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sohotthateveryonedied · 4 years

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I’ll Make the World Safe and Sound for You

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

Dick tilts his head, looks at Bruce until his eyes narrow under his mask. “You’re hurt.” he stands up on his tiptoes to point at a spot on Bruce’s chin. “Right there.”

Bruce reaches up and touches his chin, finds a small cut there. It stings now that he’s aware of it, but not overwhelmingly so. A stitch or two and he’ll be right as rain. That robber had one hell of a right hook, his ring slicing right through Bruce’s skin. “I’m fine. Agent A will fix me up when we get back to base.”

“But you told me that you should always be careful with open wounds in the field. You could get an infection.” Bruce knew that first-aid seminar he gave Dick last weekend was a mistake.

Six months ago, Bruce would have seen a drugstore robbery as atrociously boring, barely worthy of his time. A dud. Nowadays, however, Bruce would take on whatever dull chore he can find if it means he gets to see his Robin flipping about, utterly joyful as he delivers quips at a criminal’s expense. “You know there’s a bank across the street, right?” Dick says, throwing a batarang at the floor in front of the final robber’s foot. He trips, falling headfirst into a stack of foot baths on clearance. “The only stuff you guys’ll get here is rash ointment and baby powder.” Bruce zip-ties the man’s hands behind him and drops him with the others. The police have already been called, and the store was empty but for the young cashier cowering at the front counter and a few late-night stragglers who have long since fled the scene. Their work here is done. Seemingly on command, Robin cartwheels back to Bruce with a grin. “How’d I do, boss?” “You were a little slow on that roundhouse kick.” “I was perfectly adequate and you know it.” Bruce ruffles his hair, making Dick squawk and shove his hand away. “Need I remind you of who is the teacher here?” Dick grumbles, fixing his hair. “Should be me. You could stand to learn how to have fun like a normal person.”

If there weren’t a civilian present, Bruce would chuckle. “Ready to head home, chum?” Dick tilts his head, looks at Bruce until his eyes narrow under his mask. “You’re hurt.” he stands up on his tiptoes to point at a spot on Bruce’s chin. “Right there.” Bruce reaches up and touches his chin, finds a small cut there. It stings now that he’s aware of it, but not overwhelmingly so. A stitch or two and he’ll be right as rain. That robber had one hell of a right hook, his ring slicing right through Bruce’s skin. “I’m fine. Agent A will fix me up when we get back to base.” “But you told me that you should always be careful with open wounds in the field. You could get an infection.” Bruce knew that first-aid seminar he gave Dick last weekend was a mistake. “Then what do you propose we do about this?” Dick cranes his neck until he spots the aisle labeled “First-Aid” and heads over. Bruce shadows him as the kid peruses the aisle, gathering supplies and shoving them into Bruce’s arms. Peroxide, gauze pads, antiseptic cream, and plenty of other products which they will definitely not be needing, but Bruce doesn’t stop him. Dick stops in front of the band-aids. He puts a finger to his chin as he scans the options. “They don’t have any Batman ones.” “I’m sure the regular bandages will accomplish the same thing.” “Nope, you need a cool one. You’re a superhero. You should have a superhero on your band-aid.” He’s quiet for a moment before he spots a box and seizes it with a grin. “Perfect.” Bruce takes one look at the package. “No.” “Come on, everyone loves Superman.” “Pick something else.” “Need I remind you of who is the doctor here?” Bruce sighs and gives in. “Fine. Are you finished here?” “Yep!” Dick leads the way back to the front, where the cashier stares at the tied-up robbers as if they are live explosives. Her fearful expression doesn’t change as the two vigilantes approach her counter. “I’d like to buy these, please,” Dick says politely. The girl blinks. “Uh, sure. Do you have a rewards card?” Dick looks at Bruce. “No,” Bruce says. He dumps their supplies on the counter to be scanned. Then he grabs a few bills from his utility belt, kept in there for emergencies like this one. “Can I pay for it?” Dick asks. Bruce hands over the cash. Dick gives it to the girl, who finishes the transaction and bags their supplies. “Sorry about trashing your store,” Dick tells her. “The cops are coming soon, though, so they’ll take care of it.” “Can we go now?” Bruce asks. “But I have to bandage your wound! It would be irresponsible to leave it exposed to the elements.” Dick climbs up onto the counter so he’s at eye-level with Bruce. “Here, get closer.” Bruce rolls his eyes but obeys. He waits patiently while Dick fiddles with the child lock on the peroxide bottle. He hands it silently to Bruce, who cracks it open and hands it back. Dick takes the utmost care as he cleans the tiny cut, patting it dry with a square of gauze. “You should do something about all this stubble.” “Yeah? Why’s that?” “It’s scratchy, like you’ve got sandpaper on your face. Catwoman’s going to get sick of all those prickly kisses.” The cashier squeaks, smothering a laugh. Dick smooths a bright blue Superman band-aid over the cut, as gently as if he were handling a fragile kitten. “There. All done.” He hops down from the counter. “You’re lucky I was here to help, or your whole face might have fallen off.” Has Bruce mentioned that he would die for this kid? Because he really would. “Thank goodness I have you to protect me.” “You’re darn right.” Then Dick spots the candy aisle behind Bruce and his eyes widen. He tugs on Bruce’s arm. “Hey, B, can I get some candy?” “We have candy at home.” “No, we have dinner mints and those gross old man hard candies. They don’t count.” Bruce checks the clock on the far wall. They have a few minutes before the authorities arrive, and if Gordon asks why Batman and his partner hung around the scene for so long, he can say they were simply keeping an eye on the traumatized cashier. (Oh, who is he kidding? Jim is going to tease him anyway as soon as he gets a look at the Superman bandage.) “Fine,” Bruce says, “you can get one thing. One.” He might as well have just promised the kid a million dollars with the enthusiasm bursting from every pore as Dick runs off to pick out his candy. “I don’t know how you do it, Batman.” Bruce turns and finds the cashier leaning on the counter now, looking at him with no trace of the fear she wore before. “Do what?” “Take that kid out every night and let him fight criminals twice his size. I have a ten-year-old niece back home and just the thought of her getting hurt shakes me up. I’ll never understand how you can let such a sweet kid put himself in danger like that.” Bruce can’t blame her for being concerned. Nearly every publication in Gotham has its own opinion on Batman and his young partner, speculating about what kind of a monster would endanger a child like that. Bruce tries not to let it get to him. After all, it’s not like Batman can give an exclusive interview and clear his good name. That’s not how this thing works. “You aren’t the first person to say that to me, and I understand your concern. I do. You would have to be a psychopath to willingly put a child in harm’s way.” He looks back at Dick, who is trying to decide between a package of gummy bears and a chocolate bar, oblivious of their conversation. “Would you like to know a secret?” The girl nods. Bruce smiles. “I haven’t let anyone with a weapon more dangerous than a butter knife within ten feet of that kid since the day he started as Robin.” Her eyebrows crease. “But tonight, when he took down that guy by himself—” “That man had sensory exotropia in his right eye. I disarmed him and sent him Robin’s way because I knew that he wouldn’t be able to see Robin coming from his blind spot on that side. I would never put my partner in harm’s way like that. Not when he’s still so young.” “So you’re lying to the kid?” “Not lying. Robin wants to help me protect Gotham, and he does. What he doesn’t know about me taking extra measures to keep him safe won’t hurt him.” “Why not just tell him he can’t be Robin in the first place?” Bruce snorts. “Have you met that kid? I couldn’t stop him from becoming Robin if I tried. And trust me, I’ve tried.” The cashier smiles knowingly, like she’s gotten a glimpse into his soul. “Who knew the Batman was such a softie on the inside?” “Only for Robin, I assure you. But don’t tell anyone I said that. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

#whumptober 2020 #no.20 #field medicine #dick grayson #robin #nightwing #batman #bruce wayne #batfamily #batfam #dc comics #fanfiction #fanfic

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samiralula01 · 4 years

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Jason Todd is the Anti-Batman

* A pointless rambling of the relationship and parallels between Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd.

Picture this opening scene: There are two boys in a dark alley.

One is dressed in an expensive suit with a tie his dead father helped him with only earlier that evening. His hands are stained red with the same blood now puddled on the grimy cement. His face is in shock.

The second boy is dressed in tattered jeans and hoodie. His hands are stained with tires grease and are clutching a tire iron. His face is in shock.

Decades later, there are two more scenes to consider.

A seriously injured man sits slumped over in his father’s study. Without warning, a bat crashes through the window, and everything falls into place. He now knows what he needs to do.

Elsewhere, an emotionally distraught teenager is curled up into a fetal position on a hotel room floor. Heart wrenching cries can be heard from him. But it is only momentary. He now knows what he needs to do.

These two individuals are Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd. While they are both broken and determined men, Batman is a hero. The Red Hood is not. He is the anti-Batman and this is why.

Two Boys in an Alleyway

Despite similarities in their stories’ early themes and elements, Bruce and Jason came to walk down very different paths. One of justice, and the other vengeance. Batman is determined to protect the innocent and Jason more so on punishing the guilty. Both their ideologies have intrinsic flaws, of course, and will naturally clash often. But this wasn’t always the case.

Before they became a father and son perpetually in mourning for who they once were and what could have been, Bruce and Jason were remarkably similar. The two are cut from the same cloth and Bruce knows this better than anyone else.

In the Dumpster Slasher three-part story line, (Batman #414, #421, #422) Bruce becomes emotional. Violent. He sits in the batcave alone that night and contemplates his emotions.

“Nearly blew it. I let it get too personal. Lost my detachment...nearly lost control. Almost beat Cutter to death. Wouldn’t have been any big loss.”

