#And yet I hesitate to call this what it is - chronic pain

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

VII. twenty-one questions.

parts: previously / next plot: everything comes to a head. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, reader's a little stupid, descriptions of surgical stitching, blood, surgical needles, knives, violence, mentions of drugs and underage substance abuse (alcohol), minor character death(s). words: 11.4k.

a/n: it has been yet another hot minute and this chapter has given me a lot of grief in terms of all the ideas I had for it and what it ended up being. as you can tell by the word count, I could Not shut up

Alfred calls you bright and early to watch Bruce spar.

The billionaire had mentioned it before, and while you didn't doubt you would meet an untimely fate were you to challenge Mr. Pennyworth one-on-one, it was a whole other thing seeing them both on the mat.

Alfred is slow but thoughtful; when Bruce attacks, he goes for several hits at once. Alfred anticipates each one. He's more defense than offense, but when he strikes Bruce in the chest even you can feel it.

Bruce is lean, quick. He ducks and rolls and uses every part of his body, not just his fists. He looks a little sloppy when he wraps his legs around Alfred's—out of practice, maybe?—but it doesn't keep him from succeeding. Alfred fights like a soldier. Bruce fights like a martial artist.

Bruce makes a noise when Alfred falls to the mat and you spring up with attention, "Everything okay?"

You hear "his leg" and "I'm fine" overlap one another.

The real reason Alfred had called you was because he wanted you to watch Bruce hurt himself. The vestiges of a sprain, he guessed, that Bruce was too stubborn to rest. When he couldn't convince Bruce to pass on sparring, he resorted to you: "an objective spectator." Alfred had sounded pleased. Bruce had looked about ready to suplex him.

You head over anyway, ignoring the protests of the injured so you could kneel and survey the damage. "Can you walk?"

Bruce doesn't meet your eyes. He forces his body to stand, but you can easily tell he's favoring a side. You reach a hand up and pinch his injured calf, hearing him hiss through his teeth. "Of course it's going to hurt when you do that." He sounds childishly annoyed. Alfred is fighting a smile from his spot next to you.

"I don't understand. You're head of the company, you can afford to take a few days off. Even chair rest is still rest."

"Ah, but there lies the conundrum," Alfred pushes himself up to his feet, "he cannot sit still."

Bruce extends his hand to you, still avoiding eye contact. You hesitate but take it anyway, and the ease with which he hoists you to your feet is a bit disorienting.

Since your agreement with Batman, you were forced to be patient. After all, there were more pressing matters in Gotham besides your own ticking time bomb. He'd promised that he'd get back to you soon about Bruce and, until then, you would have to grin and bear it.

Alfred excuses himself to get busy with lunch the minute Dory enters with the groceries, leaving the two of you alone in the middle of the living room. "As your doctor," you begin, "I can't in good conscience let you keep pushing your body past its limit."

"It barely hurts anymore."

You bend as if you're about to grab at his leg again and he takes a step back, annoyed—if not offended, "You have no record of chronic pain. No record of serious past injuries at all. Yet you strain yourself doing... what, exactly? Sparring all day? You may be young, Bruce, but your body isn't indestructible."

You get the feeling he's heard this before, bristling like a scolded cat as you stare him down, "I'm fine," he brushes past you toward the table he and Alfred moved to the far end of the room, grabbing a sweating glass of water, "Alfred's just being... Alfred. He worries too much."

"I worry," Bruce raises a brow as he takes a swig and you clear your throat, "you said you need to be reminded to care of yourself. Well, that's my job now. Not that the hospital couldn't use more of your money but it's not worth the pain you'll be in." Bruce leans against the table, one leg crossed over the other. You approach, briefly taking note of the water that dribbles down his chin. "I'm starting to think you're just a masochist."

"Yeah? How do you figure?" His lip twitches up into a smile.

You open your mouth but the thought stops you cold. You were going to say, "Because I know someone just like you," but then you're transported back to that fateful morning where you first met. Bruce and all his... familiarity. The wild speculation of your exhausted mind. All of which, at the time, overlapped perfectly. Yet now that you knew them both better, they were worlds apart to you. Except for that one thing.

What was it that set them apart, again?

Your eyes drift up to Bruce's. "I get your type at General sometimes," you divert, "real pains in the ass."

Bruce steps closer to you with his glass abandoned on the table, "And your type can't seem to leave well enough alone."

You prickle. If it weren't for the fact that he was so clearly teasing you, you'd have lingered on the almost double meaning, "The fact you think this," you raise your foot and tap the side of Bruce's injured leg; his eyes narrow, "is well enough further proves my point. You need rest."

Bruce rolls his shoulders back; his compression tee clings to every muscle as he does, drawing your attention for a brief moment. "I'll think about it."

Your jaw drops. Bruce smiles. You feel a white hot flash of irritation that's wiped away when Alfred reenters the room, dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, eyes fixed on you, "Will you be staying for lunch?"

Before you can say no, Bruce interjects for you, "Yes. Thank you, Alfred." Then he turns to you, pats your arm like a friend, and pushes you in the direction of the kitchen, "I'm gonna shower. Make yourself at home."

You stumble over yourself, regaining balance just as Bruce's head disappears over the top floor banister. How quickly he could retreat when leaving you to the lions.

But Alfred is in a good mood today. Better than usual, actually. The hair on your neck stands on end as you follow him to the kitchen, preparing for the good mood to sour now that it wasjust the two of you, but it doesn't come. You watch him hum a little tune as he fixes up some vegetables to sauté.

You even find yourself getting comfortable at the island when he breaks the silence, "I appreciate what you're doing for Bruce... regardless of its efficacy. It's nice to know someone else has common sense in this house." Alfred sets down four empty plates at the breakfast table.

You take note of his tone, an improvement from his barely concealed dislike from weeks before. You take that as a small victory for today, "It's like arguing with a brick wall. How have you managed it all these years?"

"Like a soldier." Without asking, he fills a glass to the brim with water and hands it to you.

"Right. You're a veteran." Your observation gives him pause, the food he tends to at the stove crackling away. "I can tell. I've treated a lot of veterans so I can spot them from a mile away now."

Alfred snorts, straightening his shoulders. "I served as a young lad. Eventually retired and came here, took on the job as the Waynes' butler and bodyguard. I've been with them for quite some time. Since before Bruce was even born."

"You practically raised him."

"Rather... clumsily, might I add," Alfred glances at you and you're surprised to see him bashful, genuinely, "protecting him, I could handle. Raising him... well, that was another matter entirely."

"But you did a pretty good job. I mean, he's accomplished a lot. Especially with the mayor. I imagine that's why he's working so hard: really seems like he's dedicated to restoring his father's legacy."

You can't help the little hook you throw out.

Right before the Mayor was elected, when a bomb shook the penthouse of 1939 Kane St., Edward Nashton had taken to the airwaves to out Thomas Wayne as a cold-blooded killer. Not long after, the man who'd pulled the trigger was shot dead in the street before he could be brought to justice. That would bring anyone out of hiding.

Wayne Enterprises inevitably challenged the claims, Bruce Wayne had taken to his father's defense in an impassioned press conference that even you tuned into, and Gotham General made the decision to keep his father's statue in the courtyard.

It was never ruled out, though. After all, all of the Riddler's other exposés were true. But there was no paper trail. Nothing but he said, he said, and with everyone involved dead, it was Bruce Wayne's word over a zealot who'd flooded the city.

You take a sip from your glass to let Alfred ruminate on his reply. He doesn't raise his eyes to you again, "Precisely."

"I've been keeping a close eye on him in the news. His philanthropy this past year has been really remarkable." That was a bold-faced lie. You'd been keeping an eye on him for the past few weeks. Everything else you knew about Bruce Wayne's newfound appreciation for the poor and needy came from Em. "Some of the people at the party, however..."

"Councilman Roberts, was it? He was awfully spirited from what Master Bruce relayed to me."

The very mention of his name makes your blood pressure spike, "The guest list was very diverse."

Alfred transfers the cutting board to the sink, "Master Bruce has his reasons. He's become rather fixated on the state of political affairs. First behind the scenes, and now..."

"Now center stage." You finish for him, swirling your glass. "Think he'll run for office one day?"

Alfred looks somewhere between amused and horrified.

It would be natural. Thomas Wayne had almost done it. Why not Bruce? It'd be a comeback story for the ages if someone didn't try to kill him again.

"I'd rather he keep out of it. Being in a position like that has never been his true calling."

"Yeah? And what is?"

Alfred doesn't look like he wants to say. He scrubs at the surface of the wooden board, absentmindedly brushing the same spot clean over and over. His eyes catch yours for a split second, just as quick as the smile that he flashes when the answer finally spills out of him, "Altruism."

You and Alfred don't talk much more until Bruce comes down. Dory joins you all at the table soon after and, rather awkwardly, you find yourself having a quiet lunch with the Waynes. Hooks abandoned. Fish not caught.

You wait for what feels like hours, but eventually he arrives.

His car is an absolute monster. It growls as it pulls up beside you in the withering glow of street lights, and if it weren't for said lights, it would blend into the shadows almost completely. The raindrops that dot the hood help catch the light on the deep black paint job.

You look for the door handle but it opens for you. Inside, you see Batman with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. You swallow. This is new territory.

You throw your bag in first, then climb into the passenger seat, very aware of the pocket knife stuffed in the pocket of your scrubs. You go to close the door and it closes for you all on its own. Behind you is an intimidating engine that vibrates through your every bone and muscle, and when you look to the driver, he is staring straight ahead. A few beats pass as you try to keep your teeth from chattering, "Do the seat belts move on their own, too?"

Batman looks at you from his peripheral. Then—twisting in his seat—he reaches across you to retrieve the seat belt, dragging it across the front of your body until it clicks at your side, "'Fraid not."

Despite all the rumbling of the car engine, it's a smooth ride through the city. Even the littering of pot holes and uneven pavement doesn't ruin it. Still, it does nothing to quell your nerves.

You feel small, sinking into the passenger seat built for people wearing a lot more armor than you. You also note that there's nowhere for your legs to go underneath the seat. You bump the solid obstruction with the backs of your sneakers but can't make out what it is.

There are other weird things you notice when you start looking. Starting where your shoulders rest are six holes going down the seat, three on each side, all a foot apart from the last. You press your finger into one of the holes and feel hard metal on either side of the gap. Upon further inspection, Batman's seat has it too, "What are these for?" You ask.

Batman doesn't need to look at you to know what you're messing with, "Restraints."

You recoil, "I beg your pardon?"

"I could show you."

"I'm- sorry, what..." You bend at the waist to feel the metal plate beneath the seat and recognize that there are holes along the sides there too.

"In case I need to bring someone along who's less than willing. Metal bars are installed in the seats. Only I know how to activate them."

"Why your seat too?"

"In case someone tries to steal the car," he makes a turn into one of the boroughs and you realize you're getting close to your destination, "but I've considered putting a trunk in the back for... passengers."

"And where do you get the money for such... modest mods?"

At that, Batman does not answer you. You figured he wouldn't. There were a hundred answers he could give you that would surely, most definitely give his identity away. It doesn't stop your brain from beginning to wander.

It doesn't get very far before you're pulling up into the alley between two houses, shrouding the car in the shadow of Joey Russo's home.

It's not as nicely kept as the other houses on the street, and its age doesn't do it any favors. A lot of the off-white paint has been chipped off or discolored over the years. There's a piece-of-junk car in the driveway that looks like it works, but just barely. The lawn has outgrown the neighbors', kept at bay by patches of dead grass where you can tell someone had gone to town with weedkiller. There are old, faded garden decorations around the front porch. Some gnomes with their ceramic hats caved in, a wind chime missing most of its chimes.

You're wandering out of the alley and into the harsh, orange beam of the streetlight when you feel Batman's hand roughly drag you back into the dark. You're about to ask what the problem is when your eyes catch the side of the house.

There's a little window with its grey curtains shut, a dead flower limp on the sill. Next to the window is a backdoor cracked open.

You do not protest when Batman presses up against the side of the house and moves you behind him. There are dogs barking, cars driving by, faint sirens in the distance, but you can't hear anything from inside.

You watch as he presses his hand to the door and slowly pushes it open, peeking in from a safe distance into the dark. Most of the windows are blocked out by sheer curtains, and no light in the house is on from what you can tell.

Batman is a hulking thing, always, but every step is feather-light on the weathered floorboards as you both enter. There's no sign of Russo, even though the house feels warm. Like it'd been lived in recently. Your heart picks up as you swear you see a shadow move in the corner of your eye, but it's just the wind picking up one of the curtains.

You so desperately want to ask him what he's thinking but your voice is stuck in your throat, the thought crashing down upon you that you are here, that somewhere in this house is the man who had ensured you'd be here today (in nearly all the ways that that could apply), and that it was not so far behind you as you might've hoped.

And were you to get an answer—any answer—from Russo tonight, it would not change the fact that your name was still on Bruce Wayne's payroll.

You feel sick to your stomach all over again.

When the living room is clear, you're simultaneously relieved and terrified when Batman leaves you to scope out the adjoining dining room. The house is silent aside from your breathing.

It's a few moments alone that does it; you start to feel another wave of anxiety. It had been a few minutes, hadn't it? Maybe. A minute at least. You're not confident enough to go looking for Batman, and you fear calling out to him would just detrimentally unsettle the atmosphere. You listen for where he might be, any creaks in the floors boards, but there's nothing.

Just as you're about to step into the dining room yourself, something moves out of your peripheral again. Only this time, you realize too late that it's not the curtain.

You barely register the pain at first—the skin of your upper arm splitting in half—but then it's white-hot and you're choking on a cry before you can stop yourself. Something had rushed at you, a person. You shakily touch where they'd cut you.

Was it a knife? It had to be, with how cleanly it tore your skin. Your brain jumps to the next question: was it covered in anything? Would you get infected?

You stumble back and reach into your pocket for your own knife with a little more urgency. The person rushes at you again with something akin to a battle cry and you narrowly dodge their raised weapon, only the sound of it ripping through the curtains tells you it wasn't just another delayed reaction.

You slash at their back while they're still turned and manage to actually make a cut before jumping back. It's not enough, though. Your attacker spins and even though the light has now turned them into nothing but a silhouette, you can feel their crazed gaze on you.

It feels boiling. It feels personal.

Their breathing is ragged, panting from more than just the fight. It sounds like they're foaming at the mouth, rabid and wild, as they spit at you, "You should've died with your little bitch of a friend when you had the chance."

The anger in their voice stuns you before the words do.

They come at you again and you sidestep them once more but it's staggered, allowing the tip of their weapon to slice your cheek open. When you cry out this time, you yell for Batman.

You don't have any concept of time right now, but as you fall to the floor, you swing at your attacker's ankle, hoping to cut a vein, when you feel Batman rush past you and directly into your attacker.

They both crash into the coffee table, glass and wood shattering in a cacophony. You watch through burning eyes as the two wrestle each other, keeping your hand pressed to your arm to still the bleeding even as it slips against the skin. Batman has them pinned when your attacker starts wildly kicking, and one of his feet hits Batman hard in the leg. You don't expect it to be the leverage he needs, but it's enough to daze Batman—he looks suddenly awash with pain—and that's all the attacker needs to slip out from beneath him and head out the back door.

Your heart stutters. How hard did he have to hit him through the suit for it to cripple him so easily?

Batman tries to recover, tries to deploy the grapple gun in his gauntlet to trip him, but he slips into the alleyway just narrowly. Batman is after him in an instant.

You force yourself up from the floor to follow after him, when you realize that within all that commotion, no one else in the house made themselves known.

You stumble up the staircase, haphazardly swiping at the wall for light switches that might help clear the spots in your vision. "Russo!" You call out, and your voice is shaky. You realize you're trembling.

There are too many doors on the upper floor but there is one that is cracked open. You rush toward it first, shoving it open with your good shoulder.

And there, to confirm your worst suspicion, is proof.

You've had enough training in your field not to immediately vomit at the sight even as the smell overpowers you. He's lost weight and he looks smaller than he had been when you were just sixteen. Laying on the floor, drenched in his own blood, Detective Joey Russo isn't the crystal clear picture you'd preserved in your head these past 17 years.

