#rip wayne static

[thecreativemillennial]

The late Wayne Static and Chester Bennington back in 2004

[sp00ky-p00ky]

🖤 Brand new STATIC-X! 🖤

I need Project Regeneration Vol. 2 🥰 please and thank you

[zivazivc]

What do the band mates look like now?

Hed's a dad, and Les finally found a shirt that fits him

[nickisgirl]

This cool pic of me with the Statics popped up as a memory on FB :) I think I met them in 2004. Ish. But yeah that's me next to Mrs. Static. I miss them. They were so nice.

[og-bad-dogg]

Just Realized That Wayne Static Died In 2014

[hotluncheddie]

Hug.

wc: 3.4k | rated: T | cw: meltdown, burnout | tags: autistic eddie munson, hurt/comfort, pre relationship, pining, hugging | ao3

.𖥔˚

Eddie Munson has a secret. 

He doesn’t know how to hug. 

Sure, he knows how in theory, and he has been hugged before, with mixed reactions. But it’s been a while. Been a long while actually. So long that embarrassingly, part of him, dreads the day he gets the urge to hug someone. Because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do it right. 

With Wayne they’re in a routine of shoulder pats or a side on squeeze. If Eddie’s having a really bad time he can curl near him on the ratty sofa and likes to rest his forehead on his uncles shoulder, Wayne’s work worn hands coming up to ruffle his hair, let him be for a while. 

But they don’t really hug. Not for real. Not really. 

And Eddie doesn’t mind, is the thing. He doesn’t need that from his uncle. 

With the hellfire boys it’s always been nudges and poking and a friendly kind of wrestled, headlock, type thing. That’s the line, that’s the boundary. And Eddie’s okay with that too, they’re friends, they’re guys, they’re good people but Eddie just doesn’t think he can show that part of himself to them. The part that doesn’t know, the part that sort of wants more but is too afraid to ask. 

Sometimes the thought or actuality of someone touching him makes him kind of queasy. Makes him twist his rings and pull his hair. He doesn’t want it. Not always.

He knows his Nana used to hug him, before she passed away, and his Mom probably did too, he just can’t really remember. But that was normal, that’s what Moms and Nana’s do. But he doesn’t get that now. That type of hugging. 

Then Eddie meets Steve, meets Steve in the upside down. A different Steve than he’d known of in school. A slightly different Steve again once they’re all out, all healed and patched and the horrors hidden away. 

He meets that Steve. And Eddie, Eddie thinks he wants to hug him. 

He knows he’s being a little weird about it. Fluttering in and out of Steve’s space, never quite letting himself touch, never more than a brush of fingers or a nudge of his hip. Never staying still enough to let Steve make a move on what he wants. 

But then the choice is sort of made for the both of them. Pushed together by fate, maybe, if you believe in that. 

All Eddie believes in, all Eddie knows, is that Steve’s house is so fucking loud. 

‘The walls Stevie they’re so, so white. And your fridge! It’s just, loud and and weird.’ Eddie had said, already frustrated when Steve came to pick him up, even more so once they arrived. 

And once he was inside, it was like everything doubled, tripled. Steve’s house was unbearable tonight. 

But Steve had just laughed and Eddie knew he would, knew from the way he’d said it, all loud and over the top - added inflections, a good DM. But, the thing is, he mentioned it because he meant it, for real. It’s too fucking loud, thrumming under his skin. 

Eddie’s curled up on the couch, everyone else over now too for a movie night. They’re usually enjoyable, seeing the kids, Robin, Nancy. It’s nice. 

But tonight, tonight it’s turned up loud and people are talking and it’s not a scary film but it kind of is. 

He’s biting the skin of his cuticles just to feel something other than itchy and floaty and dizzy with discomfort. His heart is beating too fast and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. overlapping with the films crashing and static and the rustling of snacks and the cars outside. 

His skin feels sweaty against his clothes, sticking to the sofa and ripping him apart. 

It’s loud and Eddie is scared. 

He mutters ‘bathroom’ and thinks Steve next to him probably heard, even with his head resting on Robins shoulder. Doesn’t stop to find out. Doesn’t really care. Just needs to get out. 

He walks quickly to the stairs and tries not to sprint up them, but takes them two at a time, breathing heavily though his nose. 

Eddie closes the door to Steve’s upstairs bathroom, tears prickling his eyes as he steps from one foot to the other, rocking. His hand migrate to his hair, gripping and pulling harshly. tug stop, pain ebb. 

But the noise still travels, it’s better than in would’ve been in the downstairs bathroom but Eddie shoves the heels of his palms against his ears. He’s panting now, vision blurring. Shoulders and neck tense. 

He pushes against his ears harder, wants nothing, wants quiet. Wants it to bite. 

Thing is, he used to love noise. Would seek it out, find it wherever he could. He’d push practice to run late and he’d hang out at the hideout after their set, just to feel that press of voices all around him. The hum of the amps alone used to fill him up something magic, set his bones alight. 

As a kid he used to crinkle paper by his ears, just to hear it crackle and rustle, like white noise static in his brain and skin. Used to beg Wayne to take him to the junkyard every weekend just so he could bang on the big old rusty metal with a stick. Hear the hum crash, bellow and die out. The different tones, the different dents and scrapes changing the sound. He used to spend hours scrabbling around, trying everything he could to make enough sound, make enough noise, to feel that feeling of everything being full and alive and awake and amazing. 

Now though, after. After those bats screams burrowed into him and made noice synonymous with fear and pain and blood red darkness. Now he’s scared of the stray cats that meow in the night, grates his teeth if someone drags him to the diner, the buzz of the fluorescents and scraping of plates making him want to scream. 

Noise used to be his safe space, now he can’t even be in a room full of his friends. Can't tonight, not like this. And see, he’s always been weird but now even that’s changed.

He doesn’t even recognise himself anymore. 

It’s that thought, that fear, that has Eddie dropping to a crouch, knees under his chin. He leans against the bathtub and tries to steady his breathing. But the tears are slipping out and he feel his lungs contract, he can’t breath, he can’t. 

He pushes his hand harder into his ears, the blood rushing. Rocks so his back hits the tub, thud, thud thud. Remembers how horrible those weeks in hospital were, the bed sheets and the beeping and the smell. It would’ve been horrid anyway but after those days full of fear, that adrenaline he’d gone through but not processed. It was unbearable. 

And he’s still not back, not recovered. He’s so tired. Everything’s so tiring. He can only manage to leave the trailer maybe once a week, when he’s dragged out, taken to something by Steve or Wayne or Dustin. (They try for more but Eddie thinks that might actually make him loose it.) He goes out and tries to act normal, tries to keep the people around him from leaving. Goes out but it all feels different. 

He misses the weight and smell of his leather jacket, his jeans from before and wallet chain he used to fiddle with. Misses who he was when he had those things, who he thought he could be.  

Otherwise he’s in his room, trying to feel better. Sleeping a lot, listening to the same album over and over, eating the same thing just because anything else would be too much. Press too hard on his rips. Be an extra boulder stacked onto his already cracking shoulders. 

Eddie doesn’t hear the door open and close quietly, doesn’t hear Steve’s socks pad over the bathroom rug. 

But he feels his body heat and smells his cologne. Eddie still gasping for breath, too afraid to open his eyes or move his hands from his ears. But he feels body heat, Steve’s here. Eddie feels him. 

His still ragged breaths stutter for a moment when he feels Steves large, warm palm settle between his shoulder blades. He flinches at the contact but Steve doesn’t move, just stays there, touching lightly, in that one place, grounding. Bringing Eddie back to his body slowly. His lungs filling up with a little more air each time he breaths. 

He swallows thickly, coming back to himself slightly, but still scared to open his eyes, deeper breaths bracketed by sobs and hiccups. He hates when people see him cry. 

Eventually he moves his hands so they’re just cupped over his ears, instead of pushed tightly against. He can just make out the soft rumbling of Steve’s voice, too quiet to be heard before but Eddie can understand him now. 

‘That’s it, deep breaths. just like me, okay?’ Steve takes a deep breath. ‘That’s it Ed’s, in for two, out for two.’ He breaths out through his mouth, hand rubbing soothing circles over Eddie’s shoulders. 

Eddie follows, breathing deeper, filling his body with oxygen again. Breathing along with Steve. 

Eventually Eddie moves his hands, sniffing again and scrubbing his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He crosses his arms on his knees and buries his head there. 

He takes another deep breath, finally finding the courage to open his eyes and peek over at Steve. 

He’s backlit by the moonlight shining through the frosted window, the only other light in the room is the orange strip across the bottom of the closed bathroom door. 

Eddie can still hear everyone downstairs, the rumble of the tv, but it doesn’t feel so bad now, doesn’t make his skin crawl so much. He’s not ready to got back out there though. Not yet. 

‘Hi.’ Steve says, smiling at Eddie like it’s another normal day and not one where he just helped Eddie though a full on meltdown in his parents bathroom. 

Eddie snorts. God. He’s so embarrassed.

Swallowing Eddie has to force the words out of his chest, would like to not say anything but Steve is here and Steve is smiling at him and the least Eddie can do is speak a little, as uncomfortable as it is. 

