#Implied/Referenced Abuse

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober Day 14 - Left for Dead

title: a boy falling out of the sky

fandom: limited life smp

this is a follow-up to my day 6 prompt fill, exit 73. you don't need to read it to understand this :)

cw: blood and injury, implied/referenced abuse

~

Jimmy doesn’t stop fighting.

He never does. Always been a fighter, his mother used to say.

Doesn’t know what’s good for him, his boss says now.

He isn’t well liked among TIES, he knows that. He’s been running with them for about four months, and they still won’t give him the chance to prove himself.

He usually spends his time manning the front with the same group of five, all of whom have been involved in TIES for years, all of whom see him as nothing more than a kid who needs to shut up and pay attention to them. They don’t like that he has ideas—probably because they’re better than whatever they could think of.

They report him to Impulse when he says that last bit. Impulse takes Jimmy aside and reminds him that the only reason he’s here is because he begged them, and that if he wants to prove his worth, he can do it by following orders.

It’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid, because he knows what he’s doing! He learned how to shoot when he was four years old—he doesn’t need someone telling him how to hold his gun! He knows how to sneak around—he used to do it every night to get to his sister’s room, trying not to anger their father. He knows how to steal, he’s been doing that since he was seven, slipping snacks into his shorts at the grocery store.

He knows how to do everything that the higher-ups ask of the others, but nobody wants him to do it. They keep him on menial work—delivering mail, manning the front, occasionally being sent to peacefully threaten someone. Nothing interesting. None of the really good-paying stuff.

He needs the money. He really, really needs the money.

But he can’t get the money when none of these morons trust him to do even the most basic of tasks!

Jimmy spends a lot of time frustrated. He spends a lot of time hanging out in the alley behind their front (a self-storage business), kicking at the gravel and smoking, letting the tobacco calm the anger.

That’s where one of the leaders finds him, one day.

“I bet your fifteen minute smoke break is up.”

Jimmy glances up—Tango. That’s Tango, one of the bosses of TIES—Jimmy’s so low on the food chain that he’s never actually met Tango before, just seen him in passing. Jimmy’s under Impulse’s command, technically (though he almost never sees him, either), and Impulse and Tango’s commands rarely interact.

Tango probably expects him to be starstruck at seeing one of the kingpins, or ashamed at being caught an extended break.

Jimmy just rolls his eyes, takes another puff. He doesn’t know what Tango’s doing here, and he doesn’t really care.

“Are you even old enough to smoke those things?”

“I’m not a baby,” Jimmy growls. “I’ve seen just as much as half the people here, and more than the other half. I know what I’m doing.”

“Whoa, that sounds like a disproportionate response to my joke,” Tango says. He doesn’t sound mad, which is good. Jimmy’s not all that skilled in the art of keeping his mouth shut. “Who said you didn’t?”

Jimmy gestures vaguely with his cigarette. “I don’t know. Everyone. Why else would I be stuck at the desk all day? I can shoot. I can sneak. I need a mission, not this.”

Tango’s quiet for a moment. Jimmy looks down at what’s left of his cigarette, takes one final drag, then drops it to the gravel, grounds it out with his heel.

“Do you need a mission?” asks Tango. “Or do you need money?”

“I—does it matter?”

Tango shrugs casually. “Not to some people. Most people are here for the money. That’s fine. It’s pretty easy to guess what for, too. Debts, treatments. . . .” he squints at Jimmy. “You look like your mom has cancer. Yeah?”

“Don’t talk about my mother,” Jimmy snarls, sudden rage flooding his chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Tango laughs. “Dude, I know more about you than you know about yourself. What, does your dad beat her—gak!”

Jimmy cuts him off by grabbing the front of Tango’s shirt, shoving him up against the wall. He can’t—nobody gets to talk about his mother like that, he isn’t going to stand her name being dragged through the mud—

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “I don’t wanna hear—”

“One of my men has a gun trained on you right now,” Tango says calmly.

The breath freezes in Jimmy’s lungs.

He lets go, steps away. “I—”

“Shut up, I don’t have time for apologies. You wanna prove yourself, kid? You wanna get the money to get your mommy safe? Fine. Tomorrow. Six in the morning, all right?”

Jimmy’s hands clench into fists, but he nods shortly. Tango, his cool demeanor soured by irritation, rolls his eyes.

“Chill out, dude. The world’s not gonna end tomorrow.”

“You don’t know that,” grumbles Jimmy. Tango shrugs.

“Sure. You should chill out, anyways.”

-

“Canary, take the right with Eagle. Vulture with me, to the basement. Hawk and Blue Jay, you’re on left.”

They’ve gone over the plan a hundred times, so Jimmy knows that he’s going right without the Cardinal telling him which way to go. He rolls his eyes, but turns down that way, pulling his mask up a bit higher on his nose.

He fiddles with the earpiece that they’d given him—it’s a bit clunkier than everyone else’s, but he’s trying his best not to argue today so  he doesn’t bring it up. If he wants Tango to consider sending him out again, he has to be perfect.

“Listen to me,” Eagle says harshly, the moment they’re out of sight of the others. “You’re going to do everything I say, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Jimmy mutters. Eagle backhands him across the cheek; Jimmy freezes, clenching his fists.

He’s not going to fight. Even though fighting is all he knows how to do, he’s going to lay low and wait for his time to come. He can prove himself. He will prove himself.

“Don’t talk back,” says Eagle. “I’m in charge. You’re a kid if I say you’re a kid. Now—you’d better do everything I say, you hear? No mouthing off, no assuming you know better—because you don’t. You don’t know anything. Got that?”

Jimmy nods angrily. Eagle raises an eyebrow at him (and Jimmy just knows he’s smirking under his mask, the little—), then continues down the hall.

They’re infiltrating the main headquarters of a rival, though nobody will tell Jimmy who or why. He’s just there to clear the building, as out of danger as he can be. It’s not the highest position on the team, but it is on the team, and Jimmy’s doing his best to feel grateful about that.

This is a dangerous mission—a very dangerous mission. Tango had offered to let him back out around five times, his eyes glinting with something like self-satisfaction, but Jimmy had stubbornly remained and now he’s going to prove that he’s earned his place on this team. Not just on this team, but in this family. He belongs in TIES, and he’s going to prove it.

Despite its danger, it still surprises Jimmy when they walk straight into a firefight.

“Eagle to Cardinal, we need back-up! Anyone—we’re on the second floor, it’s—there’s already a fight—”

Jimmy doesn’t know what’s happening or why guns were firing before they got there, but he throws himself back around the corner with Eagle and readies his own gun, aiming it in the direction of the massive garage that they both just fled from.

“The Bad Boys are here, too, looks like—they must’ve gotten the same intel,” Eagle hisses into his earpiece. A moment later, Jimmy’s own crackles with a painful spark.

“Cardinal to all. Evacuate and regroup, sunglasses are here.”

Eagle nods, motions for Jimmy to follow as they creep back into the hallway they’d come from, into view of the garage again.

Jimmy pauses to look—it’s a quiet moment in the fight within, everyone hiding on opposite sides of the room, occasionally darting out to fire at one another.

The garage is massive, its ceiling vaulted high above the hall, and Jimmy scans the room as quickly as he can—and he spots what he’s looking for.

“Who are the Bad Boys?” Jimmy whispers. Eagle grabs his wrist, tugs him along.

“Another gang.”

“Are we enemies? Because—look—”

He points up across the room, toward a window set into the wall near the ceiling. “There’s a room up there. We could go up and snipe both sides, easy.”

Eagle sighs. “Bad Boys aren’t our enemies, not right now. Etho apparently gets along pretty well with one of their higher-ups.”

“Then—why don’t we join them, help them out?”

“Just because we aren’t enemies doesn’t mean we’re friends. We don’t want them to get the package any more than we want these guys to have it.”

Jimmy doesn’t know what this so-called package is, but he nods. Sure. It’s not like this was his one chance to prove his worth to Tango. Now—

One of the Bad Boys—he’s got a leather vest on, a green streak through his hair, no mask (the mask might be a TIES signature, Jimmy thinks, but he isn’t sure)—rolls out from behind a car, aims his gun—

But he gets hit before he can pull the trigger. A pained grunt tears from the man’s lips as he falls, a bullet piercing his calf, blood splattering out onto the concrete below him.

Jimmy looks over, sees the man who shot the Bad Boy cocking his gun, aiming it at green-hair’s prone body, and acts before he can even think.

Well, not really. He does think, but all he thinks is, maybe if I save a Bad Boy, Etho will like me.

He knows how to shoot a gun. There’s only a couple of things Jimmy knows how to do really well, and one of them is standing between the injured and their abuser and the other is firing a gun. This is both of those, so he reckons he’s pretty much in his element.

Jimmy ducks into the garage proper and fires.

He lands a shot on the man who had risen up from behind a barrel, gun aimed at the Bad Boy. The man falls with a cry, and Jimmy only has a moment to acknowledge that he just pulled that reckless stunt before he turns and runs.

That was probably really stupid, now that he takes a moment to consider the consequences.

“You—idiot—” Eagle snarls, quickly overtaking him. Jimmy hears pounding footsteps behind him, and Eagle—

Pain tears through his chest—

Jimmy’s on the ground before he can so much as blink. There’s—there’s so much ice-hot fire burning through him from his chest, all of the sudden, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows before it overtakes him and tries to make sense of what’s going on around him. How did he end up on the ground? Why did Eagle stop running?

Eagle stands frozen in front of him, gun trained on something behind Jimmy. Jimmy hears a voice behind him—

“They’ve got back-up, get the package and get out—”

Then Eagle, into his own earpiece—

“They’re taking it and running, this is a bust—”

Then his heartbeat, loud and heavy in his ears.

More footsteps behind him, as the person there runs back the other way.

Jimmy’s lips move, but nothing comes out but a long, whistling wheeze.

He was shot.

He was shot in the back, and now his chest feels warm with blood as it runs down the inside of his shirt. He was shot. Is he dying?

It hurts to breathe. It hurts to move. He’d propped himself up on his elbows before it really came over him, but now he feels frozen there, limbs locked up, unable to even roll out of the middle of the hallway. He’s been hurt before, he’s been beaten almost to the point of death before but it wasn’t quite like this, because he can’t move or speak or anything. Is he in shock? That must be it. He’s in shock.

He blinks up at Eagle, not entirely sure what he’s trying to convey. A plea for help, probably. As much as it hurts his pride, he can’t do anything else.

Eagle stares down at him, face expressionless. Then, his hand touches his earpiece again.

“Canary’s dead. Let’s get out of here.”

“I—” Jimmy manages, because he isn’t dead, he’s still here and sure, it hurts to breathe and he isn’t sure how to move, but he’s still alive.

Eagle doesn’t say anything. He turns away, jogs down the hallway, and eventually out of sight.

Jimmy wishes he could feel the rage that he longs for, that’s always so close to the surface.

He hurts too much for that, though.

A tear slips down his cheek and he curses, the words pained and broken. He can’t die here. If he dies here, who will protect Lizzie?

He promised to get them their own place. He promised to get her away from him. If he dies here, she’ll be left to face him alone, stuck with him forever, no escape in sight.

He can’t let that happen. He won’t let that happen.

Agony lances through his chest as he forces his locked limbs to move, shifts until he’s on his side, head bumping lightly against the wall of the hallway. There’s still gunshots coming from behind him, but he ignores it. Embarrassingly high-pitched whimpers escape his firmly-pressed lips as every movement jars his chest, but he eventually finds himself kind of sitting up, slumped against the wall.

His shirt is soaked through with blood. The grey with which he’d been outfitted shows how the blooming bloodstain had spread, out from the right side of his chest, down his stomach and up his shoulder. There’s a long smear of blood on the floor from his maneuvering, shockingly bright against the dirty tiles.

Jimmy stares at the blood, his heart pounding in his ears.

How is he going to find the strength to get up? He was barely able to make it to this point.

Once he does get up, how is he going to get out?

Will he walk out of here on legs that won’t cooperate? Will he manage to call for a taxi to take him to a hospital? Will the hospital turn him away without insurance? Will they call the cops?

He licks his lips, cracked and dry.

Every breath feels like another bullet pushing through his chest.

He isn’t getting out of here.

He clutches feebly at his shirt with his left hand, as if he has the strength to strip it off, as if he could ever manage to bandage the wound.

His hand is stained with blood, snaking through every crack of his palm.

It feels wrong to die like this. Alone in a corridor, his lifeblood slipping between his fingers. 

Last time he thought he would die, he wasn't alone. Lizzie was holding him, frantically trying to dress his injuries, muttering nonsense about how everything would be all right and how she was going to call an ambulance and he would be fine.

Jimmy still remembers how the musty carpet smelled like smoke under him, how he couldn't make his eyes focus on Lizzie's face, how his entire body morphed into blurry pain.

It was different.

But one thing is the same—the anger that usually burns in the pit of his stomach has been replaced by cold, disgusting, creeping shame.

He failed her. He failed the only person who means anything to him, and she's not even here for him to apologize.

It hurts even more to breathe. It feels like there's a shard of glass pressing into his lungs, each breath digging it deeper.

Another tear falls, trails down through his lips. His tongue darts out to taste the saltiness, and it tastes like failure.

“We got it, that's all that matters.”

“No, what matters is that you get medical attention. You don't get shot and just walk it off, Joel—”

For a split second, Jimmy thinks wildly that perhaps Lizzie is here, is on her way down the hall to find him, but that isn't her voice. Lizzie isn't here and nobody is coming for him.

They abandoned him.

Two men enter the hallway—one is the man who got shot, his green streak of hair falling into his eyes as he limps out, supported by another man. This man is dressed in a red shirt with a leather jacket, sunglasses stuck into his messy hair.

They're bickering—

“Can't believe we have to take the back way out—”

“It's your fault, shouldn't have gotten injured—”

But they both freeze when they see Jimmy.

“Wait—Grian, it's that kid,” the green-haired one says. “He shot the guy that was going for me. Is he still alive?”

