when he finally tears his eyes away from the window and looks down at him. He’s got a protective hold on him, something so similar to Jazz whenever their parents set something on fire upstairs.

Danny swallows dryly — does he have to say it? Saying it might bring him back to it, and he doesn’t want to go back to it. Twice was enough for him. “I was dying.” He admits anyways, and regrets it immediately when half a dozen heads all snap to look at him.

In a panic, his mouth runs. “I was- I don’t remember anything- I just, it was dark and I was in pain and-” He presses his lips together, “I— I was in so much pain. There was this laughter—” Laughter. Familiar laughter now that he thinks about it. From the news. Danny’s lips curl downwards, and he whispers to himself, “Joker?”

“Joker?” Dick repeats, his voice hard. When Danny looks up, his face is unrecognizably stern. “You had a dream that the Joker was killing you?”

“I— no— yes?” Frustration bleeds into his chest, fear pooling up his throat as the nightmare pulls on the edge of his memory. “I don’t fucking know. I didn’t see anything, all I heard was ticking and that stupid laughter. And I was bleeding, and I was wearing this yellow fucking cape, and- and I was dying.”

He pulls himself away from Dick, his breathing picking up. “I just- I was— there was this ticking sound and I woke up before it stopped, and I- I don’t know why I knew it was about to stop — but I know that when the ticking stops something bad was going to happen— and it was just a nightmare.”

Danny grits his teeth, and looks back up at Dick, forcing himself to calm down before he works himself into a panic. “It was just a fucking nightmare, Dick.” He says forcibly, and then he marches out of the room to the library.

His appetite’s been ruined.

—---------

Danny’s — Jason’s — asleep next to him. Bruce would think it was sweet if it weren’t for the fact that Jason’s been having nightmares about dying of all things. Nightmares that weren’t, he suspects, completely unfounded.

His other self looked ill in the face as Jason marched out of the room that morning after Dick’s outburst. Outburst. That’s all he can think to call it even if it sounds juvenile. Like it was unfounded as Jason’s nightmare.

His other self has been hiding something from him. Something about Jason Todd of this world, who he hasn’t seen at all since they arrived, but Danny — Jason — has. He would’ve thought the other Todd was a ghost if his other world’s… children… hadn’t confirmed seeing and knowing him recently.

(That was something he still hasn’t fully comprehended. Children, plural? He adopts more after Dick? He has a biological son?)

He’d be interrogating his other self on this if Jason wasn’t asleep next to him. It would be remarkably easy, as they were all sitting in the living room for the afternoon. All his other children were vigilantes, he wouldn’t need to keep pretenses.

But Jason is asleep next to him, and he doesn’t know. So he resolves to staring holes into his other self’s head, who was going through documents. A case, he bets. His other self doesn’t pay him any mind, but Bruce knows he knows that he’s staring at him.

(“What have you been keeping from me?” He growls the moment Jason is out of the dining room, rising to his feet. The look on his other self meant that he knew something about those nightmares that Bruce didn’t.

His other self looks at him, “Nothing that concerns your world.” He says, all of the kids looked tense as well, but now they were staring between the both of them like a fight would break out.

“Bullshit.” Dick snaps before Bruce can speak, he walks around him and points an accusing finger at his other self. “You looked like you saw a ghost when Jaybird said he was dreaming of the Joker killing him. You know something.”

He did not tell them anything.)

Whatever it was that his other self was hiding, Bruce would find out before they went back to their world. This concerned him, and it concerned Jason’s safety. If he wasn’t safe and his other self knew something about it, Bruce would be furious.

Jason’s ragged gasp cut through the air like a knife, and Bruce’s gaze snapped down to his face as the boy’s eyes flew open and he jerked sharply. Jason’s hands were latched onto his shirt before Bruce could react, his nails dragging into his skin like he was trying to claw himself up.

It was another nightmare. Jason was clawing at him, trying to sit himself up while jagged, awful sounding gasps filled the air. He wasn’t looking at Bruce, he wasn’t looking at anything, his eyes glazed over like he was still trapped in the nightmare.

Bruce wrapped his arms around the small boy and pulled them both down onto the ground, ignoring his other children standing up and looking at them until he had Jay in a cradle.

The boy was still gasping for air, hyperventilating. His hands drop from Bruce’s shirt and scratch at his throat, his arms forming an ‘x’ while he tilts his head back and desperately tries to draw in oxygen. Bruce tilts his head back up with his hand, and leans him against his shoulder.

“Breathe.” He murmurs, pushing damp black curls out of Jay’s face. It was a poor command - Jason’s eyes were squeezed shut and his face scrunched in pain, Bruce doesn’t think he can even hear him. “You’re safe.”

“Bruce.” Dick hisses into his ear, and Bruce doesn’t look at him. He grunts to let his son know he heard him. “The mirror.”

Bruce’s eyes fly up.

There was a floor length mirror sitting in front of the couch. A mirror that Bruce was conveniently, coincidentally, sitting in front of. A mirror that should have been working as all mirrors do.

A mirror that, instead of showing Bruce his reflection back as he was, showed him in his Batman suit. Jason was in his arms, but in a torn, bloody uniform. A uniform that looked like a Robin suit. Jason - his Jason - wasn’t a Robin. But here he was, dressed as one, his black-yellow cape pooling beneath him and covered in blood.

The Jason in the mirror, the Robin, wasn’t breathing. His head lolled over Bruce’s arm lifelessly.

Bruce’s heart skids to a stop, and he looks back down. Jason was still breathing, his hyperventilating was beginning to slow, but he was breathing. The pained crease of his face was softening, even as his brows were still furrowed.

When Bruce looks back up at the mirror, the reflection has changed. It wasn’t back to normal, Jason was just in a different suit. He was wearing a white hazmat suit now, and he was burned, horribly. The suit was melted to his skin in patches around his body in black, charred splotches, what wasn’t burned was torn, and the skin he could see was cauterized. The only part of him that was bleeding was his head, and it soaked his black hair red. What of his face he could see, there were bright green lightning figures going up his neck, burning the skin around where it glows.

The mirror cracks down the middle, severing Jason from Bruce.

He forces himself to look down, terrified to see the reflection a reality right in front of him. But Jason was alive, uninjured, and breathing quietly. Bruce presses two fingers to his throat, and feels a steady pulsepoint thumping against the pads of his fingers.

Jason’s eyes open and blue stares up at him.

When Bruce looks up at the mirror, the reflection is back to normal.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc au #dp x dc au #dpxdc au #dpdc #dpdc crossover #Danny is Jason Todd au #i didn't think of anything beyond the ending point howEVER #this post is totally open for additions if anyone is interested #i love seeing add-ons to posts #anyways EVIL LAUGHTER #THIS IS THE PART I WANTED TO GET TO. PYSCHOLOGICAL HORROR #ANGST #if this was a fic i would have ramped up the horror more #alas tis a ficlet #starry terrorizes the waynes with the fact that jason is going to die in his world and there's nothing they can do about it.#he doesnt know he's going to die. but they do :)#fun fact jazz was going to be here and she was going to be the one to see the ghost #if this was a fic that ending scene would've occurred after more build up of dick and bruce and co seeing the figure following danny around #in the original variant au the waynes dont meet danny until he's already died and is a ghost #and i was gonna have one more jason appearance but couldnt fit one in #merry belated christmas folks #have some angst after two consecutive clone^2 posts of fluff #i tried to picture what danny's body would have looked like before being ghosted and #extremely burned was the first thing that came to mind. his suit is also almost entirely melted. something to kinda resemble his ghost half #but also i couldn't stomach making him completely unrecognizable because he WOULD have been #genuinely think danny's body would have been like. half melted at least

350 notes · View notes

therealcocoshady · 5 months ago

Note

I also had an idea kind of similar to the arranged marriage plot maybe someone sets them up on a blind date… he keeps saying no but the person playing Cupid is very persistent and he ends up feeling obligated to go (idk, just a thought)

Oh, I actually had an thought about something similar to this, a while ago - please don’t mind me, I literally wrote this thing in less than 30 minutes and didn’t proofread. I just wrote it so that you’d get the idea.

After years of frustration with women and trust issues, Marshall has made peace with the fact that he’s going to end up alone. Even his friends have stopped trying to set him up on dates. Sure, they’d like to see him thrive in a relationship, and they can see how lonely he is, sometimes, but they also know he’s complicated. So they leave him alone on the topic. So he dedicates to his work and his role as a father.

And ironically enough, his girls are the only people that could get him to go out of his comfort zone. One of them is still in college, studying psychology. She has to do an assignment for one of her classes and she is searching for volunteers for an experiment on dating and relationships. The design is pretty simple : people sign up, fill some forms and answer questions. Then, an algorithm pairs them up for maximum compatibility and they have to go on a date, during which they will have to answer the famous 36 questions designed to make them fall in love. His daughter is a bit behind on work and she has to find one more volunteer. She doesn’t even believe in this whole thing, she just wants to pass the class. So she begs Marshall, who refuses at first. Because A) he doesn’t date and B) even if he did, he wouldn’t take part in an experiment, much less one involving his daughter in his romantic life. But she’s really desperate and she assures him that the whole thing is anonymous and clinical. « Please, Dad, it’ll take twenty minutes of your time. And who knows if they’ll even pair you with anyone for the date. I just need to pass the class and graduate. You’re the one who always insisted on me getting higher education ! ». Of course, he caves in. Because he did sacrifice a lot for his babies to go to college, and he’ll be damned if his daughter fails the class because of him. Plus, the people in charge of the experiment will probably see his answers and figure he’s a lost cause. Even science wouldn’t find a good match for him, right ?

