#tim: if you look at him wrong ill end you

[evaningotham]

my favorite version of tim and jason is just a mix of canon and fanon where its like

tim: hates jason and his robin and all of his life choices ever

jason: hates tim and his steadfast loyalty to batman no matter how ofter bruce proves himself unworthy

tim and jason: would kill anyone who put their hands on their least favorite brother

[introspectivememories]

what's wrong with data analyst bernard?

summary: tim's a workaholic ceo. bernard is, to put it simply, a down-on-his-luck loser with a kid to take care of. somewhere along the line, they meet. (very loosely based on the 2018 hit kdrama, "what's wrong with secretary kim?")

A/N: for @chamiryokuroi bc this fanart has given me brainrot since the moment i saw it. but also bc, i missed writing and your art helped. i hope you like it. (more notes at the end.) (AO3 LINK)

Today is a good day, Bernard thinks happily, brand new ID badge bouncing on his tie. It's his first day at Wayne Ent. and Mori had sent him off with a hug and muttered, "have a good day, Tou-san." It's been bouncing around in his head all day. Tou-san, Tou-san, Tou-san, he's really a dad now. He's got to make sure Mori has everything he needs and this new job is going to make sure he can do that.

Shaking his head once to clear it, he takes a sip of the complimentary coffee a team member bought him for his first day. His team leader, Young-joon Lee, is taking him on a tour of the building. Young-joon is a wonderful man in his late 30s but it's very clear that he's been consumed by the office lifestyle.

"...and here is our magnificent lobby!" Young-joon is saying as he tunes back in. His team leader spreads his arms wide out as he speaks, "Everyone knows the lobby but it's my personal philosophy that making friends or at least being on amicable terms with the ground floor staff will make your life easier."

Bernard laughs politely, "I know what you mean. I can't tell you how many times being nice to the host at the restaurant I used to work at saved my butt during rush hour."

"A man after my own heart!" Young-joon says, smiling widely as he leads him to the help desk.

Bernard tilts his head up to look at the skylight. It's a gorgeous thing with little animal motifs running alongside it. It lights up the lobby bringing a welcoming feeling into it. With the sunlight pouring into the room, along with the din of busy workers in slacks running to and fro, it really feels like stepping into a movie.

Are you seeing me Darls?, he thinks with a childlike glee, hand coming up to thumb at his badge again, I made it!

"This, my friend," Young-joon says, pulling up to the help-desk, "is our wonder-duo. Tamara and Abhishek. They practically run this building. Lord knows we'd be tripping all over ourselves without them."

Tamara and Abhishek smile as they get introduced.

"They run this building?" he asks confusedly.

"You see, young padawan," Abhishek says, "not only do we help the people that come in here asking questions or for instructions, we also answer any questions the staff has for us."

"Things like, 'What's HR’s number?' or 'Can you page Data for me?' or 'No seriously, I'm calling HR on this man right now. What is their number?'" Tamara says grinning.

Bernard laughs. It feels like that's all he's been doing since he got here. "You have to tell me the story on that one day."

"Sorry," Tamara says, faux-apologetic, "the minimum clearance on that story is half-a-year. Gotta level up."

His cheeks hurt from smiling. This is his and Mori's new beginning. This is where they level up. Nothing's gonna stop him now.

"Do you know the story behind that one?" he asks, turning to Young-joon.

"Of course! But where would be the fun in telling you? You have to stay the six months and if luck comes my way, longer."

"You want me for longer?"

"Of course, I saw the way you worked during those practice problems in the interview. I had to fight the other team leaders for you. It was brutal."

"Get back I say!" Young-joon says, miming a sword fight. A pleased warmth builds in his chest; they wanted him, they wanted him!

Darls you better be fucking watching this. I'm movin' up in the world.

"Ooh, send me that footage. I wanna see our newest recruits skills," Abhishek says.

"You got the data team fighting over you?" Tamara asks, eyebrows raised, "I wanna see it—"

Whatever she was going to say is cut off by the sound of both of their pagers pinging. Immediately going stock still, they start typing on their computers.

Bernard turns to Young-joon confused but his team leader looks like nothing is out of the ordinary.

"The boss is coming." Young-joon says, like that's a reasonable explanation for two people shutting down in the middle of the conversation, "It's always quite a spectacle and they always have to notify the other execs. Just watch."

Still, the boss? Maybe Bruce Wayne will say 'hi' to him and he'll charm the CEO and Mr. Wayne can figure out a way to—

No, no. He's done making those kinds of fantasies. Nobody is coming to help. Bernard is going to figure out his life on his own, he is going to take such good care of his kid, and he is not going to wait for some rich billionaire to swoop in and take care of him. He got this far didn't he? He'll get even farther.

He and his team leader lean against the help desk sipping coffee as they wait for the CEO to come in and sure enough, a black Rolls Royce pulls up to the driveway in the front. The minute the door opens, flashes from the paparazzi's cameras start going off. Out steps a bodyguard in a black suit with an umbrella opened. From below the umbrella he sees a nice pair of brown loafers step out. The CEO seems to be wearing a navy blue suit today. The paparazzi roars and the flashes increase.

"Oh wow," a man remarks a few feet away from him, "the circus is strong today, huh?" His friend laughs.

A woman wearing red heels steps out after the CEO, the paparazzi flashes decrease dramatically. More bodyguards exit after the woman and form a square around the CEO and his assistant/secretary. They shuffle towards the entrance where he sees the elderly doormen greet the executives with a smile. Whatever they say is lost to the sound of the city but the doormen laugh and push the doors open.

Young-joon's been making small talk throughout the entrance and Bernard tries to keep up but whatever the hell is going on at the entrance is way more interesting than anything his team leader is talking about. As they enter the guards spread out and dissolve the square. The woman comes into view first, red heels with a black slacks and a white button down. She's holding a long coat in one hand and a laptop bag slung over her shoulder. She's gorgeous and clearly the one in charge, going by the way she barks orders at the guards.

Young-joon says something and he turns around to respond, grabbing his coffee cup off the desk counter. His CEO's loafers tap across the lobby's marble floor, something about it is comforting. A lull in the room's conversations causes the CEO's voice to carry over.

"...Tam, make sure the quarterly reports are on my desk by at least 4 today and make sure to push back the sales meeting by 30 minutes to an hour, the board wants to talk — Oh Mr. Bardakcı! Thank you for stay—..."

Bernard's heart jackrabbits in his chest. He knows that voice but- it can't be. It's not possible; he chose Wayne Enterprises for a reason. He's not supposed to be here. He's supposed to be at his father's company. Unless... there was a merger? No, that seems like the kind of thing the news wouldn't've shut up about. He would've known.

When was the last time you had time to sit down and read the news, Bear? Darls says inside his head

She's right. With filing for custody of Mori and graduating from college and the job search, he hasn't had time for much else. It's entirely possible that he could've missed one of the biggest mergers of the decade.

Fuck, Fuck.

He wasn't supposed to be here. Bernard was supposed to be moving on. He was supposed to be building a life for himself away from the shadows of his childhood. He was supposed to be forgetting that Tim Drake ever existed.

He has to make sure though. Turning his body around, he prays that it's not the man he thinks it is. But sure enough, there stands Tim Drake, resplendent in a navy blue suit and a golden tie.

Golden ties for golden boys, he thinks absentmindedly.

The suit fits him perfectly, stretching across his shoulders and wrapping around his waist. Even the tie looks knotted perfectly. How long did it take him to learn, Bernard wonders. He could never get it right back in high school. Does his assistant Tam do it- no, no! This is why he didn't apply to Drake Industries. Bernard can't do anything around Tim and Tim is never going to care enough about him to stay.

Tim's head seems to be turning in his direction and Bernard whips his head back to make sure Tim doesn’t even catch a glimpse of him. His hand twitches violently enough that the coffee cup falls out of his hand and spills all over the floor. The cup rattles deafeningly on the floor. Bernard can't fucking breathe.

"-ernard? Bernard!" his team leader's voice cuts through the haze in his head. Young-joon looks concerned, "Are you okay?"

He blinks slowly, "...What?"

"I said, 'Are you okay?’ You look like you've seen a ghost?"

No, Bernard thinks, seeing Darls would be preferable to whatever level of hell I've found myself in.

"I'm—, I'm fine." he says rather unconvincingly. His eyes dart back to the spill, "What am I saying? There's a large puddle of coffee on the floor. I—, I should get some paper towels for that."

"Do you have any paper towels, Wonder-Duo?" he asks, trying desperately to ignore Tamara and Abhishek's concerned looks.

"I already called the custodial staff," Tamara says slowly, like she’s trying not to spook him, "but if it makes you feel any better," she pulls out a huge stack of paper towels, "go crazy, I guess."

Bernard takes a handful of paper towels and gets to work. The cleaning is meditative and with each swipe of the paper towel, the puddle gets smaller. Bernard pretends the puddle is his feelings for Tim. Swipe, forget about the 4pm milkshakes and his laughter when Darls snorted milk out of her nose. Swipe, don't think about the way he used to smell. Swipe, he left and never looked back; you don't look back either.

The tap, tap, tap of loafer on marble is getting closer to them for some reason. Why is it getting closer? Does it not have staff meetings, market research, and people to leave behind?

"What is going on here?" Tim asks.

"Nothing much, sir." Abhishek responds, "Newbie just spilled some coffee."

Abhishek, no!

"Oh is that all? And he took the initiative to start cleaning instead of waiting for the custodial staff. You made a good choice, Young-joon."

"Thank you, sir!" Young-joon says, "I was taking him on the tour when you came in. Most newbies love the show so I thought we'd stop here for a little bit."

Tim laughs. Bernard hates that his heart still skips a beat at the sound.

A pair of brown loafers and a wool-covered knee slowly appear in his vision. Why is Tim crouching in front of him? Why won't this man leave him alone?

"This looks like quite a lot of work, let me help."

You can help by leaving me the hell alone, he thinks uncharitably.

"I hope you found the facilities to your liking," Tim continues, like he hadn't heard Bernard's thoughts, "My name is Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO."

I know, he wants to say. I know you're Tim Drake. I know you like to skateboard and that you stared at Tony Hawk's photo for an hour every day in high school ‘cause didn't want to be one of those people who didn't recognize him. I know you struggled with your dad not really being there. I know you loved Mrs. Winters as much as you loved your mom. I know that you like history more than any other subject even though your best was always math.

Bernard says nothing instead.

Tim laughs awkwardly and Bernard knows he isn't helping the conversation along but whatever, he's allowed to be petty, right?

"I assure you, whatever you heard in the tabloids and the news, isn't true. I promise I won't bite…," Tim’s voice trails off as Bernard lifts his head.

"...Bernard?" Tim whispers, he looks like he's seen a ghost.

Bernard tries for a smile, he's pretty sure it comes out looking like a grimace.

"Sir," he says nodding curtly, hands still moving to sweep up the coffee puddle.

Tim's hand reaches out to touch his face, as if to make sure Bernard is really there. Bernard recoils as Tim's hand grazes his cheek. Tim's hand hangs in the air uselessly.

"Bernard?" Tim says again, as if to make sure his eyes aren't playing tricks on him.

"That's my name, Sir," he says through clenched teeth, "don't wear it out."

He can feel Young-joon and the Wonder-Duo's confused stare but he says nothing. What would he even say, really?

Hey, this is my old friend Tim Drake? Hey, I used to know him like the back of my hand? Hey, our best friend died and it feels like I'm the only one still grieving? Hey, in my junior year, five different gangs shot up my school and my best friend died in my arms and he left and I had to pick up the pieces by myself? Hey, I'm the idiot that's still in love with Tim Drake?

The clack of Tam's heels comes as a welcome distraction.

"Tim!" she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him away, "What the hell do you think you're doing? We have to go talk to the board. Build rapport with your employees later."

Tim stumbles to his feet, "Yes, but—, I—, This is—"

He sounds like he's glitching. Bastard. Is it really such a surprise to see Bernard in a well paying job? Even Tam is starting to look a little concerned now.

"Explain later," she commands, dragging Tim behind her. Bernard keeps his head down and continues wiping up the coffee puddle. Sneaking a glance upward shows him that Tim keeps turning back around to stare at him.

For a moment their eyes meet, brown against blue. 'Bernard?' he sees Tim mouth. Bastard, saying his name so many times. Doesn't he know what that does to Bernard? Why does Tim insist on breaking his heart again and again and again? Was once not enough?

He's tired of putting these walls up and just for a second, he lets them come down. Let Tim see the entirety of his brokenness. Tim already has his heart, he can have this too.

'Tim' he mouths back, smiling sadly. Tim looks stunned and the rage that had been simmering in his gut begins to boil over.

Do you see what I've become? Do you see how thoroughly Grieves ruined me? Is this not your doing too? Why did you leave? Have you ever visited Darla? Why was it so easy for you to not look back? Was I not your friend? Or was it just a time pass? Why wasn't I enough for you to stay?

He watches until the elevator doors close, separating him from Tim once again. His body sags like a marionette cut from its strings and his fingers clench uselessly around the coffee soaked paper towels. A hand lands on his shoulder and he flinches.

"Hey, hey," Young-joon soothes from where he's crouched right next to him. When did Young-joon crouch down? How much time has he missed? "It's just me, Bernard. Are you okay? What was that? Does our CEO know you?"

He exhales shakily. He needs to get out of here. He needs to sob hard enough he throws up. He needs the steady press of a knife on his back. He needs things he's not allowed to have anymore.

Bernard shoots up so fast the world spins around him. holding onto the desk for support, he tries to smile at his team leader. It stretches across his face misshapenly.

"I'm—, I'm sorry," he says stumbling over his words in a rush to get them out, "I have to—"

He has to what? Pretend to not see Darls out of the corner of his eye? Pretend like his hands don't have blood on them? Pretend like he isn't seeing bullet wounds every time he closes his eyes?

"—go to the bathroom," he finishes lamely. Gathering up all of the paper towels, he walks away dazedly, ignoring Young-joon's calls behind him. He shoves the towels in the nearest trashcan, letting his feet lead him to the nearest bathroom.

The bathroom is thankfully empty when he enters and he locks the door behind him. Sliding down the door, he exhales shakily. There's not enough air in this room; he can't breathe. The fluorescent lights hum above their coverings. The one on the left flickers. Who's bright idea was it to install school lights in a business office's bathroom?

The world outside the bathroom rushes on too loudly. Somebody is talking about their vacation. Someone is bemoaning their presentation today. His chest is getting tighter. His hands come up to tug on his hair. Why can't he breathe?

The exhales are coming quicker and quicker. Something comes tapping down the hallway. It's the gunmen, it has to be. A quick glance down tells him all he needs to know: he's covered in blood.

It's Lila's, he thinks dazedly, I had to carry her into the office. Or no, it's Olu's. I held him when he died. He said, he said, what did he say?

Why can't he remember? He hits his head with the heel of his palm.

Think he tells himself, we have to tell Olu's parents what he said. He said—, he said—.

