#referenced murder

[ghostly-penumbra]

Rejection

Ao3

Summary: In a world where Danyal al Ghul is resurrected by his mother after his death, the child turns down the idea of going with his biological father, the feared Batman.

In this one, he doesn't.

Most things don't change. Unfortunately, some do.

A what-if scenario from my dannymay entry "Reflection".

-

Look, I don't actually hate Damian, but I stumbled upon far too many "Danny forgives his abuser/murderer because he was just a kid and forgiving us good and siblings must stick together 4evr 🥺 uwu" and fuck that noise, I say as an abused sibling.

in the first part of this series, Danyal wondered what would have happened had he gone to Batman when he arrived to the USA

here we find out 3:)

- - -

Bruce watched his sons go with a smile on his face when Danyal finally reached out and held Jason’s offered hand.

It was a victory, for Danyal to see that his brother wasn’t out to get him, that he didn’t intend to harm him.

That his brother wouldn’t kill him.

The smile slipped from Bruce’s face, and the detective found himself cursing Ra’s al Ghul yet again.

- - -

Danyal had arrived at the Batcave in the middle of the night whilst Batman and Robin were in the middle of patrol, and introduced himself to Alfred as Batman’s son. His words, his face and his eyes quickly had the vigilantes returning home.

Talia’s nose, Bruce’s chin still full of baby fat, Talia’s soft hair, almost like silk… Martha Wayne’s blue eyes.

Bruce had frozen mid-step when he saw him, so small , with clothes that didn’t fit him and only a small backpack on his tired little shoulders. And when the boy’s eyes –Martha’s same blue – landed on him, a myriad of emotions passed through them, almost too fast for the detective to read them: awe, fear, hope, relief… and when he spotted Robin, the fear came back, wariness, unease…

His Jason, in spite of growing quick to anger as of late, was still good with younger kids, and agreed to leave him alone with only some minor grumbling.

Once alone, the boy stood straight again, hands clasped behind his back and chin lifted up proudly even as he swam in his clothes. (So small.) His eyes, though, didn’t meet Bruce’s, and instead settled on his chin.

“Hello, my name is Danyal al Ghul, son of Talia al Ghul…” He paused for a second, but then carried on, “and of the Batman.”

“I see.” Bruce barely managed to get out past the lump of emotion clogging his throat.

“I… mother and I have decided that Nanda Parbat and the League of Shadows is no longer safe for me,” his voice wobbled and broke and they both pretended it didn’t, “so she sent me here with you, if—if you will take me.”

Bruce breached the distance between them and knelt in front of his son with measured, projected movements.

“Danyal,” he said at last, “can I hug you?”

With a stunned expression, his son stiffly nodded, and just as slowly, Bruce wrapped his arms around him, tugging him towards his chest and feeling Danyal tentatively wrap his tiny arms as far as he could reach in turn.

“Danyal, what happened? Why now, at last, did your mother send you to me?”

“… I was murdered by Damian al Ghul—son of Talia al Ghul, grandson of Ra’s al Ghul and Heir of the Demon’s Head… my—my twin brother.”

- - -

It was always a challenge to track down the League’s movements and status, but not one Bruce ever cowered from.

Talia’s latest movements weren’t impossible to track, if you knew what you were looking at.

Places she hadn’t gone to in a long time, where he knew she had caches of valuables, money, safe-houses and the necessary means to disappear.

He could almost see her helping Danyal along, guiding him long enough to know he could make it to Gotham, until her father turned his eyes towards her once again, questioning her actions.

He searched further, from everything from the past seven years, to what they were currently doing.

He wished he could leave the country to have a more hands-on approach with the ever elusive League, but with Danyal only really relaxing—feeling safe— when Bruce was present, he had barely even left to go on patrol.

Despite their tense start, Bruce was grateful for Jason, from his acceptance of the paused patrols, his patience with Danyal, his understanding of the smaller boy’s situation, and his genuine desire to connect with him and be a good big brother.

It was a relief to Bruce, as a father, to see the anger that had been growing more and more in him be tampered down, easily put aside by his kindness, his gentleness.

- - -

“Do you like reading?”

Jason asked, smiling from his upside-down position in the couch on Bruce’s studio, where the man was working on police cases while he couldn’t go out and be Batman.

Danyal was glued to Bruce’s side, having been assured that it was okay for him to do so, was welcome, even, and he looked at his father from his periphery, gauging his reaction.

When he got a curious lifting of an eyebrow, Danyal frowned and his focus returned to Jason. “I don’t know.” He seemed pained to admit it.

Jason, though, didn’t let that put a damper in his plan, and beamed at the kid instead. “Wanna find out if you like children’s tales?”

This time, Danyal did turn his head towards Bruce, just a little, and the small frown on his face showed he was having difficulty deciphering Jason’s statement.

With an indulgent smile, Bruce carded his fingers through his youngest’s fluffy hair, feeling the kid relax under the touch.

“Jason is a fan of reading,” he explained, “and he’s trying to see if you two have that in common, and you just don’t know it yet.” Jason smiled and nodded, as much as he could in his position. “But mostly, he wants to share something he loves with you.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawned on Danyal. “Uh, okay.”

Jason’s smile turned radiant, and he jumped from his spot, closing his eyes and gripping the back of the couch as the world straightened, but said with joy anyway, “I’ll be back in a second!”, and ran out of the room, no doubt towards their library.

Once the older boy was gone, Danyal finally turned towards him, glaring at the bookshelf behind them. He clenched and unclenched his chubby fist a few times, clearly thinking hard. Bruce had learned by now that it was best for him to let Danyal take his time—unlike Jason, who typically had to be encouraged into revealing his feelings.

“Father, I have only ever read academic and pedagogic papers, what if I don’t like what Jason loves?”

Bruce cupped Danyal’s cheek with one hand, a victory in his heart when his son leaned into the touch, when two days ago he had startled. “Did you love all the academic papers you read?”

After a second of thought, Danyal confessed, “I don’t know. I enjoyed the ones about astronomy, the other ones… not nearly as much.”

“Hmm. Then maybe you will like this better, or you won’t, and you can try to find something you do, Jason has a big collection, and the library is even bigger, I’m sure he’ll like to help you find out, if you allow him. But tell me, do you want to find out if you like fantasy and fairy tales better than academic texts?”

Danyal did stop to think about it, and then a spark of defiance entered his blue eyes, a small rebellion compared to what he had already done, but a rebellion nonetheless.

Bruce ever-active detective mind could tell his son was thinking of Ra’s, of his sure disapproval for such a frivolous topic, and felt his heart fill with pride when his son replied, rocking his whole body in a nod.

“Yes, I want to find out.”

When Jason returned, it was with his arms full of books, almost toppling over his hold.

“I got some variety here!” He put half of them on Bruce’s desk, closer to their father than to his little brother, and went back to his seat across from the room. “Got two copies of each one so you can have your own! You get to choose what to start with!”

Bruce spread the books out on his desk, over his paperwork, to let Danyal see the titles and covers.

“How about this one?” He suggested, pointing at one title in particular.

Jason, though, glared at him. “Danyal gets to choose.”

Bruce winked at him, but Jason’s frown only really abated when his little brother asked him, “What is The Little Prince about?”

And, in spite of the physical distance Jason respected, Bruce got to see his children grow closer.

- - -

Now here he was, down in the Cave, pouring over strategies on how to infiltrate one of the most guarded places on earth to rescue his son, get him out, and not allow the League to ever lay hands on either of the twins again.

“They made him a killer.” He lamented when Alfred approached to hand him another mug of coffee. “They’re only six… if only Talia had told me…” He massages his temples and closes his eyes, the map of Nanda Parbat burnt in his eyelids while he imagined a world where he got to raise both kids since infancy.

“The past is rarely what we want it to be, Master Bruce, we can only hope to influence the present so as to have a better future.” Alfred told him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder before taking his leave.

“If Damian is given the opportunity,” he muttered after a long moment of silence, drumming his fingers on the desk, “what kind of person would he become?”

“You would bring him here? After what he did?”

Bruce felt a stone drop in his stomach and he turned around to be met with Danyal, his sweet and shy youngest son, already clad in his star-themed pyjamas, staring him down even as he had to tilt his chin up to look him in the eye.

Straight in the eyes, instead of his chin or the bridge of his nose, where he felt safe looking in his shyness or nerves. Right now, his gaze was cold, a cold so great it burned you.

His tiny fists, clenched at his sides, were shaking, thumping against his thighs. If it was in rage or in fear, he couldn’t tell; both, possibly.

“Danyal.” He breathed out softly, carefully relaxing his posture and letting his hands fall palms-out by his sides. “Son, I know this isn’t ideal, but please listen to me, what Ra’s did to you is monstrous, to both of you; you are both just children…

“I promise I will keep you safe, and won’t let anyone hurt you, but I have to get your brother out of there, too, he’s not safe there. He’s only a child, Danyal, I can’t just leave him there.”

“Damian is not in danger, he is the danger! He murdered me and you don’t care!”

“Of course I do, if there was anything I could do to change it, to fix it, I would, but all I can do now is try to prevent it from happening again, to either of you; your brother is just a child too, who wasn’t taught any better-”

“ I knew better! I didn’t kill him !” Danyal screamed. His chest was heaving with laboured breaths, and his eyes shone with tears ready to fall. One of his hands went up to fist in his hair, tugging on it, and Bruce internally winced, trying to keep it off his face. “You—why—I can’t—you’ve only had me for a week, but you’ve already decided you love him more!”

Bruce had stood up, at the beginning of this, with measured movements, and now approached his youngest son the same way, with his hands spread out and taking a short step.

The only one he managed to take, before Danyal flinched back from him, eyes wide and afraid, sobs cutting short.

It was as if he had been stabbed in the gut, with the way he suddenly couldn’t breathe and how his knees would no longer hold his body and left him prostrated before his flesh and blood.

“Please, son, listen,” but the boy didn’t, instead bolting for the lift, almost falling into it when it opened, and leaving the cave with tears falling down his face, “Danyal!” Bruce called after him, watching him go.