You make it only a few steps before falling to your knees beside him. It's clear he'd passed from the stab wounds not long before you'd arrived and there's just so many. His chest, his stomach, his arms and legs and skull—his face had taken the worst of it. Whoever had done this had been furious.

You can barely bring yourself to stare into his eyes but when you do, you sob. You try to look anywhere else but your eyes just catch on pictures of him on the wall, happy, smiling, with a wife and a kid who leave no traces of themselves in this room.

It's just him. All alone here.

You sway a bit as you reach a hand up to shut his eyes but the blood on your fingers stops you. You realize that you've left a trail on the way up here, and as your eyes retrace back to the bedroom door, you see Batman standing there looking down at you.

He doesn't ask, just walks over to you and hoists you up to stand, forcing you to lean into him for support.

The time between him finding you and the walk downstairs passes in a muddy amount of time and you're stumbling into the hood of his car as your head swims.

You must be losing a bit of blood.

Batman presses a hand to your arm. His other hand goes to your cheek and you flinch away at the sting.

You watch him dizzily. He reaches down to the bottom of his cape and rips a strip off to tie around your bicep. "GCPD is on the way. We have to get you stitched up."

"If only there were a surgeon around." Batman doesn't find your joke funny. Neither do you, all things considered.

The doors open on their own again and he sits you in the passenger seat, leaning it back as far as it'll go before buckling you in. You think you feel his hand linger on yours before he abandons you for the driver's side. The thrum of the engine is the least of your concerns now.

You're halfway down the street when you mumble, "He said... I should've died."

"Stop talking." He doesn't say it with menace, or at least not the kind where you actually mean it. It's all bark and... worry, you think.

You hate the smell of your own blood, which is funny because it smells about the same as everyone else's and usually that's just fine for you. Or maybe you're still smelling Russo's.

You think of your attacker. About what they said. That you should've died with your "little bitch of a friend". It's too convenient to not be—one of the street lights you pass is far too bright and you have to shut your eyes to keep the thought going—be about her. And why her? Why Russo? Why now?

17 years of nothing. And now everything at once.

"Russo," your voice is weaker, "we gotta go back for him."

"Stop talking! I'm trying- shit." This is the most panic you've ever heard in Batman's voice before. The most fear. He hadn't been this worried when he was dying on your living room floor. "Please." He begs.

You're of sound mind enough to know what he's really asking. You should know, even as you sway in and out of consciousness.

You conserve what little energy you have left to focus on the side of his face. His jaw forever clenched. Eyelashes long enough to catch the city light on. And although it's not entirely clear from the angle you're laying at, you search out the blue of his eyes as his face turns to look at you. It's the last thing you see before you give in.

When you come to, you are laying in a hospital bed with a throbbing arm and an equally throbbing cheek. Your scrubs are still in tact, even with the bloodstains down the front and sides. The knees of your pants are stained too, and you are harshly reminded that this blood doesn't belong to you.

The next thing you notice is Em sitting in the chair beside your bed, head thrown back in a peaceful nap. She must've heard—or seen, you don't recall getting from the car to here—and came to keep you company. You'd reach over to tap her knee if it were your good arm's side. The next thing you notice after that is that there is someone else in the room with you two.

It takes a second, but you remember him: a kindly face even with the cloud of disturb that hangs over him. When he sees you're awake, he gets up from his position against the wall and approaches the other side of the bed, "Detective James Gordon," he introduces himself, nodding to you, "we met at the precinct before."

Your voice comes out scraggly, "I remember you."

He flashes you a quick smile, "Well, I'm happy to see you're alright. You lost a bit of blood, but your friend—" A pen materializes in his hand and he points it at Em, still dead to the world, "—said it was just a few stitches."

"Are you here to arrest me?"

He's trained well enough not to look shocked, but you see his expression shift, "Why would I arrest you?"

You swallow, looking down at your scrubs once more, "I assume you're not here to talk about our mutual friend."

James nods. "We examined Joey Russo's home. We found, among other things, your DNA on the scene. Blood in the living room and... upstairs bedroom."

You pinch your pants leg, trying to get at the skin so you could keep the churning of your stomach at bay. Anything to distract yourself from the very vivid image of Russo's lifeless eyes.

James clicks his pen and you focus back on him. He's got a small notepad in his other hand with a few words already written down. You wonder what he's written about, what he's thinking about you right now. "From what I understand, you dropped by the precinct recently asking for the whereabouts of Russo and were denied given his retirement. You mentioned that you were inquiring about an old case involving yourself, is that correct?" James continues after your nod, "You brought this up to the Batman too."

"Yes," your voice wobbles, "I asked if... he could help me."

"And?"

"He said no."

"But you were both there tonight. So, what happened? Why were you looking for Joey Russo?"

You lean up on your good arm, allowing your legs to swing from the bed so you could sit upright in front of James. One glance over your shoulder tells you Em is still asleep, "I told him it was urgent. I had reason to believe confidential information about the case had been leaked to someone. I wanted to confront him, find out if he... was the one that leaked it."

"The case being part of your sealed juvenile records, correct?" James casts a look over you, somewhere between pitying and skeptical, "given your involvement in this situation, I was given access to this record. Detective Russo worked your case 17 years ago, and was, in fact, the person to get your records sealed in the first place. Along with... three others, I believe. And you believed someone had unauthorized access to it?"

"I know- I know. I know they did."

"Can you tell me the name of this person?"

Detective Gordon seems trustworthy. Batman trusts him, you can tell that much. It's just the saying it out loud part that trips you up, "My, um... my employer. Not Rudy, but Bruce Wayne. I'm his personal doctor. I became aware he had this information and wanted to check with Russo myself before I said anything."

James doesn't bother hiding his intrigue this time. His eyebrows shoot up a bit when you say Bruce's name, "Right. And... do you have proof that he has this information? A picture or a recorded conversation, a witness even?"

Of course not. You'd been happy enough to get out of that penthouse without being caught. Your silence is answer enough. James writes something down on his notepad and nods at you, "Well, a single person—especially not a civilian employer—should be able to access something that's not public record. Even Russo couldn't, having been retired. I can't imagine Russo was the one to give him that information unless he just had a file lying around, and I doubt he did. He never revisited that case before he retired in any capacity."

"Is there any way Bruce could have accessed it?"

"There's plenty of ways if you have an in somewhere and the leverage to do so, but this is all speculation. I can look into it, though. See if anyone's accessed the file recently, sniff around. If you come across anything solid, let me know."

You doubted you would. After that night, those files had probably gone into a room with lock and key.

"There was something else that I wanted to talk about, though," James shifts closer to you, "Our mutual friend assured me that you've never been to Russo's house before tonight, and that he had been with you the entire time you were there. From what I understand, there was someone else in the house with the two of you. Do you have any idea who he might've been?"

"No, I... I didn't really get a good look at him."

"What about his voice? Could you describe it?"

"Uh, young. Sounded about my age." Your fingers grip the bedsheets tightly, "He said something. He said that... I should have died. Along with my friend."

James' eyes narrow on you, "Your friend?"

"Alex," you choke out, feeling a tear spill out of your eye, "I know he was talking about Alex."

"Hm. You think that's why he attacked you? He knows you?"

"But I don't know him."

James flips his notepad back a few pages, "There were eight people there the night Alex Villanueva was murdered, including herself and you: your three friends, none of whom have stepped foot in Gotham since 2019. The shooter, Natalie Young. Her younger brother, Dimitri Young. And a fellow member of their gang, Lucien Goulding. Natalie was killed in a shootout 17 years ago, Goulding is currently in prison, and Dimitri... he should be serving life in prison right now."

Your brows furrow, "Should?"

"He and several other inmates were reported missing from Arkham five days ago."

Your mouth goes dry. You squirm in bed with a sudden urge to take off running and never look back. Maybe you'd aim for your mom and dad's in New Jersey, or maybe the Atlantic.

You remember when Dimitri was a head shorter than you, had yet to sprout up so young. You remember what it was like looking at this kid not much younger than you, green eyes watering, curled up on the concrete as Alex kicked and punched and bled him until he could barely limp home.

And how he looked when Natalie came for you. Still a kid.

"Bat said he was about 5'11, 210 pounds, green eyes, shaved head and tattoos. A bit different from what he was when you last saw him. It makes sense you don't remember."

"He wanted to kill me." You whisper.

James—he's an angel, really—gives you a moment to let it sink in. "We want to put a security detail on you. We have strong reason to believe Dimitri was the one to kill Russo, and it's very possible you were next on his list, but I don't think he anticipated you being there tonight... which might've saved your life."

You shake your head, "Batman saved my life."

The detective smiles, "Twice in a row might make him your guardian angel." The both of you turn when you hear Em stir awake from behind, and James goes to dismiss himself, "Well, thank you for your time. You should probably be heading home to get some rest soon, but if you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to let me know." James hands you a business card, "And I'll look into Bruce Wayne for ya. Could be something there. Our mutual friend might know. Take it easy."

"Wait," you call, before he can get out the door, "Russo. He had a- a kid. A son. And a wife, I think. They weren't at the house. Are they okay?"

James looks a little pained as he answers you, "No... uh, his son was murdered a while back. His ex-wife's been living back home in Boston ever since. She's been notified."

There isn't much else to say after that, so he ducks his head as a final goodbye and exits the room, raincoat swaying behind him.

You're awoken by an incessant ringing about 24 hours later.

Popping one eye open, your brain takes in the shadowy lighting of your living room, blinds still halfway up from when you'd first returned home early that morning. Judith had caught you slumped outside of your apartment door and flanked by two officers—roused by the sound of you coming home late—and had helped you to your couch, poured you a glass of water, and stayed with you until the painkillers put you to sleep.

Frankly, you gave yourself permission to lie and rot today. But the ringing would not stop.

You grab your phone, uncaring of the caller, and accidentally press it to your cut cheek with a hiss, "Yes?"

You expect it to be Em, checking in to see if you were still alive. You also expect it to be your mother, checking in to make sure you still planned on staying in Gotham. You even expect it to be Rudy (who had been just about on the verge of tears when he saw you with a busted cheek).

It's none of them. "Can I see you?"

You place the voice instantly, actually going breathless. "I'm- what's... what's wrong?"

Sitting up hurts like a bitch and you realize that you're about two hours past your scheduled Tylenol. You inhale through your teeth and try to gather your bearings.

"I got... stabbed," Bruce sounds guarded, but it shockingly doesn't come across like that's because of the stabbing, "I need your help."

"Jesus! You need to call 911. Or- or get one of your ten million drivers to take you to the ER, or call a fucking helicopter to-"

"The tower, can you come? Now?"

You weren't supposed to be driving. The cops had brought you home, and you very much did not want to ask for that favor. You drop your forehead into your palm, massaging your temple with your thumb, "How deep is it? Did you stop the bleeding?"

"I've got something on it. I just need you to stitch me up."

You glance around the room, hazy, and reach for your water, "I'll need a ride. Can't drive right now."

"He's waiting outside." The line goes dead.

You don't believe him until you go to open your apartment door and see a suited man leaned against the opposite wall, nodding politely at you. You must look like you've sprung from the dead after last night, but no one makes a comment about it. The two officers on either side of the door nod to you, "Says he's a driver for Bruce Wayne and that you'd know what he was here for. His ID checks out, but we're gonna have to tail him if you go with him."

You shut the door and look through the peephole, but the driver looks comfortable waiting.

You'd wonder how Bruce knew you'd need a ride before you said as much, but it was clear by this point that he knew everything about you.

You probably shouldn't go. Not until Gordon looked into him, or Batman. Right?

You root around in your coat pocket for the phone Batman had given you and send a quick text to his number.

Going to Wayne's. Tell Gordon to hurry up with a warrant.

You pop two pills and pull on your coat.

When the elevator doors part, you drag yourself down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the main room. Alfred nor Dory is anywhere to be seen, but with it being past 10 at night, you can only imagine they're off to bed by now. There is just a single light coming from the kitchen, and when you turn to the breakfast table, there is Bruce. Waiting.

He doesn't look at you when you approach, however. One of his hands is holding stained gauze under the neck of his shirt, and the other is gripping the table with white knuckles. You wash your hands at the kitchen sink, then round up on his left side where he's pressing against the back of his shoulder, just out of reach for him to stitch himself. You fear he would've tried had you not answered the phone.

Or, God forbid, come to you.

He looks up when you're right in front of him, scanning you quickly, "Are you okay?" He doesn't sound all that surprised to see you like this. It raises the hairs on the back of your neck.

You pull the neck of his shirt down to survey the damage, for lack of a good explanation, "I'm certain I've got a better excuse than you." Bruce shifts when you move his hand away, exposing the bloody flesh that makes you wince. You set your things on the table and command him to lift his shirt. He hesitates. "What is your excuse?"

"Got caught off guard."

"Where?"

Slowly, Bruce slips his shirt off, allowing you to see the full expanse of his back. There was the angry red stab wound, but there were other things too: moles and beauty marks scattered across his skin that paled in comparison to the several jagged lines across his shoulders and lower back—pink raised skin where it looked like he'd been cut before. Cuts that had healed years ago. You hover your fingers above one and realize they're shaking. "You never told me you and Alfred fight with knives."

"We don't," he glances at you over his shoulder but looks away just as quickly, "some of those scars are from martial artists I trained with in Thailand."

"Some?" You see so many, and those are only the ones that leave visible scars.

"Others are from the Russians."

You begin to lightly clean around his wound and ready the anesthesia but, despite the fact that he cannot see it in your hand, he waves it off completely, "Are they... the people who gave you this?"

He goes silent again. You feel like you should stop asking questions at this point, but they itch at your throat.

He wouldn't call you here to fix this unless he had nowhere else to go.

When you make the first stitch and he doesn't flinch, your eyes flit to his other scars. Martial arts training, he said. The second stitch and still no response. On the third stitch, you press your thumb against the edge of the wound and push down. He actually swears at you as blood dribbles out of the wound, and the hand that had been gripping the table reaches back to grab your lower thigh, effectively bringing the operation to a halt.

You shove his hand off, "What the hell happened? Your hands, your leg—that was easy to explain. But this?"

He has the audacity to glare at you over his shoulder, "I don't pay you to ask questions."

"No, you don't. And yet you could've hired anyone but you hired me. Even though..." You trail off, eyes blazing, because you're not feeling that confident, "the least you can do is tell me what happened."

Bruce holds your gaze until you feel your knees begin to wobble in place. For once, he doesn't look like a wide-eyed, nervous animal in front of you. He looks angry.

Then it's gone. Bruce rolls his shoulders back and you watch the needle, still hanging by its thread, roll against his muscles. More blood seeps from the wound as your hands itch to get back to work. "One question," he starts, looking away from you, "the night of the party, upstairs. You told Alfred no one got on the elevator. But you did, didn't you?"

You swallow. "He said it was broken."

"Be honest with me and I'll be honest with you."

"About anything?"

From behind, you can see Bruce's jaw twitch just so, "Everything."

You step closer. Taking your needle, you resume the suture, "A question for a question, then. To keep it fair."

"Alright."

"Tell me what happened."

"I was looking for someone."

"Who were you looking for?"

"That's another question."

"Fine," you try not to take your frustration out on his skin, "I did. Who were you-"

"Dimitri Young." You still in your stitching. It feels like your heart is inside your head, thumping against your skull with every beat. "What did you see down there?"

You have to rake your petrified brain for context, having nearly forgotten everything that had come before... before... "I- I was... nothing." Bruce hisses through his teeth and you realize that you're just pressing the needlepoint into his skin mindlessly. "Files. A computer. A car underneath a sheet, some tools, a motorbike. A TV playing the news." You don't bother with hiding it now, "How do you know about Dimitri?"

"Because I know about you. Why did you go down there? Not knowing what you might find?"

It takes all that you have to keep the burning tears at bay, "Because I don't trust you. Because everything about this has felt off. I needed to know what you were hiding. What are you gonna do with what you know?"

Bruce takes a moment as if he's thinking about it, but when he answers you, you're for once certain of his honesty, "Nothing. I might set it on fire, if that's what you want."

"You could have another copy lying around. Or a way to access it again."

