#open tibia

[the-offside-rule]

Lando Norris (McLaren) - The Almost Kiss

Requested: yes

Prompt: Lando is out for the season and catches feeling for his replacement

Warnings: nope

Y/n jolted awake to the buzzing of her phone on the bedside table, the sound pulling her out of a deep sleep. Her hand fumbled for it, and when she finally answered, the grogginess was replaced with confusion. "Hello, Y/n." She mumbled. "Y/n, it’s Andrea. You need to come to the McLaren factory. Immediately." Her heart raced. She wasn’t used to getting calls this early in the morning. What could possibly be happening? Y/n was a reserve driver, sure, but there hadn’t been any news of anything happening to the main drivers. "Yeah, I'll get dressed and be in soon."

Half-dressed, still trying to wake up fully, she rushed to the factory, nerves on edge. By the time she arrived, her mind was racing with possibilities. When she stepped inside, the atmosphere felt tense, and she spotted Zak waiting for her. "Y/n." Zak started as soon as she was within earshot. "What's happening?" Y/n asked as Zak put his arm around her to lead her up towards the meeting rooms. "Lando’s out. He’s had an accident, nothing too serious, but enough to sideline him for the rest of the season." Her eyes widened. "Oh my god, how's that happened?" Zak rubbed his forehead. "He was out last night, partying because of his first win, took a fall, broke his tibia. We’ve had it confirmed that he won’t be able to drive for the rest of the season."

Y/n’s heart pounded in her chest. This was it, this was her chance. But the weight of the situation also sank in. Lando was injured, and she was being thrown into one of the biggest opportunities of her career. "We need you to step up." Zak continued, his voice firm but encouraging. "You’ll be taking Lando’s place. Effective immediately." She nodded, adrenaline pumping. This was what she had trained for, but the circumstances made it feel surreal. She was going to be one of McLaren’s main drivers.

The next few days were a whirlwind. Hours in the simulator, endless debriefs, and preparing for her first race as the primary driver. Every evening, Y/n found herself staying late, pushing herself in the simulator, wanting to prove she was ready for the challenge.

One evening, as she was deeply immersed in the simulation, the door to the room creaked open. She glanced up to see Lando standing there in a set of crutches, but a smile on his face. "Aren't you meant to be in a wheelchair for a while?" Y/n asked. "Yeah, but I like walking around on my one leg." He replied. "So you're a cripple then?" Lando laughed as he hobbled over towards the side of the simulator. "Need some help?" He asked casually. Y/n blinked, surprised. "You sure? I know you have to go to rehabilitation training and physio and-" Lando chuckled. "Yeah, well, I’ve got time. And besides, I figured I could help coach you a bit. You know, since I’ve been around for a while." Y/n smiled gratefully. "I’d appreciate that."

For the next few hours, Lando stood in the race engineer box of the simulator, giving tips and feedback, helping her adjust to the intricacies of McLaren’s car. His advice was invaluable, but more than that, it was nice to have him there calm, supportive, and surprisingly humble.

As the weeks passed, they grew closer. Between races and simulator sessions, they began to spend more time together. It started with casual meals in the motorhome, sharing laughs about life on the circuit, and then evenings spent debriefing together. The more time they spent with each other, the more their friendship deepened, and Y/n couldn’t help but notice how easy it was to be around him. It wasn’t long before she found herself in Monaco with him, where he had invited her to move into his place, just to make things easier between races. What had started as a practical arrangement became something much more meaningful. They would cook together, joke around, and occasionally sit in comfortable silence, watching the sunset over the harbor.

One of the first mornings she had spent in her bew apartment, Y/n had barely stirred from her peaceful slumber when a knock echoed through her apartment. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The world outside was only starting to light up as the sun rose over the principality through her blinds. She glanced at her phone. 7:00 AM? Who could that be? Reluctantly, she slid out of bed, tugging a hoodie over her sleep shirt as she padded barefoot toward the door. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

"I'm coming, hold on." She mumbled under her breath, unlocking the door and swinging it open. To her surprise, standing on the other side of the threshold was none other than Lando, looking fresh despite the ungodly hour. He offered her a crooked grin, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. "Lando?" She asked in disbelief, her voice still thick with sleep. "How on earth did you get up here?" He gave a nonchalant shrug, his boyish grin widening. "The lift."

"Obviously." She deadpanned, leaning against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow. "But why? And why are you knocking on my door at-" She glanced at her phone again. "7 AM?" Lando shifted on his feet, looking almost sheepish for a moment. "I have a rehab session and I really don't want to go alone. Thought maybe you'd want to tag along?" His eyes met hers with a hopeful glint. Y/n blinked, processing his request. "You came all the way here just to ask me to go to rehab with you?"

"Well, yeah. Plus, I needed a ride." His grin turned cheeky, and she couldn't help but roll her eyes, though the hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "Lando, you have a whole team of people at your disposal. You could’ve called one of them."

"Yeah, but they're not you." He said with a smirk, and something in his casual tone made her heart skip a beat. "So, you coming or what?" He asked. "What's in it for me?" She challenged, letting him in. "A stop at the cafe du Paris if you get me to physio on time." Y/n sighed, shaking her head in amused disbelief. "Alright, alright. Let me get changed. Give me five minutes." Lando slumped down onto her sofa. "You're the best."

She quickly disappeared back into her room, rifling through her drawers for something more appropriate than her pajamas. As she threw on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, she couldn't help but smile to herself. Lando showing up out of the blue like this wasn’t exactly unusual—it was one of the things she liked about their friendship. He was spontaneous, always keeping her on her toes. Within minutes, Y/n was ready, grabbing her keys and slipping on a pair of sneakers as she met Lando by the door. He was already scrolling through his phone, humming under his breath.

"Let's go." She said, as Lando turned and hobled out the door. "Jesus, mate. You need to get out of these crutches, it's scaring away all the women." She joked. "Chick's dig this." Labdo replied. "I must be immune, Norris." They headed down the hallway and into the lift, Lando still chatting away about his recent races and how his shoulder injury was making training a nightmare. Y/n listened with a fond smile, appreciating how comfortable their conversations always were. It didn’t matter that it was now half 7 in the morning, and she hadn’t had her coffee yet; being around him always had a way of brightening her day. Once they reached the car, she slid into the driver’s seat, glancing over at him. "You sure you're okay with this?"

"Of course." Lando said, buckling in. "It's just rehab. But I appreciate you coming with me." Y/n nodded as she started the engine, pulling out of the parking garage. The early morning streets were quiet, making the drive peaceful. The two of them fell into easy conversation, and before she knew it, they were pulling up to his physios home. Lando turned to her as they parked. "Thanks for this, really. You didn’t have to."

"I know." She replied with a soft smile. "That's what makes me so nice." He returned her smile, lingering for a moment before unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the car. "Oh, the bestest ever." He replied mockingly.

The teasing,the coffees, it was all just part of this great friendship they had going on. Yet, beneath the surface, there was a growing tension. Unspoken feelings hung in the air between them, but neither dared to address it.

One race weekend, however, everything changed. Y/n had been hit with a penalty that she fiercely believed was unjust. After a heated argument with the stewards, she was slapped with a fine, and her frustration boiled over. Storming out of the stewards’ room, she avoided everyone, ignoring the calls from the press. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, let alone deal with interviews. She locked herself in her driver room, letting the anger simmer as she paced the small space. A knock came at the door.

"I'm not doing press today guys!" She shouted, her voice still edged with anger. There was a pause, and then a familiar voice replied. "It’s me." Her heart skipped a beat. It was Lando. Hesitant, she walked over and unlocked the door. He stepped inside, his expression soft, understanding. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, closing the door behind him. Y/n huffed, her hands running through her hair. "I just… I can’t believe this. That penalty wasn’t fair, and now I have to deal with a fine on top of it." Lando watched her for a moment, then stepped closer. "I get it. I’ve been there before. But you need to calm down, or it’ll just eat at you."

Y/n turned to him, her frustration still evident, but his presence was oddly comforting. There was a silence between them as they stood close, neither knowing what to say next. The tension from the room seemed to shift, no longer about the race or the penalty. They gazed at each other, the air between them thick with something unspoken. Slowly, they leaned in, the distance between them closing. But just before their lips could meet, there was another knock at the door. Y/n jerked back, startled. "Interviews, Y/n. You need to go." Came the voice from the other side of the door. Her heart racing, Y/n glanced at Lando, her mind spinning. Without another word, she bolted for the door, leaving Lando behind.

As she rushed to the media area, her thoughts were a whirlwind. Was Lando in love with her? Did she feel the same way? She couldn’t stop replaying that almost-kiss in her mind. Meanwhile, Lando stayed back in her room, wondering the exact same thing.

[23victoria]

Am I Still Me? ❀

f1 grid x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader

wc: 6.6k+

summary: the aftermath of y/n’s horrible crash in suzaka, part 2 to ready, set, suzuka!!

warnings: cussing, angsty, sad, kinda depressing ig, emotional and physical trauma

authors note: sorry i took so long with this, honestly didn’t know what to write 😭💀, also if you get some of the references i put in here and characters names you a real one!! any feedback is appreciated and please like, comment, and reblog!! hope you enjoy!!

PART 1

f1 masterlist

The beeping of machines, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the distant murmurs of nurses and doctors—it all blurs together into a foggy haze. When you finally open your eyes, it’s like surfacing from a deep, dark ocean. The light is too bright, the sounds too sharp. Your body feels heavy, achingly so, and it takes a moment for the fog to clear enough for you to remember why you're here.

The Japan Grand Prix. The crash. The pain.

Your vision focuses slowly, revealing the worried faces of your parents, sitting by your bedside. Your mother's eyes are red-rimmed, and your father's face is etched with concern. When they see you awake, relief floods their expressions.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re awake.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry and scratchy. Your dad quickly offers you a sip of water, helping you take small, careful sips.

“How long…?” you manage to croak out, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“About a week,” he replies gently. “They had you in an induced coma to help your body heal.”

You try to take in the information, but your mind is sluggish, struggling to process it all. You notice the casts on your left leg, the bandages wrapped around your torso. Every breath sends a dull ache through your ribs.

“Your injuries were severe,” your mom says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “The doctor said you had a punctured lung and liver, three broken ribs, a laceration to your kidney, and broken femur and tibia in your left leg. The doctors… they did everything they could.”

The gravity of her words sinks in slowly. You close your eyes, tears escaping, feeling the weight of your injuries, the immense road to recovery ahead.

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The days blur together, filled with endless medical procedures and physical therapy sessions. The pain is constant, a relentless companion that gnaws at your resolve. The physical therapy is grueling, each session pushing your body to its limits. Your left leg, encased in a cast, feels like it’s made of lead. The simplest movements send waves of pain through you.

Your parents are always there, their support unwavering, but you can see the toll it’s taking on them. They try to hide it, but you notice the way your mother’s hands tremble when she thinks you’re not looking, or the way your father’s shoulders sag with exhaustion.

It’s not just the physical pain that wears you down. The psychological toll is immense. The fear, the uncertainty—it’s all-consuming. The thought of never racing again haunts you, a dark cloud that looms over every waking moment.

Despite their best efforts, the doctors and therapists can’t hide the reality from you. Your injuries are severe, and the road to recovery is long and uncertain. There are no guarantees that you’ll ever be able to race again.

A few weeks into your recovery, your finally allowed visitors, you receive a visit from Max. He enters the room with a tentative smile, looking unsure of how to approach you.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, his voice soft. “How are you holding up?”

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’ve been better,” you admit, your voice tinged with bitterness.

Max sits beside your bed, his expression serious. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through,” he says. “But I want you to know that we’re all here for you. Whatever you need.”

You nod, grateful for his words but unable to shake the feeling of despair that clings to you. “Thanks, Max,” you say quietly. “It means a lot.”

He stays for a while, chatting about the latest races and team developments, trying to lift your spirits. But when he leaves, the emptiness returns, heavier than before.

Lewis visits next, his brotherly presence a comforting balm. He’s always been a source of inspiration and comfort for you, and seeing him now brings a glimmer of hope.

“Hey Y/N/N,” he says warmly, enveloping you in a gentle hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

You manage a weak smile. “Thanks for coming, Lew.”

He sits with you, sharing stories and offering words of encouragement. “You’re one of the strongest people I know,” he tells you. “If anyone can come back from this, it’s you.”

His words touch you deeply, but the doubts still linger.

George's visit is bittersweet. He’s always been like a brother to you, and seeing his concern is both comforting and heartbreaking.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he says softly, his eyes filled with worry. ��How are you holding up?”

You shrug, trying to mask your frustration. “Some days are better than others.”

He takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I know it’s tough, but you’re not alone in this. We’re all here for you.”

You nod, but the words feel hollow. The reality of your situation is a heavy burden, one that seems to grow with each passing day.

Lando brings a burst of energy into your room, his usual cheeky grin tempered by concern. “Hey, superstar,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re looking better than I expected.”

You chuckle, appreciating his attempt to make you laugh. “Thanks, Lando. I guess I clean up well.”

He spends the visit telling you funny stories and trying to distract you from your pain. For a brief moment, you almost forget about your troubles. But when he leaves, the emptiness returns with a vengeance.

Oscar visit is quieter, more introspective. He’s always been a man of few words, and today is no different.

“Y/N/N,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

“Thanks, Oscar,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sits beside you, his presence a comforting anchor. “So…what do you wanna talk about?,” he says simply.

You look at him surprised, “What do I want to talk about?”

“Yea, what did you want to talk about” he says softly.

“You're not going to tell me that “You're strong, you’ve got this, you're gonna overcome this” you say indifferently.

He shakes his head saying “Nope.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Because I'm pretty sure everyone else who visited you has said the same thing, so I want to know what you want to talk about. Any good shows you’ve been watching? Hospital drama? Yes, no, maybe? Tell me I wanna know” he says gently.

You smile at him, greatly appreciating the normalcy his bring. You smile saying, “Did you bring food?”

He smirks, laughing “Yes I brought you y/f/f.”

You squeal, happy to have some outside food, the hospital starting to bore you. “Yes, there is some hospital drama. Apparently a resident has been sleeping with a neurosurgeon, and get this, he was married the whole time! And he didn’t tell her until his wife showed up last night for a case!” you say opening your bag of food.

Oscar looks at you in shock, “No way! Holy shit! Tell me more!”

Charles visit is the hardest. He’s always been your closest friend on the circuit, and seeing the pain in his eyes is almost too much to bear.

“Y/N/N,” he says, his voice choked with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

“Charles,” you say, reaching out to take his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

He nods, but you can see the guilt etched into his features. “I know but I still feel like I should’ve been there for you earlier,” he says quietly.

“You were,” you reply, your voice firm. “And you still are.”

He stays with you for a long time, his presence a comforting reminder of the bond you share. But even his support can’t chase away the shadows that cling to your mind.

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One particularly difficult day, you’re in the middle of a grueling physical therapy session. The pain in your left leg is excruciating, and every movement feels like a battle. You’re sweating, gasping for breath, and on the verge of tears.

“I can’t do this,” you whisper, your voice trembling with frustration and pain. “It’s too hard.”

Your physical therapist, a kind but firm woman named Maria, looks at you with sympathy. “I know it’s hard, Y/N,” she says gently. “But you’re stronger than you think. You’ve come so far already. Don’t give up now.”

You want to believe her, but the doubts are overwhelming. The thought of never racing again haunts you, a constant shadow that refuses to be dispelled.

“I’m worried about her, Y/F/N,” your mom says, her voice thick with worry. “She’s losing hope.”

“I know,” he replies, his voice equally troubled. “We need to do something.”

The next day, they call a meeting with all the drivers who have visited you. They gather together like a small conference room, their faces etched with concern.

“Thank you all for coming,” your dad begins, his voice serious. “We wanted to talk to you about Y/N. She’s struggling, and we need your help.”

Your mom nods, her eyes filled with tears. “She’s losing hope, and we’re afraid she’s going to give up. We need you to remind her of the fighter she is, to help her see that she can get through this.”

Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, Max, and Charles exchange worried glances, their expressions serious. They all care deeply about you, and the thought of you giving up is unbearable.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” Lewis says firmly. “We’re not going to let her give up.”

The others nod in agreement, their resolve clear. They begin to plan regular visits, phone calls, and messages of encouragement, determined to lift your spirits and help you see the light at the end of the tunnel.

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The next few weeks bring a steady stream of visitors. Max is the first to arrive, his usual confidence tempered by concern.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, sitting beside your bed. “I brought you something.”

He hands you a small box, and when you open it, you find a miniature model of your race car. “I thought it might help you remember what you’re fighting for,” he says quietly.

You smile, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Max. It means a lot.”

Lewis is next, bringing a stack of racing magazines and a collection of your favorite movies. “I thought you could use some entertainment,” he says with a smile.

George brings a scrapbook filled with photos and memories from your racing career. “I want you to remember how far you’ve come,” he says softly.

Lando arrives with a box of your favorite snacks and a playlist of uplifting songs. “Music always helps me when I’m feeling down,” he says with a grin.

Oscar arrives with a stack of books, his quiet presence a calming balm. “I know you love to read,” he says simply. “I thought these might help you pass the time.”

Charles comes last, bringing a framed photo of the two of you celebrating after a race. “I want you to remember all the good times we’ve had,” he says softly. “And all the ones we still have ahead of us.”

Their visits bring a small measure of comfort, but the road to recovery remains daunting. The physical pain is relentless, and the psychological toll is equally severe. There are days when you feel like giving up, when the thought of never racing again is too much to bear.

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Today was another day of physical therapy, the room was sterile, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on the rows of equipment in the physical therapy room. You sat on the padded bench, beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. Your physical therapist, Maria, stood in front of you, her expression firm yet encouraging.

"Alright, Y/N, we're going to try to put a little more weight on your leg today," Maria said, her voice gentle but insistent. "You’re making great progress, but we need to push a bit more."

You nodded mechanically, gritting your teeth. The pain was a constant, gnawing presence in your leg, a cruel reminder of the crash that had shattered more than just your bones. You took a deep breath and tried to stand, but the agony was immediate and overwhelming. You crumpled back onto the bench, gasping.

"Come on, Y/N, you can do this," Maria urged. "Just one more try."

Something inside you snapped. The relentless pain, the frustration, the overwhelming sense of loss—everything boiled to the surface. You exploded.

"NO! NO! NO! I CAN'T DO THIS!" you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls. "I CAN'T! IT HURTS! I'M IN PAIN! AND DON'T YOU TELL ME YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS WHEN YOU DON'T! YOU HAVEN'T LOST THE ABILITY TO WALK! YOU HAVEN'T BEEN TOLD YOU MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO DO THE ONE THING THAT GAVE PURPOSE TO YOUR LIFE!"

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Maria's face paled, and she took a step back, her hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Y/N, I—" she began, but you cut her off.

"Just please, take me to my room," you said, your voice breaking. "I can't do this anymore."

Maria hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Okay," she said softly. She turned to call a nurse. "Please take Y/N back to her room."

The nurse arrived within minutes, her face a mask of professional concern. She helped you into a wheelchair and wheeled you down the long, sterile corridors back to your room. The journey was a blur, the walls closing in on you, each turn of the wheel a reminder of your limitations.

Once inside your room, you pushed yourself onto the bed, curling up into a ball. The nurse lingered for a moment, her eyes filled with sympathy.

"Do you need anything, Y/N?" she asked quietly.

"No," you muttered. "Just leave me alone."

The nurse nodded and exited, closing the door softly behind her. The silence that followed was deafening. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of despair settle over you. The hours dragged by, each second a reminder of the future that felt increasingly out of reach.

You heard the faint knock on the door but didn’t respond. You knew it was someone coming to check on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The knocks continued throughout the day, but you ignored them all.

You didn’t eat, didn’t speak, didn’t move. The room grew darker as the hours passed, the light outside fading into night. The pain in your leg was nothing compared to the ache in your heart, the sense of hopelessness that had settled in like a lead weight.

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Nights like this are the hardest. The darkness magnifies your fears, turning whispers of doubt into deafening roars. It’s one of those nights now, the kind where sleep seems impossible. The weight of your injuries and the uncertainty of your future press down on you like a suffocating blanket.

A soft knock on your hospital door interrupts your spiral of despair. It’s Charles, his silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. He steps inside quietly, his eyes searching yours with concern.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling up a chair next to your bed. “I heard what happened, thought I’d check on you.”

You manage a weak smile, but it quickly fades. “Thanks for coming,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I’m not great company right now.”

He takes your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to be. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

For a moment, the two of you sit in silence, the weight of your shared pain filling the room. Then, the dam breaks.

“I don’t know how to do this, Charles,” you confess, your voice trembling. “Every day feels like a battle, and I’m so tired. I’m scared I’ll never race again. Racing is everything to me. It’s my passion, my dream. And now… I feel like it’s slipping away.”

Tears stream down your face, and Charles moves closer, wrapping his arms around you. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out all the pain and frustration you’ve been holding in. His embrace is warm and strong, a safe haven in your storm of emotions.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice breaking with emotion. “I know how much racing means to you. It’s not fair what’s happened. It’s not fair that you’re hurting like this.”

You pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. You can see the tears there too, the raw pain he’s been holding back. “Charles, I feel like my life is over. If I can’t race… what’s the point? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Without it, I don’t know who I am.”

He cups your face in his hands, his eyes filled with determination and love. “Y/N, you are so much more than a racer. You’re strong, and brave, and passionate. You’ve touched so many lives, including mine. This injury doesn’t define you. You do.”

You shake your head, the weight of despair still heavy on your heart. “But what if I can’t do it? What if I can never race again?”

Charles’s grip on you tightens, his voice firm but gentle. “Then we’ll find a new dream, together. But I believe in you, Y/N. I’ve seen what you can do. You’ve overcome so much already. Don’t give up now.”

His words pierce through the fog of your despair, lighting a small spark of hope. “But what if I fail? What if I can’t come back from this?”

Charles’s eyes lock onto yours, filled with a fierce resolve. “Then I’ll be there to catch you, every step of the way. We’ll face it together, no matter what. You’re not alone in this, and you never will be.”

The sincerity in his voice, the unwavering support in his eyes, brings fresh tears to your eyes. “Charles, I’m so scared.”

“I know,” he whispers, his own tears falling freely now. “And it’s okay to be scared. But don’t let fear steal your dreams. We’ll fight this, one day at a time.”

You lean into him, your hearts beating in sync as you cry together, the shared pain and love binding you closer than ever. In his arms, you find a flicker of hope, a reason to keep fighting.

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The next day your parents come in, their expressions filled with concern. They sit on either side of your bed, each taking one of your hands.

“Y/N,” your mother says softly, her voice filled with emotion. “We know you’re going through a lot. But we’re here for you, every step of the way.”

Your father nods, his grip on your hand firm and reassuring. “You’re not alone in this. We’re all rooting for you. And so are your friends.”

You nod, but the doubts still linger. The thought of facing another day of pain and struggle is almost too much to bear.

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It’s been five miserable and grueling months in the hospital. You’ve improved a lot, the doctors say but you just feel like you're stuck in limbo, going nowhere. Today you receive a surprise visit from all the drivers at once. Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, Max, and Charles fill your room, their presence a comforting reminder of the support you have.

“Hey, superstar,” Lando says with a grin. “We’ve got a little surprise for you.”

He hands you a small box, and when you open it, you find a collection of letters and messages from fans all over the world. Each one is filled with words of encouragement and support, reminding you of the impact you’ve had on so many lives.

You feel a lump in your throat as you read through the letters, each one a reminder of why you started racing in the first place. The passion, the thrill, the joy—it’s all still there, buried beneath the pain and fear.

“We’re not going to let you give up,” Max says firmly. “You’re one of the strongest people we know. And we believe in you.”

Lewis nods, his expression serious. “You’ve overcome so much already. This is just another challenge, and we know you can get through it.”

George takes your hand, his eyes filled with determination. “We’re here for you, Y/N/N. Every step of the way.”

The others nod in agreement, their support unwavering. In that moment, you feel a flicker of hope, a small but growing light in the darkness.