Only one issue later, at the end of this story arc, Robin is out on the streets and becomes angry when he happens upon a pimp is threatening a prostitute with a knife. Now, I want you to compare his line here to Bruce’s and note what Jim Gordon said to him as well.

Batman: "I think he’s had enough, Robin. What were you trying to do, kill him?" Robin (Jason): “Would it’ve been that big of a loss if I had?”

It is important to note here that Batman is not worried or upset just because Jason roughs up a pimp. That would be hypocritical considering his own earlier actions. If anything, it’s because one of the main reasons Batman even takes in these kids, these ‘robins,’ is because he doesn’t want them to be like him.

And Jason was acting just like him.

Jason can and has screwed up and failed due to his own actions, but it was never the reason Batman became upset with him. His reactions in the comics when Jason does things like running ahead and ‘jumping the gun,’ are more like this:

He either makes a teaching moment out of it or is attempts to understand Jason’s reasons in doing any such thing. When Bruce does become harsh in his discipline, it’s either when he feels as though Jason has endangered his own life or as I said, he acts too much like him.

While there are quite a few more similarities between Bruce and Jason that makes them alike, such as both being introverted and interested in obtaining all sorts of knowledge that they might not even feel is relevant, they are both, at the core of their characters, deeply caring and compassionate people.

The differences only start to show with how they act on it.

The Not-So Dynamic Duo?

“What happened to you as a child, the terror, the pain, the horrors (...) you were broken, and I thought I could put the pieces back together. I thought I could do for you what could never be done for me. Make you whole.”

Hot take. Jason Todd is a villain and is best written as a villain.

Not in that campy way like he’s written during Dick and Damian’s Batman and Robin run while wearing that stupid pill-headed hood, (although, I grant he has a few lines that are enjoyable to read) but in all his serious, vengeful and downright brutal motives.

The Red Hood is the perfect Batman villain because he’s so different from what the widely perceived perfect foil to the controlled and disciplined Bat is...the Joker.

The Red Hood was vengeance at its purest. It is justice without being tempered by mercy. It is the rage of victims who were forgotten to become statistics. While other vigilantes wait for a cure, hope for rehabilitation, and pretend their system works, the Red Hood is a man of no such faith.

And this makes him a villain. And a damn good one.

During the Red Hood’s time as a crime lord in Gotham, he goes around blowing up buildings. He throws grenades into trucks. He mows down his competition with gunfire. Batman comes upon the bloodied hanged corpse of a man he was finished interrogating.

But what is so compelling about this all is that before all the murder, all the guns and explosions, Jason Todd was a very different little boy. And all the great and memorable villains start that way.

The Joker is not someone you’re meant to sympathize with or even understand. In fact, I find him more terrifying because he’s unknown. He has no backstory (unless you want to believe the one he gave in Killing Joke, but the clown has a new story for every face he meets) and seemingly does what he does for a laugh of all things.

Jason Todd is in pain. He’s traumatized. Betrayed. Buried. Replaced. He is no one’s son because his father abandoned him.

Once upon a time, Jason Todd was a boy who saved himself. One of the biggest lies that Batman himself perpetuates is that he saved Jason from a life of crime. He tells Alfred that Jason was always dangerous. Bruce simply took him off the streets before he could be any worse.

But I don’t believe that’s true.

Jason grew up surrounded by crime, poverty, substance abuse and yet this amazing kid saved himself everyday by making a conscious choice to be kind and care about school, care about keeping his mother alive for over a year when he was just a child himself. That amazing kid was magic.

Jason Todd as Robin was magic.

“Jason smiles. A bright smile. The kind Robin, the Boy Wonder should have.”

A good portion of his character’s assassination was in order to push the Tim is the perfect Robin idea. It was editorial decisions. The same ‘suits’ who insisted that Tim Drake be the Robin in the New Adventures cartoon despite having Jason’s backstory and personality. But I digress on that.

Jason Todd was an introverted, studious, and emphatic person. He wanted to make friends with other kids his age even though he was a loner at heart. He joined the school baseball team and was a class officer, even if his training kept him from most social interactions.

He was also very much in tune with non-verbal cues and small changes in the environment around him. He was a thoughtful person who could be found admiring the stars or passing by scenery. When he teams up with the New Teen Titans, we get to see these aspects of his personality:

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful before. We’re actually riding above the clouds.”

“Every so often, I notice you become awfully agitated...like something was going on you didn’t want to be part of. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

It didn’t take Bruce long to fall in love with this boy and ask to legally adopt him. He found him to be smart, thoughtful, quick at learning and funny as hell. Their first meeting opens with Batman laughing in the very same alley his heart was ripped out decades earlier.

Even in the Rebirth canon, (RHATO #48) we see that Bruce is already set on taking in Jason while he’s still with Ma Gunn’s school. He likes this kid. A lot.

“Butler, actually. You’ll meet him someday, I’m sure.”

Jason Todd was happy. Most of the time. Unfortunately, he still wrestled with depression and would sleep all day on occasion and could be found crying hidden away on his own, withdrawn from the concerned Bruce and Alfred.

In A Death in the Family, Alfred and Bruce sit down and discuss Jason’s worsening mental health, particularly after the Diplomat’s Son where Jason becomes witness to sexual assault, suicide and the failings of both Batman and the GCPD to protect innocent people. Barbara, his tutor, someone he cared about and got along with, is also shot a few months earlier.

Bruce thinks Jason has become suicidal. Alfred does not disagree with this theory and supplements it with things he’s observed himself about the ‘lad.’

“I’ve come upon him, several times, looking at that battered old photograph of his mother and father, crying. When he’s seen me, he’s hidden the picture and left the room, refusing to talk.”

It is then that Jason discovers the truth about his mother at the worst possible time, when he’s not even thinking straight, and thus leads way to the tragedy that will be his murder at the hand’s of the Joker.

The Curse of Jason Todd

“Do you have any idea what you have done?! Do you? You have no inkling of what you’ve created -- what you have unleashed! You have set free a curse upon this world!”

Red Hood: Lost Days, which depicts Jason’s dark post-resurrection origin, opens with Ra’s al Ghul bellowing this line, the steam from the Lazarus Pit still rising off of him.

I’m not going to analyze this line, I’m just using it to supplement a point of mine I hope I’m getting through well enough. The Red Hood is a compelling, tragic villain. He is similar to Batman in ways that Bruce always knew and may have even feared because of how intimately he knows his own deepest, darkest thoughts. Jason is the perfect foil as an antagonist for him because of what he represents to Bruce.

And it’s not his anger, or his rage, or even his brutality.

It’s his compassion. His caring. His emotions. And how they can open up the worst parts of themselves.

Both are motivated by preventing whatever trauma happened to them from ever happening to anyone else. They both trained for years with this motivation. And they’ve both acted out on the very person who inflicted their trauma onto them.

Here’s where their paths start to differ, however, and what separates them with a line of morality.

They both get angry. They both care so damn much. About Gotham, about innocents, about each other. They both get too emotionally invested and deal with consequences related to that. To manage with that, Bruce shuts down. He creates all these choices, rules and symbols. He uses every ounce of his self control to keep them.

Bruce Wayne is not a good person. He forces himself to be with discipline and will. He chooses to be a good man and constantly pushes himself to live up to that. Because it’d be too damn easy to be just like the Red Hood.

Jason doesn’t understand that. Because no matter what Bruce had done or will do, he doesn’t hate him. He can’t. Despite his denial of the fact to different people, he still thinks of Bruce as his father. This great figure that so many others revere and are even intimidated by.

He’s not the only bat-kid to think of Bruce in this light despite the fact that the man is not. It took Dick years to overcome that perception. Tim only just started to begin understanding this true nature after his own father was murdered.

But even if he did understand his (once)father, he still became the complete opposite of him despite so many early parallels. He doesn’t hold back his words and emotions, he doesn’t go into a state of controlled dissociation or emotional disengagement.

Jason Todd—the Red Hood—is Batman without all his rules and control. In a way, he’s what the darkest part of Batman himself wants to be. Jason does what Batman can’t do when it’s needed.

Because in Batman’s book, life beats out justice. Even if he could take down abusers and murderers, he won’t. He will choose saving and protecting lives over the apprehension of killers...he always does.

Batman is justice. Red Hood is vengeance.

Jason is a victim’s fantasy. He punishes and kills the guilty. Something Batman won’t do.

He is the anti-Batman for better or for worse.

#jason todd #bruce wayne #comic meta

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whereflowersbloom · 4 years

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Small moments

With long dissatisfied sigh, Damian pushed back his black blanket and gradually sits up, annoyed. There wasn’t any more to it, he had been rolling around the enormous bed for nearly an hour, he just couldn’t fall back asleep. Fumbling around in the darkness of his room, he found his phone. He squinted down at it and groaned inwardly. Fucking 04:00 am blinking up at him. He shouldn’t be up for another three hours. But despite his exhaustion and attempts to fall back asleep. It’s pointless to just lay here any longer. When he arose from the bed, he felt his back muscles were particularly knotted. Tsk. Perhaps a hot shower would release some accumulated tension on his body.

Might as well begin the day, start being productive with an extra head start, apparently. Damian stretched and dug around for training clothes and toiletries, hurriedly throwing them in his gym bag, before heading down for a long hot shower. At least this morning he doesn’t have to be in any rush. He had plenty of time to go at snail’s pace, he never had the opportunity to enjoy little things. By all means, he enjoyed engaging in different activities with his teammates. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he wondered what his life would be like as a regular teenager, attending school, perhaps a girlfriend to take out on dates...Where did multimillionaire heirs take their girlfriends? A romantic dinner at some exclusive hideously expensive restaurant in Paris? That wasn’t exactly his style. He highly doubted Raven liked those places, anyway.