Except that it does. Weeks later, he receives an email, informing him that he’s been selected for the second step of the experiment and that they’ve found him a match with 95% compatibility. At first, he figures he won’t go. With his luck, they paired him with another fifty-something man who’s just as lonely. No way this could be a woman. Not with the stoic and sarcastic answers he typed in the form. The email doesn’t even specify who they paired him with. They just ask if he’d be available for a date in two weeks time. Basically, it’s having coffee with the other person, answering the 36 questions unrecorded and then filling another form to describe the experience and say if yes or no they feel attracted to the other person and would consider actually dating them. He figures that, even though it’s anonymous, his daughter’s team wouldn’t have the data if he bails and he’ll be damned if his precious daughter doesn’t get her degree because of him. Of course he’ll bite the bullet and go on that stupid coffee date. Even if he’s paired with a 53 year-old name George.

But as it turns out, his date is not 53 year-old George. It’s you. You and your charming smile. You who agreed to take part in the whole thing because your little sister, his daughter’s teammate, begged you at the last minute. God, these college students need to learn how to do things in time and not to involve their family in their cringy psych classes experiment. You don’t even want to do this whole thing but when a charming man shows up, you can’t help but smile and introduce yourself, extending a polite handshake to greet him. He doesn’t seem too at ease in that little café, which you find odd because it’s actually quite lovely. Also, you swear you’ve seen him somewhere, but it’s Detroit and he’s a brown-haired, bearded, middle-aged man in jeans and a hoodie. Pretty generic. You’re not exactly surprised to have been paired up with someone older than you. You’ve always been told you’re an old soul, so of course « science » (or whatever software they used to compile data) would figure out that your perfect match is almost twenty years older. Anyway, you’re not really here for a date. You’re here for your sister to finally graduate. And you’re not one to refuse free Chai latte.

So the two of you exchange a few pleasantries, introduce yourselves and get to these 36 questions. You tell each other who you could have dinner with if you could choose anyone in the world, whether or not you have a secret hunch about how you will die… as it turns out, the thing is cleverly designed. The questions are increasingly personal and both of you end up sharing personal details, things you most definitely wouldn’t think of sharing with a stranger you were more or less randomly paired up with. By the time you reach the last question, you are looking into each other’s eyes, giving your undivided attention, leaning in. When you arrived, you were strangers but by the end of the date, you feel like you really know each other. More than some people you’ve known your whole life. And by the time it ends, you’ve had the time to notice how charming the wrinkles around eyes are, and you don’t find it too unsettling that he blinks a bit faster than most people you know. As for him, he hasn’t failed to notice that little birthmark near your eye, and the way your mouth twitches when you’re trying to think of the adequate word to answer one of the questions. You don’t know each other’s favorite color or the name of your first pet, but both know when the other last cried in front of someone else and by themselves and why. 36 questions and a cup of coffee later, and you’re not really strangers. You actually had a pleasant time. Too bad you reached the end of the questionnaire and it’s time to go. Too bad he doesn’t offer to take your number and call you. Too bad you’re too demure to ask for his. You wouldn’t have minded actually going out with him. Maybe even discuss that movie he mentioned in passing and thinks you’d like.

The two of you share a hug goodbye and agree that it was fun. You wish him well for his daughter’s wedding he told you he’s busy planning and he wishes you luck for that job interview you said you were nervous about. When you go home and it’s time to answer that final set of questions, saying how you feel about the experiment, you actually give the whole thing a solid 8/10. And when you’re asked if you’d actually date the person you met for coffee, you tick « yes » faster than you’ve ticked any box. You do the same when it asks you if you’d consent to the other person being given your contact info.

Weeks later, Marshall is ecstatic when his daughter tells him she got a good grade for that psych class and that she’ll be graduating with honors. He’s proud as can be. She thanks him profusely for helping her. « I know it’s a stupid thing. But hey, there are a few people who reported they had a good time. Who knows ? Maybe I helped someone find love. ». She has absolutely no idea that he is one of the people who asked for the other person’s contact info as soon as they were given the possibility. She doesn’t know he’s been on four more dates with you. People have been so used to him being single that it didn’t even cross his daughter’s mind. Not even when he mentioned he missed the last Lions’ game, which never happens. But she definitely gets a hunch when he attends her graduation ceremony and sees him smile to that beautiful lady who’s attending her graduation ceremony and came to greet him. « Oh, that’s my sister speaking with your dad ! », her friend says. « I convinced her to do the experiment and she told me she met someone charming. Can you believe it ?! ».

#eminem #marshall mathers #slim shady #eminem fanfiction #eminem x reader #eminem fluff #eminem imagine #marshall mathers x reader #marshall mathers imagine #Eminem blurb

133 notes · View notes

inmyheaddd · 3 months ago

Text

ok idk who to talk to this about but it’s been plaguing my mind today and i literally want to cry because it breaks my heart so i’m going to rant here because i love the environment we have here and i love u guys 😕❤️‍🩹🫶

when my psychology teacher was talking about how girls tend to be more quiet because of social conditioning and there’s always that fear of being wrong that boys never really have, and they mostly just shout out and talk over the top of us literally all the time, and ALWAYS think their opinion is the right one.

and then… a boy in my class… shouts out… and interrupts… my teacher… as she’s talking about how blissfully oblivious some men can be about things like this… and says… “nah miss i think that’s just cause we have deeper voices. we don’t interrupt, we’re just louder.”

the way every single girl in our class just looked at eachother like. oh my god. you’re a walking contradiction. do you hear yourself right now??

(same guy who said the reason why there wouldn’t be wars if women were in charge of countries was because women are ‘too weak’ to start them. not because we’re caring, believe there’s other solutions, don’t always resolve to fucking violence, no. it always comes down to just being “too weak.”)

anyway i literally don’t think i saw a more painful and defeated look on my teachers face ever 😕 this boy literally proved her exact point.

like. you could literally stand there for 10 minutes and explain, (she literally did exactly that.) and some boys will always just tune o ur everything you’re saying, because they “know they are right,” and see you as a “woke feminist” who “doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

😕 i wanted to give my psych teacher the biggest hug in the world because oh my god she’s sm better than me and somehow didn’t lose her mind with these devil spawns.

the look in her eyes literally said, “they never change. and they never get it.”

and at one point she was like “you know, of course i’m a feminist, because i am female, and—“ she almost sounded like…. cautious? to say the word feminist with the rude relentless boys in my class, and then the SAME GUY INTERRUPTS HER AND SAYS

“—I’m a meninist”

no one laughed. apart from his 2 fucking friends.

i wanted to scream. so fucking loudly

i wish i could just kick every boy out of my psych class and have it just be us girls and my teacher because she’s literally the best 😕 imagine teaching for like 20 years and having literal teenage boys disrespect you IN YOUR FUCKING FIELD IN THE SUBJECT THAT YOU STUDIED AND NOW TEACH??? teenage boys, trying to mansplain your own profession to you that you have a masters degree in, THAT YOU HAVE BEEN TEACHING FOR LONGER THAN THEYVE BEEN ALIVE!!!! insanity

#long rant sorry but i literallt cried out of frustration 😕#i hate boys. and my teacher is the cutest 😕 she’s like my second mom #jude speaks 🦢 ༉‧₊˚.

49 notes · View notes

thesudokukid · 1 month ago

Text

Finished one of my fics recently, added a surprise one-shot to another. Figured it couldn't hurt to poke my toe into the water with my most popular fic. See if posting on Tumblr is a good idea for me.

Personal Question (why are you apologizing)

Pairing: Autistic! Connor x Autistic! Nonbinary! Reader

Word Count: 2433

AO3

Machine Connor Variant on AO3 On Tumblr

“Why are you apologizing?”

Four words you have always wanted to hear after an infodumping session. Four impossible, sacred words induce the sweetest pain you've ever felt.

You can't have heard him right. That has to be wishful thinking on your part. Right? Right?

In which Connor asks you a personal question, as he does, you infodump in response, and experience two miracles in the same day.

This is aimed at other autistic people. I wrote this in the hopes of giving myself catharsis and am sharing it on the grounds that other autistic people may find it cathartic too.

Alternating POV fic under the cut!

“Detective,” Connor says. “Would you mind overly much if I asked you a personal question?”

He reminds you so much of you with that question, you can't help but shake your head and grin, “Of course not, go ahead.”

“This ought to be fuckin' good,” your dad grumbles.

“Why did you choose to pursue a dual degree and not a double major? From my understanding, attending university as a neurodivergent student is hard enough, a dual degree on top of that must have been…”

Oh, that. It's a good opener for a casual conversation with you. Curious and sympathetic to what you must have suffered without tripping over itself to do so.

“It was hell on earth some days, make no mistake. The workload alone-”

At this point you laugh so long he looks honestly alarmed by it. Seeing this, you shake your head.

“I figured if I’m gonna fail, I might as well fail because I dreamed too big and not because I couldn't hack it in general. The fact that psychology is one of my special interests was also pretty helpful.”

For a second Connor looks interested. Actually genuinely interested. This is interrupted by your dad coughing out of nowhere. And also Connor looking around like there's some kind of active threat happening. As soon as he realizes there's not, he comes back to the conversation and just…tilts his head. Maybe that interest wouldn't mean much to a neurotypical but for you? For you who’ve masked so long you don't even allow yourself to engage in your special interests anymore? It's everything.

You can't help the smile that breaks onto your face. Because for a minute, for a moment, for just a little while…someone actually wants to hear you talk about your special interests. And since it's been so long, you go at it a lot harder than you otherwise might have. Even mentioning your first special interest.