His body sags.

Oh now he remembers. He said, "I don't wanna die Bernard."

A whimper tears itself out of his throat and he slaps a palm over his mouth. There's blood smeared across his face now, he must look like he walked out of a slasher film. He has to be quiet. if he's too loud, the gunmen will find them and then they'll all be dead.

Cry quietly, he tells himself, Darls doesn't need—

Darla! How could he forget about Darla with a hole in her gut? He needs to get to her. Lurching forward, he scrabbles across Mrs. Castillo's linoleum floor. He's smearing Olu's blood everywhere. Why won't Nikhil stop fucking crying so loudly? Goddamn freshmen and their hysterics. Where is Tim? Is he safe? He can't lose both friends today, please Lord, please.

BANG!

A violent flinch tears through his body. He sobs audibly this time, gagging on his spit. It's the gunmen, it has to be. He hasn't even held Darls' hand or counted Tim's moles for the last time. Where are the Darls? She shouldn't be alone. She doesn't like violence like this.

"Why didn't you save me, Bear?" a voice asks from behind him.

He freezes. Slowly he turns around and nearly yells in shock. Falling back on his butt, he stares up at his friend.

(He has to be quiet, he has to be quiet, he has to be quiet-)

Darls is standing behind him still in her crop top and cargo pants. Her once smooth midsection, bloodied and warped. The bullet wound still drips blood.

Plink, plink, plink.

Bernard hates the scent of iron.

"Why didn't you save me, Bear?" she asks, her voice echoing, "I thought we were friends."

There’s blood dripping down the side of her mouth. Now he remembers, the blood on him isn’t Olu’s or Lila’s — although there is that too — it’s almost overwhelmingly Darla’s. He’s covered in it. Elbows deep in it. It streaks up his arms like a macabre tattoo. He wore a white shirt to school today. The stains will never come out. He is Carrie at the end of prom, mortified and humiliated.

He crawls backwards until his back hits the wall, the impact knocking him out of the worst of that night. He's back in the bathroom. The lights hum loudly overhead. Darla hasn’t left yet.

She tilts her head, “Why didn’t you help me, Bear? I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” he rasps out, “we are friends.”

“Are we?” her eyes have no pupils. His Darls had eyes that shone in the sunlight. His Darls is dead. “Then why am I still bleeding? Why am I still hurting? Why is there a bullet in my stomach, Bear?!”

She’s shouting by the end and he flinches. His hands can’t seem to stop tugging at his hair. The blood must’ve smeared all over it. Talk about taking strawberry blond literally.

“I swear I did everything I could Darls,” he sobs out quietly, voice cracking, “I followed all of Mrs. Castillo’s instructions as best I could. I put pressure and tied the dressing as tight as I could.”

“You thought that was enough?” she snarls, hands coming down to grip the wound. It twists grotesquely; he gags, “You think any of that matters when I’m dead and you’re still alive?”

“Please, please. You know I wouldn’t leave you to die, Darls. Please, please, please believe me.”

“Liar, liar!” she screams, blood dripping out of her mouth onto her pink LOVE shirt. It darkens as each drop hits it. Soon it’ll be completely drenched and she’ll be drowning in it. Where did his smiling friend go? “I’m dead, Bear! I’m dead, dead, dead and it’s all your fault! Why didn’t you save me?! Why didn’t you save me?!”

He keens, body curling in on itself. One hand goes down to press on his throat; he’s making too much noise. Nikhil’s just a freshman. He shouldn’t have to die just because Bernard couldn’t shut up for once in his life.

“Please,” he whispers raggedly, “I tried, I tried. I swear I tried, Darls.”

“It hurts, Bear,” she sobs. Darla’s too young to be sounding so wrecked, “It hurts so much. Please help me.”

All of sudden, it’s too much. The taste of iron sits heavy on his tongue and Darla won’t stop sobbing. His fingers fumble for his phone and he presses one. It rings once, twice and finally on the third ring does a voice answer.

“Bear?” the other side says groggily.

“Ty please, I can't do this anymore,“ he sobs.

Tyrone suddenly sounds a lot more alert, “Bear what’s going on?”

“Darla won’t stop crying and she keeps on screaming that it’s my fault she died.” he wails, “I know I should’ve done more but please, can you tell her I tried? That I stayed with her until the end? She won’t listen to me, Ty. She won’t listen to me.”

There’s a muffled yell of ‘Babe!” on the other end. “Yeah,” Ty breathes out, “I’ll tell her.”

“You put me on speaker, okay?” Ty instructs, “And you gotta tell me if she’s nodding or if she’s gone or if she said anything, alright? I can’t see her.”

“Okay,” he whispers, pulling the phone away from his ear to press the speaker button.

“You tell me when to start, Bear,” he says, voice filling the bathroom. Darla looks up from where she’s sobbing.

“You can start now Ty,” he rasps out, holding the phone out.

“Hey Darla,” Ty says, “Bear told me you said a lotta mean things about him. Stuff like, ‘he’s the reason you died’ and that ‘he never cared’. Darla, you gotta believe me when I say Bear never stopped caring. He held your hand the whole way through. Told you stories about all the things you two were gonna do once you got out of that nurse’s office. He tried, Darla, honest. I’ve never seen him as focused as when you stopped breathing and Mrs. Castillo had him give you CPR. He couldn’t stop sobbing the whole time.”

“But I’m still dead,” she says.

“But I’m still dead,” he repeats.

Ty inhales sharply, “Yeah,” he says thickly, “you are. And I’ll never stop being sorry about that. But you can’t take that out on Bear. He’s just trying to live his life.”

Darls’ face twists up like a childs, “But it hurts,” she cries.

“But—, but it hurts,” he repeats, voice hitching.

Ty curses, “Oh, fuck. I can’t do this. Babe, can you—?”

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Hey, Darla. It’s me, Jimmy from the football team. I don’t know if you remember me but I remember you. After high school, me and Tyrone ended up getting married. Somewhere between shitty weed brownies and bad college parties, we fell in love. Isn’t that nice?”

Darls nods; he tells them as such.

“We visited you after the ceremony. I hope you felt that wherever you are these days. But the point I’m trying to make is that from all I’ve told you just now, you can probably figure out that Ty and I didn’t go pro like we planned. The shooting fucked up Ty’s knee and and my arm. After the hospital stays, playing football for a whole bunch of people just didn’t sound appealing anymore. We’re high school teachers now. Ty teaches math and I teach gym. When it rains or gets cold, my arm and Ty’s knee hurts like hell. But Darla, it doesn't hurt forever. It gets better, I promise.”

“Darla,” Jimmy says, voice unusually serious, “you’re right, you are dead and it does hurt. I’m sorry, I’ll never stop being sorry. I don’t know if it’ll ever go away for you; I’m not too much of an expert on the supernatural. Ty’s the smart one, after all. But I love you, Ty loves you, Bear loves you. I hope that when it hurts the most you can use that as a balm.”

“Auntie Bea loves you too!” Ty’s mom hollers from the background, “Aunt Betty, too!”

Ty laughs wetly and Jimmy snorts, “Does that sound okay?” they ask.

Darls smiles, her teeth stained red from all the blood that built up in her mouth. Bernard misses her with an ache he feels in his bones. Darls nods.

“She nodded,” he says quietly. He blinks once and she’s gone. Where did she go? Doesn’t she know that the gunmen are still at large? She needs to be somewhere safe. He can’t lose a friend today.

“Bear, Bear, you gotta breathe. Take a deep breath for me, c’mon,” Jimmy says.

“She’s gone, Jim. She’s gone again. Why does she keep leaving?” he says, crying. His body can’t stop trembling. How long has he been here? How much time has he missed?

“I miss the cult,” he whispers, “I never had things like this happen when I was with them.”

“Yeah,” Ty snaps, “‘Cause you were high off of like 50 different pain meds ‘cause you let them whip you.”

“Ty, not helping.”

“Move over, let me talk to him."

"Hey, sweetheart," Auntie Bea's voice crackles through his tiny speaker, "I know you're tired and I know you're hurting. I know you miss the cult but you gotta breathe for me, okay? You're gonna pass out otherwise."

"I can't, I can't," he gasps out. 

"Sure you can, you just gotta tell me five things you can see. Can you list those five things for me?"

Bernard desperately tries to get his breathing under control, "The sink is dirty."

"Good, good. Anything else?" 

"The tiles need to be re-grouted."

Aunt Betty barks out a laugh. Bernard's lips twitch upward.

"Keep going."

"My pants, my white shirt, my ID badge," he rattles off.

They talk him through the rest of the grounding techniques and by the time he feels like he's in control again, he's exhausted. His eyes hurt and his throat is dry. 

"Can you tell us why you spiraled so hard, Bear? This hasn't happened in a long time," Jimmy asks.

"I spoke to Tim again," he says simply. He pushes himself up onto his feet and walks over to the sink. Setting the phone down on the counter, he grips the sink with both hands and just breathes. The Bernard in the mirror looks like he just came out of a warzone, eyes haunted, hair messed up. 

"Oh fuck," Ty says, "Where did you even meet him?"

"At my new job at Wayne Ent."

"Why would you apply there?" Jimmy asks, stressed.

"I didn't know! It's not like I've had a lotta time in the past few years to check the news!"

"Well, whatever, what’s done is done." Ty says, ever practical, "Are you going to quit?"

"No!” he says vehemently.

“No,” he repeats quieter, “Wayne has the best benefits and Mori needs that. I’ll just suck it up and try to avoid him.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Aunt Betty says.

“Ma!”

“Oh be quiet Jimmy. I’ve never heard of a more stupider thing. He’s your CEO, Bear, and he knows you work there. He’s obviously going to want ‘to catch up’ or whatever. There is no avoiding him. Can you handle that?”

What can he say? Aunt Betty is right. He can’t handle talking to Tim. Even seeing Tim felt like touching a live wire. He can’t deal with another episode. Mori doesn’t need him to be fucked up, Mori needs him to be the stable adult he promised the courts he was. 

“You can’t, sweetheart,” she says softly, “you can’t handle it.”

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the phone. 

“Bear,” Ty says gently, “I love you, man. You’re my brother. Jimmy loves you, Mama loves you, Aunt Betty loves you. But you gotta start thinking about therapy.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, “I shouldn’t’ve dragged you into this. I’m—”

Ty cuts him off with an exasperated huff, “It’s not about that Bear. I’ll keep talking to your hallucinations for as long as you need me too. Even when we’re seventy, I’ll do it for you. I don’t care about that. I care about you and I want you to be happy and healthy. I don’t want you to keep seeing Darla. I don’t want you to keep trying to scrub the blood off your hands. 

“And I know you’ve been avoiding therapy ‘cause you don’t got the money and ‘cause talking about your problems is scary but it’s not just you anymore. You got Mori now. That custody claim is going through. You can’t just avoid things ‘cause they’re hard now. You work at Wayne now; that paycheck is more than enough to set a few dollars aside each month to save up for therapy. Hell, mental health probably comes with your medical benefits. Please, Bear. If you can’t get help for you, then do it for us, for Mori. Please stop making us watch you hurt.”

Bernard exhales shakily.

“I never wanna find you the way we did after the cult, Bear. I never wanna see you in the hospital bed like that again. Please don’t do that to us, please,” Ty whispers.

Unconsciously, his hand comes up to rub at the scar left behind from the sacrifice. It stretches along the length of his sternum, jagged and rough. On good days, he can pretend that it’s a scar from a heart surgery. He doesn’t have that many good days.

Bernard presses the heel of his palms into his eyes before using his hands to scrub at his face. He’s always so tired these days.

“Okay,” he says simply, “okay.”

“Okay?” Ty asks hopefully.

“Okay, you’re right. It’s not just me anymore. Mori deserves the best and I’m gonna give it to him. And I love Tim, I think I’ll always love Tim but he clearly doesn’t give a shit about me. So I gotta make my peace with it or I’ll go crazy.”

Ty whoops, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he chants.

“Bear, it’s still the middle of the workday,” Jimmy says, although he too, sounds happy. Auntie Bea and Betty are muttering about a feast, he thinks. “Don’t you have to get back to work?”

“Yeah, that’s if I’m not fired already,” he mutters.

“Hey!” Jimmy admonishes, “Optimism only, no pessimism.”

“Alright, alright. I gotta get back to work now. Thanks guys.”

“Of course, we’ll let you go now. Ma wants me to tell you that we’re having dinner at your place today.”

“Aunt Betty,” he whines, “I haven’t cleaned and you and Auntie Bea are just looking for a reason to spoil Mori.”

“Absolutely,” they say, unashamed, “he’s our only grandson. We have to spoil him.”

“Fine,” he sighs but he’s smiling. Fuck, he loves these people. God knows he wouldn’t have survived the past six years without them.

“Bye Bear,” they say before he hangs up, “Good luck on your first day!”

He cuts the phone and slides it back into his pocket. Turning on the tap, he splashes some cold water onto his face. Using his wet hands, he tries to rearrange his mussed up hair into something acceptable for an office job.

Time to face the music Darls, he tells her smiling face in the mirror. She gives him a thumbs up in return.

The walk back to his office feels like a death sentence. He’s fucked this up, he knows it. Freaking out over a small interaction with his CEO and then running away only to come back two hours later? It’s over, done for. Bernard takes comfort in the fact that at least the severance package will be nice.

Stepping into the office, immediately draws the eyes of his team members. Every step towards his team leader’s office feels nerve-wracking. Just before he enters, Esperanza, the team’s second in command, stops him.

“Whatever happened,” she says, “just explain it to him. Young-joon’s a reasonable man, he’s not gonna yell at you.”

Some of the tension leaves him and he nods. Knocking on the door, he enters. His team leader looks up and smiles.

“Ah, Bernard! Why don’t you take a seat for me?”

He crosses his wrists behind his back, “I’d rather stand, sir.”

His team leader looks confused, “‘Sir’? Just call me Young-joon like I told you.”

“Anyway, after you left, I took the liberty of going through your file to see if there was anything I missed. I hope that wasn’t overstepping my boundaries.”

“No s-, Young-joon. You’re fine.”

Young-joon sighs and pushes the file he was reading before Bernard came in forward. It’s his file. 

“I’m going to say some statements,” he says, “and I want you to confirm whether it’s true or not. If any of these questions make you uncomfortable, just tell me okay? I’ll drop it immediately.”

Bernard nods.

“You went to Louis E. Grieves Memorial High School.”

“Yes.”

“Based on the dates you put in your file, you were there for the shooting.”

“...Yes. Junior year.”

“You know our CEO.”

“Yes,” he breathes out.

“How?”

He used to fall asleep on my shoulder during lunch and I would listen to him breathe. He’s got moles all over his face. Darls once connected them with a sharpie. His step-mom was so hot, I thought I’d spontaneously combust every time she smiled. HIs dad didn’t really like me and flirting with his wife didn’t help my case. The Drake condo had a crocheted flower blanket on the sofa that his mom had made during her pregnancy. He liked to skateboard but couldn’t roller-blade to save his life. I have all this love and nowhere to put it.

