#tear trigger

[blueskittlesart]

Now that you're gone

[whumpypepsigal]

A Quiet Place: Day One (2024)

#just breathe

[llamagoddessofficial]

hello llama

i have been thinking and headcanoning about vampire bad sanses lately, so i was curious if you have any thoughts about or interest in vampires of the nightmare and crew variety? (人 •͈ᴗ•͈)

"do i have interest in vampires", he asks

ok, i will share my extensive vampire brainrot. but in return..... you have to write that vampire fic.... oooOOooO look into my eyes you know you want to write it ooOoOooo 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

I very much like the idea of Nightmare's castle being Castlevania-style. Lots of spooky architecture, lots of ancient magical passages that haven't been seen in centuries.

Horror can be summed up in one word. Bloodlust. There's a constant hunger inside him he can't ever seem to fill, driving him almost to the point of madness. He is more beast than man. When he smells or tastes blood, he loses control of himself, becoming little more than a starving wild animal - his capability for slaughter is limited only by his appetite. So unless Nightmare requires it, he generally abstains from blood. He doesn't like losing himself so entirely.

Something about you makes him forget his hunger. Is it your voice? Your scent? He has no idea, but oh, it feels good to feel whole. When you're around it's as if he'll never be hungry again... he follows you like a dog, grinning intensely every time you look at him. This is one hound that can't be shaken.

Despite his 'condition', he finds a lot of solace in cooking. Nothing will give him the same drug-like rush as blood but human food is nonetheless warm and filling and distracts him momentarily from the emptiness. He enjoys the process of making it, too, doing something with his hands. Let him cook for you, please? Watching you eat brings him vicarious joy.

Dust's backstory is one of legend. Something resembling a story can be spun from the loose whispers. A vampire invaded his peaceful isolated village hundreds of years ago, intending to turn the helpless populace into enslaved vampires. Dust, the first to be bitten, turned and slaughtered them all himself - and despite being a vampire for barely a week, the equivalent of a stumbling newborn, he killed the centuries-old invading vampire in single combat.

No one's quite sure why he's joined Nightmare. Perhaps Nightmare was keen to take this uniquely violent creature under his wing, and Dust just didn't really care where the wind took him. Or perhaps he has some other motive, hidden beneath that silent face. Who knows.

... Dust might be quiet, but it's obvious he's fixated on you. Which is a big deal. This is a creature who hasn't mustered a second thought for anything but blood for decades; but somehow, you've excited him. He's very clearly interested in you, silently watching your every move, listening intently to every word you say. Too bad he's not much for conversation.

Killer's backstory, on the other hand, is shrouded entirely in mystery. No one knows where he came from, who he is, or what he's done. He simply appeared one day - right within the coveted inner circle of Nightmare himself. He's the Night King's most trusted weapon, and the closest thing he has to a friend.

Killer seems very clear about what he wants. He thinks you're adorable, and he says you'd make such a pretty vampire. He talks (at length) about how much he wants to bite you, and how if it were up to him you'd already be one of them. A lot of his flirting involves calling you things like sweet treat and honeyblood. However... despite all the taunting, all the talk of seeing you as food, Killer is the one in the castle who treats you with the most respect. The others seem to see you as an object, a cute toy, something to squish and own. Killer talks to you like you're a real person. You can't help but like him for it.

Nightmare's inferiority complex has driven him to declare himself the king of the vampires. No one contests - Nightmare is royalty by blood, and vampires place a lot of emphasis on blood. But even if he wasn't, Nightmare frequently murders those who won't bend the knee. Plenty of powerful vampires have fallen embarrassingly fast at his hand.

... Nightmare's goal is to make you agree to be his spouse. A pretty little human partner would be excellent for his image. It would not only demonstrate his incredible self control as such an ancient vampire (not to mention his control over his warriors), but it would also show that his power is so great he doesn't need to strike a political marriage with another powerful vampire. It might also convince some of the pesky rebellious human groups to settle down.

His pride means that he won't force you. Not yet, at least. He likes to think he can seduce you. He's a royal vampire, after all, and you're just a simple human - isn't it only a matter of time?

... But it seems like, as time goes on... he's the one falling.