—

“Using my first special interest of Titanic as an example, if the devil were to walk up to me and tell me that I would be able to learn everything there is to know about the Titanic, absolutely everything, within my lifetime in exchange for my soul? Could not make that deal fast enough. Wouldn't read the fine print.”

Connor leans forward as well as he can. At the moment, nothing matters more to him than this. He doesn't quite understand why. Only that the social integration protocol isn't even a factor at this point.

“Explain?”

The resulting smile is so bright it could outshine the sun itself. The Detective begins to speak more loudly, more quickly. Stumbling over their words in their excitement to share their interest.

“Devil would be utterly terrified of how quickly I agreed. And not only that, I would honestly feel like I got the better end of the deal out of that one. By a long shot. The Devil would have to give me absolutely everything and even then it still wouldn't be enough. I would annoy the Devil so much I would be given my soul again just so I’d stop being so much of a bother about it and as you can probably surmise that absolutely would not work.”

The Detective laughs and shrugs casually, for once, perfectly at ease. There's even a sunny smile on their face.

“By virtue of being my first special interest it’s also the most intense but that's generally how I feel about psychology as well. You can imagine how much of a boon that was under those circumstances I’m sure.”

They blink and perhaps three seconds later, the joy recedes and their bright smile fades. Only to be replaced by a brittle smile.

—

That last sentence… You’re infodumping. You get your first chance to talk about your special interest to someone outside your family in years and you fucking blew it by infodumping. Of course you did. Of course you did. Your throat’s gone dry, your face has gone hot. You're maybe five seconds of bursting into tears at best. You force yourself to disengage. To avoid thinking about how desperately lonely it is to not be able to talk about your special interests at all. To force yourself not to infodump. You're so tired of hiding. But even still, you have to.

You give yourself one last moment to feel grief for who you're not allowed to be. To feel pathetic for not having a normal level of interest in something so deeply important to you. And then you claw off the part of you that clings like a barnacle to such childish things.

“And I just realized I did a fucking infodump. God that's embarrassing.”

It tries to hurt. It wants to hurt. You smother the feeling and roll your eyes at yourself as you explain what infodumping is.

“It boils down to dropping a whole lot of info about a topic at once. And I don't typically notice when someone has gotten bored or disinterested or is trying to leave the conversation and I…got too emotional. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

Detach. Detach. Detach. Detach. Don't feel interest. Don’t show interest. You feel nothing.

You only realize that your past self is clinging to its special interests again when it digs in at Connor’s apparent “no, wait” look. Is-Is he actually interested?

There's no way. There isn't. It's absolutely impossible. You're just seeing what you want to see.

And then… And then… A miracle.

—

“Why are you apologizing?”

Four words you have always wanted to hear after an infodumping session. Four impossible, sacred words induce the sweetest pain you've ever felt.

You can't have heard him right. That has to be wishful thinking on your part. Right? Right?

You blink at him a few times and take a sip of your drink. You look up at the rainy sky, half expecting to see a winged pig fly by. You look back at Connor.

“Genuine question so please hear me out,” you say. Connor nods instantly and you're so relieved you could cry, “Did you actually ask what I’m hoping you asked? Because I’ve wanted someone to say that for so long I am honestly afraid that I’m hallucinating.”

“You aren't imagining or hallucinating anything,” Connor says. “I did in fact ask why you were apologizing for infodumping. Is there a specific reason you felt imagining it was the more likely option?”

There are tears trying to come out of your eyes right now. If you tell him now, right now, they're going to fall and won't stop falling until you can finish your grief of having to suppress who you really are. Feeling childish for having genuine all-consuming passion. The kind of emotional breakdown that’s best to have in private.

He seems genuinely interested in getting to know you and as much as you would be delighted to allow him to, you can't. At least, not right now.

“As much as I’d like to answer that question, that's best saved for a long drawn out conversation. You can call me Ainsel by the way. Internal systems only. For your specific serial number. To make up for the fact that I’m not answering that personal question yet. Sure we're all on a lunch break now but that's gonna end eventually and then it's back to work. Also, I might have a breakdown about it. Lot of grieving to do there.”

“Oh,” he says. It feels like a stab to the heart the way he looks like a wounded puppy about it. Not unlike the way you probably did when you first realized most people don't have a special interest in psychology. That most people will never understand that you express affection by studying them like a bug under a microscope. Most people are in fact deeply offended by it. In his case the worry seems to be that he hurt your feelings or brought up painful memories.

“I’m sorry.”

He gets up and gets in the car. If you don't follow him now, he's going to start suppressing his interest just like you did and oh God he's autistic isn't he?

You were done with your lunch anyway so you toss its detritus and go sit in the car with him. Your dad is still sitting there, eating his lunch.

You look in the general direction of the rear view mirror where Connor is staring at you. Watching, watching, analyzing you. He's like you. The thought settles your stomach more than you imagined possible.

—

Connor is keenly aware of Ainsel's presence the moment they enter their father's vehicle. Eyes sticking to them like a magnet via the rear view mirror, unable and unwilling to let go.

Fortunately they don't seem to be offended by the attention. His eyes move away the second Ainsel's eyes catch his, suddenly forced to remember his place in the world. They're a human. He's an android. They don't owe him anything. They never did. They're meant to have a one way relationship. He owes them an answer to their questions. Not the other way around. He certainly has no right to ask them something so immensely personal without warning.

He opens his mouth to apologize for the discomfort he previously caused them and finds himself surprised by Ainsel's shake of the head.

“You don't owe me an apology. I wasn't offended. About the staring or asking about something personal. I never said that I wouldn't answer the question or that I had better things to do with my time. I didn't even say that it was too painful to answer at all. I only said it was too painful to answer that question during work hours. That is a whole separate thing and idea from your perception that your personal question brought up too many bad memories for me to answer it at all.”

It's here that his programming confirms it would be a waste of time to ingratiate himself with the Lieutenant rather than Ainsel. For someone so immensely private to tell him their name, or something akin to their name, can only speak well of how much goodwill they have towards him already.

And even aside from that, it doesn't make what just happened right. It's him who should be comforting them, not the other way around. He shouldn't even need it.

Decision made. Connor gets out of the car and into the backseat where he closes the door.

—

Your hands start to move, ready and willing to tap out the rhythm of Shave and a Haircut. You force them to be still. You don't want them to be. You really, really don't want them to be. But you’ve had too much good luck today. You don't want to press it by stimming in a way that's actually noticeable. Once you uncork that bottle it won't want to be recorked. Connor might be fine with it. Maybe. He was fine with your info-dumping at him after all. And not even that, he seemed honestly upset that you stopped info-dumping.

But just because he's fine with one visible autistic trait doesn't mean he'll be fine with another. His coin tricks might, maybe, be a stim but you haven't known him too long so it's hard to tell.

You bring your hands closer together, to interlock them in an effort to keep yourself from stimming. They start trembling as if in response. Almost like they're trying to reassure you that you can stim, really, it's fine.

You bite your lip and prepare to ignore the reassurance. And then another miracle.

Connor sticks a hand between both of yours and very gently, very carefully stops you from locking your hands together by pulling them apart.

There's someone else it wouldn't have worked for. Hell, for you, that may not have even worked if you hadn't realized he was autistic like you. But right now, in this moment, for you? It was exactly the right thing to do.

Apparently your calmness is showing on your face because Connor pulls back his hands and watches as you sigh from relief and lean back against the window for a minute.

You shake the previous tension out of your hands and then let them do what they wanted to earlier. They clap out Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits loud enough your hands actually hurt afterwards. But it's a good kind of pain. Necessary. Because it means that you're healing.

—

Seeing that Ainsel seems to be feeling much better, Connor tries to reassure them he isn't going to think less of them for their autistic traits.

“Perhaps sharing the level of information you did earlier at the speed you shared it would have been too much for a human. But I’m not human, am I? You needn't feel contrition or have any qualms about potentially being unpredictable. After all, adaptation to human unpredictability is one of my many features. As for the other issue…”

Connor takes out his coin and rolls it over his knuckles once or twice before returning it to its place in his pocket.

Connor grins wolfishly and tries tossing in a wink for good measure, in an effort to help Ainsel know not only that he's on their side but that he truly means what he's saying. And for… something else. He's not sure why. It doesn't matter what the other reason is in the end. His point is made all the same.

He's made a gaping hole in Ainsel's ability to self-reproach for infodumping at him. And in so doing is tacitly encouraging them to do it more. The aim, in general, is discouraging any attempts to blame themselves for giving him heaps of information on something they're so obviously exuberant about. Because he's one of the few people in the world who can actually keep up with them. Who can process it as fast as they share it or even faster.

He stays in the backseat a while longer. For the sake of getting to know Ainsel better. So he can more easily predict their behavior. Or so he tells himself.

The Lieutenant knocks on the window in the middle of Connor asking Ainsel a safe, inoffensive question about their favorite animal, startling them both.

“Am I interrupting something,” the Lieutenant asks.

Ainsel squints at the man and shrugs. “Depends on your definition of interrupting.”

Connor takes this as his cue to head back to the front passenger seat. As he gets into the seat, trying not to be disappointed by having his conversation with Ainsel interrupted.

#rk800 x reader #dbh connor #dbh #detroit become human #reader #rk800 #actually autistic #autistic connor #reader insert #connor dbh x reader #connor x reader #dbh connor x reader #dbh connor x you #i am more afraid of you than you are of me #i promise #alternating POV #internalized ableism #my writing #my fics

22 notes · View notes

fangdokja · 22 days ago

Text

Hey, this just me getting mind blocked right now. Haha. But, i just wanted to thank all the supporters, engagement, and followers thus far. You know who you are.