“Yeah, he is,” Grian says, his face twisting. He lowers green-hair to the ground carefully, propping him up against the wall a foot or two away, then kneels at Jimmy's side.

“Hey, kid,” says Grian, lifting Jimmy's chin to meet his eyes. “What happened?”

Jimmy resists the urge to cough, squeezes the wet fabric of his shirt. “Chest,” he manages. “Not—not a kid.”

“Talk to me,” Grian instructs, flipping open a pocket knife to cut through Jimmy's shirt. “Who are you with? Is someone coming for you?”

“He's with TIES, look at his mask,” green-hair interjects. “Classic Etho, looking out for me.”

“Let him answer, Joel.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy breathes, nodding in Joel's direction. “TIES. They—they left me.”

His eyes burn with tears at the admission. Grian frowns, hands dancing across Jimmy's chest. “Really? That's not like them. They usually take care of their own.”

But Jimmy isn't really one of them, is he? He made an enemy of everyone he talked to. He made it clear that he wasn't in it for friends, he'd fought tooth and nail over every little thing, so does it really surprise him that they left him to die here?

He’s dying.

“I failed her,” whispers Jimmy. He hisses in pain as Grian presses on his chest, right up against the burning bullet wound. He swallows back a cough, refusing the pain it would surely bring.

“Went clean through, looks like. I'm gonna move you, look at your back.”

Jimmy actually cries out when Grian shifts him forward, letting him slump against his chest.

“Keep talking.”

“I-I'm gonna die. I failed her. He's gonna kill her.”

“Who is she? Tell me about her.”

“M’ sister,” Jimmy mumbles, biting his lip as Grian prods at the wound. “She—he'll kill her, I'm gonna die and—and nobody—”

“What color is her hair?” Joel asks.

Jimmy blinks, more tears spilling down his face. “P-pink.”

“Pink? That's a weird color.”

Jimmy sniffs. “He—he hates it. I told her not to dye it—” he cuts off with a strangled gasp, one that makes his chest seize with pain, as Grian presses his hand down firmly on Jimmy's back.

“Throw me the spare ace bandage,” Grian orders, holding his hand out to Joel. Joel digs a roll of bandages out of his pocket and tosses it to him.

“How old are you?” Joel asks. “What's your name, how old are you?”

“Jimmy,” he barely manages, as Grian wraps the bandage around his chest. “I—I'm—seventeen.”

Grian curses in Jimmy's ear. Joel’s face darkens.

“Told Etho they need to be better about checking ages,” says Joel angrily. “A kid shouldn't be part of a dangerous op, for goodness sakes—”

“We don't have time for this,” Grian says firmly. He ties off the bandage and arranges himself to be side-by-side with Jimmy, loops an arm under his shoulders. “Joel, can you call in back-up? Kid, can you walk?”

“We don't need back-up, I can walk—”

“Absolutely not—”

“We'll help Jimmy between us, all right? Then he can lean on both of us and I can lean on him—”

Jimmy’s next few moments are a blur of pain and nausea, but he somehow finds himself standing, one arm slung over Joel's shoulders, one arm over Grian's.

“Just take a step,” Grian grunts, and Jimmy stumbles forward, just trying to breathe the best he can through the stabbing pain.

Do they think he’s going to survive? They wouldn’t be helping him if they didn’t, right?

“How far to the car?” Joel asks tightly.

“If we take a left, we should hit the stairwell soon after.”

“Right. Stairs. That’ll go great.”

They make their slow way down the hall, Jimmy’s exhaustion growing with each step. They stop frequently, adjusting their positions so that Jimmy can rest easier on the two of them. Then they keep going, one painful foot forward after the other. 

After what feels like ages of the hall tunneling in front of him, Grian shifts them both left, toward another hall, identical to the first (but a good bit shorter).

Joel is breathing heavily, occasionally making small, pained noises under his breath. If Jimmy had enough space in his chest for more emotions, he would feel guilty that he was making Joel go to all this trouble for him.

He doesn’t have room for that. Just the shame.

There’s a door at the end of the hall, and all three of them are gasping for breath by the time they make it. Joel leans against the wall and Jimmy leans against him. His feet are practically deadweight, his shoes feeling like cinder blocks.

“We go up one level of stairs,” Grian tells them, voice a bit raspy. “The door out should be there. The car’ll be . . . probably a short walk from there. Good?”

Joel flashes a thumbs-up. “Can we . . . all right if we take a minute, first?”

Grian checks his watch, worries his lip between his teeth. “I don’t think we have time. We should go.”

Joel huffs, but he pushes himself off the wall, readjusting Jimmy’s arm around him.

Jimmy just swallows, then finally gives in to the urge to cough.

Apparently, it’s the wrong decision to make. The cough instantly makes the pain skyrocket, so much worse than it’s been so far, and Jimmy can barely keep standing\. He tries to breathe through it—but barely any air seems to be entering his lungs, it’s like there’s hardly room for even half a breath.

He falls to his knees, another weak cough escaping him, one that only serves to drive out what little air he’s managed to collect. He can’t breathe. It hurts too much, and he can’t breathe.

“Jimmy? Jimmy, stay with us—”

“Stay here with him, I’ll go grab whoever’s in the car—”

Jimmy barely registers the sound of running footsteps as he falls further, leaning on his hands. He gasps fruitlessly, in and out and far too shallow. He can’t do it, he can’t manage it.

He’s dying. He was shot in the chest and he can’t breathe. He’s dying right here, after everything, abandoning Lizzie and everything he’s been fighting for his whole life.

He’s so scared.

He’s terrified, the fear even colder than the guilt, because he doesn’t want to die, but he can’t breathe long enough to even say it.

I don’t want to die, he thinks with all his might. I don’t want to.

He’s always been a fighter. That’s what his mother would tell him, as she spread numbing cream on his bruises and kissed his forehead good night. He never got to hear her last words, but every day before school she would ask him to watch out for his sister (even though she was three years his senior) and he thinks she would have said something like that if he was there when she died.

He’s failed her, too. He couldn’t save his mom, and he can’t save Lizzie, even though it was all she ever asked of him. He’s let them both down, and he can’t even get enough breath for an apology.

“Jimmy, listen to me,” Joel says, his voice sounding as if it’s underwater. The man sits on the floor in front of him, adds his hands to Jimmy’s shoulders to try and keep him somewhat up. “Listen. Can you see me?”

Through tear-blurred eyes, he can just manage to see Joel, discern the worry etched into his face. Jimmy nods, just barely.

“Good. Calm down, okay? Breathe slowly. Slow and deep, okay?”

Jimmy shakes his head. He can’t. He can’t breathe slowly, he can’t breathe deeply, he can barely breathe at all. His arms are trembling, and it’s only moments before they give out entirely. He slumps against Joel, noticing vaguely that his fingers are numb.

“Bullet probably hit your lung,” Joel mutters, adjusting Jimmy in his arms so that he’s sitting, Joel’s legs around him. “Do you smoke? Or, did you smoke, I guess. You won’t anymore.”

The room is going out of focus, and not just because of the tears. Jimmy tries desperately to hold on to consciousness, licking his lips and flexing his fingers compulsively.

Joel tilts his head back, peering into his eyes. Jimmy wonders if he can see the fear there, if he looks as scared as he feels, heaving for breath.

“It’s okay,” Joel says, voice considerably softer than it’s been this whole time. “Geez, you’re just a kid. Killer aim, though. Where’d you learn to shoot?”

My dad taught me, Jimmy wants to say. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have enough air.

He’s going to pass out. Jimmy’s been beaten to unconsciousness too many times to count on one hand, so he knows what it feels like when his head starts to fuzz over, goosebumps breaking out over his entire body.

He swallows, squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s going to die.

He failed.

-

He survives, somehow.

His lung had collapsed after being punctured by the bullet, which was life-threatening, but didn’t claim him this time. Jimmy woke up in an unfamiliar library-turned-medical wing, an oxygen mask taped to his face and an IV stuck in his arm.

He heals up nicely, according to the doctor, and once he’s cleared to walk (on oxygen, pulling a portable oxygen canister behind him), he starts exploring the manor he finds himself in.

It’s massive, dozens of rooms and chandeliers and fancy carpets, and plenty of people always coming and going. He spends a lot of time sitting in a cushy chair outside of the library, looking out at the main entrance, people-watching everyone who comes through. He gets strange looks, sometimes, but he’s ignored for the most part, and for the first time in a long time he feels almost relaxed.

Not quite. A nagging voice in the back of Jimmy’s head reminds him of Lizzie, of the hell he’s left her to face alone, and he knows he has to do something soon or the guilt and anger will overwhelm him again, but he tries not to think about it and just focused on recovering.

Grian and Joel show up on the fourth day, when he’s finally released from using an oxygen cannula during the day.

“How are you feeling?” Grian asks awkwardly when they approach his bedside, hands stuck in his jeans pockets.

Jimmy shrugs. “Good,” he says. “I mean, like I was shot in the chest. Good, given the circumstances.”

Joel snorts. “Well, yeah, duh.”

“Good enough to get going, soon?”

Jimmy blanches. He’d been dreading this conversation. “I . . . actually, I was wanting to ask. . . .”

They know what he wants before he even suggests it.

“Absolutely not,” Grian says. “We don’t take on kids. It’s not—”

“I turn eighteen in six months—”

“—super dangerous, and—”

“I think he should stay,” Joel says helpfully, settling into an armchair far too grandiose for what should be a hospital setting. Grian glares at him.

“You know we don’t bring kids into this.”

“We can’t send him back to TIES, can we?” Joel says. “We can’t turn him loose on the street, or else they’ll probably try to take him out, just in case. You don’t just quit TIES and walk away.”

“I don’t want to go back to TIES, if it helps,” Jimmy adds. “They left me to die back there.”

Joel waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Etho said you’re welcome back, if you want. But you don’t, so we don’t need to worry about that.”

“But he’s—”

“I’ll do anything to stay. I’ll—I’ll even just work the front, I just—I need it,” Jimmy says, glancing between the two of them.

They don’t know how desperately he needs it. They don’t know that the only reason he has for living is saving Lizzie.

He’d tried getting a normal job, but no place that paid enough was willing to hire someone underage full-time, much less someone without a high school diploma. TIES was the first place to offer him more than seven dollars an hour with the promise of one day making more.

He needs this kind of money to get an apartment. And he needs an apartment more than anything in this world.

Grian bites his lip, looks over at Joel.

“We can say he’s eighteen,” Joel suggests.

“I’ll get my birth certificate changed,” promises Jimmy. “I just—” this is it, he has to convince them— “I have to get my sister to safety. Please.”

“I—look, you can’t tell anyone, ever,” Grian stresses, running his hands through his hair. “You’re eighteen, all right? And don’t expect to get any ops—”

“Do expect to get ops, you’re a decent shot—”

“Joel and I are your only friends, don’t trust anyone else—”

“Do whatever you want, we aren’t your dads—”

Jimmy lies back on the bed, propping the pillows up under him. Relief tastes sweet on his tongue, after the building guilt he’s been feeling over the past few days. So . . . he’s a Bad Boy now? Would he get a leather jacket? Or sunglasses?

That doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that he’s already become friends with two people here after being a member for less than two minutes, and that’s way closer to getting Lizzie to safety than he ever was with TIES.

He can keep his promise.

And one day, when he’s got enough rapport in the Bad Boys, he’s going to call out a hit of his own. And he’ll fulfill it on his own—he’ll hold the gun that he was given on his sixth birthday, the last gift he ever received, the one with his father’s initials messily carved into the hilt—

He’ll take that gun and shoot his dad in the head, and they’ll finally be safe.

[wangxianficrecs]

💙 in payment, a hand by justdoityoufucker (orphan_account)

💙 in payment, a hand

by justdoityoufucker (orphan_account)

M, 10k, Series, Wangxian

Summary: “It was a kindness she didn’t take your right hand,” Jiang Yanli is the one to say, when she’s arrived with Jiang-shushu and he’s finally been taken to the healers. Not that the healers can do much. - Or, the one where Wei Wuxian's hand is taken. Kay's comments: I absolutely adore this series and I'm still heartbroken that justdoityoufucker orphaned all their works, but thankfully, the stories didn't get deleted and are still here for us to enjoy! This story has everything that I love: a fix-it that it's rooted in "it gets worse before it gets better", canon-divergence, Wen siblings feelings, Wei Wuxian finding his own path away from the Jiang Sect and Wangian finding their way together, it's the perfect package! It explores how the story could have gone, if Madam Yu had cut off Wei Wuxian's hand to save Lotus Pier and I love which directions it took. Excerpt: When Wei Ying wakes again, he initially thinks himself alone in the room, Wen Qing and Wen Ning’s beds neatly made up and the two of them not in eyesight when he pushes himself to sitting. He’s wrong. He’s not alone. There’s an achingly familiar white-clad form at the low table, sitting with perfect posture, writing with exact precision. Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, he thinks the other boy’s name but he must say it out loud because Lan Zhan turns to him like a flower toward sun. He doesn’t know why, but upon the sight of Lan Zhan, upon the way his eyes soften with worry when he sees Wei Ying, Wei Ying bursts into tears. It’s all so much, too much, and he wants to go to sleep and wake up and have it be before all this, before his hand got cut off, before the Xuanwu, before everything. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Lan Zhan was starting to look worried about the sudden tears, which was a funny thought, but not funny enough to override the sudden realization of just how much his life has been ruined by those he once thought to be his family. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan finally says, standing and stepping forward until he’s right next to the bed. He hesitates for a second, then flicks his sleeves out and neatly sits there, on the edge of the bed, and doesn’t even flinch when Wei Ying collapses into him.

pov wei wuxian, canon divergence, fall of lotus pier, sunshot campaign, family of choice, found family, amputation, injury recovery, major character injury, jiang family dynamics, not jiang family friendly, implied/referenced abuse, love confessions, getting together, first kiss, self-reflection, angst with a happy ending, no golden core transfer, angst with hurt/comfort, recovery, weddings

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[bespectacled-bookwyrm]

Angstpril 2025 - 30

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65160025

Summary: He could've left her. But he didn't.