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As the days fly by, the recovery process grinds on. The physical and psychiatric therapy sessions remain grueling, one pushing your body to its limits and the other peeling back layers of fear and doubt you didn't even know existed. You're forced to confront not just the physical pain, but the emotional turmoil of possibly losing the one thing that has defined you for so long: racing.

“Tell me about your fears, Y/N,” Dr. Yang, your therapist, prompts gently during one of your sessions.

You take a deep breath, the words sticking in your throat. “I’m terrified that I’ll never be the same again,” you admit. “Racing was everything to me. It was my passion, my identity. What if I can’t do it anymore? What if I’m not...me?”

Dr. Yang nods, her eyes full of understanding. “It’s natural to feel that way. But remember, you’re more than just a driver. You have other strengths, other passions.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “But I don’t want to be anyone else. I don’t know how to be anyone else. Racing was my life. Without it, I feel...lost.”

Dr. Yang leans forward, her voice soft but firm. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience, Y/N. It’s okay to feel lost right now. But this is also an opportunity to discover new parts of yourself, to grow in ways you never imagined.”

The thought of having to reinvent yourself is daunting. The stress and anxiety of not being able to race again loom large, casting long shadows over your recovery. Each day is a battle against these fears, a struggle to hold onto the hope that you can still find a way back to the track.

Each therapy session, both physical and psychiatric, feels like an uphill battle. The pain, both physical and emotional, is relentless, and the progress often feels painfully slow.

During one particularly tough session, you break down. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you sob, the tears streaming down your face. “I don’t know if I can ever be the Y/N I used to be.”

Dr. Yang sits quietly for a moment, letting your words hang in the air. “You’re right,” she says finally. “You might never be the same Y/N you were before the accident. But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a new version of yourself, one who is just as strong and passionate, even if in different ways.”

Her words strike a chord, the truth of them both painful and liberating.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

One day, after a successful therapy session, you receive another surprise visit from Charles. He enters the room with a bright smile, holding a small box.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he says, his voice filled with warmth. “I’ve got something for you.”

You open the box to find a small, intricately designed keychain in the shape of a racing car. “It’s beautiful,” you say, touched by the gesture.

“It’s a reminder,” Charles says softly. “Of your passion, your strength, and your determination. No matter what happens, you’re still a racer at heart.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes, but this time they’re tears of gratitude. “Thank you, Charles,” you say, your voice choked with emotion. “I needed this.”

He smiles, his eyes filled with warmth. “We all believe in you, Y/N. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

The days that follow are still hard, but the nights are a little easier with Charles by your side. One night, as you’re lying in bed, exhausted from another day of therapy, Charles sits beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said,” he begins, his voice soft and contemplative.

“About what?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.

“About racing being your life, your dream,” he replies. “I get it. Racing is my dream too. But I’ve realized something important. Dreams can evolve. They can grow. And sometimes, when one dream ends, it makes room for a new one.”

You look at him, your eyes searching his. “What do you mean?”

He smiles, a small, hopeful smile. “I mean that no matter what happens, you’re not defined by this one thing. You have so much passion, so much drive. If racing isn’t in the cards anymore, I know you’ll find something else that lights that fire in you. And I’ll be there to support you, every step of the way.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, soothing the deep wounds of doubt and fear. “Thank you, Charles,” you whisper, your voice filled with gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he replies, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

The days continue to blur together, but with each passing week, you begin to see more progress. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer as overwhelming. The therapy sessions remain challenging, but you start to look forward to them, eager to see how far you can push yourself.

Your friends and family continue to visit regularly, their support a constant source of strength. Max, Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, and Charles all make it a point to check in on you, their encouragement lifting your spirits.

And through it all, Charles is by your side, his presence a comforting reminder that you’re not alone in this fight. His unwavering support, his quiet strength, his deep love—they’re the anchors that keep you grounded, the lights that guide you through the darkest nights.

As the months continue to pass, you begin to see more and more progress. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer as overwhelming. The therapy sessions remain challenging, but you start to look forward to them, eager to see how far you can push yourself.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

It's been six months since the accident. Half a year of relentless therapy, sleepless nights, and countless tears. But today, as you sit in the hospital's discharge room, a sense of cautious optimism fills the air.

Dr. Yang, your psychiatrist, and Dr. Miller, your orthopedic specialist, sit across from you. Dr. Miller adjusts his glasses and smiles warmly. "Y/N, I have to say, your progress has been remarkable. You're officially discharged."

You exhale, a weight lifting off your shoulders. "Thank you, Dr. Miller. Thank you, Dr. Yang."

Dr. Miller nods. "Remember, Y/N, this is just the beginning. You'll need to continue with your physical therapy and workouts to strengthen your body. We also need you to come in for your planned appointments. But if you keep up the good work, we're hopeful you could start racing again by next year."

Dr. Yang chimes in, "In about a month, you can begin to slowly train with your racing trainers to get back to racing. We know how much this means to you."

The relief washes over you. The thought of getting back behind the wheel, even if it's just in training, ignites a flicker of hope.

"Thank you both," you say, your voice trembling with emotion. "I can't wait to get back to it."

As you leave the discharge room, your heart pounds with a mix of excitement and nervousness. The past six months have been a rollercoaster of emotions, but today, you feel a renewed sense of purpose.

When you step out of the hospital doors, a loud cheer erupts. There, standing together, are the boys: Charles, Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, and Max. They hold up a large banner that reads, "Welcome Back, Y/N!" and they're all grinning from ear to ear.

Charles is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug. "We knew you could do it," he whispers.

Lewis steps forward next, a proud smile on his face. "Told you, didn't I? You're stronger than you think."

George gives you a high five, his excitement palpable. "Y/N’s back in action!"

Lando and Oscar cheer loudly, their enthusiasm infectious. "We missed you!" they say in unison.

Max, usually so stoic, actually looks emotional. "You had us worried for a while, but we never doubted you'd be back."

You laugh, wiping away happy tears. "Thank you, guys. I couldn't have done this without your support."

Charles takes your hand, his eyes shining with pride. "Let's get you home."

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

The drive home is filled with laughter and lighthearted banter. The boys recount stories from the past six months, filling you in on all the racing drama you've missed. It's comforting to know that life has continued on the track, even as you've fought your personal battles.

Once home, you step into your apartment, which has been kept in perfect order by your parents. The familiar surroundings bring a sense of peace. Your parents are there, tears of joy in their eyes as they welcome you back.

"You're home, sweetheart," your mom says, hugging you tightly.

Your dad smiles, his pride evident. "We're so proud of you, Y/N."

Over the next few weeks, you settle into a routine. Physical therapy sessions continue, and you push yourself harder than ever, determined to regain your strength. The boys visit often, their presence a constant source of encouragement.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

A month later, you're cleared to start light training with your racing trainers. The anticipation is overwhelming as you step into the familiar surroundings of the training facility. Your trainer, Tyler, greets you with a wide smile.

"Welcome back, Y/N. Ready to get to work?"

You nod, your heart pounding with excitement. "Absolutely."

The training is rigorous, but the thrill of being back in the environment you love so much drives you forward. The first time you sit in a simulator again, your hands tremble slightly, but as you grip the wheel, a sense of calm washes over you. This is where you belong.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

As the months pass by, your progress is nothing short of extraordinary. Your body grows stronger, and your confidence begins to return. You start to believe that racing again is not just a distant dream but a tangible reality.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, you go to visit Charles at his apartment, you sit with Charles on the balcony, looking out over the city lights.

"I was so scared," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Scared that I'd never feel this again. The rush, the passion."

Charles wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. "I know. But look at you now. You're doing it, Y/N/N. You're coming back stronger than ever."

You smile, resting your head on his shoulder. "I couldn't have done it without you, without all of you."

He kisses the top of your head. "We'll always be here for you."

"Charles," you begin, your voice soft but filled with sincerity, "Thank you. Through everything that's happened, you've been my rock. You stayed by my side, through the tears, the pain, the doubt. You've been my anchor, keeping me grounded when I felt like I was drowning."

Charles reaches out, gently taking your hand in his. "Y/N," he says, his eyes searching yours, "you don't have to thank me. I care about you more than anything in this world. When I saw what happened, I was scared. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I'm just grateful that you're here with me today."

Tears well up in your eyes as you squeeze his hand, overcome with emotion. "Charles, you mean everything to me. I don't know what I would do without you."

He brushes a tear from your cheek, his touch gentle and comforting. "I love you, Y/N" he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've loved you from the moment I met you. And now, seeing you here, stronger than ever, I know that my love for you will never waver."

You meet his gaze, your heart bursting with love. "I love you," you say, the words spilling from your lips like a prayer. "With all my heart and soul, now and forever."

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

It’s a new year, the new racing season buzzed with anticipation. Rumors swirled like wildfires about Mercedes’ new driver. Speculation ran rampant—some said it could be Sebastian Vettel, making a surprise return, while others thought it might be another seasoned veteran. Few dared to hope that it could be Y/N, the driver whose crash had left a deep scar on the hearts of fans worldwide. Yet, the more optimistic whispered her name with a sense of defiant hope.

As the Australian Grand Prix approached, Mercedes remained tight-lipped, stoking the fires of speculation. The paddock was electric with curiosity, journalists and fans alike desperate for any clue. The suspense reached a fever pitch during the free practices and qualifying rounds, as an anonymous driver in the silver arrow of Mercedes set blazing lap times, ultimately securing third place on the grid.

Race day dawned bright and clear, the air humming with excitement. The stands were packed, and millions of eyes worldwide were glued to their screens, waiting for the moment of revelation. As the clock ticked down to the start of the race, the Mercedes garage was a hive of activity, the tension palpable.

Then, the announcement came over the loudspeakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to meet Mercedes’ new driver.” The garage doors opened, and out stepped Y/N, her familiar figure met with a moment of stunned silence before the crowd erupted into deafening cheers. The roar of support was overwhelming, a testament to the impact she had made in her career and the resilience she had shown in her recovery.

Sky Sports' David Croft, commonly known as Crofty, was almost speechless as he watched her walk to her car. “What an incredible moment, ladies and gentlemen. Y/N L/N, a name synonymous with tenacity and talent, has made her triumphant return to Formula One. After everything she’s been through, to see her here, ready to race, is nothing short of miraculous. Welcome back, Y/N.”

You waved to the crowd, heart swelling with emotion. You climbed into the car, focus shifting to the task at hand. You were back where you belonged.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

As the lights went out, signaling the start of the race, your heart pounded with adrenaline. You launched off the line, holding your position through the first few corners. The car feeling like an extension of yourself, every movement precise, every decision calculated.

“Alright, Y/N, keep it steady. We’ve got a long race ahead,” Amaria’s voice crackled through your earpiece. Her calm tone was a steady anchor in the chaos of the race.

Lap after lap, you pushed the car to its limits, the memory of your accident a ghost that spurred on rather than holding you back. You were in the zone, overtaking with surgical precision and defending your position fiercely. On lap 15, you made a daring move on Max, slipping past him into second place. The crowd went wild, the roar echoing in your ears even through your helmet.

“Great move, Y/N. You’re doing fantastic,” Amaria cheered, her voice filled with pride.

As the race progressed, you found herself closing in on Lewis. You knew the pit stops would be crucial. On lap 28, you dove into the pits, the crew executing a flawless stop. You rejoined the race in third but quickly reclaimed back second position, setting your sights on first place.

“Pace is looking good, tires are optimal,” Amaria updated. “Keep pushing, you’ve got this.”

Your focus was razor-sharp, every muscle in your body attuned to the car’s movements. You chipped away at the gap, each lap bringing you closer to the leader. By lap 45, you were on Lewis’s tail, and with a brilliant maneuver, you overtook him, claiming the lead.

The final laps were a blur of speed and strategy. Lewis was close behind, pushing hard, but your determination was unyielding. Your hands gripped the steering wheel, eyes scanning the track ahead, your mind calculating every possible outcome.

“Just a few more laps, Y/N. You’re almost there,” Amaria’s voice was a lifeline, keeping you grounded.

Lap 56 came, and the crowd’s anticipation was palpable. You held your ground, defending your position with the skill and tenacity that had earned you a place among the best. As you crossed the line, the checkered flag waving, the realization hit you—you had won. You did it.

The crowd erupted in applause, the noise almost deafening. You parked the car at the P1 sign, the enormity of your achievement washing over you. You climbed out of the car, tears streaming down your face as you celebrated with her team. They lifted you up, their cheers of joy echoing through the paddock.

David Croft’s voice echoed through the stadium, capturing the essence of the moment. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we have witnessed history in the making. From a young girl in her hometown, driven by an insatiable passion for racing, to being the only girl in her karting races, lovingly supported by her parents. She defied the odds to become one of the first women to race in Formula 1. She survived a horrific accident in Suzuka, a nightmare that could have ended her career and dreams. Yet, she faced her darkest fears, battled through unimaginable pain and doubt, and today, she has overcome those scars to win the Australian Grand Prix. Y/N’s journey is nothing short of inspirational, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Welcome back, Y/N. We could not be any prouder. You have shown us what true courage and determination look like."

Other drivers came to congratulate you—Lewis, Max, Lando, Oscar, and more. Each hug, a testament to the joy and respect they had for your journey and your victory.

You ran towards Charles, your heart bursting with pride. You found each other in the sea of people, and you jumped into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You did it, baby, you did it! I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you. You’re a winner! You did it! I’m so proud, baby. I love you so much!”

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice choked with emotion.

You stood on the podium, the weight of your journey settling on your shoulders. You have faced the darkest moments and come out stronger, your love for racing and the support of those around you guiding you back to the pinnacle of the sport. The crowd’s cheers were a testament to your resilience, a reminder that no matter how difficult the road, you had found your way back home.

© 23victoria 2023-24 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate or claim my work as your own

[ebonyslasher]

Can you do more yandere slashers part 2 please.

Hopefully, I'm getting better at writing yandere characters! There are some possible triggering themes ahead so read with caution.

Roses are red, violets are blue

Here's

Yandere!Slashers Pt. 2!

A strained sob bounced against the dingy walls that you were held captive in. Your existence, normally happy and calm, turned desperate and miserable. You looked around with teary eyes, taking in your unfortunate new home. The air was littered with specks of dust, paint torn from the walls, and all the windows crudely covered and broken. It was a scene taken from a horror movie that you desperately did not want to be in. The tears silently flow down your face before the raggedy door flings open.

A shadowy, foreboding figure stood tall at the door frame. You recognized that figure, it was the one who kidnapped you to this horrid place.

“Please ... .please let me go…,” you whimpered out, your sobbing revitalizing before this monster. He stepped forward and you shrunk back. He stops. The next movement he made your heart stop. Michael flings a body beside you. The patch of light coming from the mostly covered window showed the gouged out eyes of your crush. They lay lifeless and their once beautiful face was now covered with blood. 

The image of a dead body, especially of someone you knew, caused you to hyperventilate. Feeling an extreme urge to flee, you stand up and attempt to run towards the door. Michael grabs your arm painfully and throws you down.

“Let me go, let me go! You monster!” you screamed. You attempt to stand again when Michael kicks at your legs. He quickly places his dirty boot on your right leg, right on the tibia. Stomping down, Michael relishes in your painful cry after the sickening snap of your bone. You could not run from him and he could not be happier.

—--

Michael knew everyone who lived in Haddonfield. Most by their identifiable features and home addresses.

Michael stalked all his victims, but only for a short time as their existence would not last long.

However, if he becomes obsessed, not only will he stalk them every single day. He will keep them alive for an undecided amount of time.

As you place your existence in Haddonfield, Michael becomes hooked. 

He paid attention to your needs, placing toiletries that you ran out of/low on in various places in your house. It escalates into leisure items that you spoke about with your friends. Things that he knew that you knew you did not purchase

Making himself known, he begins to appear and reappear in different places, from a distance. Toying with you.

Anyone who will get in the way will be removed, permanently. Especially any love interest.

He is not above harming you to make you submit, stay, and be quiet. He knew what was best for you.

Injuries looked especially good on you anyway

“Kitten ... .how disappointing,” Asa remarks, seeing the piss-poor excuse of a Valentine's Day present on his bed. It was made haphazardly, the paper mache butterfly looked tattered with paint, some sort of adhesive, and drenched paper.

Asa had shown you how to do the technique weeks ago, disguising the activity as a fun bonding moment. He made an off-handed comment that a paper mache insect would be a great gift for Valentine’s Day. Of course, his smart little kitty caught the hint. But, it was obvious that you did not practice enough. 

You sat upon the bed, head down in embarrassment at the state of your gift. “Asa, I tried! I really did! You know I’m not that good at-” You started to explain. Asa put his hand up and you stopped talking immediately.

“You had ample time to practice, y/n. But, you did not. Therefore, you will be punished. Get on all fours on top of your disaster,” Asa instructed coldly. You did so, feeling humiliated at the action. You desperately wanted to make this up to him while also feeling apprehension at the punishment. 

Asa starts to hit your back and ass with his hands. You endure, but the force of his hits ends up making you fall on top of your gift. The burn of his hits combined with the uncomfortable feeling of wet paper and glue slathering your stomach. It made you cry out, strengthening the boner Asa had. 

---

Anyone who’s moving, living, or even traveling through the town gets observed by Asa. When you arrive, you capture his interest in ways he never thought possible. 

He searched your name, address (and floor plan if available), and knew all your family members. He breaks in to look at everything you have.

 He had notes dedicated to what you like to eat, what size of clothes you wear, etc. 

Once he captures you, he doesn’t make you a part of his collection. Instead, you'll be his personal pet. A little kitty he can enjoy. 

Life was starting to get a little boring. Your existence changed his life. He just needed to train you so you would not be useless to him.

His training includes the way you react (in the way that he likes), enduring physical punishment and sexual sensory overloads, how to care for him correctly, etc. 

Any spouse, family, or friends that were living with you are now part of his collection. They would be a distraction to your duties.

If you perform extremely poorly, he will drag you across the floor to see any loved ones in the collection. Digging his fingers into your eyelids to force you to look at their display.

“Dr. Lecter?,” You asked as you knocked lightly on his office door. You let yourself into his practice, as was normal for your appointments. 

“Y/N, please come in,” he said smoothly so as to not betray his excitement at your arrival.

You plop down on the sofa across from him and your weekly sessions begin. You’d had them for a month now. It was last week when you noticed that you were getting weirdly attached and attracted to Dr. Hannibal. It wasn’t right with the power dynamics in your current relationship. Also, all the blaring issues he knew about your life. This did not dissuade your budding feelings, with the unintentional help of Hannibal. He did not know that your conflicted romantic feelings were about him. It was like he always knew the right thing to say. He spurred your mind to think outside the box or his perspective. Everything he said, he seemed to always be right about. 

“.....I feel a romantic connection to this person, but I know I shouldn’t,” You say.

“And why not?” He questioned

“Our relationship right now…it would be inappropriate to say the least.”

Hannibal leaned forward, his face schooled in its perfect neutral expression. Internally, he was fighting a smirk to bless his sharp features. “And what is love without risk?”

“....I…”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t know, y/n. I am merely throwing out a different perspective. You like this person right? What makes it inappropriate?”

“His…status and title do. The power dynamics would be unequal,” you say, trying to be as vague as possible.

“It will always be unequal. You possess powers that he would not have. And vice versa. Titles mean nothing. You see, I am your psychiatrist. I know who you are, I can see the power that you have. A relationship between you and me would be risky, in the eyes of others. But, only our eyes matter in the end.”

“A relationship between us two…?”

“Just as an example, Y/n. To help you see the big picture.”

--

You were his patient. He fell in love, becoming obsessed with you. You looked like the perfect partner, one to parade around at the envy of others. 

He would make sure to format your mind to see how perfect you two would be. That he would be the only one for you. 

Hannibal being Hannibal does this covertly, planting seeds into your head every session. He even stops taking payment for your appointments, to ensure you would still come.

The medication he would prescribe you was a level of biochemical control over your emotions. He knew the side effects and how the medication would affect your mood after you took them. 

He acts like the perfect gentleman. He has perused your home, making sure to have items that you need or want coincidentally at appointments. 

Anyone who is a threat to you or the budding relationship will be removed.

You will see them for the last time, served as a decadent meal. He will feed them to you, without your knowledge

“Taylor Layknn’s party is in two days, I’ve taken the liberty of picking out your look for you,” Patrick says dismissively. He thrust the outfit into your arms as he checked his phone. You stood flabbergasted at his gall.

“Patrick, I already had an outfit planned out,” you explain. You look over the outfit, trying to imagine how it would look on you.

“Yes I know, but I saw this while shopping and thought about you immediately. I knew it would be flattering on you. It goes with what I’m wearing. We’ll look great together.” Patrick looks straight into your eyes, watching your reaction.

You felt annoyed, a little offended, but flattered that he thought of you. “That’s sweet, but I don’t think that’s exactly my style.” You began to hand the outfit back to him. He thrusts the outfit back against your chest.

“It is your style and you don’t even know it. Here, look at how the color compliments your skin. How it’ll hug your figure in the right places. You know, most of these bitches don’t even know how to dress. You’ll be the talk of the night if you just listen to me.”

--

He tries to shelter your interactions from others, feeding you lies and pretending like he is giving you inside information to gain your trust

He purposefully talks bad and compassionate about others to uplift himself in your presence, disguising it as competition.

He is always extra with his appearance but was even more so when he knew you were going to be there.

He even wears the cologne that you love. He sends you flowers, your favorite ones, to show how much attention he paid to you

Once he has you wrapped around his finger, He tells you what to say and how to act. He needs you to be the perfect partner that even Paul Allen would be jealous of. 

The desperate yuppie that he is needs you to look and act a certain way to fit in with the 'in-group'.

He buys you clothing and expects you to wear it for him. He will send you makeup tutorial videos that he likes.

Patrick will also send photos and videos of people with what he thinks is the ultimate body type. He will do whatever to shape and mold you into his perfect partner.

Patrick has a doll that looks like you in his office drawer. He dresses up in what he would want you to wear. He has another at home where he acts out fantasies of your eventual marriage. 

He constantly questions where you are or slyly questions others. He gets mad if he isn’t invited anywhere, especially to his favorite place.

If he could, he dreams of hiring you as his personal assistant (if that was your profession). He has thought many times about firing his current assistant just to have you perched there, sitting pretty.  

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Price is hurting. Nikolai drops everything to be there for him.

CW: aftermath of torture, vulnerable John Price, somewhat tough love Nikolai. They're in love, your honour.

Price needs you.

The lieutenant had always been a man of few words and so he used them wisely. He knew those three alone would make Nikolai drop whatever he was doing, wherever he was in the world, and move heaven and earth to reach the captain's side. His reply had been brief:

Where?

The next text contained the address. Landstuhl. An American-run Level 2 trauma centre, perhaps the biggest outside America itself. Within the hour, Nik had filed his flight plan and was on his way to Germany, stopping only briefly to grab some supplies from a local corner shop. His final message to Lieutenant Riley had been his ETA.

They were expecting him. He left his Heli in the capable hands of personnel on the airfield and hopped into the back of a jeep which took him straight to the hospital.

A familiar mask greeted him at the entrance and the lieutenant filled him in as they walked the corridors. "There was a mole that leaked just enough intel to set an ambush for us. He dropped a building on his own head to cover our escape. Presumed K.I.A," Ghost paused as a trolley rattled past them, the patient hooked up with IVs and tubes, the nurses exchanging hurried chatter. Nik felt numb in the silence, selfishly relieved that he had been spared those few days of mourning. "A few days later Laswell picked up chatter that they had a British soldier in captivity. Hoping to get intel out of him, but he was putting up a fight. They couldn't break him with usual methods."

Nik couldn't help but smile ruefully at that. He had been captured with John only once, back when he had first turned for NATO. The scars from that encounter spidered over John's lower back and hip like lightning. Nik kissed them every time they made love; a reminder of just how much they had survived. "How long?"

