#mentions of past abuse/trauma

[desultory-suggestions]

I would like to give a shout out to the gullible folks. The people who were lied to with some ridiculous story by an abuser and taken advantage of. People who can't describe their situation to others bc they know it sounds crazy, but they have fallen too deep to escape.

You aren't dumb. You're so trusting and so full of love. It is not your fault others take advantage. There are people out there that will not lie to you like others have. Your trauma is valid even if the lies you were told were so outlandish people laugh when you try to explain the terror you lived through.

Don't stop loving. Don't stop trusting. Just... Learn how to be more selective with your trust. Because not all have pure intentions for you.

[paingoes]

Rubies

Asking

“Aegre fero” here has a double meaning of “I’m sorry” and “It hurts”. Taking some license with the Latin I think. Forgive me.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, comfort!!!, crying, past trauma, conditioning, malnutrition mention, emotional whump, abuse mention, rocky recovery)

=========

Apollo readjusted the dials on the old receiver. He clicked in between the channels of the small device, listening in as best he could through the static. The sheer range of Galatea’s radio always impressed him. 

“-off the Western side now, escalating-“

“-running out of provisions! Just a reminder-“

“-tell Contra if she doesn’t fix her damn-“

“-worst summer in years, but not like-“

“-does anyone not need their kidney-“

Delta came out of his room, slipping quietly out into the hall. His short hair was hard to get used to. It was actually kind of curly when it wasn’t weighed down. Apollo thought it was cute. His expression was totally unreadable, but that was about typical for him. 

“Hey.” Apollo pulled one of the earbuds out. He didn’t move much beyond that. Delta had gotten comfortable enough that he didn’t feel the need to fuss after him nor the impulse to coax him out of hiding. It’d be better to stay still, not spook him too much.

Delta skirted the edge of the couch carefully and knelt down onto the carpet. He folded his arms on the cushion, resting his head down on top of them. It hid his face. Apollo took out the other earbud, leaning forward.

“You okay, bud?” Apollo’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. Delta hadn’t knelt for him in a while. He’d thought that he was getting out of the habit. Delta nodded, his face still buried in the cushion. Not speaking, but that was also to be expected.

“Do you want to sit up here?” Apollo offered, just in case he needed to be reminded that he was allowed to. He shook his head for no.

“…Okay. Let me know if you need anything, alright?” He only put one earbud back in. Delta spoke so softly, he didn’t want to miss it. He wasn’t going to force him to talk about it, if there was anything to talk about at all. Delta needed to do what made him feel safe. As odd as the behavior seemed to him, he wasn’t going to correct it. 

He turned his attention back to the radio, but kept his sights on Delta to see if there was any change. His eyes widened as he noticed the small hitches along his shoulders. He was definitely crying.

“Hey, hey.” Apollo put the radio aside on the couch, sliding down onto the floor. He touched Delta’s arm lightly, “C’mere.”

It was all the invitation he needed. Delta shifted off of the couch and into Apollo’s arms, burying his face in his chest. Small sobs wracked his body. Apollo was surprised at how silent he was being in spite of this. He made shushing noises reflexively, even though there was no sound. He felt the fabric of his shirt marginally tighten as Delta gripped it. 

“Aegre fero.” Delta’s voice wavered. It was only when he spoke that Apollo could hear just how much trouble he was having breathing. He carded his hands through his hair.

“It’s okay. Deep breaths, yeah? Four-seven-eight,” he said. Delta knew how. Apollo had caught him doing them alone before, unprompted. He was clearly used to being the only one to calm himself down. Apollo’s heart ached at the thought of him sitting up whenever they had kept him, forcing himself stable for somebody else’s sake. Still, he slowed his breathing, picking up the pattern. From where Delta was curled into his chest, he should’ve been able to hear it well. His shoulder blades gradually steadied. The shaking stopped. He didn’t let go.

“Do you…like when I play with your hair?” Apollo’s hands stilled. He realized he’d never actually gotten permission to touch it. He probably should have. Delta nodded slowly. His face was still hidden. Apollo continued to run his hands through it. It was very soft — and seemed to be a lot healthier than it had been when they’d first picked him up. He was proud of that, the way the malnutrition symptoms were gradually fading. He had missed cooking for people.

It took a while before Delta would pull away. His face was flushed when he did, eyes bleary. He looked down like he was ashamed. Apollo patted the couch cushion.

“Sit up, sweetheart.”

Delta climbed onto the couch, pulling his legs up to his chest. He was always more responsive when given direct orders. Apollo didn’t want to force him, but honestly, his joints couldn’t take any more time on the floor. He stood up himself, disappearing briefly to retrieve a cup of water. He brought back the burner phone too, passing both of them to Delta.

~

It was mortifying. When had he ever cried? He could count on one hand the number of times he had done it over the last two years. On two hands, he could count the last decade. Now it was like he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t supposed to behave like this. He had learned, so early on, that he was not supposed to behave like this.

It had felt so nice to be held for a second.

Mortifying.

Apollo sat back down on the couch and opened the IRC program. The burner phone buzzed in Delta’s hand. He unlocked it.

sunspot: Hey

nodiving: hi

nodiving: sorry

sunspot: Do you want to talk about it?

nodiving: i dont know

nodiving: i dont know whats wrong with me

nodiving: im not supposed to be like this

sunspot: Be like what?

nodiving: pathetic

sunspot: Why do you think it’s pathetic?

nodiving: because it is

“That’s circular logic,” Apollo said aloud. Delta typed faster.

nodiving: im not supposed to need anything and i usually dont

nodiving: now i have to keep bothering you for everything even things that dont matter

nodiving: im sorry

He began to type something else, but couldn’t bring himself to. He knew he should be punished for it. For having the audacity to even take notice of the emotion, let alone make it someone else’s problem. He should’ve just stayed in his room until it passed. 

sunspot: Everyone needs things. 

sunspot: I’ve been telling you this entire time to please come to me if you need anything

sunspot: Thank you for trusting me enough to take me up on that

Delta blushed, his fingers idle about the device. Apollo looked him up and down.

“When you say ‘things that don’t matter’,” he ventured cautiously, “You mean your own feelings?”

Feelings. The word itself sounded childish to him. He was supposed to be above it, as cold and mechanical as they’d trained him to be. But his skin was still damp where he’d been crying. It was a little late for that.

He nodded. Apollo couldn’t be mad at him for it; Delta already acknowledged their own worthlessness. It wasn’t a lie.

“Okay,” Apollo said softly, “I understand why you would think that. Nobody’s had much regard for them throughout your life. But it’s not true. Your feelings do matter. It was wrong for anybody to make you feel like they didn’t.”

No they don’t. Delta hid his face in his hands. He shouldn’t need this. He recoiled from the words as if they had burned him. No they don’t.

“I know you might not believe me right now. That’s okay. I’m still really proud of you for coming to me with this instead of trying to deal with it alone. Even if you think it’s not important, I still want to know what you’re feeling. It matters to me.”

Awful.

“Delta?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded, showing he had heard. Not that he agreed, just that he’d heard.

Apollo paused while he caught his breath. It took a lot of effort to try and recover from what he’d just said. It still burned.

“Do you want to try?” Apollo encouraged.

Delta nodded, picking the phone back up. He typed slowly and decisively.

nodiving: nothing caused it

nodiving: im just sad

“Thank you. That’s a really good start, Delta. I know you’re not…used to talking. So maybe you don’t have all the vocabulary you need for it right now?”

Delta’s eyes narrowed at that, the mention of vocabulary. He wasn’t stupid. He read books.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you’re smart.” Apollo raised his hands in mock surrender. “Your technical skill is advanced. You’re great at arguing. I know. All I’m saying is that you probably don’t have a lot of practice talking about this kind of thing. It might be difficult at first. And that has nothing to do with your intellect.”

That was objectively true. He had no idea what to describe what was happening to him, not with all the words he knew. He thought of the one that had shocked him most when they first suggested it. Abuse. He knew the definition. He did not see how it could slot into his life. Many of the words they used triggered that same uneasy feeling in him. Chess-piece. Feelings. Love. 

Most days, he could barely talk at all.

“I’m...gonna get you some CBT workbooks or something. We can work on it more later. Is there anything you need for right now though? Anything that normally helps?”

He didn’t know anything that would help. He’d never felt like this before. Whatever it was, it seemed like it was receding. The mood had passed.

He realized that crying might’ve helped. Touch. Talking. All the things he’d never been allowed before. All the things he thought he didn’t need.

Mortifying.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[resurgentclass-stardestroyer]

Thinking about Sloane trying to give young Armitage valid criticism, as is very necessary for an ambitious cadet aspiring to be an officer, but like most abused children Armitage's ego is extremely fragile. He starts off very defensive and bristly, bordering on disrespectful as he refuses Sloane's critique – and then when Sloane pushes him further, he suddenly falls apart to severe self-loathing and despair, old trauma responses resurfacing and crumpling him.

Obviously, neither of these extremes are what Sloane wants out of him, nor are they acceptable really, if Armitage is to become the leader he dreams to be. After taking a great deal more effort and time than she'd anticipated sorting Armitage out, leaving them both a little exhausted, Sloane sighs quietly. She certainly has her work cut out for her with her unofficially adopted charge. But she's up to the task. She wants him to succeed.

[inspired partly by @darthnostra 's tags on another post that in Hux's worst moments of doubt and self-loathing he thinks that the worst of his malicious critics may be right]

[hargrove-mayfields]

Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer

for Day 7 of MungroveWeek @mungroveweek

rating: teen

prompts: Big Spoon/Little Spoon, Touched after being touch-starved, Bruised skin, First kiss, Dungeons and Dragons.

content warnings: Referenced child abuse and abandonment, past relationship abuse, and mental health struggles.