[thisischeri]

instagram: cheri.png

[lone-pylon]

stimming :>

[tricoufamily]

look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes—

prev | next

[writeouswriter]

I always say how I love psychologically torturing my characters until I create a genuinely devastating backstory for one and feel so bad it's like I'm clicking the mean dialogue in a video game, I'm like I can't do that, that's illegal

[scribe-of-hael]

Till All Are One

[chimpukampu]

All I want in TOTK is a nerve-wracking theme that can beat the Guardian Theme in BOTW

[somedayillbepeterpan]

My tears are falling non-stop and my emotions are out of whack again after watching all of Polin scenes from S1-S2 and then S3 in its entirety.

Honestly, I stand by my opinion that S3 is the best season ever.

I love Polin so much 😭😭😭

[mayhem-ensues]

I am never going to emotionally recover from this...

[radiobarf]

INKTOBER 2023

DAYS 07-12

[ryuusea]

八乙女楽 ESCAPE FROM NOW

[ragnarokhound]

((you don’t have to do both if you don’t want to, you can consider this one a back up / alt))

“If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.” 💞

From this writing prompt list i reblogged in...november lmao fljdsjfa

anyway this grew legs and sprinted away the second I picked it up yesterday - clearly it just needed some time to proof lmao. Thank you for the ask, tauria!! From *checks watch* almost 5 months ago fjdslafjsa I will be cross-posting it to Ao3 in my new oneshot collection fic :)

Warnings for: Vague allusions that Ra's Al Ghul is a creep (what else is new), threats of gun violence, canon-typical violence

15. “If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.”

When Tim arrived in Gotham this morning, he had no way of knowing that his day would end in Jason Todd’s bed. 

Frankly, he wasn’t really sure what bed he’d end up in— because his own certainly wasn’t an option right now. But If he had to pick, Jason Todd’s was somewhere near the bottom of whatever list he’d make.

He didn’t exactly plan on this, okay? 

But, uh. Let’s back up a little.

—

Tim knew his day was going to go to shit when he got back from the airport at 7 AM.

He had his driver drop him off two blocks away from his townhouse for the sake of caffeine at the hole in the wall place he likes. Wealthy CEO he may be, but a sixteen hour flight is still a sixteen hour flight and Tim is cursed with an inability to sleep in the air. 

Don’t ask. He’s tried. It doesn’t work.

So he wants coffee, and he wants a shower, and he wants his own bed. In that order.

With the first thing on his list acquired and blessedly burning his tongue, he managed to tug his brain cells together enough to realize that the building they’d passed that had been shrouded in tents and canvas was his building.

"What's going on here?"

The worker outside his building looks up from her clipboard, her face wrinkling into apprehensive confusion.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

He hasn’t slept in roughly seventy two hours. He is not awake or patient enough for this.

“My name is Tim Drake. I own this building. What’s going on here?” He repeats.

The woman raises her eyebrows and looks down at her clipboard again. “Mr. Drake?” She questions, clearly expecting him to look like a grown-ass man and not a sleep-deprived college student coming home from spring break or whatever.

“Yes. Timothy Drake-Wayne. Why are you—” he tries to gesture with the hand still holding his suitcase handle, walking towards the tarps and tents erected around his townhouse with increasing trepidation, “—here?”

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there. Not for at least forty-eight hours.”

Tim stops in his tracks.

“Forty-eight—?”

“We've been scheduled to fumigate the property today.” She says it like she’s reading it out of a handbook. “It won't be safe to enter the building for at least forty-eight hours. You should have received prior notice. Uh. Sir.”

Tim's jet-lagged brain kicks into overdrive. 

Bruce hasn't made any disappointed noises about Tim’s perfectly normal work ethic lately so it probably wasn't a misguided attempt at benching him. And besides, rendering Tim’s apartment inaccessible is counterproductive on that front. 

Dick wouldn’t. They haven’t been exactly— great, lately but he wouldn’t. Besides, if he wanted to get Tim out of the house more, he’d show up to drag Tim out into the daylight himself. This is a little too roundabout for him.

It’s too much work to be Steph. She would think it’s funny, but there’s no way she’d follow through.

Damian might, but this doesn’t quite fit his preferred methods for making Tim’s life hell. It could be some cloak and dagger maneuver to leave him vulnerable, faking a complaint to the city so he’ll—

And then Tim thinks about the call.

The call he’d brushed off at fuck o’clock in the morning somewhere over Europe, too busy with another project. The call his secretary took for him instead. He thinks about the distracted confirmation he’d given to whatever it was she’d asked him about five minutes later. 