[yukiwhitetm]

My Favourite Bat

by Yuki_White (@yukiwhitetm @sentariana)

"I miss you,"

It seems so easy to say

But when I haven't heard from you

In years, it's impossible really.

We were close once,

The very best of friends,

Where you wore black so dark the sun glanced

Off it and I wore colours like a camera lens.

We were opposites, you and I,

You were strong where I was naive,

You swore to protect me but I

Failed the same to achieve.

I warned you away

But you were like a greek statue,

Beautiful and stubborn and strong no matter what may,

I looked and could see no flaws in you.

I did not see the weakness behind your strength,

That strength means you do not rely on others

Even when you should, instead you just clench

Your jaw, carry on and not be a bother.

But you did not see

That you, my best friend, my favourite bat,

Could never bother me.

Oh! I wish I could go back

And tell you to rely on me

The same as I always relied on you,

But it's gone now, it's over, it'll never be

You and I again. I see that, I do.

I don't know what happened.

One moment, we were best friends,

You came to my graduation and I went

To your mother's wedding and then...

I remember our last conversation clearly.

There was no inkling in me that that might be the end,

The last time we would ever meet. Oh, yes, it's seared

Into my brain. As the next moment, my messages were left on read.

"I miss you."

Would you believe me if I said that to you?

I miss your wit and your humour, truly,

I miss everything about you.

I admit, part of me still hopes,

That we will see each other again one day.

I still love you. My love for you is like a letter in an envelope,

Waiting and ready for you to unseal it and see what I have to say.

[sylvanfreckles]

(@whumptober-archive)

Day Eight: Outnumbered

Summary: Ambushed and wounded in Rexxentrum, Caleb turns to Beauregard for help and safety.

[miles-prentiss]

Where is my mind

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: Mental Health Issues, Childhood Trauma, Psychological Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Past Abuse, Abuse, Physical Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Drug Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Substance Abuse, Schizophrenia, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Dreams, Panic Attacks, Short One Shot, One Shot, Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Tragedy

Words: 414

I walk down the long hallway the walls a saturated marron colour

-------------------------------------------

"Hello!" I call out unaware of my surroundings.

I reach the end of the hall, I am met with a off white door, I open the door with hesitation not knowing what is awaiting my arrival.

The door open revealing a living room which seem familiar .

"Hello?" I call out once more.

... no reply .

I begin the gather what Is surrounding me, soft yellow wall, a dark green couch, a muted red carpet, off white lace curtains.

I turn around to see a man who was once standing behind me.

I stand in confusion not knowing who the man infront of me.

"What do you not know your own father?" He asked as if he was informing me on who exactly he was.

I couldn't believe it.

"I thought- you're in prison!?" I enquired.

"What do you not miss your pa?" I ignored his statement and walked away.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" He demanded grabing my shoulder and spinning me around to face him.

I flinched and his grip on my shoulder is getting tighter. He takes his free hand and wraps it tightly around my neck ,blocking my oxygen supply.

"Pleaae..." I let out a pathetic whimper.

"Ahhh!" I sit up walking myself up from my slumber in a cold sweat.

"Why?...why now?"

The past is catching up with me fast than I thought, I hang my head in defeat not wanting to deal with this at the moment.

I turn to my alarm clock which reads '3:12AM' 'the devils hour'.

I get out of bed and walk over to my bathroom. I flick on the light, illuminating the bathroom.

I stare at myself in the mirror, my dark curls framing my face, dark circles for eyes, the pale yellow-ish tone on my skin.

I turn to look at the shelf bellow the mirror which is filled with numerous boxes of pills

I look back up to the mirror to see Him behind me, his hand wrapped firmly around my neck, I turn around only for him not to be there.

I Fall back against the sink, knees coming up to my chest, hand falling into my arms, tears rolling down my face, slight ringing in my ear

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...." I repeat over and over knowing how I failed being my mother's perfect little girl

"Where is my mind?"

[ghostly-penumbra]

Rejection

Ao3

Summary: In a world where Danyal al Ghul is resurrected by his mother after his death, the child turns down the idea of going with his biological father, the feared Batman.

In this one, he doesn't.

Most things don't change. Unfortunately, some do.

A what-if scenario from my dannymay entry "Reflection".

-

Look, I don't actually hate Damian, but I stumbled upon far too many "Danny forgives his abuser/murderer because he was just a kid and forgiving us good and siblings must stick together 4evr 🥺 uwu" and fuck that noise, I say as an abused sibling.

in the first part of this series, Danyal wondered what would have happened had he gone to Batman when he arrived to the USA

here we find out 3:)

- - -

Bruce watched his sons go with a smile on his face when Danyal finally reached out and held Jason’s offered hand.

It was a victory, for Danyal to see that his brother wasn’t out to get him, that he didn’t intend to harm him.

That his brother wouldn’t kill him.

The smile slipped from Bruce’s face, and the detective found himself cursing Ra’s al Ghul yet again.

- - -

Danyal had arrived at the Batcave in the middle of the night whilst Batman and Robin were in the middle of patrol, and introduced himself to Alfred as Batman’s son. His words, his face and his eyes quickly had the vigilantes returning home.

Talia’s nose, Bruce’s chin still full of baby fat, Talia’s soft hair, almost like silk… Martha Wayne’s blue eyes.

Bruce had frozen mid-step when he saw him, so small , with clothes that didn’t fit him and only a small backpack on his tired little shoulders. And when the boy’s eyes –Martha’s same blue – landed on him, a myriad of emotions passed through them, almost too fast for the detective to read them: awe, fear, hope, relief… and when he spotted Robin, the fear came back, wariness, unease…

His Jason, in spite of growing quick to anger as of late, was still good with younger kids, and agreed to leave him alone with only some minor grumbling.

Once alone, the boy stood straight again, hands clasped behind his back and chin lifted up proudly even as he swam in his clothes. (So small.) His eyes, though, didn’t meet Bruce’s, and instead settled on his chin.

“Hello, my name is Danyal al Ghul, son of Talia al Ghul…” He paused for a second, but then carried on, “and of the Batman.”

“I see.” Bruce barely managed to get out past the lump of emotion clogging his throat.

“I… mother and I have decided that Nanda Parbat and the League of Shadows is no longer safe for me,” his voice wobbled and broke and they both pretended it didn’t, “so she sent me here with you, if—if you will take me.”

Bruce breached the distance between them and knelt in front of his son with measured, projected movements.

“Danyal,” he said at last, “can I hug you?”

With a stunned expression, his son stiffly nodded, and just as slowly, Bruce wrapped his arms around him, tugging him towards his chest and feeling Danyal tentatively wrap his tiny arms as far as he could reach in turn.

“Danyal, what happened? Why now, at last, did your mother send you to me?”

“… I was murdered by Damian al Ghul—son of Talia al Ghul, grandson of Ra’s al Ghul and Heir of the Demon’s Head… my—my twin brother.”

- - -

It was always a challenge to track down the League’s movements and status, but not one Bruce ever cowered from.

Talia’s latest movements weren’t impossible to track, if you knew what you were looking at.

Places she hadn’t gone to in a long time, where he knew she had caches of valuables, money, safe-houses and the necessary means to disappear.

He could almost see her helping Danyal along, guiding him long enough to know he could make it to Gotham, until her father turned his eyes towards her once again, questioning her actions.

He searched further, from everything from the past seven years, to what they were currently doing.

He wished he could leave the country to have a more hands-on approach with the ever elusive League, but with Danyal only really relaxing—feeling safe— when Bruce was present, he had barely even left to go on patrol.

Despite their tense start, Bruce was grateful for Jason, from his acceptance of the paused patrols, his patience with Danyal, his understanding of the smaller boy’s situation, and his genuine desire to connect with him and be a good big brother.

It was a relief to Bruce, as a father, to see the anger that had been growing more and more in him be tampered down, easily put aside by his kindness, his gentleness.

- - -

“Do you like reading?”

Jason asked, smiling from his upside-down position in the couch on Bruce’s studio, where the man was working on police cases while he couldn’t go out and be Batman.

Danyal was glued to Bruce’s side, having been assured that it was okay for him to do so, was welcome, even, and he looked at his father from his periphery, gauging his reaction.

When he got a curious lifting of an eyebrow, Danyal frowned and his focus returned to Jason. “I don’t know.” He seemed pained to admit it.

Jason, though, didn’t let that put a damper in his plan, and beamed at the kid instead. “Wanna find out if you like children’s tales?”

This time, Danyal did turn his head towards Bruce, just a little, and the small frown on his face showed he was having difficulty deciphering Jason’s statement.

With an indulgent smile, Bruce carded his fingers through his youngest’s fluffy hair, feeling the kid relax under the touch.

“Jason is a fan of reading,” he explained, “and he’s trying to see if you two have that in common, and you just don’t know it yet.” Jason smiled and nodded, as much as he could in his position. “But mostly, he wants to share something he loves with you.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawned on Danyal. “Uh, okay.”

Jason’s smile turned radiant, and he jumped from his spot, closing his eyes and gripping the back of the couch as the world straightened, but said with joy anyway, “I’ll be back in a second!”, and ran out of the room, no doubt towards their library.

Once the older boy was gone, Danyal finally turned towards him, glaring at the bookshelf behind them. He clenched and unclenched his chubby fist a few times, clearly thinking hard. Bruce had learned by now that it was best for him to let Danyal take his time—unlike Jason, who typically had to be encouraged into revealing his feelings.

“Father, I have only ever read academic and pedagogic papers, what if I don’t like what Jason loves?”

Bruce cupped Danyal’s cheek with one hand, a victory in his heart when his son leaned into the touch, when two days ago he had startled. “Did you love all the academic papers you read?”

After a second of thought, Danyal confessed, “I don’t know. I enjoyed the ones about astronomy, the other ones… not nearly as much.”

“Hmm. Then maybe you will like this better, or you won’t, and you can try to find something you do, Jason has a big collection, and the library is even bigger, I’m sure he’ll like to help you find out, if you allow him. But tell me, do you want to find out if you like fantasy and fairy tales better than academic texts?”

Danyal did stop to think about it, and then a spark of defiance entered his blue eyes, a small rebellion compared to what he had already done, but a rebellion nonetheless.

Bruce ever-active detective mind could tell his son was thinking of Ra’s, of his sure disapproval for such a frivolous topic, and felt his heart fill with pride when his son replied, rocking his whole body in a nod.

“Yes, I want to find out.”

When Jason returned, it was with his arms full of books, almost toppling over his hold.

“I got some variety here!” He put half of them on Bruce’s desk, closer to their father than to his little brother, and went back to his seat across from the room. “Got two copies of each one so you can have your own! You get to choose what to start with!”

Bruce spread the books out on his desk, over his paperwork, to let Danyal see the titles and covers.

“How about this one?” He suggested, pointing at one title in particular.

Jason, though, glared at him. “Danyal gets to choose.”

Bruce winked at him, but Jason’s frown only really abated when his little brother asked him, “What is The Little Prince about?”

And, in spite of the physical distance Jason respected, Bruce got to see his children grow closer.

- - -

Now here he was, down in the Cave, pouring over strategies on how to infiltrate one of the most guarded places on earth to rescue his son, get him out, and not allow the League to ever lay hands on either of the twins again.

“They made him a killer.” He lamented when Alfred approached to hand him another mug of coffee. “They’re only six… if only Talia had told me…” He massages his temples and closes his eyes, the map of Nanda Parbat burnt in his eyelids while he imagined a world where he got to raise both kids since infancy.

“The past is rarely what we want it to be, Master Bruce, we can only hope to influence the present so as to have a better future.” Alfred told him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder before taking his leave.

“If Damian is given the opportunity,” he muttered after a long moment of silence, drumming his fingers on the desk, “what kind of person would he become?”

“You would bring him here? After what he did?”

Bruce felt a stone drop in his stomach and he turned around to be met with Danyal, his sweet and shy youngest son, already clad in his star-themed pyjamas, staring him down even as he had to tilt his chin up to look him in the eye.

Straight in the eyes, instead of his chin or the bridge of his nose, where he felt safe looking in his shyness or nerves. Right now, his gaze was cold, a cold so great it burned you.

His tiny fists, clenched at his sides, were shaking, thumping against his thighs. If it was in rage or in fear, he couldn’t tell; both, possibly.

“Danyal.” He breathed out softly, carefully relaxing his posture and letting his hands fall palms-out by his sides. “Son, I know this isn’t ideal, but please listen to me, what Ra’s did to you is monstrous, to both of you; you are both just children…

“I promise I will keep you safe, and won’t let anyone hurt you, but I have to get your brother out of there, too, he’s not safe there. He’s only a child, Danyal, I can’t just leave him there.”

“Damian is not in danger, he is the danger! He murdered me and you don’t care!”

“Of course I do, if there was anything I could do to change it, to fix it, I would, but all I can do now is try to prevent it from happening again, to either of you; your brother is just a child too, who wasn’t taught any better-”

“ I knew better! I didn’t kill him !” Danyal screamed. His chest was heaving with laboured breaths, and his eyes shone with tears ready to fall. One of his hands went up to fist in his hair, tugging on it, and Bruce internally winced, trying to keep it off his face. “You—why—I can’t—you’ve only had me for a week, but you’ve already decided you love him more!”

Bruce had stood up, at the beginning of this, with measured movements, and now approached his youngest son the same way, with his hands spread out and taking a short step.

The only one he managed to take, before Danyal flinched back from him, eyes wide and afraid, sobs cutting short.

It was as if he had been stabbed in the gut, with the way he suddenly couldn’t breathe and how his knees would no longer hold his body and left him prostrated before his flesh and blood.

“Please, son, listen,” but the boy didn’t, instead bolting for the lift, almost falling into it when it opened, and leaving the cave with tears falling down his face, “Danyal!” Bruce called after him, watching him go.

And as he had sank into the floor, Bruce sank his head in his hands.