————

Billy is the kind of guy that sees sex as the endgame in a relationship.

All the flirting and the posturing and the touchy-ness, it’s all just the build up until whoever is on the other end can get him in their bed, and then it’s over.

Not that he’s scared of commitment, that’s all that he could really want is some damn stability for once in his life, but he’s scared of what comes next. After they get that first time under the covers with him, they only want more and more from there. They just want to keep taking and taking and taking from him, until they’re demanding those three little words he hasn’t been able to utter in forever, and he can’t bear it.

Love just isn’t something Billy Hargrove is good at. That’s what he’s decided anyhow. It scares him and makes him think too much. But when he holds hands with a girl and feels that swell of pride in his chest, he wonders how much more intense that feeling would be like if there was a ring on her finger. When he kisses a boy and feels warmth all over, he wants that vulnerability to be a feeling he wakes up to every morning. So, maybe he’s just too messy to settle.

But the future isn’t something he has the luxury of looking forward to when he’s always stuck in the past.

So when Eddie Munson comes along in the harshest winter of his life, Billy gets attached real quick.

They don’t even have to touch for the butterflies to start twisting him up on the inside. Just that snarky laugh is enough to have him blushing like some goofy cartoon character. Eddie’s sort of like that, all animated and full of life.

Mostly in that Billy can’t believe he’s real.

That somehow he’s fallen in love all over again with some dork who brings him pretty leaves he found in the woods and who steals Billy’s pencils and returns them with ink all over them and who knows prose and lyrical shit from his musical endeavors but can’t pronounce Hargrove without a tiny bit of his uncle’s southern drawl slipping into his accent.

Everything about him is endearing, except maybe how he leaves crumbs in Billy’s car and doesn’t brush his hair more than once every three months, but that’s just part of his charm, as Eddie easily convinces him.

Especially since the first time he’s in Eddie’s bed, it isn’t for sex.

Before he could even get his hopes or his fears reared up, he’d been beaten back down, literally, and the only place he had to go was Eddie’s.

Eddie, who didn’t care that Neil Hargrove called him a fag and a bad influence as he hit his child just for knowing him. Eddie, who wrapped his lanky arms around Billy’s bruised up body and told him a story about a raccoon he saw from the window they’re both looking out of. Though Billy’s vision is blurred with tears, he’s just happy to be settled back to chest with his crush, held and cared for for the first time in hell, probably his eighteen years.

There’s no sex appeal to showing up snotty and bloody on Eddie’s stoop, just like there’s no ulterior motive to helping him.

It’s more like…

“Oh hey, the shaking stopped! That’s a sign, that’s a sign.” Eddie trying to break the silence is what it’s like. But Billy isn’t ready. His thoughts are racing too fast for his own good.

Nervousness clamps his stomach like a vice and makes him feel sick. So it’s back to Eddie to keep it from becoming too real, “Want me to give you some space?”

Somehow, that seems worse. Right now, Billy’s comfortable, safe. Take Eddie away, and he loses that glimpse at security. He hopes he doesn’t sound as distraught as he feels when he gives his brief answer to the air, “No.”

Audible panic or not, Eddie stays, well, Eddie. All nonchalant, like he’s done this a thousand and one times before. Billy hopes, despite himself, that that isn’t the case. Selfish maybe, but he’d really like this sort of care all to himself.

“Cool. I might fall asleep back here though. I can’t wiggle.”

Oh. Maybe he’d gotten his hopes up.

Billy acts to apologize, not only saying, “Sorry,” but also peeling away from Eddie's big spoon, about to slip out of the bed when those skinny arms flex and are able to use whatever they can muster to get Billy to stay. Call it desperation, judging from the speed and the airiness in Eddie’s voice once he pleads with him.

“No, it’s good. Wiggling is bad. It keeps me up all night and then I pass out in the middle of English class. Again. And when I conk off in English class I fail, and then I’ll stay up all night for the rest of my life thinking about being a loser. A never ending cycle.”

At least Billy isn’t the only one that feels like he isn’t enough. Not that it would’ve taken that to convince him, but he decides to breathe out his tension, and let Eddie bring their position back to the center of the mattress. The way he talks, so honestly and smoothly, it’s no wonder Billy’s chest feels like it could explode from how his heart pounds against his ribs.

To distract from the obvious, he decides to leave the moping and join in on the higher energy, to tease Eddie, pull his puffy pigtails a bit, “Now you’re gonna put me to sleep.”

“That’s a first. I'm usually annoying everyone clear into like, outer space levels of awake.” Eddie retorts, but there’s way too much emotion in it to just be a reciprocal joke.

Billy tries, in an overly casual way, to help, since Eddie is doing so much for him right now. The least he can do is let him vent back, and maybe offer a little comfort, “Nah. More like white noise to me.”

It lands. He can almost hear Eddies smile turn back on like the flick of a light switch, though he can’t see his face with the way Eddie is cuddling him like a child with his favorite teddy bear.

“That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me they’re ignoring me. And I mean that.” The actual words there are just light hearted and jokey, but his tone sells something a lot sweeter. Something that restarts Billy’s heart all over again, especially when the context catches up in Eddie’s next soft response, “You’re different, Billy.”

His instinct is to reject that comment, obviously said with warm intent, “Yeah. What other queer would show up and ask for fucking cuddles from a dude?”

But Eddie doesn’t flinch for even a second. Actually, he stuns Billy yet again with an even sappier comeback, “I dunno, I would probably. Especially from you. ‘Cause I like you so much.”

“You don’t gotta lie to me.” Billy’s voice quivers slightly. He can’t tell if he’s shaking in Eddie’s arms, but he feels like he should be.

Eddie Munson said he fucking likes him. While he’s in his bed. Honestly Billy should be used to that, but maybe it’s the outcome he knows is coming that makes him feel so anxious. He can’t stand to have to let go already.

That or it’s the never ending ease with which Eddie talks to him, like he’s this suave prince charming even though he’s seen the guy eat off of the cafeteria floor. That gentleness sends ripples of warmth down his spine from where Eddie’s breath puffs by his ear, “Who’s lying? Are you lying?”

Somehow that inspires Billy to be honest. As if that will change the outcome he has yet to avoid. He hopes, and he says, “Kind of. To myself.”

“So what’s the truth?” Eddie asks, even though, deep down, Billy was hoping he wouldn’t.

Because then he has to admit.. “That I like you back.”

A beat. Then Eddie squeezes him a tiny bit tighter, and says, like it’s the most casual thing, “Cool.”

Billy’s reaction of disbelief is visceral, a snorted, breathless laugh accompanied by a brief questioning, “That’s it? Just.. cool?”

Eddie’s arms move in what feels like a shrugging motion. Billy should have known he just said that and hadn’t meant it, should have the routine memorized enough by now to realize that he wouldn’t like him in that way.

Besides, Eddie has ICD. He doesn’t have control over his impulses the way most people do. It was stupid to assign meaning to the words that tumbled out of his friend's mouth just because he was being selfish. Or he was just hopeful that this time, the other person would care about him too.

Behind him, Eddie makes a sound like he’s thinking long and hard about it, before announcing, one hundred percent genuine, “Actually, no. I also meant to say- Yay!”

That’s all Billy can take. He just doesn’t get it. He wants to believe that Eddie isn’t just fucking with him, but his heart has been used too many times before. Seeking answers, and comfort, and a real love connection, Billy wiggles out of Eddie’s cuddles just to turn around and face him with questions in his eyes.

The happy little grin on Eddie’s face drops off when he sees that look in Billy’s.

Suddenly he’s so serious, and that almost hurts worse than any kind of rejection or loss, “Oh. Did I mess something up?”

Billy shakes his head to tell him that, no, Eddie hasn’t done a damn thing wrong. It’s his own stupid self that did this. But he does consider, for a moment, that the confession was authentic. He runs with it, can’t let go of that hope.

Still, he doesn’t understand why Eddie didn’t seem to want to take things a few bases ahead like everyone before him had, if he wasn’t lying about having feelings for Billy. “

You.. don’t want anything else?”

“Honestly, I’m just happy you didn’t climb out the window when I said I liked you.” As he speaks, Eddie smiles again, like he can’t keep the happiness away. He's always so lighthearted and genuine about everything.

Billy envies him. And loves him with so much of his heart, he can’t bring himself to speak for a moment.

Since he stays silent, letting his feelings play out through his expressions instead, Eddie offers a suggestion, emphasizing it with a gently placed hand to Billy’s cheek, “Let’s just take this at your pace. No expectations.”

“Kiss me?” Billy wills himself to ask, sacrificing his comfort in the silence to prepare for disappointment.

But Eddie provides something much more fulfilling, “Sounds easy enough.”

And he stays true to his word too.

Adjusting to once again close the tiny bit of space Billy had made between them when he turned to face this way, Eddie kisses him. It’s just a calm thing, the press of warm, slightly chapped lips together. The hand on Billy’s face cupping his jaw now instead, to make the gesture as strong and sturdy as the feelings behind it.

It doesn’t last long enough before Eddie dips away, so Billy decides to initiate another one. He misses the mark slightly in his overeagerness to reconnect, but Eddie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, not even when that corner of his mouth ticks up into a smile beneath his kiss.