Predictably, he doesn’t pass anyone on the way down, the rest of the team profoundly asleep as he assumed, the showers as expected are absolutely deserted. He stumbled in, gasping under the ice cold water falling on his exposed, muscular figure, rubbing at his eyes as the shock wakes him up completely. Fucking cold water. He turned the knob sharply, and in a moment, hot water streamed down his torso. Without the bothersome presence of a another person like Garfield or Conner, Damian is able to relax under the spray of water. The warmth of the water, focusing on the sound of the water running hard onto the shower floor, his sore and stiff muscles relaxing, easing the discomfort. His now calm and serene mind unconsciously drifted back to his homeland. Nanda Parbat, his mother, grandfather, the league he vowed to protect, work along his grandfather to make the world a better place. Clever lies. Deceived by his own mother.

Without realizing it, Damian began humming. It is a lovely, centuries old tune he heard when he was a child, his mother, Talia used to sing to him whenever he had nightmares as a child, and he grew fond of it. It isn’t long before the hum evolves into mumbling, ancient words in a long unspoken language, and even less time before the mumbling grows in volume and annunciation, and he’s singing lowly, something he wouldn’t dare do normally when anyone could be in the shower. Damian Wayne doesn’t sing, not at least around anyone. He couldn’t imagine what his brothers would say to embarrass him. Especially Drake or Todd.

Damian is a moderately good mood now. There wasn’t anything that could lift the spirit, if only momentarily, like singing. And who else would be up at this hour to hear him? Nobody he had to threaten or assassinate.

Damian let a slight, soft smile slip as he shut off the water of the shower. He dries off, checking his phone. It’s only five, and although he’s shocked at how long of a shower he’s taken, it is still much too early to even properly get dressed or get started with training. He recalled Grayson mentioning a meeting later today. He pulled on a long sleeved T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, not up to wearing his uniform at five in the morning.

Damian is suddenly startled when he leaves the showers to see a slender, tiny figure in the common kitchen. It’s only five, who else could possibly be up so early? Not Grayson or Conner he hoped.

The figure turns around, and Raven is looking back at him eyebrows raised near her hairline, mouth opened in surprise. Damian stepped closer to her, taking her in: messy dark hair, even more so being fresh out of bed, pearl-like skin, big violet eyes that resemble amethyst and pink lips curled into a warm smile. At once he feels his breath being swept right out of his chest at that radiant and tender smile. She was wearing a pair of lavender pajama shorts, exposing her thick thighs, a white oversized shirt, hiding her generous curves, she looked devastatingly adorable. God. He had to control his hormones and emotions.

“Good morning, Raven.” He cleared his throat and muttered in his usual neutral voice. What did he have to be embarrassed about? Damian sits at the island and watched attentively Raven make a cup of tea, it smelt like cinnamon and honey, at the stovetop. Damian always found it entertaining, watch her do anything, debating what kind of tea she would have today. He knew she particularly enjoyed Earl Grey, cinnamon and two teaspoons of honey and peppermint. Maybe next time he could take her out to this open-air tea house his brother mentioned last time they spoke. Did Dick mention it to him deliberately? Was he trying to...?

“What are you doing up so early?” Raven asked curiously, drawing his attention back to her, turning her attention pointedly away from Damian and to her brewing cup of tea. Damian watched her back intently, she looked to fragile and tiny in his eyes, he was wondering what could have her worked up, as she nervously reached for the honey.

“I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep. Are you always up this early? I don’t think I noticed before.” Damian replies with the truth and observing how routine this all looked to Raven. She was usually up with the rise of the sun but it was a bit early for that and they didn’t have anything to do this early, no scheduled activities or tasks. He studied her body language, she wanted to say something, but she was evidently hesitating. “Everything alright?” He asked eyes fully focused on her, his expression showing concern for her.

“Yes, definitely, it’s just . . .” Raven stopped to bite her lower lip, her small hands playing with the teaspoon on the table, turning so Damian can see her profile, though trying to avoid his alert and bright green eyes. “Did you know you have a really nice voice?” She uttered faintly. Well now he knows she had been listening to him. But what she said was true. He did have a deep p, melodious voice.

“I don’t sing. Damian Wayne doesn’t sing.” Damian denies her question immediately, grabbing the closest thing to his reach, it was an apple and acting as if nothing happened.

Damian’s posture stiffened momentarily as his cheeks flame. Of course out of all the people, why did it have to be Raven? Tsk. Just his damn luck. Conner’s loud and unpleasant laughter or Garfield’s teasing he could deal with, he could always threaten them with a knife or give them his notions characteristic look of warming that they wouldn’t make it unharmed if they messed with him, but Raven was different. He can’t figure out why, but it feels like the worst possible outcome for this situation, at the same time he knew she wouldn’t say anything. She was different... he didn’t want to think why it felt that way with her from the moment they met. He didn’t believe he was ready to have the conversation about his obvious feelings for her yet.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. Not a word will slips out of my sealed lips. I simply thought it was such a nice song.” Raven smiled at him warmly, she touched his arm and he glanced up at her. His heart is thudding in his chest so loudly he was sure Raven must be able to hear it. She didn’t lie. She wasn’t his his mother or grandfather or anyone he knew before. His secrets and trust were safe with Raven.

“It’s an old lullaby from my homeland. Perhaps sometime I can explain the meaning behind it, if you want me to.” He gulped for air, and ran a hand through his still wet hair. His mind running thoughts about how often he imagined himself whispering how much he cared for her, how incredibly beautiful she was, how much she made him feel, like he belonged here with her and everyone else.

“I would love to hear about your home, Damian.” She whispered softly, sincerity and genuine interest in her voice. Her glowing amethyst eyes locked in his emerald eyes, sipping her tea, her warm fingers brushing his hand on the counter, as a sign of affection. She was there for him in all the ways. In that moment he didn’t mind that a raven heard him sing. A small jubilant smile escapes his full lips.

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alexiessan · 4 years

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Never alone - Chapter Sixteen - Soulmate AU

AO3

Previous - Here - Next

Master List

Hi! Today I just wanted to share a French song with you just because I like sharing French things :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jabih9mV6RQ

When Marinette saw Damian waiting for her the next morning, it made her so happy that she wanted to smile all day. She’s been dreaming about this ever since she met him as Robin, and she couldn’t be happier. She gave him a kiss as a good morning, lingering a little, not surprised when he took advantage of it to kiss her again.

“Ready to meet my friends?” she asked, laughing a little.

The fashion designer knew that Robin — Damian, she corrected herself. She still wasn’t used to calling him by his real name — wasn’t a people person. He had very few friends, and he was happy with them. So she didn’t have much hope that he would get along with her friends. Knowing Damian, and knowing her friends, she was pretty sure that her soulmate would be more annoyed by her friends than anything else.

As long as they all could be civil with each other, she won’t force them to be friends.

Damian winced as she answered her.

“I’m not promising you anything.”

She smiled at his honesty.

“And I’m not asking you anything, except to be civil?”

She looked at him, laughing as he stayed silent.

“You can be civil and be your sarcastic, blunt self.”

“Most people would say that it’s not being civil.”

“Well, my friends can take it.”

She linked her arm with his.

“Come on, let’s go. I promise not to let you alone in the lion’s den.”

Claude, Allan, and Allegra were delighted when she introduced Damian as her soulmate. They gave them their congratulations, made small talk with Damian, but didn’t insist too much. Those three — she loved them to death, even though she hasn’t known them as long as her other friends —were very good at reading people and could tell that the Wayne — or Grayson, as they knew him — wasn’t at ease, and so, chose to back off.

She would have hugged them here and there, for being so friendly and understanding.

Now, to introduce him to Nino, Kim, Adrien, and Alya.

Nino and Kim would probably try to be noble and all and give Damian the brother talk, but she had hoped that she could prevent that. Knowing them since they were children meant that she had a lot of blackmails for both of them, and one word could make them rethink anything.

Adrien, sweet, sunshine child but also oblivious Adrien would probably just smile, congratulate them and move on to something else.

As for Alya…

She didn’t want to think about it.

“Already getting cozy with the new guy, girl?”

She should have known that her best friend would run her mouth like that. And she could say that Damian did not get a good first impression of the reporter if the tightening of his hand on hers were any saying.

Nino and Adrien were with the journalist, the blond with his sunshine smile on his face as usual, happy to be introduced to a potential new friend.

“Hi! You’re Damian, right? Nino told me you were new here, I’m Adrien!”

Damian nodded, lips pursed.

Well, here went her hope.

As little as it was in the first place.

“Speaking of Damian.” she started, gathering all their attention.

“You sure make friends fast, Mari.” observed Alya.

Marinette rolled her eyes. Yeah, she liked to be friendly with everyone, but she wouldn’t go as far as to say that she made friends with everyone either.

“Actually, Damian is my soulmate.”

Just as she predicted, Adrien’s smile became even more blinding, hugging her in his happiness, and nodding at Damian, not at ease with hugging someone he didn’t know. Which was good, because Damian would not have appreciated such a gesture from the model.

As Nino opened his mouth with a smirk, he caught sight of Marinette’s glare and how she mimicked a knife to the throat. She almost laughed as the bespectacled boy gulped and looked away, his words for her boyfriend dying in his throat.

Crisis prevented.

But she couldn’t say so for the Ladyblogger.

Alya started asking a lot of questions, questions that even Marinette never asked, and some that she didn’t even want the answers to. As the journalist was not stopping, she could see that her boyfriend’s patience was running thin, and was seconds away from snapping at Alya.