When he had regained enough of his composure, Bruce went back up into the manor, resolute in talking to his youngest. He was met, instead, with his second’s glare and anger.

“What did you do to Danyal?” Jason’s arms were crossed in front of his chest, his knuckles white and his blue gaze cold.

Bruce really didn’t like the sense of déjà vu he was getting.

“Not now, Jason, I have to talk with your brother.” He tried to go past him, but his son wasn’t budging. “Jason, move .”

“Why? So that you can go and make him cry more ?” He spat on his face, making Bruce flinch.

“Move aside, Jason, that’s an order.”

Changing his stance, Jason was no longer an unmoving wall, but someone prepared to dodge a blow. It was just as bad as with Danyal flinching back from him, even if this time he didn’t let his body fail him.

“Make me.”

“Jason,” he pleaded, “I have to fix things with your brother.”

“How? Breaking down his door? Barging in through his window? He locked himself in, he won’t even say a thing to me!”

And that obviously hurt Jason, who had adored his little brother the moment he knew about him, and for whom he had worked so hard in earning his trust, step by small step.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

“I need to make things right, son.”

“Then think of how you’re gonna do that first!”

And with that, Jason marched off to Danyal’s door, sitting down to keep watch against their father.

-

Jason didn’t barge in through Danyal’s window, he knocked on the windowpane first, and waited patiently for his baby brother to decide to let him in himself.

“Hey, buddy,” he started, looking at the boy’s red and swelling eyes, knowing he had cried himself to sleep, “you haven’t touched the food Alfie left ya, and you gotta eat if you wanna grow up strong.” He handed Danyal the lunchbox he had brought with him and continued. “I know my cooking isn’t as amazing as Alfie’s, but I think I’m okay.”

Danyal bit down on one of his sandwiches with a thoughtful face.

“It’s good.” He declared after swallowing.

Jason beamed at the praise, and hurried to offer the bottled juice he had brought as well. “It goes better with the sandwich than tap water!”

Danyal took it, and they sat down next to the wall, silent as Danyal ate.

“Thank you, Jason.” His little brother told him, handing him back the lunchbox.

“No problem.” There was another moment of silence, and Jason hated having to break it. “If you don’t wanna talk,” he started slowly, “about what happened with Bruce, you don’t have to; but, if you don’t wanna keep it in, you don’t have to do that either.”

Danyal obviously mulled it over, putting a hand on his nape and rubbing gently, and Jason waited, thinking of what could’ve happened and what he could say to it.

Maybe he should have expected it, knowing Bruce for years already, knowing Batman, but Danyal’s words still left him speechless.

“Father wants to bring Damian here.”

-

“Are you out of your fucking mind?! How could you even think it was a good idea?!”

“Jason, Damian is a kid who needs a better environment, not to be in the belly of the League of Assassins, he needs his family!”

“And Danyal? First Ra’s sacrifices him so that his chosen heir doesn’t grow weak , and now you sacrifice him so daddy’s littlest murderer can come and play house!”

“… Damian is my son.”

“So is Danyal. Doesn’t he matter?”

Alfred cut in with a harsh, worried look, “Sirs. Young Master Danyal is gone.”

The vigilantes turned as one to a worried Alfred, meeting his panic with theirs.

-

Everything fell apart so quickly after that.

They looked for Danyal, of course they did, but it was like his son was a ghost; he had only taken two extra changes of clothes—from the full wardrobe they had just gotten for him days ago—, some money in cash and some food they hadn’t seen him take from the kitchen.

He knew how to travel by himself, that was how he had gotten to Gotham in the first place, and even if he hadn’t wanted to use it, he had had infiltration training, knew how to not be noticed, how to look as if he fit in a place he wasn’t meant to be in.

He could have already left the continent, for all Bruce knew.

Not long after, Jason left for Ethiopia.

Him, who had a goal in mind other than leave this place , Bruce managed to track, reading his hurried movements and seeing, as well, another plot emerging around him, the jaws of danger closing on his son, who had walked into a trap as he looked for a good parent.

Batman arrived too late.

“Danyal is gone and Jason is dead.” His voice was rough with disuse, after having screamed in sorrow until his throat burned. “What could I even offer Damian if I could bring him here?”

Disappointment? Failure? Death?

Alfred didn’t answer him, but he didn’t expect him to. Whilst looking at Jason’s battered Robin suit inside the glass case, they knew there was no answer.

He allowed himself another short moment of sorrow, and then pulled himself together. He had work to do.

“If Ra’s finds out Danyal was here, he could look for him, he could find him.” He could have him killed again. “Outside the two of us, no one is to know that we even met him, that we knew he existed .”

“I shall dispose of his belongings, then.”

Bruce could hear the well-hidden pain in Alfred’s voice, but this had to be done, it was now the only thing he could do for Danyal.

Had his small son stayed, it would have been unavoidable for the League of Assassins to find out, but Bruce had been ready for that, ready to fight the Demon’s Head for his children, to make sure they were safe.

Now, though, he knew he couldn’t promise that. The safety of a warm home was not something he could provide, as a father.

All he could do was hope, against his paranoia and his instincts, that Danyal would survive out there, that he could live.

And all he had left, all he could do, was to keep on his crusade against crime, hoping a better world would treat his son kindly where he had failed.

- - -

and then Danyal meets an eccentric but loving ghost-obssessed family that adopts him and love him very much and don't dissect him because that tropes fucking bores me too fr

and if he ever meets Damian again and sees for himself he has changed for the better and regrets his actions, he still doesn't forgive him and doesn't reconnect with him, because he doesn't owe him neither his forgiveness nor his love just because they're blood 😊

i have Thoughts about why Danyal was deemed the weak one (it's ableism) by Ra's, and how it connects him and separates him from Bruce as well

please leave a comment with your thoughts! unless you're a scammer, I won't fucking buy a comission if you spam me!

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 4

Sorry this took so long. In the hospital still. Out of the hospital now!

For @unadulteratedsoulsweets

——

It had been early in the morning when she’d stepped foot in the manor. It was closer to noon, now, that found the reincarnation attentively sitting in one of the (if she remembered correctly from the blue prints) three massive kitchens located in Wayne manor.

She sat atop one of the island stools Damian had ushered her into, spaced a comfortable distance from the man that was her biological father in this life. Her mask dangled at her hip, a comfort she indulged in after unpacking her things. In truth, she’s had cookies before, but it had been so long since she’s tasted it that she might as well have never tried it before. Damian and Alfred Pennyworth worked with maximum efficiency, measuring out flour and sugar and chocolate like there were no tasks more important than this.

Alfred Pennyworth also avoided a specific cabinet that smelled slightly of metal polish and gun powder. It was kept away from the perishables.

Perhaps the manor was smaller and much more homely than the palace, but the reincarnate could see the sense in and approved of the various well-hidden caches of weapons around. Meant for non-lethal take downs, of course, but anything can be lethal if you tried hard enough. Or, considering the vigilante filled manor she had agreed to vacation in, anything could be lethal if one did not try hard enough to keep it non lethal.

The scrape of a spoon drew her attention back to Damian, waving away the off topic musings her mind had wandered into now that a large portion of her brain power was freed from the duty of fear.

She tracked how Damian existed within this space he had so clearly made for himself. He was… happier. Kinder. More. More at ease, more settled into his skin instead of where he stretched it to fit the cast of the Demon’s Heir. Simply, more. He was more Damian than he had been in the league.

When Damian was locked within the walls of the palace, his shoulders were always held straight. There’d been a- not quite darkness- cruelty in his eyes and gait that their grandfather had eagerly nurtured. His chin had remained lifted, his actions closed and callous. She’d feared, for while, that Damian would follow their grandfather’s footsteps. Until the day she saw him sneak a bird into his room to heal, her heart had trembled and grieved to see someone she loved imitate the worst parts of her abuser. It didn’t change the fact that she loved him, but it changed how she taught him.

But experience is a better teacher than she will ever be, and Damian had little chance to experience true kindness in the pits of the league.

Here, Damian is light. Perhaps less aware than he normally would have been, on the look out for fatal attacks as she had trained him to be within the league, but here he is free and safe and relaxed. It feels like she’s sitting in a haze, the chirps of birds and the clouded noon sun casting everything into an unreal light.

“Ukhti, assistance is requested.” Her brother holds out a bowl of dough. Her heart hurt with how happy it was. She squished the dough between her fingers like a child rediscovering her childhood. In some ways, she was.

——

As she watched Damian, in turn the others observed her. Bruce sat beside her, cataloguing every minuscule expression of his child, the first and the eldest, in an attempt to make up for lost time. And truly, it was minuscule. For all Bruce trained in micro-expressions and movements, his eldest- god, he had another daughter, the eldest- daughter remained a mystery from which he gleaned little of. Her face never lifted from that trained neutrality, having resettled back into it after first bite of b’stilla. He cradled the mug of coffee in his hands, the tang of grief and guilt roiling in his stomach as his daughter hesitantly but skillfully rolled a ball of dough.

“Pennyworth has divulged his secrets to me.” Damian plucked the ball from his sister’s hand, who allowed it with traces of… bemusement, perhaps? His eldest daughter flicked her eyes up in question, perhaps mildly amused. Even if she had more than two decades worth of training, Bruce was frustrated that he could not read her. She was his daughter.

Already he fails her. For too long, he had failed her.

“He chills the dough for a chewier cookie. I, and some of the others with adequate taste, prefer this texture. But which would you find adequate?”

His daughter flickered through that sign language again, the one he had no knowledge of. Considering he knew multiple from each continent, that was saying a lot. He was catching a few repeated signs, but nothing concrete.

Alfred waited patiently as they had their conversation, paying sharp attention to their motions. Bruce… felt like he was sitting next to Cassandra. He supposed they were the same, except his eldest daughter hadn’t gotten free.

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Damian grumbled, resting his hands on the counter, making sure to keep it away from his meticulously clean clothes. “We’ll cook them immediately.”

Bruce, in a fit of inspired parenting, offered a compromise.

“We could do two batches. One for right now and save a batch for later.”

Unspoken were the words ‘so she can try the cookies now.’ Despite the silent nature of his intent, Bruce thought that Alfred and Damian understood anyways.

“A fine suggestion, Master Bruce.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

——

She sensed them before she saw them. Her father had slipped out after his suggestion, no doubt intercepting his flock of traumatized orphans before they could pile in.

Perhaps she had inherited something from Bruce Wayne after, considering how many of them she’d taken under her wing. She rolled the ball of dough between oiled fingers in a haze. Faint memories, impressions of a life long faded, guided her hands as she smooshed the cookies to her preference.

“Penny for your thoughts, Miss Al-Ghul?”Alfred Pennyworth asked her.

‘A Pennyworth for my thoughts?’ She swapped sign language, eyes slyly watching for Damian’s reaction.

Damian, right on cue, clicked his tongue, looking defeated. Alfred, on the other hand, smiled wider.

“A Pennyworth for your thoughts indeed.”

Her humor faded into something softer. Longing. Melancholy.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve made dessert for myself.’

She glanced at Damian, who was trying his best to pretend like he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation lest he caught another stray pun. ‘Or used it to inoculate poisons.’

“I see.” The butler patted his hands dry onto a towel, a sharp eye on Damian’s efforts at covering the dough meant for freezing. “I assure you that these cookies will remain poison free, have no worries about that. Now, would you like some tea?”

She shook her head. ‘I’ll make it myself later. Thank you.’

“Very well, Miss-”

“Hi, Alfred. Making cookies?”

Her hands continued to work on her tray, placing cookie dough on the tray with military precision. Damian remained relaxed, though watchful of her reaction.

“That’s correct, Master Tim.”

Tim shuffled over to her, and she turned. Ah, her partial benefactor.

“Little photographer.” She smiled, slightly. Her eyes, however, were warm. Alfred stilled for a brief second at her voice.

“Hi. It’s been a while.” Tim plopped down on the seat next to her. His whole body screamed of nostalgia. It’s odd to see the little scrawny Bristol boy grow into a full fledged vigilante. It seemed like yesterday she was keeping him from slipping on Gotham’s manifestations of its rot and plummeting down on its stone heart.

She hummed. ‘Not too long.’

“What is that supposed to mean? When had you met Drake, recently?”

She glanced at the little- not so little- photographer.

“She helped me bring B back.” Tim lied. She didn’t like how easily he lied to Damian… but on account of her fondness for him, she let it slide.

“Did you, Miss Al-Ghul?” Alfred wiped his hands on the hand towel he carried. “Then I suppose we owe you our sincere thanks.”

She blinked slowly.

‘I didn’t do much. I kept him alive just the once.’

“That is a harder task than one might think, Miss Al-Ghul. Master Tim has, arguably, the worst self preservation instincts out of the life risking vigilantes I have known.” And he has known many, Alfred seemed to imply.

She tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“Hey! What is this? Gang up on Tim day?”

“I would participate in that even if it wasn’t,” Damian stated, packing the frozen cookies away in the corner. “Come and help, Drake. My ukht is about to have her first cookies and we will bake it to perfection. Bring the tray.”

Tim scoffed but slid the tray away from her, Alfred seamlessly dropping a napkin for her to wipe off the dough from her fingertips.

“Thanks, by the way. For saving Z and Owens.”

‘They were my assassins. Even if you did manage to sway them to your cause.’ She tapped the marble island, before opening her mouth. “Thank you. For destroying his pit options. It helped me kill Ra’s.”

In her peripherals, Damian settled back, disgruntled but willing to rest his curiosity as gratitude towards Tim’s part in her freedom overrode his need for answers.

Tim stilled. “…What are friends for, right?”

‘Of course, little photographer.’ She relaxed as her, arguably first, friend and now brother popped the tray into the oven.

“Anyways, they sent me in here to see if you’re ready to meet the rest of them.”

“And they said that?” Damian scoffed, coming around the island to stand beside her as she slipped off the stool.

“Nah, they actually wanted me to subtly vibe check her, but it’s not like she wouldn’t catch me doing it.”