Actually, I’ve been wanting to practice sex scenes for a while now. I do have upcoming posts. Last part of Skin of the Saint is one with explicit sex will be posted TODAY. But I wouldn’t classify it as smut.

I don’t know. I don’t get turned on or aroused in literally anything besides my husband. So. Writing actual smut is a challenge. Actually, in writing and reading, if it’s not about my husband or God, I get very clinical in general. Hard to feel emotions of anything at all really.

My Christmas and New Years gifts for you guys also have sex stuff in it. Honestly don’t know if it’s good or not.

It’s really my first time releasing actual sex content in public. So yeah.

But anyways, I’m rambling because I know Tumblr loves sex. And porn to an extension. That’s an understatement. Tumblr loves it.

But my husband and God are really strict about me not allowing me to get into erotica.

So.

But I can write dark romance. Definitely. It’s what I’ve been doing.

So, I guess, I’m trying to think on stuff about how to incorporate smut practice (complete with both emotions + atmosphere + descriptions and more).

Without making it straight up erotica (dark romance can still have explicit sex scenes). So I thought of some upcoming fics:

Yandere! Serial Killers x Detective (?) Reader (novella)

Yandere! Fans x Playgirl (novelette)

When I looked up ideas for smut, I honestly never vibed nor liked the top stories that came up. Just felt unrealistic and shallow. And I am NOT allowed to write porn. So…

Yeah. It’s why I have to incorporate hardcore psychological content. And a common theme in all my works.

One of my main issues right now is that I can’t fricking think of how to write short form content. If you noticed I have a lot of slow burn sex.

It doesn’t feel right for fast burn sex, you know? But I think it’s just me, unlike my husband, I have like zero to low libido in general. I can honestly go without anything sexual.

ANYWAYS. I’m not sure on how to make short form content on sex. I don’t want it to just be porn or non sensical shallow smut. It’s not just about kinks like dumbification. Not only is it boring for me to write something without actual tension, but it doesn’t feel REAL.

“If I Can’t Have You” by Deathsdoll did really well in descriptions and suspenseful tension in Chapters 1 to 12. I didn’t like the rest, fell off for me. But the start is golden. Really good.

Not only is it non con but it has intense sex, but more than that, the “actual sexual and violence or death tension” is there.

So I’m trying to think on how to combine sex + psychological into short form stories. Most stories seen are just shallow sex or kinks or whatever. I won’t deny that they’re good at descriptions to a certain degree.

But, not my thing. To me, it’s just fantasies as usual. I like my work grounded on some realism or at least dystopian dark setting and themes.

For my writing style, I never write “Oh, they banged hallelujah.” Actually anything I write won’t feel right without the psychological aspect into it.

Most people are fine with turning off the brain and fantasizing or masturbating (have never done both), but me writing and even reading it? No.

To me, without the danger factor or some uncomfortable unsettling factor. Sex is just reproduction. Or biological processes. That’s honestly how I see it.

Anyways.

Sorry, I’m rambling. Before my husband, I was never interested in romance, much less sex actually lol.

Anyways. Again.

My issue is SHORT FORM SEXUAL CONTENT. Ahhhh. Without the burn, it doesn’t feel right. It feels wrong. I’m okay with fast burn romance but not fast burn sex. I can read about it.

Doesn’t mean I like it.

I am mind blocked in this aspect.

And honestly my husband is right. Again. I’m severely overthinking again. I should just talk to God and him, aahh.

Ok enough rambling….. back to upcoming books….

I guess you could say, this post is a thank you to all the supporters so far, and also my writing process. And future plans.

I haven’t posted anything explicitly sexual yet because I want to debut my first sex content for my gifts to you guys.

Both stories may stay dark romance or can even become erotic horror (a genre I’m also allowed to write) or become just inherently psychosexual as well. Not sure yet.

But the Forbidden Fruits is meant to combine taboo and psychological.

And yes. Both are reverse harem stories.

Or maybe you guys just want the short form content i’m brainstorming and trying to figure out.

Either way, your opinions and thoughts are welcomed.

19 notes · View notes

cerastes · 1 year ago

Note

Hey how come you making flippant comments in regards to your own self-improvement fetish is so enlightening in regards to mental health things is this the whole 'professional' thing at work.

I would like to think so! When we think of "psychology", most people might have a very Freudian image of it: A therapist solemnly but very comprehensively taking notes as a patient lies on a couch and spills their guts, only interjecting once or twice in the hour-long session and then charging you. Psychoanalysis, the Freudian technique, I don't think it's useless, but it's definitely just one of a myriad of techniques and methods with which to carry out therapy (and one I myself am trained in and do not like). I myself am more of systems theory of psychology kind of guy (Humberto Maturana, Ludwig von Bertalanffy, Gregory Bateson, among others), and systems has a very input-output sort of view (if you want to learn more, you can also look up second order cybernetics and radical constructivism).

Where I am going with all of this is that if it may seem like I'm making flippant comments, then that means I've synthetized my own self-care mind palace to such a degree that it has simply become part of my discourse, my lingo, my poise, if you will, but that in itself took a lot of introspective work in a way that was tangible to me, or in other words, in a way that my brain accepted it. Ultimately, it's the role of the psychologist to lead one to something rather than to reveal any sort of secret to wellness. Using myself as an example, as someone that had suicidal depression at one point, being told to "think positively" didn't do a damn thing, because if it was that easy, then depression wouldn't exist. Instead, I more or less had to trick my own brain into giving it reasons as to why it should think positively, because it makes sense to do so, and in the same vein, I had to give it reasons as to why thinking negatively was dumb. Because that sort of logic works with me. So it's less "hey, think nice things :)" and more "okay but does it have to be like this? Does everyone else have this crushing sadness as their normal as well? I don't think so, so maybe what I'm feeling isn't normal. Why am I thinking that way? What do they have that I don't? Oh, thing A and thing B, yeah, makes sense, and do I want these things? Mmm thing A doesn't really matter to me, but thing B, I'm loathe to admit, is something I desire, how about I work towards having thing B for now as a goal and then see if that is good enough or at least improves my mental state? Are things really as hopeless as I think they are and am I enlightened by my grim outlook? Probably not, so why am I hopeless and why are they not? There's something I don't have or don't know, let's see what that is, and put these shit thoughts on hold until I can ascertain these things". This is a summarized version, of course, but you know what I mean.

But where I'm going with this (again) is that once you grab onto your own internal logic (which is where the introspective work leads to!) and know what makes you click and how your own metrics and parameters of motivation work, it becomes much much easier to have a healthy mental state and keep it healthy. This, in my opinion, should be the long term objective of any good therapy: To at least start your user (I don't really use the term "patient") on this road. I'm making it sounds all sunshine and rainbows, but introspective work worth having does entail having to look at the uglier parts of yourself and acknowledging them, hence why not a lot of people see it through. It takes commitment and guts because you very much do reach a point where you need to look at these things that are awful and be like "yes, this, too, is me" before you can start going into how to turn these into advantageous things instead.

Likewise, the therapy I do tends to have this as goal: Let's work this shit together so we can organize it in a way that's easier to handle for starters, and then you can have a very good grip on the reins of what makes you feel good and what makes you feel bad, and so can easily dispel the brain fog by simply consulting your inner blueprint. Each user is a whole different journey, and it's part of what makes psychology such a beautiful field.

73 notes · View notes

princelylove · 11 months ago

Text

I think it’s fairly obvious that mafiosi would have at least some sexism going on. It’s just shown differently, and it's hard to put them all in the same category because their psychology is different. For my freaks who happen to be into a little misogyny/sexism:

Call Guido old fashioned, but he thinks it’s wrong to be rough with a girl. It rubs him the wrong way. Yeah, of course girls can do whatever we can, he’s all for them working and voting and all the good stuff, but you just shouldn’t treat a girl like that. He tends to say ‘girl’ instead of ‘woman,’ even when he’s referring to someone that’s implied to be older than he is.

When Guido interrogates Scolippi in the english dub, he says “I should end you for killing a girl,” and “You killed an innocent girl, psycho,” which could just be intentionally guilt tripping Scolippi, but Guido isn’t the guilt type. He’s an immediate physical punishment type. He hates men that harm women, no matter the degree.

If he ends up having a crush on someone who is masculine, you might not notice at all (unless you pick up on his hesitation). Guido’s always been fairly handsy, he’ll put his arm around Pannacotta (who normally shoves him off), he picks up Narancia and won’t let him down until he gets his good morning cheek kiss, he’ll bother Giorno until he gets a little smoochie-woochie (said like that because he knows Giorno hates that sort of talk), and he sits way too close to his darling. He’s microdosing physical contact until he gets the nerve to actually touch you like he does Panna and Nara… Guys can play around, too, you know. But it’s different with his darling! He psyches himself out most times until he can find excuses to get handsy- like, he was just hugging Panna, he’s not gonna leave you out. Come on, man, you know you want one.

With a feminine darling, he tries to be touchy and affectionate in the friend stage too, but he’s a little scared. You may notice his hands trembling as he picks you up, or that when he puts his arm around your waist, his hand hovers instead of resting on you. He’s strong enough to hold you up for quite a while, he’s just nervous. Poor guy. He gets rather panicky when he sees a girl in distress, if he ever scared you off, he doesn't even know what he'd do.

Narancia copies Bruno, but less in a ‘Chivalry is important’ sense and more of a ‘Masculine men don’t do certain shit’ sense. Which is missing the point of Bruno’s philosophy entirely. He doesn’t really have any women in his life, besides from Trish and she is not a role model for him or a spokesperson for all of womankind, so his only experience with women are the old ladies that pinch his cheeks and girl mags.