‘Sorry.’ He lands on, voice rough and quiet. 

‘No, none of that Ed’s yeah? Remember, party rules?’ And Steve speaks just as quietly as Eddie did, like he knows, knows how fragile Eddie is right now. Eddie grunts, tears bubbling a slipping out again. 

Party rules are that Steve won’t ask twice if someone needs to come over or call, any time of night. If you need a ride to a members house or just to fall asleep with him on the line, he’s there. Eddie can’t count the number of times he’s seen Steve drop Lucas at Max's trailer late at night, Steve watching until he gets inside. If it isn’t too late he’s started coming to check on Eddie too. Sometimes Eddie’s able to see him, engage with him. Sometimes it’s too much, being a person, even in front of Steve. He leaves Wayne to tell him eddies fine, or as fine as Eddie can be, at the moment. 

‘What can I do?’ Steve asks, bringing Eddie back to the present, to Steve’s bathroom floor. 

Eddie screws his eyes up. He, ugh. ‘I don’t know how to, do, what I want.’ Eddie says, nonessential. But he just. He wants. Wants to feel Steve, imagines that warmth, and grounding, wants more. Too much. 

Steve’s eyebrows furrow slightly, but his face still seems kind, like always. Steve’s always kind. ‘What do you want?’ He asks. 

Eddie looks at the floor, there’s a loose thread on the edge of the rug, he stares at it. ‘A hug.’ He mumbles, cheeks flaming. 

‘Oh.’ Steve breaths. And then, like it’s simple, like it’s nothing. ‘Okay.’ he says and Eddie glances at him. 

Steve shifts so his back is flat against the tub, legs out in front of him and arms open. Waiting. 

‘Take your time, any way you want it.’ Steve says. 

Eddie wipes his face again, shifts onto his knees without really thinking, drawn towards Steve like always. But he falters, hands raised but fingers clenching and unfurling. He twitches his head to the left and few times, almost uncontrollably, he does it again. ‘I, ah, um.’ He doesn’t. He doesn’t know how. 

Because this is different still, from Wayne, from his Nana, from friends. This is Steve. 

But Steve just sits, waiting, looking at Eddie. ‘Take your time. Any way you want Ed’s.’ Steve says again softly, imploring. 

Eddie blinks hard and couple times, tugs at his hair again, focus, focus. He shuffles forward and wraps his arms around Steve’s neck a little awkwardly. His back bending to lean far enough, not sure how hard to squeeze, afraid to be too close, touch too much. 

Eddie’s breathing picks up again, he doesn’t, cant, doesn’t know how. He pulls away, scrubbing at his face again. 

‘Can I?’ Steve starts, moving toward Eddie but stops, waiting for a reply. Eddie nods mutely, cheeks flaming. 

Steve moves closer, Eddie knees up against his thigh. He pulls on Eddies leg, getting him to move it over top of Steve’s. Until he’s essentially sitting in his lap. Eddies eyes are wide, Steve is so close, so warm. 

He keeps going, slowly, bringing Eddie’s chest to his slowly, wrapping Eddie’s arms around his torso and then wrapping his own around Eddie. One big warm palm leading Eddie’s head into the crook of Steve’s neck, where it’s dark, smells strongly of citrus and musk. 

Eddie’s tense, muscles locked tight, but then Steve shifts one more time, getting comfortable and squeezes Eddie once. The pressure, it unlocks something inside him. Steve breaths out, like he’s relaxing too, like this is nice for Steve too. 

‘S’okay Eddie, relax for me.’ Steve prompts quietly, arms squeezing again. Everything soft and quiet and warm. 

Eddie tips over the edge. 

He empties his lungs, slow and stuttering, in and out. Relaxes. Slumping down onto Steve and lets go. ‘Oh.’ It feels so good to be held, to be wrapped up like this. Steve’s arms hold firm around him, pulling them impossibly closer. 

Eddie whimpers, let’s go fully, drifts. 

He thinks he might honestly fall asleep, so exhausted from his meltdown, the emotion and sensory, twist and release. 

He comes too with Steve stroking a hand over his hair and down his back, repeating the long slow motion over and over, like Eddie is some overgrown cat. 

He breaths deep one last time, steals himself for the cold of letting go. Sits back on his heels, extracting himself from Steve’s neck and unfurling his grip of Steve’s waist. 

But Steve stops him getting too far. One hand on the back in eddies neck, one at his hip. It’s almost too much, makes Eddie think about more than friends, about skin on skin. About being held like this, only different. 

‘Sorry, um, thanks.’ He says, afraid to look Steve in the eye, staring at the collar of his polo instead, reaching up to fiddle with one of the little shiny buttons. 

Steve just squeezes Eddie’s neck, letting go to move around slightly now that Eddie’s whole weight isn’t on him anymore. ‘For someone who says they don’t know how to hug, that was pretty nice.’ Steve says once he’s settled, hands back on Eddie hips. 

That makes Eddie glance up, flick his eyes to Steve’s and back down. Just enough time to take in his soft smile and kind gaze, down tuned and sleepy. He looks relaxed, happy. 

Eddie’s heart clenches. But he just huffs, ‘yeah, sure.’ Only he can’t help smiling a little, half believing. Half believing the ridiculousness, That Steve would enjoy this too. 

But Steve reaches up and tucks some hair behind Eddie’s ear, so soft and caring. ‘Hey, I mean it. And if you ever want, ever need this again. I’m here.’ He says, voice still a whisper. 

Eddie feels tears prickle again, how could, how is Steve even real? ‘Careful Stevie.’ He jokes. ‘Say any more and you’ll never get rid of me.’ Eddie doesn’t to want to go, Eddie wants to stay right here forever. But he knows he can’t. Can’t do that. 

‘I mean it Ed’s, any time you want. How-however you want.’ And Steve looks up at him, cheeks pink in the moonlight and eyes wide. Like he’s said too much, like he’s scared too. 

Eddie wants to kiss him. 

Wants to bury his head back in Steve’s neck and never come out. Wants to slip his tongue past the seam of Steve’s lips and grind his hips down just to see what noises he’ll get. Wants to hear him and touch him and taste him all over. Wants to curl up in bed next to him and bring him over to have dinner with Wayne. Wants to share his food and listen to his heartbeat and let Steve in. Let him see more. More of Eddie. 

But not now. Not when there’s salt tracks in his face and phlegm in his throat. When he needs a glass of water and a, like, nine hour nap. ‘Kay.’ He settles on, voice wet but happy, he’s so happy, to have Steve now, even if it’s hard and he’s so tired and so scared. He has Steve. He has Wayne and his friends and he has Steve. ‘Thank you.’ Eddie whispers, feeling held by the dark bathroom. Space and time on pause. He feels brave, feels exposed and covered head to toe in all his past and all his present. Feels here, feels now. 

Eddie leans forward and places the softest of kisses on Steve’s cheek. The first he’s ever given, and how nice, that it’s Steve. How nice, to feel his warmth and hear his little intake of breath. 

Eddie blushes, scrubs at his cheeks again. Slipping off of Steve’s thighs to sit back next to him, shoulder to shoulder, on the little bathroom rug. 

‘Do you want to go back down? Or um, I can take you home?’ Steve asks, sounds unsure but his voice is soft, steady. Eddie bites his thumb, rubs his knuckles against his teeth. 

He doesn’t know what he wants. Wishes they could stay here forever. But there’s a room full of people and this is Steve’s house, he can’t just leave them, can’t just stay here, with Eddie, in his parents bathroom. 

‘I’ll uhm, I’ll just wait here a little longer, until the movie finishes. You go down, be a good host.’ And Eddie smiles, but he doesn’t feel it in his eyes, can’t face the light and noise again just yet, the questions or glances that might come his way. 

‘I’ll go check on them then, take some back and then you can go last. Or, or stay, if you, if you want.’ 

Eddie’s heart clenches again. He wants to, to stay. But he also wants his bed, familiar and inviting. Wants to smell Wayne in the air and have his tape on to fall asleep. Wants normal, after tonight. Needs it. 

But one day. When he feels better. When that spark he had sometimes comes back, the one that believed he could be a rockstar or a writer. That would dream up campaigns and have the energy to write them down. When that part of him comes back, when he’s not so tired. Then he’ll go to Steve, offer himself up, ask for more, ask to stay. 

But tonight he’s too close to breaking, too flayed open and rubbed pink. ‘A lift home later would be nice, just us?’ He asks, it’s so much, fills him up. It’s everything he wants, in this moment. 

Steve nods, bumping their knees together. 

He’s so good, Eddie marvels, for the hundredth time. 

‘Course. I’ll bring you some water.’ And Steve shifts to stand, using Eddie to help him up. It’s so nice, to be this close, a barrier broken, new rules to be made. 

‘You can wait in my room, if you want? It might be more comfortable.’ Steve says, hand on the doorknob. Eddie just nods, blushes, not even sure why. But Steve smiles, pretty and boyish and small.  

He slips out and turns off the light on the landing, the whole floor bathed in darkness. Eddie didn’t even ask, he didn’t even have to. He feels tears well again, laughing a little at it all. At the Steve of it all. 