And as he had sank into the floor, Bruce sank his head in his hands.

When he had regained enough of his composure, Bruce went back up into the manor, resolute in talking to his youngest. He was met, instead, with his second’s glare and anger.

“What did you do to Danyal?” Jason’s arms were crossed in front of his chest, his knuckles white and his blue gaze cold.

Bruce really didn’t like the sense of déjà vu he was getting.

“Not now, Jason, I have to talk with your brother.” He tried to go past him, but his son wasn’t budging. “Jason, move .”

“Why? So that you can go and make him cry more ?” He spat on his face, making Bruce flinch.

“Move aside, Jason, that’s an order.”

Changing his stance, Jason was no longer an unmoving wall, but someone prepared to dodge a blow. It was just as bad as with Danyal flinching back from him, even if this time he didn’t let his body fail him.

“Make me.”

“Jason,” he pleaded, “I have to fix things with your brother.”

“How? Breaking down his door? Barging in through his window? He locked himself in, he won’t even say a thing to me!”

And that obviously hurt Jason, who had adored his little brother the moment he knew about him, and for whom he had worked so hard in earning his trust, step by small step.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

“I need to make things right, son.”

“Then think of how you’re gonna do that first!”

And with that, Jason marched off to Danyal’s door, sitting down to keep watch against their father.

-

Jason didn’t barge in through Danyal’s window, he knocked on the windowpane first, and waited patiently for his baby brother to decide to let him in himself.

“Hey, buddy,” he started, looking at the boy’s red and swelling eyes, knowing he had cried himself to sleep, “you haven’t touched the food Alfie left ya, and you gotta eat if you wanna grow up strong.” He handed Danyal the lunchbox he had brought with him and continued. “I know my cooking isn’t as amazing as Alfie’s, but I think I’m okay.”

Danyal bit down on one of his sandwiches with a thoughtful face.

“It’s good.” He declared after swallowing.

Jason beamed at the praise, and hurried to offer the bottled juice he had brought as well. “It goes better with the sandwich than tap water!”

Danyal took it, and they sat down next to the wall, silent as Danyal ate.

“Thank you, Jason.” His little brother told him, handing him back the lunchbox.

“No problem.” There was another moment of silence, and Jason hated having to break it. “If you don’t wanna talk,” he started slowly, “about what happened with Bruce, you don’t have to; but, if you don’t wanna keep it in, you don’t have to do that either.”

Danyal obviously mulled it over, putting a hand on his nape and rubbing gently, and Jason waited, thinking of what could’ve happened and what he could say to it.

Maybe he should have expected it, knowing Bruce for years already, knowing Batman, but Danyal’s words still left him speechless.

“Father wants to bring Damian here.”

-

“Are you out of your fucking mind?! How could you even think it was a good idea?!”

“Jason, Damian is a kid who needs a better environment, not to be in the belly of the League of Assassins, he needs his family!”

“And Danyal? First Ra’s sacrifices him so that his chosen heir doesn’t grow weak , and now you sacrifice him so daddy’s littlest murderer can come and play house!”

“… Damian is my son.”

“So is Danyal. Doesn’t he matter?”

Alfred cut in with a harsh, worried look, “Sirs. Young Master Danyal is gone.”

The vigilantes turned as one to a worried Alfred, meeting his panic with theirs.

-

Everything fell apart so quickly after that.

They looked for Danyal, of course they did, but it was like his son was a ghost; he had only taken two extra changes of clothes—from the full wardrobe they had just gotten for him days ago—, some money in cash and some food they hadn’t seen him take from the kitchen.

He knew how to travel by himself, that was how he had gotten to Gotham in the first place, and even if he hadn’t wanted to use it, he had had infiltration training, knew how to not be noticed, how to look as if he fit in a place he wasn’t meant to be in.

He could have already left the continent, for all Bruce knew.

Not long after, Jason left for Ethiopia.

Him, who had a goal in mind other than leave this place , Bruce managed to track, reading his hurried movements and seeing, as well, another plot emerging around him, the jaws of danger closing on his son, who had walked into a trap as he looked for a good parent.

Batman arrived too late.

“Danyal is gone and Jason is dead.” His voice was rough with disuse, after having screamed in sorrow until his throat burned. “What could I even offer Damian if I could bring him here?”

Disappointment? Failure? Death?

Alfred didn’t answer him, but he didn’t expect him to. Whilst looking at Jason’s battered Robin suit inside the glass case, they knew there was no answer.

He allowed himself another short moment of sorrow, and then pulled himself together. He had work to do.

“If Ra’s finds out Danyal was here, he could look for him, he could find him.” He could have him killed again. “Outside the two of us, no one is to know that we even met him, that we knew he existed .”

“I shall dispose of his belongings, then.”

Bruce could hear the well-hidden pain in Alfred’s voice, but this had to be done, it was now the only thing he could do for Danyal.

Had his small son stayed, it would have been unavoidable for the League of Assassins to find out, but Bruce had been ready for that, ready to fight the Demon’s Head for his children, to make sure they were safe.

Now, though, he knew he couldn’t promise that. The safety of a warm home was not something he could provide, as a father.

All he could do was hope, against his paranoia and his instincts, that Danyal would survive out there, that he could live.

And all he had left, all he could do, was to keep on his crusade against crime, hoping a better world would treat his son kindly where he had failed.

- - -

and then Danyal meets an eccentric but loving ghost-obssessed family that adopts him and love him very much and don't dissect him because that tropes fucking bores me too fr

and if he ever meets Damian again and sees for himself he has changed for the better and regrets his actions, he still doesn't forgive him and doesn't reconnect with him, because he doesn't owe him neither his forgiveness nor his love just because they're blood 😊

i have Thoughts about why Danyal was deemed the weak one (it's ableism) by Ra's, and how it connects him and separates him from Bruce as well

please leave a comment with your thoughts! unless you're a scammer, I won't fucking buy a comission if you spam me!

[evilwriter37]

Selling Your Soul

Rated: mature

Warnings: referenced murder

Relationships: Viggo/Hiccup

Word Count: 700

Summary: Hiccup, accidentally complicit in a murder, has no choice but to help Viggo hide the body.

Written for @seasonaldelightsbingo. Language of Flowers.

Square Filled: Can't Tell a Soul

Inspired by this piece by @mdoodlerfandomart!

[scratchandplaster]

What Remains

CW: referenced murder, ghosts, supernatural Whumpee, Whumper-turned-Whumpee

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Whumper lies awake for another night. The cobalt-blue specter at the foot of his bed guards any sleep, a silent whine is their constant escort. Through the moonlight, every lash and stab wound glows visible on their defiled shape: translucent, floating above the carpet floor.

"My body," the living dead whispers with a hollow tone.

When they speak, nothing but these words leave them. For weeks now, even after Whumper thought he got rid of them, the haunting cold they bring with leaves him restless, unable to close his eyes for even a second. As a single tear slips down onto the pillow, the sunken-in stare rests on Whumper's helpless body.

This would be a waking night, like they all had been; it didn't matter in which room or which house he might have tried to flee to, ever since Whumper squeezed the last breath out of the cursed guest, they decided to pay a visit until sunrise.

"My body."

It had been a mistake to take them in, there were plenty of folk that would have made fitting additions to his collection. Unmoving, Whumper prays to a nameless force to end this, to let him rest.

But they can't be reasoned with, their request will never be fulfilled. Even before the first haunting, it had been too late; the object of desire was thrown in the bog, like Whumper did to all of his guests. 

So he just withers away also, alive but fading into nothingness.

"My body!" the phantom howls desperately, as if they can read the thoughts of their torturer like a book.

What else could they be offered? What satiates a trapped soul? Desperation catches on, and Whumper finally joins their hopeless whining.

"I'll do anything," he mutters, still frozen in endless horror, "just let me be. What can I give to you?"

A long silence settles between them but apart from the electric purr around, only a sudden hint breaks it:

"A body."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterpost]

[montammil]

Playdate, Part 1

CW: Heavily implied/referenced murder, implied dead spouse, implied past violence, implied noncon drugging

I collaborated with @obsessedwhump505 to make this! Please follow them if parental whumpers are your thing!!

Crickets chirped in the foggy cold and darkness of the night. The moon was in the sky, almost midnight. The body—draped in a blanket—fell to the ground beside the river. Lawrence sighed and wiped the sweat off his brow when he saw something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see a shorter man, about his age, standing there with a shocked expression. He was about to grab the knife from his pocket, when his eyes laid on the body that the man had, as well. The other man also seemed to notice the body that Lawrene just dropped. They both visibly relaxed.

“I didn’t know this place was already taken,” the shorter man muttered, eyes directed at the limp body in front of Lawrence.

The situation made Lawrence laugh. “I won’t say anything if you won’t.” When the other man just huffed a laugh back, he smiled. “I’m Lawrence. I’d shake your hand, but… y’know.” He raised his hand to show it was caked in blood, mostly dried.

“…I’m John.” The other man muttered, clearly hesitant. Lawrence could see his hands also had some blood on them, but it was more wet and shiny in the moonlight. He glared down at the body bag in front of him and slammed his foot down aggressively on a part of it. A horrific squelch could be heard from inside. The other man looked back up at Lawrence and shrugged nonchalantly. “I saw him twitch.”

“You can never be too careful of course!” Lawrence said with a wide grin. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing all the way out here to take care of your…business? Obviously you don’t live nearby.” He asked. He hoped he wasn’t sounding too nosy, but he had to find out what this man was doing so far out in the woods. He could be a danger to Marshall.

Thankfully John didn’t seem too suspicious. “Eh, I kind of do. I have a house a few hundred yards away. No one knows about it, of course. I’m guessing you also live nearby, we’re pretty far out from civilization and you clearly can’t be caught with…” he side-eyed the corpse lying feet away from Lawrence. “That kind of thing.”