"Three days with them before we knew, two days to get us in there and him out. It was enough time." They stepped into a lift and it carried them up to intensive care. It ground to a halt with a soft groan, doors sliding open to reveal bleached white halls and a reception desk. "He's in bad shape. They hurt him, more ways 'n we can see."

They drew to a stop three doors down the corridor and Nik peered through the glass into the dimly lit room to John's prone form, before grabbing the clipboard tucked into a plastic sleeve to the right of the windowpane.

Two bulging disks, dislocated shoulder, four fingers broken on the left hand, fracture in the left tibia and fibula, broken ribs, missing lower left first and second molars, lacerations and stab wounds to the torso...

"He must be in agony," Nik said, his voice thick in his throat. The end of the list made him feel sick with anger and sadness, and he reread it twice more through the mist in his eyes. The risks were part of the job. The world they inhabited, the path they walked, it was a cruel one full of pain and danger. It could snuff them out at any moment. Knowing that, understanding it, didn't make this list any easier to digest.

"He won't take the pain killers," Ghost murmured, his eyes not on Nik, but studying his captain through the hatched window. "They hooked him up with a button so they don't need t' keep offerin' only for him to tell them to piss off, but he won't press it."

Nik looked up into the intense stare Ghost levelled on him. None of the 141 could, or would, go against John's wishes. He had ordered them to run in whichever hellhole they had been operating and they had, despite every part of them revolting against the idea of leaving him to die. Now they fought the same battle with his orders to leave him to fester in his own pain, except this time Ghost could call in back up.

Nik could see the exhaustion in Ghost's eyes, red and watery, and pictured him pacing up and down this corridor like a caged animal as he had waited for Nik to arrive. All his training didn't prepare him for this; the anxious waiting in the aftermath, powerless to help or do anything but watch his captain suffer. Nik slid the clipboard back into place. "Get some rest, lieutenant. I will take this watch."

Ghost nodded and turned back towards the lift. Before he walked away, he glanced one last time into John's room, as if to assure himself his captain was still there. Still breathing. Nik hefted his overnight bag higher up his shoulder and walked into the room.

One of the machines was beeping, reading John's heightened heart rate and each panting breath that rattled from his chest. Nik nudged the window open, letting in the cool spring air, and dumped his bag and jacket on the nearby chair.

"Hallo, solnyshko," Nik said softly as he stepped up to the bed, his palm smoothing John's damp hair from his face.

John looked up, bright blue eyes swimming with pain, and still managed a faint smile at the sight of his favourite Russian looking over him. "Nik, when'd'ya arrive?"

"I landed ten minutes ago. I came when they said you had been hurt."

"Not... in great shape, it'll..." John squeezed his eyes shut, face creasing in a deep grimace, as one of the machines woke in a flurry of beeps before quietening again.

"The lieutenant said you are refusing treatment." Nik continued to gently pet John's hair, but studied the rest of him, like Ghost he needed to drink in the sight of a living John Price, even one battered, bruised and hurting.

The medics had shaved patches off his chest to stick the monitors on his skin, the blankets pooled down to his waist, revealing heavy bandages with dark bruises colouring anything they didn't cover. Nik saw the button Ghost had mentioned on the bed near John's right hand, and carefully gathered it into John's fingers.

John huffed. "Don't... It... It makes my head go, I can't..." Another soft pant, another grimace.

"You need to rest, John. You need to sleep."

"N-no, Nik... Nik..." John's voice cracked around Nik's name the second time as Nik gently squeezed his fingers against the button. He tried to pull his hand away, but Nik's grip was firm, unyielding despite its tenderness. John looked panicked, frightened, as the medication curled through his body and began to take effect. Nik could imagine how he had warded the others off with anger and waspish dismissal, but now he writhed and twitched helplessly, pleading. "Please, mmph... Nik, n--"

"It's okay, it's okay, I am here, ssshh, it's okay, forgive me," Nik whispered gently, still stroking John's hair as blue eyes became unfocused, blinking slower with each passing second despite desperately trying to stay open. "That's it," Nik wiped a tear from John's cheek as it slid free, and then leaned down to kiss his forehead, whispering against damp skin, "sleep, beloved. I will be here. You will not be alone, I promise."

John's eyes blinked for the last time and stayed closed, his body, pulled taut briefly in panic, now relaxed, his head tilting into Nik's palm.

The machines calmed after their flurry of activity, the beeps silencing now that they weren't alerting anyone to a potential problem. Nik stood there for some time once he had released John's hand, still stroking his head, even when he leaned down to kiss him. He kissed John's face, his chest, his jaw, tender to avoid aggravating the cuts and bruises marring his skin, but lingering each time to feel the warmth beneath his lips, to smell the deep scent of him; living, breathing. John.

Once he was certain of John's comfort, Nik dragged the chair over to sit close to his side, enveloping John's fingers, occasionally lifting them to his lips for a kiss before returning them to the soft blanket.

The recovery for this one was likely to be long, and John was stubborn. Stubborn in his demand for control, stubborn in his resistance to help. It was a toxic coping strategy born from necessity and trauma. Unhelpful at best, self destructive at worst.

Sometimes John needed tough love and there were few people in the world willing to administer it to him, or able to push through the abrasive defences he put up to ward them off. Ghost had called Nik because he knew he was the man for the job; he would stay until the bitter end, refusing to abandon John no matter how loud he brayed or how viciously he snarled.

Nik closed his eyes as he brought John's hand to his lips once more, drawing in a stuttering breath as he took a moment in the quiet to come to terms with just how close he'd come to losing him forever.

[ziggyzolch]

Queen Bee-atch Ⅷ (Regina George x Reader)

Warnings: hospital. i think thats it.

✮✮✮

Mechanical whirring and beeping with the sound of Regina’s leg bouncing filled the waiting room. It was coming up to 6 hours since they’d taken you in for surgery.

“Can you stop?” Janis snaps at Regina, who rolls her eyes.

“I’m not complaining about how disgusting it is that you’re picking at your nails in public!” Regina retorts, but stops her leg bouncing anyways.

The tension was palpable, almost unbearable.

After a moment of silence, Regina’s leg starts again.

 “God!” Janis gets up to walk away, when she bumps into someone. “Janis!” Your mom gives your friend a hug, “Where’s my daughter?” Janis scratches the back of her head. “She’s in that room,” She points, “But they aren’t letting us in yet.” Your mom raises an eyebrow, “Us? Is Damien here?” Janis steps to the side, revealing Regina behind her. 

“Oh. Hello.” She doesn’t offer the same warmth as she did with Janis. Regina awkwardly waves and introduces herself, internally cursing at herself at how lame she was being.

Your mother turns back to Janis with a smile, saying something in Arabic. Janis stares while Regina attempts to hold in her laugh. 

“What?” 

Your mothers smile falters, “Aren’t you Lebanese?” Regina bursts out in laughter, covering her mouth at Janis’s glare. “Uh, no. I’m a lesbian. Your daughter misheard me.” 

A look of realization crosses over your mothers face before she recovers, “No matter, let’s sit, yes?” She places a hand on Janis’s shoulder, guiding her to take a seat next to her while she sat in between her and Regina.

Regina was shocked at how calm your mother was for a woman whose daughter had her leg snapped in half. Even Janis was freaking out. 

“So, Regina, how do you know my daughter?” 

Janis answers, “She bullied her for like two years.” 

Regina attempts to lean over your mother to slap Janis's leg.

Your mothers jaw clenches, “So why, pray tell, are you waiting for her looking like you’re about to soil yourself?”

Your mother’s tone was accusatory, making Regina stumble over her words. She takes a breath, glares at Janis then starts, “It’s true, I was horrible. But I have since made up for it!” 

 “Hm.” Your mother grabs a magazine from the little cupboard next to the couch, effectively ending the conversation.

“How are you so calm? No offense.” Janis asks after a couple seconds of silence.

Your mother sighs, placing the magazine down. 

“My daughter is not a…careful person. She’s been in the ER more times than I can count.”

 Regina chimes in, worry evident in her voice, “Why?” 

The woman smiles, making Janis and Regina look at each other in confusion,

“Have you girls not seen how clumsy she is? Last week, I watched her bump into two different walls 5 seconds within each other.”

The conversation is interrupted by a doctor peeking his head out of the room you were in, announcing to them that they could now enter. The first thing they hear when they go in is your laughing, 

“Hey, Breakfast Club.” 

They all groan, refusing to laugh at your joke. Regina approaches you first, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed and caressing your cheeks, “Poor baby. How are you feeling?” 

Your mother raises an eyebrow at Regina’s behavior, but doesn’t say anything.

 “I’m chilling. I could take over the world, probably.” You start giggling as the doctor walks up to you, writing something down on his clipboard.

“The surgery went well. We’ll keep her here overnight to monitor for any infection.” 

Your moms eyes widen, “Can someone tell me what happened exactly?”

You sluggishly turn your head towards your mother, “I saved the universe.”

 The woman rolls her eyes, taking a seat on the other side of the bed. Janis gives her a run down of what happened, while Regina’s eyes stay fixed on you. 

“It was an open tibia fracture, so it’ll take her 6-12 months to fully heal.” The doctor says before exiting the room.

“She’s gonna be a huge pain in the ass for the next 6-12 months.” Janis jokes, walking towards your bed. You flip her the bird, laughing when Regina and your mother reprimand you at the same time.

Your smile drops when your mom gets up, “Where are you going?” Your mother sighs, checking her phone and adjusting her jacket, “I have a work thing. Janis, I trust you to keep her entertained. Regina,” She looks her up and down, “I trust that you won’t let her jump in front of any more buses.” Your mother ignores Regina's sputtering, making her way out.

You roll your eyes when you hear her on a phone call the second the door closes behind her. “What a byotch.”

✮✮✮

It’s been an hour since you fell asleep, Regina and Janis had refused to leave you alone, and the tension was back. They hadn't made eye contact since your mother left, despite sitting opposite each other on either side of you.

Janis’s phone ringing broke the uncomfortable silence. She sighs and answers her phone,

“Hey Damien, yeah she’s okay…” Janis exits the room for the rest of the call, not wanting to wake you up. Regina looks down at your clammy forehead, moving your baby hairs to the side. “Idiot.” She mumbles with a smile.

Janis walks in to find Regina placing a kiss on your forehead. She rolls her eyes, announcing her presence by pushing the door closed harder than necessary.

 Regina pulls away, opting to hold your hand instead. “How did this even happen?” Janis questions as goes back to her place on the bed. Regina raises an eyebrow,

“Uh, bus?” 

Janis groans, “No, how did you guys happen.” 

Regina lets out a breath, “I…honestly don’t know. She’s too forgiving for her own good.” 

Janis scoffs before Regina corrects herself, “No! What I mean is...I did everything to make up for it, but I feel like it wasn’t enough for her to forgive me y’know?.”

Janis sighs, nodding, “I sat on her old guitar once by accident and broke the neck, she refused to let me pay for a new one. Even paid for food after.”

She looks away, “I’m sorry, for the whole scheming thing, by the way.”

Regina huffs out a laugh, “I guess we’re even now.”

✮✮✮

“Honey, are you sure you can go to the school from here?” Your mother asked as she helped you out of the car, handing you your crutches and adjusting your dress. “Yeah, Regina said she’d pick me up from here, either way I could just get an uber.” You reassured her, adjusting yourself on your crutches. Your mother looks at you for a moment before slapping her hands together awkwardly, “Alright. Stay at Regina's tonight, yeah? I have a date coming over.”

You watch her drive away before making your way into the building. This place was a maze! After wandering around aimlessly for a while, you finally made it to your destination. Ignoring the stares, you took your seat in the audience. Watching the two teams solve math questions faster than you could comprehend was surprisingly entertaining. Cady and a girl you couldn't care less about approach the stands at the front of the stage. Your heart beats wildly as you watch Cady stand in silence while everyone leans forward in anticipation.

“The limit does not exist!”

You cheer loudly, using your crutches to pull yourself up. Cady looks up to find you attempting to raise an arm up in celebration. She raises both thumbs at you, laughing when you almost fall over. She bids goodbye to the team, walking towards the exit.

“What are you doing here?” Cady says as you slowly approach her at the doors.

“I figured you’d want some support. Also Kevin posted that he had a ‘mega hot chick’ in his team on his story. Figured it was you.”

Cady huffs out a laugh, walking with you towards the parking lot.

 “Janis told me what happened while I was gone, by the way,” Cady’s smile drops. You’re quick to reassure her, “Hey, it isn’t the end of the world!” You adjust your crutches to pat her on the shoulder, “Have you seen the way these people move from one gossip to another? You’ll be fine.” Cady smiles, eyebrows scrunching in thought, “Thank you. When did you get so wise?”

You blink, “Since I got hopped up on painkillers, babeh.”

Cady’s laugh stops at the sight of Regina’s trademark convertible. “Come on, losers!” Regina parks her car, getting out to help you into the passenger seat and placing your crutches in the trunk. Cady stays in her place before Regina rolls her eyes, walking up to her and lightly pushing her towards the backseat. “Don’t be weird. I made a promise to be nice, don’t make it any harder on me.” Regina says while getting back in the driver’s seat.

“You look beautiful,”

Regina blushes at your compliment, leaning over to place a kiss on your cheek, “Flatterer.”

She buckles you in before herself, then starts driving. You were about to ask Cady about life since taking blame for the burn book, when you catch her leaning her head out the car, letting the wind blow through her hair. You decide to let her be.

✮✮✮

You were in the bathroom with Cady, the door muffling the horrible music playing at the dance as you attempted to pull out your eyeliner. Regina ordered her to stay with you while she went to make up with Gretchen and Karen, despite your reassurances that you’d be fine. 

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.” You say, groaning when you drop your eyeliner. 

Cady goes to pick it up, “You’re the least mad at me, I’d rather it be you than anyone else.” 

You attempt to shrug, “True. I’m bad at holding grudges.” You shuffle around awkwardly, “Can you help me with my mascara?” She smiles at you, nodding.

“You gonna talk to Janis?” Cady’s smile falters slightly,

“Yeah, I guess I have to.”

“Don’t worry,” You pause until she finishes the first eye, “Janis holds grudges hardcore-”

“Oh great.”

“But! She’s chill after an apology.”

Cady finishes up with your other eye before capping and placing your mascara in your handbag. “We’ll see. You really do look beautiful, by the way.”

You offer her a half-smile, “I’m on crutches with an ugly, obnoxious, lime green cast,”

She picks at a loose thread on her jacket, “I’m sorry,”

You shrug, “No need, I basically broke my own leg. Also, I’m on way too many painkillers right now to care.”

The conversation is interrupted by Damien storming in, 

“Hey! Regina told me you were in here. Come on! They're announcing the queen-" Damien catches sight of Cady, "Oh, hello.” 

Cady shuffles on her feet. You roll your eyes and nudge her to walk with you as Damien rushes back out.

You follow Damien to the front of the crowd, using your crutches to push people out of the way. Cady had opted to stay at the back, not wanting to bring attention to herself. 

Regina spots you from the stage and blows you a kiss. You’re attempting to conceal the blush on your face when someone smacks your back. “Ow! What the fuck, Janis.”

Janis laughs, adjusting her tie, “Looking good dude, your cast lowkey ruins it though.”

 You sigh, “Yeah, they shouldn’t have let me pick the color. I was high and thought it’d be funny.” 

You look at Damien and Janis, “You both look dapper, by the way. Straight out of a 60’s sitcom.”

Your attention turns towards Principal Duvall as he announces the winners. You pretend to gag when Shane Oman wins, making Regina crack a smile. 

Her smile drops when Cady’s name is announced. Janis laughs when she catches Cady squinting at the harsh spotlight shining on her, making you nudge her shin with your crutch in warning.

“Woo! Cady!” 

Janis and Damien roll their eyes at your cheering. You smile throughout her whole speech, laughing when Damien dramatically gasps at her breaking the crown and handing the pieces out. 

Regina winks at you and shows off her piece of the crown, making you giggle until you feel something bounce off your forehead.

 “Shit! Sorry…” Cady mumbles.

She finishes off her speech and approaches your group. “Hey, so…are we still in a fight?”

“Are you still an asshole?”

“I don’t think so?”

Janis smiles, “Then we’re good”

You bounce to the best of your ability, “I am over the moon-”

“Alright-” Janis holds you up when you almost topple over.

“Over the moon.” You repeat.

Your glance behind Cady, “Hey, I think someone’s waiting for you.”  She glances behind you, “You too.” 

You turn to find Regina smiling warmly at you, “Hey,”  You hobble over to her, “Hey, yourself.” 

She looks at your crutches, trying to figure out how to dance with you when an idea pops into her head. You screech, dropping your crutches as she lifts you to wrap your legs around her, holding the bottoms of your thighs. 

“Regina!” She smirks, ignoring you and spinning around. You tuck your head into her neck, mumbling. Regina slows, switching to slowly swaying you, “What was that, baby?”

You lift your head up, “You’re my favorite person.”

Regina’s smile is impossibly wide as she leans in to kiss you. You pull away when you hear Janis yell at you to ‘Get a room!’, catching your breath while Regina lightly rubs her nose against yours.

“Hey guys, I broke a spotlight, we gotta dip.” You barely process what Janis says before you catch her and Damien sprinting out of the school. You turn back to Regina, giggling when she attempts to pick up your crutches while holding you.

 Cady catches her struggling and walks up to you, her man-candy walking alongside her. Regina lets out a breath of relief when they offer to help. Aaron holds you up as Regina places you down to pick up your crutches and hand them to you. 

“Thanks.” You smile up at Aaron. 

“No problem, Gerard.”

Cady and Regina laugh when you turn to them, wide eyed. “I’m sorry babe, I used it once around them and it stuck.” You groan, “Ugh, let’s just go.”

✮✮✮

“Okay. How’s the weather right now? Don’t look up!” You were all gathered in Regina’s backyard, sitting in a circle. Karen keeps her eyes trained on you as she pushes her boobs together. You raise your eyebrows in amusement. “It’s like, kind of cloudy a little.” You glance at the sky, giving her a thumbs up when it is, in fact, ‘like, kind of cloudy a little’.

Regina pokes your stomach, making you giggle and everybody else roll their eyes. You raise an eyebrow at Cady and Aaron. “What are you guys annoyed about? You’re basically having sex in front of us right now.” 

Cady’s face goes red as Aaron barks out a laugh, “She’s literally just on my lap, you were the one face-fucking Regina.” It’s your turn to blush as Regina laughs, crossing her legs and pulling you into her lap.

She hands you a toaster strudel from the snack tray, looking away and blushing when you moan at the taste, “God these are so good,”

 Gretchen perks up, “My father invented those, y’know.”

“Yes, Gretchen, we know.” You slap Regina’s thigh. She sighs and apologizes to Gretchen, unable to stop her eyes from rolling to the back of her head.

“We’re back!” Damien and Janis come out of the house, holding guitars behind their backs. 

You angle your body slightly to face Regina. “You have two fucking guitars!” She laughs as Janis hands you one, plopping down next to you while Damien hands her the other one.

You signal to Janis to start playing something, you’d follow along. You let her strum for a while, eye brows furrowed trying to figure out what song she’s playing. She must've adjusted it to be playable on acoustic or something.

Damien seems to catch on before you as he starts singing,

“When I was…a young boy…”

Everybody starts laughing. This nickname was going to be the death of you.

You start reluctantly strumming along with Janis as Damien's singing intensifies. Regina sways you slightly, shocking you when she joins in on the singing.

You stop in the middle of the song, using 'overexertion' as an excuse.

You put the guitar aside as Janis and Damien get up to bow, while the rest start filing into the house.

You twist your body around, making Regina adjust her position so you could straddle her. “You’re more emo than me, Blondie.” She gasps dramatically, “I don’t think so, Gerard-"

 “I love you.”  

Regina giggles, “You’re such a lesbian.” 

You groan, hiding your face in the crook of her neck. She tuts, lifting your chin up,

“I love you too.”

✮✮✮

A/N: That's the end! Thank you so so sos sososososososos much for reading. sorry if i bungled the medical stuff, so tired didnt proofread. anyways, I might do one-shots for this universe, or other stuff if you guys have requests. but thats it for now! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3 <3

Tag list: @itzyyyyyydaaaaaa @modernsapphicism @cheesysoup-arlo @ladyqueenxoxo @charleeeesworld

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter five | The American dream.

masterlist

universe : Reeves, the batman 2022

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!OC

words : +9k

author's note : Hello to my loyal readers !! If you’re new here, welcome !!! This chapter is packed with angst—seriously, a lot of it… So brace yourselves. We’ll delve into Maryam’s struggles, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes… As always, don’t hesitate to comment; I genuinely enjoy reading your feedback, and it motivates me to keep writing :) Also, this chapter is dedicated to @gaypoetsblog bc your reblog meant so much to me and helped me finish the chapter 🫶🏽

I’m thinking of starting a taglist, so if anyone’s interested, please let me know in the comments :)

cw : Maryam going through an existential crisis, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE NIGHT AIR slipped through the cracked window like a whispered secret, cool and heavy with the weight of unshed tears, brushing against Maryam's skin as if it knew the burden she carried.

She pushed open the glass of her kitchen window to enter her apartment, the familiar creak of the hinges barely registering in her tired mind.

Finally, she was alone.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, her hands went to the scarves draped around her neck and head, tugging them free. The fabric fell to the floor in soft waves, revealing sweat-slicked skin and disheveled hair. 

She didn’t bother turning on the lights; she knew the space by heart.

The shadows were her refuge, offering quiet sanctuary after the whirlwind of the night. She moved through the room like a ghost, her bare feet making no sound against the cold tile.

In the silence, her thoughts caught up with her—the weight of everything she had pushed down, shoved aside, now rushing back.

Her body felt heavier with each step toward the bathroom, the scent of Gotham's streets clinging to her suit like a second skin. She trailed her fingers along the edge of the countertop as she made her way in. Inside, the soft click of the door closing felt like a final seal against the outside world.

She flicked on the light. Its harsh glare bounced off the mirror, exposing a truth she could no longer avoid.

The violet bruise on her brow stared back at her, dried blood in a thin line across the cut, a crusted reminder of the night’s violence. She muttered a curse under her breath—it's going to be hard to hide that. Her skin was still smudged with dirt from the alley.

Bracing her hands against the sink, she leaned in to inspect the damage, touching the wound gingerly, wincing at the sting. It wasn’t deep, but still noticeable. 

Sighing, she straightened and began peeling away the rest of her clothing. First, her cloak, then her suit—her fingers moving methodically, though her muscles ached with stubborn fatigue.

The Wraith was shedding her armor, piece by piece. With each discarded layer, she felt a small part of herself return.

Next came the contact lenses.

Carefully, she removed them, blinking as her natural hazel eyes, tinged with a yellow-green sheen under the light, came into focus. 

But it wasn’t her eyes that held her attention.

Dressed only in her bra and panties, her eyes fixated on the constellation of bruises that marked her body—a silent testament to the fight, to the brutality of her return to the streets. Dark violet shadows bloomed along her ribs, and bruises traced her tibia. She lifted her leg onto the counter, examining them more closely under the yellow light. At least there were no cuts, save for the one on her brow.

For a moment, she simply stared at herself. The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger—scarred, beaten, but still standing.

But beneath the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion—anger simmered.

And she knew tonight had only been the beginning.

Then, without warning, tears pooled in her eyes.

She hadn’t expected them, hadn’t realized how close they were to the surface until her chest tightened, and the raw ache began to spread through her throat. She placed a trembling hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sob that was clawing its way out, but it was too late.

Her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her, and the sob broke free, echoing through the cold, sterile bathroom.

It wasn’t just the physical pain or the exhaustion. It was everything. The years on the streets, the things she had seen, the violence that had become a constant in her world—it all came crashing down at once. It was too much.

She hated this life.

Hated every inch of the skin she had just shed—the suit, the cloak, the Wraith. It was a mask she’d worn since she was barely ten years old. It wasn’t some romantic notion of justice or a heroic vigilante life.

No.

It was a prison.

From the moment she was taken in, she had been molded into this.

