#remember the man who strangled you? remember the man who tormented you physically and mentally?

[filmfliiicks]

a season 4 fix-it fic where a responsible adult realises Robby is a homeless vulnerable teenager and technically in the care of two men who have a history of physically abusing minors and actually does something about it.

[strangestcase]

loving how Henry jekyll is an unreliable narrator but for like a variety of reasons.

like half of the stuff he knows he's omitting to preserve his privacy and dignity, obv, the other half he tells Gabriel is glaringly full of both his own personal bias and his need to distance himself from his own mistakes (including murder), but also some parts he might not even remember 100% crystal clear because Dissociation Is A Thing, and also he was high on cocaine most of the time, and also he didn't want to straight up say "I saw the opportunity to jump over the edge and did it, because I've got an impulse control problem and it's in my nature to fuck up" to Gabriel's face.

he knows he's done bad things and tells us so. he admits he was too arrogant and that believing he had a moral high ground even though he was Secretly An Asshole was a shitty thing to do but what can you do about it? it's now in the past and it can't be changed. he knows he's gone off the deep end and doesn't like the prospect of living guilt-free anymore if that means losing his entire personality to a fabricated persona. he SAYS THAT. he knows he can be a jerk sometimes and Gabriel honestly must know Henry can be a jerk sometimes but I guess you just... can't go ahead and tell him you indulged in it, no matter how much you regret it now.

even if that was easy it still hurts to admit you CAN be a terrible person sometimes and in Henry's case he's... literally drugged himself into a terrible person. Henry manages to write down that he killed some guy and enjoyed it and is sickened by the fact he FELT like that even if it was in a heavily altered mental state. like... do I really have the potential to be a murderer? was I really that close to hurting more people for my own pleasure? try admitting THAT.

I guess that's why he also switches to a third person. it's easier to lie to both Gabriel and himself and say he's a victim to his brain, which, fair enough, he IS, but it's not like it's an external force. it must have started some way. and ding ding ding! Henry created THAT in the first place and indulged in THAT in the first place and now is reaping the consequences. as much as it's easy to go "ha, told you so!" (because really? do all mad scientists believe they're exempt from consequences? actually I know the answer to that question and it's "yes") he's still suffering because of it

it's just so much easier to lie to yourself and everyone else. he's spent the whole book- no, his whole LIFE doing that, to stay safe, to stay loved, to stay alive. I guess that now he does so to stay sane but I doubt that's gonna help- by the end of his narration he explicitly states he's slipping rapidly, dissociating to hell and back, and is feeling his sense of self fade away while he's sleep deprived, physically weak, and haunted and tormented by both his own bad choices and himself of all people.

he's only not a reliable narrator because he doesn't let himself be. and even though a lot of the things Henry says aren't necessarily all that happened, it's the story from his perspective the one that explains it all. we're meant to take what he says at face value only because he's the only person who knows all what happened, and he's being as truthful as he needs to be. yet he's still choosing how he tells it.

this guy isn't even half a villain he's just a pile of let's say interesting choices in a trench coat pretending to be human and bitterly admitting that their attempt at transcendence not only failed spectacularly but that they enjoyed at least half of the descent into madness and now just want to get off mr bones wild ride but is too late to do so.

that's why I like him so much as a character. sometimes you go "OH YOU FUCKING BASTARD IM GOING TO STRANGLE YOU YOU LITTLE LYING BASTARD!" but most of the time it's "shit man... that must suck... shit..."

catch me here writing an essay psychoanalyzing a dead fictional man.

anyway. Henry Jekyll needs so much therapy and if he had gone to therapy BEFORE this entire shitshow of bad choices had even started nothing would have happened. Henry Jekyll the normal sane scientist with normal and sane ideas. the end.

[heartless-error]

Broken, not perfect, but together. - Chapter 10

Fandom: DC comics, Batman

Pairings: Jonathan Kent x Damian Wayne (JonDami) & Jason Todd x Timothy Drake (JayTim)

Rating/Tags: Family feels, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, running away, unresolved romantic tension

Other(s) links: AO3

Broken.

The Batfamily was broken.

It was six years ago, and they had barely stood together since then, trying to stand up despite guilt and regret.

Damian  was sure there was nothing to save, not after losing something that he  didn’t know he cared about. But when a new opportunity to get back what  they had lost appeared, he cannot help to doubt as his past decisions  haunt him again.

If you love somebody, set them free. But you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

Chapter Summary: He knew he wasn't a good father, he had always knew. But he was trying, like always. And he knew he couldn't get rid of all his mistakes too, but at least he wasn't alone facing them. He had Clark, he always had Clark, even commiting the same mistakes.

Chapter 10

 Six years ago

 Contrary to what many people seemed to think, Bruce didn’t always have everything under control.

 He was trying, what was different. With all his strength, every day, with all the means and knowledge he had. Even if it was never enough, over and over again. The key was in that, in trying. It didn’t matter how many doubts were around him, how many problems arose against him or how much they tried to stop him, he had to keep trying, to solve it, showing a calm and in control facade so others didn’t know how much his mistakes or indecision haunted him in every step he took.

 Bruce knew there was no need to do it, to be so controlling or to bury his insecurities so deeply and hidden from anyone who dared to look. But he also knew where those problems came from, everything that had fed them, and what brought them to light.

The desire to control even what he couldn’t born in him from the moment in which the sound of the lifeless bodies of his parents resounded in that alley, that fateful night, and since then he lived with it. That desire to watch, intervene, and always be prepared for the worst grew as he did too, and became the man, the supposed hero, he’s now. And it was when those closest to him suffered or were injured by his decisions or failures, which reaffirmed more and more in his being.

 That feeling, that need, was like a vine with thorns. Pointy, infinite, dangerous, and sturdy, rooted within him without any limit, pressing and suffocating him everywhere, ready to hang him. It scratched his scars so that he would always remember them, suffocated his mind so that he would never forget it, and strangled his soul and that of those around him, because it was a double-edged sword where the line of protecting or controlling was easily blurred.

He couldn't get rid of it either, because then, what would be left of him? He was Batman. Batman. The one who always had a plan, a contingency, who stood out for his critical sense and his mind, what always had another alternative. He was the one whom the others looked at when they were trapped in a situation with no way out, the one who kept calm in extreme situations, the one who was able to save the day or the world thanks to his control.

 He couldn't lose that, but it's not like he wanted to, or knew how, either. So, doing his best was all that was left. Keep calm, control. He tries it.

 He tried but the manor was quiet. He knew it wasn’t something unexpected after what happened three nights ago, but it kept worrying him because it was as if everything had turned off suddenly.

Damian's firm, light footsteps were no longer heard in the hallways, his youngest son hadn’t left his room since that night, he had also refused to receive anyone and was recovering from his sprained ankle. The soft Richard’s laugh had also vanished, he was like a ghost, he knew that he walked around the corridors from time to time because he couldn’t bear the confinement, but he was impossible to detect. Alfred's courtesy couldn’t be seen either, he knew that the man was not only angry, but that he respected his desire to be alone right now. The presence of his daughter, Cassandra, was also lying much in need, as much as she was silent in itself, her stay was always appreciated. Stephanie's jokes had been replaced by cautious and angry looks upon learning what happened. Barbara hadn't even deigned to answer him when he asked for a certain favor the night before. Timothy and Jason had fallen into complete silence, nothing unexpected.

 It was afternoon, but Bruce was in his office in the manor, thinking about how the place he had managed to fill with laughs, footsteps, and life over the years was now as empty and silent as when Thomas and Martha Wayne died.

He hadn't moved much, from the big chair in front of the expensive office desk, because he was still thoughtful and analyzing the argument that had happened in the cave three days before.

 Bruce knew he wasn’t a good father. Like all of him, he was trying, but he was very aware of reality. If someone asked him about the mistakes he had made regarding his children, he could list each and every one of them by heart, classify them by different categories, and then recite them out loud almost without thinking. This, obviously, was because he had them in his mind and insanely at all times and, of course, feed again those cravings for control that dominated him. The fear of losing them was too much, he couldn’t bear it, and that led him back to enter that infinite cycle that dominated his life.

The more he loved his children, the more he needed to protect them. That, in one way or another, involved controlling them and their environment, and the more he tried to do it, the more damage he did directly or indirectly. He always ended up failing, making mistakes. And these mistakes were present again, trying not to be repeated for then commit others instead.