"I could. But I don't. And I wouldn't want to." He turns his head over his shoulder and you are frozen under his stare, "I'm being honest with you."

"How did you get it?"

"That's another question."

You complete the next few stitches with a little more force than needed, "Then ask me something."

"Why did you take the job if you didn't trust me?"

You laugh humorlessly, "Because I knew the pay would be fucking ridiculous. How did you get my file?"

"You wouldn't have turned me down the first time if that were true."

"Answer me."

"Be honest with me, I'll be honest with you. Why'd you take the job?"

"Because-" You choke, "you... sent me those ridiculous flowers and a handwritten note." Bruce's head tilts, you choke out more, "And when I asked you why you offered me the job, you said that it was because I noticed you were hurt when no one else did. And I said it felt like more than that. I think- I have been trying to get an answer."

Bruce studies you. He must believe you because he finally answers your question, "Russo had nothing to do with it."

"Who did you pay to get it for you, then?"

"That's-"

"Just ask me, God damn it." You finish off the suture and bite off the thread.

"Why did you turn your life around?"

You'd thought about that a lot after that night. The simplest answer was right there, but if you were being honest with yourself (and you were being more honest than you would've liked tonight), you really didn't want to die. "I wanted to live. That's what I'd always wanted. Even though I... really didn't act like it. I never wanted to live more until that moment." This time when you lock eyes with Bruce, you don't want him to look away. Maybe it's because he's defeated you, broken your pride, whatever. Right now, you want to see him.

You don't have to ask again. You watch him rise from the table, flexing his back again, and though you want to scold him for irritating his stitches mere seconds after you've finished them, you just... don't have it in you.

And then he's standing face-to-face with you.

You think the lights and painkillers are deceiving you at first, but this close, you are certain: he is littered with scars and wounds color-picked from late twilight skies. His back doesn't even look this bad. It's always been more than bruised knuckles and leg sprains.

And it's familiar. All of it. Bruises and cuts new and old, the shape of him, the color. The stab wound is new but all of this is months (years) in the making.

The closer you get, the more it knocks the wind out of you. Your eyes follow the length of his torso and then—your fingers press against his side, up against a healed gunshot wound. You brush your thumb against it. It makes you feel nauseous.

You look up and he's looking at you. Defeated. Relieved. You can feel the denial creeping in but it all clicks into place, doesn't it?

The bullet wound, the limp, the job offer, the sprained leg. You couldn't see it because, frankly, they couldn't be any more different from each other. And yet...

Bruce's hand covers yours and keeps it there.

That damned bullet brought you together. It had brought Batman to you, it had brought you to Bruce, and it had solidified in no small way that whatever had led you to this moment in time was years in the making. All because you wanted to live.

"Come with me." And Bruce leads you upstairs.

17 years ago.

"I think it could be good," Alex holds up the bottle to you, "if you're down."

You hate the taste of whatever she's giving you but it does make you tingly. You take a big swig and set it between you on the concrete, "You know I'll go wherever you go."

Alex grins, "That's the spirit!"

On Tuesdays, you and Alex like to watch the cars go by from the alley. It's between a Thai restaurant and a laundromat so it always smells good; if it's not the fabric softener, then it's the pho. It's where you always find her. After a few heart-to-hearts spent curled up on the ground with her here, it became "your" territory.

Claiming it didn't stop people from holing up inside and standing around a barrel fire, nor did it stop the laundromat owner nor the line cooks from coming out to smoke and take out the trash. But it did mean that you both liked it here. For lack of other places to go.

"You know that piece of shit from the Vipers won't take no for an answer?" Alex kicks at a rat that scuttles past, making sure it wouldn't take a bite out of her ankle.

"You're very popular, it's not a surprise."

"Shit, it's just cause they know my parents don't give a shit where I go. They're all like, 'Come join us! You could be one of our best! We'll pay you more in a day than you'd make stealing in a week!' but they don't talk about all the kids floating in the river when they try to do better for themselves."

"Like you'd let someone boss you around." You giggle, and Alex beams.

"No way in hell! I love my independence. See, I can take whatever I want whenever I want. Those sad fucks in the Vipers have to answer to some... some random guy they rarely ever see. Why would I want that?"

You'd seen the kids the Vipers recruited. There was no age limit, some as young as nine were happily making deliveries. It used to be a joke in your school that any kid with a front door would end up in the Vipers eventually.

You wondered if you would've ended up there too, had you not been with Alex.

Your makeshift gang of two which had grown by three in the last few months was less organized than the Vipers. It didn't pay unless you pulled your weight, and most of it was at Alex's discretion. For the most part, none of you moved without her. She was the head, the leader, and the only reason you could afford your new winter boots this month.

And you would truly follow her wherever she went.

You watch a few more cars pass. You press your head to the brick and let the sounds of the city light your nerves. That is until you feel a breeze where Alex had once been. You open an eye and find her inching further into the alley. "Hey," you call, but she turns and shushes you so your next words come out in a whisper, "where you going?"

She frantically waves you over.

You don't see what she's looking at until you get about halfway down the alley, but the voices are crystal clear at this point. There's a woman and a young boy standing off behind a dumpster, but when the woman catches sight of you and Alex, she shoves something into the boy's hands and dips around the corner. The boy, flustered, is just barely able to put it away before Alex is grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into the light.

It becomes clear that he's not a young boy. He's about your age, maybe off by a year or two, but so thin and lanky that his puffer jacket engulfs him completely. Alex yanks his sleeve down to reveal a poorly done tattoo of a snake going up his upper arm, jagged and unfinished like he'd run off in the middle of getting it done. It didn't seem too far-fetched an idea: the guy looked 92 pounds soaking wet.

"You're on the wrong turf, kid." Alex warns, but you know her tone of voice is too final to be a warning.

The guy yanks his arm back, "Fuck off."

You realize what he was fumbling with when the woman had run. A small bag of something white, and a wad of cash sticking out of his pocket. You snort, "Dealing for the Vipers a little far from home, aren't you? You must be new."

The guy tries to escape but Alex grabs the hood of his jacket and drags him back, "We'll overlook the trespassing if you give us a cut."

"Leave me alone. This place doesn't belong to anyone." But as soon as he says it, Alex takes a hold of his dirty blond hair and yanks his face up to look at her. You go to grab his money while he's distracted but you don't expect him to brandish a knife until he slashes at you. He misses, but it sets Alex off.

She uses his hair to throw him into the side of the dumpster and you can see the thoughts rattling around his head upon impact.

"Right, everything belongs to the Vipers. Is that why your boss is still Falcone's little bitch?"

The guy is indignant against the taunts. He tries to slash at her but Alex is faster, always has been, and she has his wrist in a death grip before he can even get close. You watch her twist it back until he lets out a cry of pain, the knife clattering to the floor at your feet. You take it and hold it up to his neck, watching his eyes go wild between you and Alex.

"Give us the money and we'll pretend this never happened-" you start, but jump back when you feel something wet hit your cheek. You almost don't believe it, but the guy has some spittle dribbling down his bottom lip and a satisfied smile when you lock eyes with him again.

Alex wasn't just fast. You remember her standing up to your childhood bullies between classes and giving them shiners that she still bragged up to this day. It took a few years before you both stopped ending up with twice as many injuries, and a few more years after that before you stopped having bullies at all.

And this guy— maybe he didn't know what he'd gotten himself into and that extended to more than just this moment in time—was half the size of the guys Alex had beaten to tears in the past.

It does not surprise you that he crumbles to the ground with the very first punch to his gut. Alex hits hard first to make the fights quick, and so when her next punch lands on his nose, you know that something has been broken. With each kick to his gut, the tears free flow as if surely, the next hit will kill him.

You watch silently. Alex is unforgiving.

After a minute or two goes by, he is so beaten down that he wheezes every time he breezes. You're certain Alex has gone overboard but something in your heart swells at the thought that it was for you.

When all is said and done, you snatch the money from his jacket and he doesn't bother to stop you, head leaning against the ground as tears and blood and snot trickle into a puddle. For good measure, Alex snatches the drugs too, "Don't show your face in this alley again or you won't leave alive."

And you know this is a lie. A trick to make her bigger and badder. A threat that she would never follow through on. Because Alex always made herself look bigger, badder, scarier, deadlier. It's what protected you both on the streets. It's what made you follow her, what made your friends follow her.

Alex was everything, and you would follow her anywhere.

You ride in silence together down to the terminus. You feel much the same as you did the first time. Bruce pulls back the gate and you spill out into the dark, but much like before, the lights and TV kick on. The News 7 jingle plays, Bruce pads over to mute it.

You watch him stand a few feet away from you, avoiding your eyes as they sweep the floor. There are those same tools scattered about, hubcaps stacked on top of tires, wires going from one side of the room to the other. It looks just like you'd last seen it, only the car that had once been covered by tarp is now on full display. It gleams in the overhead lights, as much of a monster in clear view as it was in shadow.

He really wasn't shitting you.

When you still don't say anything, Bruce walks over to his desk. Underneath it is a crate full of folders, and you realize he's getting yours when he turns and holds one out to you. You take it, inching closer. Without a word shared, Bruce pulls up something on his computer and you nearly flinch when your mugshot is reflected back at you on one of the screens.

"Your record isn't accessible unless I use a workaround which isn't... legal, but it's how I found your file without Russo. The GCPD doesn't know." You peer at him from the corner of your eye, urging him to explain, "I taught myself how to get in."

Your eyes are welling up with tears the longer you stare at the younger version of yourself. Bruce continues, "I know what the record says. That they traced back a few robberies to you and your friends over the years, and that you'd had a run in with a Viper the night you met Russo. You helped track them down, took out a portion of the gang's operation, and your record was sealed. That's all."

"They didn't trace all of them back to us," you start, not really wanting to talk, "just some. There were more."

Bruce seems to sense that as he closes the record, "It's your turn. To ask, I mean."

You look at Bruce in the face and hate the softness there. You can't be angry, or numb like you wish you could be. Your chest is all twisted up with emotion with no one feeling staying for long, even if it would flare up again every once in a while. "Did you know about me before or after you asked me to work for you?"

"Before. After that morning, I couldn't stop... thinking about you. Truth be told, me and Alfred have been doing this alone ever since I started. Before you, he was the one that would stitch me up, kept me out of doctor's offices where someone might talk. But he was also running the company for me, and taking care of me, and worrying about me. I knew if I was going to commit to this, I would need to try and stay alive, and I always meant to find someone but it wasn't an easy decision to make. Until I met you."

You know it's his turn now, but you can't help asking, "And you didn't think... maybe the kid with a record would be a bad idea?"

Bruce cracks a smile, "I mean, the stitches never got infected." You would've laughed at that if you were in a better mood. "I wasn't always so understanding. But I imagine someone who's dedicated the better part of their life to saving lives has more than made up for it."

Your head automatically shakes, "I can never make up for what I did."

"You don't have to tell me everything," he begins delicately, "but I need to know what Dimitri is after. I need to know what he's thinking. You're the only one who can help me."

You blink away a few tears and plop into a stool by his desk, dropping your head in your hands. The memories suffocate you, rushing at you like a flash flood. You don't know where to start, let alone what you want to tell him. An hour ago, you were certain he was caught up in a Gotham mob, planning to use your history as blackmail for... something.

You can't quite reconcile the feelings you have for Batman with the face of Bruce Wayne. Or who you thought was Bruce Wayne.

But he was right. You were the best chance at catching Dimitri. You were the only one who could make it up to Russo.

You swallow at the memory of Russo's mutilated body, but then... you remember him in that police station. When you were 16 and wishing you were dead. You suck in a sharp breath, "I met Alex when I was a baby. I mean, we've known each other for a long time- knew each other. She and I used to be attached at the hip. She protected me from bullies and I would sneak out at night to listen to her vent about her parents, about Gotham. She fucking hated it here. I did too.

"Alex and I learned that if you want to survive, you have to be powerful. So we became powerful. You might not think a pair of 14 year olds are all that powerful in the grand scheme of things but when it was just us against the world, it was addicting. When we wanted something, we just... took it. We started off pickpocket-ting on the streets, usually assholes who could afford to lose a hundred or two. And then we started robbing places, small-time stuff, you know. Run down houses, apartments, swiping out of registers when no one was looking. If anyone gave us shit, we just turned tail and ran. It was hard enough trying to make ends meet for our parents, and we liked the thrill of it. We rarely ever got caught.

"Eventually, some of our friends from school joined us and we become a little piece-of-shit gang. God. We were like... fucking 15, running around the city like we were so big and bad. My parents had no clue what I was really up to but they knew something was wrong. I didn't care. I was with Alex and I would follow Alex anywhere. We had this little alleyway, right? Between a Thai place and a laundromat. That's where I could always find her. And one day, we were fucking around and caught some guy dealing back there. Alex got pissed. We tried to take his money but he defended himself. I said something... he spit at me. And Alex just lost it.

"She beat him into the concrete and I just... watched. This guy, couldn't even throw a punch if his life depended on it, and she just wailed on him. And I watched. And I liked it. I felt powerful. We felt powerful. I know, a pair of jackass teenagers hurting people for fun? We were pathetic. But it didn't feel that way, being with Alex. She was my best friend."

The tears are free-falling now and you don't even bother to wipe them away. It would feel cowardly. You couldn't hide from Bruce now, not anymore. Not if he wanted to believe in you. "We didn't know who this kid was, other than the fact he was a Viper. A young one, a weak one. We didn't think he'd even last a week. Most kids like him end up getting disposed of by the boss anyway. And then all five of us were fucking around in that alley again when they showed up: the guy, Dimitri, and his sister Nat and this other kid. All of 'em Vipers.

"Nat wanted the money and the drugs back. Kid had a black eye so I guess he'd gotten shit from his boss about it. Alex was... indignant. Refused. For once, I begged her to give in but she just wouldn't fucking listen. Of course she wouldn't, do you know how much I enabled her? We were on top of the world, why would she give in? And she really pissed Nat off with that, but then she started mouthing off and then... Nat shot her. Right in front of me. It was instant."

Bruce remains incredibly still. His lips part to say something but nothing really comes out. You keep on going, "I was so shocked that I didn't even move when Nat turned the gun on me. It was like... I don't know, it was like I couldn't quite believe she was dead. But I understood what happened. Logically. I saw it happen. I saw the bullet in her brain. And when Nat turned on me, I think a part of me just... didn't want to have to think about it. Like a coward. If it wasn't for our friends pulling me out of the way, I wouldn't... be here. Next thing I knew, I was at the GCPD getting investigated for murder."

"They thought one of you did it?"

"The cops that brought us in, yeah. They just so happened to be around the corner when we ran into them. By that time, Nat and Dimitri had run off. The cops thought it was some fight between the five of us and that one of us pulled the trigger, but they couldn't find the gun. That's when Detective Russo showed up."

"And he offered to get you a plea deal."

You nod, sniffling, "He told me... he said that he could tell I'd never seen something like that before. There was no way I could've done it. And when I couldn't even finish the whole story without choking up, he said... he said that in exchange for our help catching Natalie, he would make sure all the crimes they tied back to us were sealed and expunged."

"What about Natalie? How did they find her?"

"The GCPD had been looking into the Vipers for months. Vipers almost exclusively recruit minors because they're more loyal, but there wasn't a way to get in without putting some innocent kid in danger. So they had us look into it. We found one of their hideouts by the docks. GCPD wanted to get the kids out and into the foster system since a lot of them were orphans, like Natalie and Dimitri. But the ambush didn't take. They got a couple kids out but... a few died, including Nat. Last I heard of Dimitri, he got tried as an adult for killing a cop during the shootout. That was life in Arkham."

Bruce shifts closer, "Until he got out. And he came looking for Russo."

"He was just a kid, Bruce," your voice cracks, "he was just a kid. He couldn't even defend himself. And because we were assholes we got his sister killed and we got him put away. He was just a kid."

"So were you."

Something about the tender way Bruce says that makes you sob. For years, you've looked back on that moment with so much guilt, knowing how lucky you were to make it out of that situation alive and unscathed. How lucky you were to be taken seriously, to be cared for, for a detective like Joey Russo to show you a picture of his kid in his wallet and tell you that he would hate to see them in your position.