Lawrence snickered lightly as if he wasn’t ready to attack at any moment. “Yes, I have my own place somewhere a bit farther out. Lovely home, we should have tea sometime. Or maybe at your house?” He asked, waiting delicately for the right response. He didn’t want to visit whoever this was at all, but if he was a dangerous man he needed to be dealt with. For Marshall’s sake.

John looked away from Lawrence, lost in his thoughts. “Well, I don’t know. My house is cluttered and kind of a mess at the moment…” he mumbled.

“Oh, I don’t mind a bit of clutter, my house can get pretty messy, too,” he exclaimed cheerfully. “But if you really don’t want your house, I can clean my place up. No big deal.”

“Well…” John pursed his lips. “I suppose tea at your house sounds fine. Do you have black?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s my favorite, too.” Lawrence grinned, the motion not quite reaching his eyes. He was careful not to be obvious with his movements towards the other man, but his hands were shaky. Barely, though.

With a nod, John replied, “Good. Um… should I come over tomorrow around noon? Will that work for you?"

Lawrence knew that John wanted to play this game of cautiousness, but so did he. “That’ll work just fine for me. Noon it is, then. My house isn’t far from here. Why don’t we meet here and then we can walk there together?”

John audibly sighed, but didn’t protest. “Alright. That’s…fine. I’ll be here at eleven.” With that he turned around and started to walk away. Lawrence watched the brunette stomp through the woods, briefly considering following him but decided against it. He had to prepare for a guest.

And he had to make sure he didn’t see Marshall.

When Lawrence got home, he could see Marshall sitting on the couch, an anxious look on his face as he fiddled with the fabric of the sofa. No doubt it was because of what Lawrence just had to do, but Marshall had to understand it was for his own good. No one could find out they were here. Well, except for the other murderer in the middle of nowhere.

He shook his head to brush it aside and put on a big grin on his face. “Marshall! Guess what!” he exclaimed excitedly. Marshall visibly flinched and looked up at Lawrence’s cheery face with both confusion and slight fear.

“...what is it?” Marshall slowly asked.

Sitting down next to him, Lawrence announced, “We have a guest coming over! Well, I do. I want you to be in your room the entire time, okay?”

Marshall seemed uncomfortable. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders, still looking nervous and unsure. “Um, okay. You never have guests over, so… who is it?”

Lawrence paused and gave a half-truth, “He’s just a friend who’s visiting. I ran into him while…taking care of things, and he said we should have tea. It will be no big deal, Marshall, don't worry about it. We can spend all of our time together before and after he leaves, okay?”

“When will he be here?” Marshall asked next. Lawrence could practically feel the anxiety bleeding off of him.

“Well, he should be here at eleven-thirty, I leave to pick him up at eleven. Just be in your room by then, okay?” He placed his hand on Marshall’s cheek in an attempt to bring comfort, having washed them at the river. “I’ll get you when he’s gone, m’kay?”

Marshall hesitantly leaned into the touch. “Okay.”

“Wonderful! Lawrence chirped happily.

Meanwhile with our boyo Johnny!

John quietly fed Evan his soup, ignoring the scowl on his boy’s face. “You need this soup to be strong and healthy, son. No need to worry, I didn’t put anything in it this time.”

Evan just rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest being spoon fed. “Sure, if you want me to believe that.” he grumbled.

They finished the bowl of soup, and Evan watched John confusedly as he placed the bowl in his lap and sigh with a slight nervous tone. He knew John by now. He was never nervous. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked in a slightly nervous way himself.

John let out a huff. “Well, if you must know, I’m meeting with someone I met while I was out. Considering he was burying a body nearly right next to me, I need to make sure he won’t be a threat to you.” he explained.

Evan looked at him as if he had three heads. “Are you nuts?! You’re seriously meeting with another murderous psychopath for my SAFETY!?” Evan yelled.

“Volume, boy.” John warned, earning a glare, but he didn’t care. “Obviously he won’t say anything considering we were both out there for the same reason. But apparently he lives close by. If he is a danger to you, I need to figure it out now. And if he is, I’ll take care of it.”

That made Evan scoff loudly and turn away from John to curl into the sheets. “Sure, cause a psycho who kills people and lives in the woods is definitely a safe person to be around…”

“Aw, I’m so touched that you care.” John simpered. Evan whipped around to shout at him but John held up a hand to quiet him down. “I’ll be out tomorrow, hopefully not for long. Because of that, you’ll have to be sedated for a while so you don’t leave your room or hurt yourself. Do not protest, this is for your own safety.”

Evan was definitely about to protest, but the harsh glare in John’s eyes made him decide better. John adjusted the collar of his trench coat and forced a smile on his face. “Don’t worry, Evan, it’ll be okay. Now stay in your room and play with your toys. I’ll be back to put you to bed soon. You’re lucky I decided to let you stay up this late.”

With that John left the room, locking the door behind him. Sure, ten locks was excessive and probably overkill. But it was for Evan’s safety.

And so was meeting this Lawrence fellow.

______

As soon as Lawrence set eyes on him, he waved his hand out—honestly a little shocked that he actually showed up, given how reluctant he seemed. The other man waved back with a tight-lipped smile, walking over to him.

After greetings were made, the two men started their trek towards Lawrence’s home. As they walked, Lawrence couldn't help but notice John’s stare. It was fixated on him and he wondered what the man was thinking. He glanced back, a curious expression on his face. John seemed to snap out of it, looking ahead at the road.

Lawrence decided to break the ice. “So, I hope you’re hungry. I made a pretty nice lunch, I can guarantee that,” he laughed.

John laughed back, though it sounded a little hollow. His hands were clenched, Lawrence noticed, but he didn’t think much of it.

When sand hit their shoes, John eyed Lawrence with even more suspicion. “So you live on a beach? That must be convenient for you.” When he saw Lawrence’s confused expression, he tilted his head. “You know, for dumping bodies?”

That earned a laugh from the blond. “No, I don’t dump bodies here. I would rather keep it away from here, actually. I just like the beach.”

“Hm. Sweet.” John mumbled. “I didn’t even know there was a beach all the way out here…”

“Clearly you don’t get out much!” Lawrence chuckled as the two of them approached his house. His joke didn’t seem that funny to his guest but he didn’t push it. “Come in, come in! There are sandwiches as well as crumpets!”

John lumbered in with his back hunched, seemingly bored. But that could just be his way of trying to let people’s guard down. “Crumpets? I didn’t expect you to be British.” He said as Lawrence led him to the kitchen.

“Oh I’m not. I just find them delicious!” Lawrence explained. He pushed open the chair across from him and gestured to John to sit. The other man reluctantly did so and Lawrence took his seat with a pep in his step. “Now, let’s chat, shall we?”

And so they did. They talked while drinking black coffee, about their occupations (besides burying bodies in the woods) , their hobbies, their favorite foods, until the conversation couldn’t be avoided anymore and they moved onto talking about their less than normal occupations.

“Well, I have my own business to take care of.” Lawrence explained while adjusting his collar. “Losing your wife can take a toll on you, as it can be expected. I haven’t been found yet, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Oh.” Lawrence looked up at John slightly perplexed, as the man had gone quiet. He only looked down into his teacup and mumbled, “You lost your wife as well?”

Damn it. Wrong thing to say. “Well, yes,” Lawrence said, wanting to avoid any problems from the other man. “But I learned to keep moving forward, as you can only do-”

He stopped when he heard John take a shuddering breath and he looked to see the man was shaking. He couldn’t believe what he thought was happening was actually happening and incredulously asked, “Are you crying-?”

“No.” John stated, although he was clearly rattled. He stood up from the table aggressively and turned away from Lawrence, letting out a choked noise before asking, “Where’s your bathroom?”

Lawrence was so disturbed by the fact that a fellow murderer was crying in front of him, he simply stuttered out, “Uh, the third door down the right hallway.”

“Thank you.” John nearly fell down from how fast he tried to leave, the chair almost being taken with him. Lawrence watched as the man stomped away before sighing heavily and rubbing his eyes. He didn’t expect the man to cry but clearly he shouldn’t have mentioned his wife. Some people don’t have the strength to move on.

That thought instantly made him dig his nails into his face. Wait. Did he lock Marshall’s door?

As John made his way to the door, he turned the doorknob just to realize it was locked. He was about to go tell Lawrence he thought the door was jammed, when he heard the sink start running. Was someone else here? Lawrence didn’t mention anyone else. He stood there, staring at the door until it unlocked. Out came a young man—boy, perhaps?— dressed in a cute orange t-shirt with little polka-dots on it and a pair of baggy brown shorts.

John blinked. So did the boy. Before either of them knew it, Lawrence was scrambling in the hallway, pushing the small brunet behind him. “Oh, sorry about him, he’s not supposed to be out of his room.” The words were seethed, and Lawrence turned his head to glare at the boy. The boy awkwardly itched the back of his head.

“I had to use the bathroom, I’m sorry…” Lawrence seemed to have calmed down a bit at the apology.

He smiled, it obviously being forced. “John, this is Marshall. Marshall, this is John.”

Marshall timidly waved. “Hi.” He had a faded yet huge bruise on his left eye that looked directly caused, and he was visibly shaking.

John only blinked once again, a million thoughts clearly going through his mind at once going by the look on his face. Lawrence was ready to shove Marshall back into the bathroom to fight this man before John just shrugged and hunched his back once again. “Alright. Fine. Just let me use your restroom, please.”

Lawrence was shocked that John didn’t make a fuss out of it, but moved out of the man’s way to let him by. The second the door clicked shut Lawrence glared at Marshall, who cowered before him. “I told you to stay in your room!” he hissed angrily. “What if this man was dangerous and decided to attack you?!”

Marshall just whimpered. “I’m sorry, I really had to go…” he mumbled.