Thankfully, Nino noticed and took his girlfriend by the arm.

“Alya, stop. You shouldn’t ask all these questions, it’s none of our business and it concerns no one but Damian and Marinette, ok?”

Alya looked chastised but nodded, knowing she went too far.

“I’m sorry.”

Damian nodded in acknowledgment, not offering an answer. Marinette smiled at her best friend, squeezing her arm.

“We should head to class anyway.”

The introductions didn’t go as she had hoped, but at least, no one was rude, so she supposed that it went well, all things considered.

It was November and Marinette was happy.

Maybe it was stupid to focus on something like that, but she felt happy. She had a boyfriend she loved from the bottom of her heart — even if she still had to say those three words —, friends that she loved and loved her, a loving family, and partners in fighting the evil that she could call friends.

She was even civil with Lila. Sometimes, friendly even.

After three months at Françoise-Dupont, Damian still called everyone by their last name. No one really cared, as he was always polite and cordial with everyone, but it annoyed Alya to no end.

Those two didn’t get along at all. It made Marinette sad a little, but she knew she couldn’t force them to be friends. Plus, when the Eurasian girl organized outings with all her friends, they always make an effort to not argue.

And that’s all she could ask for, really.

Even if it meant that they just ignored each other, but, what could she do?

Damian got along best with Claude, Allan, and Allegra. She wouldn’t go as far as saying that he was friends with them, but he tolerated them more than anyone else in the class.

The youngest Wayne didn’t see Adrien often, as he was in another class and wasn’t allowed to go to a lot of outings, but she could see that the model was grating on his nerves.

She couldn’t pinpoint what exactly annoyed Damian about Adrien, but he didn’t snap at the blonde yet, so it was a victory in her eyes.

As for the others, he was cordial and polite, so she assumed that he didn’t despise them.

Now, she was in class with Ms. Bustier and Damian was nowhere to be seen.

She frowned. It wasn’t like Damian to be late, he was always very punctual and hated when others were late. She experienced it herself when she was late once on one of their dates. She shivered. She always made sure to be early, now.

Finally, Damian arrived, apologizing to the professor and making a beeline for his seat.

He still spared her a smile as she passed her, that she returned immediately before giving her attention back to the lecture.

Ten minutes after her boyfriend’s arrival, there was a whining behind her.

In synchronization, Claude and she turned, looking at Damian. A quick glance around the classroom showed her that they were the only ones to hear the noise.

Damian just stared at them, offering no explanation.

So they just turned around, focusing on the lecture once more.

When the whining came back, she just looked at Claude, who was also looking at her.

“What’s that noise?” he whispered.

She shrugged, not knowing the answer to that question.

When they heard it for the third time, they both turned around again, only to see Damian trying to hide a dog, whose head was on her boyfriend’s desk, demanding his attention.

She gasped at the cute scene in front of her.

“Claude, Marinette, is there a problem?” Ms. Bustier asked, hand on her hip, ready to scold them for not paying attention in class.

They turned back, facing the board.

“Nothing, Miss!” exclaimed Claude.

“Sorry,” she apologized.

The redhead teacher narrowed her eyes at them.

“Please, pay more attention.”

They nodded and she turned back to the board.

As soon as the bell rang for the morning break, Claude and Marinette turned for the nth time, facing Damian.

The dog’s head was resting on her boyfriend’s arm, dozing off.

As she observed the little dog more, she noticed that it was just a puppy, a few weeks old, with white, fluffy fur.

A Samoyed, she recognized.

And it was the cutest little thing ever.

She squealed.

“What the fuck are you doing with a puppy in school?” asked Claude in a whisper, his face showing how much he wanted to pet the puppy.

“I found her abandoned in an alley. What was I supposed to do, leave her there?”

So it was a she.

“No, of course not,” she agreed. “But school is, maybe, not the best place to bring her.”

The puppy opened her eyes and yawned, and both she and Claude cooed at the sight. Thankfully, no one was paying attention to them, so no one saw the little dog.

The teenage girl extended her hand to the dog, letting her sniff her and cooed once more when she licked her hand. Taking that as an invitation, she softly petted her head.

“What are you going to do with her?”

“I’ll take her to the vet after school and then I’ll take her home.”

She knew that he missed his dog back in Gotham, so she shouldn’t be surprised that he was so eager to adopt this little one.

“What is Dick going to say?”

“He doesn’t really have a choice.”

She laughed.

“No, I suppose he doesn’t.”

When she stopped petting the puppy, Claude extended his own hand to her and started petting her back when she allowed him too.

“Damn, this dog is too cute, I want to cry.” He made kissing noises at the dog. “So, what, you’re just going to hide it with you all day in school.”

“It’s Wednesday, a half-day, so I just have to keep her hidden for two more hours. I can manage. I did it before.”

The fashion designer smiled.

“You often save animals from the street like that?” she asked.

“More than you know.” He answered and bent over his desk to give her a soft kiss.

“Ugh, you guys are so cute, you make me want to puke.” Joked Claude.

“Call me cute one more time and you can say goodbye to your teeth.”

Claude just laughed, not taking his threat seriously at all.

It was surprising, really, when at the end of the morning — Wednesdays were only a half-day of classes, so they were done by 12:30— Damian did manage to not get caught with the dog.

He was the first one out of class and was waiting for Marinette outside.

She accompanied him to the vet, who took them between two clients, thankfully.

The puppy was fine, all things considered. She was a bit underweight though, probably that she’s been on the streets for a week or two with nothing to eat. It was a good thing that Damian found her when he did.

They then went to a store to buy all the necessities for the little dog, gave her something to eat, and bought sandwiches as lunch before they went to a park so the dog could spend his energy.

“She’s so small right now, I can’t believe she’s going to get so big in a few months,” she said as she took a hundred pictures of the dog. She was already in love with her.

She knew that her soulmate was an animal lover, that he was more at ease with them than with humans, so she had no doubt that he would take really good care of this little one. She just hoped that she would get along with his cat.

“It shouldn’t be an issue. Alfred the cat is used to be around other animals,” he answered her when she voiced her thoughts.

The dog came back to them, tired, and she lifted her to put her on her laps. She took a few selfies with the puppy and even got Damian to take some with her.

She also changed her unlock screen with one of the pictures they just took.

“What are you going to name her?” she asked as she petted the now sleeping dog.

“Hmm… I don’t know. What do you think I should name her?”

The blue-eyed girl beamed, happy that he was asking about her opinion. It meant a lot to her and she could say that it meant a lot to him too.

“Well, all this white fluff makes me think of a cloud, so why not Cloud?”

He smiled at her and kissed her cheek in affection.

It always made her blush when Damian did something like that in public, but she has learned that he just did whatever he felt like doing at the moment, so she didn’t mind it, as long as it stayed G rated.

“Cloud it is, then.”

Tag List:

@bigpicklebananatree @animegirlweeb @crazylittlemunchkin @northernbluetongue @cutechip @justafanwarrior @iloontjeboontje @resignedcatservant @maribat-is-lifeblood @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @toodaloo-kangaroo @mikantsume @dast218 @amayakans @zestyzealot @lunarwolfspn @corabeth11 @marinettepotterandplagg @olynix @aestheticnpoetic @hot-neighbour-nextdoor @thehufflepuffranger-blog @k-poplunardreams @tis-i-beanbandit @bluesimani

#maribat #daminette #maridami #damian x marinette #ml x dc #mlb x dc #miraculous x dc

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gyromitra-esculenta · 3 years

Text

Misery is the Drug in Your Veins 1

Dead Dove Mob/Yakuza AU

Hanzo has a problem threatening Shimada-gumi’s working relationship with Reaper’s organization: the altercation between his shit-for-brains men and Reaper’s kid’s bodyguard that ended with blood spilled. It’s his responsibility to smooth things over and offer an appropriate apology.

Over two years earlier, working deep undercover in Reyes’ family, Jack finds himself with his cover blown and his very life a balancing act on a tightrope.

Warnings: Serious Dead Dove, ncs, dubious/coerced consent, ncs drug use, violence (like people buried alive at night in woods in future or mentions of necklacing), abuse, objectification, ptsd, cptsd, fawning, no-one is objectively good, etc - also Hanzo & Genji being bros.

He should have taken the coat, not just the scarf, Jack thinks, observing the falling snowflakes, big and fluffy. Probably the first snow, too, all poetic and shit. He just needed some space to breathe and clear his mind, if only for a moment - hitching a ride with Amelie and Jesse on their morning trip to the shore seemed like a good idea then, not so much now.

To his left, Amelie speaks into her phone in angry spitfire French. Jack sighs and closes his eyes as he leans his head back against the wooden post. Should've taken the coat, he's too fucking cold. Cold enough to shiver.

"Will you die?" Jesse asks and Jack cracks one eye open. He can hear the sirens getting closer - he also feels the blood seeping through the fingers of the hands he keeps pressed to his side - and he's so fucking cold.

"I don't know," Jack answers sincerely, "but Gabe's gonna be angry with me, for sure..."

Jesse nods solemnly and puts his own hands on his - Christ, he's what, seven? The kid's seven, Jack needs to remind himself, and asking him if he's going to die now, and no child should do that ever, but he's just tired and fucking freezing.

It doesn't even hurt anymore and the sirens are getting away.

The car ride through the early winter landscape takes over an hour. The serpentine road leading up the mountain mansion is cleared of snow - and at this point, observing the scenery passing by the window, Hanzo is considering making a damn PowerPoint presentation. If it will save him from this kind of headache in the future, it will be worth it. Maybe he will even delegate the task to Genji. Speaking of whom, as the car turns around and rolls to a stop in front of the mansion, Genji is the first out with a cigarette in his hand.