You were lucky that you got to fix your grades and go to college, study medicine, save lives, be here. Natalie didn't get that. Dimitri didn't get that. Alex didn't get that.

"You said... you said you hated Gotham. Why did you stay?"

You wipe at your cheeks, "I- I honestly... I wanted to. My parents made a deal with me that we would leave for New Jersey after I graduated but I didn't want to leave. I couldn't. I couldn't leave Alex. I couldn't leave the city, after all I'd done to it. In it. I wanted to leave like my friends because the guilt was so much but I felt obligated to fix it. I wanted to help people. Not hurt them. And I've worked hard to do better. I just can't leave. I don't want to leave."

What surprises you is the hand on your face afterwards. Bruce cups his your cheek. His thumb brushes away some tears, and it feels so unlike Bruce even though it's him, even though he's the one who cradled and comforted you after being held hostage, even though he was the one that stood on your fire escape and confessed that he trusted you, liked you even. Your brain just sort of stops there. You melt like putty in his hand. You realize you've been craving a gentle touch like this for a while.

"Then you won't have to," Bruce casts his eyes to the side, looking at where you laid your file on the desk. You can see the cogs turning beneath his furrowed brow, "I'll make sure of it."

"How?"

"...You won't like it."

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Phantom Grin

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: Bruce Wayne visits his son's grave on the night of his resurrection. Will it change Jason's fate, or is it all simply inevitable?

Chapters: 11/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain

Relationship(s): Jason Todd/Original Character

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent AU, Jason Todd Has Chronic Pain, Jason Todd is Disabled, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Resurrected Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne Get Along

Chapter Eleven: Bat or Bird

ason spent the next few weeks at Barbara's because Bruce was out of town following a lead. Barbara didn't mind him training at odd hours. Most days, Jason kept his appointments and said his prayers. Other days, Jason lay in bed with no desire to do anything. Barbara allowed him his space as long as he followed two rules: Make his appointments and answer his phone.

"Jason!" Barbara yelled from the kitchen.

Jason rolled his shoulders and wiped the sweat from his brow. He met her in the kitchen and looked her in the eyes. "Where's your phone?" Barbara questioned. Jason patted himself down to look for his phone, and she held it out for him.

"Sorry, I didn't—."

"Bruce called you an hour ago... He's still free to talk, but you've gotta pay more attention," Barbara chastised him. He nodded and took his phone from her.

Jason apologized and called Bruce back from his room. "Jason, are you—?"

"Hi, Dad. I'm sorry, I didn't have my phone on me," Jason interrupted, "Something wrong?"

"No... I just wanted to check in on you. How've you been?" Bruce asked.

"Honestly? I'm doing alright today... I just have a lot on my mind," Jason whispered, "Dad... Can I ask you something?"

"Okay," Bruce replied.

Jason heard clicking as if Bruce were typing something. "If your gut feeling went against common sense-. Generally speaking... Would you trust your gut or—?"

"Is it something that can be looked into? If it can't, I'd say go with your gut," Bruce whispered, "Do you need me to come back?"

"No, actually, that was the answer I needed... Not the one I wanted, though. What are you doing?" Jason asked. "Are you working?"

"Um, no, I'm just doing a regular search... You know I'll be back in time for your birthday," Bruce reassured him, "Anything special you want me to bring you back?"

"Nothing this time... But maybe consider letting me come with you next time," Jason suggested, "I'm doing better. I really am."

Bruce stayed silent. "Dad, you haven't even seen what I can do yet," Jason whispered. He lay back on the couch. "I need you to trust me. I'm not even asking to be Robin again. I'm just asking to be something."

"You are something. Jason, you're my son. I just don't want—."

"I was Batman's son too," Jason whispered. Bruce sighed.

"I'm sorry, but I've gotta go. I love you, Jason," Bruce replied.

"I love you too," Jason muttered into the phone before hanging up.

"Jason, I wanna talk to you after you get cleaned up," Barbara whispered. Jason nodded, and he showered and washed his hair.

Although he understood Bruce's hesitancy to put him back into the field, Jason felt hurt. He tried not to get angry or offended, but he couldn't help but feel stifled. He got dressed and met Barbara in the living room. "You're bored," she stated.

"It's not your fault. I just want to be useful again," Jason whispered. Barbara took her glasses off and set them on the table. "What?"

"If I let you open your birthday gift, will you promise not to use it until your birthday?" Barbara asked. "I'm serious. You have to promise me because I shouldn't have done this in the first place."

"I promise," Jason whispered. Barbara grabbed a box from behind the couch and handed it to Jason. He carefully removed the wrapping paper while holding eye contact with Barbara. "Before I open this box, how much trouble could you get in if my dad found out?"

"Don't worry about it. Just open it," Barbara whispered. Jason looked down and opened the box. He pulled out a costume and a mask. "I'm not sure if you remembered a conversation we had before you—. I didn't give you two things. I didn't give you a cape, and I didn't give you a symbol. It's time you start to make choices for yourself. It's time you decide who you are, Jason."

"Barbara," Jason smiled as he looked the costume over, "You really—. Thank you, but why would you stick your neck out for me like this?"

"Because I care about you," Barbara answered. She pointed to the top half of his suit. "It's heavy because it's insulated and bulletproof. The utility belt is basically the same, with a few updates... And Jason, please be careful."

Jason smiled faded, and he nodded. "Barbara, what's the catch? I know there's gotta be a catch," Jason questioned.

"I've seen you these past few weeks. I think it's time that we all start giving you your space. You've more than earned it," Barbara explained. Jason folded his costume up neatly and put it back in the box. He walked over to Barbara and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "What's that for?"

"Not asking where I'm going tonight... And for believing in me," Jason whispered.

"I won't ask where you're going, but I will ask you one thing," Barbara whispered, "Jason, are you about to do something dangerous?"

"Nothing dangerous... Just stupid," Jason answered, "Really stupid... But on a scale of one to ten for danger, I'd have to say it's a two." Barbara narrowed her eyes. "I won't be out super late. Actually, I won't be out late at all. I'll be back before eleven."

"Okay," Barbara whispered, "Do you want me to order anything special for dinner tonight?" Jason shook his head.

"No, I'll find something out there," Jason replied as he slipped on his shoes and took his keys off the hook on the wall. It was nice to have his own little secret, but something told him that he was about to make a huge mistake.

[teine-mallaichte]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 4

Prompt: "Chronic Pain" / "Massage" / "I'm used to it."

@whumperless-whump-event

I hate writing the comfort part of things 😂 like really really hate it... but meh, challenging self and all that.

Anyway Fernis experiencing chronic pain just makes sense. And I really needed to have Adrian Hawke in another fic.

Fenris sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, and head bowed low. It felt like his very bones were on fire, his flesh too tight and too sensitive to bear. Every heartbeat sent another wave of pain crashing through him, and every breath was a jagged gasp as he fought to maintain control.

Gritting his teeth, willing himself to rise, to move, to do anything other than succumb to the torment. He had endured this before, countless times. The bad pain days might not be regular—most days, the pain was somewhat tolerable, or at least possible to ignore—but the world did not stop for his suffering. There were always battles to fight, and duties to fulfil.

Weakness was not an option.

Slowly, he forced himself to his feet, swaying slightly as the pain intensified with the movement. He reached out, steadying himself against the wall, his fingers trembling. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm of his breaths, trying to push away the pain and growing headache.

“Bad day?”

Fenris didn't need to look up to recognize Adrian's voice. It was disconcerting that he had not noticed the rogue enter the mansion.

"Hawke," he acknowledged, his voice strained but steady. "I did not hear you enter."

"That's the idea, isn't it?" Adrian replied with a smirk, though his eyes betrayed his worry as they scanned Fenris' trembling form. "You look like shit."

"I'm used to it," he muttered bitterly.

Adrian stepped closer, his presence a mixture of comfort and irritation. Fenris could feel Hawke’s eyes studying him, analysing every tremor and wince. Adrian's concern was genuine, but it felt like a spotlight on his vulnerability. "Maybe," Adrian eventually said softly, "but that doesn't mean that I don't want to help." His hand hovered near Fenris’s shoulder, hesitant, knowing how touch could sometimes worsen the pain.

Fenris let out a shaky breath, half a laugh, half a sob. "There is nothing you can do, Hawke."

Hawke grinned widely, "want to make a bet on that? Because I may have had an idea… If you're willing."

Fenris glanced sideways at Adrian, his expression a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "An idea? You know nothing heals… this."

Adrian shrugged, undeterred, "Maybe not heal, but perhaps alleviate some of the pain, even if just for a while."

Fenris raised an eyebrow, conceding a faint glimmer of hope. "And what do you propose?"

"Sit down, I'll be right back," Adrian stated, walking toward the door. "And lose the armor," he called over his shoulder before leaving the room.

Fenris watched Adrian leave, a swirl of emotions within him. Adrian’s sudden appearance and confident demeanor offered a welcome distraction from the relentless pain, though he knew hope was a dangerous thing, a lesson learned the hard way.

He slowly settled onto the bed's edge, part relieved to have been given permission, part irritated that this relief persisted after so many years of supposed freedom. With trembling hands, he began removing his gauntlets, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his body. As he fumbled with the usually simple task, his gaze fixed on the door, half-expecting Adrian to burst back in with some new scheme. Yet, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder—could Hawke really help this time? Was there a chance, however slim, that things might be different?

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Fenris finally freed his hands from the gauntlets, his fingers tingling from the release of pressure. He hesitated before continuing, being without his armour made him feel vulnerable and exposed, removing it felt like shedding a second skin, one that he was both reliant on and repelled by.

The pain surged through him in relentless waves, as if mocking his attempts to resist it. It wasn't just physical; with the pain the memories always followed, forcing him to remond himself over and over that his master, that Danarius, was not here. The magister was dead. Fernis had killed him himself, crushed the mans heart in his fist.

Taking a deep breath, he refoced on the task at hand, beginning to undo the clasps and buckles of his armor, each movement a battle against the agony coursing through his body. His hands trembled as he worked, fingertips feeling every strap and latch as if they were razor-sharp edges. Each buckle seemed welded shut, resisting his efforts like a foe in battle. Sweat dotted his brow as he wrestled with the metal and leather, his muscles screaming in protest with each twist and turn. With a grunt of effort, Fenris managed to unfasten the last buckle, the armor falling away piece by piece. He sat back, chest heaving, feeling exposed without the protective weight.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts as Hawke returned with a small wooden box in his hands. Setting it down on the bed he opened it, revealing an array of vials and jars, some containing oils, others with unguents and salves of various colors and consistencies.

Fenris eyed the assortment of vials and jars skeptically, he had multiple concoctions in the past - back before he had resigned himself to simply existing in pain, back when he still had some degree of hope that he might find some sort of relief.

Adrian grinned mischievously as he rummaged through the box. "Remember that herbalist we did a job for last week? Well she specializes in treatments for chronic pain… And… well I went back to speak to her…" he trailed off as he lifted out a jar, "This is supposed to relax the muscles and soothe inflammation," Adrian explained, before picking up another, "And this one… well I explained your… situation, and she made this."

Fenris glanced at the jars, then back at Adrian, "And you believe this will help?"

Adrian shrugged, "It's worth a try, isn't it?" his grin faltered, "I… I am not going to force you to try them," he added quietly.

Fenris hesitated, his gaze shifting between Adrian and the array of jars and vials again.

"I suppose it can't hurt to try," he finally conceded.

Adrian nodded, a relieved smile touching his lips as he carefully selected a jar and opened it. "Where do you feel comfortable starting?"

Fenris tensed slightly, before slowly extending a hand towards Adrian, and looking away, bracing himself for the expected discomfort as Adrian began to apply the salve. Surprisingly, there was no immediate burning sensation or adverse reaction. Instead, a soothing coolness spread across his skin, gradually easing the relentless ache beneath. He couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction.

"Does it help?" Adrian asked softly, breaking the silence.

Fenris took a slow, deliberate breath before responding, "Yes," he admitted, surprised at the admission even to himself.

Adrian's smile widened, relieved. "Good," he murmured, continuing to apply the salve.

[plague-of-insomnia]

WIP Wednesday: New AU, Sebagni Sickfic

This excerpt is from a new self-indulgent AU I’m working on. It’s set in modern Houston, like many of my fics, with a human Sebastian with a rare chronic illness, a heap of medical (and other) trauma he hasn’t processed, and his new live-in nurse, Agni.

Over the course of the story, Agni gets Seb to heal and accept his intentions as genuine, and the two of them become closer.

Here’s an extra-long snippet to hopefully get you as excited for this as I am, lol.

[No real TW here, but it does deal with medical issues, chronic illness, with minor references to PTSD/panic attacks.]

“This is Agni,” Tanaka said as they approached. “Agni, this is Sebastian.”

Agni smiled. In another life, Sebastian may have appreciated how incredibly handsome he was. He’d always been attracted to tall men, but that was behind him now. No one could look at him like this: stuck in bed, barely able to shift himself, a shell of who he once was, and see him as anything but an object of pity at best, or someone who should be euthanized at worst.

A stab of physical pain as a muscle spasmed in his side, blending with the emotional anguish these thoughts brought forth, the brief image of him that almost made Sebastian choke on a breath. He grunted, then did his best to shove it all out of mind. No way he could let his guard down around a new nurse. No matter how bad he was feeling.

“They outsourcing now?” Sebastian spat bitterly. He watched for Agni’s reaction. He didn’t even twitch, but continued to smile. They always seemed so nice and helpful and friendly when Tanaka was around. But as soon as he and Seb were alone—

“It is a sincere pleasure to meet you,” Agni said formally, without a hint of an accent Sebastian could detect. He felt a tiny sting of guilt for what he’d said, but he dismissed the thought before it could blossom. “Do you prefer I call you Mr. Michaelis, Sebastian, or something else?”

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, he replied, “Sebastian is fine.”

Agni nodded. He took a hesitant step closer. It hadn’t escaped Sebastian’s notice that Tanaka had unconsciously placed himself between them. “Can I ask how your pain is right now?” Agni took a tiny notebook from the pocket of his bag, along with a pen, and began to jot some things down.

Tanaka nodded as if to urge Seb to be honest. But what would that solve? It’s not like Agni could really do anything about his pain. Sebastian was used to it. He hadn’t had a single pain-free day in more than ten years. Unless Agni had a magic wand hidden in his bag, the best he could do would be meaningless platitudes. Like “the new anti-inflammatory medicine will start working and relieve your pain soon,” or some shit like that.

“Why the fuck do you care?” Sebastian spat, not in the mood to make nice.

A small frown crossed Agni’s stunning features before he shifted into what was presumably his sympathetic face. “I would like to make you as comfortable as I can. I’m not here only to attend to simple medical needs like giving you medication. I want to improve your quality of life as much as I can.”

Sebastian scowled. It didn’t help that breathing was harder, the pain magnifying, perhaps exacerbated by stress. If he’d had the strength, he’d have hurled something at him and yelled for Agni to just fucking leave him be.

Agni didn’t need to be a mind reader to gauge Sebastian’s mood, but he was either a very good actor or more patient than most, because he didn’t crack yet. “It seems like you’re uncomfortable right now. Could I examine you quickly?”

No. But behind Agni, Tanaka whispered in Japanese, “Behave. I have a good feeling about this one.”

Subduing a growl, Sebastian nodded. Braced himself for rough handling that would aggravate his pain.

Agni set his bag on the side table and removed some supplies, including antibacterial gel he used to clean his hands before pulling on a pair of blue gloves. His forearms were muscular without being excessive, and Sebastian found himself watching as the man worked, apparently not the type to make meaningless chitchat. That was good, at least.

He hated the ones who felt like they had to constantly fill the silence with their babbling, talking to him like he was a toddler and not a grown man in his 30s.

“Let me slip this on your finger,” he said, not reaching and forcefully grabbing Sebastian’s arms like most nurses would have, but instead waiting for him to offer an index finger for the little oxygen meter he clipped onto the tip. “And now I want to listen to your heart and lungs, if that’s all right?”

Sebastian sighed, winced when it pulled and spiked his pain, but quickly pushed his face into neutral. “Fine.”