“I understand that, but if someone potentially dangerous is in the house, you stay in your room! No exceptions!” Lawrence growled, trying to not let Marshall’s scared whines get to his heart. He needed to be disciplined for this. “You will be punished for this, do you understand-”

The sound of soft crying from inside of the bathroom made both of them quiet down. Lawrence gave one last glare to Marshall before going to knock on the door. “John? Is everything alri-”

The door swung open before Lawrence could finish, revealing John who had clearly just finished sobbing his eyes out from how red and puffy they were. “Yes. I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?” Lawrence asked hesitantly. “You look-”

“I’ll be alright, Lawrence. Nothing a night's rest can help me with. How about we have coffee at my place tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

Lawrence looked back at Marshall, who was quivering behind him, most likely scared of whatever punishment Lawrence would give out. He turned back to John with a wide forced smile of his own and nodded. “That sounds great! I’ll see you on your way out!”

John held up a hand and shook his head. “No need for that. I know where to go. Hope to see you tomorrow.” And before Lawrence could protest, John turned around to leave. It was a few moments before he could hear his front door open and slam shut.

Lawrence sighed and rubbed his eyes, turning back to face Marshall. The boy had his hands behind his back, and looked as if he was trying to disappear into the wall. He sighed and waved a hand. “Off to bed, kiddo. I need to think.”

Marshall didn’t dare question that, as long as he could avoid punishment. He nervously scurried back to his room, leaving Lawrence to think.

What was going through John’s head? Did he think he was abusing his son? Did he think this wasn’t his son at all? Lawrence knew both could be argued as true, but not to him. He was still doing this for Marshall’s own safety, but he also was genuinely curious about his life now. In a way, he felt bad for him. He still sometimes found himself crying over Nadia’s death, he understood the pain. He found himself genuinely wanting to be his friend.

A new question arose in his mind, though. What kind of secrets was John hiding?

____

John went to Evan’s room to see him still sedated, just as he had left him. He sighed, sitting down next to him, placing a hand on the side of his cheek. Evan didn't respond to the touch, nor did he wake up. Not that he was expecting him to.

His mind drifted to that boy he saw. Lawrence called him Marshall. John thought about what he saw in the boy’s face. That bruise. His fear. He didn’t know if Lawrence was purely abusive, or if there was more to the story. He didn’t want to assume given his own situation with Evan. But what were the chances Lawrence was just like him? He guessed past the murdering and shared love for black coffee and tea, that was as far as it went. Now that he thought of it, though, the boy seemed about the same age as Evan. Maybe a bit younger. It was hard to tell with his clothing.

Either way, whether Lawrence was like him or not, he needed to gauge if he was a danger to Evan or not. And if he was a danger, maybe to Marshall as well, he had to be dealt with. For both of the boys' sake.

[factorialsfandoms]

For the short fic ask game, how about number 5?

Right! From what I remember 5 was a forehead kiss so... Okay this is Rune Factory AU, as threatened, from when Bracken (read: Hyrule) was first taken to to the village... Doctor Odel is... A named version of one of the many old men, just one who is a doctor.

Bracken is ~9 here, just... having a really bad time.

This is kinda an unrelated scene as context and setup, then the actual kiss. The worms are not in my favour tonight.

When Rusl had called Doctor Odel out to the edges of the Lost Woods, he had been expecting many things - a member of the hunting party poisoned by the hallucinogenic spores, perhaps, or someone with crushing injuries from a more sentient vine. Being led to a clearing filled with bracken and brambles was not on that list, neither was how Rusl pointed to a spot where the other hunters were not looking.

Odel's sight had been gradually declining for some years, now; he squinted hard, trying to see anything there.

The red of ginger hair came first.

The red of well hidden blood came second.

And only combining them did he spot the child hiding within.

"We tried to get him out," Rusl sighed a little. "He wouldn't come, then when we tried to grab him he ran, but we can't leave him out here. Been pretending we're still looking so he doesn't freak out again."

They really couldn't; Odel had to wonder how the child had even found their way so deep into the Lost Woods. Alone, at that. Unless the parent was dead nearby, but...

"I'll handle it."

Rusl nodded, and gestured the other hunters to move along. To Odel he whispered a quiet promise to check the local area for monsters, just in case the child ran again.

Odel waited for them to leave, and then approached the patch of bracken where the child hid. He did not reach out, however, instead knelt down nearby. Old bones creaked and groaned, and Odel did his best to ignore them.

Once safely on the floor, Odel rummaged through his bag for his flask, and made himself a cup of tea. Not looking at the child he sat, and sipped at it for a little.

And then.

"Hello," he offered in the direction of the bush. "Are you alright, child?"

No answer at all.

Odel frowned, putting an end to the ploy immediately; given the reported skittishness, he should have at least heard some shuffling. Instead there was nothing, not even some leaves.

He thought of the blood again, shoving his flask away and ensuring bandages were to hand.

With aching bones and a little spite, he pulled himself back to his feet.

"Child?" he said again. "Do you understand me?"

Still nothing.

"I'm going to come to you," he spoke slower, explaining. "Please - I just want to help."

When no objection came, he did exactly that. In three strides he made it to the correct patch of bracken, and pushed the branches aside.

There was more blood than he had expected. The child was curled tightly around himself, pale, and his eyelids fluttered only slightly as Odel approached.

"I'm a doctor," Odel said quietly, trying to soothe the terror in hazy eyes. The spores, perhaps? "I just want to help. Will you let me?"

The child did not object, and so Odel reached down. It was only as he picked the child up that he realised he possibly should have called Rusl back to help, rather than rely on ancient bones.

Another moment, and he realised the child was impossibly light.

Not just underweight or even starving, but so light it should not have been possible.

The most obvious explanation was that the poor child was some sort of monster-born. It would... Well the forest would have let him through, but nothing else. The poor thing, no matter he was suffering.

Briefly, he wondered if it was kinder to put the poor creature out of its misery. But, no, no, this was a child - as human as not - and one capable of being human all of the time.

He was also gravely wounded.

With a few steps he bought the boy back to his bag. He set him down on a patch of softer grass, hurridly grabbing supplies. Everything would be treated properly when they got back to the Clinic, but for now he needed to stop the bleeding.

Odel's hands hesitated over the needles. If he were monster-born, the iron... Hopefully the tape would hold until they got back. He had some needles he used for the farm monsters at the Clinic. Maybe he should start keeping them in his emergency bag...

Sunken eyes, pale skin, clearly malnourished (what would he even need to eat?), covered in scratches and scars and a serious of thick whip wounds across not his back but his chest. Rags, not clothes. He might loose that eye if he were unlucky, but Odel thought he could save it, so long as the boy survived... So injured in the mud for who knows how long...

As Odel worked, the boy neither flinched nor made a sound. He just... lay there, eyes tracking him even as his body did not respond. Chances were he would remember none of this; Odel rather hoped so.

Once the bleeding was stopped and Odel thought his body would survive the spell, he called Rusl back. It did not take long to explain the situation and give Rusl's return token to the boy. Odel would bother Farore for a new one if the boy stayed, but for now...

He clicked the charm around the boy's neck, and pressed a finger to it. So, too, did he press a finger to his own. With a fragment of magic he activated the old spells, pulling them both from the Woods. It lasted only a few seconds before the two were found in the sacred grove; he bowed his head to that ancient tree, scooping up his patient.

The Clinic was only two doors down from the waypoint; the child would be safe here. They could find a way to hide him. Odel doubted that the hunters had realised, and he was not about to let them know.

---

Three weeks later, Odel was busy cleaning. Despite the infection he had expected setting in and his frail condition, the boy had survived. Still he did not speak or even make a sound, via trauma or magic or just the nature of himself Odel was not sure. And there certainly was trauma; when he had returned from helping Uli through the birth of her first son, he had found the boy awake, eyes blown wide with fear.

A promise it was okay, a kiss on the forehead, an offer to stay until he fell asleep; the boy clung to his sleeve as he did his best to curl up, still shivering from the dream.

Paying more attention at nights now, Odel could see them more often.

Whatever had driven the child into the Woods, it was nothing good. Still, the boy seemed more inclined to stay than to leave, having made no attempt to escape. They still had no name for him, the boy refusing if not unable to write either, and Odel would have to fix that soon.

Both parts. Writing lessons were the simpler, but the name... He could not just name someone else's child. But he could not just call him child forever... Later problems...

And that someone else; too old to be an abandoned baby, but he doubted the child's human parent was alive. Perhaps not either of them were. He would have heard... something.

The last he heard about monster-born children were reports of a mixed monster-human settlement being destroyed by a monster-hunting party. It had turned ugly when they chased a monster back, and found humans willingly beside them... Burnt, destroyed, ravenged... That had been a little under a year ago.

... He hated that it was not just possible but plausible the child had escaped that bloodbath.

Busy thinking about other things, he did not realise immediately that the boy was 'calling' for him, making an insistent beckoning gesture towards him.

Odel put down the brush, and turned to face him.

"Did you need something?" he asked.

The boy gestured a little more insistently for him to approach.

Odel did so, and he watched a calculation in his eyes. After a few long moments, a hand reached out and caught Odel's sleese, tugging it down. Caught off guard, even the fragile strength of a sick and injured child was enough to have him stumble fowards a little.

His chin was caught by the child, and then... something pressed to his head.

It took Odel a moment, and then he realised - a kiss to his forehead.

He paused, and let the boy finished, trying to think what had bought this on. Was it...

Oh.

"Thank you, child," he showed the boy his hand, before reaching out. He ran a hand over the boy's hair, watching as he relaxed a little. "Did you realise I was worried?"

A small nod.

Copying him, then.

Odel smiled softly, leaning over and granting the boy a gift of his own.

The boy yawned, silent as ever.

"Get some more sleep; I'll be right there."

The boy reached out, grabbing Odel's hand. He held it back, tracing soft patterns on the hand until eyes stayed closed.

[gremlin-coded]

been thinking about secret life again recently

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 4

Sorry this took so long. In the hospital still. Out of the hospital now!

For @unadulteratedsoulsweets

——

It had been early in the morning when she’d stepped foot in the manor. It was closer to noon, now, that found the reincarnation attentively sitting in one of the (if she remembered correctly from the blue prints) three massive kitchens located in Wayne manor.