 He was also aware that most of his children hadn’t had an easy life. Everyone came to him as children whose circumstances had been difficult and unfavorable. He couldn’t be responsible for the trauma or abuse that others had done to them, he just helped to mitigate it, give them the happy, healthy home they deserved and tried to change things where possible. But at the end of the day, the adult who took responsibility for them was him, and definitely had made mistakes.

 The worst and what tormented him most at the moment, is that if he listed those mistakes and removed the most obvious and indisputable of the list -how, for example, involve all of them in their crime crusade - most of them involved Tim and Jason in some way or another.

 That certainly didn’t help him.

 If he initially wouldn’t have been so hurt by Dick's departure to the Titans, perhaps he would have considered not controlling Jason the way he did when he adopted him or making the same mistakes as with his first child. If he hadn't been so convinced that the wounded but brave boy from the Bowery, needed Robin, he might not have felt like he needed to fill his older brother's shoes and run away later. If he had made it to Ethiopia in time, to the warehouse, Jason wouldn’t have died. If Jason hadn't died, he wouldn't have fallen into the spiral of self-destruction that Tim had to save him from, and he wouldn’t have turned him into Robin. If he hadn't turned Tim into Robin, maybe his parents were still alive, maybe he would have had a normal and happy life. If Tim had a normal life, Jason wouldn’t have risen with so much hatred and resentment towards them and wouldn’t have tried to kill him. If he hadn’t "died" later, Tim wouldn’t have lost another person, nor fallen into the same self-destruction from which no one could save him now.

 If... If not...

 There were so many events that he could have changed, and others not. So many mistakes, so many things could have been better. Everything turned in his head and had harassed him for three days. His bad decisions, the possibilities, the memories, all of that filled him with guilt and uncertainty, blamed him that it didn’t matter how human he was, how much he felt, because his mistakes always had more weight and consequences in the people he loved, whatever he did.

He remembered the despair he felt while holding Jason's corpse, bloody and broken as the warehouse burned and collapsed around him. The fear that ran through him when he helped to trait Tim's wounds after Red Hood's beating him up at the Titans' tower too, knowing who had done it. He remembered the disappointment and pain that Jason's spiteful words provoked him when he was ready to kill the Joker. Also, the understanding of Tim's tears after his father's death.

 They were his sons. His sons. He felt and suffered more for them than for himself, and for the fact that because of his own crusade their lives have been so affected.

They had big hearts, unshakable will, and unmatched bravery. A potential within them that drove them to help others innately, to fight with everything they owned. It was that light, that ability, why they were Robin.

 However, that didn’t take away the fact that his field-acquired wounds, both emotional and physical, could affect them on a deeper level than they could think. Endangering themselves, the other, and the rest of them with that hidden relationship that was revealed three nights ago.

 Jason was the brave and fighting boy from the streets who decided to fight the crime he experienced firsthand. But the trauma related to the abuse, the streets, and his own death was still very entrenched inside him, shaping his decisions both inside and outside his vigilant life. The Lazarus Pit had made him violent and angry, a killer who lost control when one of his triggers of said trauma appeared, including the bats themselves. As much as he had improved his control, they still had no guarantee that the Pit Rage would appear at any time and become a threat for all of them again.

Tim, the sweet little Tim, was still the smart and kind boy who threw away all opportunity to live a normal wealthy child life to become an extraordinary hero, someone who cared for and saved people in a selfless and sacrificed way. But the experiences that came along with that decision were not as kind as he was, and while Tim gave his all, without contemplation, in exchange he lost family, friends and stability. Bruce was not stupid, he recognizes a severe depression when he saw it, and although no one knows what happened to his third child during the time he was lost in time -or what he had to do to get him out- it had to be bad enough for Timothy became the lifeless emotionless shadow which was now.

 “You’ve been years without knowing anything from us!” Jason said three nights ago.

 It wasn't true, but it wasn't false either. He couldn't deny it with the same force as Richard did, because as much as he would like to say that both of them were still integrated in the family, it wasn’t true. They hadn't been in a long time, and they couldn't run away from it.

For him, it was always easier to treat Jason as if he had been a fallen soldier in battle because doing it as the son he left to die was too painful, it kept shaking him to the depths of his existence, perhaps that was why he hadn’t been able to integrate him among them again, in addition to all the history resulting from those events. He couldn't ignore his morality and methods, destructive and totally different from his. Neither the numerous attempts to harm him or the rest of the family, especially Tim. There was the fact that Red Hood operated in Gotham apart from the Outlaws, yes, but they hardly worked together or cooperated. They had their territories very defined, but he could barely catch a glimpse of Red Hood without twisting things, neither Jason. He knew that sometimes he was in the cave or the manor, but he always made sure not to see him and not stay long unless it was necessary.

For his part, Timothy, after he returned from his "death" and accepted Damian as Robin, he adopted the Red Robin alias and seemed to disappear entirely. He claimed to be in favor of carving out his own name as a hero, but he was elusive, smart, and determined. He went to live alone, to work with the Titans or at WE. It didn’t matter how many calls they made, how many emergencies or meetings would be held. Tim barely stepped on the manor, he didn’t stop to talk about anything other than the vigilant job, and long periods passed without seeing him. He hid his wounds very carefully and his habits began to be dangerous for him. They knew enough to realize that he was trying too hard and something was going very wrong but reaching out to help him without scaring him in the process was hard, complicated.

 Maybe for all that and more, his sons didn’t trust him enough to reveal what was going on between them, that they were dating. He didn't blame them, he really deserved it, because he couldn't figure it out either. He also deserved they were angry with him and his opinion on the matter.

 They could get mad at him, hate him, or yell at him. But he really believed that he had reason to say that relationship was something that should be discussed or thought more carefully.

Relationships on the field were dangerous, he knew it personally, and he still remembered the discomfort that had plagued the team when Barbara and Dick broke up so many years ago, not to mention Tim and Stephanie too. And he also remembers the serious injuries Jason inflicted on Tim, how much Red Hood lost control around him, and how little Tim has always valued himself and his injuries.

 Jason's problems along with Timothy's emotional state were not a good combination at all. It wasn’t. It didn't matter how they looked at it, nor how many years will pass. Their story was too rough, there was too much torment, too much tension between them. They themselves were not in a position to have such a relationship with anyone, much less with the other. And if he already doubted the red team itself -despite its efficiency- he also couldn't help but doubt this.

 He couldn't leave them to destroy each other, he couldn't. He knew that was how it would end, and the simple possibility that it might happen made his cravings for control beg him to take the reins of everything again, to fix all this and do it now.

 However, he had already been too carried away by that feeling to know that it wasn’t a good idea to follow it. So, before he could do anything, he received a call. A call that lasted for hours, most of the night, where he got another perspective on the matter and helped him to decide and ask that favor from Barbara that he hadn't heard from yet.

 Despite knowing there would be no response yet, he couldn't help but check his phone again to make sure, eager to be able to do something about it instead of sitting for hours in that office evaluating and planning the best course of action.

 He was just going to think about that when a few firm touches on the window caught his attention, causing him to straighten and look at the window on his left suspiciously.

 Even though he had told him that he didn't need him to come, there he was, his call.

 Frowning, Bruce got up from his seat and went to the window to open it wide, looking at Clark Kent, who floated in front of him in his civilian clothes as if it were the most normal thing in Gotham in the middle of the afternoon.

Holding back a sigh, he opened the window and stepped aside to let him in, trying to decide what to say first.

 He was debating between a "What the hell are you doing here?" or "I specifically told you not to come here.” before the Super raised his hand and talked.

 “When was the last time you slept?” He asked, looking at him closely.

 Not even a "Hello, how are you?" before starting to enter the matter. It wasn’t necessary, they had already overcome that phase of their relationship for a long time. What's more, Clark didn't have to ask how he was doing, he already knew it, he knew it very well.

It had been him who had finished calling after the discussion in the cave with Tim and Jason because he knew that something happened to him only by his heartbeat. It's not like he could have hidden it from him, because not only would he have found out sooner or later, but because he already did, and he was his best friend, so he finished telling him everything. They talked too much, and the call lasted for hours, with both locked in their offices for more privacy and with Clark insisting on going to see him.

 He said there was no need, but he had ignored it, as always.

 “That’s not relevant.” He replied, frowning further.

 To Clark, that was the fragrant confirmation that -indeed- he hadn’t slept for three days. In his defense, Bruce would say he was too busy thinking about other things to allow himself a little rest. What's more, he wouldn't even have done it if he tried.

Every time he closed his eyes he listened to Tim's choked sobs and his weak voice begging him to leave them alone.

 Clark wasn't going to know that, but didn’t seem to like his answer at all, because he crossed his arms and looked at him the way he always did when he had no idea what to do with him.