He stays curled up on the bathroom rug a little longer, in the new quiet memory of Steve and warmth and darkness. Until he’s ready. Knows Steve will be waiting. 

.𖥔˚

Tag List (open) : @scoops-aboy86 @pearynice @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @cheesedoctor @chickensinrainboots

also.. @spectrum-spectre @babydollbaron @flowercrowngods just bc :)

[adverbally]

Conversations with Dead People

Written for the @steddieangstyaugust prompt “Ghosts” | wc: 1,159 | rated: T | cw: past major character death, brief passive suicidal ideation | tags: grief, not a fix-it, Eddie is Dead | title from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode that inspired this fic (season 7, episode 7)

This takes place in an AU where Steve and Eddie have been together since shortly after the events of season 3. The events of season 4 happen as they do in canon.

———

He’s not really a ghost, Eleven had explained. It’s more like residual psychic energy that Eddie left behind when he died. An echo, lingering, a telepathic reverberation of his soul or brain waves or whatever made him Eddie. Him, but not. It’s a distinction that Steve can’t seem to make, not when he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of his living room in front of El, waiting for her to make contact.

“Eddie?” Steve asks tentatively. “Are you there?”

El is quiet behind her blindfold for a moment. “He says, ‘Hey, Stevie.’”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting but shock forces a laugh out of him, too loud and a little wet. “Hey, Eds.” He hasn’t said those words in months but it still feels natural, like a reflex. “I miss you.”

“He misses you too. He sounds sad but he’s smiling,” El reports matter of factly.

“You can see him?” Somehow this might be the thing that breaks Steve, the longing and the fear of seeing him again twisting in his gut. “Is he– does he look–”

“He looks normal. Not hurt. But he says you look like shit.”

Eddie can see him, Eddie is okay, Eddie is trying to joke around to make him feel better, Eddie is so close but out of reach and… Steve’s face crumples.

He can’t do this. Why is he doing this? Hope and despair are warring in a sticky lump in his throat, choking him until he can’t speak. He’s wasting his chance to talk to Eddie again. He doesn’t want to talk to him, he wants to feel him, cold hands and strong arms and sharp teeth and soft lips. He wants him back. He wants to be with him.

“‘Don’t cry, baby.’” The words are soft and clunky coming from El’s mouth but Steve knows exactly how Eddie must sound on the other side.

The sob he was suppressing rips its way out of him. “I miss you,” he says again, stupidly, but he can’t think of anything else. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes like they can stem the flood of tears now that they have begun. “I miss you so much.”

The static on the radio is the only response for long seconds before El says, “He’s crying now. He says he’s sorry. Not sorry he did it but sorry it turned out like this.”

Steve shakes his head. Any real anger he felt toward Eddie had been short lived, but the reminder stings. “You had to be a hero, huh?”

“‘It was worth it to keep you safe.’”

He tries not to think too hard about how much he wishes he could’ve switched places with Eddie. Eddie wouldn’t have let him, of course, stubborn as he is. Was. Is? Steve clears his throat before asking, “Are you… okay?”

It’s a stupid question. How can Eddie be okay? What could Steve do about it anyway? Thankfully Eddie seems to understand what he was trying to ask.

“‘I’m still dead, sweetheart,’” Eddie-El says, almost apologetically. “‘But I’m okay. I’m not in pain, I’m safe. It’s not like being in the Upside Down. It’s peaceful.’”

“Okay. That’s good,” Steve says, almost to himself.

El tilts her head like she’s listening. “He says he watches out for you.”

God, what must Eddie have seen over the past three months? How many nights had Steve sobbed himself to sleep, clutching Eddie’s pillow and trying to memorize its fading scent? How often had Steve put on a brave face to comfort Dustin and reassure him that Eddie’s death wasn’t his fault? How many times had Steve gone to visit Wayne, both of them sitting at the kitchen table while they cried into their cups of coffee and silently mourned the way that the trailer seemed so damn empty without Eddie there to fill it?

“‘Are you okay?’” El asks on Eddie’s behalf.

“We’re just trying to keep it together. It’s…” Steve wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. It was Eddie’s hoodie, actually, but Steve kept stealing it. It’s soft and it smells good! You’re never getting it back! he had laughed. Now it smells more like Steve than Eddie and he couldn’t give it back even if he wanted to. “It’s really fucking hard without you.”

“‘You’re always looking out for everyone else. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?’” The inflection of it sounds like goodbye, like all those mornings of Eddie gearing up to head back to the trailer before Wayne noticed, like Steve begging for just one more kiss before Eddie left.

But there’s something final in it this time that makes panic surge in Steve’s chest.

“Nonono, don’t go, you can’t– you just got here, you can’t just leave,” he babbles, wishing Eddie had a physical presence he could hold on to. The logical part of Steve’s mind knew that this was only temporary, that any echo will eventually fade, but he hadn’t realized it would be so soon.

“‘I wish I could stay.’” El sounds so sad when she speaks for him.

Steve presses his hands to his mouth, tries to hold in the terrible sound of his grief until Eddie isn’t there to hear it anymore. He takes a deep breath and tries to keep his voice level despite the tears streaming down his face. “Will I see you again?”

“‘Hopefully not for a long, long time.’”

He thinks of the past three months, thinks of going through that three more times to make a year, then all of that over and over for as many years as he has left… It sounds like pure torture.

“‘Promise me,’” Eddie-El insists.

“I promise.” Steve’s voice breaks, but he tries to crack a smile when he remembers Eddie can see him. “Stay out of trouble?”

Even before El says, “He laughed at that,” Steve is picturing Eddie’s head tossed back with the force of his guffaw, his dark eyes glimmering with amusement. It settles something in him.

“I love you,” Steve says, snotty and shaky but as solemn as a wedding vow.

The radio stutters then, sounding like it’s flipping through frequencies on its own. When the jumble of static and indistinct speech stops, Steve hears Eddie’s voice, loud and clear, for the first time since March.

“I love you, Steve Harrington,” he announces. Soft and warm like spending a lazy morning in bed. Bright and smiley like adoring someone in a way that can’t be hidden. Exhilarated and awed like collapsing together in a sweaty, spent heap. Bittersweet like a kiss goodnight, like a little white lie, like a promise that has to be broken.

Steve feels that voice surrounding him, crashing over and through him. He shuts his eyes and hugs himself, tries to hold himself together, until the radio shuts itself off.

Then, in the echoing silence of his living room, Steve lets himself fall to pieces.

[maccreadysbaby]

A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: gore

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

shaha… nico makes me sad lmao

part forty-three

❝ IMPOSTER ❞

SATURDAY — SEPTEMBER 12 — 8:56PM

THE WORLD WAS MOVING WITHOUT BENTLEY, AND IT WAS THE MOST TERRIFYING THING HE’D EVER EXPERIENCED. 

He couldn’t move. He was pinned to the debris by the massive shard of metal that was protruding from his chest, and all of his pain meshed into one strange feeling of numbness. The only thought that was bouncing around in his head was the last statement he heard from Jason.

That Asten wasn’t breathing.

Asten wasn’t breathing.

Asten couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. That wasn’t how this was supposed to end. None of this was supposed to end like this. The world could go on without Bentley Whittaker. Everything would be fine without Bentley Whittaker. But how could the earth keep spinning without Asten Evans?

He guessed he should’ve expected it. Nothing he does ever goes right. Only this time it went so, so wrong. Death wrong.

(Was Asten dead because of him?)

There was no one around him. No one that knew where he was except maybe Nico, who was unconscious. All he could really see were the tall buildings and night’s sky over his head, the end of the metal sticking out of him. He couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t really move.

He twitched his fingers on his right hand, which caused a jolt of pain that ran through his entire body and made him whine. 

Was there a point in calling for help if he already knew he was going to die?

His eyes began to water at the half-realization that he was literally living out his last moments alone in a pile of rubble. The thought helped him force his hand up a little more, up toward his pounding head. His muscles were trembling from the effort, and it hurt so bad to move anything… but he didn’t want to die. He didn’t. (But he was going to, he knew. What was one last streak of denial?)

He clicked his earpiece on, and was greeted by a low, constant, staticky hum.

“Help,” He muttered, his voice coming out strangely hoarse and soft. “Help.”

The static continued, melding with the low sounds of the remaining crackling fire and shifting rubble.

“I’m… dying,”

Static.

Bentley’s stinging eyes spilled over down his face, but he couldn’t really cry, it hurt too bad — all he could do was let his eyes water. “Help me. Please. Please, help me.”

Nothing. 

“I don’t… I don’t… I don’t want to die,” He muttered, sniffling lightly, staring at the sky. “I don’t want to die alone.”

Silence.

“Batman,” He tried, wincing when he sobbed a few times anyways. “B, please. I-I don’t want to die by myself. Please.”

The only response he got was a shift in the rubble beneath him, and the twinkle of the stars above him.

He coughed, which sent a ripping pain through his whole body that made him cry out in agony — and now there was blood on his face. Had he coughed up blood?