She sat atop one of the island stools Damian had ushered her into, spaced a comfortable distance from the man that was her biological father in this life. Her mask dangled at her hip, a comfort she indulged in after unpacking her things. In truth, she’s had cookies before, but it had been so long since she’s tasted it that she might as well have never tried it before. Damian and Alfred Pennyworth worked with maximum efficiency, measuring out flour and sugar and chocolate like there were no tasks more important than this.

Alfred Pennyworth also avoided a specific cabinet that smelled slightly of metal polish and gun powder. It was kept away from the perishables.

Perhaps the manor was smaller and much more homely than the palace, but the reincarnate could see the sense in and approved of the various well-hidden caches of weapons around. Meant for non-lethal take downs, of course, but anything can be lethal if you tried hard enough. Or, considering the vigilante filled manor she had agreed to vacation in, anything could be lethal if one did not try hard enough to keep it non lethal.

The scrape of a spoon drew her attention back to Damian, waving away the off topic musings her mind had wandered into now that a large portion of her brain power was freed from the duty of fear.

She tracked how Damian existed within this space he had so clearly made for himself. He was… happier. Kinder. More. More at ease, more settled into his skin instead of where he stretched it to fit the cast of the Demon’s Heir. Simply, more. He was more Damian than he had been in the league.

When Damian was locked within the walls of the palace, his shoulders were always held straight. There’d been a- not quite darkness- cruelty in his eyes and gait that their grandfather had eagerly nurtured. His chin had remained lifted, his actions closed and callous. She’d feared, for while, that Damian would follow their grandfather’s footsteps. Until the day she saw him sneak a bird into his room to heal, her heart had trembled and grieved to see someone she loved imitate the worst parts of her abuser. It didn’t change the fact that she loved him, but it changed how she taught him.

But experience is a better teacher than she will ever be, and Damian had little chance to experience true kindness in the pits of the league.

Here, Damian is light. Perhaps less aware than he normally would have been, on the look out for fatal attacks as she had trained him to be within the league, but here he is free and safe and relaxed. It feels like she’s sitting in a haze, the chirps of birds and the clouded noon sun casting everything into an unreal light.

“Ukhti, assistance is requested.” Her brother holds out a bowl of dough. Her heart hurt with how happy it was. She squished the dough between her fingers like a child rediscovering her childhood. In some ways, she was.

——

As she watched Damian, in turn the others observed her. Bruce sat beside her, cataloguing every minuscule expression of his child, the first and the eldest, in an attempt to make up for lost time. And truly, it was minuscule. For all Bruce trained in micro-expressions and movements, his eldest- god, he had another daughter, the eldest- daughter remained a mystery from which he gleaned little of. Her face never lifted from that trained neutrality, having resettled back into it after first bite of b’stilla. He cradled the mug of coffee in his hands, the tang of grief and guilt roiling in his stomach as his daughter hesitantly but skillfully rolled a ball of dough.

“Pennyworth has divulged his secrets to me.” Damian plucked the ball from his sister’s hand, who allowed it with traces of… bemusement, perhaps? His eldest daughter flicked her eyes up in question, perhaps mildly amused. Even if she had more than two decades worth of training, Bruce was frustrated that he could not read her. She was his daughter.

Already he fails her. For too long, he had failed her.

“He chills the dough for a chewier cookie. I, and some of the others with adequate taste, prefer this texture. But which would you find adequate?”

His daughter flickered through that sign language again, the one he had no knowledge of. Considering he knew multiple from each continent, that was saying a lot. He was catching a few repeated signs, but nothing concrete.

Alfred waited patiently as they had their conversation, paying sharp attention to their motions. Bruce… felt like he was sitting next to Cassandra. He supposed they were the same, except his eldest daughter hadn’t gotten free.

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Damian grumbled, resting his hands on the counter, making sure to keep it away from his meticulously clean clothes. “We’ll cook them immediately.”

Bruce, in a fit of inspired parenting, offered a compromise.

“We could do two batches. One for right now and save a batch for later.”

Unspoken were the words ‘so she can try the cookies now.’ Despite the silent nature of his intent, Bruce thought that Alfred and Damian understood anyways.

“A fine suggestion, Master Bruce.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

——

She sensed them before she saw them. Her father had slipped out after his suggestion, no doubt intercepting his flock of traumatized orphans before they could pile in.

Perhaps she had inherited something from Bruce Wayne after, considering how many of them she’d taken under her wing. She rolled the ball of dough between oiled fingers in a haze. Faint memories, impressions of a life long faded, guided her hands as she smooshed the cookies to her preference.

“Penny for your thoughts, Miss Al-Ghul?”Alfred Pennyworth asked her.

‘A Pennyworth for my thoughts?’ She swapped sign language, eyes slyly watching for Damian’s reaction.

Damian, right on cue, clicked his tongue, looking defeated. Alfred, on the other hand, smiled wider.

“A Pennyworth for your thoughts indeed.”

Her humor faded into something softer. Longing. Melancholy.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve made dessert for myself.’

She glanced at Damian, who was trying his best to pretend like he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation lest he caught another stray pun. ‘Or used it to inoculate poisons.’

“I see.” The butler patted his hands dry onto a towel, a sharp eye on Damian’s efforts at covering the dough meant for freezing. “I assure you that these cookies will remain poison free, have no worries about that. Now, would you like some tea?”

She shook her head. ‘I’ll make it myself later. Thank you.’

“Very well, Miss-”

“Hi, Alfred. Making cookies?”

Her hands continued to work on her tray, placing cookie dough on the tray with military precision. Damian remained relaxed, though watchful of her reaction.

“That’s correct, Master Tim.”

Tim shuffled over to her, and she turned. Ah, her partial benefactor.

“Little photographer.” She smiled, slightly. Her eyes, however, were warm. Alfred stilled for a brief second at her voice.

“Hi. It’s been a while.” Tim plopped down on the seat next to her. His whole body screamed of nostalgia. It’s odd to see the little scrawny Bristol boy grow into a full fledged vigilante. It seemed like yesterday she was keeping him from slipping on Gotham’s manifestations of its rot and plummeting down on its stone heart.

She hummed. ‘Not too long.’

“What is that supposed to mean? When had you met Drake, recently?”

She glanced at the little- not so little- photographer.

“She helped me bring B back.” Tim lied. She didn’t like how easily he lied to Damian… but on account of her fondness for him, she let it slide.

“Did you, Miss Al-Ghul?” Alfred wiped his hands on the hand towel he carried. “Then I suppose we owe you our sincere thanks.”

She blinked slowly.

‘I didn’t do much. I kept him alive just the once.’

“That is a harder task than one might think, Miss Al-Ghul. Master Tim has, arguably, the worst self preservation instincts out of the life risking vigilantes I have known.” And he has known many, Alfred seemed to imply.

She tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“Hey! What is this? Gang up on Tim day?”

“I would participate in that even if it wasn’t,” Damian stated, packing the frozen cookies away in the corner. “Come and help, Drake. My ukht is about to have her first cookies and we will bake it to perfection. Bring the tray.”

Tim scoffed but slid the tray away from her, Alfred seamlessly dropping a napkin for her to wipe off the dough from her fingertips.

“Thanks, by the way. For saving Z and Owens.”

‘They were my assassins. Even if you did manage to sway them to your cause.’ She tapped the marble island, before opening her mouth. “Thank you. For destroying his pit options. It helped me kill Ra’s.”

In her peripherals, Damian settled back, disgruntled but willing to rest his curiosity as gratitude towards Tim’s part in her freedom overrode his need for answers.

Tim stilled. “…What are friends for, right?”

‘Of course, little photographer.’ She relaxed as her, arguably first, friend and now brother popped the tray into the oven.

“Anyways, they sent me in here to see if you’re ready to meet the rest of them.”

“And they said that?” Damian scoffed, coming around the island to stand beside her as she slipped off the stool.

“Nah, they actually wanted me to subtly vibe check her, but it’s not like she wouldn’t catch me doing it.”

“Ukhti’s ‘vibes’ are perfectly fine,” Damian said crabbily, crossing his arms defensively. She tapped the back of Damian’s neck and he relaxed.

‘Thank you for the… assessment of my character and general disposition.’ She signed dryly.

“Ugh, I should’ve made the connection. Your syntax is exactly like Damian’s.” Tim joked, dodging the punch Damian aimed at his nonexistent spleen.

The reincarnation huffed. ‘I spoke perhaps three words to you.’

“And how many people use disposition on a regular basis?”

“I do, Drake!”

“I know, Damian. That was the point, you little walking thesaurus.”

——

They left Alfred in the kitchen, the man all but shooing them away so he could get working on lunch, and made their way to a sitting room. The floor was covered in a plush blue carpet, a fact that made itself vividly present to the reincarnation when she placed her foot on it, the fabric brushing the back of her heels. She was too trained to allow the slip to visible, but for a microsecond, the memories of kneeling and choking clawed their way past her defenses. She made note of the trigger and moved on, compartmentalizing that fact for later.

“It’s you,” Nightwing breathed out, tensing. The others behind him freeze, even more alert than their regular state. Bruce whipped his head towards him, sharp and searching.

“Nightwing.” She greeted. She felt a kinship with this vigilante turned brother. She watched him soar and fall alongside the little photographer. She watched him grow new wings and watched them get tainted with blood and fear and grim hope. She lived vicariously through him, he who flew when she was chained. In some ways, she had ended up watching his back for a long time, both in yearning for the ease he was allowed at her father’s side and to protect the vulnerable back that knew not of its openness. Bruce inhaled deeply at her voice.

Dick stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. She does not disembowel him for it. Instead, she allowed the giant octopus hug her new oldest little brother gave her. There was no aggression in his countenance. Only relief and gratitude.

“You know Dick?” The little, ah, no, she doesn’t want to sound like Ra’s, Tim asked. Dick tensed, clearly unwilling to speak about it. She stepped in.

“I met him once. Eliminated a spider for him on a rooftop. I did not think he would remember.”