“It’s a little private,” he says instead.

“I’m only asking because we work quite closely with him. We see him often and if that makes you uncomfortable, then I can have you transferred to another team.”

His shoulders sag, “We went to Grieves together for one year. Our mutual friend died. It’s a little hard to look at him.”

“Jesus Christ.” Young-joon says, “Okay well the offer is still on the table, Bernard. Do you want to be transferred?”

“No, I like your team. I’d like to stay,” he says, firmly.

“Are you sure?” Youn-joon asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” and it’s like a switch had flipped. Gone is his serious team leader and in its place is the man he met this morning.

“If you plan on staying,” he says smiling, “then my primary recommendation is that you use the medical benefits the company gives you to find a therapist. If you need help, the infirmary here will walk you through it.” 

Oh thank god it comes included with his medical, Ty will be overjoyed to hear that. But first, he has to ask Young-joon why he’s doing all this. Bernard knows his experience with authority figures is a little skewed towards the shitty side of the spectrum but even so, people usually aren’t so kind in his experience.

“Why are you doing this? Why didn’t you fire me? Why are you helping me?”

Young-joon chuckles, “Do you want to be fired?”

“No! But still, why are you helping me?”

Young-joon sighs and stands up. Walking around his desk, he stops right in front of Bernard. Young-joon puts a hand on his shoulder.

“This city takes a lot out of its people, believe me I know. And you were so young, when Gotham took her piece of you. It wasn’t fair of you to go through that. Just like it wasn’t fair to me and my wife when we got kidnapped as children. These kinds of things don’t go away. I still get worked up over zip-ties. My wife still has nightmares. All you can do is learn to live with it.

“You seem like a good kid with a good head on your shoulders. I’d hate to see all that potential go to waste ‘cause you kept getting trapped in your mind. I had a lot of help to get to where and who I am today. Consider this, me paying it forward. One day, I hope you can pay it forward too.”

His eyes feel suspiciously wet. “Thank you,” he chokes out, “thank you.”

Young-joon laughs, “There’s no need for the waterworks, Bernard. Now, pack up your things and go home. You’re in no state to analyze data today but I expect you here at 9AM sharp tomorrow, alright?”

Bernard mock salutes, “Yes, sir.”

“Goodbye, Bernard.”

Right before he exits, he turns around and calls out his team leader’s name.

“Young-joon,” Young-joon looks up confused, “you can call me Bear, by the way.”

A wide grin stretches across his team leader’s face, “Okay then. Goodbye Bear, see you tomorrow.”

Walking out of the office, it feels like a burden has been lifted off his shoulders. Esperanza takes one look at him and snorts.

“You just got Young-joon-ed, huh?”

His jaw drops, “He does that often enough you guys have a name for it?”

The other team members laugh, “Welcome to Data Analysis Team 1, kiddo. We look forward to working with you from now on.”

Smiling, he gathers his things and leaves after a few goodbyes. Once outside the building, the smile drops. It’s an hour-and-a-half bus ride from Wayne Tower to his house. The bus stop sits right in front of the tower too. Some new initiative by the mayor to promote the city moving towards green energy. Hey look, even rich people take the bus! What a fucking joke.

The tower warps the sunlight around it and he stares up at the top floor. Is Tim watching? Can Tim see him from up there? Does he care or was it just the shock of seeing someone he once knew this morning? Has Tim ever thought about him, about them? Or were they just moments in his life? Perpendicular lines, intersecting once and then never again.

I miss you, he thinks staring at the top floor, I miss you more than anything but I’ll walk into oncoming traffic before I ever reach for you again.

The bus pulls up next to him and he snags a seat in the back. Dropping his head onto the seat in front of him, he stares out the window. Darls smiles back at him in the window reflection, perpetually sixteen. He’s twenty-two now.

Fuckin’ hell Darls, he thinks wearily, we’re really in it now.

Darls places her hand against the glass, he leans his shoulder onto it. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel her warmth.

We’ll make it through, she says.

The bus rumbles forward and he lets the cracked streets of Gotham lull him to sleep. He’ll make it through.

A/N: chami! i hope you like it!!! i've never gifted a fic before, i don't really know how this works. and to everyone who read it, i hope you liked it too! please leave your thoughts in the reblogs or replies!!! i miss the days when td:r was coming out and we were all collectively freaking out. anyway when i said loosely based, i really did mean loosely. props to you guys if you can figure out the direct references to the drama. but this is a one-shot. i'm not gonna be writing anything else for this 'verse? au? (god i'm always so worried im using em dashes wrong)

if you have questions or you're confused by something i wrote, feel free to ask questions or send an ask or message. oh, and i know some people like know the exact wordcount. so, it's exactly 6,785 words long. nice number right?

also, please note that if you want to make art or a podfic or hell, even fanfiction of this, feel free to do so! i hope that's not too presumptuous or anything. idk i see fanfic writers make this disclaimer all the time, so i thought i'd do it to.

thank you for reading!

[xan-izme]

Dubble life (ACTSV x reader x Batfam) 2

Part 1, Part 3

Summary: Reader struggles to get used to their new life in Gotham. Worrying constantly about her family in New York. A rise of tension rises between readers father figure Aaron and her real father Bruce.

After the dinner, you got yourself ready for bed. The old boombox player you had was playing soft music in the background.

You turned the lights off, slipped into bed and stared at absolutely nothing. Even with the soft music playing, you were just itching to break into your suit and jump from building to building. You were missing your life as Spider-Woman. You missed your aunt and uncles. You missed your cousin. He was literally your twin.

You practically bawled your eyes out while saying goodbye to him. Suddenly, your train of thought was broken when you heard a ringing sound. You sat you and grabbed your phone, for some reason, hoping that it was your mother calling, telling you she was going to be home late tonight.

It wasn't your mother, of course, it was Miles, your cousin. You happily accepted the call. "Miles! oh my God, I missed you!" You could hear the boy chuckle on the other side of the phone.

"We saw each other this morning."

You pout and groan "I know! but it feels like it's been days." You knew you were acting like a toddler, but don't you deserve to act like this? After the nights filled with crime, days filled with unwanted drama.

You and Miles stayed on the phone. Not much talking involved. Talking was too much to do, knowing that they couldn't say the usual 'See you tomorrow' or Miles reminding you to be safe on your little outings. You did end up crying at one point, which caused Miles to tear up, but you don't know that, and he would like to keep it that way.

The next few weeks went by in a blink of an eye, dinner most of the times ended up just being you and Alfred, which you understand, knowing Bruce is busy, and Damian doesn't really like you. Tim would join you for lunch at times. You soon found out Tim was a geek. Which made you talk and ramble off about your plans for the future. Besides from that, you were mostly alone in the house.

Now it was your first day of school, your uncle Aaron offered to drive you for your first day. You asked Bruce for permission first of course.

Bruce at first wanted to say no, but when he pondered about it. It would be good for you to be with someone you knew better to be with you on your first day.

But Bruce looked into Aron. The man was trouble, used to be involved in lots of bad people back in the day. Just to be safe, Bruce decided to tag along. This would also help Bruce get closer to you, get to know the real you.

Putting aside the formalities and the instant obedience you give him.

The doorbell rang, Alfred opened the door and see Aaron standing with a blank expression, one matching Alfreds. "Ah, Mister Davies. Lady Y/n is curently getting ready. Please follow me."

Without any words, Aaron follows Alfred to a room. Thats where he meets Bruce.

"Nice to meet you Mr. Davies." Bruce puts a smile on his face and extended his hand to greet. Aaron smiled a little and shook his hand

"Same here. And Aaron is fine."

The two men sat down and began to talk. It was normal, but only for a small amount of time. The tension in the room began to rise when Aaron's past was brought up.

". . . I admit. I went down the wrong path when I was younger. But I grew out of that mess. But if this is about Y/n, then I guaranty you she is nothing like me. She's a good girl."

"I know she is. I'm not suggesting anything Ill towards my daughter."

Aaron chuckled "Daughter? Don't take this personally. But she ain't your daughter. Not till she says so."

Before any real argument could be made, you came busting in the room. "Uncle Aaron!"

"Baby girl!" Aron at up and opened his arms for a hug.

You ran into the man's arms. Giggling as Aaron gave your head a kiss.

"Look at you. In your little uniform."

You smiled more and twirled around for Aaron to see the whole fit better. "You like it?"

"I love it."

The car ride was a little awkward, but at least it wasn't fully awkward.

Aaron gave you some money and a few good luck kisses and I love You's from Rio. You gave Bruce a hug goodbye.

It's been almost a month since Spider-woman was last seen. Tim did take an interest in this Spider-woman and was going to offer her to join the Young Justice League. You were just one person looking after New York all on your own, with no help. It was very impressive.

But now Spider-Woman was just nowhere to be seen. She has just gone MIA. Now the Prowler was taking care of the city. The media has gone crazy after the disappearance of Spider-woman.

'WHERE IS SPIDER-WOMAN?'

'SPIDER-WOMAN ON THE RUN?'

What did catch Tim's attention was the last time Spider-Woman was seen was the day Y/n's mother died. A lot of people were hurt that day Only one dead, which was your mother. Tim has come to a small theory that the death of your mother is connected to the disappearance of Spider-woman.

It's been a full week since you started school, the first day, teachers were really nice to you. They already knew about your mother, which had them pity you. And Bruce being your father made them extra nice. You already didn't like the kids. Seeing them as fake. Because they were. Those smiling faces, those empty words.

You knew them all too well. You do the same, fake knows fake, guess that's what you could call it. Damian was of course no help. Ignoring you as much as he could. Which you didn't actually care.

Why would you care for someone who clearly don't care for you? No need to waste any energy on him. You did take interest in a few clubs. You did need to pick one that you didn't have to attend all the time. One that didn't need too much of your attention. So, you picked the art club.

You saw how much kids were in there, with those number of kids, no one expects you to get to know them all, nor make friends with them all. There are also very talented kids in the club, and the art they do isn't your style, so you're not the best. Which was in a way, good to keep cover.

Right now, you were at the manor. Your uncle dropped off the extra books you left at his place. half of your room looked a section in a library. You knew there was a library in the manor. But they weren't your books. Even if Bruce insists that most of the things in the manor was also yours, that's not how you saw it.

The things you brought from New York was yours, the cloths, books, pictures. You just felt like a guest. Nothing else.

You were curently in your room, listening to a playlist Miles made for you. You were just finishing up your homework when you heard a knock on your door.

"Y/n? It's me, Bruce." The voice on the other side of the door spoke. "Come in!" You say, just loud enough for him to hear.

Bruce enters the room, when he sees you, a small smile graces his lips. You gave him an awkward smile as you wait for what he needed to tell you.

"My schedule is cleared out today. I was wondering if you wanted to go out shopping with me." Bruce was taking a look around your room. Looking at the items you kept on shelves, pictures. Trying to know what you would like, so he could buy something for you that was more of your style.

"And me!" Suddenly Dick popped out of the door with a bright smile on his face. "Nice room." Drick mumbled as he went near your bookshelf. Seeing what books, you were into.

"Ah. . . I would love to, sir- Bruce. But I don't got much on me." You had your own card, you had about 300 or 500 in. But you don't use it unless you're out and really need something to eat. On top of that, you kind of have a spending problem you need to control.

"No need to worry about that." Bruce pulled out his card "It's all on me."

You had no choice but to go with them. You sat in the back seat. Dick in the passenger seat while Bruce was driving. "How's school? make any friends?" Dick spoke up, turning down the volume of the radio. "Oh, it's alright. Me a few kids, they were pretty nice."

The car pulled up to a store. You walked in with the two men and started looking around. You saw plushies that looked really cute. "Can I get these?" You pointed at the plushies and looked up to Bruce for permision.

"Of course." Dick grabbed the plushies and you all started to get more things. Clothes, shoes. You were pretty satisfied with what you had. Bruce purchased what you had picked out, along with a few dresses Dick picked out for you.

Bruce was able to talk to you more. He knows that you like a lot of music genres, you seem to have a deep bond with your cousin Miles and your uncle Aaron. You speak highly of Miles, like he was a sun in the sky to praise.

Bruce was still hooked up on what Aaron had said. Bruce knows that he can't fix the sixteen years he missed in your life, but he wants to try and be there for you now. Try to break down that fake smile of yours.

What? You think he didn't notice.?

Bruce knows what pain looks like. And he can see it all over you. In your actions, your words. In your voice. Whatever makes you cry, whatever fears you have. Bruce will make them all go away. And he is determined to earn the title as your father. For you to finally call him by that title.

Because he's your father. And that's what fathers do.

[endataraxia]

hey hatchet!! hope youre doing okay, could i request some angsty romantic headcanons between ticci toby and a gn!reader? maybe like if they argue about toby's behavior and whatnot

hey there darling! i’m actually doing great, and i hope you are too! i absolutely love the sound of this request, so here we fucking go (disclaimer i am not an expert on his MULTITUDE of conditions, which practically make up his whole person atp)

arguments about Toby’s behavior are not uncommon.

Toby was born with multiple diseases and disorders; though he doesn’t know his own past, you figure that if his parents did even a little less for him, he would be way worse off than he is now. in fact, you’re pretty sure this is as good as it could get.

but oh, there are so many things you simply do not love about this man.

his CIPA (congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis) prevents him from feeling pain, and as such he has not felt pain since he was born. as such, completely lacking the concept of pain and never remembering that others are susceptible to it, he is often a little too rough with you, not just in bed. sometimes, he grabs you just a little too hard, and it gets to you.

you know he is as dense as he seems, but just in case, you hope hard that he never realizes you’re slowly becoming distant from him. you simply can’t do it, not with his roughness and lack of reverence on your body.

and oh, this is just scratching the surface of his behavioral issues.

Toby is also diagnosed with BPD (borderline personality disorder). this is what you consider to be the worst part of his behavioral issues.

you had the misfortune of ending up as his favorite person (though in his defense there are not many others around him so his poor mentally ill brain pretty much has no choice).

you talk to the cashier at 7-11 for a millisecond too long? suddenly as you walk out, Toby is gone from where he was waiting for you and when you look back, the cashier’s gone too. but you know somewhere behind the store, the poor cashier’s blood is being spilled.

and even if you need just a small something from his fellow proxies, they’re not immune either.

though, you have to say, you prefer asking a random person instead.

because even though tim and brian may be punished by Toby, you feel like you are the one being punished the hardest.

he’ll give you the cold shoulder and guilt trip you and manipulate you.

it’s to the point you don’t think you know what a normal relationship feels like anymore. are boyfriends supposed to be loving? or are they supposed to scowl at you, go silent and cold the moment they notice you talking to someone else, even if it’s absolutely necessary?

and so you do the only thing you can do to rebel: argue.

you first start out gently, chiding him when he does something he’s not supposed to do. you correct him and explain to him why it’s wrong.

but you’re not sure if it goes through to him at all. you genuinely cannot tell, between his desperate apologies right after and the blatant repetition of his behavior.

for a while, it’d just been the apologies and repetition. though you disliked it, you soon came to realize that it was better than apologies, repetition and THEN arguments, guilt tripping and manipulation.