“Ukhti’s ‘vibes’ are perfectly fine,” Damian said crabbily, crossing his arms defensively. She tapped the back of Damian’s neck and he relaxed.

‘Thank you for the… assessment of my character and general disposition.’ She signed dryly.

“Ugh, I should’ve made the connection. Your syntax is exactly like Damian’s.” Tim joked, dodging the punch Damian aimed at his nonexistent spleen.

The reincarnation huffed. ‘I spoke perhaps three words to you.’

“And how many people use disposition on a regular basis?”

“I do, Drake!”

“I know, Damian. That was the point, you little walking thesaurus.”

——

They left Alfred in the kitchen, the man all but shooing them away so he could get working on lunch, and made their way to a sitting room. The floor was covered in a plush blue carpet, a fact that made itself vividly present to the reincarnation when she placed her foot on it, the fabric brushing the back of her heels. She was too trained to allow the slip to visible, but for a microsecond, the memories of kneeling and choking clawed their way past her defenses. She made note of the trigger and moved on, compartmentalizing that fact for later.

“It’s you,” Nightwing breathed out, tensing. The others behind him freeze, even more alert than their regular state. Bruce whipped his head towards him, sharp and searching.

“Nightwing.” She greeted. She felt a kinship with this vigilante turned brother. She watched him soar and fall alongside the little photographer. She watched him grow new wings and watched them get tainted with blood and fear and grim hope. She lived vicariously through him, he who flew when she was chained. In some ways, she had ended up watching his back for a long time, both in yearning for the ease he was allowed at her father’s side and to protect the vulnerable back that knew not of its openness. Bruce inhaled deeply at her voice.

Dick stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. She does not disembowel him for it. Instead, she allowed the giant octopus hug her new oldest little brother gave her. There was no aggression in his countenance. Only relief and gratitude.

“You know Dick?” The little, ah, no, she doesn’t want to sound like Ra’s, Tim asked. Dick tensed, clearly unwilling to speak about it. She stepped in.

“I met him once. Eliminated a spider for him on a rooftop. I did not think he would remember.”

“Is that why you were so adamant on knowing who ukhti was?” Damian demanded, scowling. She immediately freed an arm and wrapped it around his shoulders. Damian ducked away with a rather petulant scowl. "Not because of my safety but because she crushed an arachnid for you?"

Dick nodded at him before looking up at her. “I really hated that spider. It was super scary. Thank you for getting rid of it.”

In lieu of an answer, she gently hugged him back.

“I get the feeling.” She said solemnly, voice coming out soft and borne of an implicit understanding. ‘Talk later,’ she signed to him.

“I was not aware you were afraid of spiders, ukht,” Damian muttered. “Though, Richard, I would believe.”

“Hey!”

Dick detached himself and pasted on a mostly genuine smile. “Oh! You should meet the others!”

He turned to the rest of Bruce Wayne’s wards and children to cheerfully point them out.

“This is Duke! He’s Alfred’s favorite grandkid, because he hasn’t burnt down the kitchen yet and reports when he’s injured.”

“Hey. Nice to meet you.” Duke Thomas raised a hand, smiling. “The bar was literally on the floor with you people. ‘Sides, Jason did just fine.”

The reincarnate nodded. Yes, she knew of him, though her memories were hazy. It had been over two decades, after all.

Dick steamrolled onwards. “This is Stephanie-”

“But you can call me Steph!” Stephanie Brown interjected, bouncing in her seat. Despite her bubbly demeanor, her gaze was sharp. Seeing. She liked that sharpness. It was tempered by the same rough and tumble kindness she’d seen in Grave- ah, Jason.

Spoiler, her memories reminded her. It was a soothing distraction from the anxious memories of the league. She found herself collecting little hints and information about this family. Her family, even if it were tentatively so. She caught Bruce staring at them intently, visibly anxious about this meeting.

‘A pleasure to meet you.’

“So… what do we call you?” Steph tilted her head. Hm. A tell Ra’s would have beaten out of her, had Stephanie had the misfortune of being in his presence for more than a day.

“Al Ghul will be adequate.” Damian cut in. The glance he threw her promised a discussion upon the topic of her name. Later, it promised.

“Wow. That’s kind of impersonal though.”

“Steph!”

“What?! I’m not wrong.”

“Anyways!” Dick loudly said over the two bickering kids. “That’s actually it for now.”

“The rest aren’t here as of this moment, but they’ll be around for dinner.”

A white lie. She studied Bruce for a moment before acquiescing. He meant no harm. Despite his capability to inflict harm, his willingness to do so, she could not read a single instance of ill will in him. Not, at least, towards her. She allowed the lie to slide.

‘I wish to see the grounds.’ She put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. He knew what it meant for her to retreat to the wilderness. Nature, where most things were free and where one does not often find Ra’s after he’d had a taste for luxury.

“We will go to the gardens. Ukhti wishes to explore.” Despite the rather curt way he pronounced it, Damian had stepped closer to her side in a gesture of concern. The pit inside of her stomach eased.

“Sounds good! Let’s go!” Steph bounced out of her seat.

“We could tell you stories,” Tim offered from behind her.

“Yeah, like that one time Dick face planted onto one of Poison Ivy’s flower beds because he was distracted by an ice cream truck.” Duke grinned, eyes crinkling.

“Hey! That ice cream truck was full of Scarecrow thugs!”

“And they weren’t worth an Ivy-lecture. I’m surprised she didn’t skin you and make a pot out of your bones, Dick.” Tim yawned.

“Ooo, we should tell her about the time I hit you in the face with a brick!”

“Literally what more is there to that story, Steph?” Tim grumbled.

“I would like to hear this tale,” Damian said, beginning to tug his ukht towards the garden. The rest of the group followed.

“Actually, why don’t we tell her about the time you tried getting Batcow to the barn and he just sat down? Didn’t you bargain with her for an hour, Damian?”

“Tt!”

Duke leaned back and took in the chaos he unfolded with a twinkling grin and Bruce’s sigh bolstering him. And if their newest and oldest addition to the family relaxed in his chaos, well, that was between him and her.

——

Cassandra found her in the gardens, the both of them weaving in between the foliage like light footed cats. Her contingent of Bats were behind them, watching the two former assassins approach each other.

Cassandra had frozen, mirroring the reincarnator’s stillness.

“Ukhti.” The word was torn out of Cass’ throat, filled with tears and relief.

“Cassandra,” she called, fond and kind and loving. Damian’s eyes darted between his sisters. They knew each other. How? She called his ukht, ukhti. A title he had assumed only he could use.

Cassandra scrambled and launched herself at her, silent sobs shaking her frame.

“Hello, Cass,” she caught the flying vigilante, crushing her first little sister into a tight hug. “Freedom suits you, habibti.”

Cass trembles in her arms, hands clutching at the fabric on her shoulder blades like Damian’s. Her eyes softened, and she rested her chin on Cass’s head.

“You know Cassandra too, ukhti?”

She nodded.

“Ukhti named me.” Cass said, voice wobbly. ‘Cass. Cassandra.’ Cass did her name sign. The one she had taught the slip of a girl back when Cass was stuck in a senseless prison and she was only free in terms of movement.

‘First word too.’ She smiled, proud of Cass and how far she’s come. Cassandra reads the pride in her language, the safety and kindness that she’d never forgotten even after traversing the world for years before arriving home, and she burrowed deeper into the hug.

“Oh. I see.”

“Two ukhts.” She smiled at Damian.

Cass shook her head, but before Damian could settle into his hurt at her supposed rejection, Cass explained her confusion. “Ukhti is your name? I’m Cass.”

“Ukhti means older sister.” Damian informed her.

Cass blinked and looked back at the reincarnation. Her shoulders relaxed and drew back, eyes softening and body loosened from its confusion. She smiled, bright as the sun, and deftly clambered around to perch on her older sister’s back.

“Two.” She declared. And truly, the reincarnation was weak to her younger siblings because that was that. Cass declared it so, and it shall be so. Damian grumbled but seemed like they agreed.

“How did you two meet?” Bruce piped up, intent and surprisingly considerate.

“Saved me,” Cass sighed, resting her chin on her ukht’s head. ‘From father and the league. Taught me to speak, a little. My name. Cass. Taught me..’ Cass paused. “Taught me I am not a weapon.”

The former assassin carrying Cass on a piggy back ride hummed in agreement.

“Oh.” The rest of the family glanced at each other. Dick had his shiny teary eyes on, the ones he got when Jason initiated a hang out.

“Not a weapon,” Cass repeated, pressing firmly on her ukht’s head.

A less sure hum. Cass scowled.

“No. Bad,” Cass scolded. “Not a weapon.”

An acquiescing hum, full of fondness and exasperation.

Cassandra Cain will take that answer. For now.

“You named Cass?” Duke asked. Bruce looked at them with gentle eyes.

“After a heroine I knew.” She replied, shifting. Cass hugged her tighter, intently listening. “She was strong. Lethal if need be. But�� kind. She had an inherently kind heart. Full of love. Like Cass.”

“Oh, that’s really.. that’s really sweet.”

Cass hugged her ukht closer, touched. She had never known why she had been given the name, but finding out that it was after a heroine her sister looked up to made the day that much brighter. Hopeful. Honored.

“You have not told me this story,” Damian said.

‘I will. One day.’

——

Jason found her at the lunch table. Along with the rest of the brood. Except for, jarringly, an alien named Jarro.

“He’s our alien brother!” Duke said. He smiled, and it was a smile of unassuming harmlessness. A well crafted mask that she knew better than to be fooled by.

She offered three long blinks that had Cassandra, stuck like a limpet on the reincarnator’s back, muffling a laugh.

“Telling truth,” Cass whispered, sentences punctuated by giggles.

She hummed, shifting to more securely carry Cass on her back. Damian sighed and dutifully carried Cassandra’s pack. She smiled at her little brother, who straightened. Adorable. All of her siblings were adorable. She would kill for them. Ah, right. They frown upon murder here. So had she, once. Before Ra’s broke that part of her heart and forced her hands to commit evils that grew gnarled vines through her very soul.

“Oh.” She blinked.

“Hm?”

“Killing is… a choice.” The conversations around them fell silent. Cass’ arms tightened around her shoulders.

“We don’t have to do it, anymore,” Damian agreed. Yes, he understood what it was like, to be raised to kill and suddenly having the option not to.

“Did you not want to kill, before?” Bruce asked, suddenly a bit closer. Her mind was slipping, she realized. It felt… safe, to slip.

‘If I did not,’ she admitted, like throwing stones off of a lock-laden bridge. ‘Damian would bear the consequences.’

She sounded… young. Afraid. Two things she had always been and were never allowed to be.

Bruce Wayne looked at her like his heart was breaking, like he wished he could shoulder her pain on top of the weight of the world he willingly carried since his parents died. This, she is reminded, was why she swore Damian to secrecy regarding her existence. She wondered if he had ever taken the burden of more grief than he could bear.

‘And I could not say no, regardless,” she told them, absent and tired.

She wondered if she would be the one to break him, should she allow him a glimpse of the scars on her back.

“I could have taken it.” Damian grabbed her arm, clutching at her sleeve once more.

“No,” she whispered, haunted. ‘Not while I drew breath, habibi.’

“You don’t have to kill here. We’re all very good with no murder.” Tim reminded her firmly.

“Unless it’s the Joker.” Steph chimed in, bubbly smile gentled into something kinder.

“Unless it’s him.” Duke agreed. His eyes were more serious now.

“No,” Bruce replied, tired. Heavier, in a way that made sour tang of guilt scratch the back of her tongue. She hadn’t meant to give him the weight of knowledge, but she had inadvertently done so with the things she had and hadn’t said. He wasn’t the world’s- she glanced at Tim, who quirked a smile at her- second best detective for no reason.

“Yes, but you’re not ready for that conversation.” Dick snapped, lightheartedly.

Ah. That’s what was off.

They’re kind. They choose to be and they inherently are kind.

It showed. And she wasn’t used to that.

“Lunch.” Cassandra reminded them. She was a solid, grounding presence at the reincarnator’s back.

“Oh, Jason said he’s on the way.” Duke commented, nodding when she quickly did a subtle thank you sign.

“Why does he text you and not me?” Dick whined.

“Wow, man. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because of the emoji wall you send?”

“They’re nice! How else are you supposed to know what I’m feeling, right, Cass?”

Cass nodded and gave a thumbs up from her place on ukhti’s back.

“See?!”

“I love you Cass, but you also use a wall of understandable emojis. Dick just spams them.” Steph retorted.

The reincarnator turned to Damian, a silent question in her eyes. He sighed. “Yes, the imbeciles argue all of the time.”

She nodded and the group made their way to the green house for lunch, bickering all the while.

When they get there, Jason Todd, along with Alfred Pennyworth were already at the table.

“Grave.” She greeted as Cass slipped off her back.

“Ain’t no fucking way, Trainer?” Jason leapt to his feet. It was odd, seeing him in casual clothes. Ra’s had kept him in armor most of the time.

“You know each other?”

“At this point, who doesn’t ukht know would be an easier question.” Damian grumbled. She tapped him on the head twice, a light reprimand.

‘Grave was part of your guard,’ she told him. ‘He protected you well.’

“You’re the demon brat’s older sister? That makes so much fucking sense.”

She felt her eyes go cold, lifting to stare at Grave’s rapidly paling face. He visibly backtracks.

“Uh- I mean, you’re Damian’s older sister?”

She regarded him for a beat longer before blinking, ice melting away at the change. The nickname chafed at her neck, too close from a fate she gave everything to save Damian from.

Her head dipped into a small nod.

“Wild.” Jason sat back down. “So, uh, how are you handling the pit?”

‘I am not.’ She informed him, settling down in her seat. Damian claimed the spot next to her and Cass quickly took the other, much to Bruce’s chagrin. Tim plopped down to the seat next to Cass, eyes zeroing onto the chamomile tea Alfred had set out for him.

Duke smiled at Bruce before sitting next to Jason, Steph skipping over and sitting next Dick and Jason at the same time.