He also thinks about the form he signed about two weeks ago, before this last minute trip to Hong Kong had consumed his entire attention. The one with “Two Weeks Notice” stamped across the top. His stomach sinks.

“Today,” he repeats.

She looks apologetic. “Today,” she confirms. “And we just started about an hour ago. I’m very sorry, Mr. Drake-Wayne but—”

"No it's—" he says through gritted teeth, "fine. I'll just. Make other arrangements."

—

He does not make other arrangements. Though not for lack of trying.

Tim has a handful of safehouses scattered throughout the city. He has options. He gets a taxi to the closest neighborhood, and nearly falls asleep in the backseat. The cabby has to knock on the glass divider to get his attention when they come to a stop. He grumbles and hauls his suitcase out of the backseat, and tips the man excessively.

Shower. Bed. Sleep. He’s so close he could cry.

Except when he finally rolls around the block, coffee half gone and trying to remember if this safehouse is the one with in-unit laundry or if he’ll have to haul his shit down to the laundry room, his building is a blackened husk with police tape all around it.

He stops on the sidewalk. He peers up at the window of his unit, squinting at the peeling black wood and shattered glass. He ponders whether two is enough data points to be considered a pattern. And whether he could get away with napping in the alley on this street or if that’ll end with him stabbed and robbed.

As he’s pondering, he catches sight of a passerby and stops him.

“‘Scuse me,” he says apologetically. “What the hell happened here?”

The guy looks up from his phone and takes in his rumpled clothes, his suitcase, and the scorched remains of his apartment.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, there was a big fire about a week back? Bad fire. Took out, like, half the block. Cops are saying it’s arson.”

“A week ago,” Tim repeats. The guy’s eyes widen.

“Oh shit, bro, did you live here?”

“I’ve been out of town,” he explains numbly.

“Dude, that sucks. And right in the middle of con’ season. Good luck finding a hotel!”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs as the guy walks away. “Thanks.”

—

The next safehouse he tries isn’t in much better shape. 

He remembers hearing about Freeze going on a rampage a few days into his trip, but he hadn’t realized another one of his places had been caught in the cross-fire. The cold burst the pipes, and now the whole place is undergoing renovation.

He hears all this from the crotchety old lady who lives in the next building over (her building needs renovation too, but will the city pay for it? Of course not, they weren’t ‘directly impacted by disaster’ so they won’t see a penny of relief funds even though their pipes are on the same line. Typical) and when he finally extricates himself from the conversation, it’s almost noon, his second cup of coffee is long-since empty and he’s at the end of his goddamn rope.

By the time he sees his next safehouse, he isn’t even surprised anymore.

“Does God hate me?” He asks the boarded up building. “Is this a punishment? What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”

He is 99% sure at this point that someone is burning his bolt holes. There’s a short list of people with the resources and the intel to do it, and while he’s not above ruling out the likes of Damian just yet, he seriously doubts anyone wearing a bat is behind this. 

Besides, Dick would have noticed by now if Damian were sinking this many resources into convoluted covert ops designed to make Tim suffer. Definitely. Probably.

Fuck it.

He goes around the back and hops on top of his suitcase to reach the clunky camera watching the back entrance. This building is on the shittier side, closer to Crime Alley than his other haunts; cameras break all the time around here. He’ll have it replaced after he’s a functional human again.

Reportedly, this building was tagged for ‘high toxicity levels’—  which is pretty typical for any building where fear toxin or Joker gas are found in any amount. They must have found a lot to condemn the whole building, but Tim is confident he’ll be fine. The airborne shit dissipates to safe levels within hours depending on the ventilation. If it was in the air, it’s long gone. Anything else needs to be injected to be effective.

Once the camera’s busted, he kicks out the boards and heads inside.

He drags his suitcase in after him, and mourns the shower he probably won’t be getting. The hall lights are out, and chances are the water’s been shut off along with the electricity. But at this point, he simply does not give a shit. All he wants are four walls and a mattress.

Leaning on the door to his floor to make it open, he stumbles out into the hallway—

And catches sight of the glistening curved dagger stabbed into the wall next to his door, the hilt gleaming green in the sinking sun.

“Nope,” Tim says, spinning on his heel and going back down the stairwell double time. “Nope, nope, nope.”

He is now 100% certain that the League of Assassins has been burning his bolt holes. Ra’s al fucking Ghul can eat his whole ass.