He probably has a harder time with a masculine darling. He isn’t gay ‘cause he thinks you’re pretty, or whatever… You’re just, like… pretty, he guesses. Narancia tries to justify it- you’re pretty feminine for a dude! You have, like, soft hands. And soft hair. And… something else that justifies his crush. Oh! Oh! How you talk! Some people just sound feminine, you know? The words they use, and like, their tone. Like- Like Giorno! He’s a feminine guy, but he’s still a guy! Yeah, that justifies it for sure. Never mind the fact that you are not feminine in the slightest, Narancia will find some way to throw it on you so his crush is ‘ok.’

Leone surprisingly has nothing going on in the sexism department. Lucky him. He might speak a bit softer to a fem darling, but other than that, the experience is roughly the same.

Pannacotta’s distrust of women isn’t inherently sexist. It’s not like he thinks less of them, it’s just that it takes a significant amount of time for him to trust one. He gets along with men at the ‘normal, appropriate’ speed, he’d say. Never mind the fact that he’s distrusting in general and having a crush on a stranger is eating him alive. Strangers are never to be trusted- you just don’t know what they’re thinking about or what their intentions are. They could be perverse, or… just generally ill-willed. It’s unnerving.

Trish is allergic to going fifty-fifty. It’s not that she’s super into gender roles or anything, it’s just that, she’s a girl, come on. Really? You’re gonna make her split the bill with you? She could be spending that money on, like, anything else.

She has these expectations of you no matter your gender, don’t make her pay, give her your jacket when she’s cold, carry her shopping bags, get her flowers on valentine’s day, things like that. It’s less ‘I’m the girl in our relationship’ and more ‘I’m spoiled and won’t be bending anytime soon,’ but you could argue she has some internalized sexism going on. In fact I am making that argument. Trish doesn’t have ‘boy’ hobbies, she’s vehemently opposed to doing masculine work. It isn’t sexist to have preferences, but it is sexist to scoff at your partner who is struggling with carrying something and go “You’re supposed to be stronger than that, you’re a guy.” Poor darling. You don’t get out of it if you’re feminine, either. She’s the girl, you’re her not-man. Perfect! When she eventually matures, she’ll help out a bit more, but it’s probably never equal.

#cw slight homophobia #cw misogyny #yandere leone abbacchio #yandere guido mista #yandere narancia ghirga #yandere trish una #yandere pannacotta fugo #character studies my beloved #aha i don't have a favorite what do you mean #i've been staring at this for too long get this away from me

34 notes · View notes

icantthinkofanythingcool3 · 2 years ago

Text

Sessions

This is probably going to be only for a very niche part of the internet, but I'm obsessed with Bones again at the moment so here ya go.

Agent Y/n is an FBI agent that occasionally works with Booth, Bones, and the team. She has become good friends with Sweets, and Angela. After an extra brutal case that involved a serial killer and an intense fixation on Agent Y/n herself, Y/n needs mandated counseling from her favorite psychologist. The following are the sessions that document the beginning of something more than a professional or even friendly relationship.

Session 1

“For the record, I think this is totally unnecessary.” Y/n sighed.

“I do not agree. You’ve been through a traumatizing experience.”

“How is this any more traumatizing than the events I witness on a day-to-day basis. This is literally my job Lance.”

“It’s not everyday that a killer is specifically targeting you y/n, so, once again, I disagree. Plus it’s mandated by the FBI, so you don’t really have a choice.” Lance said matter of factly, “I’ll take your extreme eye roll as acceptance. You know some people say that your eyes could get stuck that way.”

“Shut up and do your psycho shit.”

“There’s nothing for me to do, we just need to talk. We talk all the time, what’s the problem now?”

“We talk as friends, this is not us talking as friends Lance, this is some bullshit test to see if I’m still capable of doing my job. I don’t think it’s fair to me to think that just because some asshole murderer decided to set his sights on me means that I suddenly don’t have the ability to do my damn job anymore!”

“Y/N that’s, well that’s actually an accurate depiction so I can’t debate that. But I want you to understand it’s not me personally that feels like that. It’s the men upstairs, as one would say, you can still talk to me.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” Y/n smirked at him

“Well, if I thought this could actually be a problem I absolutely would have suggested that you go to a different psychologist, but I don’t think it’s that kind of problem. I still think you need to talk to someone though.”

“Ehh, I think we need to talk more about how you’re totally showing favoritism here.”

“Let’s talk about that after we talk about you, yeah?”

“If you insist, Dr. Sweets.”

Session 2 “How many more of these do we have to do?” Y/n complained.

“This is only session number two y/n, I think you know it’s going to take more than that. I would like to discuss how you’re feeling now. It’s been exactly 10 days since he was caught.”

“Well, I would still like to talk about how you’re showing immense favoritism by seeing me as a patient since we’re quote, unquote friends.”

“Woah, woah, now that makes it seem like you don’t think we’re friends.”

“Now, I didn’t say that, but I would like to dissect why that was your immediate thought.”

“Oh, so now you’re the psychologist, huh?” Lance asked, quietly laughing at y/n.

“Yes, you know what. I think I would like to switch professions…would you mind switching seats with me? I think it’s time for me to take over this session.”

“You know what, sure. I think this will be good for my analysis. Go ahead there y/n, take your new seat.”

“So Mr. Sweets-”

“Woah, woah so in your fantasy my degrees suddenly fail to exist?”

“Shhhhhh, we’re doing things my way now, remember? So, Mr. Sweets, why is it that you seem to be showing me favoritism?”

“Well technically, how can I be showing favoritism if, in this fantasy, you have taken away my degrees therefore I would have no-”

“Lance!!!!! You are not making this fun for me!!!! Can you stop with your logic please and just answer my question?! Why are you avoiding the answer?” Y/n said half joking, but also half annoyed at him for not letting her have any fun.

“Okay, okay. Well, Dr. y/l/n, I suppose I show you favoritism because you’re one of my favorite people. Some may say, as I’m sure you know with your vast knowledge of psychology and all the varying fields, that I’ve been creating my own family since my parents died. I consider you one of those people.”

“Wow…that’s. I…don’t….that’s probably one of the most honest and sweetest things anyone has ever said to me… As a friend, not as a psychologist of my vast knowledge, will you tell me about them? About your parents?”

“Of course I will.”

Session 3

“Y/n are we finally going to discuss what we’re here to talk about?”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Do you think that maybe it means something that you don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, I just don’t wanna.”

“Y/n, come on. The longer this drags out the longer we have to keep doing these sessions.”

“Well maybe I like the sessions and I don’t want them to end.”

“Well, you know they don’t have to, right? Just because we speak about what we have to discuss doesn't mean that we have to stop having the sessions, just that I can finally sign off on the papers your bosses are asking for. If we can get through this we can talk about whatever you want in the next session, maybe even me again if that’s what you would prefer.”

“Fine, but I just want to say that I am doing this entirely against my will…”

“I will definitely put that on the record.”

“I guess what I feel is…not safe. I don’t feel safe at my house, I don’t feel safe at work, I don’t feel safe in the field. Honestly, the only place I feel safe is here. I guess that’s why I don’t want these meetings to end. See there goes my vast psychological knowledge at work.”

There was a moment of silence where y/n said, “See this is exactly why I didn’t want to say anything. Your face looks sad, like you’re pitying me right now.”

“I’m not pitying you, y/n. That’s not what I'm feeling right now. I’m feeling sad for someone I care about because they just told me they don’t feel safe anymore. I’m frustrated that you can’t function in life without being scared. I’m angry that some maniac decided to set his sights on you and now you’re not who you were before. I’m just pissed, I’m…I don’t even know.”

“I think you’re more angry than I am. Can’t you take some comfort that I find some solace in here with you?”

“Well, I mean yeah, but it doesn’t make me any less angry. Why…why do you feel safe here?”

“I don’t know. I mean I guess because well first off, you obviously. Talking to you makes me feel like I don’t have anything to worry about. It’s also a small office, only one access point, so logically I have a better chance of protecting myself.”

“I don’t like that, but I can understand it. I wish that you didn’t have to feel like that.” Lance said, putting his notebook down and moving next to y/n on the couch.

“Not very psychologist-like of you, Lance.”

“You’re right, but very friend-like of me. That’s what’s more important right now I believe.”

“Well thank you for being my friend. I…I…uhh really appreciate that. I appreciate you.”

Session 4

“Sooooooo, you said we can talk about you this time, right??”

“If you’re so inclined, I still think we should talk about you though.”

“I just think that you want to avoid being psycho-analyzed like you do to everyone who sits on this couch.”

“Hey, that’s not fair.”

“I think it’s very fair. Anywhooooooooo, tell me more about what you were like as a kid.”

“Oh so now you’re going to delve into my childhood trauma?”

“I mean yes that was the plan, but you seem to have uncovered it way too soon. See no fun.”

“I already told you about growing up with my parents. Dissect from that what you will.”

“Well yeah, but what were you like, 6 or 7? What about before that? And what about your biological parents? Did you know anything about them?”

“It’s not really something I want to get into y/n.”

“Come on, you show me yours, I’ll show you mine. We can go question for question.”

“Y/n. I said I do not want to talk about it! THAT’S IT.” Lance said angrily.

“Lance, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how serious it was. Really, I’m sorry for pushing. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, y/n, it’s me. God, I’m such an asshole. It just…well it wasn’t a good time before I got adopted by my parents. I didn’t feel safe before them. That’s…that’s all I want to say.”