“why can’t you just love me for who i am? do you not love me after all? i was right all along. you’re desperate to get rid of me.”

and the truth is, you are.

[dancermk]

HELLO MY FELLOW TRAVELERS!

I, like many viewers, have been completely entranced by Hawk and Tim’s love story in Fellow Travelers. As a mature queer person, this show has been very emotional, and I am deeply invested. (I WILL riot if Tim doesn’t get to die in Hawk’s arms, and know that he is, and has always been, loved by Hawk.) But I digress.

Something that I have been fascinated by are the differing opinions that have surfaced about the characters, especially Hawk. I’m not looking for any arguments here, everyone is entitled to their opinion, and this is simply mine. To me, Hawk falls hard and fast for Tim. He breaks all his own rules for Tim - they topple over like a house of cards.

When we are introduced to Hawk, he’s cold and heartless with the men he hooks up with - they are nothing more than a body to fulfil his sexual needs and desires. He doesn’t do repeats and he doesn’t bring them home. But Tim, he instantly begins returning to, gets him a job, then allows him into his own apartment, etc. When Tim pushes back, Hawk relents further, letting him in emotionally, sharing parts of his past, crossing lines by introducing him to others in his circle, and so on.

Hawk is a traumatised man, carrying guilt and anger and shame, and a bucket load of fear! Yes, he has some internalised homophobia, but interestingly, he’s also extremely righteous about his homosexuality -and I don’t believe he thinks being gay is wrong in any way. (His response to his father is indicative of this).

I can personally say that I’ve never thought it was wrong to be queer, yet I spent much of my life hiding who I was and feeling shame. It’s an odd thing! Perhaps it is that the shame forms purely from what is outside of us, while what is inside of us can love another person of the same sex, knowing it is right and pure. Perhaps these contradictions between self and society are what causes so much pain and conflict?

But back to Hawk. Hawk is undoubtedly most affected by his teenage first love experience. A love that he fucked up through his own fears (fear for many men is unacceptable and a sign of weakness), and now carries the burden of believing he is responsible for their death. Hawk doesn’t allow himself to love again, until Tim. And we see many times throughout the show how much Hawk fears losing Tim. And in the end he’ll have to face that fear. I think that, in part, not attempting to have a life with Tim, is also fuelled by his fear of fucking it up and losing Tim - so it’s easier to just not attempt it! In episode 7, when he loses his son, part of that spiral is Hawk recognising that he can’t really prevent loss, and he wasted his life trying to be something he’s not - still losing his child and Tim along with it.

But Hawk is a survivor! And no one has the right to hate or judge him for it. I don’t think some young people truly understand what it feels like to live in a world where who you love can put you in jail, and destroy your life. I grew up in the 70s/80s and my experiences were bad enough, but I try so very hard to think about what it was like before that! When being queer was a crime and a mental illness! That’s pure terror! And for Hawk, he chose to survive the best way he knew how, and he wasn’t able to change because that’s fucking hard when all you’ve known is living in constant ‘fight or flight,’ and when have chronic trauma and experience collective trauma.

I think in episode 8 we’ll finally get to see Hawk grow - I certainly hope so - because he deserves to be free. Our beautiful Skippy has been free for some time, and while we mourn for the cruelty of a world that would take such a truly decent man, I am glad he got to live freely. Being closeted is the worst kind of suffering- a compartmentalised and fragmented existence where you are never truly whole, and therefore can never be the best version of yourself.

Before I go, I just wanted to also talk about being in a closeted relationship-which I experienced in my youth. I think that Hawk and Tim’s intense and toxic and exquisitely beautiful relationship, in part, arises from this. Because two closeted people in love live their relationship in secret, in a bubble, only in certain rooms, with none of the outside world reflected back at them. It becomes the two of you against the world. It’s so insular. Hawk and Tim literally live their 1950s relationship within two rooms - their apartments. All their memories are held within those walls. And it only belongs to them. They know each in ways that no other living soul does. It’s all-consuming and often unhealthy, but also stupidly romantic.

Anyway, sorry for this long winded post that no one will read and is likely full of grammatical errors because I’m tired! This atheist is praying we get everything we need from episode 8! Acceptance, forgiveness, understanding resolution, healing and a whole lot of love! ❤️

Cheers queers! 🏳️‍🌈

PS Matt and Johnny are exquisite on and off screen and I am so thankful to them for bringing these characters and this story into our lives!

[in1-nutshell]

I got a request for Tim (Fort max son not tim drake/robin)

Tim gets the flu and because he is already sick/weak the flu hits him harder then it would a healthy person

Timmy's back!

Hope you enjoy!

Tim gets sick

SFW, Platonic, Familial, illness mentioned, Human reader

IDW

It wasn’t often that Tim got really sick.

Sure, the kid got sick frequently, but the bots made sure that the place was always disinfected and clean.

But as much as the bots cleaned around, the boy would still get sick.

Sometimes hitting worse than the average human.

Tim walks slowly to the breakfast table. Fort Max is the first to see Tim’s slower movements. Fort Max: “Hey Tim, you feeling bad again?” He places a digit on the boy’s forehead. Tim sighs in relief and leans into the touch of cool metal. Fort Max: “That bad?” Tim just nods before unleashing a series of coughs that sound like he is coughing up his lungs. All the bots nearby are on high alert. Red Alert: “Code Scarlet?” Cerebros: “Code Scarlet. Get Ratchet and First Aid’s lines on speed dial. Max get Tim to the room. I’ll get the crate.”

The Room was a quarantine room.

It was easier for the bots to clean and maneuver the medical equipment than doing it in Tim’s room.

This wasn’t the first time the three of them would use the room nor would it be the last.

Each also played special roles.

Red Alert oversaw the cleanup.

He made sure every surface was cleaned at minimum of five times with special disinfectants that wouldn’t bother Tim too much.

The red bot would also keep all channels of medic bots open in case of an emergency.

Red Alert cleaning Tim’s nightstand. Tim: “Red…?” Red Alert is by Tim’s side. Red Alert: “You need something Tim? Water? Crackers? Is it time for the medicine yet? I can get Cerebros—” Tim: “Red.” The bot quiets down. Tim: “Can you sit here until I go to sleep?” Red Alert pulls a seat and gently pats Tim’s head. Tim laughs a bit, then coughs. Tim: “Thanks Red Alert.” Red Alert: “Save your strength kid.”

Cerebros was in charge of giving Tim his medicine and recording everything.

Out of the three of them, Cerebros was the smallest.

Easier to handle Tim’s needs better than Red Alert and Fortress Maximus.

Besides Fort Max, Cerebros was almost always in the room.

He has charts and data pads always monitoring Tim’s condition.

When he isn’t busy with Tim, Cerbros is looking up all the best ways to help Tim heal.

Cerebros: “Okay Tim, lets look at that temperature again.” Tim passes him the thermometer. Cerebros looks down at the instrument. Cerebros: “Still high… lets see if the green tea bath works.” Tim just grunts as Cerebros starts carrying him to the bathroom. Cerebros: “Don’t be like that. It’s just so we can get that temperature down.”

Due to his giant size, Fortress Maximus can’t do much to help his son.

Something that infuriates him to no end.

His spark clenched with every wheeze and cough the little boy took.

All he could do was watch.

Fort Max made it his job to stick by Tim’s side as much as he could.

From telling stories, watching movies, or playing some games, Fort Max was there and ready.

Not only was he the boy’s watcher, but protector.

Fort Max was sitting by Tim’s bed side watching some kind of cartoon with him. PING! Fort Max looked at his com. Fort Max: “Cerebros? Something wrong?” Cerebros: “Tim has a visitor.” Fort Max raised an optic. Fort Max: “The visitor list is virtually a handful of bots. Who came?” There were pede steps coming to the door. The larger bot, out of habit, placed himself in front of the boy ready for anything to come at him. Fort Max squinted his optics seeing the bot. Fort Max: “You?” Tim with beery eyes looks over at the door and a tired smile spreads on his face. Tim: “Hey Uncle Prowl.” Prowl walked into the room, completely ignoring the larger mech and stood in front of the bed. He gently pats the boy’s head. Prowl: “I made sure I went into the decontaminated cell before coming Maximus.” The larger bot huffed while staring at the mech interacting with his son. Fort Max: “How did you know Tm got sick again?” Prowl: “He told me.” Tim looks a bit embarrassed. Tim: “I just wanted to talk to Uncle Prowl, that’s all. Am I in trouble?” Fort Max looks at the puppy dog eyes. Fort Max: “… Next time just let us know when Prowl’s coming over okay kid?” Tim nods as he yawn’s a bit. Tim: “Uncle Prowl, can you tell me a story?” Fort Max: “Age friendly Prowl.” Prowl: “I know what to tell him Fort Max. Prowl turns to the boy. Prowl: “How about the time Chromedome and I met Red Alert…”

[unfortunately-obsessed]

All Things End

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader • Hurt no Comfort • AO3 link

In the end, all is quiet

You said many and many times to Miguel that being in love wasn't a weakness.

It was supposed to be easy. In-and-out, just trying to make a map of the warehouse Sinister Six were using. Empty room. Empty room. They've been doing some remodeling since last tim you've been there.

Just trying to get some pics. Maybe a manifest. Counting the number of goons. Your steps just like a mice's, soundless and light, using of the celling and vents to move undetected.

True to the word, you don't operate the same way most Spiders do. Peter B calls you sneaky and Jess slick, but Miguel respected you for not being reckless like that whole side of the multiverse.

The whiskey, rain and and knock-off cigars scent flooded your nose. Kraven and Sandman are playing poker over a wood box. Kraven got a Full House but you mentally bet on Sandman. Hah.

With the two as guards, you just needed to noiseless.

Empty room. Not empty room, filled with wire but nothing interesting. You had wondered what Doc Ock been planning now. Another empty room.

You don't know what hit you.

The hair in your neck raises, you can't feel your legs.

Mind goes blank with jasmine acid and white, room filled with gas and you weren't quick enough to dodge a kick to the mouth. You punch and cuss aloud before Kraken can lodge a knife on your throat.

Ears unable to hear and eyes unable to see for a sharp second. A tiny mystery. There's shouting and there's pain. Everybody has broken ribs by the end of it.

Your hand voracious raw against a face, so you fumble about what is up and what is down until Kraken is is either unconscious or close enough and there's sand on your lungs and socks.

Two seconds and hard cough is what it take for a metallic arm ragdoll you into a wall.

You bleed an unsurmountable amount.

When the fight is over and after you put Doc Ock to sleep, you hear sirens approaching. Crawling to a celling down the road, you throw up, head tripping.

It's disorienting and the sky doesn't have stars because, after all, you're in New York. The blinding lights are not from stars and your right side is all tender. And it smells like trash and oil. And you think of red eyes and pouty lips and a stubborn valiant man. You wish it to end faster.

Not reckless, huh. You wonder what went wrong and can't pinpoint it, but neither you can feel your fingertips, so all you think is never damage and concussion. Maybe you were just ill-prepared, payed the tool but couldn't pay the price. The shaking comes in waves.

You did say that being in love wasn't a weakness.

And it's true, which doesn't mean you also doesn't have to convince yourself.

Damn Ohio and Vermont. Hate New York the same amount you see it behind your eyelids. Kindness isn't free and both you and Miguel refused to put a name on this burning. You want to go home.

Sometimes the poem writes itself. Sometimes it doesn't need to be written. It untravelled all lungs.

Until the story ends all their heartbeats. Flickering matches. Teeth dripping lead.

Do you love Miguel? Not sure. Does it matter when you're bleeding? Unlikely.

A strange habit: Miguel sometimes travels half the multiverse to see why you weren't answering his calls. You hear him swallowing dry and panic in his eyes.

"M'fine," you say to him.

"You look like shit," he tells you, kneeling to be in your side, hands hovering over, unsure of what to do. Worried that holding you will cause more damage.

"Thanks," you say, calm despite the numbness growing each passing second. Moving was impossible on your current state. Instead, your throat burn at the sight of Miguel. "I can't feel my hands."

Even Miguel, a complete idiot on intersocial intelligence, notices the perfectly hidden edge on voice. You tell yourself that you'll sleep it off, perfectly tucking away the fear.

It's natural and inevitable. Miguel is calm despite himself. "It's alright," he says, voice smooth but deep, husky. Ah, you do love his voice. It could lull anyone to sleep. "You're going to be fine."

The story doesn't have a massage. The notion of it, itself, is ridiculous. In another life, we hold our hands together.

You scoff even if you tell yourself the same. Heart won't stop racing. His hand cupping your neck makes you almost believe it.

It's almost peaceful and quiet, and you can't hear the sirens or the city buzzling as it does. "I'm dying", you conclude, sharing it with him, like you do. At this point, there's not a piece of information you don't share with him.

Miguel's eyes grow wide, fast but you see it. "You're no-"

"Something's wrong, I'm not feeling pain," you say, throat dry and hurting, "I'm dying."

He says something to Layla, who toughly scans you with one droid. The conversation doesn't register on your mind. You place a hand over his.

His head snaps back to you, gaze over your bleeding body. "You lost blood," he tries, yet his voice wavered, "but you're not dying."

Tears. You're crying. His hands relax over your carotid, suddenly bare, calming your mind and breathes. Miguel's shoulders are tense, thumb caressing your cheek. When did you ever take the mask off?

Before throwing up, you think.

Finally, pain laces your head. Red spots on you suit, pooling, but the wound is to o big to stop the flowing. It's smearing him, too. You think, very clinically, that you could have tasted his lips if you both were not cowards.

A stupid mistake. You should have named what's between the two of you.

(You're dying and you can feel it. It's the bleedout and the heart going fast and Miguel denying it instead of saying you're an idiot if you think he'll let you die. It's the trembling and the getting harder to breath. It's the fact you're not in panic.)

He smells apple cinnamon pie and warm sweet home.

There's nothing he can do. Moving you may cause it to come faster. So you don't let him know how much it hurts to move at all. His stomach twists.

Miguel's instinct – always there to be blamed, making him unable to clearly process his thoughts, – is to reach out and engulf you on his arms. He moves slow, closer. He threads his fingers into your stained hair.

"I'm not stupid," you say to him, clenching at his other hand.

This declaration shocks him. As normally, Miguel can't hide the frown on his face. "I know you're not."

"No. I–" A few feverish moments pass. It hurts to breath. You might stare at him forever before blurting out, "Please kiss me."

Keeping you eyes open was starting to be a problem. The sky is spinning. All you feel is drozyness. Like you want to sleep. You want your bed.

"Sweetheart," he says, so slow and low you might have imagined it.