“Ukhti managed to get rid of the side effects,” Damian informed the table at large.

Her little bat had the worst ability to make sure attention focused on her, the reincarnation groused. She sighed.

“How?” Clearly, Grave had forgotten how much she beat him into the sparring mat because he leaned forward to glare at her. Well, she hadn’t wanted him too afraid of her.

‘Magic.’

His face fell at the assumed non answer, but Damian’s nod had the entire table once more expectant.

She sighed and began weaving her magic.

——

She stalked through the shadows of the manor, at ease. Bruce and the others had left on patrol, hours ago. She was clad in her sleeping clothes, one of her less favored clothes. Her hands would get dirty again tonight but she was long past the point of lingering on those regrets.

“Miss al-Ghul,” Alfred turned as she stepped towards him, having made sure she made adequate noise as a forewarning. “Having a good night?”

She tilted her head, eyes inquisitively peering at the spotless china display behind the butler.

“Ah, you must be curious about the fine ceramics we have currently displayed,” Alfred smiled. “Would you be so kind as to indulge an old butler on this topic?”

She had an idea about the kind of gift Alfred Pennyworth would appreciate.

——

“Uh, whatcha got there?”

She blinked, pulling bloodied hands away from her clothes where she had been inspecting them. The assassin that caused the damage on her clothes laid beneath her feet, still and lifeless. She blinked again.

Nightwing, Dick, stood in front of her, freshly showered from his patrol.

Some form of long forgotten instinct rose from the dry rotted fabric of her faded memories had her responding, ‘A smoothie.’

“…That’s… not a smoothie,” Dick said as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m pretty sure that’s an assassin?”

She shrugged. “He was after Damian. To force him into being the Demon’s head.” She paused. ‘I am tying up loose ends.’

Dick considered her. And the he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, okay. I’ll help you get rid of the evidence.”

She waved him off, clicking her fingers and looking over the room with critical eyes as the body and traces of the fight disappeared.

“Woah, handy.”

‘Very,’ she agreed. ‘Did you need something?’

He made a face. “That’s weird. It’s usually me asking that,” he muttered. “Uh, yeah. I just… wanted to thank you again. And uh, let you know that the others don’t know so if you could not tell them, that would be great?”

With a huff, she reached over and up to gently ruffle his hair. ‘Of course. Damian did not know either.’

“Right,” he breathed. “You get it.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Been avoiding thinking about it?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

She looked at him, silent. Offering a space to listen, and a quiet promise to offer no judgement.

“I don’t- it- I could have stopped her,” he told her, guilt and shame and the lingering whispering voice Catalina burrowing into his ears and heart.

And when he started, it seemed to him like he couldn’t stop. Dick told her of the things he felt as she got on top of him, of how numb and far away things were. How, if it rained, he couldn’t be in the quiet because it made him relive it.

“But… but you stopped her so I shouldn’t even be like this!”

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ She told him, the first thing she’s said since he’s started talking. ‘The only one at fault was her. You trusted her to stop. She did not. Her crimes were not yours to bear.’

She paused, taking in the refusal she could read on his face. “If someone beats another person, would you blame the person who was beaten?”

“No!”

‘Then you are kind. But you are so kind to others, why not yourself?’

Dick fell silent.

“I killed Ra’s,” she reminded him. “He allowed many others to partake in my body without my agreement.”

She leaned towards him, the admittance of something she had not even told Damian ringing painfully in her heart but made all the easier to say by the fact that one of her little brothers (the free, first Robin, the son who stood by Bruce’s side when she could not) needed her. “He himself partook in me. And yet,” she added, when Dick looked up. ‘It is difficult to forget. I am still afraid when I step onto the carpet on the sitting room.’

“The carpet? The rug? The fluffy one?” He asked, confused.

“It is like… your rain and silence,” she crossed her arms. ‘That and the sound of rustling silk reminds me of his chambers.’

“Oh.”

‘I killed him and it will not go away. Would you blame me for that?’

“No, that’s how healing is- oh.”

“Be kind, to yourself.”

His chin trembled. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Ukhti.”

“Ukhti,” he parroted, aiming a watery and small smile her way.

She held out her arms and, with Dick’s tacit understanding, tucked him beneath her wings like she did with Damian. “Thank you for offering to get rid of the body, habibi. But I would not want you to get in trouble.”

“Eh, I’ve helped Jason deal with worse.”

‘Comforting.”

“I know, right?”

——

“Why the hell do you keep calling me Grave?” Jason asked her, grumbling as he tried to wire his new helmet after the last one got damaged.

She leaned back, basking in the sun on the new rugs. After their conversation, Dick had set fire to every fluffy rug in the house-

“What the hell, dude?!” Duke gaped as he watched Dick cheerfully toss an expensive rug into the impressive bonfire they had going on.

“Ukhti doesn’t like fluffy rugs,” Dick said with a straight face. Damian dragged another roll to the bonfire with a scowl. “Alfred Approved project, if you want to join~!”

Duke stared at him… and picked up a roll to toss into the fire.

- and bought new ones using Bruce’s credit cards.

“You got some of your memories back, in the league.” She hummed. “You liked reading. Poems.”

“What does that even have to do with Grave?”

“I remembered one. A line. Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep…”

Jason twisted around. “Are you kidding me?”

She continued. “Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.”

“But I did die.”

She shrugged. ‘People still remembered you. Gotham and Bruce cried at your loss. I saw it.’

She straightened and smiled a small smile at him. ‘Besides. You got better.’

Jason snorted. “You too, I guess.”

She hummed an agreement, eyes slipping closed in the warm light of the sun, relief after a long second life of cowering in the shadows of a man more like a demon than he was a grandfather.

[rabbitriceball]

Keeping a status quo comes at a steep price...

Fanart based on the Shrimpo angst fic "I'm meant to hate".

Check it out if you like but do note the fanfic has some serious topics at hand.

[motleyfam]

Mocktail

It’s just an act.

The staggering around, the boisterous laughter, the flirtatious comments at passing servers… none of it is real. Bruce is just working the crowd, leaning into that stupid billionaire playboy persona to try and shmooze some information out of one of the other rich bastards here. It’s for a case that he and Robin have been working on—he’d even briefed Jason on the plan prior to their arrival. He’s not actually drunk.

Jason knows that.

Which is why Jason is so pissed at himself that he can’t keep his muscles from tensing up at the familiar boozy scent on his guardian’s breath when he leans in to whisper something in Jason’s ear, can’t stop his hands from instinctively balling into fists at his sides, can’t keep his eyes from darting around, searching desperately for an escape.

Bruce isn’t drunk. Jason knows that.

He knows that.

...So why can’t his body get the goddamn memo?

Bruce must have said something funny because the semicircle of businessmen surrounding him bursts into laughter. One man slaps Bruce jovially on the back, causing Bruce to stumble forwards, sloshing half his drink down the front of his suit and eliciting even more laughter from the group.

It’s the last straw.

Heart hammering, Jason ducks out of the crowd, head down, feet aiming for anywhere that isn’t here. It’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid because he’s fine, nothing is wrong, Bruce isn’t even drunk. And even if he were, so what? People get drunk all the fucking time and the vast majority of them manage to keep their fists to themselves, their family’s bank accounts from zeroing out, their tongues from cutting lashes into everyone they love.

He ends up sitting at one of the empty tables near the back of the ballroom, stabbing angrily at a piece of raspberry white chocolate cake with his dessert fork, because he’s Robin for god’s sake, he interacts with drunk people practically every night. Why the fuck is he freaking out now?

“So how’s baby’s first gala?”

Jason glances up, then immediately scowls. “What do you want, Dickhead.”

Dick lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That bad, huh?”

Jason gives him a withering look. “Fuck off.”

“Why?” Dick snorts. “So you can mutilate more raspberries?”

“I’ll mutilate your face…” Jason grumbles, raking his fork through the frosting like some kind of crappy zen garden.

Dick’s grin falters. “Jay,” he says seriously. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“No,” Jason snaps. “Go away.”

“Because if someone’s being inappropriate—”

“Nothing fucking happened, okay?!”

“Okay, okay!” He holds his hands up placatingly. “Don’t have to bite my head off.”

“I’m fine,” Jason growls, stabbing at the cake again.

“I can see that,” Dick deadpans.

Jason glares back.

Dick lets out a sigh. “Look, you don’t have to talk to me—”

“No shit.”

“—but there’s a 24-hour froyo place two blocks away.”

Jason blinks. “What.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

There’s a beat.

“...Fine," Jason relents. "But you’re buying.”

[indigodiskmybeloved]

Sleep Deprivation

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

[jayvikrecs]

rec: holding back the years

author: spqr on ao3 Summary: Viktor tells Jayce, over breakfast, “Real life is not like the radio dramas, you know. Shining men from Piltover do not really go around adopting Zaunish orphans and rescuing Zaunish women from lives of whoring themselves for food. You cannot — save me. Not really.” “Well,” Jayce says, shoving the syrup at him, “I can damn well try.” ## OR: the hexcore zaps viktor back to fifteen years old, and jayce has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad time

age regression! ngl i really feel that a ship has made it when the fandom starts producing all the good old fashioned trope fics. and what a lovely example this is!! young viktor is so vibrant and jayce is so caring and earnest and tries his best. angsty, cute, emotional -- in certain scenes there's so much love between jayce and viktor, waahh -- plus i really enjoy the prose and narrative voice in this. reading it was a blast.

Warnings: implied/referenced child abuse

[whumpiary]

content warnings: abuse cycles, grooming, referenced noncon, referenced drugging, general dubcon vibes

-

Cass sits in the front seat with his head against the car window, hands tucked into the navy woolen sweater Christopher dressed him in this morning, watching droplets run long and silver along the glass. He has his feet tucked up, knees held to chest and, for once, Christopher doesn't say anything about keeping his shoes off the leather seats.

It’s grey outside. And cold. The heater blows soft and gentle on his face and the condensation keeps building on the glass. They’ve passed the rain now, though. Driven above it, maybe. They’d been on a steady, uphill climb for some time now, and they’d passed through fog a while back.

He doesn’t know where they’re going. He doesn’t know how far they’re driving or when they're heading back. He can’t remember if he saw anyone pack bags into the car. But that doesn’t mean anything either. It wouldn’t be the first time he thought they were going on a day trip and then they were gone for a week, two, three.

He can’t bring himself to fucking care today. He’s too angry and too tired and his body is aching too much.

Nat King Cole plays low through the speakers, the only other sound between them besides the car’s low hum. Christopher tried making conversation when they first started driving, attempting to stoke his boy into small talk and light hearted jokes. But silence is about the last line of protest Cass has to hold at the moment. So he holds it. And ten minutes into the drive, the music went on.

He’s glad, at least, for quiet. He’s glad the car is warm. The clothes he’s been dressed in are casual and comfortable for once. And if he sits very still and the road stays smooth, his body doesn’t even hurt that much. He’ll take the small wins. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Christopher tried to put him in a shirt and tie today. Thrown a fit, probably. 

Cass is focussed on watching a neck and neck race between two particularly tenacious rivulets when Christopher pulls into a gravel car park, turning the engine off. “Here we are.”

To call it a car park is generous. It’s more of a worn-down patch off the side of the road, loosely bordered with the sawn-off trunks of some old gums. Cass' eyes slide to Christopher, making no move to unbuckle, “Where? The side of the road?”

Christopher sighs, clearly tired of the attitude, but not annoyed enough to rise to it. “We’re going for a walk. Out you get.”

Cass looks out the window as Christopher steps out of the car. He can see a worn down path through the trees, low ferns and bush scrub giving away to yellowed dirt. Christopher can’t actually be fucking serious. A bush hike? When walking ten steps makes him ache?

By the time Christopher opens his door for him, he’s tucked himself even more tightly into the passenger seat.

“Out you get, darling.”

Cass stares at his hands, picking at the dead skin around his finger nails, “Get fucked.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not going for a walk with you.”

“I have something I want to show you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ve driven all this way-”

“You’ve driven all this way. I’ve just sat where you put me.”

There's another tired sigh, “Get out of the car, Cassius.”

“No.”

The sounds of the bush fill up the quiet that follows. Slender leaves brushing against each other on thin branches. The call and squawk of a flock of galahs. Fairy wrens darting in the scrub. The constant pitch of a bellbird somewhere in the distance.

Christopher sighs a final time. “Fine.”

The car door closes sharply, cutting the sound of the world off with it. The boot opens. Then it closes. And then, in the reflection of the rear view mirror, Cass watches as Christopher walks away from the car, down the worn-down path, a picnic basket in his hand and a bag slung over his shoulder. Cass keeps watching, waiting for him to stop and call over his shoulder. And then waiting for him to come back. But he just disappears into the bush without looking back.

Everything feels more silent without him there. Like the car has its own atmosphere. He can’t hear the trees or the wind or the birds. He can see the galahs, pink against the eucalyptus. But the whole world is muted. Excised by tinted glass. His ears start to ring with the quiet of it all. And he sighs just to hear his breath. He shifts in his seat just to hear the rustle of fabric. The movement shoots pain through him that makes him wince. And reminds him why he's been so pissed off in the first place.

One minute Christopher had been beside him at the party, laughter bubbling, hand on his waist like usual. The next he’d been left alone in a room with a dozen strangers, a bit of rope, and far too much fucking booze.

He still doesn’t know where Christopher had gone in the hours in between. Just that they’d left for the party right after dinner. That he'd been given a pill in the car on the way there. That someone, at some point, thought it would be funny to have a competition to make him scream the loudest.

By the time they were coming home, he had an ache right the way through him, blank spots in his memory, and the sun was rising over the trees.

And everything just felt horrible. And he felt dirty and used and awful.

Has all week since.

Cass tilts his head back and looks through the windscreen, up the road that winds up the hills and around a corner into more scrub. Were there houses up here? Maybe. It looked like a truck road, more than anything. There for carting cargo more than people.

Still, though. He could get out. Try to walk it. Find someone. Hitchhike. Run away.