Tanaka walked around to the other side of the bed, adjusting the curtains so the shifting sun wouldn’t be in Sebastian’s eyes.

Agni was delicate. He warmed the head of the stethoscope with his hands before slipping it under Sebastian’s T-shirt and listening intently in various spots before asking him to breathe deeply and slowly. He even managed to slide the stethoscope between Sebastian and the bed to listen to his back without him yanking him up and away from the mattress like a sack of potatoes. If Sebastian didn’t know better, Tanaka had told him exactly where his pain was bad today, and he was actually taking that into consideration. Had to be for show.

“How are you feeling right now?” Agni asked as he removed the stethoscope and replaced it in his bag.

“Well, I was going to the opera tonight, but I’m a bit tired, so I may have to cancel my plans.” Sebastian glared at the neglected electric wheelchair in the corner of the room. The one he’d been so excited for when he’d first received it, believing he would have newfound freedom with it, that he’d be less encumbered by his disability and illness. That he would have accepted him—

A wave of nausea overwhelmed him and he had to cup his hand over his mouth.

Agni worked quickly, grabbing a kidney-shaped emesis basin from the table and quickly placing it beneath his chin, deftly sliding a hand behind his back to support him without causing him pain.

But Sebastian was able to swallow it down and shove Agni away as well as his limited strength allowed.

But Agni didn’t seem to mind. He nodded, checked the monitor, and said instead, “Your oxygen levels are a little lower than I would like. Are you having any trouble breathing?”

Sebastian glared, but the jerking of his stomach earlier had caused his entire rib cage to feel like it was aflame, and it was easier not to breathe until the burn got so bad he had to inhale. Despite doing all he could to stay focused and in control, he could feel panic setting in. No. Not now. Not with this new nurse he didn’t know from Adam.

Gasping and gripping the sheets, Sebastian felt darkness swirling in on the edges. He struggled against it, fighting himself, fighting his body, fighting traumatic memories that tried to yank him further away from control.

A warm hand on his head. A mask placed in his face. A soothing, deep voice urging him to breathe, to relax, that he’d be OK. Someone held his hand.

With the machine’s assistance, despite the pain, his lungs filled and emptied due to the shifting pressure, and the dizzy, swimming sensation faded to clarity. He hated relying on this thing. The bipap machine. But it helped when his muscles were especially weak, or in moments like this. Let him rest. Without fear he’d stop breathing.

Agni pulled something else from his bag. A small tube. “Have you ever used this ointment before? It’s a topical anti-inflammatory, and I’ve had many of my patients swear by it. I could put some where your pain is worst, if you’d like.”

Go fuck yourself, Sebastian wanted to say, but he was too drained.

Tanaka squeezed his hand as if to encourage him to accept Agni’s help.

“It absorbs quickly, so you don’t need to use too much. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

Sebastian offered a small nod and pointed lazily to his torso and back. His heart was still racing, and he would have preferred Tanaka do this, but that would take more energy to explain than he had right now.

Over the next few minutes, Agni carefully applied the medicated cream to Sebastian’s sides and back, Tanaka letting Seb lean against him to ease the strain as the nurse coated his back with it. Sebastian was almost stoic through it all, and yet somehow Agni seemed to have a sixth sense for where his pain was worst, concentrating his ministrations there while keeping his touch feather-light.

Then, with Tanaka’s help, he shifted Sebastian onto his side, layering pillows to support his most painful areas. Agni worked slowly so as to minimize spiking his pain. No nurse had treated him so gently or with so much consideration. If he hadn’t had dozens of bad examples, he might have been tempted to believe Agni actually did care.

“This’ll take some strain off your ribs,” Agni said in a low, rich voice.

Now that the adrenaline crash was hitting him, and the cream was dulling the pain, exhaustion began to pull Sebastian so strongly he struggled to keep his eyes open.

“Get some rest. I’ll check on you later.” Agni slipped the call button into Sebastian’s hand, petting it momentarily as if to give him reassurance, though it felt patrionizing. Still, it was considerate enough. Meant if he woke up in agony he wouldn’t have to move to call for help.

Tanaka stroked Sebastian’s arm soothingly before pulling the blankets up around him. “The heated blanket will help,” he whispered. “Sleep for a while.”

Sebastian gave up fighting and let his lids slide closed.

I hope you enjoyed this! If you do, let me know..!

I’m really hoping I’ll be able to post the first chapter of this this month.

Reblogs are always appreciated !!

Special thanks to @apocalypticromantic666 for all their encouragement and support!!

[breitweisergallery]

So you said you were working on a few wips...talk to me. Tell me everything

okay okay okay okay so (pulls up the last time i referenced any of my wips to remember what i even posted about)

Original WIPs:

Since I just started working on it tonight. I'm taking a playwriting class this semester so I started working on what will be my end-of-the-semester project (the semester starts tuesday) because I already know what my project is going to be. It doesn't have a title yet, but it is going to return to my roots of leaving two actors on a stage basically going through emotional hell as their stories intertwine in the form of interrogations (gotta love a barebones interrogation room scene on a barely lit stage).

"#WhatHappenedToTennysonBeatty" is (hopefully) going to be the project I focus on moving forwards with my fiction courses. It's written in script form, as a podcast breaks open and exposes the mystery of a disappearance from ten years previously.

I have a new adult fantasy book I've been working on for a minute too, and I just had a breakthrough literally tonight about it, so I'll probably be working on that on/off as well. The book is split between three major POVS: Felicity 'Fix' Brion (married to a diplomat and maternal figure to her orphaned nephews, in her husband's country following an assassination of her sister-in-law), Roel Devani (former prince, former spymaster, turned war criminal), and Cealin Ecgwine (essentially a priest in the church, escorting what may possibly be an actual god reborn away from his death).

I ALSO have a near-future dystopian book I've been working on in a very on-and-off way that deals with some pretty heavy topics I don't want to super get into. But its got some queers and some magic realism, so that's fun.

TDJ WIPs:

"What if Yohan simply didn't?" I've mentioned it in passing, I think, but it's an AU in which Yohan's plans are waylaid by chronic pain and trauma. Soohyun's meddling ends up with Gaon going to visit the house in which Yohan and Elijah are bottled up, and though initially the Kangs are both cold to him, it takes very little for them to warm up to Gaon.

"????" is an Elijah-centric 5+1 of emotions as she experiences them over the course of the show. I know the emotions are 'anger, bitterness, reluctance, hesitation, hope + happiness' but I've written exactly one sentence of it.

"Another ?????" is an exploration of Yohan's trust in Gaon through the eyes of the people around them: K, Jinjoo, Elijah, Jungho, Soohyun, etc.

SFH WIPs:

I can't talk about the SFH WIP for legal reasons (again, I'm a mod of the zine, I know what the topic/theme is gonna be months in advance lmfao)

Critical Role WIPs:

Nicknamed "Tilly" with the working title "regret informs only the living," it jumps between ~C1 and C3, in a world where Percy and Laudna had met as children and did know one another. It jumps between their childhoods, immediately after reclaiming Whitestone, and when Bells Hells bring Laudna to Whitestone to revive her.

Originally nicknamed "Life 5," now its own fic titled "obsessively, incessantly, to a point of suffocation", it's an alternate history in which the Empire made a severe push into Xhorhas as the perfect moment. Asarius falls, and Dens Olios, Thelyss, and Tasithar are captured. The citizens of Asarius are split between four internment camps. Switching POVs between scourger Bren and survivor Essek, it's an alignment flip.

"friends on the other side," also called "Kingsley is Confused™," is immediately post C2, following Kingsley as he tries to piece together some semblance of identity and life, while Mollymauk and Lucien simply do not shut up in his head. It's enough to drive anyone mad, really. But maybe, just maybe, King is smart enough to figure out how to get them out of head and into bodies of their own.

"kindness is a dish best served" is an alternate C2 ending, in which it is Lucien pre-Nonagon who wakes up when the Wildmother brings him back. He lies through his teeth, claiming he doesn't know any of them. Only Caleb (visibly) sees through the lies.

Currently nicknamed "Vesper de Rolo's Very Bad, Not Good Day," it's a retelling of C3, in which Vesper de Rolo is a member of Bells Hells.

Currently only nicknamed "the consecution fic," the only thing I've written is this: 'thirty years after Essek Thelyss of No Den is executed for treason, Lirik Thelyss of Den Thelyss begins to go through anamnesis and realizes he can tell nobody who he truly is.'

And that's not including two 5+1s I'm sitting on for more Thelyss family dynamics because there's something so fun about locking Essek, Verin, and Deirta in a room together and poking them to see what happens.

And, now, lastly. The one I can't forget. "The Fickle Nature of Time's Children," suffering under the weight of my 22k word outline. It's a Caleb/Essek time travel fic with a twist, dealing heavily with themes of depression, a lack of fulfillment and unhappiness, with a massive redemption arc for the Tombtakers because they deserve it.

~

*exhales* okay that's it. Mostly. I have a couple of other original pieces of writing I didn't touch on because I haven't been working on them as much.

[ella-ashmore]

🌀Post the fic summary for a fic you haven't written/published yet. It can be hypothetical or something you really plan on releasing... ❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

<3

🌀Post the fic summary for a fic you haven't written/published yet. It can be hypothetical or something you really plan on releasing...

[stacy/brenda/steph] (probably steph)'s [parent(s)] have put her in piano classes to "round out her education." she has, unfortunately, been 'forgetting' to practice outside of classes, and is panicking about hatchetfield highs upcoming talent show, only finding out that her [parent(s)] have signed her up for it without her knowledge a week beforehand. ruth offers to teach her everything she needs to know before her performance.

^ official summary for it even though i havent started writing it at allllll but. im very attached to this idea. ruth deserves to flirt with a hot woman while shes teaching her piano. they probably kiss at the end after the talent show goes well idk

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

a muffled groan was heard from inside, quickly covered up by Ethan clearing their throat. "i'm fine!" they called back, though the way their voice shook so heavily betrayed the fact something was clearly wrong. "just go back to bed, babe, i'll be in soon."

Lex paused for a moment, hesitating, then pushed the door open the rest of the way so he could see what was going on, a look of confusion settling on his face at the sight before him. Ethan sat in a corner on the floor, their back pressed up against the wall and the tank top they wore as a pajama shirt discarded beside them so skin would make contact with the cool surface. one of their legs was pulled up to their chest, their elbow resting on their knee. they grimaced slightly, head turned so they wouldn't have to meet Lex's eyes. "Eth, what're you doing down there..? that can't be comfortable. are you feelin' sick?"

^ from the ethan chronic pain fic ive been working on <3

[natequarter]

feel free to ignore if you’re not doing gallifrey prompts anymore, but for the whump prompts: romana + gallifrey character of choice for ! or ✓

✓: waking up either adorably confused or painfully scared

The nightmares never ended the same way twice, but they always started the same way.

Cold. Hungry. Dark.

President of Gallifrey.

It was something to cling onto. It had been one of the only things left to her, in the end. Sometimes, they had even managed to take her name; but they could never make her forget the reason they hadn’t killed her yet.

I am President of Gallifrey.

She did not have the luxury of giving into the pain.

Shivering. Wet stone. What liquid?

Blood?

The Daleks liked their torture old school. That didn't stop them from using mental interrogation, of course, but they took a very human pleasure in physically abusing their captives. Anything went: starvation, slave labour, wound upon wound…

Silence.

That was the worst part. Nobody ever understood it—no, Leela did, a little, but then Leela might as well have been nobody—but even the agony of torture was still more bearable than solitary confinement.

They could leave her starving there. They could leave her bleeding out all over the floor. They could compound her torment without doing a thing. Her own mind would fill in the blanks for them.

They would leave her there for hours, battered and bruising, and then drag her out to drill her information. They would leave her there for days, and then switch it out for days of back-breaking work. They might have left her trapped in her cell for weeks at a time; she didn’t know. On Etra Prime, so badly hurt, she had lost control of her time sense completely.

Even now, it flickered, it flared. Even now, the seconds stretched out into eternities.

And that was how the nightmares always started. Alone, in the dark. Always waiting for the next blow to land, sooner of later.

Something would interrupt it, usually. She would escape, wander down a dreamland corridor. She would be stuck—but someone else would arrive. She would be dragged bodily to the interrogation chamber—

On the way, mazelike passageways would shift around her like so much Saharan sand—and how long ago that had been! A lifetime had passed since she had last set foot in that desert.

More than twenty years.

This nightmare, like all of them, fit somewhere into those twenty years.

Her cell, first.

I am Romana. Romana…

Romanadvoratna—

Romanatre—

I am President of Gallifrey.

In this night terror they came after not an hour’s rest. She staggered to her feet—they dug into her back—and then it was damp something-like-concrete against her bare feet for countless minutes, an endlessness of corners that seemed to twist of their own volition, walls that sprang up from nowhere.

And then the interrogation.

The voices—if they could be called that—grated against her mind.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW?

She sometimes thought those screeching commands must be to blame for the chronic headaches.

WHAT ARE GALLIFREY’S SECRETS?

Too many and too heavy to be revealed in one go. Even the Titan Atlas would hesitate to shoulder that weight.

MADAM PRESIDENT?

She shivered. That was not their usual line of questioning. Whither Unit 117?

MADAM PRESIDENT, ARE YOU QUITE ALRIGHT?

The dream shattered. She startled awake.

And as always, she woke up screaming her head off. It had never mattered if she screamed on Etra Prime; no one had ever heard, anyway.

She had learnt to hold back tears centuries ago. That was basic psychic training—the type the Doctor had casually and carelessly flunked. She had learnt to get around the spells of dizziness rapidly—when to sit, when to stand. She had never learnt to wake up quietly.

“Madam President,” Braxiatel repeated, standing a measured distance from her side, lightly concerned. Perhaps there was more worry to him than he was letting on; or perhaps he truly didn’t care. “Ah, you’re awake. Are you well?”

“Yes,” she said, as her voice came back to her. She used to scream so much, those twenty years. “I’m perfectly well.”

He nodded curtly, giving away nothing. “Your wish is my command, Lady President.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But I’m fine as I am.”

“Of course,” he said.

She almost asked him to stay. The weeks on end without contact with anything, even her blasted captors, came flooding back unbidden.

But no.

She would survive.

Alone, as usual.

(link)

[mysticshadows13]

The binding was on Rayla for awhile, and sometimes it's not as easy to shake off the after effects (of the binding or of her culture).

Notes:

⚠️ This does deal with chronic pain. There is also a flashback that could be disturbing for some readers.

⚠️ After this sentence, "She finds the darkest section, and rests, looking down at her wrist, grabbing it lightly." There a paragraph long flashback. "Rayla stops, freezing" would be the safe place to jump to.

Rayla wakes up, biting back a scream. Glancing around, she slowly realizes she's in the room in Katolis, Callum in the next room over. She sits up slowly, left hand cradled to her chest, and she hisses as her hand brushes her shirt.

Rayla breathes in deeply, slowly breathes out as the throbbing pain in her hand decreases to a burning instead. She sighs, lightly rubbing her wrist.

"Rayla? You up yet?" Callum calls from the other side of the door.

"Ugh, you humans and being up in the day. Why can't you be sane." Rayla complains, slowly stretching her fingers out.

"C'mon, the baker made plenty of hot brown morning potion for you, and Ez promised to leave a few jelly tarts alone."

"What an honor. Be right there."

Rayla listens to Callum walk away, his footsteps finally fading even from her hearing as she flexes her throbbing hand. Using her right hand, she wipes away the water under her eyes, glancing at the roof to check for leaks, cuz that was the only reason there'd be water on her face.

She takes another breath, and another, and finally moves, thinking of Ez waiting for her. She opens the door with her right hand, keeping her left down by her side.

"Lady Rayla." Rayla tenses up, curling her hands into fists, and uncurling them immediately when she sees Opeli. "Do you need help finding your way to King Ezran and High Mage Callum?"

"No. I can find them." Rayla says. "...Thank you." She turns and starts heading down the hallway.

"Ugh, could they have made this place any more confusin'?" Rayla mutters, turning another corner. She runs into something and falls backwards, hissing as her left hand hits the stones. "Watch it." She snarls.