Hot, desperate tears streaked down your face. You couldn't keep appearances anymore, keep playing the waiting game with Miguel. You don't know what cause this pathetic display, but still wasn't worse than the numbness.

A gasp left your mouth as his lips pressed against yours. It settles deep within your chest, but all he probably taste is metal.

A low growl rumbled in your heart.

Why are you crying? It has leapt from my throat when we first spoke, alight when I first head your laughter, strong, hands gone rough with time. Your hands are trembling now.

Hungry mouth and lips. In the end, it's quiet.

Your face dropped the frown. Why are you crying? I cannot undo it. My heart under your palms, ribs de-boned and body peeled from skin. Glossy ruby eyes.

Sorry about the mess. Just hold me. In angry tears, never-mended flesh, and razor-sharp teeth, and sometimes I wondered about the needle edge of it. Guts half-spilled, and rocking waves.

Dear thing, we are bound by fate. I'll let you bring me anywhere.

Bleeding still, shining ribs.

Did you taste the best on the roof of my mouth?

A/N: If you like what I do, please consider supporting me and buying a coffee!

[pumpkinsy0]

this might be a weird question but if you were to make the TWTTIN movie how would you have written curly in it? and follow up question, if you could make a movie JUST following the shepard family, what kind of plot would you want?? and any other details you wanna share!!

interested to hear your thoughts!

OoOoOo VERY FUN QUESTION!!!

OK SO

first off w how curly was portrayed in the movie, ion like it, especially in the beginning where he jumped m&m and he sang fucking jingle bells, I DONT MIND CURLY DOING THAT I GUESS, but it knocked down his cool points a bit</3333, but towards the end I LIKED HOW HE WAS ACTUALLY

SO NOW if it came to how i’d portray him

when it comes to others outside his family: id want him to be a bit more erratic, not in a “laughing hahahah im so crazy #joker” era way, nonono, i mean in a “do what i say, anything u say or do can set me off, ill get real up close and personal” kinda guy, he looks up to tim, and wants to mimic him in the way of how he thinks tim acts!!! hes got this façade up so he could come off as more intimidating

when it comes to being near friends/family but hes around strangers as well: hes more open to telling crude jokes to get the others around him to laugh or entertained, a people pleaser in an odd way, still trying to act like tim but more obviously cruel in his own way, his own personality is sticking out a bit!!(this is the version of curly most ppl would see)

when it comes to just being around close friends/family: NOW hes more like a goofball, still up to his stupid antics and cruel, but way more way smiley, hes a family guy what can i say, this is when hes more caring (hes caring through his actions, however, when it comes to words of affection, he only rlly resorts to that when someone he loves is all down and beaten mentally, like angela bawling out her eyes, tim at the dinner table drinking, and he feels like they NEED it)

NOWWWW FOR THE PLOT WOOOOOO

now the shepard gang is seen as a more organized crime gang, so thats what id wanna focus on, however id wanna show what LED them there and why they had to do it, but the main plot point would be about the shepards THEMSELVES being in danger because of this deal went wrong, tims on edge, curly looks to tim for guidance but tims pushing him away so curly gets upset and tries doing what he can to help in his own way which leads him into deeper shit

and considering this is like 60s or 70s era, OBVIOUSLY id want to focus on racism and how to relates to the justice/police system, but also bc i hc my shepards as haitian id want to focus on a bittttt of pan africanism and specifically noirisme (black movement from haiti)

curly would b the protagonist but angela and tim r deuteragonist :P

se hinton u wrote these characters but theyre MINE now

[sweetchildcloud]

||⏳it's never to late⌛|| written by me

Pairing:Geto x reader

Plot:you're struck by an illness but who said it's too late for doing stuff you love?

Tags: Comfort,reader death,sex,moaning,crampie,cute,fluffy,angst,crying,fluffdeath

"I have a month to live" you said drily rubbing your arm looking away from Geto. For a few seconds that followed this sentence, everything felt frozen. His heart beating, his eyes darting, his mind racing. Was this… a joke? But your words lacked any hint of humor. “What… you’re dying?” "I don't..know maybe..that was the doctor told me.." His jaw went slack, as his arms slid down to his sides. What the hell? How was this possible? His body felt as if it was made of jelly. He took a step back, his expression slowly changing… to anger, to fear, to shock, before settling on disbelief. He took another step back. “You’re joking. You’re joking with me. Please… tell me you’re joking. That that doctor is lying.” You shoocked your head "I'm not..I mean..I didn't even know I had this illness but it's slowly killing me without pain..just like..a blind death..that's what the doctor told me, he too was shocked" His breathing felt like he was trying to suck in air with a thin straw. His whole body felt frozen in shock. It wasn’t fair! His heart was beating so fast he couldn’t think straight. This felt wrong on so many levels. Everything felt wrong. Why?! Why were you dying?! Why did this have to happen?! “How are you so��� okay with that?” "Because I lived happily and did what I needed to do" You said mustering your usual kind smile He took several deep breaths, his eyes narrowing. This couldn’t be it, why were you already accepting this? He took a step towards you (he was now close enough for you to touch), and he took your hands. “No. That’s not the end of it. You are not allowed to just… disappear like this.” "But I'm okay with it..I wouldn't feel pain or anything just like..sleeping you know?" He paused, holding your hands close to his chest as he looked you in the eye. Your gaze was so… calm. So accepting. “Well I’m- I’m not okay with it. And I won’t allow you to just… die. We’re getting another opinion, we’re- we’re going to find a solution to this.” "Geto..." you said calmly "I'm okay with this..." He squeezed your hands as he closed his eyes, his jaw clenching. He knew you weren’t joking. You weren’t messing with him, it wasn’t part of some cruel joke. His breath hitched as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. You meant it when you said you were okay with it. That was the terrifying part, that you didn’t even want to fight this. “I’m… not.” "I know ..I'm sorry if..I'm a burden maybe this will help you so that I will never make you suffer" His anger turned to hurt, pain that could only be found in his expression and tone of voice. His jaw clenched as he let go of your hands. “Don’t… even think like that. You aren’t my burden. You aren’t hurting me. You’re… you are-“ His words had no follow up. He didn’t know what his feelings for you were, love, attachment, friendship…? Your instinct tooked the better of you so you kissed Geto on his mouth  "I love you Geto,so so much, I'm sorry that it camed to this" your voice was shaky and you looked at him with regret,regret that you didn't have told him sooner how you really felt His lips parted in surprise, and he was left speechless as you kissed him. Your words left him breathless and your lips made his knees weak. Your body pressed against his and your arms wrapped around him. He let out a short gasp, eyes squeezed shut as he let himself fall into this moment. A hand came up and cupped your cheek against his, holding you close to him. "I know it's strange to ask but...do you wanna ..." Your words faded into the background as this moment was all that mattered. His body pressed closer and his hands shifted to your back, pressing him into you. A small smile appeared on his lips and the answer was already in his eyes. Yes. Yes. A million times yes. "But it feels like I'm doing this because I'm gonna die soon..and I don't want to force you either...I.. don't know what to do"

He leaned back a bit until he could look into your eyes without his lips being against yours. They were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, like the purest shade of amethyst. He smiled once again, his voice soft as he took in a deep breath. “You aren’t forcing me, and it doesn’t matter that you’re going to die. Because in the time you have left, I want to spend that time loving every second that we spend together. I want you."

He leaned forward once again, allowing your lips to press against his. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you against him as the other hand wrapped around your waist and he pulled you in tightly. Your lips felt warm, almost hot and he couldn’t contain the slight moan that escaped him and he kissed back with enthusiasm.

The passion grew rapidly, his lips moved with yours in a rhythm, your bodies pressed tightly together. The world grew distant as the only sound was the two of you kissing. He couldn’t help but close his eyes, enjoying the heat that seemed to build by the second. His hands had traced down your back, his fingers curling around to rest on your lower back. His lips tasted you, and his kisses moved down your neck.

"Mhm mhn anhn" you phanted biting your lip

He had no control over himself and his breath grew heavy as his lips travelled down your neck. Your taste was one he never wanted to lose. His hands squeezed you tightly as he nibbled and licked your neck. One hand slid up to behind your head, pushing down your hair to reveal the nape of your neck. He traced it with his lips, nibbling gently before moving back up to your mouth. His hand began sliding under your top.

“Mm…” He pulled away after just a bit, looking deeply into his eyes and biting his lower lips. His eyes grew heavy with desire for you. He had no words right now, but you could see just how much he wanted you in his actions. His hand glided down the front of your shirt and rested against your chest. His thumbs brushed against you, he could feel your heart beating… just under the thin material. He wanted more.

His eyes grew heavy, desire beginning to cloud them. His movements became frantic, his hand beginning to move slowly up your shirt. He kissed you again, this time more roughly and urgently. He couldn’t stay still, his hands growing restless as the two of you kissed like there was nothing but each other in this room. He pushed himself into you, leaning you close as he pushed his body against yours. A hand ran along your side, brushing against your hip as a sharp intake of breath could be heard. "Ah ahnn ah" you gripped Geto shoulder moaning,gentle but firm trust felt like heaven

Your moans felt like a reward. You liked what he was doing, he hadn’t done something wrong or crossed a boundary. Your moan of approval sent him a wave of confidence, and he bit his lip once again. Your body felt so good and warm, and you sounded even better. He couldn’t help but move just a bit faster now as his fingers began tracing along a line on your skin. He kissed you, and kissed you more."Ah Geto ahn" you moaned in a frenzy as you were alredy close

Your moans were like a signal to him, telling him to be even rougher. He bit his lip, taking in the sights of you in front of him once again. You were such a beautiful sight. Your neck, your lips… your body. Your moan was like music to his ears. It turned him on, sending him closer to the edge. He moved more, his hands pressing down on your skin as his body rubbed against yours. “Hnnggg… you…I ..love you y/n” His breathing became rapid as he moved against you, his hands beginning to move quickly, squeezing and kissing. Your body felt so good, so nice. His movements weren’t as controlled anymore, they were more frantic. You were making him lose control of himself. “Hnnnngg… mmnn…” His voice was almost breathless, and you could see that his entire body was reacting to you. His hands ran up your back before gripping the material of your shirt. His breathing became heavier and his lips came down to your neck, his tongue began to trace circles around it. He wanted more. Your body was feeling nice and warm, and it was pushing him off the edge…

You moaned along with him moaning his name repeatedly as you were nearing your release too

“Ah… ah… AHH!” His lips were against your neck,your hot breath tickled his skin, his mouth opening and releasing a moan. His hands began to squeeze and his lips began to nibble and kiss. His body rubbed against you harder and harder. There was no stopping that feeling now, and your moan only sped up his movements.

He moaned again, his head leaning back as he felt the build of pleasure, the heat that was growing by the second. Your body felt so good, that sensation he couldn’t explain. You were driving him over the edge, and he didn’t care anymore. He wanted you, and he was going to have you. Your body felt like heaven to him as his movements quickened even more. "G..geto..ah geto!" You moaned gripping his shoulder tightly digging in

“Ah…” His moan was cut short as he felt both of you hit your peak. He grunted, the feeling overwhelming him. You felt hot and sweaty, and so did he. Your legs wrapped around him tightly, you pulled him close as he thrust once again. Your breath was heavy, you were both panting and your hands gripped his shoulders tightly as his body shuddered.

He was still breathing heavily, trying to come back to his senses. His eyes were closed as he continued to thrust at a slower pace, and his body pressed against you. It felt nice, and was exactly what he wanted. He wasn’t in a rush, he wanted to stay in this moment for a little while longer.

He remained against you. His hands found a place at the back of your neck as he pushed himself against you, letting his breath fall onto you. You felt good, his body fitting perfectly with yours as he remained in you. He didn’t plan to pull out just yet, you felt so nice and snug. He didn’'t want this feeling to end at all, even if the world started to blur out it would be more than okay. You were worth all of this… you meant everything to him and for that, he was happy.

“I- I don’t want this to end...I want to stay like this forever,” He groaned in delight, feeling you against him made him feel like he would explode from how much he was enjoying himself. He was almost in a trance, and you were the beautiful creature in front of him that made him feel these beautiful, wonderful feelings.

“You’re… so… warm”

“You’re… so… warm” He spoke softly between grunts as his breath grew shallow. His body moved with you, as a wave of pleasure washed over him once again. He couldn’t keep a soft moan from escaping his lips, his tongue tracing your neck as he continued to move against you.

The feeling went from euphoric to pure ecstasy, like an explosion of happiness and pleasure had taken place deep within. Your bodies were pressed together and your breaths met, sending you both into a state of relief and euphoria. The feeling made him squeeze you as hard as he could, taking deep breaths just to savor this moment. You came together and it was a feeling he would never forget.

He held you tightly, wrapping his legs around you as he continued this soft and slow pace for a while before slowly pulling out. His body lay on top of yours, and he was still coming down a bit. He was smiling as you both rested, breathing heavily. His body lay on top of yours, your scent filling his nostrils as your breath matched his. You were right there, right there with him and this feeling was so nice… it was perfect. He wanted this forever, but the back of his mind told him that it couldn’t last.

"Geto..do you think we did something wrong?" He raised an eyebrow, as he looked down at you. His body lay against yours but he wasn’t feeling weak or tired, just satisfied. He was glad that you had chosen to trust him with this moment. He took a deep breath, before kissing your forehead and placing a hand on your side. “What do you mean? I’m not feeling anything wrong, are you?” "No it's just..it's still..I know you told it was okay but..I will die..and still I did sex with you.." you looked down before looking at him with teary eyes "am I a bad person?"

He moved so that he could prop himself up on his elbows to look down at you. He smiled softly as he looked down at you, as his hand moved up and wiped your tears away. You weren’t a bad person, you did nothing wrong. "Sweetheart... you did nothing wrong. I told you before, I don’t care if you're going to die. I just wanted to be with you and share this moment with you. I... wanted this."

"Then why I feel so wrong? Why when they told me that i was dying i felt..the need to do this with you? I tought I had more time" You sobbed wiping away your tears but more comed,you felt miserable and pathetic

He moved so that he could hug you properly, pulling you in close and making sure you were wrapped in his arms. He tried to calm you down, stroking your hair and wiping away your tears. "Darling... you wanted closure. You wanted to share an intimate moment with me, and that is what happened. It's okay for you to feel like this, but nothing you did was wrong. I told you before, I wasn't upset with you. I'm glad we shared this moment together."

You sobbed letting out your frustration of this shitty situation

He held you close to him, rubbing the back of his hand up and down your spine. You were crying, and he didn’t like to see you like this. He wanted things to be easier, he wanted this to be simple but it was nothing of the sort. Your body was pressed up against him, and your sobs were breaking his heart. "Shh... It's okay, I know this is all just so... unfair to you. I wish it was easier, but it isn’t. This is just how things turned out." "I feel tired..." “Let your body rest, *sweetheart.” He pulled you back close to him, his body pressed against you as you lay in his arms. “We can talk more later, for now rest.”