He could be gone before Christopher even knows he's missing. He could be over the state line before nightfall. He could slip away. Never go back. Find someone else's bed to warm. Some other place to stay. Some other person to be. No Cassius Drake, no brother to think about, no record to work off. Just another stranger on the street.

He watches as a white ute approaches up the curving road, bigger and bigger the closer it gets. He could get out. He could flag them down. It gets bigger and bigger. Closer and closer. He could tell them he broke down. Needs a lift. They wouldn't ask any questions.

The car gets bigger, bigger, bigger on the horizon as it approaches. Bigger, bigger, bigger… and then it passes by and around the corner and he can't see it anymore. Cass looks back to the galahs. And then he closes his eyes. He's not going anywhere. Christopher knew that when he left.

The better part of half an hour passes before he sees Christopher reappear on the beaten down track. He watches him approach in the rearview mirror. Bigger, bigger, bigger.

Cass’ only movement is to shift his eyes to stare forward out the windshield, hands curled tight around his seatbelt as Christopher approaches. He braces for a fight. But the door opens and Christopher doesn't say a word. He reaches down and over, and Cass barely has time to process what he's doing before his seatbelt is being unclicked and he's being scooped up and out of the car, door shut with the swing of Christopher's foot behind them.

"Hey."

Christopher doesn't say anything, or even really acknowledge that Cass has spoken. He readjusts him slightly to have a better hold and keeps walking, back down the same path he'd disappeared down earlier. It takes Cass a minute or two to process properly what's happening. It's so far from what he expected Christopher to do he feels disoriented by it.

"I didn't ask to be carried."

"Tell me to put you down," Christopher replies calmly, still walking. “And I will.”

For a moment, Cass chews his cheek. Even if Christopher refused. It'd be as easy as naming him. It would always be as easy as naming him. But he doesn't. He tucks in close, head against Christopher's chest, hand curling in his shirt, and lets himself be carried.

They walk in silence for a little while, up a slope and down again, across a fence line that declares private property, down through denser bush. Cass eyes the swaying trees and the set line of Christopher’s jaw intermittently as they go. Occasionally a bird calls overhead. Occasionally the wind picks up. Aside from that, it’s as silent between them as the car ride had been.

He notices the break in the tree line first, sky a little more visible as the gums open out into a wider sprawl. He adjusts his grip around Christopher’s neck and looks down to see the scrub giving way to rock, tightly packed sand, and a small, still body of water.

Christopher walks them to where he’s set up the picnic under a tree on the banks and sets Cass down on it. The blanket is already splayed out, the basket unpacked: cheese, wine, a neatly wrapped lunch. There’s even a little thermos of something.

Cass is unmoved by it. Or he tries to be, arms wrapped around himself in silent, moody protest. Hell of a way to go for a picnic lunch. The view isn’t even that good.

Apart from the little dam thing maybe. The water's prettier than he wants to admit. Strikingly blue. So blue it almost doesn’t look real.

Christopher gives the elbow of his sweater a brief tug, before starting to take off his own cable knit cardigan, “Strip, darling.”

Cass looks at him with complete incredulity and scoffs a laugh, bitter and angry. A fuck in the bush is it? “Oh fuck off.”

Christopher sighs, folding his cardigan and laying it down on the picnic blanket, before moving to take off his watch, “I don’t want to fight, Cassius. Just strip.”

He kicks a stone and it skitters to a stop before it can make it to the water. “Fucking make me-”

“Cassius.” Christopher’s voice is stern enough to cut Cass off, head jerking up to look at him. He almost never yells. And it always strikes Cass through with as much fear as the sharp snap of leather.

But Christopher looks more tired than angry. And then he sighs again, hands palm up and half pleading. “I don’t want to fight. This is meant to be a nice thing. Just let it be a nice thing.”

Cass stares at him for a few beats. He considers refusing. He considers ruining the whole fucking day. He considers protesting, arguing, throwing insults. Making Christopher angry enough to slam his head against the rocks over and over until he stains that pretty little lake red.

But Christopher is tired. And if he’s honest, he is too. 

They haven’t fucked since Saturday. And they haven’t really spoken either. The silent treatment is as exhausting to give as it is to get, it turns out. If nothing else, it’s achingly lonely. He doesn’t know how Christopher stands it.

And right now, when Cass reaches out… all Christopher seems to want right now is just a truly nice day. A rest. A glass of wine. A reset. It’s hard not to give in to that.

Cass strips the jumper, dropping it in the sand at his feet, and then kicks off his shoes, his socks, the soft drawstring pants. The air is cold enough on its own but the wind properly chills him, his skin pricking with goosebumps. He wraps his arms back around himself, looking back to Christopher, half undressed himself and dusting sand and dirt from Cassius’ clothing before re-folding it on the picnic blanket.

Christopher nods to the water, “In you get.”

Cass stares at him. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“Mmhmm,” Christopher agrees. And then he smiles gently, almost playful, and nods again to the water. “In you get.”

Cass frowns, contemplating arguing for a moment or two before relenting, approaching the water’s edge like someone might an angry snake. The water is so still and so blue. Almost milky, even. It barely looks natural. He looks back over his shoulder to Christopher, who is watching him with a mild smile as he undoes his own belt. “Go on, darling.”

He takes a few more steps forward, brings his foot into to the water and-

He flinches back, looking over his shoulder with wide eyes, “...It’s warm.”

Christopher’s smile widens, and he nods. “Hot springs.”

Cass looks back to the water, fascinated. He brings his foot back to the surface, dragging his toe through the water, and then stepping in. One foot. And then the next. It’s warm as bath water.

“Is it real?”

Christopher exhales a laugh, “You’re standing in it, my love. What do you think?”

“No, I mean like… did they make it? Or is it-”

“Oh, I see,” Christopher says. “It’s natural, yes. As far as the story goes, anyway. A friend of mine owns the property. The family stumbled across it a decade or two ago. They thought about commercialising it for a while before deciding it was more special to keep it private. Their own little family sanctuary. You and I are two of about a dozen people in the whole world who knows it exists.”

Cass barely takes in the story. He’s sure it’s meant to sound impressive or interesting but frankly how the fuck is he meant to give a shit when he’s standing in something this beautiful? This unreal?

It's so, so blue. He wades into the water, over ankles, up his shins, to his knees, before looking back again to Christopher, who’s watching him with fondness. He gestures to the water, “Can I…?”

It earns him a smile, “Of course, darling.”

He dives under, a shallow skim under the surface. And when he opens his eyes the water is clear enough that he can see weak winter sunlight dappling the stones below. It’s so weird. It’s so weird and so cool and so nice. It’s like a fucking magic swimming pool, carved into the middle of the bush.

He's always loved swimming. Always, always, always. The weightlessness and the water around him. The movement and the tide. It washes him clean in a way nothing else does. Makes his body feel realer than anything other than sex. It's so easy to forget until he's in the water again.

He’d grown up by the beach. And the worst part of it was always the icy cold. And the worst part of a pool was the smell. And this place had neither. Just peace and water and eucalyptus and warmth. It’s like the rest of the whole world has stopped. Like this place erupted from the earth just for him. Just to hold him.

It soothes the ache in his body and the twist in his chest and when he emerges again from the water, for the first time all week -- all fucking week -- he feels like he can breathe.

He pushes wet curls back from his face to find Christopher seated on a towel laid out on the rocks, one foot trailing in the water, smiling soft as he watches him, “Nice?”

Cass relaxes onto his back to float and drags his fingers through the water —  warm, warm water — and laughs for the first time since the party, “This is fucking insane.”

Christopher laughs too, “Insane good?”

“This is a spa in the middle of the bush.”

“I suppose it is.”

Cass holds his gaze for a moment, feeling the thrum of satisfaction coming off of him. This is all he wanted, wasn't it? All he wanted was to see Cass enjoy this. He dares to give him a smile, “You gonna join me?”

“I might in a minute,” Christopher says. “I need a rest first.”

“Tired already, old man?”

“My arms are a little. I just carried you for about half a kilometer, didn’t I?”

 Cass flips onto his belly so he can paddle over a little closer, “Well maybe if you come in I’ll make it up to you.”

“Just maybe?”

Cass gives him a grin and splashes water up at him in a shining sheet before sinking below entirely. There’s a thrilling delight at hearing the muffled sound of Christopher’s shocked laughter through the water, right before the splashing sound of him coming in after.

-

They eat lunch on the rocks with their feet in the water, Cass wrapped in Christopher’s cardigan. The food is good because of course it is. And the wine is better because of course it is. But there is a soft glow of recognition when Cass realises that the food’s that has been packed is more or less a collection of his favourites. The crusts have even been neatly sliced off his sandwich. It’s weird to realise how well Christopher knows him.

He ends up back in the water not long after, and when Christopher settles again on the rocks, Cass lays himself back in the shallows with his head against Christopher’s legs like he’s relaxing back in a bath. He watches Christopher watch the lorikeets, his face tilted up to the pale winter sun.

“I didn’t think you liked swimming,” he comments mildly.

Christopher laughs, brows raised in mild surprise and brushes a knuckle down his cheek, “Why would you think that?”

“No pool at the estate,” Cass points out. “And whenever I go to the pool at your hotels, you tell me you’ll meet me at dinner.”

“I came with you at The Maribella.”

“To sit by the pool with a book and a drink.”

“I thought about swimming.”

“You thought about fucking me in the pool you mean.”

“I thought about swimming,” Christopher repeats. He reaches a hand up to tuck a damp curl behind Cass’ ear. “But sometimes I just want to watch you enjoy yourself. Is that so wrong?”

The phrasing almost sours things. It’s dangerously close to what he says right before a guest is over. Right before a party. But Christopher doesn’t mean it like that. He knows he doesn’t. So he tries a smile. He lets it go.

It’s like Christopher’s mind drifts to the same thing, though. Because his face gets soft and sad. He cups Cass’ cheek. He brushes his hair back, “Have you liked today, darling?”

Cass nods. It’s surprisingly easy to give him a soft smile. “Been pretty nice actually.”

Christopher keeps brushing his curls back. Gives him that sad smile in return, “I’m glad to hear that.”

Cass wants the conversation to end there. He wants that to be it. To draw Christopher back into the water for a kiss and a lazy float in the water and then go home. But of course it doesn’t.

“I know I asked a lot from you the other night, darling boy.”

Some tired, angry animal tries to wake up in Cass’ chest. He sedates it with a breath deep enough to make his ribs ache. 

“And I wanted you to know…” Christopher continues. He speaks carefully. Like he’s practised the phrasing. Perfected the sympathetic cadence. “We won’t be seeing those friends again.”

Cass doesn’t know if he believes it. And he doesn’t know if it even matters if he does or not. He stays very still, timing his breath to the strokes of Christopher’s fingers through his hair.

“And I’m glad today has been nice,” he continues softly. “I wanted to find a way to thank you. I know sometimes you struggle to find my gifts sincere.”

The tired, angry animal rolls over. Cass holds his breath for a second so it doesn’t rouse and ruin everything. “Is that what today is, then? A gift?”

Christopher laughs in a way that would probably sound self deprecating if Cass didn’t know him better. “It’s.. a gesture. To show you what you mean to me.” He smiles, winding a damp curl about his index finger, letting it lovingly loose back to its natural spiral. “I wanted to give you some of the gentleness you deserve.”

Cass doesn’t know what to say to that. He keeps his eyes on Christopher’s face, tracing the lines of it. The most prominent of his wrinkles are the ones around his eyes. Creasing crows feet that match a merry face. They frame his eyes just right. Strikingly blue. So blue they almost don't look real.

He reaches a hand up before he knows what he’s doing. He cups Christopher’s face. He swipes a damp thumb over his cheek. The shining trail it leaves almost makes it look like he’s crying. Especially when he’s looking at him like that. So soft. Full of a strange kind of longing that has no claws to it. No teeth.

Christopher turns his cheek to press his lips to the side of his boy’s thumb. He presses his cheek into Cass’ hand like a man truly looking to be absolved.

“I love you, darling boy. You know that. Don’t you?”

It’s not an apology.

But it’s close.

Cass cranes his neck up, offering a kiss. Asking for one.

Christopher’s hand cradles his jaw, firm and warm. His thumb brushes damp his hair back along his temple. His tongue slides into his mouth. It’s deep and passionate. But for once it’s not hungry. Cass breathes into it.

Maybe there was a kind of power in this. In being loved like this. In having a man like this love him.

In these moments… it feels worth it. All of it. The hurt, the pressure, the asking too much. He presses and presses and pushes and pushes but then, at the brink of things, he always knows to release. He knows to soothe and pull back and reset. He knows how much give there is before the break.

Cass doesn’t remember falling asleep on the rocks. But he must. Because he rouses as he’s being lifted from the picnic blanket and cradled against Christopher’s chest like some precious thing.

It makes him think of being a little kid. Of pretending to fall asleep in the backseat, hoping to be carried inside and tucked into bed. He can’t remember if anyone ever actually did that for him back then. He can’t remember if anyone ever held him this gently. It’s nice. It’s so, so nice.

"You said your arms were sore," Cass mumbles in quiet protest, head against Christopher's chest. He can feel the vibration of every footfall as they walk.

"I'll survive, my love."

When they get back to the car, Christopher sits him down gently in the passenger seat. He buckles him in. He kisses his hair. He even fetches a blanket from the back of the car and tucks it over his lap.

It’s The Decemberists instead of Nat King Cole on the way back down the mountain.

The heater blows soft and gentle on his face. He watches a flock of carellas careen their way over the backroads. They turn on to the main roads and Christopher takes his hand, gently kisses his knuckles.

As they roll back up the winding entry road of the estate, the sun is setting over the trees.

And everything feels alright.

[bloody-bee-tea]

A truth for a truth

Shouta can tell that something has Shinsou agitated the moment the boy steps into the gym. He doesn’t even try to hide it, which makes Shouta think that for once maybe surprise wins out over fear or pain and the need to hide them, like it so rarely does with Shinsou and yet Shouta still waits until he’s standing right in front of him to speak.