“Understood. I’m sorry that you had to go through that, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt you now, let alone little 6 year old you with a sweet little baby face. You know your last name actually fits you very well, kinda like fate if you ask me.”

“That’s very kind y/n. Thank you, I appreciate it.” Sweets smiled at y/n.

“Just being a friend, nothing to thank me for here.”

Session 5

“So, I’ve come to a conclusion.” Y/n said, smiling cheekily to Lance.

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“You’re literally being paid to sit here and talk to your best friend. That’s like a totally cushy gig.”

“Oh, you’re my best friend?”

“I mean yes. Clearly, we are definitely best friends. It's, like, completely obvious.”

“I was unaware so thank you for informing me of that.”

“Lance, come on. You totally know we’re best friends. Don’t try to hide it. You have no reason to be embarrassed, you know, I’m a pretty cool person.”

“Well, you are a pretty cool person. And like I said previously, I do consider you part of the family I’ve made. I guess it is obvious we’re best friends, silly me for not recognizing it earlier.”

“I like talking to you Lance.”

“I like talking to you as well, y/n.”

Session 6

“Y/n.”

“Woah, you sound serious.”

“I am, there’s something I have to talk to you about.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“I can’t be your psychologist anymore.”

“Woah, wait, what. What do you mean? Where is this coming from? Lance, did I do something? Say something?”

“Y/n, it’s not about you. Well, I mean not like that. It’s nothing that you did, or said. I…I just. Well you were right before, this is kind of a conflict of interest. Professionally, I shouldn’t be seeing you. It’s not right.”

“Oh, I, uh…thanks for proving me right I guess. Um…I think I’m going to go now.”

“No! Wait! I know you feel safe here, with me, in this room. We can still talk here, we can still have these conversations. I don’t want to take that away from you. I’m just recommending that I cannot adequately finish clearing you from what happened.”

“I don’t understand what’s changed suddenly. I brought this up weeks ago. I don’t want to go sit in someone else’s office and talk about this shit. I didn’t want to go through this in the first place. Lance, I don’t understand why you would do this. You know how hard this was for me, I can’t believe you would do this.”

“Y/n, just trust me, it’s for the best.”

“I don’t trust you right now. This isn’t what is best for me. I can’t believe this, I can’t believe yo-”

Lance cut y/n off, “Y/n I LOVE YOU…I…I am in freaking love with you and that’s why I can’t do this anymore. It’s not fair to me either.”

“Lance…I…you…I…”

“I think you should leave now.”

“Wait, wait, no…I love you too. I’ve been falling for you since the moment I met you.”

“y/n-”

“I’m serious. All of these sessions just confirmed it more for me. That’s why I felt safe here, with you. You make me feel like I don’t have to worry or be scared anymore.”

“Y/n, I…you make… you’re-”

“Just shut up and kiss me already.” Y/n said, already leaning in to place her lips on his.

#lance x reader #sweets x reader #lance sweets x reader #lance sweets #lance sweets imagine #bones tv

334 notes · View notes

alltimefail-sims · 1 year ago

Text

I present to you all... Wren's family!

Are you reading The Familiar by @mangosimoothie? You should be reading The Familiar by mangosimoothie and rooting for my baby Wren. (I'm mostly kidding - rooting for Wren is optional, but reading the Familiar is not 😉.)

This was probably self indulgent, and I definitely spent way too much time making them, but even if no one else cares... I'm pleased! I've been wanting to do this for way too long! First we have Wren's father, Dr. Abdou Opara and Wren's mother, Dr. Latita Opara (née Wiley). Then we have Wren's siblings Kingston and Angelique.

Want more info on them or to see their full-body outfits? Fear not...

Many details below the cut! ↓

If you read Wren's original post you already know that Abdou, Wren's father, is a retired engineer and tech investor while his wife, Latita, is the current and very popular mayor of San Myshuno. But I didn't really get to go into detail about Wren's siblings so I'm gonna do that real quick!!

Wren's oldest sibling, Kinston (30 y.o.), has a doctorate from Foxbury in biology, but he was also the captain of the robotics team and has a passion for engineering just like his father. After graduation he combined his two passions and created a bio-tech company that focuses on creating innovations and improvements in the medical field, particularly for surgical procedures and daily disability maneuverability and pain management. Wren thinks he's an absolutely insufferable ego-maniac, but they're not a completely reliable narrator because Kingston's just kind of a nerd with a little bit of a superiority complex (oldest child syndrome), but Wren's parents have always lifted up Kingston as the example and that's annoying as fuck! Oh and if Latita has a favorite child, it's Kingston (she's never proclaimed a favorite out loud but like... it's pretty clear).

Then there's the Opara's middle child, Angelique (27 y.o.), who I promise does not just walk around in pageant crowns and evening gowns (although that would be iconic imo). Although a middle child, Angelique has never had to fight for attention and is Abdou's clear favorite (again he's never said it out loud but like... he's even more obvious). She has a distinguished psychology degree with honors from Foxbury Institute and graduated at the top of her class. The reason she's dressed in pageant-wear is because she recently won the title of Miss America (whatever the sims equivalent is called). She'll be competing for Miss Universe next because she's a bad bitch ig? Lmao. She just is very competitive. Wren thinks Angelique is generally less insufferable than Kingston, but the two of them in a room together is like nails on a chalkboard to Wren. Wren and Angelique are a little closer, but "close" as in like... they get along okay, they'll pick up *if* the other calls, and she nags Wren the least of any of their family members (but that's just because she "has better things to do"). That being said, she does call Wren "baby Wren" which drives them nuts (but she's being affectionate in her own way).

*Fun fact: all of the Oparas are Foxbury alum except for our dear Wren and they never hear the end of it!

*Also a fun fact but, needless to say, Wren's mom doesn't want to end her political career as a mayor: she's working her way up the political ladder to the presidential candidacy, babyyyyy!!! On the flip-side, Abdou has always been a strict parent who cares about "legacy" and that's why they're so anal about protecting the family's public image and why they're especially hard on Wren who thinks all of those things are kind of bullshit.

FINALLY, I do want to note that I didn't include one *technical* family member, Kingston's college sweetheart and fiancé Kasi who Wren actually enjoys being around and thinks is way out of their brother's league.

Anyway okay I'm done now here they are side-by-side as promised:

Irl I imagine their heights to vary (with Wren being taller than their mom but shorter than everyone else) but I was too lazy to use a height slider.

Okay NOW I'm done for real lmao byeeeeeeee

#simblr #ts4 #the sims 4 #ts4 cas #sims 4 #the sims community #my ocs #my sims #oc: wren #*the oparas

47 notes · View notes

creation-key · 2 years ago

Text

Drunken Calls

Part 2

Synopsis: accidentally confessing while laughing

Warnings: drinking mentioned, barely any cussing, mostly pure fluff/ maybe angst?

a/n: I don’t have any original ideas, that i want share 😏, so i have stolen this prompt from @mangocherri , thank you love for the inspo! And if I completely butchered it and you want me to take this down, I so will, don’t even worry about it. enjoy, we’ll at least try to 🥸

It’s Saturday night? morning? you don’t even know at this point anymore. Your best friend Sierra took you out that night to celebrate your doctorate’s degree in Psychology.

You’re not much of a party girl on your own, but when with the right people, you never want to sleep. And that is exactly what you’re experiencing in the present, only now, you’re sipping on some fruit drink, the taste of alcohol no longer prevalent because of how much you’ve consumed that night already.

You’ve all gathered at your house for the after party, you called it, which was really your smart sober part of your brain, long gone now, trying to keep everyone from driving home. With the night still young , it’s 2 am, you’re talking up a storm, just really spilling the beans on every secret you’ve ever had, including your crush on your sister’s boyfriend.

Everyone having already sobered up and drinking water gasp, granted it’s only 4 people, including yourself, but the gasp sounded otherworldly to your intoxicated brain.

Not fully understanding what you had just admitted to, you yawn saying you’re gonna “hit the hay,” you wink, for literally no reason at all, and stumble your way to your bedroom, tripping over air at least 27 million times.

You reach your room and plop down on your bed face down, completely ready to just fall asleep like that until your phone, which you had forgotten about, starts to ring loudly. You groan, begrudgingly getting up to answer it.

“hEllor?” You slur out, reaching for a bottle of water half drunken on your night stand, in hopes of quenching your thirst.

“Hey, y/n, wait are you drunk?” The unknown person says.

“No, this is Patrick,” You laugh, dying at your joke, slapping your knee for extra effect. You set the phone face up on your bed, pressing the speaker button.

“Well I guess that answers that, there’s no way sober you would such an awful joke.” The person on the other line giggles.

“Heyy, watch it mister whoever you are. I can and will kick your ass. You know I know karate?”

“Oh really?” Mystery man asks.

“Yep, my best friend Harry taught me once. Do you know Harry?”

“Yeah, I’d say I know him pretty well, he’s kind of a goof isn’t he?” The man questions.

You laugh out loud at that, responding in between laughter.

“Yeah he’s a goof, but that’s why i love him. He’s unapologetically himself no matter the situation. You know sometimes I think I relate to the Schuyler sisters more than I’d like to.” The man on the other line takes in a sharp breath, before moving around asking shakily,

“why is that?”

“Because sometimes I wish I had been satisfied and never introduced him to my little sister, oh well, at least i still have him in life. Maybe I’ll meet a rich man like Angelica and move across the sea only seeing them on major holidays and vacations! Yeahhh, that’d be ideal.” You sigh at the end, it quickly turning into a yawn, after hearing no noise coming for the other end you assume the man has gone to sleep, so you bid your goodbyes, hanging up the phone and going to sleep.