She thought she'd escaped it two years ago, but somehow, she always found her way back—like an addict drawn to a drug. 

Her training was not empowering; it was soul-crushing torture, a brutal crucible that shattered her spirit and forged her into a weapon for the greedy hands that sought to control her. Each blow felt like a countdown, a clock ticking down to the moment she would either break or become something darker. 

Beaten and broken, she transformed into a tool, a phantom of vengeance, for those who saw her not as a person but as a means to an end. In the shadows, she learned to embrace the pain, channeling it into a deadly precision that left no room for doubt. Each lesson carved away at her innocence, leaving only a relentless hunger for survival and a chilling resolve to escape the chains that bound her.

Fish Mooney, the merciless gangster who had held the reins of her life from the very beginning, had stripped her of her innocence, her will, and her freedom. In the beginning, she wore the name Madam like a shroud, even as she felt the chill of its implications. Mooney's sweet words, laced with sickening honey, wrapped around her like a noose, promising a kind of safety that was always a mirage. 

She was the definition of a witch, weaving a web of knowledge and manipulation, knowing the darkest secrets of everyone, especially Maryam's. This power was her weapon, used to threaten and terrify, ensuring Maryam’s compliance with every command. 

To Mooney, she was a prized possession—a little spy, a puppet sculpted to perfection, a wraith in service of her sinister ambitions.

When Maryam first set foot on American soil with her family, she unknowingly crossed into a world where debts were owed and innocence was a luxury long expired. As the eldest, the burden fell on her—she was chosen to pay the price for dreams wrapped in deception.

Her family could do nothing but watch, their voices stifled by fear as threats loomed like shadows over their fragile existence. They warned her of the dangers, but what could they say to the merciless people who held their lives in the balance? 

Nothing.

Nada. 

So they stood by, hearts heavy, as she was engulfed by the seductive lies of the American dream, ensnared in the web of blackmail and veiled threats that hung like a storm cloud over their family.

They watched, helpless, as their little girl transformed into a hollow shell, caught in the very corruption that had promised freedom yet shackled her to a life of fear and deceit.

With each passing day, as she morphed into a mere instrument for the greedy, the weight of her family's helplessness settled over her like a leaden shroud. Yet, within this suffocating nightmare, a flicker of defiance began to blaze—an ember ignited by heartbreak and desperation, a fierce will to reclaim her stolen innocence and escape the clutches of a world intent on devouring her whole.

But amidst all this turmoil, becoming the Wraith was never a choice.

No— it was a matter of survival, stripped bare of all illusions and pretense, leaving only the raw, unyielding instinct to endure.

She had seen things no child should ever see. Blood, cruelty, the endless cycle of violence.

Gotham devoured its own, and she had been thrown into the thick of it before she even understood what it meant to live. 

The things she had done—things she had been forced to do—were never for any noble cause. It wasn’t about protecting the innocent or stopping crime.

It was about serving those who had power over her, doing their bidding, becoming their weapon.

The memories flooded back, each one more painful than the last. The nights spent alone on rooftops, watching the city eats itself of corruption. The cold steel of a knife in her hand, the way it felt when she was ordered to hurt someone. The screams, the fear in their eyes—those were the things that haunted her. Not the criminals, but the fact that she had become just as ruthless.

She hated herself for it.

Hated the Wraith, hated the mask, hated the world that had forced her into this life. Vigilantism wasn’t heroism—it was a cage.

A brutal reality where she had no choice but to become what others wanted her to be. And the worst part? She had never known another way.

Maryam Ben Halimi was the embodiment of the immigrant struggle, a quiet girl sitting in the back of the classroom with wide, restless eyes. 

She poured herself into her studies, each late night and early morning spent hunched over textbooks a defiant act against a world determined to render her invisible.

Yes, she made it to medical school, driven by the crushing weight of her family's dreams pressing heavily on her narrow shoulders. 

Yet, the emptiness remained, a chasm within her that no amount of achievement could fill.

Often, she found herself questioning how she managed to survive medical school while Fish Mooney lurked in the shadows, her suffocating demands as oppressive as Gotham's thick summer humidity. Mooney had her hands deep in Maryam’s life, ever ready to drag her back into darkness if she dared to stray too far. 

But somehow, against all odds, Maryam triumphed, donning the title of Doctor  like a hard-earned badge of honor— a promise she had made to her parents before their lives were cruelly extinguished.

The day she received her diploma was supposed to be a celebration, a moment of triumph.

Yet it felt more like a double-edged sword.

That piece of paper not only represented her hard work; it signified the end of her obligation to Mooney. 

That day, she was free of the Madam. 

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she drew in a breath untainted by fear, the shackles of her past finally falling away. It was a bittersweet victory, her heart swelling with pride even as the ghosts of her past hovered at the edges of her consciousness.

But beneath that fragile surface, weariness coursed through her veins. 

She was tired—tired of battling invisible demons that raged within her, tired of pretending she could shoulder the weight of her life alone, tired of wearing the mask that had been pressed upon her for so long. 

Though she no longer worked for Mooney or her clients, the memories lingered like an unwanted specter, always lurking just out of sight.

The nightmares, too, were relentless reminders of the wars that had marred her childhood, the chaos and destruction that had driven her from her homeland. 

Each night, she carried those haunting images and sounds into her dreams, a heavy burden coloring her waking hours. She woke up screaming, grasping at shadows, and even the therapists she consulted couldn’t unlock the depth of her torment. 

There were some truths too dark to share, especially with her remaining family, who could never truly understand. For them, the subject of Mooney was taboo, a whisper that could shatter the silence they clung to, while the past loomed as a silent monster, lurking in the shadows of their lives.

In her family, like many immigrant families, when something was wrong, silence reigned supreme. 

They had mastered the art of avoidance, burying their grief beneath layers of unspoken words, pretending nothing had ever happened. 

But Maryam could not shake the feeling that something was profoundly amiss, that her life was a web of contradictions—of duty, survival, and the relentless pursuit of an identity she could never quite grasp.

As she navigated the churning waters of her existence, the Wraith lingered in the background, a haunting reminder of the girl she had been and the woman she had been forced to become.

And so, for once, she allowed herself to cry.

Cry for the life she could never have.

Cry for the bruises on her body that told the story of a woman who had never been free.

She wept for the dreams that lay shattered at her feet, buried under the weight of expectations and the relentless demands of survival.

It was like a release, a desperate attempt to reclaim pieces of herself that had long been buried beneath the façade of the Wraith.

Her chest tightened, and her breathing became shallow.

Instinctively, she reached up to rub her neck, her fingers pressing into the tense muscles, trying to force herself to calm down. But it wasn’t working. The memories clawed at her, tearing through the thin layer of control she’d tried to hold onto.

Her hand slipped from her mouth, fingers trembling as she pressed them against her eyes, rubbing as if she could erase the blurry vision. But the world kept spinning, becoming more surreal with every passing second.

And then she heard it.

The screams—hollow, haunting, echoing in the silence.

Her heart lurched, and her breath caught as the sound of her mother’s voice echoed in her mind—a desperate scream that cut through her like a knife.

She could almost feel herself being pulled back into that moment—when everything changed.

Gunshots.

They rang out like explosions in her mind, and she gasped for air, her pulse racing wildly.

Serbian voices barked harsh commands—words she couldn’t understand, but their cruelty was unmistakable. They had been everywhere that night, flooding her home like locusts, devouring everything in their path. Her father’s face flashed in her mind, twisted with fear as he tried to protect them.

But the gunshots—the terrible, piercing gunshots—had silenced him.

Her vision swam. The bathroom lights were too bright, her breathing too loud. She could still hear the screams, the gunfire, the chaos of that night. She wasn’t here anymore, but trapped in that nightmare.

Her fingers dug into the sink, gripping it as if it were the only thing anchoring her to reality.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Serbs’ voices, their boots pounding on the floor, her mother’s terrified cries—they overwhelmed her.

Her heart raced, breaths coming in short gasps. She wasn’t the Wraith now.

She wasn’t Maryam.

She was just a little girl again, watching as her world was ripped apart.

Her hands shook violently, her knuckles white as she gripped the sink harder.

“Breathe,” she told herself, but it didn’t help. The walls were closing in, memories consuming her. She saw her father fall, heard her mother scream—it all played out like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

Desperate, she opened the medicine cabinet and fumbled for her pills, her fingers trembling as she grabbed two bottles— Sertraline for PTSD, Prazosin for nightmares, and Lexapro for depression. 

She swallowed them quickly, chasing them down with an ibuprofen for good measure, ignoring the bitter taste that lingered in her mouth.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

Next, she opened the glass door of the shower. 

Stripping off the rest of her clothes, she stepped in, wincing as the warm water hit her sore muscles and cuts. It soothed her aching body, but she didn't linger. She was too tired. She just wanted to sleep.

Before that, though, she had to take her diabetes meds—something she hadn't done in two days. With everything that had been going on, she'd forgotten to take care of herself, and the familiar wave of guilt rose in her chest. She quickly washed her hair and body, feeling the exhaustion seep into her bones.

When she finished, she stepped out of the shower and slipped into a bathrobe, pulling the soft sleeves over her arms and tying it snugly around her waist. The mirror was fogged up from the steam, so she wiped a hand across it. 

Her reflection stared back at her, and her stomach plummeted. The jagged cut beside her right eyebrow stood out sharply against her once sun-kissed skin, now a sickly shade of pale, swollen and inflamed.

She grabbed the first aid kit, her movements mechanical as she cleaned and dressed the wound, pressing gauze against the cut to stem any remaining blood. Her hands moved with a tired efficiency, applying a sterile bandage over the area.

When she was done, she slipped into her pyjamas, the soft fabric a small comfort against the cold air.

Then came the part she dreaded. 

She sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the case for her blood glucose meter. Pricking her finger, she watched the small droplet of blood form before pressing it to the test strip. The familiar beep from the meter told her what she already knew—her blood sugar was too high.

Sighing, she reached for her insulin pen. After attaching a fresh needle, she dialed the correct dose, pinching the skin on her stomach before inserting the needle and pressing the plunger.

The medication stung as it went in, but she was used to it.

When she was done, she placed the pen back in its case, rubbing her eyes as the fatigue finally hit her full force.

She snuggled under the covers, pulling them close as the warmth enveloped her aching body. Reaching for her phone, she quickly scrolled through the missed messages from the night. 

As expected, the family group chat was filled with the usual chatter. Aunt Meysa had sent more links to prayers, while Uncle Fawzi shared pictures from the local market—cucumbers were apparently at a low price.

She rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her exhaustion.

And, of course, there were Aunt Jamila's long-winded voice messages, probably about something trivial.

Warda had shared pictures of little shoes she'd bought for her unborn child, prompting everyone in the group to coo in excitement.

Baya, Aunt Jamila's daughter, sent a few shots of Big Ben from her time in London—just the usual family stuff.

After a quick glance at those, she moved on to other messages. There were over a hundred from Sherine, and she sent a quick reply, telling her she was fine. Well, a lie, but Sherine didn't need to know the truth right now.

Tammi had sent an article about the drops, she skimmed through it. Nothing she didn't already know.

Setting her phone to charge on the nightstand, she turned her gaze toward the balcony. Outside, Gotham was its usual icy, chaotic self—couples arguing, police sirens wailing, people swearing at each other. 

Just another night in dear old Gotham.

Her apartment didn't offer a spectacular view of the city, but from her bed, she could still make out a few stars flickering in the night sky. Her eyelids grew heavier by the second. 

Exhausted to her core, she let sleep pull her under.

The dim light from the kitchen barely illuminated the cramped apartment, cluttered with unpaid bills scattered across the counter.

Batman's eyes lingered on one of the envelopes, its name reading Selina Kyle, before the TV caught his attention. The broadcast blared a grim headline :

‘Serial Killer Claims Credit for Second Victim in Two Days — GCPD Commissioner Murdered.’

His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.

Selina came in, visibly rattled, guilt shadowing her sharp features. "Jesus, what are they going to do to her? She's just a kid," she muttered, her voice wavering with worry. "And now they know who I am too. They took my phone, everything—"

She caught sight of Batman staring at the TV, which displayed a disturbing video.

The Riddler's eerie, altered voice filled the room as a newscaster warned viewers of the graphic content.

The screen showed the killer, his face obscured by a green hood and a question mark scrawled over his chest, taunting Gotham with another murder.

The camera panned to Commissioner Savage, bound and trapped with rats circling him, his muffled screams cut short as the video ended abruptly. A photo of the Commissioner, smiling in happier times, replaced the grim scene.

"Holy shit," Selina whispered, her eyes narrowing. "I've seen that guy too. At the club."

Batman tilted his head slightly. "The Iceberg Lounge?"

Selina shook her head, her voice low. "The 44 Below. It's the club within the club—where the real stuff happens. It's a mob hangout."

He stayed silent for a moment, then asked, "That's where you work?"

She shot him a glance, caught off guard. "I work at the bar upstairs, but yeah, I see them."

"Who?" he pressed, his tone unyielding.

"People who shouldn't be there. The ones who act all respectable in public... but they're not fooling anyone. I'm not stupid. I know what's going on."

Their eyes locked, his unrelenting gaze not letting her off the hook. "You're going to help me. For your friend."

She stiffened, then took a slow breath.

"Do you know the Wraith?" he asked, almost like it was an afterthought.

Selina blinked, clearly thrown by the question. "The Wraith?" She turned toward the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk. "Yeah, I've heard of her." She took a sip, the cold liquid contrasting the tension in the room. "Kind of a myth, though, right? Some people don't even believe she's real."

Batman's only response was a grunt, deep and unreadable.

Selina let out a faint smirk, shaking her head as she set the milk down on the counter. "It's funny, really. The rich, the mob—they call her 'The Wraith,' like she's some shadow they can't pin down. But the people on the streets? They call her 'Lady Justice.'" She crossed her arms, the leather of her suit creaking, her brow furrowing as she thought back. "I saw her a few times in the Narrows, years ago. Then she just... vanished. No one's seen her since."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Selina admitted, her voice softening. "But I used to look up to her. She didn't seem real, like something out of a legend."

Batman didn't respond, slipping back into the shadows as the faint sound of police sirens echoed through the streets outside. His cape whispered against the floor. "You're not safe here," he muttered before disappearing.

"I can take care of myself," Selina shot back abruptly, her voice sharp.

But he was already gone.

She turned her attention to the TV, the grim news continuing its endless cycle.

The newscaster's voice echoed through the apartment. "...with two public figures dead in just the last two nights, and only days before the election, police and city officials are left scrambling for answers, hoping to catch the killer before he strikes again."

Maryam had barely gotten three hours of sleep when the shrill sound of her phone jolted her awake.

Groaning, she blinked her heavy eyelids open, her muscles screaming in protest as she blindly reached for the phone on her bedside table. Her hand flopped around, knocking over her lamp, her alarm clock, and a book before finally landing on the ringing device.

She squinted at the screen.

Jamie G.

Great.

She glanced at the time: 5:20 a.m.

What the hell do they want now?

With a sigh, she swiped to answer. Before she could speak, Gordon's voice came through, rushed and stressed.

"Mar, I need you to come right now. I'm in front of your building—"

"What?" Her voice, hoarse from sleep, cracked as she sat up, still rubbing her face. Her caramel curls fell messily over her eyes, adding to her confusion.

"Listen, just hurry. The killer struck again."

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, irritation creeping into her voice.

"Wish I was, kid. I need you for the autopsy. It's urgent."

She ran a hand through her wild curls, pushing them out of her face, annoyance clear in her tone. "Who the hell dies at this hour, making me leave my warm, comfy bed?"

Gordon's voice was grim. "It's Commissioner Savage."

The doctor froze, her eyes wide. "What the fuck."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Now get your ass down here. We don't have all day."

With another exasperated sigh, she muttered, "Give me 15 minutes. I'm coming," before hanging up and tossing her phone aside.

Maryam sat on the edge of her bed, still processing what Gordon had just said.

Commissioner Savage.

Murdered.

"What the hell is going on in this city..." she muttered to herself, rubbing her temples as the weight of the news sank in.

She dragged herself out of bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion from te night before.

In the faint light of her apartment, Maryam shuffled to her closet, grabbing the first clean scrubs she could find—black ones.

She threw on a gray undershirt since her scrubs had no sleeves and pulled on her trench coat. She quickly slipped into a pair of sneakers before heading to the bathroom.

The harsh bathroom lights stung her eyes, making her squint until her vision adjusted. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—dark circles under her eyes made her look just as lifeless as the people she examined. Her hazel eyes reflected green under the yellow light, and the bruise near her brow still hadn't faded. Great, she thought, another thing to explain to Gordon.

Fixing her face seemed pointless. She wasn't about to impress anyone while cutting open a dead commissioner.

Her hair, a wild mess of curls, was exactly how she'd left it. I should've listened to myself and straightened it, she thought, regretting not doing it earlier—more like three hours ago—but exhaustion had won that battle. Instead, she threw it into a quick French twist, ignoring the stubborn curls that escaped the updo.

After splashing cold water on her face and brushing her teeth, she grabbed her bag, keys, and phone, and rushed out the door.

The early morning chill hit her as soon as she stepped outside.

Gotham's streets were eerily still, save for the distant hum of police sirens—a constant reminder of the city's chaos.

As Maryam approached the curb, Gordon stood leaning against his car, the streetlight casting harsh shadows over his exhausted face. He straightened when he saw her coming.

"Fifteen minutes? More like twenty-five," he said, tapping his watch, his voice laced with weary sarcasm.

Maryam shot him a sharp look, pulling the belt of her trench coat tighter around her waist. "You woke me up at 5 a.m. You're lucky I'm even vertical."

Gordon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, Mar. This one's bad. Real bad."

She could see it in his face—the strain, the weight of whatever mess was waiting for them. If the commissioner was dead, Gotham was about to spiral into chaos.

Without another word, she slid into the passenger seat, the cold leather biting through her scrubs. Gordon got behind the wheel as she buckled her seatbelt. "Worse than the mayor?" she asked, disbelief creeping into her voice.

He didn't answer right away, just shifted the car into gear and pulled onto the dark, empty streets of Gotham. "You'll see."

Gordon glanced sideways at her, eyes lined with fatigue. "You good?"

She sighed, pushing a stray curl from her face. "I'm here, aren't I?" She bit her thumb lightly, her gaze fixed ahead on the road. "But yeah, everything's just peachy." She turned to him with a raised perfect structured brow. "You?"

Gordon gave a hollow laugh, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "How do you think?" He didn't look at her, just focused on the road, eyes narrowed against the dim streetlights and the occasional flash of a police cruiser speeding by.

"Yeah, thought so." Maryam leaned back into the seat, letting her head rest against the cold window.

The rhythmic hum of the car as it cut through Gotham's early morning streets was almost soothing, but her mind raced, unable to shake the weight of what Gordon had said. Worse than the mayor? That didn't leave much room for optimism.

They drove in silence for a while longer, the city slipping past in shadows and flickering lights. The distant sirens and low rumble of Gotham waking up to another day of chaos filled the quiet, and Maryam closed her eyes, trying to gather herself. But no matter how much she loved her job, sometimes it was all too much. The pit in her stomach deepened.

Gordon finally broke the silence, his voice rough and low. "This isn't just about the commissioner. It's the way it was done." His jaw clenched as he shook his head. "It's like this city's being torn apart piece by piece. I don't know how much more we can take before it completely falls apart."

Maryam didn't respond, but a cold chill crept up her spine. Gordon wasn't exaggerating. She'd seen enough of Gotham's darkness to know that when someone like the commissioner was taken out, it was never just a simple murder.

There was always something more beneath the surface, something twisted.

"Did you see the livestream?" Gordon asked, adjusting his glasses with one hand as they waited at a red light.

"Livestream?" she echoed, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"That freak recorded it live. Streamed the whole thing on social media." His voice was tight with disgust as he shook his head.

"Are you serious?" Maryam pulled out her phone, opened Twitter, and immediately saw the trending post.

Her heart sank.

Commissioner Savage, bound and trapped in a small iron cage with rats circling his head, gnawing at his flesh. His muffled screams filled the car through her phone's speakers. It already had millions of views. She scrolled through the comments—some people panicking, others making dark jokes. 'Only in Gotham,' one read.

She locked her phone, shaking her head. "What the actual fuck is wrong with this guy?"

"I don't know," Gordon muttered, "but he needs to be stopped."

As they turned the corner toward GCPD headquarters, Maryam noticed fewer police cars than she had expected. Gordon pulled up to the curb and parked, then turned to face her. His face was pale in the streetlights, worry etched deep in his features as he rubbed his mustache.

"Just so you know, the Bat's coming," he said quietly.

Maryam groaned, throwing her head back in exasperation. "Oh my god, Jamie, you invited that autistic bat?"

Gordon shot her a look as he got out of the car. "Behave, Mar," he said, slamming the door shut behind him.

With a dramatic sigh, Maryam followed suit, shivering as Gotham's morning chill wrapped around her.

She shrugged her bag over her shoulder, muttering under her breath, "I'm always behaved..." Then, jogging to catch up with his hurried steps, she called after him, "You could've warned me at least!"

They didn't enter through the front, but slipped around to the back of the station. That's when Maryam saw him—standing in the shadows by his car.

Vengeance.

Even from the distance, their eyes snapped to each other instantly. Just hours ago, they'd been chasing and fighting one another, and now here they were again, face to face. Her, in civilian clothes; him, still in his suit.

Her fingers instinctively brushed the bruise behind her brow. Anxiety twisted in her gut.

What if he recognizes me? she thought, panic creeping in.

But she quickly shook it off. Don't be ridiculous. It was night, you were both fighting.

He. didn't. see. anything.

As they approached, Gordon led the way, walking straight toward the Bat, while Maryam held back, keeping her distance—just in case.

She stayed quiet, head down, but could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her.

Gordon nodded at the towering figure. "Right, let's get this over with. I don't want them to see you," he said before heading inside the station.

Maryam kept her head low as they moved past, still staying behind. But she could feel Vengeance's eyes on her, even though she avoided looking directly at him.

Inside, they were greeted by Officer Martinez, who shot a dirty look at the Bat before turning to Maryam. His expression softened as he leaned in, kissing her on the cheek and handing her a small cup of coffee. "For my favorite colleague," he grinned, his mustache lifting with the smile.

She returned the gesture, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, Lucas. You're a lifesaver."

Gordon interrupted the brief moment. "Hey, Martinez, keep an eye out while we go check the body, will you?"

Martinez looked between the trio, eyebrows raised, but nodded. "Uh— Yeah, sure thing, Lieutenant. You got it."

Without further exchange, they descended into the cold, sterile halls of the medical examiner's rooms. The familiar smell of disinfectant greeted them.

Maryam squirted some alcohol on her hands and snapped on a pair of gloves. "Which drawer?" she asked Gordon, gesturing to the rows of body fridges.

Gordon pointed to the far end of the room. "Third from the right."

She walked over, her footsteps echoing in the quiet, and tugged open the heavy metal door. The cold air hit her immediately as she pulled out the slab with Commissioner Savage's body lying still and lifeless, the weight of Gotham's madness now reduced to just another corpse.

Maryam took a deep breath, steadying herself as she pulled the drawer fully open. The sight of the commissioner's body sent a shiver down her spine. He lay there, pale and motionless, a stark reminder of the brutality that had engulfed Gotham. She couldn't help but notice the way his hands were positioned—fingers curled as if grasping at something that was no longer there.

The medical examiner grimaced at the sight in front of her, and Gordon muttered a low, "Jesus," looking away and clenching his jaw. The Bat approached from behind, cold and calculating, assessing the body over her shoulder.

"Let's see what we've got here," Maryam said, reaching for the flashlight on the autopsy tray.

She waved it over the commissioner's eyes, checking for any reaction. "No pupil dilation," she noted. "Which means he was likely already unconscious when it happened."

"He waited for him. At the gym. Pete liked to work out late at night," Gordon said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Not the best choice in a city this volatile," Maryam added, raising her brows to drive home the point, continuing her examination. "This isn't just a simple murder... no, there's definitely a pattern."