“What?” Shouta asks, not worrying about his tone in the slightest because Shinsou has been training with him for weeks now, so the kid knows how Shouta operates.

And they have found that usually less words work well between them. As if to prove him right, Shinsou huffs out an annoyed breath before he looks Shouta in the eyes.

“Your hell-class has accused me of being your kid,” he states, and it prompts a frown from Shouta.

“They know I teach you. That would make you one of my problem children as well,” Shouta easily says, because he’s long past pretending that he doesn’t use the moniker with great fondness but to his surprise Shinsou shakes his head.

“No, I mean—they accused me of being your actual love child, with an as of yet unnamed woman,” he clarifies and oh. Yeah, okay, that makes more sense, considering that his hell-class is involved.

“As of yet?”

“That guy with the double quirk certainly has theories,” Shinsou almost spits out and Shouta bites back a laugh.

Yeah, Todoroki has shown a tendency to obsess over one tiny detail for far too long and then come up with the most outlandish theories. It’s kind of hilarious, most times, so Shouta fails to see how it could agitate the kid so much.

“And that upsets you?” he asks, because he’s not a mind reader, despite what the rumors say and Shinsou huffs out another breath.

“What upsets me is that half of your class nodded along with that guy’s outlandish theories but then they laughed all straight in my face when I told them that it’s highly unlikely, seeing how you and Mic-sensei are almost disgustingly married.”

Now that brings Shouta up short. The staffs knows of their marital status, of course, but they make it a point to keep it a secret from the kids and to be found out so easily, doesn’t sit right with Shouta, despite the fact that it’s just Shinsou. He doesn’t mind at all if the kid knows about their marriage but still. He shouldn’t have been able to figure it out in the first place.

“Now what would make you say that?” he wants to know and levels Shinsou with a look; one of the few that still work on the kid.

It works now as well, because Shinsou drags his shoulders up to his ears and shuffles from one foot to the other.

Shouta raises an eyebrow when Shinsou stays silent.

“Permission to speak plainly,” he finally mutters out and it almost makes Shouta laugh, because for all that he’s giving the kid a hard time right now, it’s hardly that serious.

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to promise me that no matter what I say next will not get me expelled or punished or—I don’t know, make you mad at me. That I can talk freely.”

Shouta immediately tenses as he’s reminded that Shinsou clearly did not grow up in a loving home if he has to clarify that, but this, at least, is easily rectified.

“Permission granted to say whatever you want,” he gives back and Shinsou takes a deep breath before he goes off.

“It’s just—so obvious,” he almost spits out and before Shouta can ask for more clarification, Shinsou goes on. “You go all—soft around him, and I don’t just mean the way you slouch when he’s in the room, because your slouch becomes more relaxed when he’s there, but your face—” Shinsou points an accusing finger at Shouta’s face and Shouta almost feels as if he’s done something wrong. It’s a novel feeling. “I’m pretty sure you don’t move a single muscle but whenever Mic-sensei is there your face does this thing, where it goes all soft, here,” Shinsou points to the corner of his eyes, “and here,” and then his mouth.

In all honesty, Shouta wasn’t aware he’s doing any of that, and Hizashi hasn’t pointed it out either, but maybe the kid is on to something. It’s worth inquiring after, later.

“Mic-sensei took a phone call in the middle of class one day, and he very loudly and very clearly called out ‘Shou-chan’. As far as I am aware Shouta is your first name so—” he trails off with a shrug but then seems to find his groove because he ploughs right on and Shouta is way too entertained to interrupt him, no promise at all needed in the first place.

“You always carry something for his throat around and he has your eyedrops at the ready and you may think you’re all subtle with the way he always just conveniently carries two cups of coffee when he arrives at school, but let me tell you, you’re not. Not to mention that you always get his cookies from the vending machine when you go for one of your jelly packs.”

Shinsou takes a deep breath, but he’s clearly not done yet.

“And you’re so—you’re always slightly annoyed with Midnight-sensei, though in that way that only friends have, and then you’re barely tolerant of Vlad-sensei and you’re downright hostile with All Might and really, Mic-sensei should be the same, because they are both loud blondes with blinding smiles but you’re just so—unbearably fond of him. Sure, you snap at him and he riles you up on purpose and you threaten him with your quirk when he threatens you with his but it’s so—” Shinsou lets out a frustrated groan. “It’s like you’re dancing to a song only you two can hear and you’ve been doing that for years, you have to, because it makes no sense otherwise. You wear a ring around your neck, at all times and even though Mic-sensei hides it well with his gloves, he's literally wearing a wedding ring all the damn time, too and you bicker! Like a disgustingly married couple. Which you are!”

Shinsou takes a few deep breaths before he completely deflates again.

Shouta is almost disappointed, because while all of that is true, Shinsou didn’t mention the most damning facts. Shouta has not been trying to keep his relationship with Hizashi a secret around him and he knows Hizashi is the same, though really, Shinsou should have picked up on so much more than he already has.

And as if just to spite him Shinsou speaks up again.

“And I’m only deliberately mentioning the things everyone can see. You all but said to me in private that you’re married. I know what it means when you say the staff knows you at that one restaurant, when you tell me you two have favourites together, when you leave training together. I’m not stupid.”

“Clearly,” Shouta drawls out and waits for anything more from Shinsou, so he doubts that he still has something up his sleeve.

“I’m done now,” he hoarsely whispers and it’s an unwelcome reminder that Shinsou is clearly not used to talking so much or so loudly without being interrupted and this might not be the right choice right now, but Shouta has to take a chance here.

“Am I wrong about any of that?” Shinsou wants to know when Shouta is too busy formulating his plan to speak but that finally gets him going.

“How about a deal?” Shouta asks and he clearly has Shinsou’s attention with that already. “How about I’m allowed to speak plainly for now as well, without you yelling at me, or getting angry, or shutting down and running off, and after I’m done we both tell the other if we are right or wrong?”

His words have left Shinsou tense and worried, Shouta can tell, and he almost wants to take it back, knows that it’s almost unfair, because the stakes are not at all the same for the two of them, but they’ve been dancing around this topic for so long. And Shouta is tired of it.

Tired of Shinsou flinching after several days at home, tired of spotting poorly hidden bruises, tired of faint marks on Shinsou’s face. He just wants him come to him with this, to ask for help, to accept help. Shouta just wants to get the kid out of the house he’s currently in and take him home, to his husband and his cats and a life he deserves.

And if he has to go about it this way, then so be it.

“Fine,” Shinsou bites out and Shouta doesn’t waste another second.

“Your home life is shit,” he plainly says and doesn’t let Shinsou’s flinch stop him. “They are keeping necessities from you; clothes that fit, stuff for school, money, even food.”

He personally made Shinsou’s meal plan, specifically tailored to him and the amount of training he’s doing and he should have put on so much more muscle than he actually has which can only mean one thing. He’s not eating enough and Shouta would bet his hero license on the fact that it’s not voluntary.

He’s being starved at home.

“They hurt you, physically but also verbally.”

Shouta doubts that Shinsou came up with half the insults he calls himself almost daily on his own.

“Sometimes they don’t allow you to come home at all. They threaten you with punishment. You’re not allowed to ask questions, probably not allowed to speak much at all and if you do, there’s a—”

Shouta’s voice fails him here briefly because he still remembers the tears running down Hizashi’s face as he makes helpless sounds behind the muzzle strapped too tightly to his face and the knowledge that it’s happening still, and to one of his kids, is almost unbearable.

“There’s a muzzle,” Shouta manages to finish and he doesn’t miss how Hitoshi ducks in on himself, as if he has to brace for a hit.

“You know it’s wrong, and you hate it there, but you’re too scared to say something because you don’t know where you’ll end up next and it could mean you have to pull out of U.A.,” Shouta goes on, and he’s certain in this, because he has seen Hitoshi’s file.

There are too many foster homes to count, too little time spent in too many of them and he doesn’t even want to think about the amount of trauma the kid must have accumulated.

“Are you done?” Shinsou spits out when Shouta is quiet for a moment too long, and he guesses that’s fair.

“I am,” he agrees and watches how Shinsou jerks his head to the side, and he pretends he doesn’t see the tears glistening in his eyes.

“Great, then how did I do?” Shinsou demands to know and Shouta gives him a small smile, because this right now, is the second part of this entire spiel.

“Not too bad, kid,” he admits. “Hizashi and I are married and have been for almost ten years now. But there is one thing you don’t know.”

“And what’s that?” Shinsou asks, still too rough, too sharp but Shouta’s smile doesn’t waver.

“We both have foster licenses. And we’re more than prepared to take in a kid, or, let’s say a stubborn, sassy, diligent, hard-working teenager from Gen Ed with a mob of unruly purple hair. Under the Emergency Foster Protocol at first, because that way the teenager would have to go home with us on the very same day, but we’re prepared to go through the proper channels to make it permanent. And then later official.”

It prompts a shuddering breath from Shinsou and Shouta is not too alarmed when he sees tears sliding down his cheeks.

“So, how did I do?” Shouta throws Shinsou’s words right back at him and for all that he knows that this is emotionally very difficult for Shinsou he was not quite prepared to find himself with an armful of sobbing teenager, so they both fall to the floor in an undignified heap.

Not that he minds it much, because Shinsou is clinging to him and surely that must mean something.

“They also sometimes lock me into the closet,” Shinsou gets out between his sobs and Shouta bites back his almost automatic response of ‘Wonderful’.

He and Shinsou have an understanding, sarcasm and sass one of the things they share between each other, but he doubts that the kid has even a thought to spare for that right now.

“Not anymore, kid, not anymore,” Shouta reassures him, because there is not a single universe out there where he will allow Shinsou to step back into that environment ever again.

Shinsou only clings tighter to him, hiding his face in Shouta’s chest as he cries and cries but not once does Shouta tell him to stop, because clearly Shinsou needs this out of his system.

It takes him a while to calm down again, time Shouta spends cradling the crying boy to his chest, but eventually Shinsou falls silent.

“Mic-sensei won’t mind?” he rasps out and Shouta shakes his head.

“I can call him right now, if you’re worried. He’s on his way to the radio station but since you’re coming home with me now, he’ll want to be there anyway.”

“He can’t cancel his show for me!”

“Kid, he cancels his shows all the damn time, that’s just the risk of being a teacher and a pro hero. It happened before and it will happen again and he won’t mind at all, I can promise you that.”

“I don’t—he’ll be mad.”

“He won’t be,” Shouta gives back and then takes the decision out of Shinsou’s hands, because he has no idea just how excited Hizashi will be.

Shouta gets his phone out and presses the speed dial before Shinsou can even think to protest and it takes Hizashi less than three rings to accept the call.

“Shou? Everything alright?” he greets him with, his voice tinny because he’s clearly still driving and Shouta can just picture him balancing the phone on his thigh.

“Shinsou is coming home with me today,” Shouta plainly states and feels how Shinsou tenses against him.

“Finally,” Hizashi breathes out, the relief so stark in his voice that there’s no way Shinsou can miss it. “He finally asked for help?”

“More like Aizawa-sensei cornered me,” Shinsou speaks up and Shouta pats his head.

His hair really is soft. Maybe he’ll have to do it again, and often at that, he decides when he notices how Shinsou leans into the contact.

“Hey, there, little listener, how are you doing?”

“Have been better,” Shinsou admits between sniffles.

“He figured out that we’re married,” Shouta tells Hizashi because he’s still very proud of him for that and it makes Hizashi laugh.

“Yeah, if anyone would, it’s him. I told you he’s smart.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Shouta sighs out when Shinsou ducks his head in embarrassment at hearing that. “You coming home?”

“Of course I am! I’ll bring take out, what are you in the mood for?”

“Can you drive to that diner next to the cat café? The staff knows our orders, and you like their food as well,” Shouta suggests, because he thinks it might be a bit much, forcing Shinsou to think about anything right now and Shouta has taken him there enough times after training to know that the kid likes the food there.

“Sure. I’ll also call Tsukauchi, to get the ball rolling. Shinsou, kiddo, you’re safe now and I’m very proud of you for letting yourself get cornered.”

It prompts a new sob from Shinsou and Shouta decides it’s much more important to hug him close again than to say goodbye to his husband, so he simply hangs up and throws the phone down, so he can better gather Shinsou up in his arms.

“We’ve got you now, kid, it’s going to be okay. I promise.”

He doesn’t expect Shinsou to respond, not really, because clearly the kid has other worries right now—mainly breathing—but he still speaks up.

“I trust you.”

Shouta wasn’t prepared for the way that simple statements makes him feel warm all over but he’s beyond glad that it’s the case.

And he and Hizashi will make very sure to never do anything to make Shinsou regret that decision.

[queermentaldisaster]

Simon's ma was Catholic. Not a good one either. Kept letting her husband harm Simon in hopes it would 'turn him back to normal'. Their fights were explosive and horrible.

She taught Simon to never have sex outside of marriage, she instilled those harmful beliefs upon her son.

The first night after Simon's rape at the hands of Roba, his sobs could be heard throughout the building, and those neighboring his cell listened to those repeated prayers of ‘Oh Lord please forgive me’ again and again.

He still thinks that way and can still be found praying for forgiveness every so often. Soap brings him back to reality. Promises that the God(s) up there made Simon the way he was and that they are not blaming him for what has happened to him.

[altschmerzes]

Loneliness into Loneliness? 👀

EXCELLENT i call this clip 'uh oh jamie'

(Jamie has been counting his lucky stars that he hasn’t had a nightmare like that since he’s been here — the ones where he wakes up yelling or crying, the ones about his dad or about the woman whose name he doesn’t remember or about both of them. Now that he’s sleeping in Dani’s room, he thinks it would be pretty bad if he had one here. He might freak Dani out, or keep him up, or scare him, or something, and it would be bad. You don’t invite someone into your room to sleep there with you if that person starts screaming or sobbing out of nowhere and wakes you up and then you have to either get out of your own room or deal with the mess in the bed with you. It’s just… It’s good that it hasn’t happened.)