Hanzo waits for Daichi to open his door.

The air is chilly but not enough for the snow to linger for more than a few days unless the temperature drops further. Hanzo would spend a moment to appreciate it under any other circumstances.

The angry European woman, underdressed for the weather, leans on the banister of the balcony and glares death at them. Another variable Hanzo’s unfamiliar with.

"Get back in the car."

Genji waves his cigarette.

"I just light..."

"The car, now."

Genji swears in a protest but complies. Good. Hanzo needed him to only show his face around, anyway, so it’s known he’s taking the situation with all the seriousness expected.

The woman above raises her chin and turns away from the banister, disappearing from his sight. He's expecting to meet her inside.

Hanzo walks past the first car, nodding to his people as he passes them. The hall is hot, and Hanzo entertains for a moment the notion Americans have absolutely no moderation in anything. He lets Daichi take his coat and leaves him behind in the vestibule, following one of the two guards deeper into the house. Up the stairs, the mercenary lets him into the day room connected to the balcony. Through the glass doors, he can see it's far more spacious than it appears from the outside.

The woman from earlier sits in a wicker chair, drinking something warm from a cup. The kid, dressed more appropriately in a sweater and a cap, plays with toy cars on the floor, pausing once in a while to talk at her - by the movement of the steam above the rim of the cup he can follow her answers.

Hanzo sits down on the couch.

When he was much younger, he believed in all the tall tales of honor, whole-heartedly even, before he had realized it was just a pretty word for bruised egos and petty vendettas of the vain. And as such, the vulgar display of power before him is merely that.

"Shimada," Reaper raises his glass minutely without offering. The whore, half-sitting on the floor with face leaning on his thigh, bound and gagged - thankfully covered with a thrown on yukata - either pretends not to notice the audience or is completely out of it. Hanzo fixates for a moment on a darker patch on Reaper's trousers, obviously wet with drool and gods know what else. He's even marginally curious if the whore's going to be one of those he has to arrange for a discrete cleanup after, one of the obligations of the agreement negotiated by his father, both the supply and the subsequent removal.

"I've become aware of an... incident involving some of my men. I want to extend my sincere apologies and assure you they will be disciplined appropriately."

"Will they?" Reaper sips his drink.

They certainly are already very sorry, is what Hanzo would want to say, since your minder sent all three of them running, and two, in the aftermath, to the urgent care. He settles for the appropriate prostration.

"I will personally ensure a situation like this won’t repeat."

"My property was put at risk."

The negotiation stage, at last. If such a thing ever came to be, Hanzo dearly hoped he himself would never refer to his own child, or their mother, as his property, though he harbors no such futile delusions where his own future is concerned.

"We will offer the customary tribute."

"I demand the full retribution."

"It was a grave mistake but it would be a far too drastic action to undertake."

"I don't think you understand the severity of the situation, Shimada," Reaper smiles and inclines forward, setting the glass between them on the table while his other hand pets the whore's hair. He leans back against the couch, pulling at the gripped between his fingers hair, forcing the whore to straighten frantically to follow his movement. One of those gags, Hanzo notes in the back of his mind, watching the man's throat as he seizes and tries to fight for his breath with his changing position. The cloth slips off his frame, revealing the stitches on his left side and the reddened flesh underneath.

It's the distinctive scars that make Hanzo realize he had read the situation wrong, right from the very start. Whatever Reaper sees in his face is enough for him to let go of the man's hair and allow him to fall back against his thigh with a small sound of distress.

Hanzo was never in a position to negotiate.

"I'll arrange for the place and the time."

"See that you do, Shimada."

Halfway down the mountain, Genji finally asks.

"So, what's it gonna be? Fingers?" Hanzo holds his hand out to him and Genji, sighing, gives him his flask. "What, their balls and dicks?"

When Hanzo drinks more before passing the flask back to him, Genji grimaces.

"They just pestered the chick and knifed the hired muscle, that's a bit much."

"Only he wasn't a hired muscle."

"What, some family?"

Hanzo looks out of the window.

"Genji, do you remember, when the old man sent us to pick up the kid from the airport?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"The junkie."

Standing outside of the terminal with the kid in his arms and a backpack, with a duffel bag full of money on the ground. Obviously lost and confused, suffering from withdrawal if one knew what to look for, and ready to bolt if anyone as much as tried to approach him - with months-old scars slashed across his face, and another one along the left side of his head, barely hidden under the hair.

And he would run if Hanzo didn't have the foresight to instruct his men to surround him; even made a panicked move before a strange resignation took him over and he quietly followed them to the car - not letting go of the kid even as he tore into the packet Hanzo provided him with and swallowed the pills dry, high as a kite already when they finally arrived at their destination and made the exchange, staying long enough to see him and the kid escorted to the mansion.

"Yeah, what about that one?" Genji flippantly takes a swig from the flask.

"It was him, and he's his woman."

"Shit." Genji meets his eyes, then continues in an unfamiliar display of sympathy. "I'll get everything ready, you just pass the word."

"Thank you." And Hanzo means it.

It's not the first time that Hanzo considers Genji would be a much better fit for the position, if not for his rambunctiousness, and some other quirks seen as weaknesses and not the strengths they were. Nevertheless, it was far more likely it would be Genji providing the heir, either by design or by accident, Hanzo idly thinks by the way of distraction from his current task, which is delivering a signed death warrant on his own men. They were foolish and young, their deaths superfluous, and yet...

The Chinese were good partners if one traded in lives - and Shimada-gumi partook in it - but drugs and firepower were a whole different matter altogether. The triads were unwilling to part with the total control, so if the man who provided the connections and his network wanted a blood tribute, he got the damn blood tribute. Too bad he never got to know what the old man paid for the deal they've inherited, but merely seeing him squirm over it was sure worth the price.

Hanzo sits on the couch just as the maid – Filipino, if he were to guess - finishes pouring the tea into what appears to be his designated cup out of the four on the table. The host is absent, as is the angry European woman; he can put the time it affords him to some use.

The indirect source of his headache is half-lying, half-sitting on the cushions on the floor. The kid, working on a picture, is sitting between the table and his legs. Hanzo observes for a moment, trying to look past the preconceptions and circumstances skewing his perception. The man is relaxed and definitely under the influence, be it painkillers or something else altogether, and except for the initial glance, he ignores Hanzo completely, staring off into space. Hardly frail, in a physical sense of the world. His physique is maintained. A wide bruise that wasn’t there before is circling his neck.

"I don't believe we were introduced," Hanzo clears his throat, extending his hand over the table. "Shimada Hanzo."

The man flicks his eyes at Hanzo's palm before returning to looking at an unspecified point in the air.

"...Jack."

But his lips were forming a different sound at the beginning before Jack apparently caught himself.

"I see," Hanzo puts his hand back on his thigh. "Can I ask you something, Jack?"

Jack shrugs noncommittally, with the accompaniment of subtle clinking.

"Thank you." Hanzo spares a glance to the kid busy adding copious amounts of red crayon to the picture. "This might be an inappropriate discussion for a child."

Jack shrugs again - there's the metallic sound once more - and answers without looking.

"I shot his mother in front of him."

That's... definitely, one way of saying it doesn't matter what's discussed. Hanzo purses his lips, mulling over how to proceed, when the kid puts the crayon back on the table and looks at him.

"Mom killed dad and wanted to kill Jack," the kid smiles and grabs the black crayon this time. Jack at first just stares at the boy, then Hanzo feels his surprised attention on himself as if, somehow, Jack had consciously noticed him only now, biting his lip in what could be apprehension or anxiety. Intriguing, how his focus wavers immediately, prompting Hanzo to continue with caution, to sustain it.

"Can you tell me, Jack, how you got the scars on your face?"

Jack mulls the question over.

"Glass. It was... a window, and the bomb went off..." His voice trails off. Fair enough. The cuts must've been clean and deep, missing both of his eyes by a close margin.

"Jack." The man's wandering gaze snaps back to Hanzo at hearing his name, again. "And the burn on your neck?"

"...gun." Jack doesn't elaborate on it. Hanzo keeps the momentum up and does not push for the information that is not provided freely.

"The scars on the chest, Jack?" As soon as Jack parses the question, the additional nervousness builds up in his shoulders. The metallic clinking is back. He answers with a barely perceptible stutter.

"...Afghanistan."

Either military or mercenary, might be both. Running convoys, possibly; maybe this is the connection Hanzo's looking for to sate his personal curiosity, but the further line of questioning is best saved for later.

"Jack," Hanzo calls the man's wandering attention back to himself, again. "And the scar on the left side of your head, Jack?"

Jack freezes for a moment before both of his hands fly up to cover his hair there - handcuffed and used to it, judging by the flawless coordination - the reddened skin around the wrists has an oily wet shine to it.

"No, it's not visible, Jack," Hanzo finds himself trying to placate him with his open palms showing and reaching over the table. The unexpected manner of an animal gulping air and ready to lash out reminds him of all the times he had to talk Genji down from whatever bad high he'd been on. "I've seen it before. Before. There's nothing to see now, Jack. Nothing."

The change is gradual. Jack's expression settles back into an impassive mask as his hands slowly return to their previous position. Hanzo lets the matter rest, sparing a glance at the kid unperturbed by the incident and happy to be left alone working on his picture.

"I failed to blow my brains out," Jack delivers in a flat voice bereft of any inflection. There's something disturbingly familiar in his words and eyes Hanzo cannot pin down, not now at least, but the impression of the fact that he had seen it somewhere before remains. Puzzle pieces to be assembled together later - if he finds enough of the missing parts to create the image or at least the idea of the image.