“Bruce... Bruce, please. Please. I-I want to go home,”

The static in the earpiece didn’t budge.

Bentley was going to die here, and alone.

He would’ve wiped the tears off of his face, but even the thought of moving produced agony, so he didn’t. “Bruce, please. Please, please, please… Dad, please.”

Silence.

(How was he supposed to come to terms with dying? How did people do this? How did Jason…? Damian?)

There was an oddly familiar whooshing sound, and Bentley could’ve swore he heard feet hit the ground not too far from him. If he had the willpower to move his head, he might’ve tried to look at whoever was there to mock him.

Not a second later came a shrill: “Oh my God! Oh my God no way! I did it!” 

The voice wasn’t one he knew, but it wasn’t not one he knew. It was a guy’s, and he didn’t recognize it. (But he kind of did?)

“Screw you, space-time! Barry’s gonna lose his mind when I tell him-“ There was a pause. “Oh, shit, right.”

There were footsteps that came oddly close to Bentley, but he only saw the figure they belonged to when it was practically looming over his head. It was a tall guy -- maybe Jason’s age, maybe Tim’s -- in a bright yellow, white, and red jumpsuit. The majority of it was yellow, with red and white stripes on the arms and legs, accentuating a large white lightning bolt in the center of the chest. The suit went all the way up to his head and stopped, sort of like Tim’s cowl but with the top cut out so his hair was showing. He also had a utility belt around his waist, with only one small, yellow pouch on it.

This guy looked just like Nico. 

Okay, so, yeah, Bentley was dying and probably hallucinating, but this guy had Nico’s eyes that looked so much like Dick’s. Not to mention that he had the same exact dirty-blonde mop on his head, dangling over the edges of the suit.

Bentley really was losing his mind.

“Hey… Hey there, bud,” The Adult Nico Imposter said, kneeling down next to him, his hands hovering unsurely over Bentley’s wound. His blue eyes very quickly turned misty and watery, getting bluer in that weird way only Dick’s and Nico’s did when they cried. “I never saw...”

Bentley’s half-hearted response was a soft, simple: “Huh?”

The Adult Nico Imposter rubbed his hand over his hair, exhaling heavily. “Okay. Okay. Hi. Hi, Bentley, uh, it’s me… Nico, but, uh… not yours. I’m Nico from the future, and I’ve just broken the space-time continuum to be here. So, here I am. God, great job explaining, you idiot,” He muttered to himself, his eyes still blown wide and staring at Bentley’s abdomen. “In the timestream I came from, you died tonight, and now I’m here to make sure you don’t, uh, like Barry did for me. But, uh, I’m not taking you to a new universe, just… yeah. Anyways. Can I pick you up?”

Bentley blinked. He was literally losing his mind.

Since speaking to a hallucination couldn’t really hurt anything, and he didn’t want to die alone (even if his company was blood-loss-generated), he nodded as much as he could force himself to.

With a nod and a deep breath, the Nico Imposter opened the little pouch on his belt and pulled an inhaler out, shaking it and puffing on it a few times with that telltale rattle-rattle-hiss-hiss.

And it was strange, because everything, down to the material of this guy’s suit to the pain caused by movement of the metal piece, Future Nico picking him up felt really… real.

“You’re… from… the future?” Bentley muttered, watching the buildings and stars move above him. Future Nico was really warm, and it felt nice. (Was it even real?)

“Yeah. But saving you is about to make a new one. I’ll have to go back to mine when I’m done here,” He explained lightly, sitting Bentley in his grasp, cupping his head with one hand. 

Bentley hummed. “Did Asten live?”

There was a moment of silence. Future Nico’s gaze fell to the ground, his eyes going distant for a moment.

“No. It was just me,” He replied, shaking his head. “I’m about to run. It might feel weird.”

Bentley said nothing, but closed his eyes and waited. Going super fast couldn’t feel much weirder than being impaled and then picked up by a guy from the future, could it? He was pretty sure his life had reached the maximum amount of weird. Either that or his hallucinations had?

There was a split second (or three) where Bentley couldn’t breathe, and it was really cold. It felt kind of like he was pinned down for a moment, like his whole body stopped moving and then started again.

When he opened his eyes, he was in a medical bed in the Batcave.

The only explanation Future Nico gave was a stammery: “Sorry, Mr. Pennyworth… yeah, hi, um… I’m Nico, but from the future, and I brought Bentley here so he can… Y’know! I… I’ve gotta run, I’ll be right back!”

There was a flash and a gust of wind, and the Future Nico was gone.

Bentley was surely losing his mind.

He was in the cave. (But was he really, if he was just hallucinating?) Barbara was now at the computer, and Bentley very vaguely saw Alfred toss an earpiece to her and abandon his spot at the massive screens to run into the medbay toward him.

“Oh, my dear boy…”

Bentley opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Alfred seemed so real. He touched Bentley’s arm and it felt real. He sounded real. There was no way he… that Future Nico was…?

Maybe Bentley really wouldn’t die?

(There surfaced that unhinged, deep, unmistakable hope and determination again that Bentley Whittaker was so famous for.)

Maybe he really wouldn’t die.

—

Okay. So the worst part about the entire situation at hand actually wasn’t that Bentley had a giant piece of metal protruding from his chest.

It was the fact that Alfred couldn’t get him unconscious enough to start surgery.

He typically had the opposite problem — his body seemed to love passing out at every opportunity, even at the worst times. But right now, Alfred had already administered nearly twice the typical amount of sedatives recommended. And while Bentley was pretty loopy, he just wasn’t going out of it. He’d had two small injections, and was now rocking an oxygen mask with an anesthetic pumping through it constantly to get him in a state where Alfred could help. And it still wasn’t working.

But, even worse than that, was the fact that he had to see Asten.

It wasn’t long (probably three minutes after Bentley arrived) before Future Nico (who had to actually exist because Alfred was talking to him?) zoomed back into view and laid Asten on the bed next to Bentley.

He was limp, and already extremely pale. Bentley wasn’t lucid enough to focus on whether his chest was rising or falling, but he didn’t guess it was, since Jason said it wasn’t. Asten looked… strange. Different from unconscious or sleeping. It was colder. Stranger.

Maybe three minutes (and more sedative) later, Future Nico swooshed back into the cave with Current Nico, who was still unconscious and bleeding at the nose, and put him on the other side of Bentley. But Future Nico was very persistent about Alfred not worrying about him, that he ended up being okay even in his own reality where no one came to his aid.

That was about the time the Batmobile came squealing into the cave, followed by bike after bike with different Wayne’s on them each time. After that, the cave turned into a mess of shouting and yelling and panicking and loud noises and chaos and Bentley still couldn't go to sleep. He couldn’t really comprehend what was going on, but he was awake, which was too awake for the operations he needed.

He didn’t really know what to focus on (or if he could focus) until Nightwing came into his view, over his head, peeling his domino mask off. He was crying — hard. Bentley couldn’t really talk through the oxygen mask (not that he could talk anyways.) but he was able to twitch his fingers and get Dick to grab his hand.

“You’re going to be okay, Babybird. You’re going to be just fine,”

A beat passed. 

“I love you,”

Bentley felt a pinch on his arm, likely meaning someone had injected him with something else.

He couldn’t seem to create any coherent thoughts. He liked that Dick was holding his hand. He was glad to be home, even if he died. At least he wasn’t dying alone.

He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but coughed instead, and the inside of his oxygen mask got splattered with something dangerously red.

Seeing that color seemed to spark a wave of panic, and he blinked away a new wave of tears that threatened to come.

“…Dad,” He managed to just barely rasp, coughing again, splattering more red on the mask. “Dad.”

Dick said something, he didn’t really hear it. Someone else said something. 

He managed to turn his head just far enough to see someone (he couldn’t tell who) put a defibrillator on Asten’s chest, and with a loud bang! he convulsed terrifyingly. 

After a moment, someone turned Bentley’s head away. Bruce’s face appeared in the empty space in his vision.

“Everything’s going to be okay, chum,” He said, putting on that same stupid reassuring smile that he loved to plaster on and keep there with his life, even in the worst situations. He touched Bentley’s forehead like he always did.

“You’re going to be okay. Just breathe. Rest,”

Bentley wasn’t going to die alone.

Bruce kept brushing his hair back, smiling all the while, and for the first time since he’d been home, Bentley relaxed enough to let the sedatives take him under.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

tag list! (If you want me to remove or add you, ask in comments!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @flyrobinflyy @skylathescholar @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun @xiaonothere @beatyoutothatusernameloser

[alessabriel]

Gunshot.

Summary: the unknown lives in the dark and the dark finds a home in empty chests.

Cw. Angst, dark content, death of the main character, slight combination between mdzs|wwx, male reader= Blaine, etc.

Pt.2

Words were like bullets, leaving a trail painful enough to feel on the skin. The air charged with tension, ready to be shot and ready to not be the only thing.

"Father-"

"I don't think you deserve to call me that, Blaine,"

Batman snaps, his voice meant for criminals only. And Blaine's (Name's) world blurred at an astonishing speed, so fast and fast that he couldn't spin anything.