Billy decides then and there that he’s going to take more chances, if this was going to be the reward.

~~~~~

“Are you positive you want to stay?”

Billy has all but moved into the trailer at this point, spending long nights and weekends on Eddie's couch or in his bed, wherever he falls asleep. Right now, it was the couch, with the hand crocheted blanket from Eddie’s late aunt Roxie around his shoulders, and his hair all tousled about from sleeping on it. He passed out hard last night, coming here straight after another argument with Neil that hadn’t ended well.

Eddie eventually had to wake him up, only to inform him that a group of his friends would be over this weekend to play some campaign they’d agreed on weeks ago and Eddie had forgotten until the Henderson kid called him that morning to say that Maddie would be filling for Gareth, since he couldn’t make it and apparently decided to tell Henderson first.

All of that was over Billy’s head, half of the names Eddie is rambling off to him barely recognizable when all is said and done, maybe more from his memory getting fucky again than anything else. There’s lots of reasons for why his head gets foggy, but his doctor wasn’t sure if they could blame it on being knocked around too many times or a little something called constant chronic pain.

Either way he was being dragged to Hawkins before any such diagnosis was official.

And here he is now, comfortable as fuck on Eddie’s old worn-in couch, wearing his flannel because it’s he only thing his boyfriend owns that isn’t several sizes too small for his shoulders, and using his family heirloom blankets.

He’s here to stay.

“I’m not goin’ home, so.. why not?”

Eddie still looks skeptical, and voices as much in a doubtful tone, “Okay, but, this is your final warning. It can get really intense. Like, really really.”

Somehow Billy gets the feeling this wouldn’t be the first time someone told Eddie his interests were too much. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the way he’s looking out for him, but Billy doesn’t want to be the one to crush his boyfriend's spirit.

So he makes a light joke of it, “It’s a board game, Eds. And I’m sorry, but you thought Jaws 3-D was a masterpiece. I’m not sure your definition of intense and mine are the same”

Special interest mode, activated.

“It is! It perfectly parallels how humans think poetic justice is only valid if they personally can identify with the hero! That’s all it takes to be defined as a hero or a villain!! That kicks ass!” Eddie rants passionately for the hundredth time, though the pointed laugh before he starts speaking is Billy’s sign that it’s all in fun.

So he keeps it going, “Eddie. As your boyfriend I feel obligated to tell you this, but whatever commentary a movie about a revenge driven, computer generator shark has to offer, it probably wasn’t intentional.”

“It’s not meant to be realistic. Metaphors, baby!” Eddie defends, the actual depth of this conversation many times gone over already. This is just a summary of it for a little joke, though they could be here for hours if they wanted to.

Which means it’s Billy’s turn to infodump, all those years spent researching the ocean in the library and local California museums not gone to waste yet.

“But sharks don’t even raise their young! Real world or not! Revenge doesn’t matter to the creatures that don’t even stay a day after their shark babies are born to abandon them. I mean, they could at least wait ten years like my ma-”

Stop. Oops.

That wasn’t exactly what he was supposed to say. Or even what he meant to.

He’s always defended his mommas decisions to leave him behind. Something about Neil constantly reminding him how difficult he was as a kid probably did some numbers on his ability to process the whole thing. But sometimes, his heart reveals some sadder truths in this process of healing it.

Eddie's love wraps around his bones like an extra layer of support, seeping out all the bad. Sometimes he’s got to expel those thoughts whether or not he realizes it until they come pouring out of his mouth.

And then he feels sad.

Because he’s thinking about his momma.

Eddie moves quickly into caring mode, holding his arms out to invite Billy for a cuddle. The whole boundaries thing is still a pretty big deal, even though it’s been weeks, proving Eddie meant it when he said they didn’t have to rush this. Hell, Billy thinks Eddie might never stop asking for his consent for even just cheek kisses, in the silent language the two of them are slowly developing.

There’s trust there that Billy isn’t used to. Throwing himself blindly into love and hoping to be caught hadn’t worked, and neither had acting cold. Then Eddie had shown him other options, and there was no going back.

Billy leans into his hug, pushing just a little so Eddie lays back against the armrest with his arms still around Billy, pulling them together into the perfectly nested out, cozy spot where Billy slept last night.

Even though they slept only feet away from each other, he had missed Eddie. He missed waking up from a nightmare and kissing him, the warmth and the pressure of his limbs scattered all over the bed and over Billy, and even the sound of his not so gentle snoring. He’s become the routine, the only constant in Billy’s life that he’s desperate never to let go of.

Still, Eddie is the one to change the conversation, so the effort, and the intention of their love, must be equal, “Agree to disagree?”

“Sure.” Billy gives him that, too comfortable to argue about stupid things or bring up more trauma. He hadn’t meant to and now he feels a little drained. Nothing a little early morning spoon session can’t fix.

That’s why he has the confidence to push the boundary again, just enough comfort flowing through their connected energies now that he isn’t afraid of making Eddie upset, “Still coming to dnd tonight though.”

~~~~~

“What bet did you lose?”

There’s six people, all wearing matching shirts, all accessorized in various articles of plaid and leather and whatever else they think makes them look like Eddie. Serious respect to the one who actually asked the question, he’s guessing Maddie from the previous conversation, who wears her shirt like a cutoff and actually has her own taste.

That proves Eddie right though. Billy had walked out of the bedroom for all of two seconds before he’s being glared at and asked stupid questions.

He just hadn’t realized the implications of Eddie’s friends being the overwhelming part, rather than the game. The confusing, twisting, hell of a game he’s too afraid to even attempt.

“Excuse me?”

Even being used to fighting and drama, Billy just isn’t really sure how to respond to that. He knows what Eddie’s friend means, but at the same time, he doesn’t. As far as he knew, everyone in town had heard about Billy Hargrove’s fall from grace after a few nights ago when Neil went on a bender looking for his runaway son and telling anyone who asked exactly what he thought of his kid. And for punching said kid in the face again, which is why Billy had come here to begin with.

But maybe the lowest of the Hawkins High hierarchy doesn’t fill up on the products of the rumor mill as quickly as he’s used to from his spot near the top.

One of the other nameless ones chimes in next, even more sarcastic and cold than the girl, “What ungodly punishment are you subjecting yourself to by being here?”

Billy just doesn’t understand what he did. His most notorious moments in school were still mostly aimed at whichever groupies tried to get too close to him. The best he can come up with is that these nerds were all jealous of him living with Eddie now, but, no offense to the love of his life, that doesn’t seem very likely.

Thankfully, Eddie takes the heat and changes the subject before Billy is forced to figure out what kind of response is needed from that level of passive-aggressiveness.

He steps right in the center of the room and claps his hands a few times, both to get everyone’s attention and to put accentuation on his demands, “Hey. Shoes off in my house, dorkuses. Or need I remind you of the last time?”

That sounds like there’s a story there just waiting to be told, and considering Billy would rather hear that than keep being questioned, he takes the obvious bait, “What happened last time?”

“Why, dear Jeffrey over there tracked in some dog shit surprise. Had to cut a square out of the carpet because it-“ Eddie starts to explain, but before he gets too graphic with it, Billy interrupts.

“I got it, Eds. Don’t need all the details.”

The obvious disgust on his face is probably what makes Eddie giggle like a self-satisfied little kid, before he says, “Suit yourself. Just be lucky you met me after. Took months to get the stink out.”

Dustin, the only one of the freshmen trio that still shows up to these things often enough to be considered an official member, is of course the one to interrupt the flow between Billy and Eddie, just because the smug little bastard would be, “Funny. I thought you still smelled like dog shit.”

Billy’s got to give it to the kid, if that wasn’t a snide comment about his boyfriend, he’d absolutely be laughing right now. And okay, maybe he can’t suppress just the tiniest chuckle, which of course gets noticed in an instant by Eddie.

Which is enough to make him spring into action against the insult, literal physical action because he puts Dustin in a headlock and ruffles the shit out of the kids hair after knocking his hat off.

Seeing that the tension has been successfully defused, Billy decides he’s no longer needed. That and, even though he’s grateful Eddie cooled the situation off, he’s not really looking to have to defend himself constantly.

Over the ruckus of the play-fighting teenagers and the crowd of their friends chanting for who they’re placing soda-pop bets on, Billy announces, “I’ll order a pizza and fuck off again.”

Instantly Eddie freezes, his hair half-way in his eyes and his shirt wrinkled like Billy hadn’t carefully hung it on the line this morning from all the commotion, “You know you don’t have to do that.”

Billy isn’t sure if he’s talking about the pizza or the leaving, but he’s down for both. He’ll make an appearance again when it’s time to eat. Slow integration with all this noise and personality will probably be the best for him anyways.

He challenges Eddie’s question so he doesn’t have to worry, “Who else is going to?”

Eddie doesn’t do phone calls. It’s one thing to be loud and energetic in person, but put a speaker up to him and it’s like he has no clue what to say. Maybe it’s his wired different brain, but something about not being able to stare people in the face makes it a hell of a lot harder to get his point across.

So yeah, Billy’s got him beat there. Whatever Eddie’s problem is though, times it by twenty for the amount of anxiety sitting around this place at this very moment. This is the best decision and Billy would’ve stood by it even if Eddie said anything else. But he doesn’t.