 For a moment, Bruce had the slight hope that Clark would let him go, but it was Kent. So, when he grabbed his arm and dragged him onto the couch in the office to make him sit down with him, he wasn't even surprised. He just rolled his eyes and reminded himself that trying to fight Superman for this was not worth it, because he already knew the result, he had tried too many times. So, he ended up sitting next to him on the sofa and sighing heavily.

 “Sleep.” Clark said simply and shrugged. As if it were that easy.

 “I don't think it works that way, Kent.” He replied with a snort.

 Clark looked at him again disapprovingly a few seconds, then his annoyance softened, and his look turned into one of pure concern.

 “Rest, please.” He asked softly. “I know you, and I know there have been rough days, but it wouldn’t be better like this.”

 After a moment of silence, Bruce decided not to answer that and instead leaned on the sofa to look at the ceiling in silence, closing later his eyes and completely ignoring the tug on his chest that Clark's concern caused him.

That seemed to be an acceptable move for the Kryptonian, because then they were completely silent, together. Bruce could feel the warmth of the other's body, sitting too close. Also, how he tried not to move too much so as not to distract him or disturb his rest, which didn’t help much because he couldn’t rest by himself, but the effort was appreciated.

 He didn't keep track of how long they were quiet and just being aware of each other's presence, but Bruce found himself breaking that peace after a few minutes without even hesitate.

 “Why are you here?” He asked without changing his position.

 He felt Clark stir in his seat and his bluish gaze fixed on him.

 “I wanted to see how you were.” He replied directly. “Do I need something more to see you?”

 Again, he remained silent, that tug on his chest appearing again. However, unlike a few minutes ago, this time he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him too, meeting his face closer to his than he had originally thought.

 He didn't look away, neither did Clark. They just looked at each other intently and waited for the other to say something. A tension already known between them leaked into the room.

 If someone had told Bruce years ago that Superman would be his most supportive person in his life, who he would trust the most, maybe he would have laughed, a lot. Now, he would have no choice but to agree and say thanks for it.

Because if it hadn't been for that call and those hours of conversation, things would have been much worse, and the situation would have only exploded after he had done something crazy. It was Clark who helped him see that it wasn’t necessary to carry the burdens of his mistakes alone, but that it was easier to do it together. It made it lighter. It was Clark who told him that even Superman made mistakes, everyone did, and the thing was learning to live with them and fix them after all, but don't let them dictate your life. And, above all, it was Clark who convinced him not to take hasty actions and try to clarify things with Tim and Jason without emotions clouding his judgment.

 It was Clark, it was always Clark. The one who managed to make him reason, the one who broke each and every one of his barriers with ease, the one who gave him hope, the one who saw beyond the calculating and calm façade he showed. Clark, always Clark.

 “My son was here yesterday.” The Super ended up saying in a whisper, they were close enough to hear it.

 “I know.” Bruce answered.

 He always knew when Jonathan showed up at the manor to visit Damian. This time he even thanked him, because he didn’t know the state of his younger son, but he did know that Superboy could cheer him up. As much as he broke Gotham's “no meta��� rules and the limits set by his parents, he decided to let it be.

 “And you were okay with that?” Clark asked, more curious than annoyed.

 “Yes.”

 “Why?”

 “What do you think?”

 His answer made that tension, known but unsolvable, grow even more. Clark swallowed hard and Bruce didn't look away.

 The truth is that they would have had to be very blind not to have realized that their sons were in love for a long time and hopelessly they were going to end up together. After all, it was something that had been happening and developing in front of them since they made them team as children, and what they also had avoided talking at all cost.

 If Bruce at this time wasn't so worried about what had happened with Tim and Jason and how to solve it, maybe he could stop to think about how unfair he and Clark were being not wanting to recognize the feelings that their sons had on the other.

 They would like to; they would really like to. But admit that would openly lead to mention Conner's fixation with Timothy, which would lead to the conclusion of that, for some reason, always has existed a connection/fixing between the Supers and the Bats. And to admit this fixation would mean declaring that it really exists, along with that... Something, between them.

 There was something. Something between Bruce and Clark which didn’t want to admit, speak, or recognize. They've been ignoring it for years and had always worked like this, they had no reason to bring it to light, nor act on it. However, recognizing the situation of their sons not only will make it much more real, if not that -in some way- impossible.

That doesn't make sense because it was already impossible anyway. Clark was married to Lois, Bruce was dating Selina, they have been best friends since the League was founded, and their children were going to end up together, so there was no way they could... What?

 Do what? To say what?

 There was nothing to do, nothing to say. It wouldn't do any good because it was too late. No matter how much they tried to ignore it, it was something that hung over their heads and the moment it arrived they had to impose their sons' happiness on theirs, because that was how it worked, that’s what it meant to be a dad.

Although maybe that's why they didn't want to admit it, maybe that's why they tried to postpone all that until they could no longer, because they knew that the moment their children spoke for themselves, the decision of both of them was made, and it was like closing a door definitively that they had never dared to cross, but whose existence knew.

 But that wasn’t the important thing at the moment. The important thing was Tim, Jason, their relationship, making sure they were safe and secure, and waiting until Oracle managed to contact them in order to see them. But that was a matter of time, he just had to wait.

 So, ready for it, Bruce turned away from Clark, snorted wearily, settled back on the couch, and closed his eyes to get some sleep after three days without rest.

And if Clark's hand held his in the process, was something between them and no one else.

 ~0.0~

 When he woke up, he was alone.

 The office was dark, it was already night, the window was closed, and Bruce was lying on the couch.

There was no sign of Clark, but before thinking about how he had taken advantage of the fact that he had fallen asleep to accommodate him and leave without saying anything, he focused on the light of the flashing notification from his phone that he had been waiting all day.

 "Don’t thank me. Say hi to Hood before the patrol.” Barbara's text said.

 She had done it; she had granted his request and had been successful. Oracle had managed to locate the red team to take them to the Cave and sort things out. To have a conversation about it without surprises or threats, just leaving the cards on the table at once. There were situations and secrets in the family that could no longer be ignored more, and this was one of them.

 Bruce didn’t have time to be surprised that it was precisely Jason who agreed to attend that appointment, because he realized that he should head there. It was time to prepare for the patrol and it was better not to make anyone wait this time. He was determined to make his position clear and protect his sons, as necessary.

 He was halfway to the cave entrance when a loud sound made his world stop and a jolt of terror prick him.

 Bang!

 He breathed for a second, and then, recognizing the sound as a shot, he went through the entrance and down into the cave as fast as possible. Everything in a pure ingrained instinct that he had acquired after so many years in the crusade against crime, which tightened his muscles and contracted his bones.

 With his heart hammering hard and thousands of possibilities and explanations piercing his mind, when he arrived at the cave precisely the least expected received him.

 The vision of Dick Grayson, gun in hand, with Jason Todd bleeding out on the floor, made him realize that everything had gone too far.

 There was no longer a solution.

[foolgobi65]

Ah do Krishna and Bhishma in Hogwarts

this is so late i cant even say anything im so sorry but still i hope u like it!! i really enjoyed writing for it and surprisingly enjoy writing these two together more than i expected – i always make bhishma nicer and better than he is in canon but i also truly think that krishna brings out the best in him. thank you for the prompt!! please send more since i def have more time now that it is summer

1.

Bhishma does not watch the trial – like most of the Wizarding World, he listens to it broadcast on the radio, barred from the Wizengamot by his vow to pass the family seat through the blood of Satyavati. Bhishma does not watch when the boy Krishna is brought into court in chains and at the wandpoint of five aurors, does not watch when Kamsa stands from his seat at the head and accuses a child of treason, of exposing magic to muggles, of genocide secondhand – for that of course is what the Magical World apparently has to fear from their muggle counterparts.

“I disagree, Uncle.”

As one, the Wizarding World gasps. It is Him, then, this boy Krishna. The Chosen One, the fulfillment of a 20 year old prophecy that keeps Kamsa’s sister Devaki and her husband Vasudev falsely imprisoned to this day. It is Krishna who, 15 years ago, had the audacity to be born even inside the pit of human despair, whose disappearance from inside Azkaban had hastened the death of Wizarding democracy in the guise of Kamsa’s Emergency.

“You admit that you are their son?” Kamsa for once speaks for the entirety of Wizarding Britain. It is the question every person wants to ask, after years of Kamsa’s iron fist slowly strangling Magical Britain’s throat in pursuit of his predestined killer. “You admit that you want to kill me, the Minister for Magic.” Bhishma scoffs at the way Kamsa, claims democratic legitimacy even as a dictator.