“Is that why you were so adamant on knowing who ukhti was?” Damian demanded, scowling. She immediately freed an arm and wrapped it around his shoulders. Damian ducked away with a rather petulant scowl. "Not because of my safety but because she crushed an arachnid for you?"

Dick nodded at him before looking up at her. “I really hated that spider. It was super scary. Thank you for getting rid of it.”

In lieu of an answer, she gently hugged him back.

“I get the feeling.” She said solemnly, voice coming out soft and borne of an implicit understanding. ‘Talk later,’ she signed to him.

“I was not aware you were afraid of spiders, ukht,” Damian muttered. “Though, Richard, I would believe.”

“Hey!”

Dick detached himself and pasted on a mostly genuine smile. “Oh! You should meet the others!”

He turned to the rest of Bruce Wayne’s wards and children to cheerfully point them out.

“This is Duke! He’s Alfred’s favorite grandkid, because he hasn’t burnt down the kitchen yet and reports when he’s injured.”

“Hey. Nice to meet you.” Duke Thomas raised a hand, smiling. “The bar was literally on the floor with you people. ‘Sides, Jason did just fine.”

The reincarnate nodded. Yes, she knew of him, though her memories were hazy. It had been over two decades, after all.

Dick steamrolled onwards. “This is Stephanie-”

“But you can call me Steph!” Stephanie Brown interjected, bouncing in her seat. Despite her bubbly demeanor, her gaze was sharp. Seeing. She liked that sharpness. It was tempered by the same rough and tumble kindness she’d seen in Grave- ah, Jason.

Spoiler, her memories reminded her. It was a soothing distraction from the anxious memories of the league. She found herself collecting little hints and information about this family. Her family, even if it were tentatively so. She caught Bruce staring at them intently, visibly anxious about this meeting.

‘A pleasure to meet you.’

“So… what do we call you?” Steph tilted her head. Hm. A tell Ra’s would have beaten out of her, had Stephanie had the misfortune of being in his presence for more than a day.

“Al Ghul will be adequate.” Damian cut in. The glance he threw her promised a discussion upon the topic of her name. Later, it promised.

“Wow. That’s kind of impersonal though.”

“Steph!”

“What?! I’m not wrong.”

“Anyways!” Dick loudly said over the two bickering kids. “That’s actually it for now.”

“The rest aren’t here as of this moment, but they’ll be around for dinner.”

A white lie. She studied Bruce for a moment before acquiescing. He meant no harm. Despite his capability to inflict harm, his willingness to do so, she could not read a single instance of ill will in him. Not, at least, towards her. She allowed the lie to slide.

‘I wish to see the grounds.’ She put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. He knew what it meant for her to retreat to the wilderness. Nature, where most things were free and where one does not often find Ra’s after he’d had a taste for luxury.

“We will go to the gardens. Ukhti wishes to explore.” Despite the rather curt way he pronounced it, Damian had stepped closer to her side in a gesture of concern. The pit inside of her stomach eased.

“Sounds good! Let’s go!” Steph bounced out of her seat.

“We could tell you stories,” Tim offered from behind her.

“Yeah, like that one time Dick face planted onto one of Poison Ivy’s flower beds because he was distracted by an ice cream truck.” Duke grinned, eyes crinkling.

“Hey! That ice cream truck was full of Scarecrow thugs!”

“And they weren’t worth an Ivy-lecture. I’m surprised she didn’t skin you and make a pot out of your bones, Dick.” Tim yawned.

“Ooo, we should tell her about the time I hit you in the face with a brick!”

“Literally what more is there to that story, Steph?” Tim grumbled.

“I would like to hear this tale,” Damian said, beginning to tug his ukht towards the garden. The rest of the group followed.

“Actually, why don’t we tell her about the time you tried getting Batcow to the barn and he just sat down? Didn’t you bargain with her for an hour, Damian?”

“Tt!”

Duke leaned back and took in the chaos he unfolded with a twinkling grin and Bruce’s sigh bolstering him. And if their newest and oldest addition to the family relaxed in his chaos, well, that was between him and her.

——

Cassandra found her in the gardens, the both of them weaving in between the foliage like light footed cats. Her contingent of Bats were behind them, watching the two former assassins approach each other.

Cassandra had frozen, mirroring the reincarnator’s stillness.

“Ukhti.” The word was torn out of Cass’ throat, filled with tears and relief.

“Cassandra,” she called, fond and kind and loving. Damian’s eyes darted between his sisters. They knew each other. How? She called his ukht, ukhti. A title he had assumed only he could use.

Cassandra scrambled and launched herself at her, silent sobs shaking her frame.

“Hello, Cass,” she caught the flying vigilante, crushing her first little sister into a tight hug. “Freedom suits you, habibti.”

Cass trembles in her arms, hands clutching at the fabric on her shoulder blades like Damian’s. Her eyes softened, and she rested her chin on Cass’s head.

“You know Cassandra too, ukhti?”

She nodded.

“Ukhti named me.” Cass said, voice wobbly. ‘Cass. Cassandra.’ Cass did her name sign. The one she had taught the slip of a girl back when Cass was stuck in a senseless prison and she was only free in terms of movement.

‘First word too.’ She smiled, proud of Cass and how far she’s come. Cassandra reads the pride in her language, the safety and kindness that she’d never forgotten even after traversing the world for years before arriving home, and she burrowed deeper into the hug.

“Oh. I see.”

“Two ukhts.” She smiled at Damian.

Cass shook her head, but before Damian could settle into his hurt at her supposed rejection, Cass explained her confusion. “Ukhti is your name? I’m Cass.”

“Ukhti means older sister.” Damian informed her.

Cass blinked and looked back at the reincarnation. Her shoulders relaxed and drew back, eyes softening and body loosened from its confusion. She smiled, bright as the sun, and deftly clambered around to perch on her older sister’s back.

“Two.” She declared. And truly, the reincarnation was weak to her younger siblings because that was that. Cass declared it so, and it shall be so. Damian grumbled but seemed like they agreed.

“How did you two meet?” Bruce piped up, intent and surprisingly considerate.

“Saved me,” Cass sighed, resting her chin on her ukht’s head. ‘From father and the league. Taught me to speak, a little. My name. Cass. Taught me..’ Cass paused. “Taught me I am not a weapon.”

The former assassin carrying Cass on a piggy back ride hummed in agreement.

“Oh.” The rest of the family glanced at each other. Dick had his shiny teary eyes on, the ones he got when Jason initiated a hang out.

“Not a weapon,” Cass repeated, pressing firmly on her ukht’s head.

A less sure hum. Cass scowled.

“No. Bad,” Cass scolded. “Not a weapon.”

An acquiescing hum, full of fondness and exasperation.

Cassandra Cain will take that answer. For now.

“You named Cass?” Duke asked. Bruce looked at them with gentle eyes.

“After a heroine I knew.” She replied, shifting. Cass hugged her tighter, intently listening. “She was strong. Lethal if need be. But… kind. She had an inherently kind heart. Full of love. Like Cass.”

“Oh, that’s really.. that’s really sweet.”

Cass hugged her ukht closer, touched. She had never known why she had been given the name, but finding out that it was after a heroine her sister looked up to made the day that much brighter. Hopeful. Honored.

“You have not told me this story,” Damian said.

‘I will. One day.’

——

Jason found her at the lunch table. Along with the rest of the brood. Except for, jarringly, an alien named Jarro.

“He’s our alien brother!” Duke said. He smiled, and it was a smile of unassuming harmlessness. A well crafted mask that she knew better than to be fooled by.

She offered three long blinks that had Cassandra, stuck like a limpet on the reincarnator’s back, muffling a laugh.

“Telling truth,” Cass whispered, sentences punctuated by giggles.

She hummed, shifting to more securely carry Cass on her back. Damian sighed and dutifully carried Cassandra’s pack. She smiled at her little brother, who straightened. Adorable. All of her siblings were adorable. She would kill for them. Ah, right. They frown upon murder here. So had she, once. Before Ra’s broke that part of her heart and forced her hands to commit evils that grew gnarled vines through her very soul.

“Oh.” She blinked.

“Hm?”

“Killing is… a choice.” The conversations around them fell silent. Cass’ arms tightened around her shoulders.

“We don’t have to do it, anymore,” Damian agreed. Yes, he understood what it was like, to be raised to kill and suddenly having the option not to.

“Did you not want to kill, before?” Bruce asked, suddenly a bit closer. Her mind was slipping, she realized. It felt… safe, to slip.

‘If I did not,’ she admitted, like throwing stones off of a lock-laden bridge. ‘Damian would bear the consequences.’

She sounded… young. Afraid. Two things she had always been and were never allowed to be.

Bruce Wayne looked at her like his heart was breaking, like he wished he could shoulder her pain on top of the weight of the world he willingly carried since his parents died. This, she is reminded, was why she swore Damian to secrecy regarding her existence. She wondered if he had ever taken the burden of more grief than he could bear.

‘And I could not say no, regardless,” she told them, absent and tired.

She wondered if she would be the one to break him, should she allow him a glimpse of the scars on her back.

“I could have taken it.” Damian grabbed her arm, clutching at her sleeve once more.

“No,” she whispered, haunted. ‘Not while I drew breath, habibi.’

“You don’t have to kill here. We’re all very good with no murder.” Tim reminded her firmly.

“Unless it’s the Joker.” Steph chimed in, bubbly smile gentled into something kinder.

“Unless it’s him.” Duke agreed. His eyes were more serious now.

“No,” Bruce replied, tired. Heavier, in a way that made sour tang of guilt scratch the back of her tongue. She hadn’t meant to give him the weight of knowledge, but she had inadvertently done so with the things she had and hadn’t said. He wasn’t the world’s- she glanced at Tim, who quirked a smile at her- second best detective for no reason.

“Yes, but you’re not ready for that conversation.” Dick snapped, lightheartedly.

Ah. That’s what was off.

They’re kind. They choose to be and they inherently are kind.

It showed. And she wasn’t used to that.