So Billy puts his hand in the shape of a phone and shakes it, wanting to go kiss Eddie before he leaves the room but restraining the urge in front of all these people that probably wouldn’t get it, “Just call for me when Aggy gets here with the pizzas.”

~~~~

Later when everything’s said and done, they’re back to where they started.

Eddie is flat on his back, lanky limbs spread out like a starfish, while Billy curls up into his side, more like a koala. There’s a quilt over their tangle of bodies, but the slightly awkward yet somehow very comfortable position means they’re barely covered by it, though that’s fine anyways because Billy runs hot.

In his own little self-sustained furnace at his boyfriend's side, Billy’s also about to fall asleep, even just listening to Eddie’s extroverted self socialize all day having made him tired. His eyes snap open when Eddie asks him a question.

“Was today okay?”

The startle the abrupt cut in the silence gave him also earns him an apology kiss on the forehead from Eddie.

He’s okay though, because it reminds him that he wanted to put his head on Eddie’s chest, readjusting to get closer and comfier. His response is a sleepy after thought, a soft little hum of agreement, “Mhm.”

Eddie takes the opportunity to put his fingers in Billy’s hair and gently play with it, as he talks up at the ceiling, “I'm glad. Because I didn’t want to have to cut all of those dudes out of my life.”

“Like you’d choose me over all of them.” Billy murmurs, though he’s actually flattered that Eddie has even chosen him at all, no matter the order of importance.

And it only gets better when Eddie says..“I would. A thousand times over, I would. I love you, man.”

Because he says it so easily, like it isn’t a big deal.

Like it’s just a normal thing. Which it is. Billy can’t lie and say he doesn’t feel the same, but they haven’t said it out loud yet. He didn’t think they ever would, a fact he’d been okay with since the first time he realized he liked dudes and girls.

“Love.. me..?”

Eddie flushes red in an instant, all the way down under the collar of his shirt to where Billy’s head is resting, and he quickly tries to correct it like the questioning means he did something wrong, “Sorry. I promised to pace myself. I’ll take it back and lock it back up in my heart until you’re ready.”

Now Billy is just glad he already loves Eddie back, because that sickly sweet proclamation would have done him in otherwise. To ease the worry in his lover's pounding heart, he makes sure to let him know.

“No. S’okay. I love you too.”

So maybe Billy isn’t as bad at being in love as he thought.

He was once someone who thought all he mattered for was sex, a few moments of distraction for somebody who would forget him anyways. Over time, he’s been proven wrong

Billy Hargrove can be loved. It just took the right person- his match in love, the other half to his soul he found in Eddie- to show him that.

[the-girl-with-too-many-ideas]

Does anyone else get the feeling that at their core, all of mxtx's works are about cycles of abuses.

[gufettogrigio]

Bastian contrario

Grimaud's cemetery is grim in the rain. Damon is the one who has had the forethought to bring an umbrella and wouldn't mind sharing but there's not much point. The wet gravel crunches under Jacques' sneakers a few feet in front of him, his steps almost a run. Damon has to bite his tongue. If they shouldn't be seen, why are they here?

Didier Pironi's tomb is unassumingly lined up in a row of others, him and his brother side by side. There's a few flowers, some in pots, some not. Jacques hasn't brought any.

He stands there, in his t-shirt and baggy jeans, stubborn under the rain, just a step away from the shelter of Damon's umbrella. 

"He had a lot of my father's things." - Jacques says  - "My dad never cared enough to have a journal, not enough patience, but he'd keep all of the train tickets, hotel receipts, the flyers and so on. All bunched up in folders. Pironi sorted them out for me in years and gave them to me."

"I didn't know you two talked."

There's a shrug. "He didn't want to. I am very stubborn." 

The rain doesn't let on. Damon considers it a victory that when Jacques decides to sit cross-legged on the gravel in front of the grave, he lets Damon sit by his side with the umbrella. He's soaked through, his bleached blond hair plastered to his forehead, his round glasses fogged up by the rain.

"Once, we were in Monaco, Jody and Pironi came over. I was at the table doing my homework and they came into the room and stayed there talking." 

He takes his glasses off. "I fucked up. I am not good at math."

Jacques says them but they are not his words. It doesn't make them a lie if you believe them. Damon hears what is not said: he has seen Jacques do math for the cars. He's good. A child of eight or nine should not be expected to be 'good'.

"Dad got mad and then got even madder because I knocked the pencil sharpenings over when I scrambled to try and fix the mistakes. He never…he never hit me. Not once. He would just walk out the room like I wasn't interesting anymore. I wasn't a very interesting child. Sometimes my mum wasn't a very interesting woman."

Jacques tilts his head, fingers gripping the tin frame of his glasses. He's never still. Damon knows the look on his face, PR proper. Lie,lie, lie. Keep the family secrets. How dare you do otherwise? But you forfeit your hand when you've killed yourself in a car and Jacques is here in sneakers and a t-shirt and all four wheels on the tarmac. 

"My first real memory of Pironi is him with pencil all over his hands from picking up the sharpenings, sitting next to me doing primary school math."

 He drops the glasses in the gravel and reaches out, the tips of his fingers grazing the headstone. "Didi knew who my father was. Didi saw what I saw. He loved my father anyway. He just wasn't blind. He always made me feel like I wasn't insane for thinking that my father was a horrible person. He also made me feel a lot less guilty for adoring him anyway. And if I win the Championship, I'll bring it to Didi first."

[angelstrawbabie420]

crazy how i have no one

[ormspryde]

The end of his flight

Raven finds out one of his brothers survived the destruction of Farryheid.

[eclipsewarrior101]

Inbox {hi, so i got excited as you know, and you're cooking with this nightmare scanario, so i'm just here to drop a little something before it consumes my brain :) }

This was something me and @starpiratee were talking about for macnacross ship au idea cause there isn’t enough of this. An idea where they get to have a happily ever after together.

Written by nova /@starpirateee. Please check them out they do starkid fic requests and more.

Title: Reunion in the Black & White Part 1

“ Wilbur…?”

The name hurt, like a knife strike taken straight to the throat. The thing that once bore that name twisted away from the sound of it, somewhere between repulsed and violently disturbed. That wasn't who he was anymore, They had taken it away from him, stripped bare his identity and everything that made him the man Wilbur Cross.

What remained— the thing that called himself Wiley in an attempt to seem more human than he was— had learned to recognise that name as something other, as something detached from himself. It hurt less that way.

Still, it rang through the inside of his brain, rebounding off the echo chamber the Lords had left so purposefully empty, and sunk in deep. Though, no matter how hard he tried to say something, no words escaped. He wanted to protest, to claim that they knew he wasn't Wilbur, but something stopped him in his tracks.

That voice wasn't one of theirs.

That voice, reluctant as he was to admit it, belonged to one John McNamara. And he would know it anywhere.

Once upon a time, that would've been a good thing. John's fresh-coffee-and-ink voice was always a reminder of the present; maybe of the work they had to do, or something he'd gotten excited about, or the small hours of the late night that the two of them would spend locked in conversations about the respective theories of physics and mechanics. John himself was a comforting presence once, too. There was a deep affection there, and that was something not often shared between the people of their industry.

Now? Now John's voice was nothing more than a reminder of the things he could never have. That tone— that oh so familiar, welcoming tone— had been used against him one too many times. Now it came with an automatic response. Now, Wilbur became aware that he needed to get rid of whatever was causing the vision or the projected image of the man he used to love... Before it ended up getting worse.

They'd pulled this trick before. They'd used John's name, his image, his voice against him in so many ways that Wiley was no longer able to discern which of his memories were real and which were tarnished replications from the multiple occasions his affections had played a significant role in the Lords' entertainment.

Flashes fanced through his head. He wasn't even sure if his eyes were open. Something burned. John was injured again. This wasn't real... It wasn't real, but he wouldn't go away with a blink. The injuries didn't change, and they didn't shift. This was worse than the rest of them. John wasn't moving, but his eyes were still blue. He was wounded, trying to hold himself up, but it looked for a second like he didn't know how. Like he wasn't used to the vast nothingness and the unsturdy, ever-moving blackness.

Their gazes met from a distance both feet and inches away. John's eyes were blue. They hadn't been blue since before all this. Since before the portal, and the dark, and the endless torment...

They were getting better at their games.

"Wilbur..." The John-shaped thing muttered again, as if he couldn't believe it. For him, he had been running in a place with no direction, trying to find an escape he wasn't even sure he was going to reach. And while he hadn't found an escape, he had found something— someone— that he couldn't decide was a worse or a better fate.

Was it all a dream? A violently realistic hallucination caused by his slow, steady departure from the plains of existence?

Wiley stood, rose to his full height. He was taller than John remembered, somehow, even though there was a part of him that believed that was impossible. Wilbur had been the same height as long as he'd known him, nothing ever changed in that regard. And yet it seemed so unmistakably true that now, against all odds, he was taller than he was the last time he stepped foot in PEIP hq.

"Shut up." His voice was harsh— stained with the phantom pain of screaming into an endless void— and as cold as the air that hung between them. John faltered, his brow furrowing.

"Huh?"

"Shut. The fuck. Up. You ain't foolin' me this time," he hissed, though he wasn't entirely sure whether he was scared or mad beyond comprehension.

"Wilbur, what're you talking about?"

"STOP! I don't care if ya can't think of nothin' better, and this is the best you got, but you. do not. get to call me _that._"

His breath came out heavy. He was staring desperately at John, trying to make sense of why there was nothing wrong with him, and why this was the most accurate they'd ever gotten to a vision of John, and why this one seemed so hellbent on trying to destroy him from the inside out. Playing with his mind was one thing, but making him hold onto the past— making him see the last person who would ever hurt him— it was getting more and more painful with each iteration.