—

Seven blocks away, Tim sits on the sidewalk in front of a bodega and contemplates a third cup of coffee. The shittiest one yet.

See, here’s the thing.

The thing is, he has options.

He could go to the Manor. Or the penthouse. Or to Steph’s place. He’d have to answer some unnecessary questions like ‘Master Timothy, you know you can’t sleep on aircraft, why didn’t you sleep before your flight’ or ‘Tim, why didn’t you come here first, you know you can still come to me if you’re in trouble, right’ or ‘why did you agree to fumigate your fucking house, you loser, lmao’. (Stephanie is not going to let him live this down). 

He is absolutely certain that he would be welcomed in any of these places and after a completely undeserved amount of fussing, he could take a fucking nap and someone else would deal with the League bullshit for him.

And that’s the thing. There’s the rub.

No one should have to deal with the League bullshit for him. This is his problem. He’s not in a hurry to bring them down on anyone. Not even Damian.

With grim resignation, he reaches for his phone to try and find a hotel room (during a con’ weekend apparently, RIP) and maybe get a fucking handle on this whole stupid thing, when he hears:

“Hand over your wallet!”

He lifts his head slowly and finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun held by some guy wearing a ski mask in broad fucking daylight. There’s another guy next to him who’s watching the street. There’s a third guy somewhere behind him who he can’t see, but he can hear the scuff of his boots.

Sure. Why not. With the day he’s had, this might as well happen. He holds up his hands placatingly.

Tim contemplates his muggers. The guy with the gun is jittery, probably new to this, or hopped up on something. He keeps glancing between Tim and the bodega behind him, so they were probably planning a run on the till. Might have chickened out, or thought Tim was an easier target, an unexpected meal ticket plopped right in their path. Or they were already inside when Tim sat down, which wouldn’t bode well for his situational awareness seeing as he just came out of there himself.

The grinding gears of his tired brain keep getting caught on the fact that this is happening in the middle of the fucking day. Tim glances at the street corner and bites his cheek in frustration. Yeah, he’s smack dab in the middle of the Alley. Figures.

“Are you deaf or somethin’ man?” The guy with the gun is saying. “Hand over your fucking wallet!”

The other guy doesn’t seem as crazy-eyed. He’s nervous, though. He keeps looking around like he’s expecting Batman to materialize, to come whistling down the street like a beat cop.

“Dude, come on, it’s not fucking worth it,” he says, grabbing at the gunman’s shoulder. “We got the money, let’s fucking go.”

The third guy kicks over Tim’s suitcase. “Yeah, come on, Don, let’s just grab this shit and bounce.”

Tim can’t do anything. He’s not Red Robin right now. He’s Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and he’s getting mugged in front of a bodega at two in the afternoon in a rumpled suit and tie and still toting his suitcase from his early morning flight. 

His hands are trembling from unspent adrenaline, too much caffeine, and not enough sleep. His eyelids are the heaviest they’ve ever been in his godforsaken life. His ears are ringing. He could knock all three of them down in less time than it takes to tie his shoelaces. But he can’t.

“Shut up, Johnny, look at him shaking! What’s he gonna do? If he doesn’t wanna get shot, rich boy’s gonna hand over all his fucking shit!”

“Hey, let’s just—” Tim tries to say.

Stars explode across his vision as Tim takes a punch he genuinely wasn’t expecting. He stares up at the blue sky for about half a second, more confused than anything else, before the gunman grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him up to shout in his face.

“What’s it gonna be, pretty boy?!”

Caught on the exhausted edge between vigilante training and the preservation of his identity, Tim is frozen. He doesn’t know what to do. He kind of wants to cry.

“Gee, Donny, what is it gonna be?” A fourth voice says, full of false cheer.

Tim blinks. So do the muggers. 

He knows that voice.

“Who the fuck—?” The gunman drops Tim, spinning around and into a fist. He tumbles down to the ground, out cold.

Everything happens pretty quickly after that.

Jason Todd is in civvies. He’s sporting a worn out looking hoodie and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. But his heavy boots are the same ones he wears for his uniform, and the kick he delivers to Johnny’s face is all Red Hood.

Almost in a daze, Tim watches him fight with the usual mix of seething envy and raw desire that rears its ugly head any time he gets to see Jason in action. He’s fast, decisive. Efficient. Beautiful. Tim wishes he had Jason’s skill. And he wishes— 

Well. He wishes a lot of things about Jason Todd.

