#the dogs are FURIOUS that I have a loft bed they can’t sleep on

[cozycryptidcorner]

The first night I let Laika sleep on my bed, an incident happened around 3am. I woke up so fast, I was halfway off the mattress before I was fully conscious and aware of my surroundings… but I was gagging on fumes. For whatever reason, Laika’s farts are so fucking rancid and I guess my unconscious body thought I was in genuine, life threatening danger so I woke up, no fight, only flight, in some kind of primordial evacuation protocol.

It has gotten better after awhile (definitely had something to do with her diet) but every now and then I’ll get a whiff of a muted wave of gas, wafting up to where I sleep.

[wellbelesbian]

Niamh’s been turned into a goat; Agatha knows the counterspell. But she won’t cast it. Not until Niamh admits that it’s not all fun and games being the damsel in distress, is it?

thank you for this prompt, it's so perfectly tailored to my interests! hopfully it doesn't disappoint!

Damsel In Distress

read it on ao3 or below!

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. I fell asleep in Niamh’s arms, but she tends to get up earlier than me, so I’m not too alarmed. I roll over and check my alarm clock. 6:47. Still loads of time before I need to let the goats out.

“Hey babe?” I call. My ‘bedroom’ is essentially just a converted hay loft above the rest of the barn, so no matter where she is, she should be able to hear me. “Could you bring me a coffee?”

There’s no reply, which is a little peculiar, but I suppose she must have gone outside for some reason. She’s been investigating a bunch of spells about livestock, trying to see if she can help with the goats' dwindling numbers. Personally, I think the billy goat just needs to be a bit more charming with the ladies, instead of chasing them around with his tongue hanging out and headbutting walls as a show of strength. He reminds me a little of Simon sometimes.

With a groan, I roll out of bed. Early mornings are not for me, and I usually get to sleep in for at least one more hour before the goats start to shout at me, but the sound of my voice has awoken the dawn chorus, and now they’re all going mad, so there’s no hope of falling back to sleep.

The goats follow me to the kitchenette and watch as I make two coffees. Eventually, most of them get bored and wander off, but two stick around. The first is the kid I helped deliver, who watches me with the cutest puppy-dog eyes it can muster, vying for a biscuit. But I’m distracted by the second goat, a broad, leggy, brown one that I don’t recognise. It sees me looking at it and bleats.

“Hello, you. Where did you come from?” I try to scratch its head, but it swings at me. I just laugh and step back. It's a lovely brown roan colour, with long dark hair down it's spine and a small white patch on it's forehead, between two adorable little horns. “Did Niamh bring you?” It bleats insistently, but refuses the biscuit I offer it. The other goat steals it from my hand and runs off, triumphant. I smile and move to the window, carrying both coffees.

Seriously, where is Niamh? She should have come back in by now. I can still see her car outside, so she can’t have gone that far. Just as I’m about to step outside and shout for her, I feel a tug at the bottom of my dressing gown. Looking down, I see the same brown goat.

“What do you want?” I ask, and the goat bleats again. Merlin, it’s loud. But its bleats also seem… kind of pointed?

I’m actually glad Niamh isn’t here, so she can’t mock me for this: I lean down and ask the goat “are you trying to tell me something?”

It nods. The goat nods. And then it hits me.

It’s Niamh. I don’t know how, but it has to be. No normal goat could frown like that.

“Niamh?”

It bleats again, looking slightly less angry, and nods again.

“What- How did this happen?”

She turns around and walks away a few steps, then turns around and looks at me pointedly. The message is clear: follow me.

I do. She leads me to my small dining table, where I find an open book of transformation spells. Niamh’s wand is on the floor, and she tries to headbutt away another goat trying to nibble it. It hits her back, and she bleats petulantly.

“That's what you get for picking fights you can't win.” I sigh, picking up her wand. That’s something I would say offhandedly to the goats, but usually not to Niamh. She frowns harder, if that’s even possible. It’s disconcerting, how much she still looks like Niamh.

“Why would you even try one of these spells?” I sigh. I glance at the page the book is open to, shaking my head, and quickly find the counterspell.

“I kind of don’t want to change you back,” I smile, “You’re just so cute!” Niamh looks furious, but thankfully doesn’t headbutt me. “Oh come on, it is! In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, don’t you always say it’s not even that bad, being a damsel in distress? Surely you can admit this is a walk in the park compared to being trapped in a well slowly filling with water, and you said that was no big deal because I had the Chosen One to save me!”