"That's all that I wanted to ask, Jack," Hanzo focuses on the cup he reaches for, still feeling the uncomfortable stare of blue eyes bore into him.

Over time, he grew accustomed to the western idea of what tea is - made with much too hot water and too many leaves - and marinated. The one in the cup has a lovely red coloring and smells deeply of tannin. The taste is tart and bitter, with a smidge of sweet fermentation. From the corner of his eye, Hanzo can still see Jack observing him with unnerving intensity. He tries to remain unbothered by it while sipping his tea, idly noting it would be acceptable as a sweetened drink when watered down.

The uncomfortable moment lasts until Jack shifts his whole posture, best described as a scramble to prop himself up on his hands - the reason obvious when the host enters Hanzo's field of vision - the whole of it a ridiculous approximation of a pet reacting to its beloved owner.

As ridiculous as Hanzo's own refusal to refer to the man as 'Reaper' in the confines of his own mind, but the fact some of his people took to calling him 'Shinigami' is even more preposterous, and he will take no part in this absurd game unless otherwise required. And, even being in a position of a supplicant - again - he will not vie for the attention that at the same time he is owed as a guest. The whole situation leaves Hanzo with a substantial quandary to navigate while he goes through the mental list of all the interdependencies. Not for the first time, he's more than curious what the old man had offered his current host in the introductory package - but definitely not the mansion itself. Hanzo had discreetly investigated all the details of the acquisition of the property and nothing came up, except for the fact that it had been allowed to be bought out by a foreigner. If he were to hazard a cautious guess, it almost looked like a cozy retirement plan.

Hanzo sips on his tea, watching the interaction before him play out: at the same time put off and fascinated by it. Jack strains, the corner of his lips Hanzo can see from his vantage point twitches. The position he put himself in must be forcing pressure on the stitches that punches through whatever pain medication - or anything else - he's on. The host takes ahold of his jaw - definitely not a gentle grip but probably not bruising - and pulls him up even higher, enough that Jack now has to brace his palms on the table to keep balance and minimize the strain on his side. Hanzo has the unsettling notion he's being privy to something far too intimate to be displayed during what is basically a business meeting. While he does understand the difference in the sensibilities, this is too much, with how Jack keeps his eyes trained on the man. As soon as the so-far hidden from the view pipette is raised, he opens his mouth obediently.

Hanzo counts three drops, a pause, and then the fourth one like an afterthought. Free from the grip, Jack remains at attention until the host pats his cheek in dismissal. At this, he eases off slowly, sinking down until he rests his forearms on the edge of the table and reaches for his teacup, downing it in a fashion that makes it clear he's trying to get rid of a displeasing taste in his mouth. All things aside, on its own, it is an impressive maneuver to be pulled off while being impaired both by the cuffs and the sustained injury, not to mention the medication. Hanzo makes a note of it, moving Jack up several rungs in his personal risk assessment. He's dangerous, maybe on par with the angry woman, who, at the moment, seems to be absent from the meeting.

"Don't worry about your little earlier chat, Shimada."

Ah. Hanzo had been caught snooping for information, not that he really counted on it to go unnoticed. The question, how much his host, now sitting in front of him, cares about this perceived invasion of privacy.

"He won't remember it."

Apparently, not as much as Hanzo would expect, but another possibility opens: a warning that Jack won't recognize him as an ally down the line. He might be overthinking it. Probably is, and, feeling the warning bells of borderline paranoia, Hanzo glances at Jack now reclining back on the pillows with his eyes half-closed.

The kid remains unbothered by it all, focused fully on his artwork.

"I understand," Hanzo begins, reaching into his front pocket for a card he places face down on the table - keeping his fingers on the laminated paper. "Regarding our previous discussion..." He slides the card towards the host. "I hope the time and the place are acceptable."

The man observes him with the most irritating smirk on his face, barely noticeable but definitely there. It's his frayed nerves, Hanzo decides when the host finally leans forward and he pulls his hand away from the piece of paper, straightening his posture. Only, the man picks up his cup.

"I'm sure there will be no scheduling conflicts for this event."

'Event'. Hanzo will murder his own people in cold blood. Idiots of mythological proportions, true, but still his people. Business oiled with blood, like any other. The loud clack of a crayon put down with force on the table startles him - Hanzo hopes his face doesn't show it. The kid gets up and steps over Jack's legs, going for the cupboards on the other side of the room.

"Did you finish your classes?" The host asks, not breaking the eye contact.

"In the morning," the kid answers as he retrieves what looks to be a handheld game from the drawer before making his way back to the table.

"Okay then." The host smiles, almost fondly. Nodding at that. "Children," he adds as a means of the explanation that's unneeded. "Now, where were we?"

"I believe this was all, unless..." The man sets the cup back - untouched - and rises from the couch. Hanzo mimics him, struck by the sheer rudeness of it: another garish display of the imbalance between them and their respective organizations. At least, until there's a hand extended towards him over the table. He takes it. The grip is firm and does not ease, making it uncomfortable as silent seconds pass.

"Gabriel. I'm looking forward to our continued partnership."

They'd never been formally introduced before. Hanzo feels the balance shift imperceptibly with the name slotting into the appropriate spaces in his mind.

"Hanzo."

"See that it doesn't end too soon," Gabriel releases his hand with finality. Hanzo nods, feeling like he has just, how the western saying goes, sold his soul to the devil.

"I will definitely keep it under consideration."

"Good."

Gabriel sits back down and Hanzo more than feels it's his cue to leave. He turns, with one last glance to the kid: he has managed to place himself between Jack's arms, with his back leaning against the man's chest. If not for the cuffs around the wrists laying across his lap, it would appear as nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it wasn't, really, with how the kid was now engrossed in his game like everything was in perfect order.

Hanzo spends the ride back ruminating on the meeting.

The puzzle pieces do not want to fit together - he gets two or three to connect but not more - different bits of information suspended in the void of unknowns. When Daichi opens his door, one memory strikes him randomly. Hanzo sends him away with the wave of his hand.

Still sitting in the car, he takes one cigarette out of the case and lights it.

Hanzo doesn't smoke. It's rather a sympathetic nervous habit he had picked up from Genji: holding a burning cigarette between his fingers and the disagreeable smell help him focus and calm. He has been right. He knew the expression, or rather the lack of it, that Jack wore on his face when asked about the scar. He had seen it before, had heard the same flat voice, all from some of the used merchandise, the ones that were broken in, or just simply broken.

Two and a half years ago.

He wakes slowly, with pain lacing through his body at every minute motion. Tries to sort his memories out, what was real and what has never happened.

The room is oddly familiar. The slid shut curtains remind him of something disturbing.

It's probably morning.

Over the hum in his head, he can hear someone moving downstairs.

He works the courage up to shift and sit - then stand on unsteady legs - his tongue feels swollen and sticks to the roof of his mouth. It makes sense for it to be morning, somehow.

The first door he tries is the bathroom. The light comes on by itself - he barely registers moving before he's gripping the sink with both hands and drinks straight from the tap. When he finally looks up, there's a baggie stuck with yellow tape to the mirror's surface.

He rips it off and stills, staring. His reflection is a sorry sight - but it's not right - the bruises and scrapes are healing, his lips are scabbed. It's days, not hours. Tentatively, he reaches to his cheek and winces at the sharp pain.

But it's not right, not when his wrists are rubbed raw fresh and stinging - and there's nothing in the air but the smell of gasoline - and if Gabriel comes any closer, his hair will catch on fire too...

He flinches away from the mirror and the specter lurking in the reflection. But Gabriel is still standing in the doorway. Blocking his way out.

He knows.

Gabriel knows.

The fragments of the last few - two? three? - days come together into a mismatched tapestry of metal, gunpowder, and gasoline. He tastes blood and breathes in the sand. The edge of the sink digs into his back as Gabriel steps closer and crowds his space, hand reaching to his palm and freeing the still-gripped in it plastic bag.

With his fingers, Gabriel forces the pills past his lips; a drop of blood trickles down his chin from an open again split lip.

But he's only interested in finding what hides behind those eyes that observe him with the knowing superiority: what’s the verdict?

One phone call, he needs but one call, and 'Jack' will be wiped from existence, and he will be safe and away from all this.

Away and safe to lick his wounds. He’s good at that.

"Swallow." The command comes with a pressure to his jaw and a palm covering his mouth - he does. "Good doggie. Wash up, change, and come downstairs. Dinner's ready soon."

Gabriel lets go of him and leaves.

'Jack' needs to die.

He spares the last long look for his own reflection and wipes the blood off his face with one of the pristine towels hanging by the side. He throws it to the ground.

Hot water in the shower stings and hurts, but his lips and fingertips tingle with numbness. The steam makes it hard to breathe; the towel still comes away tinged pink with a few darker spots scattered around, stark in the contrast to the glaring white. There's still some grime under his nails he can't get to; he's not sure he cares, not now.

Opiates, this time, with something extra mixed in, he realizes when he overshoots with his hand at first try while reaching for the change of clothes lying on the bed. The loose sweatpants and the long-sleeved shirt, both in spruce - is spruce even a color? - hang off his frame. It's... a first. He remembers losing some weight, but this is ridiculous, as is the thought they're probably a set of pajamas. He chuckles and covers his mouth immediately, surprised at the sound.

He needs time and a place to lick his wounds and process before he crashes. He needs time away from 'Jack'.

He knows his way around the house as well as he knows someone outside will put a bullet in the back of his head if he runs.

He needs 'Jack' to die.

He steps barefooted off the carpeted stairs onto chill parquet.