"Rayla! You made it!" Ez says.

"Rayla, you ok? That fall looked like it hurt." Callum says, eyeing her.

"I'm fine." Rayla snaps, turning to rub her wrist.

"We kept some…a, we kept a jelly tart for you." Ez says, offering her the last one.

"Thank you, Ez." Rayla grabs the tart.

"And I have your hot morning brown potion." Callum offers her the jar, and Rayla looks at it for a second. She reaches out, grabbing it, and as she goes to take a drink, her hand spasms.

Rayla gasps, letting go of the jar, grabbing her wrist. She watches the jar shatter, then looks at Callum, glances at Ez, and the next thing she knows, she's outside.

"Ach, great. Like they'll believe I'm fine now." Rayla mutters. She rubs her wrist again, lightly, and waits until her breathing calms down. Looking around, she verifies she's alone before dropping out of the tree.

"Have you figured out the Treasury problem?" A voice sounds, and Rayla hides behind the tree, peering out.

"Not yet. I think if…" Rayla stops paying attention, sticking to the shadows as she makes her way to the front of the castle. Hesitating, she shakes her head, and turns around, heading to the tallest tower of the castle. She finds the darkest section, and rests, looking down at her wrist, grabbing it lightly.

She's staring at her hand, and it's turning purple as she feels her wrist being crushed and cut, and she can't feel it, she can't move her wrist, she's going to lose it, and she scratches at the band on her wrist, scratching and scratching, knowing it won't work and she's going to lose her hand, because of…

Rayla stops, freezing. Ezran. Ezran, the amazing human. The nice, kind, human who's her friend and it's worth it, it is, she's fine.

She takes a breath, and looks at her hand again. It's white, not purple, and although she can still feel the pain radiating through her arm, she's going to keep her hand, she's going to keep her friends.

The sun is high in the sky, her shade gone, by the time Callum and Ezran and Bait find her. She looks up when they stop near her, and they don't say anything. She lowers her shoulders, her head, flinching as a hand reaches out. It stops, and she doesn't look up.

Shade covers her again, and she does looks up, then- the sun is high, there should be nome. There's a tent above her now, just one of those roof only tents she doesn't know the name of, and she watches as Ezran lets go of Bait, who ends up in her lap. Callum sets up an invisibility rune around the tent, and Ezran sits down next to her, barely touching her and offers her a jelly tart.

She takes it gently, head tilted as Callum settles down on her other side. She doesn't miss the glances at her wrist, from both of them, but she starts when Bait nudges her, and licks her wrist. A wet laugh escapes, and she strokes Bait. She shifts, knocking her knee into Ezran, and leans against Callum, and her wrist still aches, still hurts, but it's ok.

She's here, and they're here, and it's ok.

[puppygirlsounding]

Big crazy day journal post time

So, woke up this morning for work.

Gotcha! That's already a lie, I woke up well before my alarm because I've been having chronic sleep issues. I have a history of sleep apnea and insomnia, but lately I've had a whole new issue. To put it simply, once I've been woken up I can't get back to sleep. Doesn't matter if it's just to go to the bathroom, or a loud sound. This has been an ongoing problem for weeks, and I knew by the time my alarm went off I would not make it through today ok. So I took DECISIVE ACTION and called out from work. If you're reading this and don't know me that well, yes that is DECISIVE for me. Immediately knew I had to arrange a doctor's appointment to get a note, but once I had set out to do it I realized this something I should have been more prescient about in the first place, with my appointment to get my HRT dosage upped this Friday especially. So I got my exhausted boans out of bed, set up with a local urgent care, and had a nice morning talk with my beautiful girlfriend ^w^

It took me a bit longer to get going than I would like to admit, but once I finally got myself going I felt determined. Like I was about to take on something big, how ironic. I get dressed, order an Uber and head on out. The ride was nothing significant. made me very glad that even though I skipped breakfast, I still took my allergy meds. My city is getting ass blasted by a dust storm atm.

Get to the clinic, immediately realize how different it is. I thought I was heading to an urgent care, I had actually went to an ER. Apparently they do operate as standalone setups outside of hospitals. This turned out to probably be for the best.

I immediately get seen by a doctor and two nurses, the place is dead empty somehow even though it's one of maybe 3 Urgent care/ER's open on Sunday here. I start to get nervous progressively as I get brought in, until finally I get the question. So I'm dreading it, but of course with my health in mind I bring up my HRT when I'm asked about my medication. This is when my anxiety kicks into gear. The doctors don't do anything that makes me feel so, it's just my default state because of the conservative state I live in.

All things considered I said it with very little hesitation and continued on the screening. The doctor seeing me joined us by this point. After going over my symptoms, the sleep loss, chronic gut pains, etc. he immediately decided to put me on a I.V.

This quite stunned me, and for all intents and purposes this is the turning point of our story.

It clicked with me in this moment, I called out of work thinking I was doing it for my health. Yet up until right then I was only there to get a note. I thought I was playing this up to make sure I had an excuse to skip. Only after listing all of my very real symptoms, and seeing the look of concern on these men's faces did it hit me.

I had been ignoring my own health to get by for weeks.

So while still processing this, they guided me to the bed, briefed me on what they were going to give me and prepped the IV. I could immediately tell this doctor was good, he tried to reassure me by saying it was mostly because I seemed dehydrated. I knew what he really meant, he saw straight through me and all the friendliness to how haggard I really was. The nurse began the IV and I warned them I was going to look away because of my past with needles. The doctor held my hands to calm me.

After setting everything up, the two men left to get me a cocktail of at least three meds. Even though it was for such a short time they were gone, it was enough. All of this hit me, I looked down at my feet in the hospital bed, inspected the new hole in my arm. I ended up here thinking I was just subduing my anxiety by getting a stupid work note. I had actually needed medical attention and was too busy surviving to stop and realize.

So whether through sheer coincidence or subconscious push I was here. All of the gravity of the sleep deprivation, stomach problems and chronic pain hit me at once. I started crying so much I hid my face in my hat. I only barely got to start by the time my nurse came back with the IV bag. Being able to tell how upset I was, and knowing I would be on the IV for a while; he very clinically, yet kindly assured me. Explained the meds, got me tissues, even a drink. As swiftly as he arrived, he left. Closing the door to the room, killed the lights and drew the curtain for me.

Knowing what this man, who seemed wholly uninterested initially interpreted, it all hit me.

I began sobbing

Tears streaming down my face

Deeply saddened by how I had let myself get like this. Maybe my level of shame here is hard to understand. I only recently feel like I have gotten true love in my life. Both platonic and romantic. I have people who care about me so deeply now. I want more than anything to see what they see in me, and at the very least take care of myself. To love them back.

Realizing I got so wrapped up in my own mental comfort blanket broke me a little. I had gone back to just surviving again.

So I spent the next hour roughly, resting, fretting over my IV, drying my tears.

I calmed down a good while before my nurse came back. He removed the IV, and the doctor came to brief me. The good news is my samples came back fine. Like the doctor easily intuited, it was all the stress. I was prescribed some anxiety meds alongside stomach meds to control the gastritis symptoms.

The doctor the whole time was unbelievably sweet, asked me for my pronouns as soon as he knew about the HRT. Kept telling me about his stepson and his experiences. I even got called young lady (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

It really helped pick me up after all the crying.

By the time I'm all put together and ready to set up my ride home the weather has worsened exponentially. It takes a while to get a ride because of the dust and wind, but I am so glad I got who I did ^w^

I ended up being picked up by a sweet guy, we went on our way to my pharmacy to get my meds and had a lovely conversation on the way. I cracked him up with some bad mu-metal jokes lol

When we get there, I tell him I'll be in and out to drop them off so we can go back to my place and finish the Uber ride. Unbeknownst to me this was not going to happen.

So in order I:

Found out my CVS no longer takes my insurance.

My HRT meds I got through them were probably also not insured and I wasn't told then

It would be a minimum of $70 I didn't have for the meds

And it would be a 45 minute wait because they didn't start prepping one

So I start to panic a little. I go back to my driver and explain the situation. I tell him I'll just have him take me home and I'll come back. Instead, he insists on waiting with me. Random guy I just met, doesn't mind an hour of his day gone. I'm floored at this point. Here begins a tedious, uninteresting back and forth. Where I run from the pharmacy counter and back to his car with updates multiple times. Eventually after they had dropped the ball so many times, and changed medicine prices on me at least twice.

This guy.

This fucking guy.

He offers to take me, off his own dollar to the pharmacy that will take my insurance. If I wasn't already this tired I would have started crying again.

So after a very awkward exchange with the CVS pharmacy rep, I cancelled my prescriptions through them and headed out

We chat the entire way to the pharmacy, It's one of the kind inside a Walmart. We hit it off just incredibly well considering I'm running off maybe 9 hours of sleep over the last 3-4 days. Enjoy our conversation the whole way. When we get out there, he even agrees to join me inside, wait for my meds with me and everything.

At this point I almost can't believe this guy is real. He straight up tells me he's writing the time spent off working as his good deed for the day. All dedicated to his grandma who raised him. Absolute fucking legend.

He makes me so comfortable I start telling him about my family. About being kicked out, and not even bothering with telling them about my transition.

He acted surprised when I told him I was trans, but he seemed to have already been cautious about gendering me, so I think he was just being nice.

We ended up spending half an hour just chatting in the kitchenware section. Talking about our lives, like we were old schoolmates or something.

Eventually I get my meds, he dotes on me the whole time. Reinforcing how obviously drained I must look. It was incredibly touching though, none of it felt forced, and made me feel seen.

We leave the store and he offers to take me to go get some food ( I had casually mentioned not eating yet today while at the pharmacy counter)

We grabbed a quick bite and headed to my apartment, still chatting the entire way. By the time we got there it felt like we were already friends. While part of it is definitely how amazingly friendly this guy is. I also feel comfortable saying it wouldn't have been anywhere near as friendly if this was the old me. Even with the shame of letting myself neglect my health still fresh, I can feel how much I've opened up. No matter how corny it sounds, people can recognize whether or not you're genuine. Be yourself.

By the time we make it back I'm starting to feel the exhaustion creep back in, but we say a very happy goodbye and exchange contact info.

So that was my day ^w^

I prolly could have shortened it down a bunch, made it more interesting to read, blablahblahblahblah...

If you made it this far and are thinking any of that, while you do have a point you are missing mine.

Today more than anything was a learning experience for me. It started with asking my girlfriend for comfort, and ended with making a new friend. Even when it seems hard. Even when you feel like a burden. Reach out. You're worth it. Whether that's directly to your loved one, or expressing your troubles openly so kind souls can lend a hand, it doesn't matter. Just learn to lean on people a little, even if you've got burned in the past like me.

Thank you if you read this far, I don't expect anybody to but my mutuals but who knows.

Special thanks and love to:

Vera, my wonderful girlfriend

Charlie, my support goblin

Cecil, because I know you'll read this

Skylar, for helping out a stranger

- Jen

[adriensaltprompts]

Submitted prompt: Miraculous Ladybug + Puella Magi Madoka Magica fusion-ish, crossover with PMMM: Side Story

As in PMMM, magic is tied to your psychological state. The happier you are, the more magic you have access to, and when you defeat an akuma, it drops a Grief Seed full of energy you can use to boost your own magic reserves/help your mental state improve.

Adrien is too much of a goofball to realize how serious the situation is, so he doesn't need many Grief Seeds, but also, he doesn't realize how many Marinette needs. She does take the fight against Hawkmoth seriously, so the stress weighs on her. It's getting harder and harder to summon up enough magic to do what needs to be done with so little support.

Enter stage left, Iroha Tamaki. Iroha has traveled from Japan to Paris in search of her long-lost sister, but she won't hesitate to help out Ladybug in the fight against Hawkmoth. She's got a canonical chronic heroine syndrome that makes her sometimes over-exert herself enough that she detransforms, and Marinette... well, she's moved. She's never had a stranger or a partner alike work so hard to help her, in fights or in anything else. And it's not as if Iroha isn't going through her own struggles trying to find her sister - she's under pressure, too. But she's so positive she'll find her, so convinced they'll win, that her positivity leads her not to need as many Grief Seeds to power up. So she can give the spares to Marinette, and help her not feel so overwhelmed. She's a true friend.

And Iroha doesn't have a miraculous boosting her magic or making her immune to pain in superhero form, either. She's working at a disadvantage but she won't stop working regardless. Better yet, at school, Iroha supports Marinette (whose superhero identity she doesn't know) when Marinette realizes she's been forcing herself to do what she thinks someone who experiences romantic attraction should do. Marinette is aroace and struggling to come to terms with it, but Iroha defends her to other girls in class, pointing out people don't need romance to be happy or whole.

Adrien disagrees. Unfortunately for him, Iroha's defining canonical response to being yelled at or lectured is to calmly restate her position, not to get into a fight. Between this disagreement at school, Ladybug not wanting to hang out with him but instead wanting to hang out with the nameless Japanese superheroine in the hood, and Ladybug proudly proclaiming she's aroace on the Ladyblog, Adrien gets akumatized. Maybe at one point he would've been beyond Ladybug's ability to take in a fight.

But now she has Iroha, who will not hesitate to stall for time while Ladybug calls for backup, who will keep fighting even when her magic burns out and she's stuck in civilian form. She will risk life and limb for people because that's the core of who she is - and Marinette understands, because that's the core of who she is, too. They are selfless to a fault, and alone, they would burn out. Together, though, they can help each other overcome almost anything.

The other heroes and Iroha beat Adrien, and in the aftermath, Ladybug looks at her magic reserves and finds they haven't depleted at all. Chat Noir/Adrien can't hurt her anymore. He doesn't drain her.

She has improved, not through romantic love, but through loyalty and support and kindness from others.

And she takes the black cat miraculous from Adrien and knows, now, that she doesn't need to rely on him in order to take down Hawkmoth. She hands it to Iroha, someone who actually earned it, and promises her: "When we're done with Hawkmoth, I'll help you find your sister. And I know she'll be proud of you. You're a hero, Iroha Tamaki, with or without magic."

"So are you, Ladybug. You're everything I want to be - kind, happy, generous, and hardworking. I don't know if I deserve a miraculous... but I'll do my best to help you. You deserve not to do this alone."

Then they hug and there's zero romance to it but deep, mutual appreciation and admiration.

(I can accept them as an aroace Marinette + (canonically) sapphic (noncanonically) ace Iroha QPP but not an allonormative allosexual couple, on the off chance anyone fills this.)

[solarianvoidthearoace]

I’m hesitant to call myself disabled

Or even refer to my frequent joint problems/ pain as chronic. I mean, yeah, I have been wearing my wrist splint the last 6 weeks + and my wrist hurts when I pick up something heavier than a water bottle. But does that count, though? Does it?

And my knees are currently fine because I have been wearing my orthopaedic insoles. So I’m technically not hindered by my knees.

My migraine and occasional headache comes and goes, that’s neither here nor there. – I did have mild headaches for almost 20 months straight in 2021 & 2022

As for my orthostatic intolerance, yeah, that’s been a bitch. (Probably worse than before ever since I had Covid beginning of November 2022) But I also feel like I just drink too little. And if that’s it, do I even have orthostatic dysfunction? Sure, it’s too warm for me already and I’m about panting when I took two flights of stairs at 25°C. But is that orthostatic intolerance or am I just lazy and unathletic?

I have had most of this shit (joint pains, back pain, orthostatic intolerance/ cardiovascular weakness, migraines) since my mid- to late-teens.

And yet

Jury’s still out on whether I genuinely have any form of dysautonomia and what’s up with my joints, whether that’s some rheumatism

Like, I got myself a cane to try out whether that can help me. I’m used to just… coping with shit. I have a whole drawer of splints and support bandages. I started wearing compression stockings back in 2021.

I… I cope and I feel like no doctor will diagnose me with shit but I also feel like I couldn’t accept hearing “no, you’re healthy and just need to work out more”. So I’m not exactly eager to see a medical specialist although I really want to know what’s wrong with my body and I want it acknowledged. But that’s also the thing, I want acknowledgement and assistance with coping rather than a cure and… I feel like that’s also… like, if it was “bad enough”, if it was genuinely disabling, I would want it gone, right?