Niamh bleats angrily and does try to headbutt me afterall, but I nimbly sidestep the attack, having had plenty of practice. Some other goats watch us with mild interest.

“Well, unfortunately, all you’ve got is little old me to save you.” I put on my best oh-so-innocent, sickly saccharine voice. “I’m not sure I’m up to the task, being such a useless damsel.”

Niamh bleats pitifully and looks at me with the saddest look she can muster.

“Aww, okay, fine.” I grin. “But if you ever say being in need of another person to save you is easy, I’ll turn you back into a goat myself and let you figure it out.”

I cast the counterspell using Niamh’s wand. Mine is upstairs somewhere, I’m not even entirely sure where, but hers works fine for me. There’s a whooshing sound, and then in the blink of an eye the goat is replaced with Niamh, in her boxers and a tanktop. Before I can even say anything, she pushes me against the desk.

“You can be so cruel.” She mutters, inches from my lips, then captures them in a kiss.

“It would appear you quite like it.” I respond smugly when she eventually pulls back.

“Maybe I do.” She leans back in, but I instinctively move away, wrinkling my nose.

“You smell like a goat.” I explain. She scoffs.

“Way to kill the mood.”

“Take a shower, then we can discuss this newfound kink you have for me teasing you.”

“It’s not a kink.” She grumbles, shouldering past me towards the bathroom. But she’s bright red, and I know I’ve won this round.

Gradually, I become aware of the other goats again, shouting and crowding around the barn door. Right, responsibilities. I sigh and make a mental list.

To do:

One, let the goats out.

Two, join Niamh in the shower. I smell a bit like a goat, myself.

[hollyoaksloversx]

Who Shot Mercedes McQueen?

Rounding up a week in Hollyoaks (4th-8th November 2019)

It was time for Hollyoaks latest ‘whodunnit’ this week as someone tried to do us all a favour and kill Mercedes McQueen. The action unfolded as the village came together for Harry’s funeral and whilst everybody headed to the church, Grace was busy trying to find out the identity of the hit and run driver. With Joel having told her last week that the culprit lay close to home, Grace was convinced that it was Liam. When confronted, Liam admitted that, although he’d been present, Mercedes had been driving. Armed with her culprit and a recorded confession (which I can’t remember how she got hold of) Grace transformed herself into the Grace Black of old and headed to Harry’s wake...

Harry’s wake was underway at The Dog when Grace took to the mic and played the confession to the shocked mourners. Not only that, but Mercedes had to contend with everyone believing that she’d killed Harry to keep him quiet about her role in the hit and run. Sylver surprised Mercedes by taking the news about the hit and run well. However, he was left devastated by Grace’s claims that Mercedes had been sleeping with Liam. Mercedes swore on Bobby’s life that she hadn’t cheated and begged Sylver to run away with her. 

Outside the pub, James was having trouble coming to terms with events, and told Grace that she should have come to him before confronting Mercedes. The police were soon on the scene, but in true Hollyoaks fashion, proved themselves to be absolutely useless as they failed to track down their culprit. As Mercedes and Sylver prepared to leave the village, they were stopped in their tracks by Brooke, who had been unsettled by the police presence.  Not wanting to be held up any further, Mercedes told Brooke that she and Sylver were going on holiday, leading to Brooke bringing up Mercedes recent abortion, unaware that Sylver did not know. Sylver was heartbroken by the revelation and refused to leave the village. With nothing to lose, Mercedes headed back to the pub and was furious to hear the mourners bitching about her. Mercedes pointed out what hypocrites they were before taking the keys to The Loft from Grace and heading over there for a coke fuelled party for one.

The following morning, Mercedes had failed to come home and the police were still on the hunt for her. Knowing that she’d gone to The Loft, Goldie headed round there but was left horrified when she discovered Mercedes lying unconscious on the dance floor, having been shot. But who could have done such a thing? Official suspects are Goldie, Breda, James, Diane, Liam, Grace and Joel. Grace and Sylver claimed to be in bed together at the time of the shooting whilst Marnie had been planning to drug James to prevent him from leaving the house at the same time. But of course, this is Hollyoaks, so we surely cannot rule them out just yet. The police started the investigation by arresting Liam after finding a gun in his car. But did he do it? 