"But what if my illness take me away...I told.you it looks like sleeping...I wouldn't feel anything but..I'm not prepared.." He didn’t say anything at first, his fingers rubbed up and down your back as he contemplated what to say. You were scared, you knew you were going to die, and you weren’t prepared either. He pulled you a bit closer, resting his chin on the top of your head. “You’ll be okay… I promise. I’ll be there right beside you, okay?”

"Even if I die?" “Even if you die” His voice wavered, but he swallowed the fear that came with the thought of you possibly dying. “I will never leave you. I’m going to be there with you every step of the way. I promise, I will never let you be alone.”

His breath hitched when you went limp, as if you were already gone. A wave of panic overcame him but he quickly shook his head. Your chest still rose and fell with breaths, your heartbeat was still present. His hands kept a rhythm brushing against you, until you relaxed more in his arms. He sat there, watching you as your body settled more and more. It sent more waves of panic through him, but your breathing assured him. You were still here, still alive. You still had more time.

You died on December 25th when Geto tooked you to watch the fireworks for Christmas,you were so peaceful sitting on the bench.

Bonus(previous of what happened before reader death)

Geto sat on the bench alongside you, taking in the beauty of the moment. The lights of Christmas were lighting up the air, making you feel at home. You were smiling, and your breath was warm as it filled that silent night with the sound of life. It was a perfect night, you felt safe and protected. He leaned against you, making you feel all sorts of warm and happy emotions as you watched the lights dance in front of you.

Geto felt your body relax in his arms, as if you were already gone. His eyes shot open and he held tighter to you, his voice beginning to waiver. He didn’t want to believe it or look at the state of your body being limp, he didn’t want to believe any of this. His mind was flooded with panic and worry, he began to tear up as you lay lifeless in his arms.

The tears fell from his eyes despite his efforts, he felt like his whole world had ended. His body shook as he felt the overwhelming emotion wash over him. Your hand slit out of his as you lay lifeless in his arms, the one thing he feared more than anything else had happened. You were gone, ripped from him before he could even hold you close again. His voice was filled with sobs and gasps, it was clear that he didn’t want to let go of you.

"N..no p..please just a little bit more....p..please" Tears ran down his face as he continued to cling into your lifeless body, his voice breaking as he continued to sob. He was so shaken by this turn of events, you were supposed to have a bit more time. He was supposed to spend this whole month with you, you were supposed to be his for a while longer.

His hands began to shake, his fingers curling into claws as his heart thumped in his chest. You weren’t breathing, your heartbeat had gone silent, your body was lifeless. He began to cry uncontrollably, as he rocked your body back and forth hoping it was all a bad dream. He didn’t want this, this wasn’t what he wanted, he didn’t want you to leave him like this.

“No, no no… You… you can’t leave. Not like this… I promised you.. I promised I would never let you be alone. You were supposed to be here, with me… you were supposed to have more time… why…” His voice grew shaky, and his tears began to spill more and more onto your body. You had been ripped away from him, and he was too late to save you. He didn’t want this moment to be a reality, but it was. You were gone, and he was heartbroken.

It just wasn’t fair….... It wasn’t fair.

As the fireworks went off Geto sobbing filled the scene as he holded onto your body wailing, they sparkled as if they were the little bits of your soul that remained. Your soul will continue to shine in the fireworks :)

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆▪︎▪︎☆

I'm currently posting this at 1:52 am so sorry if the final part as some grammatical errors, I couldn't wait to write and post this lol

[anonameisadditions]

So You Want To Write #2: The Roguish Type

It’s the 1930s in America, and the world is a dim, grimy place. Gone is the Jazz Age- with slick art deco, free-flowing illegal liquor from every speakeasy across the nation, and get-quick-rich schemes smothered under The Great Depression. The Great American Experiment seemed to be over- the rot in the once-great society (In the eyes of the vastly more empowered Caucasian men of the time) had become septic, and foul. The banks had shown themselves just as greedy and selfish as the average American, failing to properly plan for an economic bubble burst and ending up going insolvent within days of the economy crashing. The entire country would be placed out of work- the great boom of industry transformed into a sputtering, dying foghorn in the mist. It is no shock that in this era, our art would turn mistrustful, angsty, and depressed. And nowhere would this deep illness be reflected so cleanly as Film Noire.

These films- seedy, provocative crime films based around smoking, whiskey-swilling private dicks, and smoldering, vicious women would depict the dynamic of a dying society- a place where the police were rotten, the men weak, and the women hard. This is the environment we associate with the icon of the film noire- The private eye.

A “good” man, in a matter of phrase- for they always had some canny sense of right and wrong, a belief that their work was making life truer for someone. But, they’d be shaken- a dame, a woman worth trusting, beautiful and convincing, would lead them astray, tricking them into a deadly tango of treachery that would have them once again asking- Is it worth it to be good in a world that’s so bad?\

In steps The Man Who Knew Too Much.

“The Man Who Knew Too Much” is the common DNA of the modern rogue, in our modern conception of one. It stars Leslie Banks- a man known primarily for playing gruff, menacing bad guys across the pond at this point- and casts him as a leading man. He’s a brawler. He shoots first and asks questions later. He puts himself up against terrible odds- an entire criminal conspiracy to destabilize the political situation in London- and steps through with candor and charm, at each step along the way. He gets way too involved with a situation and ignores all rational advice given to him by the police- all because he trusts himself more than he trusts any institution.

And the audience EATS THIS UP

“The Man” becomes an instant classic, and Hitchcock begins to truly accue stateside appeal- and this only gets refined in his spy-fiction follow-ups, the best known being “North By Northwest.”

What’s the point of this brief history to the topic at hand- The Roguish Type, and how you want to write them? Everything. Because to write is to render fat from meat- it’s to understand how society changes a story as society adapts to it, to understand the underlying psychological underpinnings of motivation that makes an audience resonate with an archetype. And none is as misunderstood and spiritually confused as “The Rogue.” A scoundrel, A criminal, a scumsucking mouthbreeder who sits below the expectations of society- he flits from job to job, obliged to no one but himself- a modern cowboy, perhaps, but without an obligation to protect anyone but themselves. Within the rogue, however, lies an exceptionalist ideal we all wish we could live up to- the idea of innate goodness. 

Art from 2nd ed. Dungeons and Dragons, Kyle Punk and Tim Shepard

Prince Of Thieves

When we refer to “rogues”, the Jungian ideal in our world is drawn to the Tolkienesque, fantasy-focused interpretation of a rogue- a man bundled in leather, with a meaty look to him and a small, sleazy smile. He plays with knives, idly- using the point of his blade to clean out under his fingernails, suggesting a propensity for violence, and skill with a dagger. His eyes size you up and down, boldly, questioning whether a quick robbery could solve some problems that need solving, right, bub? 

But then we see him act. He joins our merry caravan, the rogue- this criminal outcast, this thief, this reject- and we see that he’s more than some petty criminal- he’s a self-styled robin hood, who won’t screw over people he likes, and will actively target those he doesn’t- but he' never given someone something they didn't have coming. He’s a self-styled anarchist- a true believer in individuality, who smiles and accepts the dog-eat-dog world of the undercity- and yet, this dog only eats a meal worth having. This “Robin Hood” didn’t need an education, a religion, a cause, or a care to be good to people- He only needed his wit. 

When Indiana Jones goes deep, deep, into the jungles of some tribal colony to steal their precious Incan gold relic, he does so to do… what? Sell it to a museum? He’s certainly making a buck off this. But, Jones is then contrasted to what a man like Beloq is- unprincipled.

A true asshole, willing to work with Nazi’s as long as they pay enough. He is quite rich from this-- His resources are plenty, his palette refined, his Jordan’s unsoiled. But then, as you see them interact, you realize that Jones and Beloq could not be more similar- The only thing stopping Indiana Jones from exceeding Beloq- no, what makes Beloq unable to win against Jones, with it’s final act, is the fact that Jones, despite his bad behavior and bad traits, still desires to be good. 

This is where I draw the core concept you must adhere to in “The Rogue”. Within our society, we have a strange relation to criminals. Our court system’s biggest inherent flaw- by design- is that ultimately, a jury of your peers will be the ones to convict you. We use this concept because we believe that a man must be considered a true criminal, a malintented traitor, worthy of punishment. This is why the jury must be convinced of the fairness of the charge to cast judgment on the offender, and why we don’t treat manslaughter and murder the same. Criminality is not inherently defined by breaking the law- it is defined by breaking the law for reasons that the state views as invalid.

Some say power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. But the rogue presents a different hypothesis- that one can use the tools of evil and still be good, as long as they can keep their moral code intact. This places the rogue in the place of the outsider- a common character used to question societal norms with pluck, determination, and humor. 

Examples? Right. Examples.

Look, Your Worshipfulness, let’s get one thing straight. I take orders from just one person: me.

Han Solo occupies an interesting role in the first Star Wars film. He’s a smuggler who’s working under the boot of a powerful fascist army, driving a spaceship that’s widely considered one cherry vehicle, and shows a reluctance to get himself involved with the fleeing Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan. His introductory scene- the infamous “Han shot first” under-the-table pistol blast helps establish Han quite well as a rogue, using an unscrupulous and dishonorable trick to remove an obstacle in his path. But as Luke spends time with Han, so do we, and we start to realize there’s more going on in the heart of this smuggler than he lets on. He implies a background working with the resistance, several times through the film; He quickly bonds with Luke like a big brother. What’s most important for this roguish character, however, is the clash of sentimentality and practicality. Han Solo denies an opportunity to work with the rebellion to strike a major blow against the empire, in what is considered practically a suicide run. But, in the last moments of the film, while Luke is left to perform the trench run, alone, Han Solo comes back, with a quip and a cheery face; For the rogue, despite his dog-eat-dog psychology, sentimentalism and heart is why he lives to fight another day. 

"It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."

If you thought for a fucking second i was going to use Benedico Cumshlupper or whatever, you have a lot to learn about me.

Hows this for a head teaser? It’s often easy to forget that Sherlock - the insufferable, upper-class advisor for all manner of criminal mystery - is, as accounted by the original short stories and novels, the roguish type. Consider- Sherlock seems to regard absolutely zero importance to the laws and rules of polite society, making an absolute terror to his landlord, doing large sums of illegal narcotics to stave off boredom, and generally treating the police as ineffectual at best and annoying, abusive bullies at worst.

Sherlock may be better off than the average rogue, but do not be mistaken- His interests, as selfish as they are, are still interested in helping his fellow man. Most Sherlock stories have Sherlock professing a lack of care towards the problems of “average people”, save for the mystery- yet most of his stories end with a brief segment of sentimentality, of Sherlock making right what was wrong often at personal expense, and recognizing the humanity in the poor souls who come to him, seeking his help. Sherlock utilizes both the concept of authority and breaks the law to bring justice and truth to people- despite his assurance of having nothing but self-interest in mind. 

"ARGH! The common language doesn't have enough swears!"

Chilchuck, from Dungeon Meshi allows us to explore this tendency further. Chilchuck fits our archetypical rogue- a highly skilled, vaguely illegal operator with a focus on the fine arts of thieving- mainly lockpicking, athletics, trap navigation, and other roguish skills. But while Chilchuck doesn’t typically encompass the criminal miscrent side of the rogue, he does showcase the other commonality between the last few examples- the eruption of sentimentality. Chilchuck constantly comments on how he shouldn’t even be working with the twins, and empathizes, again and again, that there is no possible way that he’s going to stick his neck out for his party beyond what he’s being paid to do. Yet, what does Chilchuck do every time the situation gets tough? He runs to danger. He only threatens to leave when he feels his concerns are unheard by Laius about the state of the adventure. Chilchuck can pretend all he wants that he doesn’t care about anyone but himself- but actions speak louder than words. 

Conclusion

The identity of the rogue is based in a rejection of the concept of nature vs nurture in a work of fiction. The Rogue, despite his background in skullduggery and criminality, showcases an intact moral compass that even the most polished wonderboy can recognize as a heart of gold. He exists in this environment to prop up an element of heroic fantasy- the belief of innate goodness, that one can utilize the powers of evil for the purpose of good and avoid letting it corrupt themselves too far. They work in contrast to other, more pure-of-heart characters to exemplify that circumstances don’t always make the man- and to let us, the audience know that we didn’t need to grow up a soft-eyed farm boy or be promised a great destiny to make a difference- only have our hearts in the right places and to do what we can to make evil lose. If you liked this blogpost, Give it a reblog and a like, and don't forget to follow me for more media analysis and creative endeavors. Below, you can vote on the focus of my next entry in "So You Want To Write" series.  

Yours Paradoxically, 

AN0N

[aceofshitposts]

ALRIGHT SO. y'all remember that poll where I asked what animal you thought Jason would be and then immediately went nvm I picked something else? Well here is an info dump/not fic on that au since I never got around to actually writing it for jtw

So the au was inspired by the anime BNA: Brand New Animal where Tim would be taking the protagonist role of Michiru and Jason would be Shiro. It's just inspired by BNA you don't need to know anything about it for this au :)

Basically, for those who haven't watched BNA there are humans and beastmen; a race of anthropromorphic animal people who also have the ability to take a human form as well as their beast form.

Tim is a human turned beastman by accident. You see, he's been chronically ill since he was a child and his parents have been travelling the world to find a treatment/cure all his life. He has monthly appointments at the Drake Industries Clinic for a shot that helps mitigate his symptoms.

Well, one day the tech fucks up. They give him the wrong formula and Tim ends up transforming into a European Polecat Beastman. Which is, bad.

Bad because Beastmen are generally outcast to the poorer parts of Gotham and even intentionally hunted down by rogue groups that believe they're dangerous. His parents would flip. Tim knows they're prejudiced against Beastmen.

Tim can't leave the facility, he has no idea how to change back to a human form like a regular beastman. He's panicky and has all kinds of new senses and instincts screaming at him constantly that he's in danger.

He ends up overhearing the techs a couple days after his untimely transformation plotting his death in order to cover up the fuck up from his parents. There may also be some kind of extortion plot too idk.

Well Tim isn't about to sit around and let that happen. He's gotta get out of here and get help.

Hand waves, Tim escapes but. Now he's loose in Gotham as a beastman. He tries to get help but the police end up turning on him for being an unregistered beastman in a non beastman area and Tim has to further escape them too.

But something odd happens. Tim finds he doesn't feel weak and sickly like he used to. He can run and fast. He can scramble up a wall to his from his pursuers, he can hear them a mile away.

Regardless though. Tim ends up having to flee towards the bowery, soaked to the bones after getting caught in the pouring rain.

He stumbles into a small bar thinking he could definitely use a drink after all this before he continues trying to get help.

The bartender is a broad and tall man, tanned skin and black hair with a shock of white through the bangs.

He raises an eyebrow at Tim, which is fair considering Tim's miserable state.

"You got ID there, kid?" the bartender asks as Tim takes a seat at the bar.