“Lunch.” Cassandra reminded them. She was a solid, grounding presence at the reincarnator’s back.

“Oh, Jason said he’s on the way.” Duke commented, nodding when she quickly did a subtle thank you sign.

“Why does he text you and not me?” Dick whined.

“Wow, man. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because of the emoji wall you send?”

“They’re nice! How else are you supposed to know what I’m feeling, right, Cass?”

Cass nodded and gave a thumbs up from her place on ukhti’s back.

“See?!”

“I love you Cass, but you also use a wall of understandable emojis. Dick just spams them.” Steph retorted.

The reincarnator turned to Damian, a silent question in her eyes. He sighed. “Yes, the imbeciles argue all of the time.”

She nodded and the group made their way to the green house for lunch, bickering all the while.

When they get there, Jason Todd, along with Alfred Pennyworth were already at the table.

“Grave.” She greeted as Cass slipped off her back.

“Ain’t no fucking way, Trainer?” Jason leapt to his feet. It was odd, seeing him in casual clothes. Ra’s had kept him in armor most of the time.

“You know each other?”

“At this point, who doesn’t ukht know would be an easier question.” Damian grumbled. She tapped him on the head twice, a light reprimand.

‘Grave was part of your guard,’ she told him. ‘He protected you well.’

“You’re the demon brat’s older sister? That makes so much fucking sense.”

She felt her eyes go cold, lifting to stare at Grave’s rapidly paling face. He visibly backtracks.

“Uh- I mean, you’re Damian’s older sister?”

She regarded him for a beat longer before blinking, ice melting away at the change. The nickname chafed at her neck, too close from a fate she gave everything to save Damian from.

Her head dipped into a small nod.

“Wild.” Jason sat back down. “So, uh, how are you handling the pit?”

‘I am not.’ She informed him, settling down in her seat. Damian claimed the spot next to her and Cass quickly took the other, much to Bruce’s chagrin. Tim plopped down to the seat next to Cass, eyes zeroing onto the chamomile tea Alfred had set out for him.

Duke smiled at Bruce before sitting next to Jason, Steph skipping over and sitting next Dick and Jason at the same time.

“Ukhti managed to get rid of the side effects,” Damian informed the table at large.

Her little bat had the worst ability to make sure attention focused on her, the reincarnation groused. She sighed.

“How?” Clearly, Grave had forgotten how much she beat him into the sparring mat because he leaned forward to glare at her. Well, she hadn’t wanted him too afraid of her.

‘Magic.’

His face fell at the assumed non answer, but Damian’s nod had the entire table once more expectant.

She sighed and began weaving her magic.

——

She stalked through the shadows of the manor, at ease. Bruce and the others had left on patrol, hours ago. She was clad in her sleeping clothes, one of her less favored clothes. Her hands would get dirty again tonight but she was long past the point of lingering on those regrets.

“Miss al-Ghul,” Alfred turned as she stepped towards him, having made sure she made adequate noise as a forewarning. “Having a good night?”

She tilted her head, eyes inquisitively peering at the spotless china display behind the butler.

“Ah, you must be curious about the fine ceramics we have currently displayed,” Alfred smiled. “Would you be so kind as to indulge an old butler on this topic?”

She had an idea about the kind of gift Alfred Pennyworth would appreciate.

——

“Uh, whatcha got there?”

She blinked, pulling bloodied hands away from her clothes where she had been inspecting them. The assassin that caused the damage on her clothes laid beneath her feet, still and lifeless. She blinked again.

Nightwing, Dick, stood in front of her, freshly showered from his patrol.

Some form of long forgotten instinct rose from the dry rotted fabric of her faded memories had her responding, ‘A smoothie.’

“…That’s… not a smoothie,” Dick said as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m pretty sure that’s an assassin?”

She shrugged. “He was after Damian. To force him into being the Demon’s head.” She paused. ‘I am tying up loose ends.’

Dick considered her. And the he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, okay. I’ll help you get rid of the evidence.”

She waved him off, clicking her fingers and looking over the room with critical eyes as the body and traces of the fight disappeared.

“Woah, handy.”

‘Very,’ she agreed. ‘Did you need something?’

He made a face. “That’s weird. It’s usually me asking that,” he muttered. “Uh, yeah. I just… wanted to thank you again. And uh, let you know that the others don’t know so if you could not tell them, that would be great?”

With a huff, she reached over and up to gently ruffle his hair. ‘Of course. Damian did not know either.’

“Right,” he breathed. “You get it.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Been avoiding thinking about it?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

She looked at him, silent. Offering a space to listen, and a quiet promise to offer no judgement.

“I don’t- it- I could have stopped her,” he told her, guilt and shame and the lingering whispering voice Catalina burrowing into his ears and heart.

And when he started, it seemed to him like he couldn’t stop. Dick told her of the things he felt as she got on top of him, of how numb and far away things were. How, if it rained, he couldn’t be in the quiet because it made him relive it.

“But… but you stopped her so I shouldn’t even be like this!”

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ She told him, the first thing she’s said since he’s started talking. ‘The only one at fault was her. You trusted her to stop. She did not. Her crimes were not yours to bear.’

She paused, taking in the refusal she could read on his face. “If someone beats another person, would you blame the person who was beaten?”

“No!”

‘Then you are kind. But you are so kind to others, why not yourself?’

Dick fell silent.

“I killed Ra’s,” she reminded him. “He allowed many others to partake in my body without my agreement.”

She leaned towards him, the admittance of something she had not even told Damian ringing painfully in her heart but made all the easier to say by the fact that one of her little brothers (the free, first Robin, the son who stood by Bruce’s side when she could not) needed her. “He himself partook in me. And yet,” she added, when Dick looked up. ‘It is difficult to forget. I am still afraid when I step onto the carpet on the sitting room.’

“The carpet? The rug? The fluffy one?” He asked, confused.

“It is like… your rain and silence,” she crossed her arms. ‘That and the sound of rustling silk reminds me of his chambers.’

“Oh.”

‘I killed him and it will not go away. Would you blame me for that?’

“No, that’s how healing is- oh.”

“Be kind, to yourself.”

His chin trembled. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Ukhti.”

“Ukhti,” he parroted, aiming a watery and small smile her way.

She held out her arms and, with Dick’s tacit understanding, tucked him beneath her wings like she did with Damian. “Thank you for offering to get rid of the body, habibi. But I would not want you to get in trouble.”

“Eh, I’ve helped Jason deal with worse.”

‘Comforting.”

“I know, right?”

——

“Why the hell do you keep calling me Grave?” Jason asked her, grumbling as he tried to wire his new helmet after the last one got damaged.

She leaned back, basking in the sun on the new rugs. After their conversation, Dick had set fire to every fluffy rug in the house-

“What the hell, dude?!” Duke gaped as he watched Dick cheerfully toss an expensive rug into the impressive bonfire they had going on.

“Ukhti doesn’t like fluffy rugs,” Dick said with a straight face. Damian dragged another roll to the bonfire with a scowl. “Alfred Approved project, if you want to join~!”

Duke stared at him… and picked up a roll to toss into the fire.

- and bought new ones using Bruce’s credit cards.

“You got some of your memories back, in the league.” She hummed. “You liked reading. Poems.”

“What does that even have to do with Grave?”

“I remembered one. A line. Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep…”

Jason twisted around. “Are you kidding me?”

She continued. “Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.”

“But I did die.”

She shrugged. ‘People still remembered you. Gotham and Bruce cried at your loss. I saw it.’

She straightened and smiled a small smile at him. ‘Besides. You got better.’

Jason snorted. “You too, I guess.”

She hummed an agreement, eyes slipping closed in the warm light of the sun, relief after a long second life of cowering in the shadows of a man more like a demon than he was a grandfather.

[not-a-heretic]

nigel colbie

[typhoonboom10]

I was listening to The Black Parade and thought this line kinda fits Zooble, so I animated it

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Call Mom

CW: PTSD/flashbacks, BBU in general, haunted, ghosts, reference to a murder, severe chronic panic

Jameson's Masterlist (scroll down)

-

Aw, crap. Hey, Johnny, do you remember where I put that girl's number? Like, Katie, or Caitlyn, or... do you remember? Hey! Johnny! Put down the fucking xbox controller for two fucking minutes and give me a hand, won't you?

Fingers snap right in front of his face.

Johnny!

Jameson jerks in a breath that sounds like a whine, sitting straight up. The fan blows cool air over his sweat-soaked skin and he shivers, cold inside and out. The air in his room is freezing, suddenly. Outside it's so dark you can't even see the trees - the power outage must still be going, there aren't any streetlights. Thanks to the clouds, no stars or moon, either.

Just darkness.

Wait, if the electricity's out...

He looks up. The ceiling fan is perfectly still above his head, even while ice-cold air keeps goosebumps rising on his arms, the hair standing up at the back of his neck.

See, was that so hard? It'll take like five minutes if we work together, I swear.

"Nat?" He mumbles. "S'at... you?"

Checked there already, actually. Checked the fridge, too, so where the hell did I put it?

He's the only person in this room.

Jameson goes from still half-asleep to fully, painfully awake and aware in a single breath.

The voice comes as clear as if it was right next to him, a voice as familiar as his own - but he has no idea whose it is. There's no one here but him - even Trash Cat isn't here any longer, probably hunting a tiny piece of plastic downstairs that he'll end up stepping on in the morning. So far she hasn't eaten any of them. He doesn't even know where she's finding them.

Johnny, come on. Let's, like, retrace our steps.

His head starts to ache more with every single word, the pain working like tendrils behind his eyes, a pressure trying to crush his skull from the inside. Something flashes, bright and almost like a spectrum of rainbow colors, in the corner of his right eye, but it won't resolve when he turns his head.

I got home from work, I told you we had a hot customer who gave me her number, and then... then what?

Jameson stares into darkness so complete it feels like it has weight. Like it's sitting on the bed next to him, like the mattress dips underneath it. A body made of memory, slowly pulling together the pieces of what's been hidden. Clawing them out but leaving deep weals across the inside of his mind, like a corpse's fingers digging into loose dirt to climb out of his grave.