Those cruel voices increased, the whispers in his ears did not stop and the unmistakable tickling was growing under his skin. Something was swirling and preparing his claws, only no one managed to detect it. From Nightwing to Robin they stood still as soon as they heard that sentence emerge from who was everyone's support figure.

Nobody saw it coming.

However, they expected a visceral reaction, some scream and answers just as sharp since they knew his brother, he was not someone passive who accepted to walk on him. The icy silence was what seconded that demand. Blaine felt his muscles tense and ready to fight, he went on guard without even thinking, he didn't feel safe. The voices were getting louder, the shadows were darker, and they lurked, laughing, scratching at her skin in the comfort of the dark. Before he could say anything the dark gray bat emblem was ripped from his chest, making him move only a few millimeters.

"You will leave your guard name and last name, it was enough"

As if the emblem was something to protect your psyche, the instant he was ripped from the command suit, it was like an avalanche of boiling ice because a whole burst of voices rumbled through his head, ricocheting off his skull and making his ears bleed from behind. the warm liquid that ran down his high black collar. Blaine felt everything but nothing at the same time, the pain was shaking his head and out of inertia he brought one of his gloved hands to his ear, wanting to block the static that was breaking his eardrums and momentarily stop the profuse bleeding that began to fall from his injured ears.

"I understand" the fourth eldest son of Bruce Wayne limited himself to uttering before taking a staggering step back and turning around in the direction of the motorcycle that he abandoned halfway, nobody could do anything when the roar of it shook the cave before turning back.

There were no more words, just a slow, flimsy flight.

The fourth eldest son was wobbling in his gait but he recovered enough to pull away on his motorcycle leaving behind only the hum of top gear.

Nobody dared to say anything, to comment on it until the first to move was Alfred who left the cave without looking back.

There was no room for questioning.

[gffa]

When you read this issue as a "oooh creepy nightmares haunt Batman!" story, I gotta say, Knight Terrors falls kind of flat for me.  We’re losing months of the main continuity to this?  It’s not bad, but it’s kinda just... there. Yeah, it's really cool symbolism and it's all the classic fears that Bruce has rattling around in that traumatized skull of his, right down to the graveyard headstones of his children, the literal bat-monster with the gun for a head that's vomited of him as a symbol for the monster inside the person, the bullets ripping through little goth princeling Bruce's body so that the adult Batman can burst forth.  But it's not treading any new ground. Until it gets reframed as, "That's the point. It's nothing new and it falls flat because we've had seventy years of Batman comics going to this well over and over, until it has lost its edge. Bruce himself has relived this trauma so many times that it can't show him anything new.  It's flat as a spooky story, but as a character story, it's saying something much more interesting." As a character story, what this is illustrating is a Bruce Wayne who knows what his traumas are and has worked to accept them so that they no longer control him.  He's done this through really fucked up processes and a whole boatload of comic book logic, but it is this world's version of processing his fears, in a sense.  And, as a character story that can be viewed through the lens of mental illness, this is about illustrating another point on the journey of trauma recovery, that today Bruce can stand up and face down a nightmare of seeing his parents get shot, feeling the monster inside him being vomited out and, instead of being horrified at what was in him, instead of being dragged down by seeing himself as a monster, even when his child self is shot by it and ripped apart, he himself, THE BRUCE WAYNE OF THE PRESENT, has control of his experience today. It's important that this is Bruce's nightmare, that everything here is what his own brain is throwing at him, because that's what trauma is--your brain throwing your own fears and horrific memories at you, trying to drown you, and the path of recovery doesn't mean you never experience it again, it means you learn to control yourself through it. It means, some days, you can be a child watching your parents die and the monster inside you ripping you apart, and you can stand up and say, "Yeah, this is part of me, but it's not in control of me." And now, instead of being an "oooh~ Batman's worst fears have come to haunt him~" story, it's a story about a trauma victim having gained enough sense of self to fight back and even go deeper into his own nightmare, because the best written fictional stories are ones where characters aren’t static.  They grow, they evolve, they face their fears enough times that eventually they learn to process it and a story where the point is that, on this day, Bruce Wayne has seen this so many times, there are no edges left for him or for us the reader, and we can see that it’s possible to grow beyond the things that traumatized us.

[selkienight60]

⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡ ⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡

𝙻𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍, 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 by 𝚜𝙴𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚎𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝟼𝟶

⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡ ⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡

| Rᴀᴛɪɴɢ: General Audiences | Wᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: Bodily Injury | Fᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ: Batman/Batfam, The Flash (2023) | Rᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘs: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne | 

A/N: Struck by the idea of Michael Keaton’s Batman having a Robin. And THEN I thought, what would an excellent Batman do if his son from another universe just like, landed in his lap. Because suddenly: Fatherhood?

⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡ ⚡༶•┈┈⛧┈ ⚡ ┈⛧┈┈•༶ ⚡

Laughing hurts, Dick reflects, half-mad with the agony of iron rebar piercing through his side.

Dirty alley water pools about his knee-guards as he sinks deeper into the dirt and debris of Gotham’s soiled streets. Around the metal poking from his torso his hands flutter, but never touch. If he pulls the damn thing out now, he’ll bleed to death.

The sting of late fall creeps into his hands, growing numb with blood-loss as he reaches up for the wonkily lodged comm in his ear.

The chill in the air makes clouds of steam from his breath. “N-Nightwing to… to anyone,” he huffs, smothering the wine as he clamps down on a rasp working its way up his throat. “I—I need emergency evac—” 

The rest is effectively cut away as a broken cry spills over his lips, accompanied by a dry sob.

There’s nothing but static on the end of the line, but he’s aware the rest of his family is otherwise engaged.

“N-Nightwing t-to B-Batman—” he tries again, hoping Bruce isn’t so occupied with the rips in space time that he won’t come at all.

It’s quiet in this alley, away from the commotion downtown. Frankly, Dick’s not entirely sure how he ended up here.

No one quite knew why the fabric of space had seemingly decided to open up across the globe without rhyme or reason. At first, Batman had believed them under attack, but slowly, it became clear that the space-time visibly colliding through the tears in the fabric was something much worse.

On his own, doing his best to usher a bus-load of school children out of the way of a collapsing building, it had taken only one misstep to find himself flailing backwards, falling through one of the space-time rips as it opened up beneath him. The collapsing office block had narrowly missed him, but had nonetheless left him with a souvenir in his side as it toppled over and Dick fell.

The landing, thankfully, hadn’t appeared to lodge the rebar any deeper.

The unbroken line of white noise in his ear scratches—once, twice—and then flares to life.

“Who is this?” 

The gruff voice of Batman washes over him alongside relief.

“Batm—” he starts, and is then unable to contain the whine of pain as his breath hitches. “Bru—”

The line goes silent. Dead. But the static doesn’t return, so Dick knows Batman is still there.

He breathes through the pain, in just the same way Bruce taught him.

“Dad…” he whispers through steadily numbing lips. “N-need emergency evac.”

There’s a second of hesitation. A blink-and-you’ll miss it beat of silence.

“I’m tracking your location now,” says Batman finally, all business again, even though the odd pause upsets something in Dick’s gut.

A space-time rip opens up a few blocks away—he can hear another building collapsing in on itself. Head whipping up, he sees the Bat Signal flicker on and off atop the police station. The power grid must be damaged.

It doesn’t matter. Not like he can respond to Gordon’s pleas for help right now anyway.

Heavily, he falls against the ground, eyes growing heavy with the weight of blood-loss.

It’s only a second and an eternity later that he hears the batmobile pull up, the roar of the engine so much louder than he remembers.

The cowl swims into view.

“B…” he whines, though whether it leaves his mouth or simply stays lodged in his throat is a matter he’s unsure of.

The man in the cowl bends, scooping him up like he weighs nothing at all.

“You’re alright, chum,” he says, though he’s doing a poor job of concealing the panic in his voice. “We’ll get you fixed up.”

He can’t help it. He smiles at the nickname predominantly reserved for a younger version of himself.

“... call’d me ‘chum,’ he chuckles, and then nearly passes out entirely from the pain in his stomach.

Bruce holds him a little tighter.

It’s bad… this time.

“Dad,” he sighs. “Don’t… don’t bury me like Jason, mkay?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, but Dick doesn’t really expect him to.

He feels the plush comfort of the Batmobile seats as he is laid down in the back. Bruce is careful to situate him so the rebar doesn’t move.

“You’re not going to die today,” growls Batman as he slams closed the door and climbs wordlessly into the front seat.

They’re off like a shot. Dick’s dimly aware of the space-time rips opening up all around them. He can see the rise and fall of buildings as universes collide through the window.

Bruce doesn’t stop for them, though. The man’s gaze remains firmly fixed on the road.

It comes as only a little bit of a surprise when Dick sees The Flash—Barry Allen—racing alongside the Batmobile. For a second, he thinks he almost sees two of the man.

Batman winds down the window.

“We’ve identified the source of the rupture,” Barry says, talking a mile a minute. “Universe forty-four. We’re headed there now.”

Batman nods without comment.

“We’re going to attempt to contain it from this side, but, Bruce—if we go through with this plan, our universe will be cut off forever, you know that, right?”