There is a sigh that travels through the radio, deep and long, one that seems more suited for a man of Bhishma’s years and experience than Krishna’s sixteen. The whole of Magical Britain pauses for breath.

“I do,” Krishna says, voice calm at what every listener knows clearly to be a death sentence. “I am.”

Kamsa’s voice shifts to a register of glee. “This is treason!” No assembly could be complete without Kamsa’s favorite word. The punishment for actions against the Minister have grown more and more stringent in the last decade in wait for this moment, where Kamsa has set enough precedent to order an immediate execution. Neither Bhishma’s power nor his vows allow him to breach the doors of the Wizengamot. After all this time the Emergency will end like this, he thinks in sudden, overwhelming despair: the body of Devaki’s son cold on the ground, his death broadcast throughout Kamsa’s new kingdom.

But then, incredibly, over the radio Krishna begin to laugh – the sound grates against the tautness of Bhishma’s nerves for all that it is full of joy, of reckless abandon. It is only later that Bhishma will realize that the discomfort he felt at that moment was not discomfort at all – hope had been lost so long that he had forgotten what it felt like, swelling inside his chest, burning inside of his veins.

“You are untrained,” Bhishma hears Kamsa sneer, the last of Krishna’s laughter still echoing against the Wizengamot stone, “you are untrained, and with magic so low that you were not deemed worthy of a Hogwarts education. You cannot kill me.”

A gasp. “The chains,” someone shouts, “they’re gone!”

Members of the Wizengamot are not allowed their wands in session, and while Kamsa and his aurors are almost certainly armed, there is none amongst them that would banish the boy’s chains. Krishna has no wand, and what Kamsa said was true – a boy untrained, with so little magic that Hogwarts records did not deem him worthy of an invitation, could not have banished his chains.

And yet.

“You’re right,” Bhishma hears amidst the uproar, and then in the silence that follows he hears a slight rustle, the sound gentle enough that it could only be clothing shifting against skin.

“I am untrained,” Krishna says, tone as easy with this fact as if he were listing the color of his hair.

There is a click, and then Bhishma hears an explosion.

“And yet, Uncle,” Krishna says before the shock fades and the screams begin, “you are dead all the same.”

2.

There is a great furor in the aftermath of Kamsa’s assassination: the Wizarding World is unprepared for the death of its benign dictator, only more so when faced with its cause.

“I will take him,” Bhishma announces, blowing open the doors and standing carefully outside the Chamber. “The boy Krishna.” He blinks as members of the Wizengamot move so that Bhishma can have a clear view of the proceedings inside. Krishna, who he assumed would have been hurried out of the room instead sits cooly on the ground, hands busy with some sort of contraption. Bhishma does not speak of his brief childhood amongst Muggles, but he remembers something much larger, something that could not have been concealed under clothes.

“It is a gun,” the boy confirms, face blank as he refuses to meet the Wizengamot’s gaze. Kamsa’s bloody body cools on the ground only a few meters away. “Father purchased it after my uncle sent the Grindylows four years ago.”

Bhishma clenches his jaw. Kamsa’s obsession was renowned, but every new example of its consequences is cause for disgust– under the Emergency all dissent has been quelled as Kamsa combed both Magical and apparently Muggle Britain for those who stepped out of line, in seeming solidarity with Devaki’s mythic son.

Today’s trial had been triggered by a dementor attack on a Muggle hamlet, repelled, Kamsa claimed, without his official sanction by a sixteen-year-old boy without enough magic for a Hogwarts invitation. Or at least, that is what they had assumed.

“How did you repel them?” Bhishma hears from a member somewhere in the gaggle ahead. Whether they mean the grindylows or the dementors he does not know.

Krishna stands, neatly slipping the gun into his waistband. A moment passes where he gazes at the crowd in front of him, the most powerful of the British Wizarding population, people who together decide the present, who bend the arc of the future. Each person, later, will claim that in that moment Krishna was looking only at them, was laying bare their personal ambition, their excess, their very essence.  

Bhishma standing tall behind the Wizengamot threshold feels small as he has not in more than a hundred years, suddenly a child once more clutching at his mother’s fingers inside the halls of the Kuru family home, waiting to be claimed by a father he had never known.

“He is one of you,” Ganga had told Shantanu, “so you must keep him safe.”

Bhishma locks eyes with Krishna and nods – he is not Shantanu, has no ties of blood, but the boy will be safe all the same. Krishna exhales, closes his eyes, brings his hands forward, and pulls.

The room gasps together as swirling spikes rise from the stone. Everyone is frozen at the sight, eyes glued to the floor Krishna mutates in perfectly deadly concentric circles. He has no wand.

“By Merlin,” someone whispers, the tones are familiar enough that Bhishma’s believes it to be Vyasa, court witness and the first son of Bhishma’s venerable stepmother, Lady Satyavati herself. The muttered oath is more accurate than he thinks he means. Bhishma swallows at a display of raw talent the types of which he had assumed no longer existed.

Krishna opens his eyes. As one, the Wizengamot steps back – only Bhishma tries to step forward, catching himself only at the end when his toes threaten to cross his self imposed boundary. A small, wry smile graces Krishna’s lips.

“Hogwarts it is, I suppose.”

3.

The decision to release Vasudev and Devaki are released even before Kamsa’s body is taken away – that is an easy decision after all, taken by people racked with guilt at the plight of two individuals without even a magical core to sustain them locked in Azkaban for almost half their lifetimes. Vasudev, only son of the late Surasena whose family sat on the Wizengamot for generations, is a squib. Even worse is Devaki, half sister of the half-blood Kamsa, the first Muggle to know the eternal chill of the dementors outside her cell. That they even live should be considered extraordinary. That they managed to produce a child, that said child could grow despite it’s magicless mother’s physical malnourishment and mental torment, that the child was born and lived and left: this is what even the Magical World can only consider a miracle.

And yet, there is not a wizard alive who would consider the pair after such an ordeal fit guardians for any magical child, much less one of Krishna’s apparent abilities. Bhishma is the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and so any child of school-attending age comes under his jurisdiction. Bhishma also remains the Grand-sire of the Kurus, who now count Surasena’s daughter Pritha one of their own. His great-grand nephews may lawfully call Krishna Vaasudev “cousin,” and when Bhishma looks to the other families who might claim the same connection, Damagosha and Vridhasharman avert their eyes.

“A vow,” Vyasa calls out, shedding the guise of humble stenographer at this time of crisis. “I want you all to swear an Unbreakable Vow that you will never reveal what you just saw.” He glances at Bhishma, still standing outside of the room, and looks away, biting her lip in an now uncharacteristic show of emotion. He turns to Krishna.

Krishna shrugs, closing his eyes once more and pushes at the air above the floor. The spikes smooth, leaving the ground as it was before.

“It is May,” Bhishma says into the silence, as they all try to envision the shape of this new world. “I will take Krishna until September, when he will be enrolled as a fifth year at Hogwarts.”

The Wizengamot, unruly and contentious even at the best of times, assents.

The Kuru family home was once the pride of Wizarding Britain, teeming constantly with life and activity and culture. When Krishna, having been instructed in Floo usage, tumbles out of the Great Fireplace, it is almost like that again. The entire family, from Dhritarashtra to Kunti’s Sahadeva is gathered, voices echoing off of the famed ceiling Hogwarts’ Great Hall is said to have been based on. Bhishma clears his throat, and as one, they turn.

It has been years since Bhishma has been able to command the room like this, at least outside family feasts – but even those slowly dwindled as the children came and left Hogwarts. He would not claim enjoyment in this moment, but perhaps deep down there is something of satisfaction.

“This is Krishna,” he calls out, though from the looks on his family’s faces this is something they already know. “He will be staying with us for the summer from now on.”

“Actually,” Krishna says from behind Bhishma, “I have to go home.”

Bhishma turns on his heel. “What do you mean you need to go home?” It is a tone of voice that has quelled even Duryodhana at his most irascible, and yet Krishna only raises a brow. Bhishma presses on, ever aware of the studied stillness of his family behind, all trying to pretend that they are not in the room. “Do you even know what you have done? Kamsa had the backing of powerful men, crafted an auror force almost slavishly devoted to his every word. Do you think they won’t try to kill you if you set foot outside our door?”

Again, in the face of danger, Krishna only laughs. “My parents, Nanda and Yashoda, are Muggle. My entire village is. If I am in danger, then what are they, who have no knowledge of this world, no power to protect them from retribution.” Krishna purses his lips. “If you mean for me to live in this world can you guarantee me their safety, their well being, and their happiness until the day they die of natural causes?”