Elsewhere this week, The Maalik’s prepared to return home whilst Yasmine found an unlikely friend in Finn. Finally, Ste was devastated to learn of Harry’s death and was then dealt a bigger blow when Diane ordered him to stay away from the funeral. Fed up with being kept under lock and key by Stuart and Jonny, Ste threw a letter begging for help over the Maalik’s fence. 

5 Things We Learned This Week:

1. The residents of Hollyoaks will turn a blind eye to many crimes, but they’ll draw the line as racism. With no one wanting to dine at The Teahouse anymore, Stuart prepared to put the business on the market. Nice to know that the good people of Hollyoaks do have some sort of moral compass, even if they don’t show it very often.

2. It amazing what a bit of make up and having something to get riled up about can do! Having found out that Mercedes had left her for dead, Grace got herself dolled up before ditching her crutch and heading off to have it out with Mercedes. Amazing how the crutch was no longer needed from that point on and she was back to walking perfectly! 

3. If the Hollyoaks police force can’t find you straight away, they will give up and go home. How was Mercedes able to swan right back into the pub and then head to The Loft despite the fact that the police were looking for her?

4. The residents of Hollyoaks really cared about Harry. It was nice to see so many characters turn up at Harry’s funeral. They may not all have had dialogue, but it was a nice touch to see them sitting there in the background. What a shame that Harry’s own Mother couldn’t have shown the same courtesy! Maybe Peter Kay doesn’t drive as far out as Chester?

5. Nana cannot believe that someone would want to kill Mercedes. I can...

This Week’s Cast:

Azim, Bobby, Breda, Brooke, Cindy, Cleo, Darren, Diane, Edward, Finn, Goldie, Grace, Imran, James, Jesse, Joel, Jonny, Juliet, Leela, Liam, Luke, Mandy, Marnie, Misbah, Mitchell, Nancy, Nana McQueen, Peri, Romeo, Sally, Sami, Sid, Ste, Stuart, Sylver, Tony, Walter and Yasmine.

Blasts From The Past:

Lily Drinkwell, Myra McQueen, Max Owen, Russ Owen, Harry Thompson,

[possibilistfanfiction]

angst?

[ok this started out as fluff & how hot kat is & then turned into angst & then i brought it back for more fluff idk what the fuck happened other than that i’ve been reading her body & other parties so idk. here we are!]

//

when you open the door, you fumble a little with your bag and you’re glad you don’t drop it because your favorite 35mm camera is in there and it’s very old and very expensive.

you distantly think that it might’ve been worth it, though, because your girlfriend is curled up on the couch in cotton boyshorts and a bralette and her glasses, braids pulled into a bun on the top of her head. she looks up and smiles when she hears you come in and she’s a little sweaty. it’s hot outside, june and hazy, spring finally sinking into summer. the air conditioning in her building is being repaired, or improved—something, she had explained earlier, but she had just come out of the shower and you had maybe been able to focus on every other word—and so her loft is warm.

and kat is beautiful.

‘are you reading a real book?’ you ask her, teasing, setting aside your bag.

she rolls her eyes, puts the book down, and you take in the casual expanse of her, how her skin is darker since she went to the beach with her friends a few days ago, gold and soft; she doesn’t have any makeup on, one of her lenses has a little smudge across it. kat is beautiful all the time, you know this, but when she lets you see her, just like this, like she’s so comfortable in your presence that there’s not a single thing to hide—you think it’s your favorite version of her, always.

‘i’ll have you know,’ she says, ‘that i got As in both of my literature classes in college.’

you smile and sit next to her, trace a little pattern on her knee. ‘did you now?’

she looks down at your hand and then back up at your eyes and lifts a brow when you move it further up her thigh.

she swallows but her tone doesn’t change. ‘i sure did. and i didn’t read every book in my ipad.’

‘all but one, i’m sure.’

she laughs and kisses you and it’s without pretense, without anything other than the fact she wanted to kiss you. she backs up and you know she’ll want to have sex later, probably, but right now she wants to talk, to be with you.

you turn toward her fully and put a little space between the two of you and try your very best to not look down at her stomach or the swell of her thighs or the birthmark on her hip, things you love, and you concentrate on her eyes, because if you start looking at her mouth you are going to think about kissing her again and then it’s just a lost cause.