Batman nods again.

“Do it,” he grunts. “Whatever it takes. If we don’t, we’ll simply be like all the other dying universes.”

Maybe it’s the blood-loss, but Dick finds it rather funny when Barry sighs. It’s definitely the blood-loss.

“Alright,” Barry agrees, his jaw set grimly. “Uncharted territories, here we come.”

The Flash disappears, speeding off with a trail of lightning gold and electric blue, and the Batmobile changes course, set on a familiar route toward the manor.

Dick closes his eyes.

And passes out again.

Because when he wakes, Bruce is lifting him out of the car, shuffling toward the med-bay.

The cot he’s set down on squeaks in protest.

Bruce goes off to gather up the supplies on his own and returns with a needle in hand. He doesn’t wait or ask before sticking Dick in the side of the neck with it. 

A mask comes up over his mouth.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, even as Dick grasps at his wrist. “We’re gonna get you fixed up, okay? Just relax and count backwards from ten.”

Dick’s out before he even starts.

[banannabethchase]

Adam is sick of how much people talk shit. Thus, lollipops. But they don't work on everybody.

~

This is all due to a post I saw on tumblr about how some people pass out lollipops as drunk people leave bars to help keep the noise level down, and my brain went absolutely haywire.

Mini playlist:

Lollipop - Mika

Lollipop (Candyman) - Aqua

Lollipop - Lil Wayne, Static Major

Something in Your Mouth - Nickelback (shut up)

~

Adam is not exactly sure when he came up with it. Maybe one of those nights when Kenny would talk shit about being the belt collector, or when Pac would go off in his Geordie accent that Adam still struggles to understand, or when Jericho started his weird wizard schtick. But one day, at some point in there, Adam thought about how nice it would be to shut these dumbasses up. Just for a little while.

He’s scrolling on twitter when he finds an article about lollipops being used to quiet down rambunctious club goers as they exit to the streets, and he sits up, interested.

The next day, he goes out and buys a one hundred pack of cheap lollipops, and packs them in his carryon for the upcoming Dynamite. On the plane, he pulls one out as he watches a couple episodes of Bob’s Burgers and finds himself shoving probably too many in his pockets. He determines that the best flavor is blue raspberry and the worst is grape after some unnecessarily detailed evaluation that resulted in the flight attendant asking him if he was okay.

The opportunity to try out his theory appears sooner than he expects. Despite every attempt he’s made, he ends up running into the Elite as they swagger through the halls. He does his best to dart around the corner before he’s noticed, not in the mood to get into a fist fight before he’s supposed to have a match, but he’s not quite fast enough.

“Hey, Hangman, got whiskey in that water bottle?” Kenny calls. It’s unnecessarily loud. Adam would have heard him at a near whisper. “Maybe we need to implement a wellness policy for you.”

Adam’s about to retort, about to tell Kenny he was about to strangle him with his own shitty mustache, when he pats his pockets and finds a lollipop. In one motion, he pulls it out of his pocket and rips off the plastic wrapping.

“Oh, they have alcohol in – ” But Kenny’s sentence is cut short, because there is now a grape lollipop in his mouth. And Kenny Omega has finally shut the fuck up.

“Have a nice day,” Adam says, his steps feeling lighter.

He carries the giddy satisfaction through to the Casino Ladder Match, where he wins and shoves the poker chip under his arm. He decides to peacock, just a little bit, back to the locker room. “Oh, hi, guys,” he says, trying to make his smile a little mean as he runs into the Elite in the hallway. “Look what I got.”

Nick rolls his eyes and turns away, but Matt stands up and glares at him. Kenny, Adam notes, is staring at his phone, shoulders hunched, clearly avoiding him.

“You really think you’re equipped to carry that?” Matt asks, pushing at the poker chip. “You can’t even handle a bottle of booze, let alone…”

But Adam tunes out whatever he’s saying, because he has a pocket in this ring gear. He pulls out the lollipop, rips off the plastic while Matt’s going on about, “and you never even had the audacity to thank us!” and shoves the lollipop right into Matt’s mouth. It’s a little rougher than necessary, a little more aggressive, especially with the eye contact. Matt’s eyes widen as he goes silent.

“Nice to see you too, Matt. I’ll see you when I kill your boy at Full Gear.” He nods over to Kenny, who is still ignoring him, and walks off.

~

Adam wins. Kenny went down after two Buckshot Lariats, and Adam has to keep poking his new bruises to make sure this isn’t all a dream. He gets carried backstage by the Dark Order, and, as they chant his name, he feels like he may have found a home with these people.

“It was amazing!” John says. He lowers Adam, but keeps a hand firmly planted on Adam’s ass, which would be weird, but it’s John. “Oh, man, you flattened him. I don’t think I’ve seen a man so dead in my life.”

“I have,” says Anna.

Adam decides to move through that because what the fuck, Anna, and nods. “Yeah, it, uh. It was a pretty badass match.”

“And your gear!” John continues. “If I may say, your ass is popping in those long boys. That must be jelly ‘cause jam don’t jiggle like –”

Adam turns around from where he was digging in his gear and shoves the pineapple lollipop directly into John’s mouth. His eyes widen with glee, but he stops talking, and, honestly, that’s enough positives for Adam.

For a while, people stop spouting bullshit or extreme homoeroticism around him. If they speak, it’s a little enamored, a little impressed, and, in Alex and John’s case, a little horny. But he doesn’t have to use the lollipops, at least for a little while. There’s always a few in his pocket, though, and a dozen in his bags.

~

He takes a GTS, and wishes he’d had the balls to hit Punk in the mouth with the belt when he had the chance. Then, he wishes he could turn a lollipop into a shank and stab him with it. Just a little. Just as revenge.

~

The next time he has to do it is when Jay White won’t shut the fuck up after Forbidden Door.

“All of you stupid, talentless, weak – ”

And, well, Adam has no choice.

Kazuchika Okada literally falls on the floor laughing as Jay, green apple lollipop in his mouth, stops talking and begins to pout.

“How about you chill the fuck out and shut up, you fuckin’ bitch.” Okada reaches up to high five Adam as Adam strides past the rest of them to the locker room. He peeks in on Cole, though, because he never wants to be on the receiving end of a concussion like that.

~

Adam is at the hotel, treating himself to a nice chocolate cake from room service as consolation for the loss of the trios title, when he hits twitter. He wishes he hadn’t. The internet has a million and a half opinions of everything, and there’s gifs everywhere of the things said at the media scrum. He reaches his phone to text Matt, or Kenny, or Nick, but he pauses when he sees just how long it’s been since they’ve spoken. It feels wrong. He texts John and Alex instead. All of Dark Order join him in his hotel room, and they put on a 90s dance playlist and pretend the night went their way.

He watches the media scrum after the fact, days later, and wishes he’d clued Tony in to the lollipop trick. He’s used to hating himself, but listening to somebody else say things about him that he’s had to teach himself not to think sucks.

~

Adam paces himself, works his way back up the singles card, and nobody takes the time to worry about him, not as much, anyway. He makes it all the way to a championship match, coming at Jon Moxley the way he’s wanted to for years now. The fucker’s cocky and infuriating and Adam wants to skip the lollipop altogether and shove his whole fist in his face so hard it breaks his teeth. The match starts out as expected: gruff, violent, and fueled by fury. But things go sideways so suddenly Adam can’t even keep track of it.

When Mox knocks him out, Adam’s world feels fuzzy and filtered through a grey screen. He can’t see right, can’t hear right. But he has enough in him to wish he had a lollipop to shove in that son of a bitch’s mouth.

~

It’s the last day of November when he strides into the stadium hellbent on revenge.

“Hangman!” Alex says, eyes lighting up. “You’re not supposed to be here yet! You should –”

Adam is prepared. He shoves a lollipop in Alex’s mouth before he can hear somebody else’s opinion. He has enough sense not to try out the lollipop strategy on national television, because he is painfully aware of how many eyes are on him, but his fingers brush the pocket holding the lollipops more than once. He and Moxley get thrown out, and then beat the shit out of each other as they’re leaving the building. Not only does he lose his lucky hair tie, he also realizes some of the lollipops in his pockets got crushed in the melee.

~

The fucker goaded him. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? Adam storms out there to interrupt Moxley because, fucking hell, somebody’s got to shut the man up somehow. He’s even considering the lollipop, because, at this point, he’s not sure what else is going to work.

“You know, Doc Samson over there won’t clear me to wrestle because of my brain,” he begins, “so I guess I’ve got a pretty good excuse if I’m not thinking straight tonight.”

Once again, Adam goes after him, fists swinging and rage flowing through them, but at the very least, Mox has stopped talking.

~

“Adam –”

Adam doesn’t even respond, just shoves a lollipop in Tony fucking Khan’s mouth as he storms past him. He should probably be considering this a little more carefully. Then again, he’s let Jon Moxley goad him into showing up again, because the guy won’t shut up, so. Once again, he’ll blame it on the concussion.

They beat the shit out of each other, and somebody practically throws Adam into a separate locker room when they force him backstage.