"Caitlyn," He whispers, as the thought crystallizes. A memory, pure and perfect. Some sliver of whatever they broke the person he was into. Some small piece of the man who signed up. "Her name was Caitlyn, not Katie. She... wrote it on the fucking paper."

Right! Okay, so, clearly I told you her name, and then what?

Jameson turns his head, and there he is.

Hank.

His breath catches in his throat.

Hank is younger than he is, even though he was older then. The older brother, trapped in time, while Jameson - Jonathan - keeps aging. The rakish smile is still there and, Christ, Jameson had forgotten that he'd done that stupid thing to his hair - you forgot everything about him, you begged them to take him away from you so that it wouldn't hurt anymore. He's still got that one crooked tooth he'd refused to get braces to fix. That crooked tooth had been in his dental records. It was how they identified his body.

The fucking crooked tooth, the silver-colored fillings, then the DNA tests...

"No," He whispers, going for a vicious hiss, but what comes out is far too close to a whimper. "No. This is-... this is a flashback. This isn't real, this isn't-"

Maybe I left it in yesterday's pants?

"This isn't real, fuck off." Jameson shoves himself off the bed, forgetting his stupid fucking legs don't work. His knees buckle as soon as they have to take his weight.

He lands wrong on one arm and the pain spikes up through his shoulder, making him cry out in the hoarse, rasping voice that his life has left him with. "Fuck!"

He rolls onto his side, but he can't stop himself.

He looks up again. He doesn't want to remember Hank but he's desperate for one more look at his face. Just the one more time.

Just once more.

Hank sighs, raking a hand back through his hair, leaving it mussed-up and sticking out, looking ridiculous. He did that all the time. Bit his nails, too, and tried everything to stop but he never did. He wore those jeans with the ripped knee all the time, their mother had hated it. Hank, wearing the t-shirt for the band they'd gotten concert tickets for but never got the chance to see. Hank, dead for years, smiles to one side at a brother who isn't there.

The brother who erased him.

"Hank," He whispers. "Hank, you gotta-... you gotta go. You're hurting me-"

Damn. Man, it wasn't in my jeans either. Well, I'll find it sooner or later, I guess. Hank shrugs. His eyes are in shadow, not quite defined. Jameson wonders if it's because he's forgotten what color his brother's eyes were, forgotten it deeply enough that even this can't pull it back.

It'll be okay, Johnny. It really will. Hank looks right at him. Jameson's breath catches in his throat. The room is so cold the air burns as he breathes. It never gets this cold in California. It can't be this cold in California. I mean it. Don't cry yourself to sleep over this.

"I cried myself to sleep... all the time, but I don't now. I'm not-... that guy." He can barely speak. He sees his breath puff out when his lips move, and Jameson slumps back. His voice cracks, it creaks like old floors. He didn't stop crying for weeks. He didn't leave his bed. He did any drug he could find trying to not think about Hank, until he realized there was only one way to make sure he never had to think about what he'd done, by letting Hank walk home alone that one night, again. He didn't want to think about that pain anymore.

They had promised him he wouldn't ever have to hurt like this again.

They lied about that, too.

Jameson makes a sound he refuses to admit is a choked-off sob. "I'm not him, Hank. I'm not Johnny... not anymore."

Hank stands, and it's impossible. He's not here. But he holds out his hand anyway, and Jameson takes it without thinking. Hank's grip is so cold it burns, but Jameson lets his dead brother pull him to his feet anyway.

He smells like earth and ice.

"I'm not him," He whispers.

Right, like that argument ever works. Hank just grins, shaking his head. The man Jameson was - the one he had begged to leave behind - is the reason Hank will look like this in his memories forever. He's the reason there isn't another Hank, only this one, locked in the memories he wanted to boil and burn out of his own head. They're still there, though. They break through.

They never stop breaking through.

He would crawl back into Robert's cage himself if it only meant he didn't have to remember that it's his fault Hank is dead.

Tears run hot down his cheeks - the only thing in him that isn't frozen is his grief, wildfire in his chest leaving nothing but ash behind. Forests after wildfires are ghosts, Hank said once, when they were both high and everything sounded fucking important.

Jameson had called him an idiot - he remembers that now. But... he also thinks Hank was right. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can, focusing. He isn't here. Hank cannot be here. "I don't remember... remember you-... I don't want to remember you! It was my choice to forget!"

Hank claps him on the shoulder. His smile goes briefly gentle and soft. Jameson can see it with his eyes closed. Whatever you say, man. Just promise me you'll call Mom sometime soon, okay?

The pain is too much. If he can't pass out soon, he might die just from having to experience it, unending, never stopping, rising higher and higher. "Mom...?"

Yeah, dumbass. Mom. Our mother? Who gave birth to us and never lets us fucking forget it? I keep trying to talk to her, but I guess my signal's bad. Hank laughs, and Jameson's whole body breaks with the sound of that familiar laughter. The way Hank could throw his head back without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, how he'd hear that laugh across a crowded room and know it was his brother's, know right where he was.

Until he didn't.

Until nobody did.

Until the cops found what was left.

Until-

Jameson jolts again, and finds himself still lying on the floor next to his bed. He's burning up, boiling hot, pouring sweat until his sleep shirt sticks to his back and his arms feel slick with it, his hair sticking to skin. A droplet trickles down the back of his neck like a fingertip, barely touching. He rips his shirt off, then his pants, throwing them as far away from himself as he can, until he's naked on the floor but it isn't enough.

He's still sweating, still breathing in harsh gasps, fighting around the strength of his racing heart to get enough air to fill his lungs. He looks frantically around, but no one's here.

The ceiling fan circles lazily overhead.

He takes in a breath, his heart pounding. It feels like it's going to grow wings and fly away, up his throat and out of his mouth. He's still crying, he realizes only now. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can and fights tears back through sheer willpower and rage, curling his hands into fists. Just like they used to be, his fingers know - muscle memory of mittens that had kept him powerless, once. Now, he does it on purpose, and he forces them to curl through the pain.

Forces down the dream.

Wills himself to forget he ever had it.

"Four... f-four things you can see," he whispers to himself, slumping back down. His voice keeps trembling, catching, and it's everything he has to open his eyes again around the pounding headache in his skull and look. "The-... moon. Out the... window. The, my dresser... for my clothes... M-My, uh, the picture Nat p-printed of me and Allyn... fuck, the... the doorknob."

Every time he thinks he knows how much of his body can hurt at once, some nerves he didn't know existed decide to join the party. He has to breathe in and out, slow and controlled, trying to will his body to cooperate. He won't walk tomorrow, he can tell already. It'll be a day to spend in bed, or using his wheelchair. It might be a week until his body lets him walk again.

He fights back a new well of rage and despair at how well he knows the next way his body will fail him. He can't think about that right now, or the pain and the panic will spiral out of control. He might hurt someone. He can't hurt anyone, not ever again.

He won't.

"Three... things I can touch," He murmurs. "My, my... my shirt, fuck, gross, sweaty... my... my hair... the floor, feels... cold, feels good... the corner of my bed..."

It helps. He makes himself focus on this, on real things, not the nightmare of his brother.

He won't remember his brother.

He won't.

"Two things I can hear. Uh, the, there's... crickets or something outside, and-... and I can hear-"

Hank's voice whispers right next to his ear.

Call Mom.

His breath hitches.

"Not real," he whispers. "One... one thing I can taste..."

All he tastes is blood, and for one horrified half a second he's sure it's Hank's blood, until he realizes he bit his tongue in his sleep.

The blood is his own.

Call Mom.

-

[bleeding-seraphic]

Gwendolyn should take a page out of the good old Bouchard book

[rynquestionmark]

If there’s a good man in you, you killed him today.

A prodigal son from the day you were born

Oh what have you become?

Oh you were your mother’s son.

A Good Man - Semler

The Death of Sumur

[mossrotts]

I'm so excited to share this, happy trans day of visibility! Here's a piece I did for @worldbeyondzine which currently has this and a collection of trans created spooky arts on sale NOW at worldbeyondzine.bigcartel.com!

[elizakai]

uh another concept for bad sansuary

day 6-restrained

[pydrasplatling]

I have no clue

[aftgficrec]

Hi!!! You guys are seriously amazing. Do you know any good fics where Neil is essentially like a sugar daddy? Or just where he spends money for Andrew and likes to buy him things and stuff? Just Neil spending his money to make Andrew and the Foxes happy?

Hi, anon! When Neil is flush, he loves to spoil his man! - A

also see:

rich Neil spoils Andrew here 

you may also like:

‘Family Affairs’ and ‘Fairy Lights’ here

‘Can you see the soul in me?’ here (updated)

‘Baltimore's Fireflies’ and ‘No Saints in Sight’ here (both updated)

‘Negotiations’ here 

Operation: Neil's bodysitter 24/7 by avengerpercy [Rated G, 6961 Words, Complete, AFTG Exchange Winter, 2020]

Neil's pro team thinks he needs a bodyguard. Neil doesn't want people to know that he needs to have one, so they hire Andrew, who certainly doesn't look like a bodyguard.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced csa

Mission Impossible: Get the Foxes to get Along by christmasday_in_autumn [Rated G, 7765 Words, Complete, 2024]

Neil, or Nathaniel Weninski is the son and heir to Nathan and Mary, and brother of Jean. For a last mission before he becomes heir to the Mobster Crime Empire he asks to be sent to Palmetto to fix their crippling team. Neil is Rich, Powerful, and Mouthy. He wants the team to reach their potential.

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced overdose, tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: canonical character death, tw: implied/referenced animal cruelty, tw: implied/referenced abuse

you may also like:

Mafia Cats by sirfatcat_mccatterson [Rated G, 4015 Words, Complete, Locked]

Andrew is canvassing an uptown neighbourhood for his mom's cat charity and rings on the latest of rich-shit houses doorbell. That house? The Wesninski residence.