Tim is pretty sure he and Jason are friends. Maybe. Probably. They’ve pretty much moved past the whole “replacement”, “zombie-dickhead” part of their relationship and have graduated to occasionally providing backup on ops that overlap in each other’s sectors, ganging up on Dick when they’re all in the same room, and maintaining a surprisingly steady stream of vigilante gossip to keep each other in the loop. 

So, ok, yes, due to the aforementioned, he’s pretty sure they’re friends. And also because Jason wouldn’t have stuck his neck out for him otherwise. He would have just let him get mugged.

Watching Jason fight is one of Tim’s favorite pastimes. But right now, Tim’s usual appreciation is soured by the gut-roiling embarrassment of being caught in this position by Jason of all people. His eyes itch. His cheek throbs. He’s so fucking tired.

“Hey, little stalker,” Jason says suddenly, holding out an expectant hand in Tim’s face. The muggers are groaning on the ground around them. Tim isn’t sure when that happened. He might have zoned out. “Did you know that you had a stalker for a change?”

Tim flushes. “I resent that. I haven’t stalked anyone in years.” He takes the hand. It’s warm, and calloused, and big around his.

Jason laughs at him and yanks him to his feet. “Liar.”

Tim’s mouth twists into a scowl. He tries to glare at Jason, but he can feel himself swaying and Jason still hasn’t let go of him, and it’s ruining everything.

Also, lowkey, Jason is right. But in his defense, it is literally their job to stalk people, so.

“I haven’t stalked you in years then. Just other guys. Bad guys. Not non-bad guys. Fuck. You know what I mean. Whatever.” He pauses; recalibrates. “Had?” He asks.

Jason’s eyebrows inched higher and higher the longer Tim talked. Tim doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah. Had.” 

So much for the League, Tim muses.

Jason gives him a once over before tugging decisively on Tim’s wrist, easily grabbing the handle of his suitcase and starting to walk with both in tow, to Tim’s rising horror. 

“You’re coming with me, shortstack. What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk? You look like shit.”

Tim tries to yank his wrist out of Jason’s grip, but the asshole doesn’t budge. “I’m not drunk,” Tim snaps. “I’m fine. I’m just. I’m just… really tired.”

Jason stops abruptly, and Tim stumbles into his shoulder.

“I can see that,” he says, steadying Tim with an amused but ultimately sympathetic look. He loads Tim’s suitcase onto the back of a motorcycle that Tim literally just now noticed. 

God, he’s fucked. And not even in a fun way. 

“C’mon,” Jason says. “Don’t fall asleep on the way over— road rash sucks ass.”

—

They don’t talk on the way to— wherever Jason is taking them, but once they’re parked in a random garage and walking towards the elevators, the game of twenty questions begins.

“So why’ve you got League assassins after you, anyway? Piss in a lazarus pit? Push over the baby brat on the playground?”

“Ra’s al Ghul wants my body,” Tim says, dejected but resigned to this bizarre fact of his life. “Since I was seventeen, I’m pretty sure.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“I don’t think it’s a sex thing? But it could also be a sex thing.”

“Again. Fucking ew.”

“Yeah. Also I blew up a bunch of his shit and I think he’s still salty I got away with it.”

“Is that why you weren’t at the Manor?” Jason asks, herding Tim out of the elevator and down a long hallway. “Or anywhere but a random street in Crime Alley?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. They found all my safehouses, but— my mess. My problem.”

Jason thwacks him upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“You’re the dumbest person on the planet.”

“Am not. B is on-planet right now.”

“Then you’re pretty fucking close,” Jason snarks, fishing out some keys and opening one of the apartment doors.

Tim scoffs at him as he’s pushed inside. “Oh, please. Don’t try to tell me you would let Dick swoop in and solve all your problems for you.”

Jason rolls his eyes, stepping into the side kitchen and popping open the freezer door of the fridge.

“Dickiebird can’t even solve his own problems,” he says as he rummages. “But maybe when I’m fucked up enough to let three nobodies robbing a fucking bodega get the jump on me, that’s a sign that, maybe, it might be time to call in the cavalry. Dick isn’t the only person who’s got your back.” He presses an ice pack to Tim’s face until he takes it himself, and keeps steering him through the apartment. “Just saying.”

Tim would protest with all of his very good reasons why Jason is definitely wrong here, but he’s too busy processing the fact that Jason has led him into a bedroom. With a bed. There’s a bed, with a mattress and pillows and blankets. Right there. Tim stares at it with lustful eyes.