"There's a needle mark on his neck," Batman observed, his tone flat.

"Son of a bitch injected him with—" Gordon began, only to be cut off by the vigilante.

"Rat poison."

"That seems to be his theme," Gordon replied, frustration creeping into his voice. He stepped back angrily, running a hand through his hair.

"It wouldn't have taken long," Maryam said calmly, her gloved hands moving over the body. "Depending on the dose, the poison would've shut down his organs in minutes. A cruel way to go."

Batman followed Gordon to the evidence table, while Maryam kept her focus on Savage. As she worked, something caught her eye—the creepy, hinged cage-like head box nearby. She moved closer, peering inside at the intricate network of channels.

"It's a maze," the Bat said, examining it over her shoulder.

"What kind of sicko does this to a person?" Gordon asked, disgust lacing his voice as he looked into the bloody maze.

Batman pulled out a violet light, flashing it over the channels. "More symbols." A crudely painted cipher ended in a question mark within crosshairs. "Another cipher."

"What kind of light is that?" Maryam asked curiously, her brow furrowing as she eyed the tool in his hand.

The Bat turned his gaze to her, his expression unreadable, his eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke. ***

Her focus shifted back to the maze. She narrowed her eyes, her voice firm. "This isn't just torture. It's a message. A twisted game." She clicked on her own flashlight, carefully illuminating the channels in the gruesome head box. "Each path could represent something—maybe even the victim's fate."

Batman's gaze shifted to the surveillance photos Gordon was sifting through. "He blasted those out after his message went viral. This guy murders you and your reputation."

"That guy's pushing drops," Batman added, spotting a figure next to Savage in the photos, his gloved hand still holding the violet light. "On the East End."

Maryam frowned as she glanced at the photos, her heart sinking. The commissioner was emerging from the Iceberg Lounge, shaking hands with a shady figure. "This doesn't look good," she said softly. "Even in death, he's destroying reputations. This could ruin lives..."

Gordon sighed heavily. "Why would Pete get involved in this?"

"Looks like he got greedy," Batman replied.

Maryam scoffed, shooting Gordon a knowing look. "Come on, Jamie, we all know half the cops in Gotham work for you-know-who. It's not a stretch to think Pete crossed that line."

"Are you kidding me? After everything we did to bust up the Maronis? We shut down their whole operation, and now he's caving to some dealer?" Gordon's voice was incredulous.

"Maybe he wasn't who you thought he was," Batman said coldly.

"You make it sound like he had it coming," Gordon muttered, frustration evident.

"He was a cop. He crossed the line," Batman said flatly.

Maryam nodded. "Zorro's right, Gordon. Even if you arrested Maroni, the drops and drugs are still out there. New ones hit the streets every day. I've lost count of the bodies with this stuff in their systems." She glanced back at the corpse. "The system is failing us. And now, someone's turning it into a game. More lives are being sacrificed."

Gordon exhaled, weighed down by the situation. Batman noticed something taped to the back of the head box—an envelope labeled To the Batman.

He opened it, revealing another greeting card. A cartoon scientist mixing beakers smiled out at them with the words, I'm MAD About You! Want to Know My Name? Just Look Inside and See... Inside, a cartoon explosion with the words, But wait, I cannot tell you—it might spoil the chemistry!

Maryam rolled her eyes. "This is childish. Whoever did this thinks it's a game?" She leaned closer, studying the envelope with a critical eye. "But it's also an invitation. A challenge."

Batman scanned the scribbled message and read aloud, "Follow the maze till you find the rat—bring him into the light, and you'll find where I'm at."

"What the hell does that mean? Bring him into the light? Find the rat?" Gordon asked, unnerved.

Batman's eyes narrowed as he stared at his name on the envelope. "I don't know..."

Maryam crossed her arms, contemplating. "It's a metaphor, right? Exposing someone, forcing them to face the consequences of their actions." She looked at the Bat, her voice firm. "We need to figure out who this rat is before more bodies pile up." A dark look crossed her face as dread gnawed at her. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Suddenly, Martinez hurried down the stairs, snapping the trio out of their thoughts. "Lieutenant, they're coming back."

"We need to get out of here," Gordon said sharply, turning to his two companions.

The trio made their way out of the police station through the back, where the dim streetlights flickered over the darkened alleyway.

The heavy steel door shut behind them with a metallic clank, leaving them in the cool night air. Batman's shadowed figure was already scanning the surroundings, always alert, while Gordon fumbled with his phone, the screen glowing in his hand.

Just then, Gordon's phone rang urgently, the shrill tone cutting through the quiet. He glanced down, his brow furrowing. "I've gotta take this," he muttered before answering the call. His voice grew tense after a few exchanged words. "Yeah... Yeah, I'll be there. Right away."

He hung up, slipping the phone into his coat pocket, and turned to Maryam. "I need to go. Something's come up."

Maryam gave him a reassuring smile. "It's fine, Jamie. I can walk from here."

Gordon hesitated for a moment, his expression softening as he stepped closer. He pressed a quick, fatherly kiss to her cheek—a simple gesture filled with warmth and concern. "Just be careful, alright?"

"I always am," Maryam replied with a faint smile, the weight of the night still heavy between them.

Gordon gave Batman a nod, a silent acknowledgment between the two men.

Without another word, he strode toward his car, the tension of Gotham's unrelenting chaos pulling him back into the fray.

The moment he slipped inside, he flipped on the sirens. The red and blue lights burst to life, flashing across the walls of the alley, followed by the sharp wail of the siren as the car sped off into the distance.

Maryam watched for a moment, her expression inscrutable as the siren's wail faded into the distance.

She exhaled softly, her breath misting in the cold air, then shifted her gaze to the looming figure of the Bat beside her. As she expected, he was already watching her, his shadowed eyes piercing through the darkness.

Fumbling with the belt of her trench coat, she pulled it tighter around her waist, as if it could shield her from the weight of his presence.

That gaze—it was relentless, cutting through her defenses. She swallowed hard, her heart quickening as she forced herself to look anywhere but at him. "Well... bye, I guess," she muttered abruptly, her voice sounding smaller than she intended. She turned on her heel, ready to disappear into the night.

But before she could take another step, his voice—low, grave, and unyielding—cut through the stillness of the alley. It stopped her cold.

"What happened to your face?"

She sighed, knowing he had seen it.

Gordon knew better than to ask, but him? "What are you talking about?" she replied, trying to feign confusion as she turned to face him, his form now just a few centimeters away.

"This," he said, pointing with a gloved finger at her brow, where a cut was surrounded by a bluish bruise.

"Oh," she attempted a reassuring smile, letting out a small chuckle and raising a hand dismissively. "It's nothing, really. I just banged my head against a table yesterday."

He remained silent for a moment, still looking at her, while she found herself unable to meet his gaze.

Having had enough of the silence, she crossed her arms defensively. "Can you stop looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he asked, his tone calm yet curious.

"Like you're dissecting me," she shot back, her voice carrying a hint of irritation. "I'm fine. Really."

His eyes narrowed slightly, a mixture of skepticism and concern flickering in the shadows. "You're not fine. You're hurt. And it's not just a cut."

Maryam rolled her eyes, her defensive posture making her shoulders tense. "It's just a bruise, Zorro. I've dealt with worse." She turned her back to him, taking a step toward the alley's exit, but his presence felt like a weight she couldn't shake off.

"Doesn't look like it," he said quietly, closing the distance between them.

Their eyes locked, and she crossed her arms defiantly. "You're doing it again—looking at me like you can see right through me," she shot back, her voice tinged with frustration as she held her ground against his piercing gaze.

Vengeance tilted his head, the shadows accentuating the angles of his mask. "You think you're hiding something from me?" he asked, his tone steady but edged with curiosity.

Maryam took a step back, her heart racing as she fought to regain her composure. "It's just a bruise. It's not a big deal," she insisted, trying to force a casual demeanor despite the tension crackling between them.

He reached out and took her arm, the contact eliciting a short gasp from her lips. Then, he pulled her closer, his breath warming her neck as he examined the cut. "It's too deep to just be from bumping your head on a table."

She clenched her jaw, gripping his muscular arm, feeling the fabric of his suit tighten beneath her fingers. "Stop it," she said, her voice firm, and she pushed him away. But he caught her hand this time, refusing to let go.

"Get on the bike. You're not walking home alone."

"No."

"This isn't up for debate," he said, his voice low and commanding, though there was a hint of concern beneath the surface. "The streets aren't safe, especially not for you right now."

She met his gaze, unyielding. "I appreciate the concern, but I can take care of myself. I'm not some damsel in distress."

He let out a soft sigh, the tension between them thick. "This isn't about being a damsel. It's about the dangers out there—the ones you can't see coming."

Maryam shook her head, frustration bubbling up. "I'm not afraid of whatever's lurking in the shadows. I'm not afraid of you, either."

"Is that what this is about?" he asked, stepping closer, his intensity unwavering. "You think you can handle everything on your own? You've seen what I can do. I'm not just some myth; I'm real, and I'm trying to help."

"I don't need your help," she shot back, her heart pounding from the confrontation. "You don't get to decide what I need. I can protect myself." Her voice was firmer than she felt, muttering under her breath, "I've been doing it for years."

Silence hung heavy between them.

"Just get on the bike," he finally said.

Frustration surged within her. "Oh my god, are you deaf or something?! I can handle myself, thank you very much!" Her hands punctuated her words, a familiar gesture when she felt cornered. "And why do you even care? We barely know each other!"

His gaze narrowed as he absorbed her words. "I won't stand by and watch someone get hurt when I can do something about it."

Maryam clenched her jaw, the defiance in her eyes flickering like a dying flame. "I'm a medical examiner. I've faced danger before. I don’t need someone babysitting me."

He shook his head slowly, frustration seeping through his tight-lipped expression. "This isn't just about you anymore. Gotham's a dangerous place, and you're already in over your head. You need someone watching your back."

"Maybe I don't want anyone watching my back," she retorted, taking a step away. "Maybe I'd rather take my chances on my own than rely on someone who thinks they know better."

He exhaled sharply, the tension between them thickening. "It's not about knowing better. It's about keeping you safe."

"Safe?" Her voice rose, anger sharpening her words. "You don’t even know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You think you can just swoop in and—"

"I know enough," he interrupted, his voice low and steady. "I know enough to see that you're hurting. And I’m not going to let you push me away because you’re scared."

Her heart raced, caught between anger and something softer. "You think this is fear? This is me standing my ground."

"Then stand your ground on the bike," he said, his voice calm but laced with concern. "I'm not asking you to give up control. Just let me help."

She paused, torn between her stubborn pride and the truth hanging in his words. "I don't want to be a burden," she muttered, her earlier defiance weakening.

"You're not a burden," he replied, though his words came slower, more deliberate. "You're... an ally."

Maryam bit her lip, weighing her options. After a long pause, she exhaled, her resistance faltering. "Fine. But this doesn't change anything."

He almost smiled—just a flicker of amusement in his usually stoic expression. "I wouldn't dream of it." Then, his expression hardened slightly. "Wait here."

She nodded suspiciously, watching him disappear into the shadows of the alley. Minutes passed, her gaze darting around anxiously. He was gone for at least ten minutes before he reappeared, but this time, the suit was gone.

In its place stood a drifter, or at least, that's what he looked like—his lower face hidden behind a bandana, black sunglasses covering his eyes, and a cap pulled low over his brow. The baggy clothes he wore made him unrecognizable, a stark contrast to the imposing figure from earlier.

She narrowed her eyes, studying him, but she still couldn't piece together who he was. His disguise was too good.

Without a word, he gestured toward the motorcycle parked nearby, a sleek, black machine that fit the man of mystery he was. He handed her a helmet, and she hesitated for only a moment before taking it, slipping it over her head.

Once she was seated behind him, she felt the rumble of the engine beneath them as he settled in front.

Through the hum of the engine, she spoke up, giving her address. "I live on—"

"I know," he interrupted, his voice steady but muffled through the helmet.

She blinked, surprised. "What? How?"

"Just hold on," he replied without explanation, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Maryam frowned but didn't have much of a choice. She reluctantly wrapped her arms around his abdomen, feeling the solidness of his frame beneath the loose clothing.

The motorcycle roared to life, and they sped into the early morning, the city blurring around them as she tightened her grip, wondering just how much he really knew about her.

The wind whipped past them, the early morning chill biting at her skin even through her clothes.

Maryam's heart raced, not just from the speed of the bike, but from the thoughts swirling in her head.

The city lights streaked by in a blur, the darkened streets and shadowy alleys blending together as they tore through Gotham's chaotic maze.

She felt her grip tighten around him instinctively, her cheek nearly pressed to his back, sensing the calm rhythm of his breath against the wild beat of her own heart.

The streets were far from calm, even in the early hours.

She caught glimpses of figures huddled in makeshift shelters, a couple of homeless men crouched by a fire in a barrel, their faces hollowed by hunger and hardship.

Shadows flitted between the crumbling facades of abandoned buildings, home to those whom Gotham's elite had long forgotten. Maryam swallowed hard, her chest tightening with a blend of embarrassment and discomfort.

It wasn't the people that embarrassed her; she had once walked in their shoes. No, it was the man on the motorcycle—a figure that felt foreign, as if he had never known the grit of these streets.

The bike began to slow down as they neared a slightly quieter corner, still rough around the edges but not quite in the heart of the Narrows.

Maryam's heart was still pounding, her fingers curled tightly around his jacket, but she forced herself to loosen her grip as the motorcycle came to a stop.

"You can let go now," his voice broke through the rumble of the engine, a hint of amusement mixed with something more unreadable.

Exhaling shakily, Maryam removed her arms from around him and slid off the bike, her legs unsteady on the gritty concrete.

She stood there for a moment, watching him as he kicked the stand down, turning off the engine. With slightly trembling fingers, she fumbled with the helmet, removing it and shaking her head to loosen her hair.

A few stubborn curls had escaped her carefully pinned-up hair during the ride. She tried to brush them back in place, but they were wild, framing her face in soft, unruly waves.

Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, but it only made her look more striking.

Despite the smudges of fatigue and tension etched around her eyes, there was a sharp beauty in her features—a hint of vulnerability hidden behind the determination in her gaze.

"How—" she began, her voice still hoarse from the ride. "How do you know where I live?"

He turned to face her, his lower face still hidden behind the bandana, his eyes obscured by those dark sunglasses. "I make it my business to know things," he replied, his tone casual, though there was an underlying weight to his words that set her on edge.

Maryam's frown deepened, her lips pressed into a thin line. "That's not an answer."

"No," he admitted with a slight tilt of his head. "But it's the one you're getting."

Her frustration flickered, and she crossed her arms tightly, struggling to calm her racing heart. "You can't just—"

"You're safe," he cut her off, his voice sharp and final. "That's what matters."

Maryam clenched her jaw, her pride stinging. "I can take care of myself."

He didn't argue, just stood there for a moment, as if sizing her up. Then, without another word, he turned back to the bike, preparing to leave.

"Wait." The word slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

He paused, turning his head just slightly, though he didn't look at her fully. "What?"

She hesitated, feeling the weight of the tension between them. "Why are you doing this?"

There was a long silence before he spoke again. "Because someone has to."

And with that, the engine roared back to life. Before she could react, he sped off into the gloom, vanishing into the shadows as if he'd never been there.

Maryam stood in the dim light of the street, watching the empty space where he had been moments ago.

The cold air stung her face, her mind buzzing with unanswered questions. She shook her head, muttering to herself, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

As the engine hummed beneath him, Bruce felt the familiar tension ease slightly from his body.

She reminded him of someone.

Actually, she reminded him of himself.

He could still feel the ghost of her arms around his waist, the way her grip had tightened instinctively when the bike picked up speed.

She hadn't trusted him—he could feel that—but she hadn't had much of a choice, either.

The same way he hadn't had a choice but to intervene.

But why? Why had he stepped in tonight? It wasn't like him to involve himself so deeply, especially not with someone like her. Someone with a past she kept hidden, someone fiercely independent who clearly resented any intrusion.

Bruce's gloved hands tightened on the handlebars as the streets blurred past him.

There was something about Maryam that nagged at him, something he couldn't shake.

She had secrets—just like everyone else in Gotham—but hers felt especially tangled. That bruise on her face? He knew it hadn’t come from a table, no matter how convincingly she tried to spin her story.

And he actually had an idea of how... he just had to watch and analyze the night that he has captured through his contact lents.

He had a sense of how it had happened; all he needed to do was watch and analyze the night captured through his contact lenses.

But it wasn’t just the physical injuries that caught his attention.

He had seen it in her eyes—the quiet pain, the weariness that she tried so hard to mask with that bravado. She was running from something, even if she wouldn't admit it. But what? And why did he care?

Bruce shook his head, focusing on the road ahead. He wasn't supposed to care.

The mission always came first—Gotham came first.

That was the only thing that mattered. Yet, there was something about her—something about Maryam Ben Halimi—that he couldn't quite let go of.

He turned down a narrow street, heading toward the Batcave, the night wrapping around him like an old, familiar cloak.

His thoughts lingered on her words, the fire in her voice when she insisted she didn't need help. He knew that feeling, the instinct to push others away, to rely only on yourself.

He had been doing it for years.

But it was different now. She was different. He wasn't sure why, but he felt drawn to her in a way that made him uneasy. It wasn't just about protecting Gotham this time.

He pulled into the cave, the cool, dark expanse opening up around him. The bike's engine echoed off the stone walls as he came to a stop. He took off his sunglasses and slid the bandana down, revealing the familiar, stoic mask of Bruce Wayne.

But even as he shut down the bike and removed his helmet, he couldn't shake the feeling.

He couldn't shake her.

She had gotten under his skin in ways that made him question his own instincts.

Pacing toward the center of the cave, Bruce's mind kept circling back to her—her sharp words, her defensive stance, and the way her eyes had softened for just a split second when she gave in. Fine. But this doesn't change anything.

Of course, it didn't change anything. It wasn't supposed to. But something had shifted. Maybe not for her, but for him.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.

This was why he worked alone.

This was why he kept his distance.

Attachment—any kind—was dangerous.

It clouded judgment, made things messy.

Yet, here he was, thinking about Maryam again, about her bruised face, about the vulnerability she tried to hide beneath her sharp tongue.

Maybe it was because she wasn't afraid of him.

Or maybe it was because, despite everything, she was still standing her ground.

She wasn't running from him.

And she didn't see him as a myth, a legend, or a hero. She seemed to saw him for what he was—a man, flawed and just as tangled in this city's web as everyone else.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his breath heavy in the stillness of the cave. He couldn't afford distractions.

Not now.

Not ever.

But as he stood there, in the familiar shadows, one thought kept gnawing at him:

He wasn't just trying to protect Maryam from Gotham's dangers.

He was trying to protect her from becoming something like him.

Or perhaps it was too late; perhaps, unbeknownst to him, she had already shed the city's sins, leaving her pure and untouchable.

And maybe, just maybe, he was ready to plunge into the depths with her, surrendering to the darkness that beckoned.

previous chapter | next chapter

[4oh4blognotfound]

I saw someone talk about this already but JRWI Wonderlust characters are all disabled and this is my take on them. (Aka I’m projecting on some of them hardcore.)

Vague ep 1 spoilers below

Troy: Massive headaches and jaw pain. He had TMJ before and the branch to the head made it SO much worse. The force of the blow literally displaced his jaw, opening the door for constant pain and locking. Constant talking and chewing exacerbates the issue, to the point where his jaw locks open. This was something new he’d never experienced until the injury, and it scared the shit out him. He has long term memory issues from his various concussions too!

He’s also autistic but like, we’ve been knew about that.

Runt: Hypermobile 1000%! Her knee braces remind me of my own brace for my dislocated kneecap mixed with another kind of brace whose name I can’t remember atm. Her tibias are bowed so the braces are supposed to help with that.

Asthma as well!! I haven’t see a better depiction, whether intentional or not, of asthma as a long time sufferer.

Blink: He also has asthma, but manages it with an inhaler of sorts that he gets from the apothecary. (It’s part of his payment at this point.) He’s got a slight astigmatism in both eyes that causes constant headaches from strain. Where most people with the same problem’s eyes go in, his go out, making it harder to correct without glasses. Also has joint issues like Runt, but doesn’t have the hypermobility, just the aches and pains.

[mikimakiboo]

Wheels of misfortune (a Nightmare angst fic)

Based on these two posts by @unknownchoatic :)

I don't know ANYTHING about disability as I am not disabled myself, so please excuse the inaccuracies and misinterpretations :')

Also English isn't my first language so there might be grammatical errors :')

I'll proof read later

Tw: paralysis (???), mention of bullying, self hatred

It was late, the moon was high in the sky and everyone in the castle was sleeping. Everyone but Nightmare. He was wide awake, laying on his bed looking at the ceiling. He had been feeling quite unwell these past few days, he wasn't sick, but he could feel his body being heavy, especially his legs. There had been a fight with his brother recently, but he didn't recall being hurt, he came back tired because of the positivity, sure, but he wasn't hurt, so why was he feeling that way ?

He sat on the edge of his bed, sighing, and pushed on his arms to get up, feeling his legs shake under his weight. He looked at his private bathroom door at the back of his room, for a moment it seemed to be so far away from him that he thought of getting back on the bed. He shook his head, what was he thinking ? It was barely a few meters away.

He made a step forward, grabbed the wall for support when he tripped on the rug, it was the first time he ever tripped on this rug, and slowly made his way to the bathroom. He was exhausted, his back hurt, it had always hurt since he acquired his tentacles, but recently the pain had became a lot more overwhelming, and even when he didn't summon them, like now, it still hurt, even if the tentacles weren't there. He never summoned them when he was at home, he didn't want to bump into things. He knelt in front of the bathtub and opened the faucet, watching the warm water run for a while before starting to get undressed, sitting on the floor. He looked at himself in the mirror, inspecting his bones in search for any cracks, maybe he had been hurt after all, maybe he just didn't notice, but everything was fine, there was no injuries.

When the tub was full he closed the faucet, grabbed some essential oils bottle to put some drops in the bath, and finally got in, sighing in relief as he felt the warm water sooth the pain away. He closed his eye, relaxing a bit, he focused on the different emotions in the castle and only felt peace and contentment. Good. That meant his boys weren't having any bad dreams, they were sleeping peacefully. He would always make sure they were okay, they were all that he had, they were his family, he would always protect them, no matter what.

He relaxed in the tub for a good hour before getting up, the water was cold now. He grabbed a towel to wrap himself in and got out of the tub, letting the water drain in the pipes. After only two steps he grabbed the sink for support, his legs were shaking badly. He muttered a curse under his breath, bending over to grab a short and a t-shirt for the night which he struggled to put on before getting out of the bathroom.

He flopped on his bed and crawled under the covers, maybe tomorrow he will feel better, he just needed to sleep a little...

When the sun shone through the curtains Nightmare let out an annoyed growl, he was still feeling so heavy, his back still hurt and his legs... weren't hurting... he didn't feel anything in his legs... His eye shot open as he sat up straight, throwing the covers aside. His legs were still there. Of course his legs were still there, how stupid could he be, thinking they would have disappeared ? He tried to sit on the edge of his bed, but nothing happened, he didn't move...

- What the f#ck... ?

He muttered, stress starting to settle in his soul as he tried in vain to move his legs. His breath fastened slightly, he brushed his hand against his tibia, he could barely feel it, he tried again on the other leg, rubbed his feet, his femur, his knees, but he didn't feel the touch, he was just... numb.

He grabbed the nightstand in a hurry pulling himself out of bed by force, his soul was beating too fast for him to remain calm. He fell, taking a lamp with him in his fall, it shattered on impact, he tried to get up again, to hold onto the nightstand and push on his arms to get up, to stand on his legs, but they didn't move and he fell again, his breath was erratic. What was happening ? What was happening to him ? Why couldn't he move his legs ? Why couldn't he get up ? Was that a nightmare ? Was he gonna wake up soon ? His arms hurt, it wasn't a nightmare.