But I have already accepted that living with these issues is fine, that it’s not going to be curable and that I’ll cope and that’ll be my life. Which, I know that sounds stupid and I understand if someone called me a faking attention seeker. Not getting help at all seems… not even trying to get help, maintaining my status quo, seems easier than to struggle with medical professionals.

I’m 24, I’m too young for this shit and if it was chronic it would have been a problem for years so why didn’t I go see a doctor when it started?

Plus I always felt like my mental illnesses and my neurodivergence are the bigger hinderance in my life.

Well, at least during school they were. Unmedicated ADHD-PI, major depression, generalised anxiety, avoidant personality disorder, rejection-sensitive dysphoria, complex trauma/ CPTSD, trauma regarding specific events, and I’m very likely also autistic.

And let me tell you, my RSD and AvPD are pretty rough on literally any social interaction. I refuse to ask for help because I don’t want to burden people. I refuse to ask for accommodations I’m entitled to because I’m worried someone might question my right to accessibility. Generally, anxiety controls every aspect of me being a member of society and I think some demand-avoidance might also factor in because I’m just so scared of fucking up that doing nothing and getting yelled at seems less stressful than putting in work and getting yelled at none the less.

And “very likely” is putting it mildly, I very much fit the described experience of AuDHD folks. But technically it could also just be my anxieties making it look like I’m autistic. Which I doubt but since I was also told I’m not depressed, it’s just AvPD, eeeeh… yeah.

I’m pretty confident with my self-assessment even though I have had people laugh in my face when I told them about self-diagnosing.

Idk man, I just live here.

And I sometimes feel like I’m faking it…? Even though from my experience acknowledging stuff like my autism only got me snide comments to not be difficult and just push myself to comply. So idk which benefit I would gain from faking any of these issues. But the imposter syndrome is still there.

Further self-conscious identity struggle under the cut.

And while you can pry “queer” from my cold dead hands, I don’t feel entitled to refer to myself as gay

I’m aroace but in terms of queerplatonic/ alterous attraction I would date someone regardless of gender BUT I have a definite preference for femboys, femme men, non-binary men and AMAB* non-binary people

I myself am a transneutral-transmasc person and never connected with “being a woman/ girl”. I have always felt more comfortable being a guy but I acknowledge I’m not a man. I’m an agender guy and I’m a genderqueer guy and I’m masc transneutral. I consider the terms masculenby and MINgender also correct descriptors but only in reference of me being agender-genderqueer. Like, that’s the focal point, the frame of reference. I’m agender and genderqueer first and foremost, only within that is my gender experience masc-in-nature and vaguely aligned with masculinity.

So my attraction to queer men and my gender being masc-aligned… I don’t feel like I’m allowed to call myself gay. Because I don’t make an effort to look masc/ genderqueer/ agender

I want to make it clear I would never judge or discredit someone in my exact situation for calling themself gay or a fag or whatever they want to use to describe their achillean attraction.

I just don’t feel like I’m allowed to because I get treated and pass for a tomboy cis-woman. I firmly reject the notion of being a woman, I am not woman and never was a girl. But I still appear to be one so I feel like I can’t raise a stink around it.

Which is also why I don’t think my ideal relationship has any chance of happening.

I want to be with an AMAB* non-binary person who is feminine. They don’t need to be transfem but my attraction is certainly geared towards flamboyant and effeminate men and AMAB* enby people. Could probably be simplified to femboys. *I feel weird referring to this as a genital preference but I acknowledge that that is part of it and hence saying AMAB is not entirely correct. Because I’m sex-averse and would rather not but I can see myself having sex again with a future partner who happens to have a penis. I can not picture myself having sex with someone without a penis. And that genital preference kinda makes me feel icky because I’m agender myself and I feel like it shouldn’t matter but…

If I were to find a partner like that, chances are they would understand and accept my own complex relationship to gender and how I feel about myself in relation to being masc, being a guy, not being a man, being agender-genderqueer.

But even if that was to fit, I doubt I would be lucky enough to have that same person be understanding and supportive of my aroace-ness. It’s unshakeable I’m aroace and that can’t be removed from who I am. Much less in a relationship. I’m proudly aromantic and I’m a sex-averse asexual. Wouldn’t want to chance either of those aspects. (Although I could do without the sexual trauma.)

Actually, regarding tertiary attraction. I don’t feel romantic or sexual attraction as a blanket statement. But I do experience physical attraction, the want to be close, the tactile attraction to cuddle and kiss someone, I crave domesticity and to have a person I can call my home. My person, my home, my domestic bliss. And I don’t know whether what I experience – what I want for my ideal relationship – is actually alterous attraction. I think it is because it goes beyond queerplatonic, even, and it’s more than queerplatonic but the exact mixture it is is individual to the partner I’m with. Which is why I chose to use the term idemalterous; I don’t know whether it really is that different from queerplatonic attraction but I choose to define it as alterous attraction.

I don’t think there is a chance of me finding a person who accepts and supports my identity even if they are the one stuck with me for a partner. My relationship to sex/ my asexuality is a bit layered and I dare say contradictory. I want a partner who finds me sexually attractive and is, uhm, sexually available…? for those few rare once-in-a-blue-moon occasions I would like to sleep with them. With how inherently queer my attraction is, with how inherently queer my “type” is, I do have some ideas about sexual activity tbh. Like, it’s queer sex between queer people anyway, why bother simulating heteros? Although I do have my sexual trauma to consider and I know it’s a huge turn-off for many people that even if I’m interested I wouldn’t be as available as someone without trauma around sex.

Although I partially think my huge trauma around kink is a bigger hinderance than my asexuality/ sex-aversion. A lot more people are a lot more kinky than they give themself credit for and I’m someone who can not “give it a try”. Which disqualifies me for a larger demographic of potential partners than one might think.

I would like to have someone to love, to be domestic with, to hype each other up, care for and support each other because we want to. Yes I would like if that person found me sexually attractive even if I can’t return that, and them being aromantic is somewhat implicit because I need them to understand how attraction and relationships work for me. I would very much like to find my queerplatonic “one and only”, to find someone who can in return also put the work in to make us become that “the one” for each other. But I know my preferences are too specific.

And to have that supportive, accepting, queerplatonically-loving person be an alt/ punk/ goth/ emo femboy? Yeah, big chance that’ll ever happen to me. (Sarcasm.)

So settling with the thought of my ideal relationship being unachievable is easier. I’m not saying a person like this doesn’t exist, I’m not saying people like me can’t find happy relationships.

I’m just saying I don’t believe in myself ever getting that. Finding that. Which is why I refuse to call this hopes or expectations or anything more concrete than preferences and dreams.

Because my wishes are a great deal above someone just treating me well and respecting me. And I know I just don’t get lucky like that so there is no point in calling this a hope when I know full-well it’s an unrealistic dream.

[galaxy-manticore]

Finally making a pinned post after being on this site for 6+ years

Art commissions Here

About Me

You can call me Jules, but galaxy or manticore or whatever is fine

Currently 20 as of 2024

Trans masc nonbinary. Trans bear. I got a ton of microlabels too but they don’t really matter to anyone but me.

They/He pronouns for me please, with masculine descriptors. I also use neopronouns if you’re interested (rat, bear, teeth neos specifically)

Physically disabled. Hypermobility spectrum disorder + chronic pain and fatigue. Suspected EDS but don’t have a diagnosis yet

Ethnically Palestinian, religiously Jewish. I consider myself a Palestinian Jew and Mizrahi

Autistic. My special interests are The Elder Scrolls, Mononoke, and The Dark Crystal. My hyperfixations come and go. Most of what I reblog is those

DNI

If you support problematic people or condone their actions. Try to separate the art from the artist if you can, but sometimes they can’t be separated.

If you’re homophobic, transphobic, or generally anti-LGBT.

If you’re antisemitic or Islamophobic, just generally hateful or intolerant of other religions

If you support the Israeli government and its actions

If you’re ableist, racist, sexist, etc.

If you support NFTs and “AI art”

If you make Vivec x Molag Bal jokes I’m blocking you on sight.

Other generally problematic stuff. I don’t have the brain capacity to think of everything rn

BYI

I’m a bit iffy on minors interacting with me, but as long as you’re cool and don’t go into mature topics than it’s whatever

I might post 16+ content so if that bothers you you can not interact

I am mentally ill - I’m not asking you to validate my delusions. But if you reality check me without me asking first I’m blocking you with 0 hesitation

Please use tone tags when possible. I have a hard time understanding tone over text

If I post or say anything problematic please tell me, I don’t want to be problematic at all and I’m a bit stupid but I’m trying to educate myself as best as I can.

I am Palestinian and I am Jewish. Please don’t take either of these parts of my identity as an invitation to debate Palestine/Israel. I’m open to respectfully talk about religion, but I’m tired of being bombarded by zionists and anti-zionists alike. If you try starting anything with me I’m just going to block you

I’m always open to making friends, so if you want to message me please feel free! That being said, don’t start being aggressive or sexual with me right off the bat. I don’t know you and I’m not comfortable with people I don’t know doing that stuff.

My memory is genuinely so bad so please be patient

[thunderousone]

Chapter 19

Summary: The three of them sneak their way into Hino's domain to help free him, hoping to spare Lyranth from further destruction and Eirene searches for Hino.

TW: depression, profanity, graphic depictions of sex, pain kink, childhood trauma, parental trauma, chronic pain

Rating: 18+, MDNI

Status: Finished work! Chapter 19/23.5

Comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated 🤍

masterlist | read it first on ao3

Their allies weren't ready. Zelenaya, Mother Nature incarnate, had just had her son and couldn't help them. Caelum thought it unwise to interfere with others territories. Mashe dares not tread where there could be darkness as she's the Radiant One. Essentially that left her sister, Kumi. When Vír reached out for help and her mate denied them he thought all hope was lost. Until he received a secret missive from her saying that she would help in any way possible, for she felt a connection to Hino and shared in the general distaste for Ravi.  

When Kumi arrived in the manor she took a good look at Eirene for the first time since that day they all met in the very same room. She looked happy and yet sad as she watched her interact with Vír. Walking out to the field to travel to Hino's realm, she pulled Eirene back from the pack to speak with her quietly. 

"So... You've made quite the difference here, Lightningcaller," Something in her voice was so comforting to Eirene. It made her feel at peace instantly.  

Moving her braid from her shoulder to behind her back she smiled at her new friend. "So I see... But I don't think it was me. I think once you find that happiness is a choice you make every day it gets easier and easier to make that choice. I went through it too," she admitted to Kumi.  

"For years. When I lost my family, I really lost myself. I mean I was so young with no one to give me that family comfort," Kumi's eyes watched Vír move forward. Pangs of the story ringing true in her mind for him as well. Eirene continued, "It took years of me choosing to live, every day. And then finding what I call my chosen family... Even then I was just going through the motions to keep them alive. It wasn't until my sister was born that I saw... hope. And it's not that Violet was my only reason for continuing on, but she reminded me that I had a choice. Continue to trudge through every day just living or to truly be alive for her sake and mine. I can't help but see that in him," Eirene looked at Vír as he reached the middle of the field and looked back to her. Her heart leaped into her chest and she knew in this moment there is nothing she wouldn't do for him, nothing he wouldn't do for her.  

Kumi reached for Eirene's hand and turned over her palms to see where the lightning bolt tattoo begins. "You love him," she stated simply.  

"I do," There wasn't even a second of hesitation.  

"Then the Guardians will not stand in your way. If there comes a time when you need help, anything at all. Lyire will get you to me. You will always be welcome in the kingdom of stars." The approval of Kumi and the Gathering meant everything to Vír, you could see it by the beaming pride on his face. Momentarily forgetting about what was about to happen.  

The four of them left the manor to slip into Hino's territory late that very evening. The best way to sneak in unseen is by cover of darkness. That's where Kumi came in, the Moon Light. She can use her control of the moon to dim it's light, and then pull the darkness over them like a cloak. She'd only remain in the realm until they were inside Hino's manor and then she'd have to depart for fear of Caelum finding her missing.  

They walked quietly, using Lyire's control of the wind to cover any foot fall with the natural sounds around them.  

Hino's territory was quite different from Vír's. As far as Eirene knew, the territory at Vír's consisted of the mansion, a very small town, and the forest where a few free elements lived and roamed. Hino's territory was a dark city with thin cobblestone streets, his home a dark mansion rising above it, it's windows warm and red with interior fire light.  

Vibrations began in Eirene's body, a warning for her to stay away as they slipped up the stairs to the mansion silently. Every bit of magic inside her pulling her back, begging her to run. But she couldn't. If Beck hadn't helped her after her parents died, she wouldn't be here today. She had to repay that- to fight for someone that couldn't fight for themselves. 

There were guards at most every entrance, Lyire as swift as the wind came behind one of them and held their breath controlling the air around them while Eirene laid a hand on him to stun him down for the time being.  

Sliding the unconscious body inside and tucking it into a closet near the entrance, they saw their cloak of darkness fall, Kumi returning to her mate. Eirene smiled in silent thanks to her for even that small assistance. Here in the closet the three of them looked at each other through the darkness.  

"I will sneak through and try to find Hino. You two go to Ravi and distract him, try to take him down if you can," Vír insisted she wear her rubber outfit, sans gloves. But if Ravi found her at all she wanted to be a deadly weapon. She wore a tight black tank top and shorts and kept her hair in a tight braid down her back. She would be a live wire if he touched her almost anywhere. The boys needed an extra layer of protection from her, opting for rubber fighting outfits. She felt absurd but ferociously powerful.  

Vír pushed a curl that snuck free back into place. "I really must insist this is a terrible decision. Please let Lyire go with you. We don't know what Hino is playing at, he will be fine." The determined look in Eirene's eyes told him that she wasn't going to listen to his suggestion at all, even though every bit of magic in her veins wanted to go with him. 

Lyire kept his ear to the door, listening for footfalls. "I think she can do it, and I think she could fry Hino to a crisp if he tried anything. He's wrapped in metal, I mean Ravi's not an idiot..." He put his hand on his friends shoulder. "Come on, I think it's time we deal with your daddy issues once and for all, don’t you?" Vír didn't let a smile free but nodded with his friend. They opened the door quietly and watched a guard continue their walk down the hallway before slipping out the door, Vír leaving a kiss on her forehead as he did. 

In the closet here alone Eirene closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She wanted to test a theory she had. She pulled from her pocket a small pack of matches she brought from the manor. She struck the match as the small red light filled the room. She looked deeply into the fire and thought about Hino. Tried to imagine the flames becoming his hair, his eyes... In the fire she saw movement. The match was burning and the flame pulling toward the door, though no wind was there. She followed the direction the fire seemed to bend.  

Slipping outside she walked quietly down the hall, careful not to be caught. She saw a number of guards headed down the direction her love and friend went and tried to push her worry down. If he were in danger she would feel it, hear it. Of that she was sure. Her magic was so attached to him it would not let her leave him when he needed the lightning the most. 

The match began to hit her fingers and she let it burn until the very last bit, her fingers black with the ash as she rubbed it off on her thighs and continued following the path. She struck another and it blew her down another hallway. And another. And another. Until finally she reached a dark stair case with stone that she remembered from her nightmare but a few days prior. Continuing to strike matches and walk down the stairs Eirene listened carefully for any signs of life. She felt her magic try to leap out of her skin for a moment and knew that Vír was with Ravi right now. She tried to calm her magic, he'll be fine, she kept repeating. We'll free Hino and go to him. We'll be fine, she told herself.  

She was approaching the last set of stairs when she heard the rustle of chains on stone and knew she was nearing.  

The darkness gave way to a warm red light as she reached the bottom of the stairs and saw Hino's back to her, far more ravaged than before. He must have heard her footfall because he snapped around at her. The tiny flame in her hand exploded into sparks like a firework and she dropped the match on the stone, wiping the excess ash from her fingertips to her arm. His chains rattled as he lunged at her again, the large flames in the fireplace behind him growing hotter and hotter. 