Bhishma cannot. “What will you do?”

Krishna swallows, looking uncertain, even lost for what Bhishma believes to be the first time since he set was dragged into his trial. “Mother does not understand, she never has. Everytime Kamsa sent another monster, she demanded we move, as if every place we lived in was cursed instead of it being me. I tried to tell her when they came, but she only cried and begged for me to leave it all and come home. The memories will haunt her, when I don’t.”

Bhishma, whose mother left him on Shantanu’s doorstep and told him to never look back, who still remembers her every day since, feels a wash of sympathy for what Krishna must do.

“Only them?” Bhishma does not question if Krishna knows how to erase his parents’ past – for one, memory erasure outside of Ministry authority is one of the High Crimes even in times of peace. Yet, to work with the Ministry in this case would only put those poor Muggles at risk. It is the nature of the Wizarding World, he knows, to forget inconvenient parts of people’s past: Bhishma who was once the half-blooded Devavrata now stands the venerable head of the Kuru clan. With his birth parents still alive, no one will question who raised Krishna Vaasudev. Bhishma will go to the Ministry himself and make sure the relevant documents are destroyed.

“And a girl as well,” Krishna says, lips turning of their own accord into something of a wistful, longing smile. “I asked her to come with me, but she refused.” Bhishma, whose easiest pledge was the one in which he forswore a wife, in that moment can only feel a voyeur.  

His voice, when he speaks, is gruff. “You will be back in September?”

“Before that, even, if I can,” Krishna says, nodding at the silent Kauravas still gathered motionless in the Kuru Great Hall. “I look forward to meeting you all in the future.” His smile slips into something just slightly sad. “It will be nice to still have a family when I return.”

4.

For a single moment, Bhishma feels fear when Krishna is sorted into Slytherin. It is the house Kamsa had been sorted into, a half-blood almost dripping with charisma and eager to climb as high as the ladders would take him – and then to construct further rungs where they stopped. Is this to be the fate of the Wizarding World, to only exchange one tyrant for another?

It is a moment that shames him, he who is supposed to look at the four houses with only benign indifference. Yet he is not the only one who seems wary, a strained type of silence seeming to follow the boy whenever he enters the Great Hall at mealtimes, which is all Bhishma sees of his students at school. For weeks, everyone waits for the knut to drop, for Krishna to bend rooms to his will and gather supporters at his feet.

A month passes, and Krishna Vaasudev continues to eat alone. Every once in a while one of Drona’s Hufflepuffs tries to catch his eye when he enters, her face falling when she is ignored time and time again.

“Subhadra,” Drona mumbles, “Second year Muggle-born.” He frowns “No,” he says, seemingly in anticipation of Bhishma’s next question. “I don’t know why.”

Another fortnight, and Bhishma has almost convinced himself that what he saw before was an illusion, or perhaps a stroke of fate that overtook the young Krishna’s body. Perhaps the Chosen, when their prophecies are fulfilled, become one with the rest – what Bhishma recalls of Krishna’s smile, his triumphant laughter, has faded with Kamsa’s influence over Magical Britain. He thinks this, and then he stumbles upon Krishna laughing like Bhishma remembered with someone in an abandoned classroom.

“Grandsire!” Krishna’s companion rises and Bhishma is shocked to his core to recognized Arjuna, famously private, and almost notoriously sullen bounding to Bhishma with a smile Bhishma has not seen in years. Each of his great-grandchildren have made their peace with knowing that Bhishma at Hogwarts cannot be the Grandsire from their homes, but Arjuna, in particular, has always been scrupulous about maintaining the distance between student and teacher, Great-grandfather and favorite son. Bhishma in his surprise, and in something of a slight longing for affection from his favorite, allows himself an embrace.

“Arjuna,” Bhishma smiles, helpless at the sight of Arjuna’s grin, no matter the cause. “What are you doing here?” It is not a warning, or even truly a complaint – the pair is not out of bounds or our after hours, but it is curious to find Arjuna outside of his room when not in class, stranger still to see him in the company of someone not his brothers. It is almost extraordinary to know that Arjuna has been laughing.

Arjuna’s face smoothes into something that Bhishma struggles to name, until he realizes it is something like contentment, so alien to the character of his Arjuna, always taut with one anxiety or another.

“Krishna is teaching me how to cast a patronus.”

Bhishma raises an eyebrow, looking past Arjuna to the other boy who has risen but stands, ankles crossed, leaning against the wall in what must be carefully constructed insolence.

“A patronus is complex magic,” he hears himself say, and it is. But Krishna Vaasudev was brought to the Wizengamot for warding off the dementors, and he had never answered the Wizengamot’s question that first day. Krishna smiles, bypassing the question implied.

“Ask the Headmaster, I’m sure his answer will be the same as mine.”

Bhishma raises another eyebrow. “I can’t cast a corporeal patronus,” Arjuna says, his wry smile so different from his carefully controlled frustration when faced with an obstacle he cannot overcome through single-minded practice. “Krishna thinks it’s because my memory is too weak.”

Bhishma frowns. Normally, especially with children so young, he would attribute this to a lack of control over one’s magical core. But Arjuna has trained so long that he remains in school as a matter of formality, his control over his power already a thing approaching legend.

“I would agree,” Bhishma admits, “if only because I have seen you accomplish more complex spells with less training.”

Arjuna snorts, turning towards Krishna so that Bhishma, his headmaster, his beloved Grandsire can only see his back. “Like you said, I am an utterly miserable individual.”

Bhishma stiffens in anticipation: when Arjuna was only a child of prodigious talent and surprising will, his anger would fill the room. It is something that takes time and talent to decipher, but his magical aura so used to the weight of Arjuna’s iron control seems to seep into the air around him, swelling until the rooms feel like they are made of rainclouds, each on the verge of bursting. Arjuna, who is always so careful with his anger and measured with his words, has not spoken like this since he received his Hogwarts letter.

Krishna only rolls his eyes. “Is this what you’re like with all your friends? Besides, you seemed quite happy a few moments ago.”

When Bhishma concentrates, Arjuna’s aura is the same as it was before. His mind strays to Krishna’s words – does Arjuna have friends? Arjuna has brothers, cousins, and perhaps he even has Drona’s son Ashwathama. But Bhishma would call none of these a friend, and when he looks to his great-grand nephew, who looks faint at the thought, he feels a pang of regret for the training regiment he demanded of so young a child. Forced to outstrip his peers, and in the company of men so much older for so many years it is easy to see the boy’s self imposed isolation as fear, or awkwardness. Arjuna’s shoulders are newly stiff, and Bhishma can only thing that he must have been very lonely all these years, even if he never showed it.

“Oh,” Arjuna says, poleaxed. “Is that what we are?”

Bhishma slowly begins to step backward, but he is still in the room when Krishna’s face melts into something brimming with empathy. For that, Bhishma thinks, he could forgive almost anything. At the very least, he can begin to trust. “I’m certainly yours,” Krishna says, eyes locked with Arjuna, “but whether you want to be mine is up to you.”

“Yes,” Arjuna says, soft, disbelief warring desperately with hope. “I am.” It echoes to Bhishma like a vow. I am. I am. I am.

5.

Krishna Vaasudev, as told to Bhishma by his instructors, is a bright student. Eager to learn, with near perfect recall and an apparent childhood history of reading a Muggle-born neighbor’s old textbooks. The mystery of young Subhadra is thus solved: the Muggle-born sister of a Muggle-born Gryffindor graduate, Balarama, both of whom lived, until this May, in the village named on the records Bhishma destroyed. Bhishma thinks, and recalls Balarama towering at 17 followed by the sniping shadows of Bhima and Duryodhana, each desperate to learn Beating from the greatest talent Hogwarts has seen in generations.

“Krishna knows the theory,” every teacher repeats, “but it is the execution where he struggles.”

That’s only to be expected, they add, “considering the poor boy’s circumstances.”

Bhishma nods politely, and asks for an interview.

“Is there a reason,” he asks when the pleasantries have been disposed of, “that your teachers believe you to be only slightly more capable than a squib?”

Krishna, sipping at the tea he has been offered, puts down his cup to laugh. “Many, but I assume you have at least one theory that concerns you more than others.”

Bhishma grunts, taking a sip from his own cup. “I watched you transfigure the stone that makes up the foundation of one of the cores of Magical Britain with your bare hands. You should be able to change a teapot.”  

Krishna hums, and it is as if somehow it is he, the sixteen-year-old, is in control of the conversation instead of Bhishma. “It is different, with a wand. I never had one before.”