- HORROR !!!

He yelled on the top of his magic lungs without thinking about it, feeling tears forming in his eye. Was he going to die ?

His door shot open, a very panicked Horror hasted in his room, for his boss to scream like that, something bad surely happened. His red eye quickly scanned the room before he spot Nightmare on the ground next to a broken lamp.

- I can't move them.. ! I can't.. !

Nightmare struggled to say, shocking on his tears, he couldn't form any coherent sentence, clearly having a panic attack. Horror rushed to him, he had never seen Nightmare in such a state...

- It's okay boss, I'll carry you to your bed.. ! Don't move.. !

He tried to reassure him as he gently but rapidly took him in his arms to lift him off the ground, sitting him on the bed and sitting next to him. Nightmare clung onto his henchman's jacket, burying his face against his chest, praying that it was in fact a bad dream. Horror held him in his arms, not understanding what was going on, all he knew was that his boss needed comfort so he would give him that. He gently rubbed his back, letting Nightmare cry against him.

- It's okay boss.. I'm here..

He gently soothed, feeling the little body of the black skeleton shaking like a leaf against him. When Nightmare finally managed to catch his breath and cease his crying, which took a few minutes, he looked up, still shaking slightly, only to see that his two remaining henchmen were in his room too, worried by all the noise, Dust looked like he just woke up, still in his pajamas. He didn't like that. He didn't like worrying his teammates, he was supposed to protect them, not make them worry. Killer was the first to speak.

- What happened ?

Nightmare took a few seconds to answer, he still didn't want to believe it himself, but the proof was that he was still trying to make his legs move without success.

- I can't feel my legs...

He answered with a weak voice, a voice he hated more than anything, a voice that reminded him of just how pathetic he could be, just like when he was a kid.

- What do you mean you can't feel your legs ?

Dust asked, a little confused.

- I can't feel them.. ! I can't feel any touch, I can't move them, I can't stand up, I.. !

- Shhht, calm down, take a deep breath..

Horror cut him, feeling him tense again. Nightmare pressed himself against the bigger skeleton, as much as he hated showing such vulnerability, he really needed comfort right now...

Killer frowned, looking at him almost accusingly.

- I told you to get a check up, you were hurting too much for it to be normal.

- You're not helping.

Dust scolded him. Nightmare was already in a bad state, no need to point at what he should have done, he already knew it.

- Horror, go make him something to eat, I'll help him get dressed, Killer try to see if you can find something in an AU to help him walk.

Dust commanded, he was the most responsible out of the three, he was kinda the second in command when Nightmare couldn't assume his leader role, like now. Killer scowled, he didn't like receiving orders from someone other than Nightmare, but for now he clearly couldn't think straight and they needed to help him, so he obliged and teleported in an AU to steal something.

Nightmare first tightened his grip on Horror's jacket when he felt him move but quickly let him go when Dust took his place. He watched as the big skeleton left his room.

- You feel like going to the bathroom or you want me to bring you your clothes here ?

Nightmare looked at Dust, he almost expected mockery, but Dust was genuine, he sincerely wanted to help. The goopy skeleton shook his head.

- Bring it please..

Dust nodded and went to the bathroom looking for his boss's clothes. Nightmare looked at him go, confused, he trusted them of course, but deep inside he was always so scared that they might leave him if he became too weak, that they might laugh at him for showing vulnerability like they laughed at him. The villagers. They would always mock him, make him feel weak and pathetic, he hated that, he hated that feeling, he wanted to be strong, to fight back, but he just couldn't, they were stronger than him, always.

Dust came back, clothes in hand.

- You need help ?

Nightmare was cut in his sad memories. He looked up at him.

- No, thank you..

- I'll turn around while you change, if you need help just ask.

Nightmare nodded, grabbing the clothes. He waited for Dust to turn his back before taking off his t-shirt, putting on a sweater and his jacket, then he stopped, looking at his legs. He tried to move them. Nothing happened. How was he going to take off his short and put on his sweatpants ? He looked up at Dust again, maybe he could ask him... ? No. No he wouldn't ask him. Dust wasn't a nurse, he was his henchman, it wasn't his job to get him dressed. He could do it himself, no need to bother him. He crawled on the middle of his bed and tried to push on his arms just enough to lift his pelvis off the mattress and slide off his short.

- You sure you don't need help ?

Dust asked, hearing the noise of the bedsheets.

- Yes.

Nightmare blushed, he was in his underwear, Dust couldn't turn around now ! He sat up again, tried to move his legs, failed, and manually lifted his knees in front of his ribcage to slide his feet in the leg holes of the sweatpants. He didn't even feel the cotton of the pants against his legs, it was like he was dressing the air and not himself, it didn't feel right. He then did the same thing he did to take off his short: lifted his pelvis as much as he could to pull the pants up. All that just for a pair of pants... what a waste of time. If only he had listened to Killer when he told him that it wasn't normal for his back to hurt this much, but he was just too stubborn to admit that the pain was barely bearable. To admit being weak.

- I'm done...

- Yeah ?

Dust turned around again, pleased to see that the goopy skeleton managed to dress himself alone, not that he wouldn't have helped, but it would have been awkward for both of them. He got closer to him and knelt in front of the bed, turning his back again.

- Put your arms around my shoulders, I'll carry you to the kitchen.

Nightmare looked at him, hesitantly getting closer to the edge of the bed.

- You're sure... ?

- You still can't move your legs, can you ?

No, he couldn't. He tried again and he still couldn't.

- Come one, you know Horror doesn't like it when we make the food wait.

Horror had strict rules with food, such as: no waste, two meals a day minimum, everyone eats together, and when the food is ready no one should be late or else it would be cold. Nightmare didn't want to upset the bigger skeleton so he reluctantly wrapped his arms around Dust's shoulders and watched him grab his legs to wrap them around his waist. Good thing he didn't have his tentacles summoned, he was much lighter and easy to carry without them.

It felt wrong. It felt so wrong to be carried like that, like a baby who couldn't move by himself. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. He just wanted to dissappear right now, to go to sleep and not wake up until all of his problems were gone.

Dust sat him on a chair, in front of the kitchen table. Horror had already put a plate in front of him: pancakes, he also had a cup of hot cocoa.

- Thanks...

Sometimes he felt like he didn't deserve them, he didn't deserve their love, their kindness, he deserved nothing... but he was so damn glad he had them because he loved them oh so dearly...

Killer teleported back in the kitchen, a wheelchair next to him. Nightmare looked at it. He didn't like it. He didn't want to sit in a wheelchair. He didn't want that, it was too... too much, too drastic, he didn't want that, he didn't want to just give up on his legs just yet. He felt his eye tingle. He didn't want to cry either, not again. He blinked to chase the tingling sensation away.

- I don't want that thing.

- It's the most suitable for you right now.

Killer countered. Nightmare frowned, blinking again.

- Why didn't you bring a cane ? Or at least crutches ?

- Because you need to at least be able to stand up to use those and you obviously can't.

Killer didn't have any filters when he talked, that was one of the side effects of not being able to feel fully, he was brutally honest because he didn't care if he hurt someone with the truth, it was always better than lying.

Nightmare blinked. One time. Two times. When he spoke his voice was shaking.

- I don't want a wheelchair.

- You don't really have another option right now.

- Killer.

Horror stopped him, seeing how Nightmare's hands had begun to shake.

- It will be temporary, just the time we find another solution.

He tried to reassure him. Nightmare looked at him, he doubted there would be another solution.

- You won't have to go outside with it, no one has to see you.

Nightmare didn't want anyone else to see him like that anyway.

- I'm gonna put you on it, okay ?

Horror said as he got closer to him. His breath fastened when the bigger skeleton lifted him from the chair to help him settle on the wheelchair. He felt his soul clench, his ribcage burn and his cheeks tingle again. He tried to move his legs, to show he didn't need this wheelchair, that he could still walk... nothing happened.

Dust left the kitchen to get dressed.

Horror took the empty plate and cup to wash them.

Killer went to the living room, feeling he wouldn't be of any help in the kitchen.

Nightmare didn't move.

He tried to move his legs.

Nothing happened.

He looked down.

A tear fell on his hand.

Was this going to be his life now ? Was he gonna spend the rest of eternity on a f#cking wheelchair ? It was ridiculous. He was the king of nightmares, the guardian of negativity ! And he just couldn't walk ? He could alter the balance of the whole multiverse but he couldn't move his legs ? The villagers would have loved to hear that. He felt so useless right now.

He stayed in the kitchen all morning, unable to bring himself to push on the wheels.

The week passed slowly, it was like he was in a fog all day, trying to move his legs, failing, trying again, failing again. His boys helped him as much as they could, grabbing things that were to high for him to reach, helping him with the stairs... he felt numb. All over. He couldn't bring himself to face the mirror, he didn't want to see his reflection, he didn't want to see these wheels.

He was in the library, he wanted to clear his thoughts, think of something else. He looked at the books, the one he wanted was on a shelf, a little high, he couldn't reach it when sitting down. He didn't want to call. He wanted to grab his book himself. He didn't want to be dependant.

He sat on the edge of the wheelchair, grabbing the shelf in front of him and pulling on his arms to lift his body, using the shelves as a sort of climbing hold. He stretched his free arm to the maximum and managed to grab the book. The wheelchair rolled back. He lost his grip on the shelf.

Horror heard a loud noise coming from the library, and he knew that the only ones to go to that room were Dust and Nightmare, and Dust was currently in the living room. He rushed, worried. What had Nightmare done ? Did he hurt himself ? When he entered it didn't take long for him to spot Nightmare on the ground, a book in hand and the wheelchair two meters away. The pieces assembled quickly. He sighed, coming to his side to help him sit on the chair again.

- Why didn't you call us ?

- I can do it myself.

- Was falling part of the plan ?

Nightmare's grip tightened on his book, he was looking at the ground. He felt so dumb. He felt like such a burden everyday, he wanted to do something himself, but of course he failed to do that too.

- Nightmare...

He looked up, Horror rarely called him by his name.

- Don't be scared to ask for help, we're here for you...

He knew he was being genuine when he said that.

- I don't want to bother you...

His voice was barely a whisper. He didn't like always calling for help, always monopolizing them, being so dependent on them, it just didn't feel right to him...

- You don't bother us. You never bothered us and you will never bother us. Okay ? We care about you, we're happy to help. You're not a burden to us. Don't forget that.

Nightmare felt his eye tingle again, but this time, he only felt warmth in his soul, hearing these words felt good... really good...

- You want me to make a pie for tonight ?

Horror changed the subject. Nightmare looked at him a little longer before nodding, making Horror smile.

- Okay, and if you need help, call us, will you ?

He nodded again. Horror gently pat his skull before leaving the library.

Nightmare was lucky to have them, he knew that, and as much as he hated his condition, at least, he wasn't alone...

- end -

[aealzx]

“Uhm… Yes?...Why?” Don responded, taken a little off guard by the question. They were already borrowing the infirmary weren’t they? Donnie and Lil Mikey were going to stay the rest of the night at least. Leatherhead was already settling Donnie back into the bed he’d been in before, and Raphael was trying to lead Leon over to the other bed for Lil Mikey to sleep on.

But Leon was apparently distracted by something else, leaning away from Raphael halfway and slow to respond. “You have intravenous antibiotics, yeah?” he asked, a mix of feeling rushed and excited making his speech faster as he eventually obeyed Raphael's mildly frustrated coaxing and carefully rested Lil Mikey on the mattress. “And two metal plates, about this big, and screws?” Leon followed up, holding his hands up a short distance apart and then a certain thickness.

The questions immediately caused Don’s mind to start listing possible uses in the context he was given. Injuries that would warrant metal plates, screws and antibiotics filtering into his head as he narrowed his eyes just slightly. “Yes, of course. Why?” Don confirmed and repeated his own question with a little more emphasis, restraining himself from grabbing Leon to check him over. It couldn’t be any of them that were currently there that were injured. The only thing Don could think of was a severe fracture, and if that was the case he didn’t think Leon would be moving as easily as he was.

But luckily Leon answered the question of who without the need of further interrogation.

“My brother has an open compound fractured tibia and fibula. Let me go get him, I’ll be right back.” Leon’s answer came as a rush of syllables accentuated by one of the swirling blue discs opening up next to him. Don flinched back slightly at the revelation, and Raphael was more caught off guard by the portal. The kid hadn’t even moved for that to appear. It was a little disconcerting since they still weren’t quite sure what they did exactly. Before the others could fully register what was going on Leon had slipped through the portal, mask tails nearly being caught by the closing gateway.

Being left in silence, Raphael mentally repeated in his mind what Leon had said. He understood most of it, but he wasn’t familiar enough with the names of bones to know which ones the tibia and fibula were. Something in the leg? Or was it the arm? They sounded familiar enough for him to think they were in one of the more external limbs. Looking over to Don for clarification and possible direction, Raphael let out a smothered snort of amusement. Don’s hands had remained frozen in the air where he’d reached out on reflex, and his expression betrayed his disbelief in what he’d just been told. The revelation caused stress to build to the point it bubbled over in the form of a higher pitched whine slowly escaping his form while his fingers flexed.

“Easy there Doctor Don. We don’t want to scare the kid off now that he’s finally started to trust us,” Raphael cautioned with a mild chuckle, recognizing Don’s mental restraint barely keeping him from chasing Leon down. Speaking up only caused Don to redirect his stress at him though.

“Hhhhhhhhh Raph you can not tell me to take it easy after being told the last one of them has a bone sticking out of his leg! if they’re not back in four hours I’m tracking them and getting them myself, and I make no promises on the four hours,” Don rambled, grabbing Raphael’s shoulders and lightly shaking him in distress.

Raphael could only chuckle, reaching up to still Don’s hands and keep him from shaking his brains up too much as Leo and Master Splinter moved closer. “Then I guess you should keep yourself busy getting the supplies you’ll need?” he suggested. Anything to keep his brother occupied and not giving someone a headache.

“...Duh,” Don huffed, giving Rahael an incredulous squint before breaking away to scurry towards the cabinets. The least he could do was make sure they had everything where Leon and he could easily get to it.

“What’s going on?” Leo asked, having heard pieces of the conversation but not actively followed it. He had a relatively clear guess on what the problem was with Don, but he preferred getting clarification before causing issues out of ignorant guesses.

“Remember when your bone was sticking outta your arm?” Raphael asked, raising his own arm and pointing at it.

“...Yeah?” Leo confirmed, reflexively glancing at the scar running down the length of his arm in memory.

“The kid Leo says his brother has the same thing, and went to get him. Obviously that got Don all worked up,” Raphael explained, jerking a thumb at their brother pilling medical supplies on the rolling surgical tray near the table.

Leo’s brows raised in mild surprise before furrowing in concern. He had been quite distracted when his own arm had been broken, for obvious reasons. But he still remembered Don being just as frantic. Paranoid about bone infection, or being able to properly stabilize it without doing further damage, or preventing it from healing properly. Honestly Leo still thought Don had done an amazing job with it, as always, considering he didn’t notice it anymore. And yet the memories just added yet another thing to the list to explain why Leon had been so upset earlier. “..Did he say anything about needing transport?” Leo asked, tone a little more sullen than before. He was starting to regret the way he’d reacted towards Leon’s actions. They were the wrong actions to take, but Leo was starting to find it hard to hold anything against Leon now.

“Nah. I think he can teleport just fine. Like he was doing when he got here,” Raphael admitted with a shrug. “Don gave him four hours, but I bet he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Then let’s make sure we’re ready for them,” Leo directed firmly, moving around Raphael to head towards Don to see if he could help with anything.

Raphael watched Leo go and could only huff in amusement as he folded his arms. “Took him long enough,” he mused, lowering his gaze down to Master Splinter as he stepped next to him.

“Leonardo has always had difficulty thinking clearly when the safety of his family is in question. A trait he has come to manage as he’s gotten older, but also one that I have never faulted him for,” Master Splinter mused with a smile, looking fondly after his boys. Then his gaze shifted, a knowing smile as he looked up to meet Raphael’s eyes. “It would seem this young, other dimension version of my son has the same trait. And you, my son, have gotten much better at recognizing the motivations behind others’ actions.”

Raphael had to snort in mild embarrassment at the compliment, shifting his weight and shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. “Wasn’t hard. It was written all over his face. Don saw it too,” he brushed off despite forcing down the grin tugging his mouth.

Master Splinter could only chuckle softly, but was unable to add more to the conversation as yet another blue portal swirled into the room in practically the same spot as before. Raphael stepped back to fully face it, and had to chuckle in mild triumph. “See? Just a few minutes.”

—---

 As time crept on at an agonizing pace in the still darkness, April was finding she hated that she’d agreed to wait until noon to look for Leon. It wasn’t only that she was worried about him, but she missed having him there for company in this empty place. Of course having Raph in her lap brought some comfort, for she wasn’t truly alone. But her back was bare other than a light blanket, and she trusted Leon’s medical expertise way more than her own. She wanted her brother’s weight on her back, and his encyclopedia brain ready to address their needs. But she also wanted all four of her brothers there too. Which was the only thing that kept her where she was, staring at the map on her phone as it showed Leon chasing around the city, trying to find their little brothers. Part of April wanted to help look, but she didn’t know how she could. Leon was definitely able to move around way faster than she ever could. And she knew the best help she could give was to stay there and look after Raph. He didn’t handle being alone in a foreign place well at all even when he was healthy. So she had to be there to keep him calm. But his current state wasn’t doing much in the way of keeping her calm.

Thirty minutes after Leon had left Raph had woken up again, asking almost immediately where Leon had gone. Noting how disoriented Raph seemed to be, April had made up the excuse that Leon had gone to the bathroom. Partly because she didn’t want Raph to try and get up, but also because she didn’t want to add any more stress to her biggest little brother even if he behaved and remained laying down. She just knew he would start imagining all the wrong scenarios in his overprotective mind. Probably start talking aloud that everything was fine to reassure himself. Get fidgety, want to check outside, and otherwise just not relax and rest like he needed to. He needed all the rest and care he could get.

When they had settled down in this room Raph had looked relatively okay despite the pain from his broken bones. Just a clenched jaw and furrowed brow behind his bright red mask. But now those rich green cheeks were flushed red, and his forehead was damp from sweat instead of the rain. April knew the signs of fever in all of her brothers, and even without a thermometer she could tell Raph’s temperature was creeping up. Leon had anticipated it, and had already given him a fever reducer that he’d had stolen while gathering supplies. But they weren’t exactly in the best circumstances. The tarp on the floor wasn’t that comfortable. The blankets weren’t that thick. And their sanitized bubble of space wasn’t impenetrable. They needed antibiotics, and a proper bed at the very least. As soon as Raph had shivered once April had wiggled out from under him to crank up their space heater. Then her own blanket was tossed over him before she slipped his bandana off so his face didn’t overheat.

Two hours after Leon had left April couldn’t bring herself to make up another excuse when Raph opened his eyes again amidst her absently rubbing his head. His right eye was always slightly unfocused after the damage it’d sustained from the Krang, but now even his left eye was finding it difficult to register where April was in the dark. Yet despite that it didn’t take much effort at all for him to notice Leon still wasn’t there.

“... Wh’rs Leo now?” Raph asked, slightly mumbled from exhaustion and fever haze. He sounded a little grumpy, but April knew it was just his worry creeping up into his sleepy mumbles.

“...He went to get Donnie and Mikey,” April relented this time, not willing to lie to Raph a third time and shifting her phone so that he could see the screen as well. Leon’s icon had come to a stop with the other two, and April kept telling herself it was because he’d finally located them, and was just taking care of them or something. Checking their physical and mental wellbeing. Catching them up on what had happened. Making sure no one saw them. The usual. His vitals had had a spike in heart rate at one point, but it was calm now. As were Donnie’s and Lil Mikey’s. So they had to be fine. Right?

“...What?” Raph almost wheezed, shifting to sit up and grinding his teeth when even twitching his leg sent stabbing waves of pain up it. 

“Easy there, big guy,” April protested, placing a hand gently on Raph’s chest, pressing lightly to direct him to lay back down.

After halting his movements and giving a slight hiss, Raph looked back to April with a slight squint. “Why didn’t he wake Raph? I should be helping him get the others-”

“You know you’re not in any condition to be moving around,” April interrupted quietly, but firmly. “Don’t make me lecture you. We agreed after the Krang that no one would be doing anymore self sacrifice bull crap, remember? That includes forcing yourself to do what you physically or mentally shouldn’t when there isn’t immediate danger.” Her scolding felt shallow, but the conviction was still there under the sleep worn exterior. No more hiding injuries. No more getting seriously hurt to save others. They were to include themselves when it came to protecting who needed it most.

At first Raph wanted to be belligerent towards April. It was his job to look after his brothers. He was the oldest. It had always been that way. Especially if they were in an unfamiliar place like they were now. If he’d heard Leon correctly, they were apparently in an alternate dimension. And while Raph was probably the least scientifically inclined of them, he’d seen enough sci-fi stories to know what that meant. This was probably the most unfamiliar place they could get. He wanted to be there for his brothers. Not only to rescue Donnie and Lil Mikey, but also to be there to support Leon. But hearing April remind him of their agreement deflated his stubbornness almost instantaneously. He knew he could move on his own if he had to. His ninpo apparition would make it easier to not use his leg. But he didn’t need to move right then. As far as they knew, he was the most injured. So it was his job to behave and not worry the others. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t also just want to curl up and cry whenever he did move his leg. It was worse than when his shell had been broken.

Seeing Raph almost deflate into obedience, April let out a breath in a tired sigh and returned to rubbing his head. “There you go,” she complimented, grateful for his choice. “He said to wait until noon, and if he wasn’t back here by then to come looking for him,” she added, just so Raph knew they had a plan other than sit and wait endlessly. 

She sounded so tired. And that, combined with everything else caused Raph to let out a small whimper as he shifted to wrap his arms around back around April. “...Okay… Raph will wait,” he agreed quietly, silently wondering what he could do for April in turn. He couldn’t imagine she was comfortable waiting in the dark on her own. So this time Raph stubbornly didn’t let himself fall back to sleep, staying curled around April as they gave each other comfort in the dark. It was hard to pass the time in silence, and unfortunately Raph’s brain felt a little more fuzzy than usual. He didn’t think talking about the others would help either, he knew it wouldn’t help him stay calm. So he ended up pulling himself to other, way less important thoughts. “....Do you think they have Jupiter Jim in this dimension?” 

April couldn’t help snorting at the seemingly random question. But she found the topic was actually incredibly calming. “If they don’t I’m gonna be extremely disappointed,” shifting her attention to her phone with the thought to search for it on the internet. Seeing the tracking screen again though, she paused before looking back to Raph. “Do you have your phone? I’m not sure how to get back into this screen if I exit,” she admitted with a slight grimace.

“Yeah, I still have it,” Raph nodded, moving his hand from his hug just long enough to get his phone from his shell and pass it to April after unlocking it.

Quietly tapping the franchise name into a search engine, April ended up scoffing. “Whaaat? Nothing came up? Okay this dimension officially sucks now. What about your dad, are there any of his movies?” she huffed, immediately switching to the next curiosity.

Raph had to snort at her choice of search, and furrowed his brow. “... I dunno. We’re kind of an oddity…” he mused. He and his brothers were decidedly created by someone, not just a common species. He wasn’t sure how that would factor into consistencies between dimensions if something like Jupiter Jim wasn’t there.

“Euh, you’re right. Nothing came up for his movies either. Laaaaame,” April groaned, rolling her eyes.

Raph could feel the tension slipping out of her frame as she excitedly began looking up other things that were familiar to them. The Nexus Hotel wasn’t there, but surprisingly there was still a pizza chain called Lou Mike Tony’s Pizzeria. The two ended up excitedly making a note to try and get some once everything calmed down so they could compare. It made the next hour much more bearable, and they ended up slightly startled when a familiar blue portal whisked into view near them, momentarily illuminating the room as Leon slipped through before it closed.