“You!” Doc Samson says. “Sit the fuck down – stop going in your pockets.”

Adam freezes.

“Yeah, don’t try that lollipop thing on me. I swear, I’m about to recommend you for Traumatic Brain Injury protocol if you keep this shit up.”

Adam feels himself shrink a little, like he would when he’s get in trouble at school for talking too much. “I was doing this before I got the concussion,” he says, like an excuse.

Samson rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure, that’s way better.”

He gets checked out – again – but, before he gets a chance to leave Austin, he runs into Moxley. Again. This time, though, Eddie Kingston’s there to roll his eyes and grab Mox around the waist. Adam’s smart enough to know when he’s losing a numbers game.

“Where’s the fire, baby?” Mox asks. He’s still hyped up from their segment, Adam can see. He’s doing that annoying thing where his arms are behind his back, and he’s grinning like a cat that caught the canary. He knows Adam’s on edge, knows he’s already ready to go off, and he’s just lighting a cigarette near the powder keg.

“Moxley, leave it alone,” Adam says, trying to keep himself under control. He can’t go at Mox right now, not after what Doc just said. Not if he wants to make sure he gets a chance to knock his brain out of his head in a few weeks.

“Don’t wanna,” Mox says. “Doc says if you keep up your bitchy shit you won’t be able to fight me later. I want to see how riled up I can get you.”

Adam considers the word choice for just a second, just long enough for a flush to reach his cheeks. “I’m not taking your bait,” he splutters, and he leaves without remembering his lollipop strategy.

~

It’s fucking Christmas, and he’s at work, dealing with Jon Moxley and his big fat mouth. He’s finally going to do it this time. He’s done playing around.

Moxley is about to start rambling – about sandwiches, about Adam, about Cincinatti, god fucking knows – but Adam shoves a lollipop in Mox’s mouth. Doesn’t give himself a second to think, just pops it in there like a drive by, and he grins to himself, pleased to have another successful hit under his belt.

“Thanks for the lollipop, Hangman,” Mox calls. And he keeps talking. “Oh, and next time, I like blue raspberry best. Grape sucks.”

Adam glances over his shoulder to confirm. Mox is using the lollipop like a goddamn baton as he keeps going on about how he’s going to kill Adam, blah blah. Eddie’s eyes meet Adam’s and he shrugs.

“What, you think that’d shut him up?” Eddie says. “Come on. You should be smarter than that, Mr. College Degree.”

Adam considers shoving a lollipop into Eddie’s face, too, but he’s out after that situation with Jungle Boy and Christian, so he settles for turning his back on Mox and walking away. He flips them off, just to make a point.

~

He’s finally confirmed it: the lollipops work with everybody but Moxley. It’s startling enough for some, satisfies the hanger in others, and, for one or two, makes them squirm and look at Adam’s lips in interesting ways, but it doesn’t work for Moxley. He tries one more time, after the declaration of their battle for January 4th, when Mox is walking through the hallway. Technically, he’s not talking, but he could always start. Adam thinks it’s as good a chance as he’s going to get.

Mox grins at him. “Hangman, you here to give me –”

Adam pushes the grape lollipop into Mox’s open mouth, sure to shove it a little harder than strictly necessary. To his surprise, Mox sucks it further into his mouth, closing his lips around it. Adam’s not sure why he hasn’t dropped his own grip yet.  Or why he hasn’t broken eye contact. Mox’s eyes crinkle, lips forming into a smile around the stick. He pushes the lollipop to the side. “Was hoping you’d do that.”

“Why don’t you ever shut up?” Adam grumbles. He leans against the wall. “It works on literally everybody but you.” Adam can’t turn away as Mox twirls the lollipop around in his mouth using only his tongue.

Mox grins, shrugging. “I dunno, babe, I guess I got a talent of tongue.”

“Bet there’s better ways you could use it,” Adam says under his breath, eyes darting away. He probably shouldn’t have said anything. But when he lifts his eyes, Mox is staring dead at him.

“Yeah?” He twirls the lollipop again, then pulls it out. His mouth is purple, tongue even more so. “All you gotta do is ask, Cowboy.”

Adam bites his lip before he even realizes he’s doing it, and then Mox is walking toward him in that way of his. It makes Adam feel a little like a fawn in the eyeline of a hungry wolf. All he can do is wait for the inevitable.

Mox presses the lollipop to Adam’s lips, and Adam automatically opens for it, sucking it into his mouth. He doesn’t break eye contact. Grape is still the worst flavor, but there’s a hit of smoke on it, whatever lingers from Mox’s cigarettes, and it’s suddenly so much better than it’s ever been. Mox crowds into Adam’s space, pressing a hand to the wall behind Adam, dropping the other hand to his hip.

Adam pulls the lollipop out and slides it back in between Mox’s lips again, and he can’t look away. “Love that you’ve stopped talking,” he says, voice deeper than it should be. He swallows.

Mox drags his tongue across his lips, takes a glance around then pulls the lollipop out, getting almost too close to Adam. “I got better ideas with what I could do with my tongue.” He slides his tongue across Adam’s lips like they do this all the time, and kisses Adam like it’s the best way to win. And, of course, Adam can’t let him feel any type of victory, so Adam kisses him back harder, tongues pressing against each other. Adam turns them, slamming Mox against the wall, taking control. It’s fast and hard and dirty, and Adam wants more of it. He grabs at Moxley’s arms, letting his fingernails bite into the skin, then pulls back.

“Keep this energy up for the match and we could get the elusive six stars,” Adam says. He can still taste Mox and lollipop on his tongue. He pushes the lollipop back in between Mox’s lips and steps away. “See you next week.”

Adam walks away without glancing back at Mox, but he can feel eyes burning a hole into him. Next week is going to be fun.

~

It starts at the airport, when John walks up to him and immediately smacks him in the ass. Adam had run out of lollipops on the plane, and it takes longer than usual to shut him up.

“Hey there, big man! I recognized you by the curve of that ass. Want to –”

“Ah!” Adam interrupts, and he shoves a green apple in John’s mouth.

He grins, giving a weird little wiggle dance. He pulls the lollipop out. “I was hoping you’d do that.”

“Oh,” Adam says. “Oh, no. Did I accidentally make this a thing for you?”

John nods. “Oh yeah. I like getting things shoved in my mouth.” He winks.

Adam might need to rethink this whole plan.

He definitely needs to, he realizes, as he walks in the door and Hook walks up to him. Hook’s never spoken a word to him. Hook doesn’t speak to anybody. But he’s standing in front of Adam, with an outstretched hand.

“Um.”

“He wants a lollipop,” Jungle Boy says. “Words kind of gotten around that you pass them out. We both like cherry, if you have it.”

Confused, Adam grabs a handful of lollipops from the bag and picks out two cherries, handing them out.

“Thanks,” Hook says, and he pops the lollipop in his mouth and walks off.

“Good luck in your match against Moxley,” Jungle Boy says, and he follows Hook.

It doesn’t stop all day. Jamie Hayter, belt around her waist, asks for three green apple to share with Rebel and Britt. Konosuke Takeshita, a little hesitant, asks for an orange. The two of them manage to construct a decent conversation with the pieces of their two languages, and Adam finally gets the chance to tell him how impressive he is. All of the referees request lollipops as he makes his way to his little corner of the locker room. He’s gotten big enough that he gets a little space, but it’s basically just a bench with curtains. He’s halfway through pulling on his boots when he hears the rustle of the curtain.

“Hey.”

Adam raises his head to see Nick Jackson hesitantly smiling in the opening of the curtains. “Oh. Hi.”

“Wanted to wish you good luck for the match tonight.” Nick’s already in gear, even though he goes on last. “And, uh.” He grins, a little sheepish. “I heard you have a bunch of lollipops still? We were wondering if we could grab some. Try something other than the gum, for once.”

It feels like an olive branch, even though Nick’s not the one who should be extending it. Adam decides to take it. “Sure,” he says. He digs through the newly replenished stock: green apple for Nick, grape for Matt because he has perpetually bad taste, and blue raspberry for Kenny.

Nick takes them. “You – you remember our favorites?”

Adam shrugs. “I guess I do.” He offers a smile. “Actually, could you get a message to Kenny for me? I have a question to ask him.”

Nick nods, sends the text, and gets one back almost immediately. All it says is, “Tell him it’s a go.”

Adam exhales, feeling steady on his feet and ready to go. He and Moxley are up first, and he’s not willing to waste precious time panicking over how to talk to his old friends. “Tell, uh. Tell the other guys I tell them good luck. I really do hope you win.”

Nick nods. “Hope you win, too. Also hope Mox doesn’t kill you.”

“Yeah. Same here, man.”

Nick leaves just as quietly as he showed up, and Adam is left with his thoughts as he finishes up his boots, gets a pump in.

It’s not for long, though, because John and Alex burst in like twin tornadoes. “Adam!” John says, in that weird voice he used to save for Anna’s name. “Adam! Adam we are here for you!”

“Hey, guys,” he laughs. “What’s up?”

“We want to make sure you’re doing okay,” Alex says. “I mean, Moxley seems like he really wants to eat you alive.”