‘jane gave it to me,’ she says, holding up the book. ‘it’s really beautiful.’ she pauses. ‘really sad.’

she hands it to you and there are a few dog-eared pages, and it makes your heart ache a little, because you know your girlfriend is brilliant, so smart, but sometimes you’re reminded of it in different ways than you expect, how much she actually cares about the world and how much she knows and how much she wants to learn.

she takes it back and flips to one of the pages, looks back up at you. ‘they’re short stories about queerness and women and the body and rape culture and jane said something about environmental feminist theory so that too, i guess.’

you sense that kat is legitimately a little upset, affected, and when you put your hand on her knee this time it’s a comfort.

she shrugs. ‘i just—’ she reaches up and touches your cheek and she’s so soft; it feels incredibly honest. ‘sometimes i’m scared for you. for me.’

you nod, rub your thumb along her skin. ‘i understand.’

‘i didn’t,’ she says. ‘after we went out that night and i punched a man, the next day, when you told me you didn’t have a choice sometimes—’ there’s a little furrow between her brow that you want to kiss away, but you wait— ‘i didn’t understand. but i do now, or, i’m starting to.’

‘kat,’ you say, worried. ‘did something happen?’

she shakes her head. shrugs. ‘not really. not to me.’ there’s a tiny unspoken not yet that stings at your insides, tugs on your ribs.

you want to tell her that you’ve been furious for years, that you understand the anger and the fear and you want to tell her that you’re safe, want to tell her that you will always be safe in this space, in this one room where you can love her without any hesitation, without any doubt; you will be tender and you will keep her safe.

you don’t know how to say all of that, though, to promise, so you take a deep breath. ‘i love you,’ you tell her, so sure, as if it will be enough.

and maybe, for now, or always, it is. kat lets out a breath it seems like maybe she’s been holding for a while. ‘i love you too.’

she moves and leans into your body, and you want to remember the heat of her, the solid press of her shoulder and the steadiness of her hands. you think she might cry when she turns and presses her lips against the space between your shoulder and neck, but she just stays still for a few moments and you close your eyes and pray.

you sit like that for minutes, her glasses smudged against your skin, the warm smell of her cocoa butter and your perfume. 

after a while she sighs and sits up straight. ‘kinda want to make jane buy me an apology dinner or something.’

you wait for her to laugh, but when she does you join in. her smile is bright and her glasses are a mess but she isn’t wearing clothes so she can’t clean them. eventually you get up and help her find the little cloth she keeps around but can never remember where she put it last, and you take the frames off her face gently. she gets closer to you when you clean them, and you don’t think it’s on purpose, mostly because she legitimately has horrendous vision and can’t really see anything clearly.

‘well,’ she says, when you put them back on her face; she crinkles her nose to get them to sit right and you don’t know if you’ve ever been as in love as you are in that moment. ‘wanna take your clothes off because it’s a thousand degrees in here and watch the new real housewives of new york episode with me?’

‘i will never understand why you love that show so much.’

‘uh, you definitely do understand,’ she says, and you roll your eyes even as she reaches for the hem of your shirt and when you nod she pulls it over your head, grins, pops the button on your jeans and unzips them. ‘you love that show.’

‘i do not,’ you argue, but you’re smiling and kat is trying very hard to take your pants off but you’re sweaty and you end up having to kind of hop out of them while she laughs at you until you remind her about two nights ago, when she had fallen face first into her bed trying to get her shorts off.

‘unnecessary,’ she says, dramatic, complete with a hand to her chest after a gasp.

you kiss her cheek and she turns to catch your mouth. 

you settle down on the couch with her and it’s definitely too hot to tangle up like you do but it comforts you, the warmth and the presence; you’re both sweating by the time the woman named ramona says something that makes kat let out a big, full laugh.

you watch ridiculous reality tv with her and seamless an incredible amount of chinese food and she only moves to answer the door. you eat on the couch from the containers with the wooden chopsticks that came in the bag and kat feeds you lo mein sloppily and gets noodles everywhere and you let her take the last egg roll.

eventually you start kissing and you leave the containers right where they are; she tastes like soy sauce and fried rice and her stomach is soft and full, a tiny swell, beneath your hands when you run them down her body. she lets you lay her back and you kiss her neck and taste the remnants of your own warmth there, the salt; you work your way down her body and when you press your tongue inside her she doesn’t make any noise, only opens her legs wider and weaves a hand in your hair.