It is a lie, but a very good one. There is just enough truth that it might even have worked if Bhishma himself was not one of the few capable of wandless casting.

“No,” he corrects, “the wand inherently acts as a focus. If it was difficult, your teachers would report that you were struggling with too much power, not too little.”

Krishna smiles: wide, and golden, and knowing. A test, then, instead of a mistake. “I had wondered if the rumors were true. I’m glad not to be as rare as the Wizengamot reactions made it seem.”

“I did not bring you to lie,” Bhishma says, but when he leans back in his chair he finds himself pressing his lips together to keep them from twisting up in response. Curious he thinks, that where he might have been enraged he is instead amused. He thinks of Arjuna, of how small he had sounded when he asked if he and Krishna were friends.

The patronus. “How does Arjuna know that you can cast a patronus?”

Finally, Krishna seems caught off guard. “Because it is Arjuna,” he says, voice slightly snappish, as if that were all the answer needed. And in a way, to Bhishma of all people, perhaps even to Bhishma alone, it is. “He needed my help.”

Krishna sighs, standing up. “I am not a threat, Headmaster, and if you need me to prove it I shall.” His gaze for once is hard, shoulders straight and eyes blazing. “Expecto Patronum.”

Krishna Vaasudev calls forth his guardian with the same tone someone might order a meal, and when Bhishma looks to Krishna’s hands neither is gripping a wand. His hands are slightly in front of his body, molded as if they caress the edges of something, as if they seek to shape life from an invisible lump of clay.

Where there was nothing, suddenly there is. Krishna Vaasudev’s patronus spreads its wings, taking one lap around Bhishma’s study before flying to perch on Krishna’s shoulder. Extraordinary.

“That is a phoenix,’ Bhishma says, staring at the bird with trepidation. With exultation. “Which means you lied – you are in fact the greatest threat I have ever seen.”

[ff15trashgoldenslumbers]

Hi! Do you think you could write an aftermath situation with the Chocobros comforting Reader after he/she is rescued from Ardyn who physically/mentally harmed Reader? (Though, I imagine Ardyn being very fond of mind screws considering what he does in the game). Thanks!

I love how twisted Ardyn can be (BlameArdyn2017) this actually shouldn’t have been as much fun as it was, but it was so much fun!!

~~~~~

Noctis

You gave a soft cry in your sleep, yet settled down the moment that you felt the warm embrace of Noctis surround you. He was mindful of the scars around your arms and wrist, having to be even more so when moving your head to rest against his shoulder. As the crown, that burning hot circlet of a tiara that Ardyn place on your head had done some serious damage to your forehead and would leave a scar for life.

During the day you were mostly fine, yet at night when you slept, nightmares of the memories returned. The terror and torture that Ardyn had placed you through, you had only been gone for a week, but to Noctis and yourself it felt like a lifetime.

When you finally stumbled back into their group, Noctis made certain that he was forever at your side, never to leave you again. So when he found himself be awoken to your tears, Noctis would cuddle you close, stroking your hair, pressing soft kisses against your face and hands.

“I’m here.”

That’s all it took was just his voice and you’d calm down, or your eyes would flutter open. Only for the two of you to stay within each others hold, you wouldn’t say anything, just staying within the man’s embrace.

Noctis was absolutely determined to pay the man back tenfold of what he had done to you.

~~~~~

Prompto

Prompto absolutely refused to let you go, no matter where you went, he was beside you. Holding your hand, an arm wrapped around your shoulders, your shoulders touching. He couldn’t bare to let you out his sight again. Never again!

You returned bruised and batter, including one of your ribs, at first they feared it broken yet it seemed that whatever blunt trauma Ardyn had hit you with, you had always managed to curl yourself away so he never hit the same place twice.

In the evening Prompto would hold you close, until you fell asleep, all of his attention on you. Ensure that in a moments notice that you would not have to even call for him and he would be there.

He made certain that even in moments where he couldn’t be there to physically hold you he provide a stuff chocobo, covered in his cologne and scent so that you could rest peacefully. He also made sure that his phone was on, and that you had the loudest ringer, calling you before the hunt, after the hunt and on their way back to make sure that you were okay.

Prompto wanted to ask, he wanted to ask so bad just what happened, but tears swelled within your eyes the moment that you begun to speak, and Prompto would gather you within his arms, holding you close, often leading to tears of his own falling.

Yet every time, Prompto would dry your eyes, pressing a kiss to your cheeks, before asking if you were thirsty. You’d give a soft nod, he would fill you up a glass of water, only for you to drink half, he would finish it and than you both would curl up together.

“I’ll protect you.” Prompto would whispered against your hair, determined to do just that.

~~~~~

Gladiolus

He knew, he knew right off the back when you returned, a scar across your left eye, another scar down the center of your chest.

“To match your beloved.” Gladiolus remembered you telling him. That’s what Ardyn did, he marked you, so that you and Gladiolus would be a matching set.

Yet what Gladiolus knew immediately was that you weren’t okay, physically or mentally. You kept pretending that everything was fine, that you were fine, that you weren’t troubled by whatever torment you had faced since you had disappeared in that hunt. That trap Ardyn had set up.

You were jumpy, you startled easy, and you didn’t speak of it much, only that what Ardyn had in store for the party you were determined to not allow to happen.

So by the third night, after dinner was finished did Gladiolus take your hand, moving you both deep into the woods. He knew that he could protect you from any deamons that would attempt to attack, but he knew that you had to get this out.

“Gladdy…”

Gladiolus pulled you to his chest, “Go ahead, Babe, I’ve got you.”

He didn’t hear it at first, but he felt your body hiccup, than wetness on his chest, closely followed by your muffled wails as you clinged tightly to the man. He followed you to the ground as your knees buckled, pulling you into his lap as he allowed you to keep crying.

“I’ve got you, Babe, I’ve got you.” He repeated time and time again, as your body finally seemed to run out of tears, yet a stray hiccup left you time and time again.

“I…I was so scared Gladio…” You warbled, clinging tightly to the man.

“You were so brave, you did amazing. My girl is so brave.” Gladiolus whispered, stroking your hair and back. He wasn’t certain of just how long you sat within his lap, as he gave you comforting strokes along the back, rocking slightly. Yet eventually he heard you snore softly, moving as gently and quietly as he could, the man carried you back to camp.

Moving into the tent, allowing you to use him as a mattress tonight, knowing that he wouldn’t get much sleep for the next few nights, and he knew that you deserved rest after what you had been through.

The next morning, Gladiolus emerged from the tent, you still curled tightly within his sleeping bag, only awakening when the man shifted. “I’ll be right outside, Babe.” He replied with a kiss to your forehead, as you dozed back asleep alongside Noctis and Prompto, stepping outside to be greeted by Ignis.

“Is she doing any better?” Ignis inquired.

“She finally let it out, but I think it best that she rest for the day.”

Ignis placed a hand on Gladiolus’s shoulder, “She needs you here, Gladiolus, don’t let your anger get the best of you.”

Gladiolus knew the other was right, but that still didn’t stop him from thinking of all the ways he was going to tear Ardyn apart.

~~~~~

Ignis

No one could fault Ignis as he rushed into the hotel, where you had last sent him a message less than 5 hours ago. You had gone missing, and when Ardyn had attempted to toying with you, everyone was shocked at how easily Ignis had handled it.

Yet those who knew the advisor, knew that he wasn’t going to take this laying down. Ignis was beyond livid, the man was furious! The entire time you were gone, the others could see it, in every moment that he was left alone with his thoughts, he was trying to piece together where Ardyn had left you, stranded and alone.

So to find you in the hotel room, leaving a message with the front desk to let in the men with a password of “Fluffy Chiffon Cake”. One  of your favorite shared meals. Ignis stepped into the room, a double room with two full bed in the room next door, yet a single Queen in this room.

The others figured that you needed time alone, as they moved into the other room.

Ignis quickly moved across the room, finding you curled on ‘your’ side of the bed, ‘his’ side of the bed empty, as if you were expecting him. Yet you curled around the pillow, holding it tightly like you would the man should you experience a nightmare. Moving to the bed, Ignis didn’t have the heart to wake you, as he removed his suit jacket and shoes before taking the spot of the pillow.

You didn’t flinched or even seemed to notice the difference, only curling around the man holding tightly to him. A strangled wheeze going through your body as you nuzzled into him.

Ignis glanced to the bedside table, seeing 2 Hi-Potion bottles, an Elixir and sleeping pills. Which would have been the reason that you didn’t stir one bit. The man sighed deeply, only to pull you closer, as he closed his eyes. For now he was fine enough with you in his arms.