Jason catches him staring. He rolls his eyes, but he’s sporting a small smile that Tim has the presence of mind to memorize. He walks over to a dresser and pulls out a big shirt and a pair of shorts that he hands to Tim.

“Look. If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here. No guarantees I’ll be always around, but, yeah. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

Tim eyes him up, clutching the bundle of Jason-smelling fabric in his hands. “And you’d do that for me because…why, exactly?”

Jason flicks his forehead, a stinging reprimand. Tim hisses.

“Because, dumbass, you need help and I feel like it. And you don’t actually suck to be around, so shut up and be grateful.”

“Oh, yes,” Tim deadpans, rubbing at his forehead. “So grateful to be allowed the privilege of squatting with you.”

The thing of it is, Tim is grateful. But Jason doesn’t need to know that.

Jason squawks, and before Tim can duck, he’s snatched Tim around the neck in a headlock. His arm is thick and doesn’t budge no matter how Tim shoves and kicks. The ice pack and the clothes go flying, and Tim just about dies. Jason is warm.

“Jason—!”

“Brat!” Jason crows, not giving an inch. “I paid for this place fair and square— you’re the only squatter here!”

“Blood money doesn’t count as square!”

“Tell that to half of Gotham, kid.”

“I’m trying to, thanks for noticing,” Tim says, finally wrenching himself free of Jason’s grip, stumbling into the bed and giving into its siren song. He sits down heavily on the edge, toppling over sideways and reaching pathetically for the fallen ice pack that’s just out of his reach.

“And don’t call me kid—” he complains, muffled by the pillow. It also smells like Jason. “You’re barely two years older than me.”

The cold ice pack is pressed into his fingers. He cracks an eye open to look, but Jason is just smirking at him, like he’s giving Tim the win. Ass.

“Coulda fooled me, shortstack.”

Tim rolls his eyes, and onto his back, toeing off his shoes and letting them clatter to the floor. He can’t tell if Jason’s bed is the best bed in the world, or if he’s just deliriously inventing things.

Frankly, Jason Todd’s bed is the last place he ever thought he’d end up, this morning or otherwise, so he’s never bothered to speculate. He does not have a contingency plan for this.

“Is there a reason you keep calling me short,” he complains, “Or will I just need to fill in the blanks myself?”

“Can’t help it. You’re just so small,” Jason coos. Tim props himself up on an elbow at that, raising a disgusted eyebrow.

“You don’t hear me constantly talking about how big you are.” 

Jason grins like he just won the lottery; Tim shuts his eyes the second it’s out of his mouth.

“Baby, you don’t know how big I am.”

He does, actually. Not in a creepy stalker way, just— there was this one time. A big rogue breakout at Arkham, all-hands on deck type of situation; Tim, Cass, and Jason were covering Poison Ivy in the park. Acid-spitting pitcher plants were involved.

And look, Jason’s tactical gear is fine in the day to day, but it’s not like any of them had time to prep a neutralizing agent, so when Jason needed his pants off, stat…uh. Well. Tim was right there.

He knows, okay?

“Alright,” he rallies, trying desperately not to replay the memory of Jason adjusting himself through his boxers. All of himself. “I walked right into that one.”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll know if you’ve walked into it.”

Tim scoffs, but he can feel how red his face is.

And the thing is. He says it without really meaning to. 

But he still means it.

“You gonna put your money where your mouth is, big guy?”

The change is immediate. Jason had been halfway out the door, but now he turns to Tim, giving him his full, undivided attention. He looks at Tim, laid out in Jason's bed, giving him a very slow once over. The scrutiny is at once nerve-wracking and thrilling.

“Thought you didn’t want my money,” Jason murmurs.

The temperature in the room spikes. If it weren’t for the slow throb of his bruised cheek, Tim would think that he’s already asleep and dreaming.

But he isn’t. He’s very much aware that he’s wide awake.

Tim swallows. “Well. It’s not your money I want.”

Jason’s grin is electric. 

He stalks over to the bed, and Tim is frozen like a rabbit, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Jason settles a knee on the sheets between Tim’s legs, looming over Tim and boxing him in against the mattress. Tim’s free hand reaches up of its own accord to tangle in the collar of Jason’s hoodie, and the cotton is softer than he expected.