everything builds in waves and kat is still quiet, and when she comes you are reminded of the ocean. she catches her breath while you rest your head on her stomach and she starts to touch you. you close your eyes and reach around her and feel the knots of her spine, the muscles there, the wings of her shoulder blades. 

she’s quick today, not in the mood to deny you anything, and you come fast and hard and she starts to cry, tears hitting your collarbone before you pull her in for a kiss.

she backs you up and you rub your thumbs along her cheeks, hold her jaw in the palm of your hand. you nod, guide her down to kiss you again, tell her everything you don’t know how to say out loud.

you walk to her bed and lay on top of the duvet, sweating and naked and beautiful; she lets you wrap your body around hers and you press your lips to the back of her neck.

you sleep for hours in the middle of the day, still warm even when the air conditioner comes back on; the world goes on outside, and you are safe. 

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Unreal - unforgiven series

Characters: Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, bits of Bruce and Barbara Summary: None of this was real, so he needed to focus on the only thing that was. A/N: Dick is obviously Nightwing and masked up throughout this, even in the apartment. The ‘demons in his ear’ is his communicator to Batman and the family. The driver never sees Dick, or hears Damian shout his name, so his identity is still safe. Sorry this is like 50 years late. A few days after Unacceptable. 

Unforgiven series.

~~

“…I think it’s time you and I talked.”

He kept that in his mind, that sentence. Kept repeating it. To himself, out loud. In any way he could.

Because he couldn’t. He couldn’t die until he talked to Tim. Until he saw his little brother again. He couldn’t let the fear toxin win until he at least begged for forgiveness in person.

And it shouldn’t have happened, this. He’d been vaccinated against every strand of toxin, serum and poison known to man. But Jonathan Crane was still smarter than them, objectively. Kept easily making more, differently, thanks to that degree of his. He was still a doctor, even if he was using it for evil.

But still – Dick was trained. Dick was used to this. Yes, he’d been hit. Yes, he was affected. But he was still lucid enough to be aware of what it was. Knew the hallucinations around him of blood and death and loneliness were fake.

He just had to keep Tim’s voice in his mind.

The gas still was doing its job though, and Dick fought against if with everything he had as he ran down the sidewalk. With every repetition of Tim’s decision, his voice was warped. Angry, sad, cold, distant. But Dick had to keep it real. He had to keep Tim’s voice as what it truly was on that phone call.

“…I think it’s time you and I talked.”

Tired, hesitant, warm. That’s what Tim’s voice was. Not angry. Not distant. Tim wasn’t giving up on him, toxin. He wasn’t. He was giving him a chance. A chance he didn’t deserve, but a chance. And he had to make it. So you can’t lie to him, toxin. He had to beat you and see his brother. And he would; there was nothing you could do about it.

He stumbled in his run, slammed into a brick wall. He looked up into the rain, but couldn’t see street signs. Just saw demons overhead, the same demons that were yelling in his ear, trying to talk over Tim.

But Dick smiled, because they couldn’t. His brother’s voice was louder. His chance at redemption was louder.

He looked back to the sidewalk. It was covered in blood and dead bodies. People he knew. Donna, Wally, Bruce, Clark, Roy, Dinah. But they weren’t real. Of course they weren’t. So he splashed through the blood. Kept on running.

Beside the thought of Tim’s voice, he realized he didn’t have a destination. Or, at least, his mind didn’t. His body seemed to know where it was going. And even if it didn’t, Dick was too weak to tell his body to stop. So he just let it go.

Because along with seeing Tim again – he still had to escape the bad guys. He’d almost forgotten about that part.

Still, as more time went on, his body started to wear down, and the pain of his muscles began to be louder than the shrieks and whines around him. Began to appear in his eyes, literally. Bubble letters in front of him appeared with every stomp of his foot. Ow! Pain! Hurt! Ouchie! Stop! You’re killing me! You’re killing yourself! Pain! Pain! PAIN!

“Tim…” He breathed out, and his lungs ached. But he couldn’t stop. He had to get there, even though he didn’t know where there was. He had to go. He had to escape. He: “…gotta talk to Tim…my…”

He stumbled again, tripped over a curb and went sprawling into the gutter. He heard the blood swish around him as his spine slammed against the pavement. Felt it hit him, but knew he was dry. Knew, if there was liquid, that it was the dirty rainwater of Gotham City.

His body still wanted to move. His mind was still supplying him with fake terror and images. His heart was in overdrive. He couldn’t breathe. The blood-water rain hitting his face was not cooling him. But he had to go. He had to-

“Grayson?”