On the chest of drawers by the wall lie his keys, gun, wallet, and the phone - the screen is cracked but as long as the other sim card is in it should dial the right number and 'Jack' will die either way. He almost picks up the phone and the gun but thinks better of it.

He's got a straight line to the outside. Baby steps. Just be quiet. He recognizes the jacket hanging on the coat rack, it's his own - looks back to the gun.

The sound of metal hitting on glass is too loud, almost like it's supposed to catch his attention.

"Oh, you're up! Just in time, too." Chipper and pleasantly surprised. He blinks and winces at the voice, turning to his right. She's there, in shades of pink, holding some spatula or some other implement. "Sit down, I'm just finishing up," Angela continues with a smile.

She can't not know. There's no fucking way she doesn't know at least that one thing. She shouldn't be smiling at him.

"...I don't want... to intrude."

"Don't be silly, Jack, I'm happy to have you. I tried something new tonight. I hope you like lamb in mint and black beans."

The table is set for four people. Jesse sits in his chair, elbows propped next to his plate, his cup of juice half-emptied already. Gabriel's not here. He can't decide if that's good or not.

Cautiously, he walks to the closest chair and sits with his back to the corridor.

Closest to the exit.

Angela busies herself with the pots. Jesse observes him with the fervent disinterest only children are capable of. He tries to smile; Jesse's not impressed and kicks the table.

"You must be hungry." It's bad. He had missed her moving.

Angela puts the meat on his plate first. It smells sweet. He is hungry - he must be hungry with how his breathing speeds up and shallows - or maybe he has just noticed it? She comes back with the beans; they're really, honestly, just black in black, and he laughs and chokes on it.

He wipes his lips with his wrist, barely noticing the blood.

The hand on his shoulder is not hers even if she's back again by his side, closer than before. Fingers move to his throat, a thumb rubs hard circles into the back of his head. She sees it, doesn't she? She has to.

"You'll be eating with us more often, won't you?" Angela coos, leaning in. She pets his hair and kisses his cheek. "You're family, after all. Well," she straightens and claps her hands. "Everybody, dig in. Dinner's served."

The hand on his neck lets go with one last shove - and only then he feels he's able to take a shallow breath. He focuses on the plate; the fork held between his fingers wavers. The beans glisten and he's pretty sure they are not moving, even if he would swear they do. He pierces one with the fork and brings it to his lips; somehow, it tastes numb. He almost recoils at the sudden pain when his tongue presses it against the roof of his mouth - and after a short pause, he moves the bite to the side of his mouth before swallowing.

That's... he remembers. That has happened.

He keeps his head low, forcing himself not to look anywhere but his plate, carefully gathering what is probably meat on the fork that hits the glass with too much force more than once.

He blinks.

The meat is on the fork.

The light is different.

The sickly sweet smell brings up bile in his throat. He lets go of the fork. The sound it makes when it falls is louder than a gunshot. He almost trips to the side together with the chair when scrambling to stand up, one hand pressed to his mouth.

"I need a smoke." Stained and high-pitched. It's not his voice.

He backs into the corridor until there's a wall behind him he can lean on. His breath comes in short wheezing gusts through the gaps between his fingers.

Little late to start panicking.

"Take the jacket. It's cold."

He turns to the left. The jacket.

He vaguely remembers he had a pack of cigarettes in there, one he only started on. He slides along the wall and tries - fumbles at it the first time; it feels too heavy - to pry the jacket off the hanger – stumbles to the door - forgets for a second it opens outward and pulls first.

The chill in the air hits him as he steps out to the porch. It's dark out. Shivering, he manages to slip the jacket on his shoulders and pats the pockets before he finds the cigarettes.

There are two SUVs with tinted windows parked in the front. He knows there are people in them.

He can't run.

The first cigarette is broken - he lets it fall next to his bare feet. The next, too. The third, too; he breaks off the dangling part and puts it between his lips.

He lights it off the offered light, noticing only after the fact Slim is standing next to him. And Slim is not slim, it's hilarious.

He drags on the cigarette. The smoke feels like nothing and burns the roof of his mouth, but quells nausea. Vertigo comes as he closes his eyes; a hand under his elbow keeps him stable for that fleeting moment.

His mind is clearer. Somehow.

He should be dead. He isn't. His cover is blown, and he has nothing. He's compromised. He throws the butt to the ground and takes out another cigarette. Slim lights that one for him, too.

Maybe, just maybe, he can go.

Walk past the parked cars with no one stopping him. Hitch a ride to the nearest gas station. Make a call and wait for someone to come and pick him up. With nothing of substance to show for the months spent.

Pathetic.

Run away with his life.

But...

No one else but him got this close. It almost feels like he's... being allowed to stay. Like they know - Gabriel knows - it isn't about him. The game's far bigger.

He can do it. 'Jack' can stay for a while longer.

He can do it. He still needs to make the call.

Jack takes the last drag on the broken cigarette and then tosses it away. He's still shivering. The hand leaves his elbow; Slim is still not slim, it's still hilarious, and Jack bites back a chuckle that sounds wrong even to his own ears.

"How's...?" Slim asks, almost like a concern.

Jack shrugs. Feeling the gaps in the wood with his soles, he takes a small step forward and breathes in the air.

He can stay a while longer. Jack is here to stay.

He turns around and sizes the door leading back into the lion's den. The click of the lock has a finality to it.

The only light in the corridor pours in from the kitchen. The familiar vertigo is back. Foot after foot, slow and careful, the thrum of blood rising in his ears, Jack makes his way to his phone left haphazardly in the open.

"What are you doing?"

He freezes with his fingertips trembling just above the cracked screen. Gabriel is behind him.

"I... need to make a call."

"You can do that tomorrow." Jack flinches when a clip of notes lands next to his palm. He flinches again when the jacket slips off his shoulders and falls to the floor. "You'll need a new phone, anyway."

"I really..."

The hand on his wrist pushes his arm down; Jack offers no resistance, his breath catching in his throat.

"Good doggie."

Fingers move over his shoulder and then knuckles brush against the hair on the nape of his neck. The touch follows the bumps of his spine - stops just below the shoulder blades with commanding pressure. He climbs the first step of the staircase. His grip on the handrail spasms. It was stupid, to expect the lion to lie meek in its own den.

Jack doesn't fight the hand at his back - doesn't fight it even as it pushes him later down under and keeps him at the bottom of the bathtub. In the morning, Angela fuses over him with the concealer. When she's satisfied with her handiwork, she drags him to stand in front of the mirror.

"See? It's all better now."

#sometimes i write #r76 #reaper76 #mob!au #dead dove #misery is the drug in your veins

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awhitehead17 · 3 years

Text

Whumptober 2020: Day 30 - Now where did that come from?

Prompt: Ignoring an injury

Summary: Before he gets the chance to deal with some wounds, an emergency call comes in asking for Jason’s help. Deciding his injuries can wait he goes to help out, however considering his condition he doesn’t know how much help he’ll be until the pain becomes too much to ignore.

Enjoy! :D

He’s not even two steps into his apartment before he’s letting out a heavy sigh and slumping against the wall in exhaustion. Everything’s hurting and Jason wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and sleep for eternity.

Now he’s stopped moving he can feel his side throbbing, a pulse traveling throughout his body in repetitive painful waves that make him clench his teeth. Some asshat got a lucky strike in with a knife and now his left side has a nice size gash in it which is currently bleeding like a waterfall. That may be an exaggeration but Jason’s too tried to care.

At least he thinks that’s the worst wound he’s collected that night. He’s pretty sure there are scratches and bruises in places he didn’t know there could be. His hand is hurting too, but he doesn’t yet know the cause of that, it just twinges in pain anytime he clenches his fist. It’s also kinda hard to breathe, that’s either because of some potential cracked ribs he could have or because of the exhaustion, probably both.

Jason doesn’t know how long he spends leaning against the wall, having lost track of time, but he somehow finds the will power to push away from the hard surface and starts to trudge through his apartment towards his bedroom. Once there he’ll patch himself up and then pass out and deal with everything else later on.

As if being exhausted and injured wasn’t enough to be dealing with, when he’s no more than several steps away from the wall his phone begins to ring. Jason groans as he feels the vibrations of the device against his leg. Who the fuck was calling him at this time in the morning? And why were they calling him?

Fumbling around, Jason grabs the device from his pants and answers it. “What?”

“You’re needed,” Oracles voice tells him, “I’m sending you coordinates now, so get there as soon as you can.”

Jason’s mind takes a moment to catch up with what was being said, when it does he frowns into the emptiness of his apartment. “No. Get someone else to do it.” He’s whining, he’s aware of that, he sounds like a child but he doesn’t care. He’s too tired to be dealing with any more shit that night.

“Not an option. It’s an all hands on deck situation.”

“Well I’m busy.” Jason argues childishly.

“Batman’s orders, Red Hood.” Oracle snaps at him in that ‘no room for arguments’ tone of voice she has.

Jason sighs and silently curses everyone and everything. “Fine, whatever! You owe me.” He hangs up before she could reply.

He takes a deep breath and tries to mentally prepare himself for going back out in the field in his condition. He doesn’t know how much help he’ll be in a fight but if he shows his face then that’s something right?

Jason’s phone pings a moment later, a glance at the screen shows it’s the coordinates Oracle had been on about. He makes a note of the place and wills himself to turn around and head back out of the apartment he had only recently returned to.

His injuries will have to be looked at later on.

------

Even from a distance he could see the reason why it was a all hands on deck situation. There was a massive gang war happening right across the docks and Gotham Bay. He pulls up on his motorbike and stashes it in some alleyway out of sight and approaches the fighting from the ground.