Adam intentionally does not let himself linger on that word choice. “Well, hopefully I can take him out before he does.”

“Yeah,” John says, looking far too eager. “Yeah, fuckin’ destroy him. Do that Deadeye where his head is right up your butt. Make him sniff it.”

“Okay, you’re getting lollipopped,” Adam says, and he shoves an orange one right in John’s mouth. He doesn’t look too angry about it.

~

He and Mox trade blows like there’s actual murder in the plans for the day. Adam kicks out of the Paradigm Shift, but Mox kicks out of the Buckshot, and neither of them seem willing to give. Adam’s not too worried, though. He has something in his back pocket, something a little mean and a little violent, something that harkens back to a past he’s not sure he’s willing to confront. Something that’s only failed twice.

He hooks Moxley for a One Winged Angel. And he hits it.

One. Two. Three.

He lets out a guttural, primal scream as Bryce raises his hand, the frustration and disappointment of the past months tearing its way out of him like a bullet from the gun. After all the failures, the concussion, he’s won.

“God, you’re loud,” Moxley grumbles from the floor, “wish I had something to shove in your mouth.”

Adam looks down at him and grins. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Adam’s practically vibrating as he meets up with the interviewers, cutting a promo that he’s about to come for every belt in the business. It’s the best he’s ever done, and he arranges it so there’s no way the camera can see his anticipatory boner in his tights. Adam claps shoulders and accepts hugs as he makes his way through the backstage area, but he’s got his focus locked on one thing.

They’d managed to arrange it so they can collide into each other in Moxley’s dressing room. Adam takes full advantage of the privacy, throwing Moxley to the ground again. He throws his legs over Moxley’s hips, pressing him to the ground.

“Careful, man, you just beat the shit out of me,” Moxley groans. “Christ, it’s like you –”

From this angle, Adam can grab the lollipop he’d stuck in his pocket, unwrap it, and shove it in Mox’s mouth before he can say another word. Mox grins around it. “Was looking forward to this.”

Adam pulls the lollipop from his mouth and dives in, tasting blue raspberry and smoke. He’s determined to conquer Moxley here, get a win in this, just like in the ring. He’s not sure what that exactly entails, but he wants it. He tosses the lollipop away, getting his hands on Mox’s arms. He makes sure to press down, just a little bit, on the bruises he knows are blooming from the hits during the match.

“Jesus, Cowboy, go gentle on me,” Mox says, rolling them over. “What, you want to beat me up again?”

“A little,” Adam says.

“Take off your pants, you fuckin’ dick,” Moxley says.

“You gonna shut up?”

Mox’s grin from where he slides down Adam’s body is devastating. “Well, I know you like me better when I have something in my mouth.”

Adam lets out a little laugh as Moxley makes good on the suggestion, tongue swirling around his cock the same way it had around the lollipop, and Adam might die. It’d be a good way to die, this, after the way the night went. He’s riding the high of a lifetime. Adam resists bucking up into Moxley’s mouth, desperate for this to last a little longer.

Moxley pulls off once Adam starts getting close, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You wanna fuck me?”

Adam’s intrigued. “You gonna talk through it?”

“Maybe.”

Adam decides to err on the side of getting laid. “Take your pants off.”

Moxley keeps lube and condoms in his gym bag, which is an interesting detail Adam’s not sure he could have predicted, and the two of them move at lightning pace into the shower attached to Moxley’s room. Hands are everywhere, and Adam gets Mox in the right position against the wall.

“How’d you manage your own locker room anyway?” Adam asks, a finger deep into Moxley.

He keens a little, twists his hips. “Don’t,” he replies, “told Eddie and Ortiz to hit catering after the match.”

Adam laughs, working on opening Mox up a little more. “Desperate, are you?”

“More like I can read your horny ass like a book.” He groans a little at the way Adam’s finger moves inside of him. “You think I couldn’t tell you were sporting a semi through –” Adam speeds up his movement, and Mox falls silent, mouth open.

Adam hums, watching Mox’s face. He’s quiet, head tilted back on the tile of the shower. “Shoulda figured out this is how to shut you up a long time ago,” Adam murmurs against Mox’s neck. He slowly adds a second finger, spreading gently.

Mox’s eyes flutter open. “Hmm?”

“You gotta talk to me a little, man,” Adam laughs.

He gets a wordless babble as Mox grinds down.

“Doesn’t count,” Adam says with a laugh against Mox’s neck.

“’M ready,” Mox mumbles. “Come on, god, it’s easier to get you to punch me in the head.”

“That’s because punching you in the head is what I’m contracted to do,” Adam says, biting a little at Mox’s shoulder. But he twists his fingers a little more, drips more lube. “The fucking part I’m gonna need a little more confirmation that you’re on board.”

“So on board,” Mox says. “Just fuck me already, Christ.”

“I generally go by Hangman or Adam, but Christ works for me.” Adam makes sure Mox is relaxed, then rolls on the condom and slicks up his cock, shivering at the touch. He’s been ignoring himself, trying to make Mox feel good, and knowing he’s about to slide home is almost too much for him to handle. “You ready?”

“Oh, my god, the sweet country boy act is even more insufferable now,” Mox whines. “Yes, you fucking idiot, I’m ready.”

Adam rolls his eyes and pushes in, seeing stars at the tight warmth surrounding him.

“There you go, Cowboy,” Mox says in a sigh. “Fucking finally.”

It’s kind of like their matches, Adam muses, with the two of them exchanging the control and the direction every moment. At one point Mox turns on the shower and they get drenched, bodies sliding against each other more freely under the stream of water. Mox is about his size, but at one point Adam manages to get him up against the wall with his legs around Adam’s waist, letting Adam fuck up and in with reckless abandon the way he’d be hoping for. It doesn’t last as long as he’d want, though, because Mox soon pushes him to the shower seat and rides him almost harder than Adam can stand.

Adam can tell he’s close and is glad for the seat as he reaches down to stroke Mox’s cock with the rhythm of his thrusts, and Mox pulses over him seconds later. Adam loses focus, rhythm, control, fucking up into Mox like his life depends on it, and he comes hard, seeing stars.

Moxley slumps against Adam, catching himself by his hands on the tile behind Adam’s head. “I’m impressed, Hangman,” he says, dipping his face into Adam’s neck. “Got some stamina in you.”

“Well, I’d hoped you would have figured that out from our matches, but thanks.” Adam shifts his hips so he can slide out of Moxley. He’s too sensitive to stay, the aftershocks sending tingles up his spine. “You good?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Mox says, rolling his shoulders. He stands, legs more steady than Adam’s finds his own after getting fucked that hard. Adam refuses to feel impressed. Moxley bounces, like he’s about to go into a match. “You wanna shower?”

“I mean, yeah, but I need a second.”

Moxley grins at him. “You blown up? You need a little rest?”

Adam laughs, letting his head rest against the tile. “Where are those fuckin’ lollipops when I need them…

[itcamefrombeneaththeblog]

To this day it pains my heart that this isn't a well known and beloved song across the world. It is a masterpiece.

RIP Wayne.

[myremains]

Singles!!

Lamb Of God x Kreator - State of Unrest

Linkin Park - Lost (unreleased Meteora track, RIP Chester we all miss you pal)

Static-X - Terrible Lie (NIN cover, RIP Wayne we miss you too bro)

Dope - Dead World

Suicide Silence - Dying Life

Brand of Sacrifice - Dynasty

alt. - THE GREAT DEPRESSION

Backyard Babies - Beaver Cage

Carcosa - Born To Lose

[pics-and-fanfics]

These are Tim centric! And very child neglect stories! You have been warned!

SHUTTERBUG! This ripped my heart out in the best way, I would willingly go back in time and relive a whole bunch of shit over the last few months just to read this for the first time again. @goldkirk did an absolutely amazing job writing this, I cried while reading it at school multiple times

5 times Tim spent the night at Wayne manor + 1 time he came home. Self explanatory. Tooth rotting fluff, tooth rotting angst. Was kicking my feet, squealing, foaming at the mouth earlier when I remembered this fic. This is what prompted the ask!

Anton Syndrome. Featuring Jack Drake being a pedophile.

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting. Tim’s parents die in an explosion, Bruce and Robin!Jason investigate.

The butler’s neighbor. No child abuse! This one’s just fucking adorable, I’m sorry.

And now onto non-Tim centric fics!

Something in the static! This is by the lovely @bonerot19, the series is fucking amazing, I absolutely loved it, and still do (I haven’t caught up in a while but I haven’t caught up on anything in a while)

Literally anything by @ghost-bxrd, I love Owl Song so much, it’s just absolute perfection

Shameless plug (my fic!) It’s been almost either 2 or 3 years since I got the very first idea for the fic, which was actually originally a video script (used to wanna be a YouTuber) here’s a link to a long post that goes in depth about it! I’m very proud of this fic, I’ve currently got over 300 pages in a Google doc and over 60 chapters, so.

And that’s all!

Love you! 🩷

CAN I REC

CAN I REC

CAN I RECOMMEND A FIC?

PLEASE (I’ll recommend 5)

Yes

fics are always appreciated