Tim wasn't able to save his phone but he does have his wallet, though he's aware any use of his cards would likely lead to his location, he still has got his ID and hands it over wordlessly.

The bartender looks down at the card then back up and snorts.

"Maybe this works in human bars but you're gonna need to give me your real one if you want me to serve you."

Tim bristles, "that is my real ID," on the tip of his tongue as he snatches it back and realizes.

Beside the picture of a very human man is his information.

Drake, Timothy Jackson

Sex: Male

Species: Human

Tim deflates realizing that his ID is no longer valid.

"I- I am, I was-" the panic starts coming back quickly, adrenaline draining from his system after the night he's had. Everything is different now and nobody is going to believe he is who he says he is, he's stuck even if he can get in contact with his parents; Tim realizes just how much he doesn't want to go back to the labs.

"Hey, kid, are you okay? Kid?"

Tim has a panic attack and passes out.

Meanwhile, Jason rushes over to check the kid's vitals. He's seen his fair share of runaways and the like, the kid looks run ragged in his soaked through clothes. It's strange to have someone walking around in beast form like this, even in the bowery most beastmen choose to keep their human form unless a situation really calls for it.

Something is definitely wrong here and while Jason doesn't really want to get involved he can provide the kid with some shelter for the night.

So he carries Tim up to his little apartment above the bar, locking it up for the night and settles in to make sure the kid doesn't die in his sleep.

Because I can't figure out a good transition at this point 😂 Jason is an Elk beastman. Dark fur except for the white patch, dark green eyes and antlers.

He's got a huge rack.

Which is also often why he chooses to stay in human form because they can be inconvenient for walking through doors and get caught on things.

Plot wise, it turns out Tim is actually part beastman on his mom's side but the genes were dormant until accidentally activated. The shots Tim was getting were actually to keep the genes dormant and add a side effect continued to make him sick. They've been looking for a cure to get rid of the beastman genes once and for all.

Jason ends up helping Tim in his quest to uncover this whole thing and Tim ultimately chooses to stay as a beastman. He knows what his parents did was put out love but he can't yet forgive him for not even giving him a choice to discover who he was or could be.

Jazz hands.

This was all just an excuse to make the Jason has a huge rack joke tbh but I also just think elk and polecat fit them so well. Wanted to give Tim polecat cuz they have little masks and are fiesty but small.

Anyway hope you enjoyed these thoughts, have a good day!

[bitterrobin]

See, when people go full scorched earth fanon with their opinions on Damian (he's evil, he actively poisons Tim, tries to kill Tim all the time, and also warping everyone else around him to be meaner to Tim etc) I have two minds about it.

One half of me, the nerd "um ackshually" one that sticks to comics canon is generally in disbelief and anger about Damian's character being so degraded by the fandom to the point he's barely a character anymore. Damian is usually just an abusive plot device to either whumpify Tim or induce some weird righteous anger on Tim's behalf to justify his hatred and being the "right one" in the situation (when there is no right side). I actively try to write a lot of my Damian-centric content to battle against the idea and ignore these portrayals as much as I can.

The other half, the one that also adores comics but loves to read into fanon and pick it apart bc sometimes fan's opinions on characters are great and unique, goes "okay but what if I think about it?" If Damian is really this evil and terrible, that brings everyone else down with him. Dick is often mischaracterized as a terrible brother by default in these types of fics, and so is portrayed as intentionally ostracizing Tim or being utterly stupid and oblivious to Damian's antics. Alfred's even more of an enabler than he already is (for Damian in this case). A lot of other characters, Steph or Cass or Jason, are either Tim's holy protectors or just as terrible to him. And Tim...just comes off as a little immature bitch or the righteous one above everyone else. Either he's utterly unable to fight back against a literal 10 year old, constantly sick or dying, throwing tantrums over a mantle he did not create, has enough breakdowns you genuinely wonder if he's even fit for his Brucequest - or he does fight back, kicks the shit out a child, denounces everyone else except maybe Bruce (but its negotiable), and is positioned as the ever injured party who was wronged and deserves retribution and compensation. I don't know man, but then everyone just ends up looking like utter assholes. These aren't even Batman characters and heroes anymore, they're all dumb, angry, violent, or just weak enough that there's no way they're vigilantes who operate nightly. I concede they all do have various traumas and illnesses but at some point it starts to get ridiculous. Do fans of Tim really like portraying him as super mentally unstable and childish and do they really hate Damian that much? Is constantly writing him on his breaking point that interesting?

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Breathing

First posted: May 28, 2018

Focuses on: Jason (and his family)

My favorite bookmark: "Jason Todd is sassy monster and Bruce has PTSD from this asshole dying. 🥺🤣"

My second favorite bookmark: "I CANT STOP CRYIIINNNG WTFFFU"

Tier: Pretty middle of the road in terms of metrics, but one of my personal favorites.

This is my "behind the scenes" series where I indulge myself frightfully by annotating my fics. Link to the fic itself above. Thoughts below the cut.

This fic was dedicated to @starknjarvis27 because she came up with the idea on one of our many BatFam discussions, and being a Megan Whalen Turner superfan, I couldn't not take on the idea.

For those unaware, this fic lifts the bones of an absolutely wonderful scene in The King of Attolia, the third (and best) book in the Queen's Thief series. I made sure you didn't need to know the series at all to enjoy "Breathing," but the girlies who know shriek more.

Jason was still breathing when Bruce found him.

Most of my fics, I may not totally know where they're going, but I know my first line. No exception here.

The voice of this one doesn't feel fully Bruce to me, which makes sense because it's so early on in my written works. Also I'm telling myself that's just young Bruce not sounding quite like his more mature self. Ah, the tales we tell ourselves sometimes. 💀

Jason’s chest, or what was left of it, rose again, the cavity of smashed ribs deepening as his lungs fought to work.

I don't know enough medical things to comfortably get too detailed on Jason's injuries (and I wasn't friends yet with Audrey to ask), but since this was Bruce's POV, I worked to make it adequately gruesome.

If those panicked, roving blue eyes with their black-blown pupils could see anything beyond his own fear.

And sometimes I make up words for fun.

He wanted to hold him. Wanted to scoop that broken body into his arms and shelter it with his own until the miracle he was praying for arrived. Bruce wanted to hold his boy. But his stupid, awful, useless brain hissed warnings of spinal injuries and paralysis, of the harm he could cause by giving into sentiment at just the wrong time.

Apparently I also knew how I wanted this section to end because I was deliberately writing toward

And, at last, Bruce held his son.

This.

Trying to figure out the setting of the second half was tough because I didn't care about where they were coming from. I wanted it to be vaguely comic cliche and hopefully not racist or otherwise offensive but that's all.

Also, ugh, staging. Staging. I hate staging. Trying to mark where everyone is and why and keep them all straight as they start to move. Bah.

Of course, now, looking back, hewing more closely to the original scenario where the main figure (Attolis, Jason) turns and smiles at the narrator just before disaster, that sure would have been something, wouldn't it.

But Jason. The odd man out. The wild card, for good or ill. The unpredictable ace up their sleeve. Their magnet for trouble, collector of odd experiences. Too cynical to be Dick, too rash to be Tim, too undisciplined to be Damian. Raised on the streets. Trained by a Bat and a Flying Grayson. Raised again by assassins. Comrade of drug dealers, mercenaries, and thieves. Their family stories always seemed to twist on a “but Jason.”

I like this bit a lot, personally.

He had never seen Jason kill like this. It was the blinding flash of blades, the blur of a tan leather jacket and dark curls, the splatter of red blood on grey stone. And then it was done.

BAMF JASON TODD!!!

At the weight of three sets of eyes landing on him, Jason turned only his head and met Dick’s gaze. His face was pale, almost green, and splattered with a fine mist of blood. It took Dick a moment to piece his coloring together with the slant of his jaw and the blaze in his eyes. He was angry. No, he was furious. But when his eyes met Dick’s, he smiled. All teeth. “Let’s not keep Daddy Dearest waiting, boys.”

Jason is scary and I love him. I think if I could pick an audio narrator for him, especially the way I wrote him in the beginning, I'd pick the guy who does the Raven Boys audiobook, specifically in the voice he uses for Ronan.

“I could use a hand on this next part,” Jason admitted, voice steady and cool. 

And my brain recites, oh gods, stairs.

“I’m dying, Dickie. My insides are on my outsides."

Direct. Hecking. Quote.

“I probably won’t even make it to the Batplane,” Jason moaned. “You’ll have to leave me here. They’ll make me a trail marker. Reach the skeleton with the sweet jacket and you’re halfway to the temple of doom.”

A nice little trail marker. So like a thief in a ditch, one might say.

Jason lay still on the narrow cot, conscious but boneless. Even the furious greenish tint of his skin had faded away into a bloodless pale. Alfred had pulled up his shirt to reveal the truth. Jason’s grip down the mountain hadn’t been only to stanch the bleeding, but to hold himself together. At some point in the blurred fight, a blade had snuck under his defenses and slit open his abdomen, nearly from hip to hip. The blood that had trickled through his shirt and over his hand had been nothing compared to the steady flow that had soaked unseen into his pants. Over Alfred’s shoulder, Jason opened his eyes and met Dick’s.

This is full-scale lifting, my obscene apologies to Megan Whalen Turner, I love your work.

Alfred’s back blocked most of Jason’s body from view. Dick could see Jason’s face and upper torso. Bruce, being taller, could probably see a little more. Damian and Tim, being shorter, could probably see a little less. Both boys stood further back as well, Tim just behind Bruce and Damian behind Dick.

friggin blocking, my foe. Just lining up the stupid little dominoes so they fall right in a minute.

Six people breathing. Five people breathing.

I'm a genius. Good job, me.

Jason erupted like a tiger caught in a snare. He clawed at the cot, trying to push himself up. Alfred cried out, warning of wounds and fresh blood and popped stitches as he tried to force Jason back down. Dick sprang forward and tried to grab his brother, but got a fist to the face for his troubles. He staggered back.

Againnnnnnnnnn I'm so sorry Megan Whalen Turner

Dick slowly unclenched his fingers, first releasing Jason’s hair, then his wrist. Violent red streaks branded Jason’s skin like a cuff

I am a clever little clog with my symbolism and because these fics are for me, I can be smug about it

At least a couple people have said this fic have pushed them to read Megan Whalen Turner which is all I could ever want or hope for.

[enbysorcerer]

Day 6: Reach

Word Count: 2,030

TWs: None? Feel free to mesasge me if I'm wrong.

“You can’t keep going like this,” Masaru comments as he watches his best friend try to navigate the room. While this sounded like a perfectly normal event any able-bodied person should be able to do, Kiyoshi was not a normal able-bodied person. Kiyoshi had lost part of his leg just a few short months ago and hadn’t yet gotten used to the prosthesis…nor did he have any other tool to assist him given that his crutches were still leaning against the wall where Masaru left them when he went to work that morning.

“Like what?” Kiyoshi feigns innocence despite the way his remaining leg visibly shakes from the strain of holding him up on its own for so long.

“Like this,” Masaru replies, glancing pointedly at the trembling appendage. “You’re barely able to walk even with crutches, so how could you possibly expect to-”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Kiyoshi’s leg gives out. Kiyoshi reaches for the countertop, but he can’t get a good enough grip and goes crashing to the ground with a pained hiss.” “Shit!”

Masaru wants to rush forward and help–especially with how the sudden tenseness of Kiyoshi’s body implies the fall hurts more than he’s letting on–but he tries to resist. He briefly considers suggesting pain medicine, but Kiyoshi had been raised by addicts (one to alcohol and the other to pills) and he refused to use pain medication unless he had no other choice. As bad as things may look now, Masaru doubted it was bad enough for Kiyoshi to voluntarily take anything.

“This is exactly what I mean,” he says carefully, trying to gauge the other’s reaction. “You need to rest. Dr. Santori said you should still be taking it easy and relying on the crutches to get around. You’re not doing either.”

Kiyoshi glares at him. It hurts to see that look aimed at him, especially with how rarely Kiyoshi had gotten mad at him Before, but he knew Kiyoshi wasn’t taking this one leg situation as well as he could be. He was angry, and as much as Masaru wanted to, he couldn’t entirely blame Kiyoshi for it. This whole situation sucked, and it was made even more unfair by the fact that Kiyoshi’s childhood had been miserable for similar reasons.

While Masaru wouldn’t claim to know the full story (though he’s pretty sure he did), he knew Kiyoshi’s father had been a soldier, and while out scouting or something, his squad had taken fire and ultimately been led into a minefield, a fact they hadn’t been aware of until Kiyoshi’s father had the unfortunate experience of stepping on a mine that ultimately cost him both his legs.

From there, he was honorably discharged from the military, given a shiny medal of honor for bravery, and essentially abandoned to his own devices. He ultimately ended up getting addicted to pain pills, his wife drank to handle her stress, and Kiyoshi was forced to grow up far too soon to make sure neither of his parents died of intoxication.

Fast forward a decade or so and Kiyoshi decided to join the military himself to feel closer to the parent who was occasionally sober enough to remember his existence only to lose his father to illness shortly before he officially enlisted. A few years later, an explosion would have Kiyoshi’s leg trapped under a pile of rubble after the building his squad was in got bombed. Unfortunately, despite the efforts of many specialists (both magical and mundane), Kiyoshi’s leg was deemed unsalvageable and removed.

Over their many years of friendship, Masaru’s family had more or less adopted Kiyoshi after discovering he was living mostly alone with an abusive mother, so naturally, when they’d gotten the news, they’d all wanted to help, but Kiyoshi refused to let any of them (aside from Masaru that is) close enough to do so. In fact, he’d avoided all forms of communication from his family and friends, so it had been up to Masaru to keep everyone in the loop.

Originally Masaru had thought it was just Kiyoshi needing time to adjust, but it had been months, and he still refused to contact anyone. It broke Masaru’s heart to watch, especially once some of those friends of Kiyoshi’s stopped asking. He knew Kiyoshi’s lack of interest was a result of depression or PTSD (or both, given his circumstances), but he’s not sure what he could do aside from simply being here and refusing to leave no matter how much Kiyoshi tried to push him away.

Still, he could see when enough was enough.

“I’m fine,” Kiyoshi insists, reaching for the countertop again to pull himself upright. With the angle and the narrowness of the space, he barely manages to lift himself off the ground before crashing down again. He winces, tightly pressing his lips together as his wounded remains of a leg once again hit the hard ground.

If Masaru thought not rushing over to help the first time was hard, it’s nothing compared to now. He hates seeing Kiyoshi like this, but perhaps if he’s forced to confront his new limitations without Masaru jumping to help, it’ll help him realize he’s being an idiot about this whole situation. He wants to ask if Kiyoshi is okay again, but he resists and asks something else instead. “Does this really seem okay to you?”

Kiyoshi glares further. Masaru (barely) resists the urge to wince. “Give me a damn second.” He shifts position to get a firmer grip on the counter to pull himself up again. Before, he would’ve easily been able to lift himself from that position, but now he only gets about halfway before crashing to the ground once more.