“April!- Raph!” Leon blurted when he saw them, including Raph when he saw his big brother was awake this time and had jerked his head to look at him.

“Leo!- GAhhkk” Raph called, his attempt to sit up and greet his brother interrupted by another fierce pain firing up his leg.

“Woah there. Take it easy,” Leon cautioned, rushing over to crouch next to Raph and offer support. Even in the dark it only took him seconds to notice Raph’s flushed cheeks, and a brief expression of worry flashed over Leon’s features as he reached up a hand to Raph’s forehead. “Sss… okay, bit higher than expected…,” Leon hissed more to himself, eyes flicking down to Donnie’s wrist computer on his own arm and swiping the screen over to the vitals. 38.7 degrees celsius for Raph. Not horrible, but not good either. Leon knew they wouldn’t be able to avoid a fever, but he’d been hoping he’d have more time than this. At least he had a good place to take Raph and April too now though.

“Did you find Donnie and Mikey?!” April rushed while Leon checked the wrist screen, wedging next to Raph’s side to act as a prop to hold him if needed and handing his phone back to him. She could see Leon checking all of their vitals, so she knew she didn’t have to tell him about changes in Raph’s condition.

“Yeah!” Leon chirped, a bright smile returning to his features as he looked up to them. “They’re okay- Well, they’re a little banged up, but they’re already taken care of and sleeping. These really great guys from this dimension that are probably pretty much us already found them and took care of them,” he rambled, unable to sit still in his eagerness to get back. “They’re also gonna let me borrow their hella cool infirmary to fix up Raph! April you should see it! It’s like a whole hospital crammed into one room! They even have an MRI machine! At least I think that’s what it was….”

April listened to Leon in mild disbelief, what she was hearing conflicting with what she and Raph had thought more than half an hour ago. “Hold up-,” she paused, raising her hand, palm open. “They have the best ninja turtles ever in this dimension too, but no Lou Jitsu?”

“They don’t have Lou Jitsu here?” Leon repeated, looking borderline offended. “Wow, that sucks. Though I guess it makes sense. Their dad is kinda…. Weird. So quiet and…regal? I dunno. I feel like he’s one of those old dudes that just sits and drinks tea all day,” he mused, scrunching his nose slightly. He didn’t think he’d like not being able to roughhouse with and tease his dad. But that was a topic for later, and he pushed it aside in his mind as he addressed Raph again, leaving April to try and configure an image in her mind of this other version of their dad.

“We’re going to have to move you again Raph. Think you can handle it? I’ll try to make the distance as short as possible,” Leon informed apologetically, shifting around to crouch and wiggle underneath Raph’s arm on the opposite side of April.

“Are we going where Dee and Mikey are?” Raph asked, unable to resist giving Leon a little squeeze hug once he was squished under his arm.

“Yup! They’ll be in the same room. But we’re going to fix your leg before letting you join them, okay?” Leon confirmed after giving a small wheeze squeak and laugh at being squished.

Seeing Leon in such a good mood compared to the last time he saw him, Raph realized wherever they were going it was apparently safe enough for Leon to want to be there. And that was enough to reassure Raph that all of them would probably be alright. “Okay, let’s get going then,” Raph nodded, realizing they needed to get moving before the relief Leon brought washed away all resistance he had to the desire to lay back down. Shifting to help Leon and April lift him to his feet, Raph bit back almost all of his whimpers as the trio heaved the group up as carefully as they could. “Easy. Gently. Sorry,” Leon chattered uneasily, pushing back the heartache bubbling up in his chest. “Don’t put any weight on your leg at all okay?” Leon ordered just in case Raph forgot or wasn’t thinking about it, and adjusted his own position to try and take all of Raph’s weight off his broken leg. He wished he had a better way to move them, but portal dropping him onto the surgery table was risky as well as too jarring. So he just had to keep his heart in his chest, forcing himself to be steady as every noise from Raph made him want to stop moving completely, and gradually help them make their way through the new portal he opened.

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Iiiiii struggled so freaking hard with this one ;v; Not only because I just couldn't get words to work to give this part the attention I wanted (it's barely acceptable now), but I've been working on a massive collab image, and then also got super distracted by a game's story |DDD oops.

you for your patience <3 Hope you enjoy the Raph snuggles =7=

[katyspersonal]

I had a fun dream regarding the Elden Ring DLC!!! In fact, it was a DLC for the DLC. Apparently it was my brain's spin on "how it could have gone differently", centered around at least 3 different endings (?) that I got to try! It was hard to say whether I was playing or actually being the main character and experiencing all this (best type of videogame-based dreams!)

The focal point was Divine Gate being destroyed and Miquella being spat back out, in his accursed child body again and the "plot" started when we returned some things/feelings to him to make him active. The amount of dialogue he'd provide depended on the amount of Crosses we visited, and before returning them he was completely limp. In either case he was labeled on the map as 'Heartbroken Miquella' or something. There was one 'default', ending that needed passivity sort of. There were plenty of quests and things to do still that were required for the plot, but provided you didn't do anything "special" it ended up in Miquella basically building a Noah Arc very quickly. Yes, because some unknown force triggered the great flooding that was coming. It would basically destroy the world Greater Will and Fingers created so far, and yet let it be made anew. The good side of it was, that since Death is connected with water in Elden Ring world (souls of those that didn't die properly assume Jellyfish form, Godwyn became a sea creature, Tibia Mariners) a LOT of people were coming back with the water but in pure form. Children of the Stars without their rotten flesh and all. This ending felt bittersweet though; having done so much to 'uproot' the fundamentally wrong things Two Fingers melded into this world, he still could not find the courage to let his friends die yet there was no time to separate their bodies from flesh like Ranni and victims of Astrologers' experiments... Effectively, preserving """filth""" into new world and saving what he could save.

The second ending somehow stopped the flood by effect, granting it protection of his gentle pale yellow light (not to be confused with the oppressive gold of the Erdtree!). Protection from any Outer God and from corruption and rotting from within. That however would result in people like Malenia, Godwyn (Prince of Death), Romina etc getting sealed into yellow crystals for the 'next 1000 years' so they could not corrupt the world but alas they could not be healed still. This ending was centered on Miquella comprehending that no, Radahn wasn't "corrupted by sinful world" into becoming a warmonger compared to younger self but war WAS his nature. And for many people, alas their nature was 'necessary evil' without which the world would be a hollow place. So he accepted he could not "save" some people because that'd not be them anymore. However, he could still let the world rest in Heaven by putting it in preservation for a long time. Not cleaning, just preserving from evil, external or internal. And how this secret ending was achieved? ......by marrying Miquella, which included a large variety of activities in order to distract Leda, avoid Leda, lead him away before Leda appears, sending more friends to talk to Leda, having Dane and Leda shipped (lol okay??) etc hfhygxjjh Because if you messed up this part, she'd not let you close enough to Miquella and you'd be set back to flood ending XD

Third ending had to do with the darkness!! It was a secret one, where you would seek rifts Messmer left along the way where he used Base Serpent powers too much. The rifts were patched out by the earth itself, but you had to reopen them like wounds. Reverse Crosses collecting! Because.. if they all were opened, you could access the Lightless Abyss that Base Serpent came from and force it into the world! It would extinguish any and all light of this world leaving only blue star-affiliated one. A bit like Ranni's ending but EVIL!! Creatures of golden light would get striped from it though (Queelign copes and seethes lol). It ensured a lot of horrors being unleashed though and consuming every "weak" person. Tarnished, Albinaurics and other lightness were remotely safe, but those born of gold and under Ring and relying on it were FUCKED. Especially Marika's family. They'd remain defenseless and be the first to get swallowed, so from now on they'd need protection. And whereas blue stars remained the age would be darkness swallowing all of them until only one remained. I as a "player" knew it'd explode to bring the light again.. but other characters didn't.

.....yet when I wanted to try this unleashed Abyss ending, Miquella himself stopped me by stabbing me with Bewitching Branch (not swinging it, specifically stabbing) and I woke up from very intense feeling of love and yearning for him lol fgfggh The last thing I remember how scared he was that he barely stopped... all that. But I just suddenly found him the most appealing person in the world, as if I never loved anyone else. I can't even describe how it felt. It was like.. every cell of my body suffering and only his touch could cure this torment. I had to lay down about 20 minutes to finally calm down gjfggd I am actually embarrassed by it, especially since intrusive thoughts followed, but also I guess it wasn't my fault? Very weird type of alarm clock though 💔

[radiojamming]

How do we think John Hartnell got his injuries? They say he had a compressed vertebra, an injured ankle, a foot infection, and a shoulder injury. There doesn't seem to be any record of how these happened, and they didn't mention anything about it during his exhumation.

YES I LOVE THIS QUESTION

So there actually are some records of what happened from his forensic report from the '86 exhumation! Like a lot of things about him, it does take some guesswork until we build a time machine and study him like a bug the way I've always wanted.

Here are some selected parts of the autopsy report, which we can use to reconstruct what might have happened to him:

[About the cervical spine compression:] However, there does appear to be some compression of the superior end-plate of the body of C6, consistent with mild fracture, probably representing subacute injury. Cervical alignment is normal. There are no arthritic changes.

[About his upper shoulders and arms:] On some projections, the left acromion appears slightly tapered, possibly due to old trauma. A small spur off the posterior aspect of the left olecranon is also likely to be post-traumatic.

[About the wrists:] The wrists and hands are unremarkable, except for diffuse muscle wasting. There is mild bilateral negative ulnar variance (the distal ulna lies more proximal than the distal radius at the distal radioulnar articulation; if severe, this misalignment may predispose to avascular necrosis of the lunate). No evidence for fractures or arthritis was found.

[About the lower extremities:] The femurs appear normal. Hip and knee articulations are preserved. However, there is a slight widening of the medial aspect of the left ankle joint, raising the possibility of ligamentous injury. No fractures are noted. The talar dome and tibial plafond show no evidence for osteochondritis dissecans, an occasional sequel to subchondral injury. A few growth recovery lines (Harris lines) are noted in the lower tibial shafts. There is also some spurring off the anterior articular lip of the distal right tibia, and probably post-traumatic in origin. A more curious finding is a possible focus of cortical demineralization in the plantar aspect of the 4th metatarsal shaft of the left foot, best demonstrated on oblique projections. Actual disruption of the cortex may be present and could represent osteomyelitis. However, there were no overlying superficial ulcers or open wounds.

OKAY SO we have some key parts of these selections (parts I omitted included stuff like saying how Hartnell looked better than Braine; RIP buddy), and we also have to consider a few things in addition to these: Jartnell had already been exhumed twice before (1852 and briefly in 1984) and the earliest exhumation had done damage to his body, he had some obvious wasting from being stuck in the ice for 140+ years, and tuberculosis can damage far more than just the lungs.

What we can't be completely sure of is his family medical history, although the Inglefield & Sutherland exhumation attempt remarked that tuberculosis was "a malady to which it was further known that the deceased was prone." I haven't been able to find a clarification for this comment—I took it to either mean it was known that he'd died of TB, or it was known that he'd had TB in the past. (See: what I think his dad died from.) But we also can assume that the Harris lines in his legs show that he'd gone through some period of undernourishment at some early point in his life, which isn't too out of pocket for a Victorian working class person. Granted, he was nearly six foot tall and his brother was 5'8" (both taller than the average Victorian-era man), so his growth wasn't too arrested.

All to say that some of his forensic oddities may have come from an earlier time in his life, like an injury or a previous condition. The injury in his elbow, for instance, sounds like it came from earlier in his life. He had been a sailor on a multi-year voyage on the HMS Volage in the past, and went from a career of a shoemaker (which involved inhaling some gnarly chemicals like green vitriol/copperas, as well as repetitive motion injuries) to a full-time sailor without the benefit of training like his younger brother had. Some of those past injuries might have come from this time—workplace injuries, essentially.

The newer injuries, like the one in his neck, could have come from a wide range of sources. Consider that he did have a zinc deficiency, and some of the symptoms of this include night blindness, fatigue, and poor wound healing. He might have been more susceptible to falls, or had a delayed reaction time. The ankle injury, for instance, sounds like a bad sprain; there are a ton of different ways to screw up your ankle on a ship like that (swinging boom accident? fell off the rigging?? slipped on the ice???). The osteomyelitis in his foot might have had a correlation to this, or might have come from an older, poorly-healed injury.

However, he was healthy enough early in the voyage that he wasn't sent back to England during the check-up near Greenland. Either he hadn't presented all of these symptoms yet, or he was really good at hiding them.

This is all a long-winded, infodumpy way to say that our boy here had a medical history that would make you wince and give a sympathetic "oooooh". He was a working-class Victorian man with working-class Victorian injuries and maladies, and it's completely possible that his family history didn't help.

[abigailspinach]

“My mother and my father and my grandmother together … and I’ve advanced so far beyond them. One construct or fifty—and it simply slows it down … for all of half an hour.”

She shook away frustration like an animal with a wet pelt, shivering all over before fixing dead black eyes on Gideon. “Right,” she said. “Right. Again. Keep watching, Nav.”

She staggered back, door whipping shut behind her. Gideon Nav could only put up with so much. She took off her robe, folded it up, and put it on a hook in the foyer. She stood next to a skeleton whose arms were so full with bits of bone and lengths of tibia that it trailed chips like breadcrumbs. It was easy enough to stand beside it politely until the door opened, then to trip it up, then to step over it. She unsheathed her rapier with a silver whisper, slipping the knuckles of her left hand through the obsidian bands. The Response door breathed shut behind her.

“Harrow,” she said, “if you wanted a cavalier you could replace with skeletons, you should’ve kept Ortus.”

From whining speakers set in each corner, Harrow cried out. It wasn’t a noise of annoyance, or even really a noise of surprise—it was more like pain; Gideon found her legs buckling a little bit and she had to stagger, shift herself upright, shake her head to clear the brief bout of dizziness away. She held her rapier in a perfect line and waited.

“What?” The necromancer sounded dazed, almost. “What, seriously?””

[cannibalkissies]

Commissions open!

I broke my ankle and tibia and got surgery on Saturday. I need financial help since I'll be out of a job for 2+ weeks, maybe 3 months since I can't walk on the damn thing until the end of the year! I'm not sure if my DMs are working, but send me and ask if you're interested. P4yp4l only unfortunately 💔 P4yp4l is vjsevildoer@gmail.com

[alectoperdita]

Heeyyy there, can you do 36, 30 or 7 from the ask game???? Joukai of course. Thank uouuuuu!!!

From Put That Guy in a Situation(TM) Ask Game

36. Avalanche/huddle for warmth & 30. Only one bed

Ahhhhhh! Sorry this one took so long. It's longer than usual, though, so I hope that makes up for the wait. Thanks for your patience. ;;;_;;;

Read on AO3

tags: hurt/comfort, minor injury word count: 3,265 words

---

Skiing was stupid. People who skied were even dumber.

Rich, arrogant, good-for-nothing assholes skied.

Case in point, Kaiba skied.

See? Jounouchi's argument was ironclad. Unassailable even.

"Watch it, you oaf," a voice colder than the biting wind howling around them snapped in his numb ear.

"I should've left you to become a popsicle," he grumbled, squaring his stance in the soft, powdery snow and readjusting his grip on Kaiba, careful not to jostle him and set off another tirade of complaints.

"I could say the same for you."

The fingers burrowed under the fold of Jounouchi's scarf bit into the nape of his neck. Hard to tell if it was because of an involuntary reaction to pain or a deliberate warning. Either way, it and Kaiba's words took the wind right out of Jounouchi's sails.

Yeah, so skiing might be stupid, but it was even dumber to attempt a slope beyond his novice ability only to get lost off the trail. Especially as a winter storm brewed. But he couldn't stand how effortlessly Kaiba made everything appear, so suave and eye-catching in his ski gear. Or how he turned his nose up at Jounouchi.

It inspired a familiar feeling, one that drove him to act recklessly.

So it was Jounouchi's rotten luck that Kaiba, as the group's most experienced skier, ultimately tracked him down. Kaiba predictably berated him for his idiocy, Jounouchi snapped back, and they fought. And then, in a begrudging attempt to extract Jounouchi from a ditch, the man fell and busted his leg instead.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he studied Kaiba's beet-red face. Kaiba wore his ski goggles atop his head like a hairband, pushing back his bangs and exposing his forehead. So it wasn't hard to spot the pained grimace wrinkling his brow. Flurries clung to his long lashes, no matter how often he tried to blink them away. He was sweating buckets despite the frigid temperature.

Jounouchi sympathized with that. Underneath his thick winter coat, his own clothing stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He'd kill to be back at the lodge and enjoying a hot shower.

"We need to get out of the open," Kaiba declared.

Jounouchi swept a critical eye across the windswept landscape. Nothing but trees and snow as far as he could see, but his vision's range was limited. Visibility plummeted as the storm intensified.

"Can't you, like, call for help? Doncha have a satellite uplink on you all the damn time?" asked Jounouchi.

"You don't think I tried? Atmospheric conditions affect satellite communication," Kaiba sneered, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

It probably was to a guy like him. Jounouchi merely rolled his eyes and focused on their terrestrial concern, repeatedly putting one foot in front of the other to make the most painstaking progress forward. It was the only way they'd get out of this if they couldn't count on rescue incoming.

"Who would've guessed you had such dainty ankles?" He winced when it sounded like a shout as the howling wind died down at that precise moment.

"Excuse me," hissed Kaiba, tightening his grip. Ouch. Ouch! Bastard was definitely squeezing his neck on purpose.

Jounouchi had already dug his hole, so whatever. "I think you need more calcium in your diet, dude. Ya twisted that ankle like nothing. If you're not careful, you're gonna start breaking your hip like 'em little old grannies."

"First of all, it's not a fractured ankle, it's a fractured tibia. Second, my calcium intake is fine. Better than yours, given the trash I've seen you shovel into your mouth. And third, I'm taller, which means I have a higher center of gravity, which affects..."

Jounouchi tuned out the rest of the rant. He could feel the nervous energy bleeding from Kaiba into him. As long as Kaiba kept running his mouth, he stayed awake and alert. It meant he kept working with Jounouchi to cross the increasingly treacherous and snow-blind slope.

A stark shiver wracked their bodies. Jounouchi paused to assess his companion's condition again.

Kaiba's teeth chattered. Sweat blanketed his forehead. Neither were good signs.

"You okay? Cold? In pain?" he asked softly.

"Yes," was Kaiba's reply. Which was as clear and helpful as mud.

Jounouchi sighed and urged them onward. He could only guide them toward what he hoped was the downward direction and pray that they stumbled back onto the trail.

After limping for what felt like hours, their footsteps dragged heavier and heavier behind them as snowfall and fatigue weighed them down in equal parts. That was when Jounouchi spotted what he prayed wasn't a mirage beyond a thicket of trees.

Slanted rooftop, horizontal wooden slats, the glint of glass windows—a cabin!

Giddy from the sudden shot of adrenaline, he nudged Kaiba. "Hey, hey. There's a cabin up ahead!"

Kaiba blinked blearily. He'd grown strangely quiet during the recent stretch. Now, he squinted, scrutinizing the building in the distance, perhaps wondering like Jounouchi if it was real.

The decision made itself.

"Let's go. You know what? I'm gonna carry you on my back. It'll be faster." Jounouchi was already carefully lowering Kaiba onto the snow-blanketed ground while keeping the weight off his injured ankle.

"No," Kaiba snapped. He clung to Jounouchi's biceps.

"It'll be fine, ya stubborn bastard. I swear I'll never tell another living soul so your damn pride can stay intact. I dunno about you, but I wanna get out of the cold ASAP."

"And if you drop me? Or what if you break your ankles next? What then?" challenged Kaiba. There was an increasingly frantic light shining in his eyes.

"Trust me. I don't wanna die out here any more than you do!"

For several terrifying beats, Kaiba stared at him. His claws were locked in rictus, threatening to rip into Jounouchi's padded jacket.

"C'mon, we're both freezing our butts off."

Jounouchi didn't know what convinced Kaiba in the end. Maybe the poor bastard was too wrung out to pick a fight.

"You drop me and it'll be the last thing you ever do." The threat lacked teeth, though.

Kaiba's hands trembled as they released Jounouchi's sleeve. They shook when they planted themselves on Jounouchi's shoulders. Kaiba was heavier than anticipated. Turns out there was meat on those bones after all. But it was a weight Jounouchi could shoulder.

The strangest sensation by far was the hot and heavy feeling of Kaiba breathing down his neck. Yet it was a soothing reminder that Kaiba was alive. Jounouchi huffed and puffed the final stretch to the tiny cabin, but he never dropped Kaiba.

Once they climbed onto the raised porch, Jounouchi deposited him against the railing and shook the accumulated snow from his gear. Eyes drilled into his back as he removed his beanie and brushed his hair clean.

The dog comparison he was certain was incoming never materialized, though. Kaiba must really be tired.

Hobbling on his feet, Kaiba's gaze stayed fixed on the door. "How do you propose we get inside?"

"Uh... Key under the mat?"

Kaiba leveled a disgusted look at him.

He banged twice on the door with his fist. "Hello? Can anyone hear me?"

Right. Also wouldn't hurt to check if there were already people inside. Preferably someone who could help them and wasn't going to hunt them across the mountainside for sport. He blamed Bakura for that last thought.

Leaning close, Jounouchi peered into the window, straining to see through the gap between the curtains. It was dark inside. There was no movement. No one was home. That made sense. The ski racks out front stood barren.

They'd long abandoned their gear, too. No point in dragging extra weight along when Kaiba was already injured.

"Stay here. I'll check around back," ordered Jounouchi before hopping off the porch.

He circled the perimeter at a jog. It hardly took any time. To call it a cabin was probably generous to someone like Kaiba. But it looked sturdy, and it offered shelter from the storm. As he passed one window, he noticed a small sign in it that read "Ski Patrol."

He raced back to Kaiba. "Cabin belongs to ski patrol. There might be a phone inside!"

Kaiba turned and greeted him with a key ring dangling from his index finger.

"Where'd you find those?"

"Hideaway inside a fake rock." Kaiba gestured to a pile sitting in the porch's corner.

Jounouchi laughed. "So I was right. That's basically under the mat. God, I hope they're the spares to this place."

Hopefully, they wouldn't have to go with his backup plan of busting through a window.

Braced against the doorframe, Kaiba went through two keys on the ring before he unlocked the door. Jounouchi whooped in celebration. Then, he moved forward to shoulder Kaiba's weight and usher them inside.

To Jounouchi's relief, the cabin came equipped with indoor plumbing and even a gas stove in the open kitchen out in the main room. There was a small round table and several chairs, but nowhere to lie down.

But in another interior room, he found a bed.

One cramped twin-sized bed squeezed between the wall and a narrow nightstand. There wasn't room for much else.

He went back to the main room to report his findings. Kaiba sat at the dining table where Jounouchi left him, but he had his injured leg propped up on a second chair, ski boot and all.

"Phone's down," Kaiba grunted. "There's electricity, but there's no telling how long the generator will hold up. It's best if we don't use it until we must."

Jounouchi groaned. Guess it was too much to hope for. "Cool, well, there's only one bed."

Kaiba stared at him, unblinking for long lengths. Yeesh, did the bastard really think he was going to fight an injured person for the sole bed?

He approached the table. "You should take it. You're the one with the busted ankle. Want me to carry ya, princess?"

Laughing, he barely dodged the ski goggles Kaiba flung at his head. Somehow, that restored the equilibrium between them.

"Make yourself useful and find a first aid kit," barked Kaiba.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Inside a kitchenette cabinet, he located a red bag with a white cross.

"Found it!"

A soft swear answered him from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and watched as Kaiba hunched over his elevated foot, struggling with his bootstraps. Jounouchi heaved a sigh, and on his way back to the table, he grabbed an afghan blanket folded on a shelf. He deposited the first aid kit on the tabletop and the blanket onto Kaiba's head, where his hair turned damp from the melting snow.