Only to awaken to Gladiolus shaking his shoulder, “We’re getting something to eat, want us to pick you and y/n up something?”

Ignis glanced to you, draped across his lap, your hold on him no longer as tight, and that wheezing noise he had heard earlier was not as noticeable, “I’ll be there shortly, I want to make certain it’s something that she will eat.”

Gladiolus nodded, “We’ll be waiting downstairs.”

Ignis waited for Gladiolus to leave, before moving silently from the bed, only to hear you moan softly, before your eyes flickered open.

“Ig…” You whispered harshly.

Ignis leaned forward pressing a kiss to your lips, stroking your hair from your face, “My love, I’m so happy to see you.”

You gave a soft purr, dragging him forward for another kiss, which he happily provided. Only to softly whimper another “Ig…gy.”

Ignis smiled, your voice sounded harsh, “I’m going to get you something to eat, when was the last time that you ate?”

You moved your hand from underneath the sheets that were pulled underneath your chin signaling 3 days.

Ignis pressed another kiss to your lips, “Rest easy love, I’ll be back within 30 minutes.”

You gave a soft hum, before closing your eyes, blindly reaching around for an item, only to smile as Ignis draped his suit jacket over you, as you immediately cuddled into it. A soft hum of pleasure at Ignis’s lips against your temple before returning to sleep.

“I’ll return shortly, my love.”

Ignis was true to his word, returning actually within 25 minutes, a bowl of tomato soup from a restaurant in town. While he would have prefered to have made you a bowl himself to make sure that you could stomach it, this was the only thing on the menu that he knew wouldn’t upset your stomach.

Yet he was shocked when he returned to find the bed empty, his mind thought the worse, but heard the shower running. Only to stop as he placed down the bowl of soup on the desk in the room. “Love?”

The cracked bathroom door immediately slammed shut,throwing the man off. Yet he figured that you needed privacy, still that did not stop him from stepping forward, knocking on the door. Trying again, “Love?”

That’s when he heard it, it was soft but he heard you sobbing, almost as if your had a hand over you mouth to stop the sobs from coming out. Ignis wasted no time, stepping into the bathroom, you in the old button down top of his you wore for pajamas, a look of horror across your face, before you quickly turned away.

“Love?” He called again, as you slowly turned to him. Only for Ignis not able to hide the gasp that escaped. Your neck, across your neck was a wound, that seemed as if you had a collar or rope around your neck, that dug into you, marking you forever to leave a scar. Tear filled eyes looked to him, before you rushed forward, holding him tightly. This would explain as to why you were having difficulty breathing and speaking.

“Ig…”

“Shh, shh, I’m here.” Ignis replied, scooping you into his arms, before moving to the bed. Holding you tight within the long lean arms, curling around you as you both sat up, you resting your head against the strong shoulder, while Ignis rested his head upon your own. A soft hum of a lullaby in his chest as soft hands ran up and down your arms and back. Proving he was here and never going to leave again.

Ignis knew that he was beyond livid now, and Ardyn had better hope that Hell gave more pity than the vengeance Ignis had planned.

~~~~~

Nyx

“Nyxxy.” You muttered softly, everything hurt, your arms and legs felt as if they had been stretched to their maximum length, and every movement, even the slight movement of rolling your head felt like hundreds of needles rushed into your skin.

The bed immediately dipped beside you, as you felt a hand brushing back your hair, “I’m here, Baby Doll.”

Nyx was never far from you now, since The Fall, the man had no idea just how he managed to get so lucky to survive. Yet you were captured by that asshole, that man who had set all of this up, Chancellor Ardyn. The man strung you up, and after you refused to give the location of the Prince, he tossed you away like trash.

Only for Nyx to find you, and bring you home to nurse you back to health until you could make your next move. Potions were starting to run thin, but you were able to speak, and move better each day and spent most of the days awake now.

“How many days?” You groaned, as he moved into bed. Using the power of the Kingdom to heat his body much like a heating pad, that would help your muscles relax just a little.

“Going on 2 weeks, but don’t worry about that, you worry about recovering.” He replied, pressing a heated kiss to a bruise that had been refusing to heal on your temple.

You gave a soft sigh, right now you were certain it was just the last two of you in Insomnia, and all of Nyx’s attention was on you. Making sure that you healed, he would go out during the day, grabbing what little he could find, potions, foods, and the like. Loading up so that once you were able to move you’d both be able to go and assist Noctis and the others.

A loving soothing heated touch brushed over your sore shoulders, who knew that hanging suspend in the air for 3 days would wreck your body so horribly. You rose a hand, despite the absolute amount of pain it caused you, resting it on the cheek of the man, who had save your live.

“Nyxxy, if I’m not better by the end of the week, go find Noctis without me, he’ll need your help.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Nyx.”

“No.”

You groaned softly, “Our duty is to our King, Nyx, our King is Noctis, and we must go to him, even if that we means you.”

“I’m not leaving you to die.” Nyx replied, pulling you close. “I’ll carry you out of here if that’s what it means, but I refuse to let you die here alone. I love you too much to let that be your fate.”

You sighed softly, this is what you got for falling in love with a Hero.

~~~~~

Cor

“Shit.” You muttered softly, stumbling weakly against the shifting rock face.

“Are you alright?” Cor called, immediately at your side.

“I’m fine, let’s keep going, we can’t keep them waiting.” You replied putting on a brave face, as you moved up the rock slide, attempting to not show the slight hitch in your step from the fracture in your leg that did not set right due to you not properly resting it.

Cor watched you move, too stubborn to bring up the pain he knew that you were obviously in. Considering the day he had doubled back into Insomnia and found you among the decay and ruins of the city, a toy for Ardyn’s mercy. His personal little Lucian labrat that he had running around, following this false dream after that false dream of your days perfectly normal and beautiful. Only to force you to watch the beloved city crumble in a new way each time.

When Cor had found you, you had actually attacked him, only seeming to believe the man was real when his katana met the blade of your broadsword. You both managed to get out of the city limits, halfway to Hammerhead before Cor forced you to call it a night. He had noticed how you had leaned all your weight to your right leg. Often when resting you would lean down to massage and mess with your left leg hidden within your standard Crown issued boots.

Only when you both had settled in for the night, Cor no longer allowing you to push yourself forward on foot, did you explain the tortures you went through. The entire time Cor held your hand, rubbing soothing circles across you good leg and helping you set a more proper splint for your bad leg. Hopefully it would hold until you could get to Hammerhead and see an actually physican.

Both you and Cor knew that your relationship was one long seated, something that just came second nature at this point like the swings of your swords. So when Cor stated he would double back for you after  going to find Noctis and the others, he had to attempt he wasn’t surprised at your blunt.

“Bullshit.”

The torture did not seem to affect you much, a soldier such as yourself did not earn their title by allowing a psychopath to toy with them for a bit. Yet still Cor knew, and had experienced multiple times, that you would often keep going until you dropped, and would bottle things up inside until you finally would lash out on something.

More than likely him.

“Y/N, do this for me.”

“No.”

Cor sighed, “Fine, at least let’s both rest in Hammerhead for a day, we can have them meet us there.”

You puckered your lips, “You promise not to leave me like you did in Salv?”

Cor remembered that, you had a fever of 104 and the only way he had gotten you to stay put was by having the entire encampment leave you in the middle of the night. Boy, did he ever get on your bad side for that number, he was on the couch for a month.

“I promise.”

This seemed to do the trick, as you curled up beside the Marshal within your shared two person tent, holding tightly to the callous hand as he proved you a potion to help ease the man he knew that you were in, yet refused to show.

Cor smiled as he laid down beside you, pressing a kiss to you lips, as you hummed softly, moving in to cuddle closer to the man. Cor sighed softly, tossing an arm over you. He loved everything about you, yet he had to admit, sometimes that stubbornness that he loved so much, also made him frighten for you.

[deviiantics--archived]

❛ i wish i could just protect you from everything . ❜

@theprofesscr​

   𝐓𝐎  𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄  𝐖𝐄  𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄  

Such sentiment, such choice of words, it just was that kind of scenario Daniel imagined he’d ever witness, let alone being spoken out from an organic being such Charles, a human, or more the superior version of a human. He remembered very well the day the bald individual became aware of Daniel, the stupidity from which the mutant had to stop the blond unit and prevent worse things. It was only recently, since Daniel recovered from his severe shooting injuries of September last year, that he was able to replace his limbs and other parts of his body, as well as repairs to his inner workings. Yet, he knew, almost believed, that there could be no cure for his head, his mind. He still had not found a place to call home, he still felt like running away from the law, from himself. Charles stopped the CyberLife droid from causing a veritable mass hysteria, due to the fact that Daniel was holding a loaded gun aimed at a crowd of humans. It was his paranoia, his unimaginable fear that still tamed and controlled him, a voice that literally shouted at him that every single person who passed by the machine was nothing more than another monster, heartless, cold, and cruel the intention to hurt Daniel or other androids again. He could not find his peace with this.