There’s a brief flicker of frustration and anger before Kiyoshi schools his features into something more determined. The third attempt is no better than the second, but this time, Masaru is forced to intervene when Kiyoshi makes an audible noise of pain.

“Enough,” he says, firmly but gently, as he steps into Kiyoshi’s space to prevent him from making a fourth attempt. “Enough. Please. Just ask me to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” Kiyoshi insists further.

It pains Masaru to hear him like that, but he forces himself not to react. “Yes, you do.” Kiyoshi flinches in what would be an unnoticeable movement if Masaru didn’t know him as well as he did. “I know you don’t want to–don’t like to–but this is different. You can’t… this isn’t a situation you can handle alone.” He understands that asking for help was always hard for Kiyoshi after growing up the way he had, but Kiyoshi needed to understand this was different. Not just because his new disability left him no choice, but because Masaru would do anything and everything Kiyoshi asked. All he needed to do was say the words.

“Yes, I can. I just need-”

“I’m not leaving you,”Masaru says, finally getting straight to the heart of the matter. He would’ve thought that obvious–he’d practically worshiped the ground Kiyoshi walked on when they were children, and that hero worship had eventually turned to something stronger as they aged; he just refused to put a name to it for fear of losing the best and dearest friend he had–but the way Kiyoshi’s strong facade cracks for just the briefest moment says it’s evidently something Kiyoshi needed to hear.

“Everyone leaves eventually,” Kiyoshi mutters, carefully not looking at Masaru.

Masaru kneels down so they’re at eye level and cups Kiyoshi’s cheek. “Not me,” he says firmly. His tone has Kiyoshi hesitantly looking at him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

Kiyoshi seems uncertain, though he tries to hide it by looking away. “Why?”

Because I love you, is what Masaru would desperately like to say, but he refrains. “Because I’m not like your mother. I’m not going to leave just because things get hard. I’m going to be right here, and I’m going to stay right here no matter how hard you try to push me away.”

Kiyoshi’s eyes take on a suspiciously glassy, vulnerable sheen. “B-but why?”

“Because,” Masaru cups Kiyoshi’s cheek, running his thumb across the soft flesh to wipe away the tears. He hopes the overwhelming love and devotion he feels toward this man are visible right now, “you are and have been the most important person in my life since the day we met. You’ve given me strength, and made me feel loved and appreciated even when no one else could. I-honestly I don’t know if I could’ve made it this far without you in my life.” He smiles gently, his own eyes starting to feel damp. “Kiyoshi Nakamura, I have loved you since the day we met, and there’s no one–no one–I’d rather be with right now than you.”

Kiyoshi gapes at him, tears coming faster at what was just said. His mouth opens and closes repeatedly, unsure what to say. It comes to Masaru’s attention that he’d just confessed to the love of his life and that love wasn’t saying anything.

He pulls back self-consciously, lowering his eyes and hand to the ground. “I, uh, s-sor-” the apology he’d been able to make dies on his lips as they’re covered with another pair.

He instinctively reaches up, cupping the back of Kiyoshi’s neck to pull him closer. Kiyoshi’s tongue trails along his bottom lip, and he eagerly allows it entry. All the dreams he’d has about this very scenario since puberty are absolutely nothing compared to the real thing, and despite not having a clue what he’s doing–he’d never bothered to date anyone else once he realized his heart already belonged to his best friend–he seemed to have been doing something right given the lack of complaints.

When the need to breathe gets overpowering, he pulls back, resting his forehead against Kiyoshi’s. Kiyoshi’s gaze makes him feel oddly vulnerable, but he refuses to look away. Not yet. Not until he knows what just happened.

“I-I love you too,” Kiyoshi admits softly, seemingly afraid of the words he was speaking. As if just admitting this terrified him beyond belief. Masaru’s glad he’s not the only one feeling frightened of ruining their friendship.

Masaru beams, unable to stop himself, and is rewarded with a soft laugh. It’s the first genuine laugh he’s heard from Kiyoshi in months, and his heart soars at the sound. He has the urge to kiss Kiyoshi again and doesn’t bother resisting.

When he pulls back the second time, Kiyoshi is smiling, actually smiling, and Masaru’s certain he’s never been this happy before. “God, I’ve missed that smile,” he teases.

Kiyoshi ducks his head and blushes almost unnoticeably. He could probably count on one hand all the times he’d seen Kiyoshi blush over the course of their friendship, and it delighted him to be the cause of it.

Was this what being on cloud nine felt like? If so, he never wanted to leave it.

“You know, um,” Kiyoshi chuckles, “as happy as I am right now, this, uh, would probably be even nicer if we weren’t on the floor?”

Masaru laughs as he’s abruptly reminded of their position. “Oh. Right. Good point.” He climbs to his feet, struggling not to laugh again at the barely hidden pout sent his way, and offers a hand to Kiyoshi. He carefully pulls Kiyoshi up, not wanting to aggravate his injured leg more than necessary, and pulls the arm over his shoulder. His free arm wraps around Kiyoshi’s waist for support. “Better?”

Kiyoshi gives him an unimpressed stare. “I just meant for you to help me up. Not-” Masaru arches an eyebrow. Kiyoshi huffs. “Alright, alright. Do as you wish.”

Masaru smiles, even as Kiyoshi rolls his eyes. “Thank you.” He gets them both over to the couch before detangling them enough to sit down. Part of him wants to reach for Kiyoshi’s hand, but he’s not sure where the boundary is. Not anymore. And that’s the most exciting part of all this.

He sits down on the opposite end of the couch, crossing his legs as he turns to face Kiyoshi. “So… we should probably talk.”

[antialiasis]

I have spent my sick day doing a thing of musical motifs and where they recur in Chess in Concert. I realized some fascinating things in the process of doing this, like how the bit where Florence and Anatoly discuss their frustrations with Freddie and him not being there and how he could go jump off the mountain for all they care in "Mountain Duet" literally has the same melody as the verse of "Pity the Child #2" about Freddie's mom neglecting him in favor of more ill-fated relationships. You probably all figured this out already but I was here like oh my god.

I have probably managed to fail to figure out where some bits are actually the same etc., so by all means tell me if that's the case so I can correct it.

A couple of other unrelated observations I made in the process of making this (they're also about Freddie, I unfortunately love this terrible disaster man):

"Talking Chess" isn't actually Freddie's final scene; he's also there commentating before and during "Endgame #2". Before, he reads out what's clearly a script prepared by Walter: "All eyes in the world of chess, and indeed many eyes outside, are turned towards Bangkok, Thailand today, where what many here expect to be the final game of the match in this gripping encounter has just been launched with a ceremonial splendor, and all the talk is of the recent sensational loss of form of world champion Sergievsky, who seems certain to surrender his title here today to the mightily impressive Viigand." We already know he doesn't believe this; he thinks Viigand is deeply mediocre, and you can even hear it in Adam Pascal's voice a bit as he says this. After the song starts, he sings what may also be a script, given it starts like what Molokov is saying, and how he sounds a bit stiff saying it: How straightforward the game / When one is free from distraction! / When your only concern / Is laid out so clearly before you / Sixty-four squares / They're the reason you know you exist. There's a heavy sense of irony to that as a script, of course - Walter and Molokov have been doing everything they can to distract Anatoly from the game. The literal sentiment, though, is something Freddie probably genuinely feels.

During "The Interview", Freddie also looks extremely stiff and bitter at the line Chess and politics / I take my hat off / to any champion / who can pull that off. Almost like he's himself a champion who's been forced to play politics instead of chess and hates it actually.

Honestly in general I just like Adam Pascal's performance a lot? He is so distinctly bitter and self-loathing throughout most of Act II and that really helps sell his turnaround. Rewatching a scene like "The Interview", you can tell Freddie's channeling some genuine feelings of spite into it but he also tangibly isn't having any fun doing this. It's good nuance that I enjoy rewatching.

I realized while cross-referencing some stuff that the production that put the full "Pity the Child" after "Florence Quits" was the original 1986 London West End production. That's the wrong place for it! The correct place is exactly where it is here! Honestly as many complaints as I had I find myself also understanding exactly why Tim Rice thought this was the production where they were finally getting it right, because they got Freddie very right here and that's obviously the most important bit what do you mean there are other characters in this musical. I am curious about other versions and whether they improved on other bits, but I expect I will die on the hill of how Freddie's arc ought to be exactly how it is in Chess in Concert (except maybe you could move "I Know Him So Well" so it doesn't awkwardly come in between "Pity the Child #2" and "Talking Chess").

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

Kidcat AU? Who is the kid? are they a literal cat at any point?

KIDCAT AU KIDCAT AU this is mine and @lady-stormbraver's baby (Lady gets credit bc she's my brainstorming and plotting partner on it)!!!! the kid is Tim because I watched The Batman 2022, saw Bruce and Selina being weird stalkers (affectionate) and I went oh hey you know who else is a stalker and has a lot of love in his heart? TIMBERLY. and decided I wanted a Reevesverse Stray AU. this version of Selina sooooo needs a weird little nerd kid following in her shadow. also a big part of the premise is that 1) Jason and Tim hit it off, realize that they consider each other brothers, and decide they're going to Parent Trap(TM) Bruce and Selina, and 2) Dick is in his Hot Mess Era and is wearing a leather jacket with the Discowing suit and at one point ill-advisedly bleached his hair because he thought it would tick off Bruce and he's not great at being an older brother to one little sibling, let alone one (official) little sibling AND the cat-themed tagalong who's hanging around nowadays. this scene takes place a fair bit through the AU and is kind of a turning point in Dickie's character arc in this 'verse.

Batman is out of town, which means Nightwing is in town.

B isn't actually that far, just swapped cities for the night because a lead he'd been tailing ended up taking him to Blüd and he asked Dick, stiltedly and struggling, to cover his patrol route in Gotham tonight. Dick had agreed, because he's been on better terms with Bruce lately and is trying to keep it that way and not completely live up to his name, like Jason likes to say. Anyway, he's not patrolling alone. He's just babysitting, really, though he figures if Selina is out she's keeping her eyes on the kids as well, and possibly him, too.

Robin and Stray took a separate patrol route from his, and Dick had argued with Jason for ten minutes before they took it to Alfred, who cleared that they're allowed to split off like that. Dick does not really want to be babysitting, but he also really doesn't want to screw it up.

"Nightwing!" Comes a sudden, loud cry through his earpiece that almost makes Dick, even with a literal lifetime of practiced balance, miss his landing. "Dick, something's wrong," Jason says, voice tight. "Tim passed out and won't wake up and shit, I'm breaking the names rule, just- Dick, help."

Dick feels like someone's dumped a glass of ice water over his head and maybe broken the glass on his skull for good measure. The chill settles directly under his ribs. Jason never asks for help, not his help, at least. His mind plays a dozen scenarios of gas or gunshots or gang fights and he grapples to the top of the nearest building almost on instinct. When lost, climb to a high point. He deliberately stills at the top, takes a slow breath so his voice won't shake. That one momentary pause is better than the minutes he may have to spend calming Jason if he lets him hear the terror Dick is feeling. "What's your location, Robin?" He asks, sends the request to Alfred, back at the Manor, at the same time.

Jason replies immediately with two street names, the closest corner he remembers, at the same time Alfred pings with a precise coordinate. The running leap Dick takes off the building isn't as smooth as it would be otherwise, if he wasn't responsible for Jason and Tim tonight. If he wasn't freaking terrified thinking of things that could have happened to Sel's tiny little shadow who, yeah, okay, Dick is a bit fond of himself. What Jason could be dealing with, the goddamned protective instincts in that kid has for everyone but himself sometimes. No extra flips tonight, no wasting time on showing off or having fun. It wouldn't be fun, anyway, tonight.

Dick isn't Nightwing when he touches down, not really. He's just a teenager looking for another teenager and the little kid they've both claimed as brother. Sometimes he thinks that's all that holds him and Jason together, other than Bruce. He finds what he's looking for on a roof, tucked away in the nook formed between a high concrete railing and the roof access stairs to the building below.

Jason is a bright flare of red and green and Dick rushes toward him, only remembering too late that Jason flinches, and badly, and that he should have slowed down. Tim is slumped in Jason's arms, black cat-eared hood already pulled down away from his face, the older boy curled protectively around the little black form.

"Robin," Dick says, snapping himself back into Nightwing mode, "Report. What happened?"

"I don't know," Jason snaps, eyes flicking back and forth from Tim, who looks half-conscious, at least, to Dick like he thinks Dick is going to try and take Tim away from him. "He seemed off all night, kinda slow, I guess? We were patrolling like normal, nothing weird, but he just... collapsed. He's burning up."

"Okay," Dick says. "Okay." Slowly, this time, a lot like how he acts with victims — although he hates thinking of it like that, because this is, essentially, his brothers — he reaches towards Tim.

Jason all but growls at him, holding the smaller boy tighter. "Don't touch him."

Dick sits back on his heels. "Jason," he says, "Jay, you've gotta let me check him out, okay?"

Jason eyes him from behind his mask, and it feels a lot like he's taking that one second that Dick took earlier to calm himself. It feels like Dick is becoming both a big brother and Nightwing at the same time. "Okay," he says, and visibly makes himself relax when Dick reaches out again.

"It's okay," Dick says, briefly placing a hand on Jason's head without even thinking about it as he checks Tim's pulse with the other. It's quick, fluttery but not uneven. "You're right, he's running a pretty high fever." Tim's eyelids flicker, and Dick brings a hand up to his face, taps his cheek gently with one gloved finger. "Heya, kitten, you with us?"

Tim blinks sluggishly, eyes half-lidded and clearly not totally lucid. "Nigh'wing?" He mumbles, body suddenly tensing like he's trying to sit up, but Jason holds him tight.

"Relax, baby cat, be still," Jason says, frowning down at him as Tim squirms momentarily. He glances up to make eye contact with Dick, but mostly they both stay fixated on the youngest of them.

Tim stills, his head resting against Jason's shoulder. "Jay..." he breathes, relaxing against this older boy, whose face goes softer than Dick even knew it could.

"We should get him home," Dick says quietly. Jason looks up at him, and Dick can see the but you only have a motorbike counter coming a mile away. "I'll call the 'Mobile."

"F...reakin' autopilot," Jason scoffs, but Dick can see some of the tension ease out of him. "Dick?"

"Hm?" Dick stands to watch for the headlights of the Batmobile. Hopefully Alfred has been on comms tonight and already sent a message to Selina, because Dick feels like he's juggling and not very smoothly.

Jason hesitates long enough to make Dick turn, catching the moment Jason turns his wide, greenish-blue eyes from staring after Dick back to focus on Tim. "Will you call B, too?" He asks, his voice just a little shaky.

Dick sighs. "Yeah, Jay. I'm calling him."

At the end of the day, or in this case, at the end of the night, he wants his dad too. Maybe that's another thing that holds them together.