"Are you really here?" He looked at her with disbelief, his voice was rough and raw. His accent clipped the end of his words. Hushing him, she simply nodded her head yes and began to look around the room for anything that could free him. "I told you to stay away" This sounded almost like a threat and Eirene tried not to be afraid. Vír refused to tell her what he'd done in his past that made him such a monster, so untrustworthy. Eirene didn't know his history, but she didn't care in this moment. He was in need and everything in her told her it was her duty to help. She tried not to focus on her magic writhing under her skin as she helped him and finally shot a look up at him.  

"I couldn't stay away-" The words felt weird coming out of her mouth. As if her lightning were trying to control her, keep the words in. But they kept spilling out. "I know what it's like to be left behind. I couldn't let that happen to you. Now freaking out for one second and let me help you." She looked around and found nothing. A stone room. Nothing but a large fireplace and the chains in the ground. Ground that could be broken.  

His eyes were wild with anger as she inspected his chains, trying not to get too close. She felt her magic cripple her and she fell to her knees. Vír. The wind was knocked out of her and she gasped for air. He was hurt. Not down- but hurt. It was like she couldn't breathe. Hino fell to his knees in front of her, his face twisted in panic, eyes flying from her to the top of the stairs, terrified someone would be coming down.    "Lightningcaller you have to get up. Please, go. Please. I didn’t want this to happen. I'm so sorry... Go," in his warm red glow she could see the silver of tears lining his eyes. Fire incarnate weeping as he pushed her away.  

"I can't," She stressed. She couldn't. Everything that was Eirene was determined to save him, everything in her that was the element was forcing her to leave, back seat driving her every thought and movement. She pushed herself back up using his shoulders to help her up. He burned hot but it didn't hurt her hands as she did so, even as her hands caressed the chains they did not burn.  

Looking at the points from which the chains came from she knew what she had to do. They came from two points. One to his left, one to his right. Those held his hands in place. Then one behind him where it held his neck and chest. Not good.  

He continued to try to free himself. His face looked angry and feral like her vision. "You have to trust me," she put her hands to his strong jaw and held his head in her hands. She felt his warmth in her hands and remembered the warm leather arms of her favorite chair back in Lyranth. It was warm and inviting and... home. It felt like home. Like the fire were always a friend there, watching her. Taking care of her. And she would do the same for it now. "Put your hands in your pockets and do not let go, it'll slow the current a little. I'm going to try to crack the chains free from the ground... But it might fry you in the process." 

He reached his hands up to her wrists as she still held his face and she felt that static go up her arms again. Her magic wanted to pull her upstairs to her love, yet here she was saving the man that sold them out. 

Eirene pulled her hands from his face as his still gripped her wrists. They stood an arm's length apart from each other and by the look in her eyes she wasn't going to leave this room without her. Dropping her wrists he slid his hands into his pockets. She didn't know what his clothes were made of but she hoped for his sake there was some wool in them to keep him from burning to a crisp. Pushing her hands out to her sides, she let the lightning travel from her shoulders, down her arms, and to her wrists. She flicked the lightning out from there to his hands first, both at the same time. She didn't dare look at him for fear her lightning would betray her aim. It struck true into the ground, at the root of the chains and she saw them snap at the base there. She pulled back and looked at him as his hands still bound in chains but free from restraint reached his neck and he pulled forward, toward her. He screamed loudly and she saw sparks forming where he was bound to the ground, the chains rubbing hard on the cement causing fire.  

"Hino! Please you're going to kill yourself, please! Let me get the last-" He flung himself forward, using his whole body weight he pulled the last few chains from the ground with brute force along. The veins in his neck, his hands and arms bulging with power. He was strong, scary strong. She'd let herself fear this later. For now, his body slammed into hers as he whipped the chains around her, pulling her into his embrace. He smelled of palo santo and cedar and not at all like someone who was just electrocuted. Someone this frightening shouldn't smell this good.  

He mumbled something to himself, Eirene's ears struggled to hear. Pulling back from the embrace he looked at her, his hands still firmly on her shoulders. Hino appeared as though he was going to say something else but as he opened his mouth Eirene screamed again, her magic ripping her apart from the inside, begging her to go help. She slumped again, this time she felt there was immediate danger. "Lightningcaller? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" 

"It's Vír..." She managed to say through choking breaths. It felt like the air was being pulled from her lungs. "Something's wrong- I have to..." She tried to stand, pulling on Hino for help.  

"No fucking way. You're in pain you are not running toward the thing that is causing you pain. Are you insane? Ravi will smother you. I can't let you go up there." 

Pushing his hands off of her shoulders she managed to stand up. Looking at him, he's been down here since the day he visited them. That, mixed with the fact that he's still dressed in long chains, she gathered she stood a good chance of outrunning him. He must have seen her calculating because he came up with the same conclusion. "Fine. Run." The clang of chains sounded as he pushed his red hair back and she went flying up the stairs, boots carrying her as fast as they could. She could hear him close behind. The sound of his chains in the stairwell like a warning bell.  

[druidofthealders]

Chancewise of Fortune

I said I'd continue posting about my journey in creating a pantheon. Today I'm going to talk about Chancewise! Or at least what I know of Chancewise so far.

In June, my little pagan group and I are planning a group working that involves fortune, so I decided I would spend some intervening time working up a deity/entity to work with. It'll be a good experiment for all these thoughts swirling around in my head, and actively get my butt in gear to do some real workings.

So, first thing's first I sat down and thought about what a deity of fortune would be like to me. What does good fortune mean? What energy do I get when I think about my experiences with it? What resonates as True about fortune?

I meditated on these questions, and came to the conclusion that I see two facets of fortune: fortune you create with your hard work, and fortune that comes completely randomly. I considered if these would be two different entities, but that didn't feel entirely right. So, being a FFXIV nerd and thinking of Nald'Thal, it felt more right that these two facets were part of a dual-aspected divinity. Essentially two deities but also only one.

So here I have a dual-aspected deity of fortune. Now what? I know nothing about them. What are their spheres of influence? They're certainly not ready for their funny little hats yet.

First thing, I thought if anything really stuck out at me. Two things: the color gold, and bees (especially for the Hard Work half). But that was it. I was a bit annoyed with my brain at that point, because come on, is that all you can come up with??

But for funsies, and because it helps me come up with ideas to percolate on, I asked chatgpt for some thoughts. Some basic symbols -- like four-leaf clovers, rabbits' feet, rainbows for the Chance half -- were definitely a "oh, duh, I can't believe I forgot about those." Others were interesting ones to note down in a "maybe, but I'll see if the Entity jives with it" column -- like ants and horses. Some spheres made perfect sense, like community (as hard work is hardly ever done in a vacuum), and I noted those down.

Then I took that very basic list, and started extrapolating as hard as I could from it. Okay, so fortune by hard work. What could I reasonably say was under their sphere of influence if I was exploring just that topic? I came up with:

Hard work

Resilience

Laying groundwork

Seizing opportunity

Catching/netting

Attraction

Broadcasting

Accomplishment

Reward

Fairness

Justice

Group work/community

So that's a good start.

I asked chatgpt for some name ideas, just as a placeholder until I can work with the entity enough to discover their name with them. I liked Chancewise, as it seems more like a moniker or title than a name, so that's what I'm calling them for now.

At that point, I decided it was time to actually start working with them. As part of my treatment for chronic pain, I do monthly ketamine treatments with my doctor. I decided for this month's treatment, my set intention would be "removing obstacles" -- something I felt was under Chancewise's purview. K treatments come with some wacky visuals and trips, so I'm always happy to use them as a way to dip into pagan stuff.

As it was kicking in, I got settled into meditation. When I reached for the sort of "energy" I felt was connected to Chancewise, I saw sort of a swirling amorphous gold glow. (Almost like the portal from Excel Saga, but gold, lmao. God I haven't thought about that in years.) I wasn't sure what to do. After all, I'm going to be working with this entity as a god, right? But I'm also creating it, weaving it. Do I treat it with reverence? Or like clay that I'm molding?

Luckily, Brigid showed up then. She laid my head down in her lap, took my hand, and had me take Chancewise's. She hummed to me as I understood my role in this to be co-collaborator, with a current leading role. Chancewise was hesitant and a bit uncertain. I told them I was looking for them to help me clear obstacles for me, obstacles in my body/energy/makeup specifically. They paused, and then started touching dark spots in my body, pointing them out with a kind of questioning curiosity, like "this? is this what you mean?"

When it was confirmed, they started clearing them with more and more eagerness and excitement, until every bit was washed away. Brigid was exuding a feeling of sort of matronly pride that we worked things out together -- and then the trip went elsewhere on to other things.

I got a sense of Chancewise as an entity from that, and a brief glimpse of how the Hard Work half looks. I look forward to learning more about them as we work together.

This has been a very interesting exercise, but it's something that's feeling much more Right to me. This is not for everyone, but it *is* for me, I think.

[frenchibi]

Not to make depressing personal posts on main but I have been having a really bad pain week and I'm ready to mcfreakin lose it

[honeypiehotchner]

Stranger. (Loki x Fem!Reader) — one shot

Welcome to my first ever Loki one shot! I blame tiktok for this one, and full credit for this idea goes to @/irislaufeyson on there (or she’s the first one I saw do this). I listened to “Still Don’t Know My Name” by Labrinth while writing! (It’s also used in the tiktoks so that’s why lol)

Summary: You loved Loki. But you needed to forget him. (aka Thor knows a special trick used only on Asgard where saying “Stranger” to someone erases all memories of them from your mind.)

Warnings: This is straight up angst. No happy ending. So sorry. (Also a warning for this having no set place in any timeline lol I wasn’t focused on that so just run with it)

When you first met Loki, you were annoyed. You hated him. You hated his smirk, his eyes, his teeth when he smiled, his tongue when it swiped over his bottom lip, and worst of all — you hated the reactions he got out of you.

You were well aware that’s all he wanted. A reaction. And despite your better efforts, your body gave it to him.

Eventually, you grew used to him. You had no choice. With him at the Tower being an “honorary” Avenger of sorts, you were stuck with him.

It started slow. The snide remarks, your rolling eyes, your grin when you’d effectively bring a god to his knees in hand-on-hand combat.

But then it went fast. The snide remarks turned flirty. You no longer rolled your eyes, but instead gave him looks. When you’d put him on the ground during training, you’d straddle his hips, and he’d sometimes flip you over, pinning your wrists at the side of your head.

Everyone would yell at you to get a room — well, Natasha would. Steve, Bucky, Sam, basically everyone else disapproved, including Thor. But Tony disapproved the most.

“I like him, okay?!” You screamed at Tony one night.

You had lost it. You reached a breaking point. Tony had been on your ass, making it known that he hated the way you and Loki looked at each other, flirted with one another. He had even gone as far to say that your and Loki’s “situation” was endangering productivity.

You could’ve smacked him. But if it weren’t for him, you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. So you kept your head, and tried to explain your feelings to him.

“I still don’t like it,” Tony said after you finished. “He’s not safe.”

“He’s never once put my life in danger,” you argued.

“Not yet.”

“You don’t know that he will,” you continued. “I trust him.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Tony shrugged.

“Not everyone has chronic trust issues, Tony,” you snapped. “I don’t need a lecture from you of all damn people about trust.”

Tony let you leave after that. He never apologized to you for how he insulted you. And you never apologized to him, either.

You don’t remember when you started sleeping in Loki’s bed. All you know is that you got used to it quickly. Three nights in, you tried sleeping in your room, and wake up in his. And when you asked him how you got there, he simply smiled.

“You’re a sleepwalker, I’m afraid,” Loki murmured, lips ghosting over your eyebrow. “You climbed in next to me without a word.”

“I’m sorry,” you groaned, hiding your face in your arm.

“No need to be sorry, my love,” Loki whispered, turning your head so you’d stop hiding. “I am only glad that even in your sleep, you find me.”

You kissed him hard, then. Hands running through his hair, tugging, swallowing his moans while he swallowed yours. His hands found their way under your shirt, and would’ve gone further if it weren’t for the loud alarm that began to blare.

“Tony,” you grumbled. “I hate him.”

“Me too,” Loki agreed breathily. “We’ll finish this later, hm?”

You did.

It was a quiet shift, but eventually you began staying in Loki’s room completely. You moved a few of your things every night, started putting your clothes in his closet next to his, you even brought your favorite blanket with you one night — and that’s when you knew what you were feeling was serious.

Everything was perfect. Until it wasn’t.

Loki always told you he’d give you the world. The universe. All of it.

You never imagined he’d try.

“I’m doing this for you, love, don’t you see?” He had cried, voice broken.

“I don’t want you to do this,” you replied, tears welling in your eyes, and Loki didn’t know what to do then. He never wanted to cause you pain. “Stop this, Loki, please.”

But he was too far gone. “You’ll see. Once it’s done, you’ll see, my love. You’ll see.”

Tony got you out of there before Loki could do anything. You still don’t think he would have. But everyone else thought otherwise.

“You need to end this,” Tony said once he got you to safety.

You shook your head. “He’ll come around. I just need more time.”

“We don’t have time! People are going to die if we don’t do something!”

“Just give me some time!” You yelled back.

“No,” Tony said firmly. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

You fought it hard. You tried to reason with Loki, but all of it was to no avail. People died.

Millions died.

The guilt weighed heavy on your heart. You didn’t even say goodbye before Thor took Loki home, back to Asgard, where he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

It was months before you reached out to Thor, asking if you could speak to Loki. To say goodbye. To ask why. To check on him. To tell him you still love him, even though you shouldn’t.

You only told Thor it was to say goodbye. So he agreed.

And when he saw the state you were in, he offered a solution.

You told him if you could just forget, you’d feel better. The guilt was eating you alive. You were nearly hospitalized twice.

So, when Thor told you he knew how he could help you forget, you agreed without hesitation.

You loved Loki greatly. But you couldn’t keep going on like this.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Thor said.

You merely scoffed. A noise somewhere between a broken laugh and a sob.

Loki’s cell looked nicer than you expected, you’ll admit. And he was reading. Doing at least one thing that made him happy.

Your heart broke when you saw it was a copy of your favorite novel, knowing what you’re about to do.

“Brother,” Thor said. “You have a visitor.”

Loki laughed. “Go away.”

Slowly, you lowered the hood from your head. “Loki.”

Your voice. It stunned him to breathlessness, and he nearly dropped the book. He scrambled to his feet, right to the edge of his cell in a matter of minutes. “My love.”

Your heart broke. “How are you?”

“Better now that I see your face,” he smiled. “Have you come to get me out of here?”

You shook your head sadly. “I can’t do that.”

His face fell, only a fraction. “Still, I’m glad you came. I’ve missed you. How have you been in my absence?”

Sleepless. Restless. Depressed. Guilt-ridden. “I’ve been okay.”

Loki had always been good at reading your face. “What’s wrong?”

Tears welled in your eyes. “I love you.”

“My love,” Loki whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I love you,” you repeated. “I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do, but I have to. You understand that, right?”

“Y/N—”

“Just tell me you understand,” you interrupted. “Please.”

“Okay,” Loki replied, but what you didn’t know is that he was trying to read your mind. Trying to figure out what was plaguing you, and when he saw, his eyes widened. “Y/N, don’t—”

“Stranger,” you choked out, squeezing your eyes shut once the last syllable left your lips.

When you opened them again, your eyebrows furrowed. What am I doing down here?

“Please,” Loki whispered. “My love.”

You looked around, wondering who he could be speaking to. “I’m sorry,” you said. “You must have me mistaken with someone else.”

Before Loki can say anything else, Thor calls out your name, catching your attention. “It’s time to go home.”

Right, it was all coming back now. You came to visit Thor and he asked if you’d like to walk with him as he did a routine check-in.

You gave Thor a look. “Not even going to let me stay one night? I’m hurt.”

Thor grinned, glad you didn’t lose your wit, but also glad to see a genuine smile on your face again. “Next time.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, glancing one last time over your shoulder. “Who’s he?”

“No one important,” Thor replied quickly. “Thank you for accompanying me down here to check on things.”

You punched his arm with a laugh. “Always, you scaredy cat.”

Loki watched with tears streaking his face as you left, memories erased.

You might’ve forgotten him, but he’ll never forget you.

And if he ever gets out of this damn cell, he’ll make you remember.