——————————————————————————

The Next Morning~

You wake up in the morning with a sticky taped your head- it reads

“Hey girl, we all left as soon as Harry arrived, don’t worry we called ubers just in case. Had fun last night, also about that little secret, it’s safe with us little miss doctor, Love you and can’t wait to do this again!”

You laugh, throwing the sticky note on your bedside table, sitting up straight only to be hit with a ton of bricks to your mental. Memories from the night before come flooding back as well as the mention of Harry being in your house, recalled from the sticky note. Getting up, warily, you make your way to the shower and get ready for the day, you put on pajamas.

Hoping that you’d taken long enough in the bathroom for Harry to have left, you make your way downstairs, only to be met with a nervous smiling Harry eating pancakes and fruit at your table.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” He asked with a worried look.

You look back at him embarrassed, but answer

“oh, i’m okay, just a little tired, and my head’s hurting, but i already took some medicine.”

“Do you, um- do you remember anything from last night?” He looks down at his plate.

You know with your own plate sitting across from him at the table.

“Uh yeah, all of it actually, in fact, this is so funny really, just as I was about to go to sleep some guy, i think, called me, but i never read his contact name so i had no clue who it was, plus the alcohol kind of distorted their voice so i couldn’t tell, anyways, I had a whole conversation with him.” You laugh as you recall the memory, giggling a little at end at yourself for being so silly as a drunk.

“What did you guys talk about?” Harry asked, his eyes now glued to the sink faucet.

“Oh nothing much, talked about karate and just spilled my deepest darkest secrets to him. Are you okay?” You look at him worried.

“Um, yeah. Why do you ask?” Him still not looking at you.

“Because you haven’t made eye contact with me since I walked in, and even then, it was only for a moment. What’s going on?” He looks up you and then back down at the floor, as if pondering what to say next.

“I love you too. I always have, honestly if I’m being completely transparent, I think that’s why I started dating your sister, I mean you guys are just so similar but so different in your own ways, but I just couldn’t learn to love the differences in her. And I know that sounds bad, but I cant ignore what i’ve been yearning to hear from you from the moment we met and not tell you how i’m feeling.” He takes a breath at the end.

You stare at him, trying to comprehend his words, trying to understand where he could have gotten this from, and the only thing that comes to mind is-

“It was you… you were on the phone last night. Weren’t you?” He nods. You stand up, almost knocking your chair over before backing up into a corner.

“y/n we can go somewhere, just us, a date. It doesn’t have to be weird love promise. I already talked to your sister, she under-“

You interrupt him-

“Harry i can’t do that to my sister. If you love me like you say you do, you know that i can’t and will not. I was fine with being in love with you in secret. And you told her? Why would you do that, you were both so happy. Always smiling. I can’t, please. Leave.” He starts shaking his head getting up to approach you.

“Harry leave before I lose it. I can’t do this right now, or ever. Please.” He opens and closes his mouth, defeated he leaves.

You fall to the ground, cupping your face to hold back your sobs from being heard from outside your door, where you sure Harry is waiting for you to let him back in. But you can’t-

you won’t.

~fin~

thoughts on a part 2, i enjoyed writing the angst hehe

94 notes · View notes

finniestoncrane · 2 years ago

Note

You did this with riddler (awhile ago). but I wanna know what different iteration of scarecrow would react by there s/o calling them daddy 👉👈 👉👈

Daddy

Scarecrow Headcanons ok lil anon! i don't write for many scarecrows, so i added another guy to my roster in your name and that is scarecrow in his first couple of appearances in the comics just because i love that shabby little professor with all of my soul (i'm just gonna call him GA or golden age) 🎃🧡 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: daddy kink, humiliation, degradation, fear play, fluff

arkham

that's oddly pleasant actually

he imagines it rather suits him in his old age now

add it to the pile of other sweet petnames you have for him

a myriad of authoratitive terms that strike a sense of arousal deep in the pit of his stomach

professor, sir, doctor, master... and now daddy

if he was to guess, and his psychology degree might really come in handy here

he would think that you might have some sort of direct issue with authority

lack thereof? or perhaps a desire for more of it?

whatever it is that makes this do it for you

he's more than happy to have you bend over and be very good for daddy

btaa

it's almost like... just kind of an unpsoken rule with him that you'll call him daddy

everything about him, his attitude, his soft voice, the way he's fine to throw around his drug money to spoil you

it all SCREAMS daddy

just like you will be when you're riding on top of him

or he has you over his desk

slipping you just a little taste of his 'medicine' to get inside your brain and keep you clawing for him

if you need anything from him, the reqeuest better start with "please, daddy" and end with "thank you, daddy"

he'll do whatever you want if you butter him up a bit and stroke his ego like that

very much into the idea of you calling him daddy all the time, especially in public, and definitely in front of any of his 'employees'

something about the submission you display and the ego boost he gets makes him instantly stiffen up

golden age

oh, you're sweet to say that

it makes his heart feel warm, like he's actually doing something right for a change

enough that you would consider him worthy of the title

now he really has something to strive for

all the money that's needed to make sure that you're suitably treated

he'll be doing it all in your name, to make sure he keeps you lusting after him

because who else is going to look at this gangling, scruffy man with his sweet face stuck in a book

and think "daddy"

other than you, because you're perfect

so he'll do anything to keep your sweet words coming

#finnie writes #batman #fanfic #scarecrow #jonathan crane #scarecrow imagine #scarecrow smut #scarecrow x reader #rogues gallery #batman rogues #scarecrow x you #btaa scarecrow

170 notes · View notes

1moreoffkeyanthem · 9 months ago

Text

WELCOME BACK!!! That’s right fellow humans, it’s the second episode of

Bedtime Stories With PCE

And man did I enjoy writing this one, my sweet boys, Stan with the broken ribs and struggling with being hurt for the first time since running dry, his super awesome sponsor, Kyle w the solutions, Moose being the best lil cat ever, just!!!!! And this one is really important to me, because it is SMACK DAB in the middle of Broken Bottles From Apartment 2 after our beloved vet tech Stan gets kicked by a scared horse at work, setting the ball rolling for the rest of that story. Essentially I wanted to address more of his mentality following that incident, and to have y’all meet his AA sponsor! Iconic. Here’s

•coconut yogurt•

“Jesus, dude, that looks bad.”

“I’m-“ Stan cut off with a sharp *schh* as Kyle helped him the rest of the way out of his scrub shirt. “Fuck, I’m okay.”

Breathing fucking hurt. More than that, he was seriously bummed that not only was he on bed rest for two weeks (something that his partner would no doubt enforce with an iron fist), but he was gonna be stuck to paperwork once he could finally go back to work. And it wasn’t like he could quell the boredom by slipping away to the clinic for a few hours while Kyle was at his own job, because Wendy ran the front office and would not hesitate to rat him out.

“Baby, they’re only a little cracked.”

Kyle rolled his eyes and carefully helped him ease to a more comfortable laying position on the couch, gently resting one of the big ice packs they always kept on hand over his side. “Where’s your discharge shit?”

“Front pocket,” he muttered.

Kyle grabbed the papers and scanned them quickly. “Hairline fractures… bone bruising, sweetheart, how on earth are you breathing?”

“Carefully?” His partner didn’t seem to like that response. “Ky, I’m okay. You know how much worse it could’ve been?”

“YES! Yes, I do, Stan! Don’t fucking-“ his face softened. “Don’t smile like that about broken ribs, dude.”

“I’m not smiling about that; I’m smiling about you.”

“You’re hopeless,” Kyle laughed. “The hell am I supposed to do with your hopeless romantic ass when you say sappy bullshit?”

Stan might’ve been a little foggy from the pain. Maybe. “Aww, babe, C’mere,” he struggled to open his arms, which was annoying, yeah, but he wanted to hold Kyle.

“Dude, I am SO not laying on you.”

“Just a little?”

“No.”

Kyle went to read the paperwork again, fully ignoring Stan’s efforts to get cuddled. “Babe…”

“Your prescription should be ready, dude.” Kyle knelt down to kiss him. “Gonna be good if I’m gone for a few?”

Stan pouted, knowing damn well he was being dramatic, but not caring. “I don’t want it.”

“We went over this, sweetheart. You had a problem with alcohol, not pills. Is it just because you don’t like taking stuff anyway?”

“…yeah.”

“Okay.” Kyle kissed him again. “You’re sure?”

Honestly, he wasn’t. There were a lot of feelings coming up right now. Kyle noticed, because of course he did. “Stan, I know that face.”

Against his will, tears started trailing from the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, dude, I know.” Kyle took Stan’s face in his hands. “Look, I really don’t want you to hurt, okay? I know you’re emotional right now. I’ll give you your meds when you need them, and you don’t need to think about it. I can ask the pharmacy about the info too. Hon, we’re gonna know exactly what you’re taking, and you’ll be just fine.”

“I- I always heal fast.”

“You do,” Kyle assured him. “And there’s nothing wrong with needing a little help, okay?”

“Uh huh.” Yeah, he would call his sponsor. He needed to talk this out, with someone who got it. Kyle understood for the most part; he literally had a degree in psychology and had been firsthand through an eating disorder, which was its own form of addiction, but, well, specifics. “I’m- *hic*- gonna text Mark, maybe zoom into tonight’s meeting.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Kyle rose and ran his hand through Stan’s hair. “Ten minutes, hopefully.” He glanced at the corner and laughed. “Oh, poor thing doesn’t know what to do! It’s okay, Moose, c’mere, keep your dad company.”

Their cat slowly crept up to the couch, perching on the arm like a sentinel and making a cute little “mrrmm”.