He took a lengthy step towards the John-shaped thing. John didn't hesitate, nor did he try and advance. He did, however, seem to be unsturdy on his feet, like the injury was really holding up. Like this wasn't an act.

That was impossible. John wasn't here. He'd warned him not to open the portal again. He'd been too afraid of finding out what the Lords would do to him— to anyone— to even consider the possibility that John would, one day, open the gateway again.

Wiley kept advancing. John became less and less certain about his ability to keep himself upright, and stumbled back a half pace. The moment he registered the movement, Wiley pulled a knife, done with the lies and done with seeing them mess with John like this.

"You don't know him." He pointed the edge of the blade threateningly close to John's throat, starting to circle him like a predator. "Ya never have. Ain't too clever from up close. Soon's I drive this thing into his heart, you ain't got another way t'mess with him."

John's eyes went wide. He vaguely recalled the events that transpired the day Wilbur returned from the excursion on the other side of the portal, and the mad bastard he'd become through some means unknown to everyone at PEIP... This was that, wasn't it? Something in this expanse had left him broken, and that was what was going on now...

Instinct told him to edge away from the knife, but Wiley stopped his pacing the moment John so much as shifted. He glared at him with an animalistic hunger, seemingly waiting on him to say something, or to make a move.

"Wil, I-" the blade touched the edge of his throat. "Wil, please! I don't know what you're seeing but I don't know what you're talking about!" He tried to keep his voice as level as possible, but it was hard with the panic surging through him and the glint fron the knife up against his neck.

Wiley faltered. He hadn't heard that nickname in over a decade. Only one man had ever called him that, and it had been ingrained that far into his mind that the Lords had never found it, no matter how much of him they scraped out and replaced.

"... John?"

John nodded, and slowly reached under the collar of his shirt. He pulled out a chain, similar— so Wiley noticed— to the one he was wearing himself. On the end were a pair of tags, and the topmost one bore a name that made him drop the knife completely.

Cross, Wilbur D.

As the relief flooded him like a monsoon, he lifted his hand to the ones around his own neck, the ones bearing John's name, and a shaky smile started to flicker on his face.

"John!"

[the-dist-ortionist]

Something I've noticed recently is people just adding trauma to their ocs for no reason. Like obviously it makes sense for ocs to have trauma but I mean some people are treating it like a "let's add every trauma ever‼️‼️" and it kinda irritates me, it's stupid but it does. Like there's a difference between a child being abused, neglected whatever than a character randomly turning into a biblicly accurate angel just because and it having almost no reason or relevance and it happening just because.

Like everything that happens to my ocs happens for a reason, if even one out of Aya, Ivonne, Ari, 206 and Nettle had not had trauma, the main plot would not have happened. And with characters like Saoirse and Sierra, they act the way they do in order to protect themselves from trauma again. Like it affects the characters.

But I've seen people just be like "oh yeah my oc was just walking in the park and then turned into a decaying corpse randomly and there's no other lore or character‼️‼️‼️" and it just bothers me since that is not how stuff works.

[paingoes]

Rubies

Habits

i really struggled w this one for some reason LOL. hope the language isnt too messy.  this part is really heavy on the conditioning aspect 

(Content: living weapon whumpee, conditioning, past emotional abuse, past captivity, implied child abuse, brief suicide mention)

=========

Lun left shortly after that. They’d said it was because of work — Lun had been inexplicably spared any penalty for the Centurion disaster and was not kept on leave the way the others had been — but Delta could not help but feel that it was because of him. 

Apollo still flitted around the house, being a bit kinder than he needed to be. He apologized again and again for having yelled in the first place; it was clear they had different definitions of what yelling meant. Delta would not have resented him for it even if he had. He’d been the one to overstep; Apollo’s reaction seemed subdued, if anything. He felt like something worse should have happened. Was that why he’d done it? 

He was starting to push his bounds, a little, trying to see what would break. It was slow-going, though. He was still afraid, still respectful, still incredibly grateful. It was just unsettling to not see anything delimited. There was nothing to ground him.

“Can I come out?” Delta asked softly from his doorway. He knew the answer, but it made him feel better to ask.

“Can I use the laptop here?” That one was more important to him. He liked being in proximity to Apollo and he was slowly warming to the internet again, but never both at the same time. He still reflexively hid the device whenever anyone came close enough that they might see he had it. He could only use it comfortably in his room — and the room got too quiet sometimes.

“Mm. You can sit on the couch, if you want,” Apollo answered, patiently reminding him. Delta shook his head. One thing at a time. He lowered himself to the ground by the coffee table. The screen was mostly concealed the way he held it so close to his chest, but it was a start.

==========

They still hadn’t caught Paris. The latest CCTV footage showed him light up a spliff as he pumped the ship with gasoline. There was no audio, but the way Paris jumped back indicated exactly what moment the gunshot had sounded off. The bullet had just missed his shoulder. He scrambled back into the ship. The gas pump clanked heavily against the ground as the ship sped away from it.

“Fucking idiot,” Delta muttered beneath his breath.

“What was that?” Apollo called from the kitchen.

“Not you. I’m sorry,” Delta said quickly. He flinched in anticipation of being hit. But Apollo went back to baking without paying him further mind. When he saw that he was making no movement towards him, Delta returned his attention to the laptop.

He’d been following the manhunt with some morbid curiosity ever since he’d learned Paris had survived that night on the airship. He’d never known anyone half so hard to kill. Like a cockroach. 

He remembered how cold Nezu had been. That day had been forever burned into his memory. How satisfied the guards had looked when they had caught him. How he been locked alone in that dark closet, left to dread his own fate. The casual way in which he’d suggested Delta’s limbs be cut off so that he could never escape. Paris had protected him from it. It was the kindest thing he had ever done for him — and Delta had been in the palm of his hand afterwards. A fragment of that sickly loyalty remained. Nezu had not made public what he intended to do with Paris, but he wanted him alive. Despite everything, Delta felt a touch of concern for him. He hoped Paris had the sense to kill himself before he was taken. 

==========

“Concern” did not even begin to cover the atmosphere at Galatea. Even as far removed from it as Delta was, where they were supposed to be off-duty, it trickled down. 

“What’s going on at Uracy?” She had asked just before she left, leaning over the counter. She’d said it low so that Delta couldn’t hear, but he was very finely attuned to that hushed tone of voice. If anything, it drew his attention more.

“Don’t worry, Kitten.” Apollo had just shook his head. He didn’t like to talk about it while they were home. 

Still, Delta could see the way his eyes got distant and contemplative just looking through the mail. He heard the phone calls even as Apollo stepped out onto the porch to take them. Delta could tell there were too many fires to put out.

Apollo didn’t offer and Delta wouldn’t have dared ask what was happening out there. But his curiosity was unkillable. He got glimpses of it through the laptop — crackdowns by the capitol, martial law declared among the harder fought territories, mass executions and exodus among the nobility who had fallen out of lockstep. He knew from experience that the pinhole view that the internet offered was often so far removed from the reality of the situation as to be essentially useless. The dissonance had even been funny once, in the worst kind of way. Now that pinhole was all he had. 

========

It was late into the night when Kitty finally came home. 

She dragged herself in through the door, stumbling a little, a small bell around her neck jingling. She’d been giggling. One of her hands was wrapped around the arm of the woman she’d brought in with her. Iza moved a bit steadier, a bit heavier, but she’d been grinning too. The both of them were piss drunk.

Delta sank down a bit in his seat. He’d worked himself up to using the chair, gradually, as long as Apollo was in the other room and not looking at him too hard. His hand stilled on the notepad just as the door opened. From the angle he sat at, he couldn’t see them enter, but he still knew immediately that they were wasted. They couldn’t see him from that angle either, though. He held still.

Apollo came out from the back of the house, rushing to meet them in the foyer.

There came a little squeee~ when Kitty saw him again. She tackled him, knocking him back into Delta’s line of sight. He watched as the new person entered the frame along with them. Short cropped hair. A tight and muscular figure that stood out against the black of her dress. Apollo’s face fell a bit when he saw her. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, swaying a little. 

“Oh, Ize. You two didn’t drive, did you?” He said into her shoulder.

“We got a ride.” Kitty bounced back on her heels. She had moved into the house enough that Delta would have been visible where he’d tucked himself in towards the corner, but it was dark enough that she did not seem to.

Iza returned the hug, then slowly unbound herself. Apollo led her over by the kitchen. It was the brightest room in the house; Delta had been sitting in near darkness when they’d come in. He watched the way they moved cautiously. Iza still had the bottle in her arms, though by now it was mostly empty. 

He’d seen her only once before, the first time he’d woken up after the rescue. He’d still been stunned and in the aftermath of fever — and she had been brisk, one among many, not paying him any particular mind. He’d seen her once and then never again, but Apollo had spoken of her often. He said she’d taken the rap for everything. She was the only senior officer they could convince to go along with the plan; all of the blame fell on her when it was over. 

“I haven’t even heard that many bad things about Bartuga. I thought for sure it would be Iselin or Kone or something,” Apollo’s voice carried softly through the house.

“It’s the flight conditions; they’re impossible. Bad connections too. You might not hear from me for a bit,” Iza explained glumly.

“What did he say to you?” 

“That I’m getting off too easy proportional to the consequences. He thinks he was premature about it.”

“Then do you think he’ll change his mind?” Kitty’s tail flickered quickly.