Kaiba cursed, louder this time, his arms flailing under the blanket. Jounouchi kneeled down next to him, shed his gloves, and started working the snaps open. Above him came a snarl. He peered up just in time to see the outrage on Kaiba's face melt into shock after he ripped the wool away. Fighting a sudden wave of self-consciousness, Jounouchi lowered his gaze and kept going. His fingers, slowly warming, fumbled briefly on the next clasp.

He waited for Kaiba to say something. Anything. Bark an order. Throw an insult. But Kaiba had gone deadly quiet, howling in his silence. The behavior was so strange Jounouchi wondered if Kaiba also hit his head when he fell.

Either way, Jounouchi felt the other man's stare drill through the top of his head.

Next came the hard part: getting the boot off without further agitating Kaiba's injury.

Again, his eyes flicked up to Kaiba's face, where he noted the almost contemplative expression that now dominated its planes. "Ya ready for this?"

Kaiba squared his shoulders, then nodded.

Jounouchi removed the boot as carefully as he could manage. Yet afterward, the man's forehead was drenched with sweat, his face stripped of all color. Jounouchi went straight to the first aid kit and fished out the painkillers. With trembling hands, Kaiba snapped up the packet, tore it open, and swallowed two pills before Jounouchi could ask if he wanted water.

Figures Kaiba was the kind of freak who swallowed pills dry.

As Kaiba slumped forward and placed his head down atop the table, Jounouchi helped him out of the remaining boot as well. He set the footwear, both emblazoned with fancy KC logos, aside.

"Thank you."

The words stunned Jounouchi. His head whipped up, and he gawked at Kaiba. He couldn't see Kaiba's face, but the tips of his ears blazed bright red.

After several seconds of awkward silence, Jounouchi replied, "That should be my line. You're the one that found me after I got my dumbass self lost. So thanks for coming to get me."

To his surprise, Kaiba didn't lift his head. His bangs smeared across the tabletop as he nodded, though.

"And sorry you got hurt because of that," Jounouchi added quietly. His eyes darted back to Kaiba's elevated leg, but the thick pants made it impossible to gauge the severity of his condition. "How bad do you think it is?"

The table muffled Kaiba's reply. "Are there scissors in that kit?"

"Yeah."

"Cut the pant leg up to the knee."

Knowing that the alternative was somehow peeling Kaiba out of said pants, Jounouchi obeyed without complaint. He worked carefully, though, not wanting to cut Kaiba. A gigantic bruise sat halfway up to Kaiba's knee, right around where his ski boot ended. The entire area was swollen, but there was no sign of blood.

"No bone pushing through the skin, so that's a good sign." Kaiba said, suddenly right next to Jounouchi's ear. His warm breath puffed over Jounouchi's cheek.

Jounouchi jerked back, grabbing the chair's back to steady himself.

Thankfully, Kaiba was too preoccupied with examining his leg to notice his overreaction. "I should splint it."

Jounouchi jumped to his feet. "Splint, yeah, makes sense. Ya need a stick or something, right? I'll look for one."

As luck would have it, he dug up segments of PVC pipes already cut in half. Kaiba also appeared pleased when he presented them, kindling a warm glow within Jounouchi's ribcage.

"Can I help with anything else?" he asked, despite not knowing how to make a splint.

Kaiba hesitated before replying, "I have it handled. But I'll let you know if I need anything."

Jounouchi nodded automatically. He bounced between one foot and the other as Kaiba worked. But when Kaiba peered up at him for a second, something inside him snapped. He spun on his heels before declaring, "I saw a firewood shed out back. Gonna see if I can get a fire going for us."

Without waiting for a response, he fled the small cabin. The cold hit him in the face like a slap. It was invigorating. Got his blood pumping in a good way.

It wasn't until he dropped several split logs that he realized he'd left his gloves inside. Instead of going to retrieve them, he sank to his knees and cupped his numb hands to his mouth, blowing hot air over him. He couldn't say how long he stayed like that before the chill finally drove him back into the cabin.

Kaiba barely acknowledged him when he returned. That made Jounouchi feel simultaneously better and worse. The bastard hadn't even waited for Jounouchi to return before he somehow hobbled his way over to the loveseat close to the fireplace.

He focused on the fireplace instead.

Once the fire got going, the temperature inside warmed considerably. Unsurprisingly, Kaiba had to be bullied out of his outerwear before he could be swathed with blankets over his shoulders and his newly splinted leg.

Save for the seldom pop and crackle of the fire, it was silent.

Kaiba glared at his smartphone, occasionally adjusting its position as if that would catch a stray signal bar. Jounouchi also checked his phone, but he was sure his coverage was shit compared to Kaiba's.

Jounouchi also hung up his jacket to dry and shed his ski boots by the door. He didn't hesitate snatching the quilt off the bed in the other room, huddling under it while standing next to the fire.

"You stand any closer and you'll catch fire," came a dry quip from behind him.

He turned to face Kaiba and found the man with his phone facedown on his lap while squeezing the bridge of his nose. He lay lengthwise along the too-small loveseat with his legs elevated on the armrest and his sock-clad toes peeking out from under a blanket.

Despite that, Kaiba looked cozy? Shit, Jounouchi felt a bit insane even thinking about that. But Kaiba appeared comfy. His sharp angles and harsh lines blunted under the woolen cover.

Disarmed. Soft. Jounouchi had never seen him that way before.

"What?" snapped Kaiba, jerking Jounouchi from his hazy thoughts. When he shivered, though, the entire fabric mass shook with him.

"Still cold?" Jounouchi asked as he padded closer.

Kaiba dropped his gaze to his pale hands clasped on his lap. "Nothing to be alarmed about. I've always had circulation issues."

Jounouchi laughed. "Cuz you're a skinny beanpole."

Kaiba glared, but he didn't argue.

Another insane thought crossed Jounouchi's mind. One he shouldn't dare entertain, but being cold probably wasn't good for Kaiba's leg in his current state. He had already dedicated himself to Kaiba's well-being to this point. Might as well ensure neither of them froze into popsicles before Kaiba could get proper medical attention.

"Alright, budge up."

Kaiba should hurry. Before Jounouchi lost his nerves.

"Excuse me."

"Ya heard me. Make room. We're gonna share body heat."

"Why?" Kaiba's voice rose an octave. He gave Jounouchi a frantic once-over from head to toe.

"So we don't freeze, duh."

Kaiba looked at him as if he was insane.

Jounouchi felt insane.

"Look, you're still cold, and I'm not giving you this blanket too. It's the last one," he argued.

For a moment, Kaiba looked as if he might eject Jounouchi from the cabin entirely, busted leg be damned. But then a miracle happened. Kaiba, after lowering his gaze, scooted forward, making space for Jounouchi to join him on the furniture. With his heart in his throat, Jounouchi squeezed in, carefully wiggling until he bracketed Kaiba's tense frame with his legs. Without asking, because he was positive the answer would be no, Jounouchi pulled the other man's back flush to his chest.

Kaiba stiffened. He froze as if he had been left outside in sub-zero temperatures. That gave Jounouchi an opening to slip an arm around Kaiba's waist, but he left the limb atop a layer of quilt.

From this angle, he could only make out the back of Kaiba's head and the tip of his flaming ears.

Kaiba remained strangely mute. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest signaled his consciousness. Another shudder wracked through his body, and Jounouchi could feel it, from the hissing inhale to the tensing of back muscles to the exhale and shoulder slumping under the woolen weight.

Kaiba stopped shivering afterward, though. So that counted as a success, right?

"Don't worry, I don't mind sharing the bed with you if you want a space heater there too," Jounouchi joked. A hard lump formed in his throat, and he fought the urge to tighten his arms.

In response, Kaiba elbowed him in the stomach. But it was a light touch for him.

Jounouchi wouldn't admit it out loud, but he was content to remain here. Just the two of them huddled under blankets until the storm finally passed. And when Kaiba leaned back against him, he gave the impression he didn't mind either.

Read other prompt fill ficlets here

[kingofthering]

Hello, good day/night!!!

I was wondering, do you have any video or resources on Marc's crash in Sepang 2008?

Hello!

Truth be told, I had never heard about that one but holy shit. Here is what I found about it here :

Spanish rookie Marc Marquez has been ruled out for the final two races of the 2008 125GP campaign after he was involved in a freak accident during this morning’s opening free practice session in Sepang. Marquez suffered a dislocation of the cartilage of his right tibia when both of his legs got trapped in the back wheel and swingarm of his Repsol KTM machine after a crash. He lost the front in an incident with French rider Cyril Carrillo but it became apparent he was trapped when several marshals failed to release him. The 15-year-old, who claimed a podium finish at the British GP back in June, was stuck in pain for over 15 minutes as race officials called for his mechanics to attend the scene and remove the back wheel of his machine to free him.

Which sounds very frightening and I don't even understand how that happened, physically.

I tried to look for content on videopass but we have very little content about 125cc in 2008 (in that round at least) :

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2023

No. 24 Broken Alt Prompt

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Commonwealth (post series/no France era)

Warnings: Broken bones, suggestive/sexual themes

“Daryl!”

You made it to the piping that allowed you to climb down the side of the building. Your group had to scale up on the other side of the iron gate. There was no time to open it and the walkers were right on your heels. With only a narrow, unsturdy ledge to get you all across, you had to move swiftly and yet with care and precision. 

The structure started crumbling when half your group had made it but gave way beneath Daryl as he was above the gate. He clipped the gate but luckily fell onto the side clear of the undead. If you could really call anything that had just happened lucky. 

The archer was moving at least by the time you reached him, dragging himself away from the rotten fingers grasping at his clothes from through the bars. 

“Hey, hey. Don’t move too much. Let me take a look at you.” You dropped your bag as your knees hit the concrete, hands hovering over him frantically. “What hurts?”

“Be easier ta tell ya wha’ don’ hurt.” He carefully lowered himself onto his back, needing a moment to gather his bearings. “Leg.” He finally gritted out. You nodded and turned your body toward his lower extremities. The wound was easy to spot, a dark patch near the middle of his left shin. 

“Looks like you landed on something. Broke the skin. Let me see how bad it is and if we should pull it out.”

Daryl rose to his elbows, the rest of the group forming a protective circle around the two of you. When you cut a larger opening in his jeans to access the wound, your face paled. 

“Shit.” You whispered, wide eyes staring at the very obvious fracture that had broken through the skin. Daryl’s expression matched your own. 

“Please don’ pull tha’ out.” He joked with no real humor in his tone. 

“What’re we dealing with?” Aaron asked with a quick glance over his shoulder. Once he spotted your stricken expression, he turned fully and kneeled beside you. 

“Broken. Looks like tibia but fibula could be fractured as well.” You weren’t a doctor but living in the apocalypse meant that you had brushed up on your medical knowledge. Sometimes, field medicine was required and it was vital to know the name and importance of parts. 

“We jus’ gon’ sit here n’ stare at my leg or we gonna get me up n’ do wha’ we came here fer?” Daryl snapped. He never liked being the center of attention and, with all eyes on him, he was becoming increasingly antsy. 

“The only place you’re going is home. Tomi’s gotta set this.” You started to wrap the wound as tight as you could without sacrificing circulation, wincing when Daryl shot forward with a muttered curse. “Sorry.”

“We don’ need ta go back. I can—”

You stopped him with a gentle hand over his mouth, shocked that it actually worked, though his brows did draw inward. There was definitely a scowl behind your palm. “I know you can. That doesn’t mean you should.”

“She’s right, Daryl.” 

Knowing when to admit defeat when it came to you, the bowman let himself fall back to lie flat with a muttered “fine.” You smiled fondly and patted the thigh of his uninjured leg. 

“Think you can spare anyone to help us get back?” You asked Aaron, chewing your lip. There were so few of you on this mission as it was. 

“Don’t need no one else.” Daryl grumbled, twisting to get his good leg under him. “Gimme a hand, woman.”

“You’re gonna hurt yourself worse being a stubborn ass.” You scolded, but grabbed his outstretched hand anyway. With the help of you and his crossbow, he was able to get to his feet. Well… foot. You placed his arm over your shoulders and gave Aaron a shrug. “I guess it’s just us. Good luck. See you at home.” 

Daryl mumbled a goodbye and then you were on your way. 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” You smiled down at the archer, your fingers smoothing and brushing his long hair away from his face. The two day journey had been rough on his injury, signs of mild infection setting in before you were able to get him back to the Commonwealth. Tomi recommended sedation for setting the bone and cleaning up the wound. Daryl had voiced his displeasure but in the end— after some persuasion from you— he had relented. 

“Leg hurts like hell.” The archer grumbled, maneuvering himself a little further up on the pillows. He swatted at your hands when you tried to help him. His lower left leg was in a cast that descended past his ankle and onto his foot. You watched his already pinched expression morph into one of disgust. 

“Can’t move your ankle without affecting those bones.” You explained. 

“Can’ hunt with one foot.” 

“Oh, you’re not doing any hunting, mister.” Your expression softened when his shifted into something approaching mortification. “We’ve got other hunters, Daryl. Think of this as a vacation.” You turned to grab the water glass from the table. 

“Fer how long?” 

Offering him a drink, you mumbled an inaudible response. He didn’t need to say a word, the flared nostrils and arched brow were enough. “Three or four months.” You winced. 

“Ya gotta be shittin’ me!” He snapped, not at all interested in the water you were offering him. 

“It was a bad break, Daryl.” 

“No shit.” His hands were over his face now, his muscles tense and breathing irregular. You hated to see him like this. Independence was important to Daryl but so was the need to carry his own weight around the community. He was losing both in one fell swoop. 

“It won’t be that bad, you know.” Your fingers wrapped around his wrists and he allowed you to lower his arms before he gave you the most pitiful pout you had ever seen. “You’ll see.”

You moved everything downstairs with the help of Carol and Aaron, turning your living room into a bedroom for the time being. Judith and RJ pitched in with cooking and cleaning, under your watchful eye, of course. 

Daryl was in a sour mood the day he was released to go home. The crutches were difficult to get used to, his leg ached, and he hated the looks people gave him as he hobbled by. He always felt inferior but those looks, to him, confirmed it. 

“Welcome home, Uncle Daryl!” The kids cheered as they threw open the door with Carol right behind them. The corner of his mouth twitched up the slightest bit and he nodded, begrudgingly accepting your help to step up over the threshold. You shared a look with Carol once he had headed through, her hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder. 

When Daryl saw the living room, he visibly deflated, shoulders slumping and head lowering. Carol hugged him from the side and tucked his hair behind his ear. 

“It’ll be okay.” She said quietly. “Okay, kids! Upstairs for homework! Then wash up for dinner!” Rubbing Daryl’s back for a moment longer, she smiled at you. “I’m going to finish up in the kitchen while you get him settled.” 

“Thank you.” You nodded. Daryl maneuvered around to the front of the couch, waiting while you followed so you take the crutches and help him sit down. You were quick to set the equipment aside in favor of helping him get his leg up and stretch out. You grabbed a pillow from the mattress on the floor and placed it against the couch arm so he could lie back. “Comfortable?” You crouched down and rubbed a hand up and down his sternum. 

“Mhm.” His expression was hardly convincing. You sighed and stood, bending to press a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’m gonna help Carol with dinner. Call for me if you need anything.” He nodded again, not meeting your eyes. You gave him one last glance before stepping out of the room. 

“He’ll be okay, Y/N.” 

“I know. I just hate seeing him like this.” You stared back toward the doorway, knowing Daryl was battling inwardly just beyond where you could see. You could only pray he’d settle and allow himself to rest and heal. 

A couple of days passed with you and Daryl settling into a routine. He did things around the house that he could. He rinsed and dried dishes you washed, leaning on one crutch or the countertop. He sat with the kids while they did homework and helped where he could. He made sure the kids got out the door on time for school and welcomed them home afterward. 

Honestly, anything that kept him out of bed or on the couch, he would try to do. You didn’t stand in his way unless he started showing signs of pain. After two days, it was getting a little better, easier to get by without pain medication around the clock. The constant throb had dulled to an ache. 

“You want something for lunch?” You asked, leaning over the back of the couch. Daryl’s eyes opened, his head tilting back to find you smiling down at him. 

“M’okay, thanks.” 

Your fingers busied themselves combing through his hair and scratching lightly over his scalp. You swore you could hear him start to purr. When his eyes closed, you hopped up to teeter on the back of the couch, pressing your lips to his. 

“You know, I can think of a few things you can do that don't require moving from that spot.”

Daryl opened his eyes and laughed as an exhale through his nose. “Oh yeah? S’that?” His smile remained as you comically wiggled back to get your feet onto the floor. 

Rounding to stand in front of him, you smiled with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. “It might even make you feel better.” You threw your leg over him and sat to straddle his hips. His hands came to rest on your sides, just below your ribs. 

“Think s’workin’ already.” Pressing the heel of his good foot into the cushions, he lifted his hips and ground up into you. 

You hummed approvingly. His hands were warm under yours while you guided him to the hem of your shirt. “I can’t seem to take this off by myself. Think you could help me out?”

“Don’ know, Sunshine. Seems like a helluva hassle.” You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled forth as he sat up, your shirt pushed up to your collarbone so he could press his mouth to the valley of your breasts. His fingers had just begun to tinker with the clasp of your bra when there came a knock at your door. 

You both glared in the direction of the entryway, Daryl growling in annoyance. 

“Ignore it.” He huffed, going back to what he was doing. 

“Wait, wait!” As much as you hated to put a damper on his good mood, “what if it’s about the kids?” The archer stilled and sat back. His shoulders dropped and he muttered a curse, jerking his chin toward the door. 

“G’on.” 

You adjusted your shirt and climbed off, shuffling quickly toward the door. When you opened it, you couldn’t stop the bewilderment in your expression. “Can I, um, help you?”

“Hi! I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Elizabeth.” The middle-aged woman shifted her weight from foot to foot, one hand fiddling with the covered baking pan in her arms. “I heard that Mr. Dixon got hurt. I’m real sorry.”

“It’s appreciated but he’s gonna be fine.” You smiled sincerely. “Just taking some time to heal up.”

“I heard.” Elizabeth nodded. “Anyway, back in the spring, when the hospital had the shortage, Mr. Dixon—”

“Please,” you interjected with a soft chuckle, “call him Daryl.”

Elizabeth looked a little uncertain but nodded regardless. “Daryl went out to find the antibiotics my son needed.”

“You’re Peter’s mom.” You remembered what she was talking about. Ezekiel had set up a council meeting to designate a group run. Daryl knew that the kid had been given a death sentence if antibiotics weren’t started within hours. He went out immediately, with only you having the knowledge that he had left. There were only a few places to raid that had previously been marked as too dangerous without a sizable group. He had returned, bloodied and bruised, but with enough antibiotics for several doses. “I hope he’s doing okay now.”

“He’s back to terrorizing his teacher and I. Thanks to Mr. D— I mean, Daryl.”

You felt tears threatening to gather and took a deep breath through you nose before smiling. “I’ll let him know how your kiddo is doing. He’ll be glad to hear it.”

“Oh! Well, I brought this. It’s not much and I had to compromise on some ingredients but it is good.” Elizabeth had no more than peeled back the edge of the towel and your mouth watered. 

“Lasagna. Wow! It's been a minute.” Putting out your hands to take the pan, you smiled brightly, excited to tell Daryl. “He’s going to be pretty damn happy.” You chuckled. 

“He’s the reason I still have my son. When I heard he was hurt, I just had to do something.” Your heart clenched and there were those damn tears again. “Anyway, please thank him for me and wish him a speedy recovery. Thank you, Mrs. Dixon.”

“Oh, I’m—”

“Have a good day!” 

“You…too.” You closed the door with a shrug, taking the pan to the kitchen. You couldn’t seem to dismiss the fluttering in your stomach induced by Elizabeth’s misconception. You placed the dish in the oven to warm later. It’d be a nice dinner for you, Daryl, Carol, and the kids. There wasn’t enough for you all to have much but sharing was something you had all perfected over the years. “Daryl, you’ll never guess who was—” 

He was already balanced in his elbow, waiting for you to finish your statement when you looked toward the entryway after another knock. 

“The hell could tha’ be?”

You shrugged and returned to the door, pulling it open only to find yet another person with an offering and story of appreciation for Daryl. You had no more than thanked them and put the cookies away when there came another knock. 

And another. 

And another. 

And another. 

You finally found time in between guests to explain things to Daryl. He had stared at you in disbelief, eyes shining, but before you could reassure him, there came another knock. You patted his cheek affectionately and continued your endless journeys between the door and the kitchen. 

The kids came home and started to help. Judith assisted RJ with putting away main courses and side dishes. Freezing things that could be and refrigerating what needed it. It was just around dusk when the last knock came. You heard the story and thanked them on Daryl’s behalf, smiling as you closed the door and leaned against it. 

When you returned to the kitchen this time, Daryl was in the doorway with his crutches, watching with an unreadable expression as the kids moved around to put the items away. 

“Ya were serious then?” He asked quietly. 

You snorted. “Not something I’d lie about, Dixon.”

He nodded, his brow creasing. “Don’ help people so they do stuff fer me when shit happens.”

“I know that. So do they.”

He nodded again, this time with a sniff. “Okay.” He positioned his crutches and left for the living room again. You didn’t let him know you had seen the tear fall. You just smiled toward where he had been standing and then continued to help the kids. 

After lasagna, you gave Daryl a break and sat with Judith and RJ for homework time, then sent them to bed with promises of a board game over the weekend. By the time you crawled onto the mattress by the fire, finding Daryl already there— you’d let it slide this time that you knew he needed help and probably made his leg hurt— and staring up at the ceiling. 

On your side to face him, you rubbed your hand over his bare bicep. “Penny for your thoughts.” His eyes slid to the corner to look at you and then back to the obviously more interesting ceiling. 

He cleared his throat. “Jus’, uh… jus’ wonderin’ why them folks went ta all tha’ trouble.”

Your smile was sad this time. “Because you’re important to this community. They care about you.”

“Y’mean they care ‘bout the things I do.”

“No. I don’t.” Sitting up, you turned to sit on your hip. “Why is it so hard to think that people genuinely care about you?”

“Y’know why.” He countered dryly. 

You nodded. “You’re right. I do. I just thought that after all these years, you’d gotten past that.” He sighed, lifting an arm to lay it across his eyes. “You’ve done so much for these people, Daryl. You’ve shown what a good man you are. You’ve earned your place here. You’ve become one of them. And they have grown to care about you; about all of us.”

He moved his arm again, resting it on his chest. “Ya really think so, don’tcha?”

“I know so.” You stated matter-of-factly. He hummed, seeming to mull over your words. When he didn’t say anything else, you crawled over, successfully closing the gap between you. “I think you have some things you were supposed to do for me, Mr. Dixon.”

The corner of his mouth raised into a half-smile. “Ya gonna make me lasagna after I do stuff fer ya?”

“Depends on how well you do it.” You had already bent down to press your lips to the side of his neck while your palms caressed his chest and abdomen. 

“That sounds almos’ like a challenge, Mrs. Dixon.”

There was a smile against his skin. “Heard that part, huh?”

“Maybe.” His large hands grabbed your hips to guide you onto his lap. “I think I liked the sound of it.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” Your head was tilted while your finger traced shapes over his sternum. He chuckled. 

“Not yet. Ain’t no fun if’n ya know it’s comin’.” He reached to brush his knuckles down your jaw. You let your eyes flutter closed and leaned into the touch. “Would ya say ‘yes’?”

You hummed, leaning down to capture his lips, gently working your mouth over his for but a moment. “Ain’t no fun if’n ya know what I’d say.” You had lowered your voice and tried to rasp each word. 

“Guess we’ll jus’ hafta be surprised then, huh?” He pushed up your shirt, urging you to remove it. You quickly obliged and tossed it somewhere outside the light of the fire. You unhooked the clasp of your bra and allowed it to join your shirt. 

“Guess so.” His hands immediately found your breasts, rolling your hardened nipples between thumb and forefinger. “Now, let me show you how I say thank you.”

He full on laughed, a sound you didn’t hear often enough but cherished just the same; hearty and warm. “Yes, ma’am.”