The voice was like an angel, almost as sweet as Tim’s and that hope that he could still fix one of his greatest mistakes.

His head jerked to the side, face bouncing off the curb he’d tripped over, and it was like magic.

There was a bubble in front of him. A normal scene untouched by the demons and death and shrieks. There was no blood on the ground, or falling from the sky. It was just rain. Just water hitting an umbrella, and snapping off the side of an open car door.

And under the umbrella was his youngest brothers. Was Damian and Tim.

It was Damian who had spoken. Damian, who was stepping away from the car he was about to get into, out of the safety of the umbrella, and Tim’s arm.

Dick said his brother’s name. Or tried to. He felt his mouth move, but all he heard was a rasping gurgle, and suddenly Damian was running to him.

“Grayson,” Damian whispered, first jumping from the sidewalk to drop to his knees in the street. There was another splash, and this time Dick felt it. Felt the water – not blood, not blood, not blood – hit him on the chest. An arm wrapped around the back of his neck, and suddenly he was being held to a tiny chest. “Grayson, breathe. Please, breathe for me.”

Dick blinked, and looked up into the sky again as his body relaxed into the hold.

Oh. This is where he was going.

Tim and Damian’s apartment building.

“Grayson, what happened?” Damian hissed, brushing the water or blood or vomit – whatever – off his face. He felt Damian’s hand run down his body, and hit the injuries that were very much real. “Your eyes are dilated. Your heart rate is spiking…”

“Fear toxin.” Dick’s head spun around on instinct. Tim and his umbrella was standing over him. His hair was sticking to his face – he was holding the umbrella over him and Damian instead of himself. And the fear told him Tim would look furious. Be furious. Would hate him and leave him here to die, while dragging Damian away from him forever. But instead, Tim was still in that bubble of normal. Still Dick’s saving grace in this madness, along with Damian. His eyes were calculating and thoughtful. But most of all – they were worried. “It looks like he’s been hit with one hell of a dose, too.”

“Sirs!” Dick glanced past Tim’s bent body. A driver had appeared out of the car. And objectively, Dick knew it was just a man. But right now, he looked like a werewolf, with blood and bits of meat hanging from his teeth. “The gala is starting soon. The two of you cannot be late again-”

“We’re not going.” Tim said over his shoulders. “Send our regards.”

“What?” The driver spluttered. It came out as an inhuman growl, and his eyes glowed red. Dick felt himself give out another groan in panic. “B-but Mr. Drake, you said…what…what are you boys doing over there…?”

“I said we’re not going.” Tim stood and turned to face the driver. “Send my sincerest apologies to the board, but something’s come up.”

“But-”

“It’s a family matter.” Tim said simply. Dick heard Damian murmuring to him, but couldn’t make out the words. He did notice now, though, that Damian was dressed nicely. As was Tim. In their fanciest tuxedos. “Now, I apologize for dragging you out here on such a terrible night, but please go.”

There was a pause, and then a huff. Then the sound of a door slamming closed, followed by a car driving away.

Suddenly there was a hand on his face, gentle and warm. And Tim’s voice – his real voice – was right there.

“We need to get him inside.” Tim hummed softly. Instantly there was another arm around his neck, and one slipping under his knees. “I’ll carry him. You take the umbrella and get the doors.”

Damian’s presence disappeared, and Dick almost cried, because that probably meant Damian was being taken from him forever. But then there was a noise, and he was being lifted, slumping into Tim’s chest.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet, Dick.” Tim grunted as they started to move. “You’re dead weight enough. If you become actual dead weight, I don’t know how we’re going to get you upstairs safely.”

Dick felt himself let out a sob as he reached up and clung to Tim’s collar. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tim. I know I fucked up. I-I know…”

“Later.” Tim said softly. “Let’s just get your fixed up for now, okay Dick?”

Under the continuing wails and shouts that his mind was supplying, he heard the ding of an elevator, then the sound of their doors opening. He didn’t feel Tim step in, but he felt Damian gently grab his hand, and hold it as the lift moved upwards.

And even though he was trembling, from panic and fear and the rain, he felt a sense of peace wash over him, under the devils and demons. Because here he was, with Tim and Damian.

And that was all he wanted.

He closed his eyes, in what felt was a blink, but when he reopened them, they were no longer in the elevator. In fact, they were already back in the loft, and Tim was lowering him onto a bed.