“No.” Iza shook her head, “He doesn’t go back on his word. It’s not like being any harder on us is going to undo the damage.”

“I think it was inevitable,” Apollo said, “The end of the war. The bloodline loyalists were already in a death spiral.”

“We thought we’d have a few more months, though,” Iza said, “Sunny, if I’d have known…”

Delta knew what she was talking about. The civil war had been a golden age for the resistance. Nezu and Paris were both getting routed constantly by rebel groups, too busy fighting each other to meaningfully suppress opposition. A divided empire was so much easier to topple. But that was over now. Nezu was in power. 

It gave Delta some bleak satisfaction to know he actually had been holding the line in some ways, some awful guilt to know that was no longer the case. He knew the kind of man Nezu was. He had felt marginally less sickened fighting against his forces than he did anybody else. 

If Galatea asked him to do it again, he would. The thought startled him, but it held firm even as he turned it over in his mind. It was his absence that had ended the war and allowed for Nezu to secure his position. Because he had asked them too. Because he had wanted an out. That debt would not go unpaid. If they asked him, he would. It was the least he could do. Of course he would. Why else would Levon have kept him alive? 

He clicked the pen a little, a nervous habit. He realized their conversation had faded out. When he looked up, they were all looking back at him.

“Oh hey,” Kitty laughed nervously. Her eyes were huge as she looked into the darkness that surrounded him. “Were you there the whole time?”

Delta nodded slow, like any sudden movements might get him hurt.

Apollo was looking at him strangely. Delta had received it plenty of times before, but never from him. It was the look people gave him when they realized he was listening — that he’d been listening the whole time. There was less suspicion in Apollo’s face, but just as much surprise and puzzlement. There was something irrevocable in it. Delta knew that once he’d seen him like that, it couldn’t be undone. He got the killer sense that he had shown his hand too early.

“Hey. C’mere.” Iza grinned drunkenly, “Got something for you.”

Something in her voice had done it. He had already stood up just as soon as he heard C’mere. He crossed the threshold and knelt in front of her, immediately, without resistance.

“Ize,” Apollo had said in warning just as soon as he’d seen Delta lowering. He couldn’t have held any sway over it, though. Delta was tethered. He was okay, too. He could do it. It wasn’t fear he felt, really. At worst, it was numbness. At its best, it was familiarity, the kind of binding he’d been desperate for.

He couldn’t tell if her expression was of confusion or exasperation, but he recognized the hand sign. Up. He rose obediently, forcing himself to keep his hands still. He didn’t know what to expect with her. It didn’t matter. He’d do it. Or take it, if he needed to. He wished dimly that the other two weren’t there to watch.

She fumbled through the sleeves of her bag. He stared blankly as she produced a silver key from inside one of the pockets. She pinched it in between her thumb and forefinger, holding it out to him.

“Here. Yours.” She tapped her neck a few times. 

Oh. He felt at his own gingerly, the place where the collar pressed up against the skin. His finger drifted over the cleft of the keyhole. The old collar didn’t even have a key. This new one was so tame and commercial that he could’ve broken it off with his fingers if he had wanted to. He never would’ve dared. He turned the key over in his hands. The meaning of the gesture was not lost on him.

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely.

“Mhm. I mean, I wouldn’t actually…”

“No,” he agreed. The powers were strong enough to burn his body up if they weren’t hemmed in, not to mention everything else. He wouldn’t actually unlock it. But she’d given him the key. It didn’t belong to anyone else. 

He played with the key in his hands, trying to look at her without quite staring. He realized he was still waiting to be dismissed. Apollo seemed to realize it too, gently calling him back. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs for him. It still felt incredibly wrong for him to be doing it. He wanted to sink back onto his knees and to beg their forgiveness, for all of it. For all the complications his existence had caused. It wouldn’t do any good. He had to rationalize Apollo’s gesture as an order. He sat down in the chair.

“Isn’t Bartuga the one with the surfing?” Kitty pulled herself up onto the counter, lightly kicking her legs back and forth.

“It’s the one with the ennui, too,” Iza frowned.

Delta listened to their speech carefully. Their conversation had definitely lightened since they’d realized he was there. It made him feel like he’d gotten caught. But there was nothing reproachful in how they treated him. He stayed silent, watching out of the corner of his eye. 

========

“Delta?” Apollo caught him the next afternoon. He’d been on the living room floor again, still working at the notepad. He liked writing — and he liked that none of them could read Latin, so his annotations were kept safe. He looked up from the page.

“Yes, sir?” 

Responsive. Still respectful. Apollo didn’t correct him for it this time, which he’s grateful for. It was so deeply ingrained that it was hard to stop — and even the gentle reminders made him feel like he was being scolded for it.

“Do you want to sit outside for a minute?” He’d phrased it as a question, but Delta sensed it was not. He closed the notebook.

“Yes, sir.”

He followed him out onto the back porch. The air was kind of wet and sticky, like it might rain at any second. But when the breeze came, it was pleasant. It carried the smell of the magnolias that had been planted in a ring around the house. 

He sat down on the wooden steps while Apollo hung back by the railing — not facing him head on, which would’ve been a lot more intimidating. Not getting in his face, the way everyone else had always insisted on. Delta twirled his own hair between his fingers; it was another childhood habit he’d thought he’d outgrown. His early handlers had punished him for fidgeting until he learned to suppress it altogether. He understood why; if he looked nervous, it cast doubt on the whole operation. But it made him feel better — and so far, they hadn’t said anything about it, even though he’d been doing it almost constantly since he arrived. It hurt his heart how patient they were being with him.

“Are you comfortable here?” Apollo asked, like he had read his mind. Delta blushed; he didn’t know why. It embarrassed him how soft he had gotten.

“Yes, sir.” He nodded. 

“Are you just saying that?” Apollo tested.

“No, sir. I’m…really grateful.” He’d meant it the first time. Grateful was the right word. He might’ve said happy, had he not been told over and over again that his feelings did not matter. Had be not been made to repeat it until he believed it. He worked a small braid into his hair. 

“Okay. I just wanted to check in with you. I can’t really tell what you’re thinking, most of the time. I don’t want to assume and be wrong. Remember you can talk to us — not just when you’re spoken to. If you have questions, you can ask.” 

Delta nodded, feeling guilty. He’d gotten caught — really early on, too. Apollo’s expression softened. He came off the railing a bit, standing closer to the opening where the steps led down.

“Is there a reason you haven’t?” 

Delta did not know how to express just how compulsory his silence had been. His throat often felt like it was physically cutting him off from speaking. Even when he was asked to, given permission to, he sometimes had to force himself. The thought of doing so unprompted made his chest tighten. He looked at Apollo apologetically, at that exact loss now. Apollo seemed to understand.

“We weren’t trying to keep you in the dark. You have a right to know what’s going on out there. Levon just really wanted you to take the time to recover, so we didn’t volunteer it at first.”

“…Recover from what?” Delta asked.

His nose had mostly healed from where it’d been broken. His ribs were less sore and the cast around his arm could come off soon. And he never even needed any of those healed to use his powers. He could still work.

Apollo looked very sad. It was his turn to be stuck finding his voice.

“Maybe ‘readjust’ is the better word?” He settled on. “You’ve been through a lot and you’re in a new environment. We didn’t want to put too much on you. But if you really want to know, it’s your choice. You just need to tell us.”

Delta nodded. That was much easier said than done, but the instructions were clear. He hadn’t been punished for eavesdropping — and Apollo had made it seem like he wouldn’t need to. He undid the braid from his hair.

=======

Iza departed that night, having slept over the night before. She was leaving for real now, off to the new post she’d been assigned to, returning to work. Delta leaned against the arm of the couch, watching her search through her bags. making sure she had everything. She caught him looking and winked.

“Good seeing you again,” she said from around the edge of the pen she had in her mouth.

“…Thank you,” Delta said quietly. He messed with the sleeves of his hoodie, finding it difficult to look at her head on. 

“Apollo tell you to say that?” She asked. 

“No, miss,” Delta answered honestly. He didn’t have to. “Just me.”

He was oddly calm. He took in her appearance, remembering just how quickly she’d been able to get him entranced. She didn’t look like Paris, not really. She was just more battle-ready than any of the others had looked, angular, more haughty. The alcohol had helped, obviously. She reminded him of Paris when Paris was good. Unbelievably, he found himself dropping his guard around her.

“Yeah, well.” She shrugged, “You’re welcome.”

His gratitude was clearly an inadequate consolation prize. She held up a finger gun to him, pretending to shoot him with a soft pew noise. He did not react.

“Be good,” she said. He watched her go.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[marune2]

Male Ida Au

Warning read the #

Summary

Why sukehiro did stop to crush Ida’s head or trow him or other things because he see what he hope he never remembers again

———————————————-

Sukehiro did realize as Ida whas a kid something is wrong whit the kid Ida never cry out of pain and take it how it is he did things Ida is just Ida but…..

Then Ida come back ida have many problems but Ida try to fight him sometimes bite he even sukehiro if he get’s zero reaction or so and then trow he Ida away or crush him but then came the situation wo many stuff make sense to him

Ida: come mother fuc€er let my go I going crush you!!!!!!“yami hold Ida on the head

Sukehiro:you so fuc€ing noisy stop or I kill you“say he mad

Ida:I don’t fuc€ing care!!! My Father did hid hater as you do!!!! Even I didn’t fell pain toush did just can’t move

Sukehiro stopped for a moment what Ida did just say :fuc€ing hell kid what do you mean?“

Sukehiro stare at the kid He did. know Nacht’s and Morgan’s parents were bad people but child beating Morgan did never say something like Nacht and Morgan would did. take Ida away immediately so what going on?

Ida:Oh I can’t fell pain I’m born whit out to Fell stuff I believe or it’s came from……“Ida looking away from sukehiro as good he can Yami Fell Ida is scared now