Here he was, hiding in this huge estate in the middle of nowhere, in that huge room of silence and Charles, who now sat in front of him in his wheelchair. The mutant already knew about Daniel’s past, or so the android seemed to think, it would not be difficult to figure out what the blonde unit had done in the last year. Two murders, the kidnapping of a child and the disappearance of a presumed dead and deactivated android body of his. Even though Daniel felt little pity for what he did and in some way still tried to find the guilt into the actions of his former family, he knew he was not innocent at all. Everything he did was for defense, self-protection. For then, for the first time in his existence, Daniel felt something he could call fear of death back then when he stood on that roof top, surrounded by police officers as he felt nothing else but panic and fear… and anger. Although the caretaker droid seemed to have his problems with humans, he was also aware of the existence of mutants that were among humankind too, beings of another step in evolution. Daniel knew how these mutants were just as lax, outcast from society, labeled as freaks. The difference that took between of all that were extensive physical or mental powers, almost as in the fictional stories of superheroes. The blue-eyed male felt his tension reducing itself for Charles or his species, and even felt a kind of empathy for him, even when it was hard for him to trust an organic being again.

Blue hues stared down at the ground, his neutral expression always soaked in something vicious. His eyes were very narrow and small, his brows twisted into a stern expression, as if his mind were filled with nothing but spite. His hands folded on his white pants in his lap as his fingers dug into the palm of his hand from that stress he constantly felt, the tension. He could not face Charles, or he just did not want to, he was not really sure. He was silent, just sitting in his chair as he listened to the words of the professor carefully and the android suddenly felt something like a jump-off that went through his entire chest as he witnessed one certain line of all that; was it shock, as he just heard that the bald man in front of him wished to protect him?

Almost instantaneously, the PL600′s face rose, blue clear eyes watching the mutant’s own pair as his expression changed into a mix of confusion and perhaps a form of torment, as to why Charles thought so. Fingernails dug into the synthetic skin as Daniel lips parted to speak. “I wish I could have protected myself, that all this would not have happened had fate not had other plans with me.” The android said a bit roughly, but his voice remained calm, but there was a tremor in his dialogue. He understood the other man’s sensitivity, how sincere he sounded that he really wanted it for Daniel. How much would he want to hold on to those words, build trust in the male mutant without living in constant fear of being disappointed again. It was this time when tears filled the clear, pure eyes of the domestic assistant and Daniel dropped his gaze finally as his body began to tremble a bit and with a quick movement of his arms tried to wipe away the tears. He did not want Charles to see him like that, so high was his pride by now. Frustration, fear, hope, all this seemed to go in the CyberLife unit, only because Charles said something that Daniel wanted to hear long ago. That someone cared for him, wants to protect him, love him. They were beautiful words, something that seemed to come unconditionally and truthfully from the bald man in front of him. How much had Daniel to imagine that just Charles or the mutants had to endure the same pain, the protection needed and the purest form of care. And yet he felt the urge to save Daniel from all the agony of … everything.

“I wish things would be better for me… forever.” finished the PL600 unit between a weak, nearly strangled sounding sob. He was greatful for that what Charles just has said to him, but he found himself troubled to express it, verbally, let alone with gestures. 

[secnghq-blog]

hey there pallios its the supreme witch, eli back at it again. this is hyeseong & they are here to both bless y’all and RUIN you with their self angst, they’re even angstier in backstory than ren so lMao good luck compadres. i’m gonna attempt to actually make a plot page for this one but we’ll see, you should definitely slide in the dms & approach me for plotting anyways tho i wanna get them all up in here & protected bc they are a mEss who needs love.         tw: rape, domestic abuse, parental abuse & theft !!

*✧･ — woah, was that ⸤ lee minhyuk ⸣ i just saw walking around seoul? oh, never mind, that’s just ⸤ chung hyeseong ⸣. they’re a ⸤ twenty-two ⸣ year old ⸤ animal care worker and student ⸣, known around the city for being the ⸤ fallen angel ⸣… i guess that’s because of their ⸤ caring and devoted ⸣ tendencies, though, be warned, they are also rumoured to be ⸤ cunning and reckless ⸣. this particular ⸤ outsider ⸣ identifies as a ⸤ homosexual demiboy ⸣, using the pronouns ⸤ they/he ⸣.

so hyeseong is a demiboy very very interested in other boys and they currently work at the animal adoption centre which is A++ they love it so much it was the perfect job for them and they have adopted tOO many animals themselves from there if it looked like they were in dire situation and wouldn’t get picked up. 

he’s also a student though and he studies performing arts (lol congrats hyeseong ur doing what ren does not have the balls for) which he loves it helps him get out his shell a bit and honestly where he’s been on the run pretty much all his life (spoiler!!) its good for him bc he’s not great at the way more sophisticated educational stuff but he’s always had charisma.

anyways he likes wearing feminine clothing and sometimes a tiny bit of makeup and he’s super friendly, a total angel and really doesn’t mind if you use they or he for them, comfortable entirely with both and has no preference. he’s naturally quite nurturing and charismatic, a very faithful and devoted friend but it can take a bit of time to break down his walls.

however as mentioned if he needs to be cunning to protect himself then he will and he also makes reckless decisions in the hope to protect himself as well, going on the run being the most reckless and while they were on the run as much as they hated it and felt incredibly guilty for it they stole a lot to survive, once again reckless, but they will make reckless choices to cope if that’s what it takes. 

here comes the hard stuff, IF IT GETS TOO HEAVY OR INTENSE PLEASE STOP READING, NOTE THERE WILL BE MENTIONS OF RAPE AND DOMESTIC ABUSE.

 so hyeseong was in an abusive relationship for years and when i say abusive i mean the real nitty gritty from emotional to physical, he wasn’t too far gone to know that when one happened the other came hand in hand. they were in hospital a lot, it wasn’t just a couple hits here and there it was life threatening sometimes, being shoved down stairs, strangled just the real nasty stuff. built up over time to get more scary and out of control and break them down. 

he was pretty much used, it was a family friend and they were all he had at the time, he knew no better and thought this was close to love as he could get. they were pretty much locked up all day every day and humiliated physically and mentally in front of their family and the abusers friends, too afraid and lonely to escape and having been turned against even themselves they saw no happy ending for themselves if they stayed or escaped. 

eventually that person was found out by a stranger who was rather dangerous, the stranger didn’t care for seong they just wanted to turn the coin on its head and get back at the person for personal grudges but after they were done seong never saw the family friend again. 

for a long time after that they were incredibly scarred and tormented by it all moreso because they couldn’t tell anyone, no one cared enough to listen they simply had to carry on as normal and learn to live on shallow gasps instead of breaths of air. 

but eventually as they grew older they became involved in another relationship, this one looked set to be better. sure the guy was closeted but he loved seong right? he must. wrong seong, so wrong. as if it isn’t painful enough to be in a relationship that is hidden and treated like a dirty little secret when you’re barely comfortable with yourself yet, you haven’t even had the time to be. of course the relationship and the guy turned on them, they outed seong to their parents and the school which caused unbearable stigma for them and trust issues deepened. 

they were on the run before finally managing to settle here due to their mother basically becoming mentally unstable after their dad left her for another person, worse for her, another man. seong was a constant reminder of that betrayal and sickness for her, so they became mentally and emotionally abused by their mother too, she would threaten to get seong killed for example. 

one night she started smashing glasses throwing them at seong and becoming more violently physically abusive, seong really thought she may kill them so they quickly grabbed what necessities and essentials they’d need to survive and left and never looked back to run for their life. when they settled in here finally, they wanted to start a new life so a new name was necessary most people call them Hui bUt a close few will know its seong and use it to refer to him by. 

seong was raped by the family friend they were in a relationship with, they were fairly young at that time and it only ever happened once. he was drunk and seong was too young and frail to fight back, they didn’t really understand what was happening but it was painful and felt wrong and intruding. as they grew up it was forgotten and remembered in bursts, the man would touch and reminders would spark but seong would find out that it was far too late from that moment on for them to find safety.