“Go call Bruce.” Tim said to Damian. Damian nodded and sprinted away as Tim grabbed a first aid kit and sat on the edge of the bed, placing it on his lap and opening it. Dick opened his mouth, but Tim immediately waved him off. Smiled, as he hummed, “Later, Dick. When the drugs wear off.”

Dick allowed himself a small whimper before following Tim’s instructions. Settling back as Tim began to clean and stitch everything up.

It was only five, maybe ten, minutes later when Damian suddenly called from the kitchen.

“Drake!” Damian yelled. Dick thought he heard a roar from a wild animal after it, but squeezed his eyes shut against the idea. “We’ve got a problem!”

Tim smiled and rolled his eyes. “Be right back, Dick. Try to get some sleep in the meantime, okay?”

Dick didn’t respond. Kept his eyes closed, and took a deep breath, trying to drown out the toxin’s tricks. And he didn’t have to bring up a memory of Tim’s voice this time.

Because he could hear him talking in the kitchen…talking to Damian…Damian talking back…Damian’s dog barking…suddenly a crash…

Wait…

His brows furrowed and he tried to open his eyes, but it was already too late, and he was tumbling into darkness as he heard his brothers shout out.

~~

When he came to, he was already lurching upwards, like his body was completing an unfinished thought.

“Tim!” He screamed. Silence followed, and, as he jumped from the bed, it was an afterthought that the toxin appeared to have worn off. No more shrieks. No more wailing. No more demons and blood and death.

Or at least, no more hallucinations of it.

“Damian!” He continued, stumbling into the living room. He froze in the doorway, heart dropping at the scene.

It was ransacked. Everything was upturned or broken. T here were bullet holes and knife marks. The couch cushions were slashed. Damian’s tuxedo jacket was on the floor. Tim’s torn bowtie was on the kitchen island. Titus was curled up in the corner, covered with a blanket, bandages already across his legs and body, looking haunted.

There was blood on the floor. A large blotch of it. Batman was staring down at it.

“What happened?” Dick near begged. He couldn’t get closer. He couldn’t. “Whose…whose is that?”

Please be the bad guy’s. He prayed. Please be Crane’s, or one of his thug’s.

“Damian’s.” Oracle whispered from the communicator in his ear. Batman’s tightening fist confirmed her statement. “Security footage shows he took a few hits from a knife trying to block the hallway that led to you.” A pause. “…Tim’s is in the kitchen, and there’s a trail leading back to the window. He was shot in the leg.”

“…No.” Dick breathed.

“It was Crane.” Bruce said monotonously, knowing Dick already assumed that. “You weren’t able to get far enough away in your state, and they were able to follow you. Saw the boys bring you in. Came in through the window to get you. Tim and Damian tried to protect you, so Crane took them instead.”

“He took them?!” Dick demanded.

“Well, they’re not here. And there’s…there’s no bodies.” Bruce muttered, like just the idea of his sons being dead pained him. “So it’s the only theory we have.”

“Why?” Dick continued. “What would he gain?”

“Well, they helped you.” Barbara said thoughtfully. “And Scarecrow’s always looking for new test subjects. Not to mention, I think Crane ended up recognizing them as Bruce Wayne’s sons. Might get something he wants for their safe return.”

“No.” Dick hissed. “No, he won’t get shit but the worst ass kicking I can give.”

Bruce looked up now. Pitifully said, “Dick…”

“I know. I know, okay?” Dick snapped in frustration. In pure and blatant fear. “I know this is my fault. I know they were taken and hurt because of me, but I’m going to go after them right now, and I’m going to fix it.”

And he tried to make it look like he was kneeling, but really, he was collapsing. Falling beside that puddle of his littlest brother’s blood – spilled to protect him, even when he was estranged, because he’d hurt them already, before all this happened. Because he’d abandoned them.

Well, he wouldn’t abandon them now. At this point, forgiveness and amends were the last thing on his mind. The only thing on his mind was getting his brothers back, even if it was the last thing he ever did. Even if they still hated him afterwards.

He reached out, and pressed his fingers into the blood. The oversaturated carpet seeped, and red ran over his gloves. He let his mind wander back to his toxin-induced state, and the image of Tim and Damian under that umbrella, untouched by the darkness.

He curled his now-bloody hand into a fist and whispered angrily to himself: “I’m going to fix this.”