Sukehiro: do you think I’m stupid gremlin I mean this whit you parent

Ida:Ah this nothing „he lied

Sukehiro: so?

Ida:haaaa fuc€ing hell well…….you read it pretty mush right they whas bad people did heven harm Morgy and Machty whas not so nice……

Sukehiro just stare it’s make no sense whit Morgan he never did say something and he is protective especially whit Nacht and Ida he did. would tell or try to get Nacht and Ida away but it’s make sense whit Nacht he is a pretty good layer and whas beaten up or show other symptoms of abuse why didn’t he see it but Morgan didn’t Morgan see it as abuse? Or did something go different?

Sukehiro:well kid lucky they not here you free just life kid but Finral will talk whit you Abaut no pain think but I’m going to kill you if you die

Ida just stare at him but Ida get the idea why yami is so

Ida:hmm why do you life after this how you life? Will the brain pain going away?

Yami just stare he is sure Ida mean „trauma“

Sukehiro:Not really but it’s going be good if you do active against you pain and living situation if you fight from you freedom and even it’s mean you left you family they know exactly what they do they choices what they do exactly so don’t Fell sorry to let them past because they family they never were

Ida just stare at him yami is not a serious talker it’s surprising him really

Ida:hmm…I think you right…….I wish I did would……well yami I need my coffee and I go then to finral I guess……thank you….“as he say it let Yami go of him and Ida did just go away

Sukehiro looking surprise after Ida but he take a smoke und looking out of the window „ the past will hurt always…..“

[lyctoralsaints]

azriel has bad nights sometimes, more than half a millennia later, where his hands ache like they're still doused in oil and set aflame. he remembers it all vividly and most don't realize that he still has a fear of fire to this day; he's so good at hiding his fear, his discomfort. but when it is more overwhelming than usual, he'll sit in the corner of his room, furthest from the fireplace, and sit with his shadows –– they were there with him that day so, they know what he's been through. he has the tendency to rub at his scars, as if one day he'll be free from them. recently, especially –– with the sisters with them now –– he has taken to wearing gloves to cover a majority of them.

[ninjastormhawkkat]

Ignorant Bliss AU

This au I made on Discord combining my friend melody's highschool au idea with an amnesia au. Revised a little bit to make it more angsty. So in this au Amirana as a teen has quickly wisened up and she hates the traditions and life she is forced into by her family who has no regards for her feelings. Also Navren is still a jerk in this au. She wants to get away from it all and go on a journey of exploration and hopefully find a planet that will let her just be herself. She stole a Lexiconian space craft and began her excursion. She unfortunately got caught in a solar storm that sent her ship plummeting to Earth where she crash landed. Unlike Huggy's crash, this was more severe as her ship was destroyed. Amirana climbed out, still alive but heavily injured she walked slowly towards Fair City where she fell unconscious onto a sidewalk. She was found by worried and concerned Bampy Botsford and his son Tim. They took her to a hospital. When Amirana woke up, she had no memory of her life befor the crash. She didn't even remember what caused her injuries. She didn't recall her name nor her own species. She was taken care of at the hospital and made a full physical recovery. Thought the issue was since she was a minor and had no family to claim her yet. She would have to be sent to an orphanage or foster family. Bampy not wanting the poor kid to be alone, talked with his wife and kids about the situation. Thus Teresa Botsford was with her new family and lived the normal life of an earth woman. She went to high school and college in Fair City. She discovered her powers but out of fear did not tell her family because she was afraid of being cast aside for being not normal. She believes she is a meta human. Bampy finds out during the episode "Bampy Battles Bots." Teresa takes a job as a teacher in Fair City at Woodview. Like in my theory, she meets Steven Boxleitner when she saved the distracted scientist from nearly getting hit by a truck. Teresa does become a hero in this au after hearing about Steven's theories and analysis about heroes and villains. Her hero name is Wordwoman because of her love of words. Steven knows about Teresa's powers because she asked for his help in using them and controlling them. Steven respected her decision not to tell her family, he still believes she should tell them and that they will still love her regardless. The Botsfords love Steven. Teresa was a bridesmaid at her siblings wedding and Tim and Sally were part of her wedding party when she married Steven. In this au Teresa does become pregnant with Becky before she and Steven marry but Becky is born after the wedding during the early part of Teresa's first trimester. Becky becomes Wordgirl and her mom's partner when she gets older. I haven't decided yet where Steven still becomes Two Brains or not but if he does, it's only minor angst. Teresa during her life has vague flashbacks of her former life but nothing sustains long enough for her to fully recall anything. Her past starts to come back when a certain monkey space pilot crashes to Earth when her daughter is 11 years old. @melodythebunny @drtwobrainsstuff @blueweirdness

[there-will-be-a-way]

My current life situation

Had a good grip on my life. Did an internship at a hospital and planned to start my apprenticeship as a geriatric nurse this autumn. Finished trauma therapy in March. Stopped abusing substances. Moved forward with my transition. Established a stable social environment with friends who support me (and who are mostly like 30 years older than me because I tend to get along better with older people 🤷🏻‍♂️).

And then the next level of trauma came. Not in that I remembered more traumatic incidents. But that now, that I processed the incidents, I can see their impacts more fully. Their consequences - and there's one thing in particular that I can't live with. I think about it 24/7 when I'm not distracted. As it is now, I can't just leave it like that so I'm waiting to get an appointment at an advice center for victims of violence to maybe start the whole process of going to court for what I witnessed (or find a different way to live with the Thing).

On the other hand I doubt my "memories". I got told my doubt is more like denial. A mechanism to protect myself. But who knows. So maybe no court after all. But. I need. To do. Something. Because if I can trust my memories, I have to shine some light on what happened. Couple of days ago I realized that I've been obsessed with this "memory" since 2019.

But speaking about what I saw and experienced could end in me losing my entire family (at least that's what I think, fear). Dramatic. Pretty sure they would doubt me too. And maybe rightfully so, who knows.

But anyway. That's where I'm at atm. Not knowing whether to go left or right. What to believe and not to believe. If I can trust myself. Oh wow, more drama, Mika. There's more tension in me than I can cope with in a healthy way. Strength training works. Other than that I manage by getting drunk in the evenings to fall asleep and getting drunk during the day to avoid my thoughts and get shit done. But I haven't been doing this for long. (It always comes and goes in phases.)

I know I'll find a way, though. I always do. And although all of this sounds difficult to me, I'm still fine somehow. I'm chilling. But maybe I'm just numb.

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

consider my age, please don’t take me at this stage

Damian Wayne stands in a room of dead children and tries to remember that he’s not one of them. Not right now, anyway.

(Coda to Streets of Gotham #7)

____

@amonthofwhump‘s 12 Days of Whumpmas Prompt: Christmas Wishlist

Titles taken from the song O'Death by Amy Van Roekel.

You can find resources related to the current Roe crisis on my sideblog here.

(tw vomiting, discussions of graphic violence, past child abuse, internalized victim blaming, unreliable narrator, child death, graphic corpse description, implied decomposition, dissociation, mental health issues, trauma)

You can also see this on Ao3.

________________________________________________

“Have you been a good boy this year?” Dumpler asks, blinking at Damian from the shadows of the Arkham wagon. He’s still wearing that ridiculous red suit, pale ruff tickling his chin like a mockery of a beard.

Damian stares back at him. The standards of “good” and “bad” have been rearranged rather abruptly for him since last winter, after all. He’s not sure how well he would perform, by either his mother’s standards or his father’s, if it was all tallied up.

Well...his eyes flick past Dumpler’s head, towards the mock-orphanage and the shadows of police officers moving in and out. Grayson is still in there and Damian is out here, sent to “watch” Dumpler, as if the man’s got anything resembling fight left in him right now.

The aftertaste of vomit stings in his mouth, bitter like shame. He has a good idea of what both of his parents would think of his conduct tonight. 

It’s not like he’s a novice with corpses--he’s made plenty of his own, after all. Dead children shouldn’t bother him any more than dead adults would; there’s absolutely no excuse for his disgraceful conduct. Grandfather would probably beat him for it, and Damian would deserve every blow. 

Dumpler’s humming Christmas carols and Damian suddenly can’t stand this anymore. He squares his shoulders and turns abruptly away from the wagon, marching back towards the lit doorway like he’s going off to war. He’s not afraid, he isn’t.

When he steps inside, teeth gritted, the first thing that hits him is the smell--a mix of melting ice, a shame-inducing waft of cooling vomit, and the first dark wisps of rot. The cold had kept the corpses preserved up until his and Grayson’s idiotic blunder, but not the space is filled with light and heat. The place will smell like a charnel house, like the proving grounds at high noon--

Enough. Damian clenches his fists at his side, palms sinking into his flesh hard enough to leave marks. He forces his gaze down over the bodies, tracing the outline of bruised flesh and crooked limbs.

Dumpler had washed the bodies, hidden them in shadow, but there was a lot he couldn’t get rid of. Now the lights are up, every one, dead children laid out like a feast. The toys watch at their sides like sentries, jewel-bright eyes blinking.

Deep breaths--one, two, three. Assume command of the scene.

Mother’s hand on his shoulder, breath warm in his ear. He takes care not to look over his shoulder, because her eyes are glowing green again and the sight makes him nauseous. Look at the faces. Tell me what you see. 

I see my father cutting through the crowd like a shark.

I see the target’s eyes when she watches her wife.

I see my cousin’s face smashed in with a rock. Mara’s father was never the favorite child--I had to start brushing maggots away before Grandfather deigned to bring her back.

I see dead children and one of them is...