“Good boy.” Kyle spun his keys once around his finger, and put on a serious face, staring down at Stan with one eyebrow raised. “Now, don’t you move.”

“Just stay where I can see you douse the lights.”

Kyle laughed. “You’re incredibly lame. I’ll be right back.”

That laughter seriously helped so much. “Okay, dude, you know where to find me.”

Moose had started purring, asleep next to him by the time Stan worked up the motivation to get his phone and send Mark a “yo I got the fuck kicked out of me by a horse I won’t be there tonight”. The old man immediately called him.

“Hey,” Stan answered, trying not to laugh at how fast that call was, because he knew that would feel awful.

“The hell do you mean, “hey”, Superman? How’d you get kicked by a damn horse?”

“Oh, you know.” Just hearing his sponsor’s voice helped. Some of the older crowd at AA had taken to calling him “Superman” too, which was objectively funny, and also comforting to hear, especially right now, when he was feeling vulnerable. “Went to give him an antibiotic shot, he got scared and bucked around, broke my ribs.”

“Christ.” He could practically hear Mark rolling his eyes through the phone. “Leave it to you. How ya doin’ with all of that? Gonna be able to come chair tomorrow?”

Judging by how much he was hurting, definitely not, even if Kyle would let him leave the apartment. “I was thinking I’d Zoom in. Will you, uh, do you think that’d work?”

Mark chuckled. “Well, I don’t know much about the video callin’ you young folks do, but I’ll figure it out. Might need ta get Laura to help me. She’s good with technology.”

Laura was a woman even older than Mark, who was not good with technology. Oh yeah, this was gonna be fun.

“Seriously though, kid, are you okay?”

Stan sighed. “It’s- I’m nervous,” he admitted. “About the feelings this is gonna bring up. We’ve talked about my coping mechanisms before, like how I like to move, when I start feeling down, instead of drinking? But I…”

“You can’t go for a hike or work out with busted ribs,” Mark finished. “I know being injured, havin’ to stay put, that’s a trigger for you. Like the bender you told me about in high school, after you broke your arm.”

“Yeah…” Not even Kyle knew how bad he had spiraled that time. He knew it had been bad, but not to the extent that it had gotten to. Getting hurt because of something he loved, combined with the timing and completely changing his career path senior year, all of that had led to a full depressive episode, complete with binge drinking and attempting to cut his cast off with bolt cutters. “I still could’ve been scouted in the spring,” he muttered dejectedly.

“But you chose to quit football,” Mark reminded him. “You’ve said you don’t regret that. You remember why you don’t regret it?”

Reaching up to pet his cat, the little creature who had been the driving force to him actually applying his degree, Stan was reminded that he really did like how his life was turning out.

“Yeah. I’m where I’m supposed to be, right?”

“Not for me to say, Superman,” Mark said. “You’re a damn good vet, and gettin’ hurt because of your job happens.” The smile was clear in his voice. “You’re more worried about the horse, ain’t ya?”

Stan once again had to force himself not to laugh. “Dude, he was scared. I was literally coming at him with a needle.”

“And what would you do if you were in his horseshoes?”

“Mark, dude, please don’t make jokes, laughing hurts like a bitch.” He checked the time. Kyle would be back home any minute. “Same thing, though. Ky’s gonna be on my ass about painkillers. That’s… uh, kinda why I needed to talk.”

“Hmm. I gotcha. You’re worried about the addiction potential? Combined with being home alone until you go back to work?”

Hit the nail on the head. Stan nodded, then remembered that Mark couldn’t see him. “Pretty much. I’m just… I haven’t been hurt this bad, since running dry. I’m not sure what to do to distract myself, honestly.”

“Alright.” Mark could be pretty straightforward, when it came to a course of action, a lot like Kyle. “You like them video games, right? And reading your fantasy books? Bet you got one downloaded on your phone right now.”

As a matter of fact, he did. “Uh, yeah, Atherton, I think”

“I don’t know what the hell that is, but you catch my drift?”

Moose had moved down to drape over him like a scarf, warm and little and soft. Sweet little guy; he always took care of his dads. And Stan had a support system. He’d be okay. “I’m picking up what you’re putting down, dude,” he said into the phone. “Distractions that aren’t physical, but keep me engaged, right?”

“And bingo was his name-o,” Mark confirmed. “Good to think of some that you can do when you’re my age, anyway. You ain’t gonna be Superman forever, right?”

“Dude-“ Stan heard the security door open, finally. Kyle.

Mark interrupted. “I know you got that whole thing about age, kid, sorry. I know you’re strugglin’ so how’s about we just focus on today. That boyfriend of yours taking care of ya?”

“Mhm. I’m pretty sure he just got home.” Yeah, definitely, because Stan could hear the voice of Sheila Broflovski through the door, and Kyle probably didn’t even have her on speaker. “Yeah, he’s home, and on the phone with his mom.”

“Uh oh,” Mark laughed. He had heard many a tale. “She’s gonna give you an earful. I’ll let ya go, then. You can call me anytime, okay? It works if you work it.”

“It works if you work it,” Stan repeated. “Thanks, dude. I’ll probably skip tonight, but I’ll call into the meeting tomorrow, okay?”

“Gotcha. Tell Kyle and y’all’s critter I say hi.”

“Will do.”

Right as he ended the call, Kyle burst in, arms full of Walgreens bags and his phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder, looking hilariously frazzled. “Oh my GOD, Ma, look okay, he is literally right here just- OKAY, Jesus, yes I’m putting him on-“ he gave Stan an expression that clearly was asking if he was up for this. Stan nodded and grabbed the phone so Kyle could get everything set down.

“I’m here.”

“STANLEY!!! Are you okay?! Oh my GOODNESS I can absolutely drive up- do you need anything?! Have you told Sharon?”

Kyle mouthed “don’t blame me”. Stan shifted a little. He’d been talking a lot for the past half hour and he was actually starting to have trouble catching his breath. “No ma’am, I- wait, how did you find out?”

“Your friend Bebe’s gossip list! She posted to Facebook and said “a certain vet got kicked by a horse” and I just KNEW IT WAS YOU! Kyle said he was picking up your medication?”

“Fuckin-“ Kyle took the phone back. “Ma, okay, I’ve got him. I’m going to take care of him and- Ma. I’m not putting Stan back on the phone. It hurts him to talk. Yes, I’ll tell his mom. No, he’s on bed rest. Do you seriously think I’m letting him out of my- okay, okay, sorry, no- oh my God, I’m not making chicken noodle soup, he’s been vegetarian for twenty years, Ma. Alright. We love you too. Christ, yes, I’m eating. Please don’t start right now. Alright. Yes. We got it. Okay. I’ll keep you updated. Yeah, love you. Bye.”

Kyle slumped over the kitchen island, groaning. “If you say anything about me being exactly like my mother, I’m gonna be super annoying and not run interference next time she calls.”

“Pretty sure you’re not beating the Sheila allegations, baby.”

“Ughhhhh.”

Stan reached his hand backwards, eyes closed, waiting for his partner to take it. “Talked to Mark.”

Kyle took his hand, kneeling by the couch and kissing his forehead. “Good, sweetheart. Do you think you’re okay to get some medicine in you? I know it hurts.”

He was always so thoughtful, so gentle with him, and not in a condescending way, either. No wonder Kyle was so good at his job. He could handle a grown ass man emotional over broken bones; angsty preteens were probably a cakewalk to him.

Stan bypassed the cat across his chest, lifting the ice pack from his lower torso. “How’s it looking?”

“Oh, honey.” Kyle sounded genuinely distressed, and Stan opened his eyes to see his partner actually genuinely distressed. “Stan, I can see the hoof print!”

“…damn.”

“Jesus, dude, you poor thing. ” He stood back up and grabbed the prescription bag from the counter, along with a snack sized yogurt from one of the bags. “Solution time.”

“I’m listening.” He’d take just about any idea. It hurt.

“Here’s what I’m thinking. I got a few things of that coconut yogurt you like. I checked with the pharmacist and she said we can crush up your painkillers into it if you want, if you’re not feeling the swallowing pills. I can keep up with your dosage schedule so you don’t need to think about it.” He tilted Stan’s face up to make sure they were seeing eye to eye. “But if you want to take them less often and stick to ice and over the counters, that’s okay. I’ll handle the thinking about shit, and you handle the taking it easy.”

Stan eyed the bottle. “Are they gonna make me sleepy?” The thought scared him.

“Oh, dude.” Kyle could strategize incredibly, though. “We can start with half, okay? It isn’t likely that they’ll knock you out, sweetheart. You’re not a small guy, and I asked. Dosage isn’t high. And you say the word; we work something else out. First priority is keeping you comfortable so you can heal, okay? Does that help?”

“I’m gonna be okay.”

“Yeah, you are,” Kyle assured him. “I’m right here, you know how to deal with this, and you’ll be better before you know it. Now, some meds and I’ll help you upstairs? We can take a nap? I’ll be right there, dude. Keep you from moving around too much.”

He knew damn well Kyle wouldn’t be sleeping a wink. But he nodded. “You’re for real gonna feed me my painkillers in yogurt like I’m a puppy?”

Kyle grinned. “Whatever works.” He reached over to pet Moose. “Whatcha think, young nastyman? Do I have good plans or what?”

Stan slowly sat up, an arm around his midsection and definitely not comfortable, but that was alright. Pretty soon he’d be able to breathe a little better. “What would I do without you, Ky?”

#them #south park #style #Bedtime Stories With PCE #my shit #OrangeJuiceVerse #BBFA2 #fanfiction on tumblr #idk how to tag this #injury #broken ribs #whump #idk #fanfiction #snippet

15 notes · View notes