Jason’s eyes rove over his face, dark and heavy. He catches Tim’s face in his hand, swiping his thumb lightly across the bruising hot ache of his cheekbone. He leans in deliberate and slow and—

—and stops about an inch away from Tim’s mouth.

“Get some sleep, babybird,” Jason teases, his breath puffing gently over the skin of Tim’s lips. “You can proposition me again tomorrow.”

“It’s, like, 3:30 in the afternoon,” Tim argues, breathless.

“Yeah, and your body thinks it’s 3:30 in the morning. You’re dead on your feet. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and go the fuck to sleep.”

Jason moves to rise. But Tim hooks a stubborn arm around his neck and pulls him down that last remaining inch. 

The kiss is— bad. At first. 

Tim basically smashed their mouths together to prove a point, and Jason muffles a surprised sound against Tim’s teeth. He lands heavily on top of Tim at an awkward angle, and he’s kind of crushing him. Tim refuses to let go, but— Jason doesn’t pull away.

Jason gentles the kiss instead, and Tim thrills. He levers himself up onto his elbow, wrapping an anchoring arm around Tim’s back. He finds a home between Tim’s legs, and he lets Tim kiss him until Tim's lips are tingling and his fingers go slack; until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

Somewhere between fifteen minutes and a small eternity later, Jason presses one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. He curls around Tim on his side, and Tim turns his face into Jason’s neck with a soft wondering sigh.

“I’ll keep it. Promise. Wait n’ see,” Tim mumbles. Jason snorts, but doesn’t budge, and Tim can hear his smile in his voice, lilted and lulling.

“Sure, babybird. I’ll wait. I got nowhere else to be.”

Tim is already asleep.

[keis-slut]

harm|link

CW: SELF HARM, BLOOD

you sat quietly behind a tree, keeping watch as link slept soundly.

it was your turn to lookout so link could get some rest, and so you sat alone, watching and waiting.

the night was pretty uneventful, leaving you to your own head.

and a dangerous thing, that can be.

leading to things you later on might regret, especially if link had found out.

maybe providing you with such a sharp weapon was not the best idea, something better like a hammer or a boomerang could’ve been smarter.

but it’s not like anyone else but you really knew, so you kept your mouth shut.

you couldn’t even begin to describe the kind of things that went through your head, deciding it was best to let you deal with it in your own.

not that doing so was a good idea, but it was difficult.

opening up felt even harder then just carrying the burden yourself.

if you did tell him, you were afraid of his reaction, that reaction then possibly making you spiral even more, wanting to avoid that at all costs.

if you didn’t tell him, you’d be stuck at the bottom of this hole forever, alone.

and that confliction fought in your brain every single day.

no matter how vastly large this world seemed, it still felt as if it was closing in on you more and more, leaving you stuck,

claustrophobic,

you felt as if you couldn’t breath, the walls being so close, closing you into that madness, that despair.

crimson spilt from your skin as you were now numb to the sting, only focused on the uneven lines that had either just formed, or scarred your thighs.

how tightly your pants had bunched up against your legs hurt more than your damage.

it felt good, but was it?

no, absolutely not.

“y/n?”

you were startled, attempting to roll your pants back down to hide your destruction quickly.

but your blade had fell at hand, cutting you accidentally in the process.

ironic.

you winced at the gash on your calf, your leg now a bloody mess.

“what are you doing?”

concern and worry lingered in his voice as you couldn’t even look at him, you only stared at the red trickling from your thighs.

dont look.

don’t look at him.

“look at me”

your head immediately shot up, and you met his horrified blue eyes.

he looked tired, and disheveled.

i wonder what woke him up.

“i-i didn’t-it’s just-“

“-no, no, you must be terrified, stop”

he cut you off, leaning to the side to grab his pouch, where you kept bandages and such for when wounded.

he hurriedly rummaged through the bag, not a care in the world for the mess he’d made on the grass, spilling out everything like it was the end of the world.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

pain was heard in his voice, and it hurt you even more, it made you feel guilty.

but you had reason not to tell him.

you think.

you realized he was now putting pressure on the wound with some bandage, staring up at you with deep concern, and a slight glimpse of watery eyes.

all you could do was stare back, vision growing blurry from uninvited tears as well.

everything felt like a thick haze.

“i couldn’t-i didn’t-“

you tried to speak but your words got caught in your throat.

by now, you did feel the sting. you weren’t numb anymore as your leg throbbed, and so did your head.