“Robin?” He stiffens a little, glancing up. Grayson and two police officers whose names Damian doesn’t care to remember are coming from a back room, closing the door on more bodies, more children. “I told you to watch Humpty.”

“Dumpler is fine,” Damian snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s not just Dumpler they’re talking about, and they both know it. Grayson bites his lip, but thankfully has enough self-restraint not to get into things in front of the police.

One of said police is turning to look over the corpses. “Dumpler fits the bill,” he declares. “There’s probably enough of his DNA in here to fry him--”

“Because he took care of the bodies after,” Grayson points out.

“He says he did,” the cop shoots back.

Grayson huffs. “Humpty’s mental state--”

“He didn’t do it,” Damian cuts in. “They did it to each other. Some of them, anyway.”

They both look back at him. Damian bites his lip, trying not to feel pinned down by their gazes. Keep it together.

“See those handprints?” he says, gesturing to one boy’s throat. “Too small for Dumpler’s--or any adult or teen’s, for that matter.” He curls his hand over markings, lets them see how small they are.

He hits a man in the throat, and he falls back, twitching. The mark he leaves is smaller than the one his instructor did when she showed him how to do it.

“She’s missing hair,” Damian says, pointing to another girl. “And judging from corresponding length, texture, and coloring, he’s got some of it under his nails,” he explains, gesturing back at the other boy.

Mother cried out the first time he tried to yank on a strand of her long, dark hair during a fight. He let go on instinct and the pain vanished from his eyes, instantly placed by a triumphant smile. “You cannot let your enemy’s suffering distract you,” she’d told him afterward as they bandaged each other up.

“Small fist here, with no training.” He waves at a child’s cheek, the only part of their face not covered by matted brown hair. “The opponent broke their fingers.”

He does not remember where he learned to throw a punch--the same place he learned to wield a sword, that strange, hazy part of pre-memory.

“Robin--” Grayson asks. What is his problem? Damian is calm, calm, calm. Words fall from his lips like stones, cold and hard, laid out neatly for perusal.

“They didn’t know what they were doing. There are much more precise ways to fracture a skull.” He gestures to the side of a girl’s head, smashed dark red and twisted, before moving to the raggedly sliced neck of the body. 

“And these cuts are sloppy. Most of them were holding weapons too big for them.” Damian’s cuts are never sloppy but the sight of a too-big blade in a too-small hand leaves distinctive marks that he knows all too well.

The officers are looking at him the way Drake used to, fear edged with a hint of contempt. Damian ignores it.

Mother gave him an island once, then left him on it, weaponless, for three months. He almost died many times that first month and discovered he was happier with animals for company than people.

The second month she started sending people in to kill him and he discovered how many times you have to bash someone’s head in with a rock until they stop twitching. After the third month he had to relearn how to speak. That made her unhappy, although whether out of disappointment or sorrow he never dared to ask.

“Fighting over food, maybe?” one officers asks the other other. “Or drugs?” Neither is directly at Damian; he suspects that his presence makes them uncomfortable. This happens a lot.

“What kind of kids would do this to each other?” One of the cops, he can’t tell which. There’s confusion in his voice, maybe even horror.

What kind of child indeed.

“Kids who have no choice,” Grayson snaps. “None of the fatal handprints are from adults, but there are bruises from larger hands, and some are almost as fresh. They were...dragged.”

Shoved. Pushed. Stumbling onto hot sand, holding a blade tight. Everyone is watching. His shoulder aches and the fight hasn’t even begun.

“There are bruise marks from cage bars, too,” Grayson adds. He takes a step towards Damian and Damian’s legs twitch with the sudden urge to move back, to cover his exits. “Like they were kept somewhere and then released.”

Damian has the vague sense he’s supposed to nod but can’t entirely remember how. “...Yes.” The handprints on the wrists or shoulders are large, the ones on the throat are small. The nail marks, gouged frantically through each other’s skin, are small. He can see the small, small shimmer of teeth come loose, buried in flesh.

You could put one under your pillow, Grayson says as they look down at Damian’s tooth. Damian can’t imagine being foolish enough to openly invite a stranger into their home.

“They didn’t think about what they were doing,” Damian tells the corpses. “They weren’t thinking clearly.” It’s something Mother would say, and he can’t decide where that would put him on a list like Dumpler’s. Good or bad?

“They couldn’t,” Grayson says, deliberately gentle. Chiding, maybe? It’s hard to tell. 

“Too much all at once for a gang initiation,” Damian says. “More like a...” Blood splashes across his feet. “...fighting ring.” Show us what you can do.

An al Ghul would never fight for the entertainment of the unwashed masses. But that does not mean the al Ghul’s would never fight for anyone’s entertainment. Damian can feel his grandfather’s eyes burning into his back. Unless it’s the police looking at him instead. Or the dead children, glassy-eyed and dull, like a fish display.

He doesn’t want to look. He has to look. Watch or die. Damian’s face is reflected in every child’s eye, every glimmer of melting ice. He brushed bugs off Mara’s face as she rotted in the sun, while Dusan begged Grandfather for the right not to deem his daughter a failure, to let her be brought back. Her foot had skidded--it could have happened to anyone on the dusty fighting grounds. It had happened to Damian before.

“We’ll need to look at shelters, foster homes, see who’s missing,” Grayson says. His voice curls into something--anger, maybe, or frustration, directed nowhere in particular. “Who wouldn’t be missed. This is a--business--that needs a steady supply of product.”

He sits with her because he feels he must. He’d stabbed her because he felt he’d had to. One of those actions was some kind of moral weakness, he’s sure of it, or maybe both, but he can’t remember which one.

Follow the trail. See who holds the strings. Mother, Father, Grayson. In the end, they all sound the same.

"Some of the cuts are neater than others.” Damian’s voice sounds far away. He can see them, poking out through the layers of bruises and brokenness, older, sloppier marks folded on top of each other, to the red flowers beneath them. “Especially on the older ones, or the better-fed ones, with injuries to the knuckles or hands than the face. The ones who won more fights. They rose higher and higher until they faced--”

After he fights Mara, he fights Dusan, face blank with fury that will never be directed at Grandfather. He wins, but barely, and is left shaking and bleeding. Then Grandfather decides to spar, and Damian’s memories are all green fire and screaming afterwards

“Someone who knew what they were doing.” The words sound so cold, so empty. The words of someone 

Damian usually fought adults, not children, as befitting one of his position. There were other children in the League, of course--it was a good way of bolstering their numbers from the best stock--but he was mostly kept apart. Sometimes he trained them, or was set against a pack of them

or was ordered to punish a particular one for the sins of their parents

but none of them were started quite as early as he was, none finessed from the womb like he was. Not even Mara, skilled as she was.

Damian was greater than the children, greater than the adults. He was the best, he had to be. He’s beyond this stinking room, these cold, staring bodies. Or he should be, but he still looks down and reads the corpses like his own history.

“The cuts are precise, designed to cause suffering,” he tells them. “To draw out the display as long as possible.” Pay attention, Grandson. This is how you make it hurt. The knife sinking into his flesh, the knife he uses to sink into someone else’s. It all feels the same. “The watchers stop betting on who wins and start betting on how long this one will last.”

Mara jabs her blade into his ribcage. The traitor screams as Damian breaks her child’s neck between his palms. Everything tastes of blood and ice.

"They are told that the strongest, bravest, fiercest of them will be allowed to survive, but none of them get that far. There is always someone better, someone greater, waiting in the wings. It was set against them from the beginning; they got blood on their hands for nothing. Foolish to--”

“Robin.”

Damian blinks. Grayson is kneeling in front of him, light glinting off his white eye coverings. His hand hovers in the air like he’s going to touch Damian’s shoulder, but he isn’t sure if he should.

It dawns on Damian that at some point, he’s shifted into parade rest. Why is he in parade rest? Grayson hates it when he gives reports in parade reset.

“Robin, can you look at me?” Grayson says, voice soft.

He is looking at Grayson. Isn’t he? Or is he still looking at the corpses, laid out so carefully for his perusal? Body after body after body. Smashed, broken, too, worthless to both sides.

“The more precise cuts all come from a downwards angle,” Grayson says, voice soft, eyes burning into Damian like hot coals. “An adult was responsible, not a child. An adult was watching and let it happen. This was done by adults. The kids didn’t do anything wrong. They were just trying to stay alive.”

“I...” Damian’s mouth is dry, like sand in his throat. Exactly like sand in his throat.

The cop behind Grayson turns to his partner. “Crazy as Humpty, that one,” he mutters, jerking his head in Damian’s direction. “Last Robin was a known-it-all, but at least he wasn’t a--”

“Do you have something to contribute, officer?” Grayson’s voice is cold and sharp as glass. It’s not a Batman growl; it’s something else, something all his own and designed to cut. The officers both go still.

“My partner and I will be leaving now,” Grayson says, rising to his feet. “Thank you for your assistance.”

We have more to do, Damian wants to protest. I can look longer, I’m not weak, I’m not-- But the words are swept away in a blast of cold as the door closes behind them. Dumpler’s wagon is gone and the frost beads cold against his skin. He stands on the doorstep, feeling himself sway slightly in the breeze, but unable to stop it.

“Can I pick you up?” Grayson asks.

His lips form the words I can walk, but nothing comes out. When Grayson reaches for him, Damian can’t even make a pretense of wriggling away. His fingers are numb and tingling, his head ringing, blood pulsing behind his eyes.

He grabs for anger--anger always helps--but it slips from his fingers, fire winking out in his hands. Anger won’t bring the children back, anyway. The Lazarus Pit is a gift/curse offered to very few (and to be honest, there are plenty of nights when Damian’s not entirely sure it did its job at all).

“You’re okay, Dames,” Grayson says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He sounds like he really believes it.

The world slips by in a buzzing gray blur, snow and sand and ash all melting into each other. The distant press of Grayson’s fingers against his skin feels like the only thing keeping Damian grounded.