“i didn’t know how to”

you sobbed, hiding your face in your hands as he sucked his teeth sadly.

you had no more words, you just sobbed, and wailed, and cried into your hands, before feeling his own wrap around you, crying with you.

“y/n, please, please-“

he begs, pulling your shoulders back and removing your hands from your puffy eyed face, cheeks glowing red and stained with tears.

suddenly his face grew more tense, and stern. he was serious.

but still soft.

and that was the thing about link.

he was personified courage, so mature, calm in stressful situations.

still able to push through any obstacle no matter how terrifying, or how much pain he might be in.

you’d think after the absolute horrors he’s been through, he would be terrifying himself, and tough as nails.

maybe even impolite or closed off,

but no.

he was very much so the opposite.

everything about him, aside from actually in battle, was so gentle.

one of the most kind, and gentle hylians you’d ever met.

so amiable and empathetic, he’s always there if anyone needs help, with anything.

loyal to the people he loves and cares for, he would never do anything to purposely hurt anyone.

so sweet, and soft, and so opposite of the horrific things he has gone through, despite it all.

and that you admired so much.

that you loved about him, so much.

“-dont you ever, ever, in the name of hylia, think you can’t tell me anything”

he held your wrists as he kneeled next to you, bandage on your thigh now soaked by a devilish color.

his eyes looked even more beautiful glistening with tears, his flushed face and redness from crying really bringing out his royal colored eyes.

you stared, unsure what to say as another tear fell from your pretty face.

pretty.

he thought you were the most beautiful in the whole world, he hated the fact you even slightly thought to mutilate your body.

for what reason did you deserve this? a heavenly being such as yourself, you deserve all the happiness in the world.

he couldn’t even think to bear a world without you and your charisma.

he wonders, such a charismatic person you are, yet your mind completely contradicts that.

inspiring others to do their best, but struggling yourself, and not saying a word.

he felt as if he should blame himself slightly, for not giving you enough, for not making you happy enough.

for not making you feel that life was worth living.

for not knowing sooner you had felt this way.

for being such an idiot not noticing it.

he didn’t want you to hurt, and only found himself blaming what he couldn’t do for you.

but he had no time to be sorry for himself, he was more worried about you and what to do next.

“i was so scared”

his face softened and and he sighed.

“i know”

he brought a hand back to your leg, removing the messy bandage, so he could get a new one to wrap your leg with.

but he paused, and looked back into your tired red eyes.

“but you never have to be scared, of anything, while i’m here”

“i was scared of you, what you’d do or say if i told you”

your voice was hoarse, but he watched your lips as you spoke.

you felt a droplet on your head, then on your nose, quickly glancing up to see the moon was now gone.

it started to rain, and the sky was sad too.

maybe this will help clean me up.

suddenly you felt hands on your cheeks roughly, pulling your head back down.

before realizing what was happening, you felt soft lips on your own.

not harsh or lewd, just lovingly lips dancing.

at first, at least.

the kiss grew a bit more hungry, and fast, but still not lustful, this was more of need for comfort.

you started to cry again as you kiss him, your hands finding way into his now wet and loose hair.

messy and soaked, you collapsed on each other into cold grass when he pulled away.

you sniffled as you watched him grab the rest of the bandage, watching him finish on your leg.

he held you like you were the most fragile thing in the world, even hands as scarred and calloused as his felt so gentle and kind.

but he knew you weren’t fragile, in fact, he admired just how durable of a person you were.

you are.

maybe that’s why he didn’t realize you were fighting internally, secretly punishing yourself.

you came off so bold and strong, determined and never backing down to anything.

especially when it came to protecting the ones you love and care for, you were so fierce.

it was almost terrifying crossing you in such a way, dare he say he was a little afraid of you.

the hero of hyrule.

he gave your leg one last soft pat, and smiled up at you.

“let’s wait for the rain to let up, then we’ll make our way back to hateno”

you shift closer to his touch, waiting for him to speak again.

“we’ll go home, get you cleaned up and some help. someone to talk to”

he leans closer, and then down to kiss your stinging leg.

“ok?” he choked, waiting for your reply.

you gave him a sheepish smile, and a small nod as he moved closer.

he leaned against your shoulder, and wrapped his arms around you.

“i’m here” he told you,

and you melted into his safety.

-

a/n:

happy mental health awareness month.

you are loved and you are enough.

your favorite loves you very, very much.

and so do i

<3