Upon approaching, he spots Nightwing jumping in between scuffles of men. Red Robin was running around knocking men unconscious with his staff. Robin was violently tearing into thugs like there’s no tomorrow. Batman was fighting against Bane (how the hell did Bane get here?). Spoiler was grappling with Cheetah (again what the hell?) the two women slashing at each other to get the upper hand. Signal was ducking and dodging Poison Ivy’s giant weeds, trying to get his way closer so he could knock her out without being touched.

Jason watches for a moment, working out where he’s needed most. A few others in the family have other areas covered, different colour suits and gear letting him know who’s where, but he can’t work out where he should go.

How was he not aware of this battle happening, only having to hear it from Oracle minutes before? Why where there such a weird combo of villains together? Something bigger was obviously happening but what was it?

He doesn’t get the chance to try and work it out because a high pitched, accented voice was calling him out from behind. Jason turns around just in time to avoid being swept to the side by Harley’s mallet.

“Lookie here! Who finally decided to show up! Isn’t it my favourite Hoddie!”

Jason bounces backwards to avoid another swing of her mallet. Right of course Harley would be here, Ivy was here so course she would be.

He ducks and rolls to avoid getting hit a third time. Coming out of the roll, his side flares up in pain making him loose concentration and causing him to be unsteady for a moment, this provided Harley the perfect opportunity to actually hit him this time.

Jason grunts as the weapon collides with his side and knocks down to the ground, as his back hits the ground hard the air gets pushed out of his lungs. He's disoriented for a moment but when he comes back Harley is there above him raising her mallet to strike against his head. Thankfully his instincts kick in because he’s able to chuck her off him. The two of them quickly engage in hand to hand combat.

As time goes by Jason could feel himself starting to lag. His earlier injuries and exhaustion was catching up to him. One reaction too late, has him knocked to the floor and this time he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get up again. His whole body feels tired and worn down, everything becoming too heavy too move.

Thankfully someone comes to his rescue. He doesn’t work out who though he does see Harley turn around shocked and as she unceremoniously collapses to the ground. That’s the last thing he remembers before sudden darkness washes over his vision.

------

When he wakes up, it’s to bright lights, a strong smell of antiseptic and a frowning Dick Grayson above him.

Jason groans and closes his eyes again, trying to shake the grogginess off from the drugs and work out what happened. After several moments he opens them again to the same sight as before.

“What happened?” He asks, his voice sounding rough and croaky.

Dick sighs and moves away from sight, only to come back again with a glass of water in hands. Before giving Jason the drink, Dick helps him to sit up against the headboard of the bed. Jason takes small sips of the refreshing water as Dick impatiently explains what had happened. The unusual impatience of his older brother tells Jason that there was something else he wanted to get off his chest, something more than just what happened at the fight.

Once he was done story telling Dick crosses his arms across his chest and glowers at Jason. “The injuries you received weren’t from the battle. They don’t match what Harley could have made, meaning you got them earlier in the night as you weren’t at the battle long enough to sustain those injuries.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “I got them earlier in the night yeah.” There was no point in denying it, it’s pretty obvious after all.

“Why didn’t you say anything! Why did you come to the battle knowing you weren’t fit to fight?” Dick shouts at him. Jason doesn’t take offence to it, he could see that the older man was worried.

“I did tell Oracle I was busy, but she didn’t listen.” Jason says factually.

“You didn’t tell her you were injured Jason. She wouldn’t have demanded you to join us of she knew that! What were you thinking, ignoring wounds like that? How can you be so stupid?”

Jason huffs, having heard all of this before just in a different time. “Exactly same reason any of us do Dickhead. There were more important things to take care of. Doesn’t matter now does it? It’s all been sorted, I’m assuming Alfred patched me up, and I’ll be back to normal in a few days.”

Dick sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. When he looks at Jason again it’s with an expression of worry and concern. “I understand, I do. I just worry. When you fell unconscious and then we found that blood on you with no explanation if didn’t look good.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “But anyway how are you feeling? Everyone else is okay by the way, no injuries surprisingly besides your own. All the villains are locked back up and everything’s been sorted out.”

Jason shrugs, “Fine I guess. Achy, tried the usual. As I said, I’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Dick gives him an uneasy smile. “Right, of course. Sorry. I’ll go let Alfred know you’re awake and grab you some food while I’m at it, just please get some rest before you start trying to do anything else.”

“No promises.” Jason grins easily. Dick sends him a mock glare before turning around to leave the medical bay. Jason watches him go and once he's out of sight he slumps against the pillows. He was still sore and tired but better than that he previously remembers.

Recovery is going to be hell but he can handle, always has done. It’s just part of what they do. They get injured, recover, move on and the cycle starts again.

#Whumptober2020 #day thirty #ignoring an injury #Jason Todd #dick grayson #fanfiction #angst #fighting #injury #injured jason #worried dick #big brother dick #now edited #mistakes have been corrected #sorry for the original bad upload!

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miss-choco-chips · 4 years

Text

Janet Drake...

...and the time her son went to a Gala for her. But because it’s Gotham, of course all went to shit.

Or, Tim always begged for a little brother. Then he got Damian, and now he’s sorry he even asked.

(Shoutout to my girl @the-quiet-carrotcake who asked for Tim at an event trying to defuse a situation. Ye ask and I shall deliver)

---.---

All things concerned, the night wasn’t going so bad. Granted, he was taking cover behind a turned table to avoid getting shot, desperately clutching Damian’s hand because the kid seemed ready to jump over it and take a swing at the enemy, but… well. He could think of worse scenarios.

For one, Batman could be in town. Sure, it’d be better, in this circumstances, to have the Dark Knight crashing through the crystal roof to put and end to -a quick glance over the table- Two Face’s scheme of the night, but hey, bright side, he didn’t need to worry about Damian and his father meeting yet.

Also, Dick and Jason could be here, caught in the crossfire with all the other party attendants. As it was, Tim was fairly sure they’d be showing up soon, in a completely different suit, and since the whole ball room was now decorated with bullet holes, the party would have to be cut short. Score.

Also, mom would freak out once she heard Tim had been caught in the middle of a shooting on the one party she asked him to go to in her place, and thus would never ask him to endure this torture again.

On the flip side… Damian was no longer holding his hand.

He jumped over the table without a second thought, cursing the kid under his breath, totally exposed to projectiles but desperately needing to make eye contact with the brat, even if just to murder him with his glare before dying.

As expected, Damian was sneakily making his way closer to Two Face’s goons, who were speaking about some new law the mayor was planning to make, and how half the attendants were possible votants on it passing or not… or some bullshit like that. Tim couldn't focus on them now, okay, he had a very dangerous, very stupid pre teen to capture and drag back to safety, assassin trained or not.

Of course, that was the moment another Rouge choose to make her appearance. What the hell was Poison Ivy doing here?

A little to his left, he watched a businessman, Mr Withyork shrinking into himself, trying to look as small and unnoticeable as possible. Wasn’t this the dude planning to build a mall on a wasteland a little south to Diamond District? Since wildlife had flourished there, it was no wonder Ivy had some opinions on the matter. Also, if Tim remembered right, this particular man was one of the confirmed votants that would reject the law passing, which went along with Two Face’s preferences.

For a full minute, the goons and the plant lady just looked at each other, completely stumped. It wasn’t often that one Rouge’s scheme clashed with another: the same man they had to protect, she intended to kill.

Looking at the half cooked goons, and then at the majestic plant goddess, Tim had a hunch on who’d win if they ended up crossing blades.

And Damian was still inching closer to the criminals.

Fuck it all to hell.

-Emm, Doctor Isley!

The entire room went dead silent. Damian, directly behind one of the goons, dropped the knife he had managed to smuggle in despite Tim’s careful check before leaving the manor. He was staring at Tim like one would a bunny who jumped directly between wolves fighting for territory, offering itself as a snack for the ravaging beasts.

It… wasn’t so far away from reality. But it was all his fault for making Tim take action to keep him safe, and he told him so with a glare before returning it to Poison Ivy, the obvious prime predator in the room.

Well, he already started…

-If you’d allow me, Doctor, I might speed this thing for you, no need for you to dirty your… -he looked at the vines, slowly and steadily making their way to Mr Withyork- babies.

Ivy raised an eyebrow, casually swinging her hips as she made her way to where he was standing, on the middle of the empty dance room, holding himself tight to avoid the disgrace of shaking. Men and women watched from behind their covers, some gasping at the inevitable slaughter they were about to see, but not moving a finger to help him. The only one looking kinda relieved was Mr Withyork, since Ivy’s vines left their path towards him to tangle around Tim’s ankles. It didn’t hurt, but it was a clear warning: don’t run.

He did his best to keep his eyes on her, despite the fear icing his veins. Looking somewhere between her mouth and eyes, not daring to let his gaze rest on either for long, and absolutely refusing to allow them to wander even lower; that was a death sentence waiting to be signed.

She hummed appreciatively, stopping just in front of him. Tim could barely make out Damian’s silhouette in the background, stealthily taking the weapons on the goons slacked hands. Everyone’s gazes seemed to be on Tim and the ruthless criminal he was currently trying to persuade.

-So polite -she noticed, tilting her head and twisting her body slightly, the new posture making her chest area more prominent. Tim kept his gaze firmly above the chin. She smiled, and if he were a smaller (dumber) kid, he’d think her charmed-, and a gentleman, too. What are you, eleven? Ten?

He swallowed, hard.

-Thirteen, Doctor. I’m small for my age, I’m told.

She made the little humming sound again, eyes scanning him up and down.

-Well then, I’m waiting. You said there was a way for this to end peacefully. I don’t mind the other way, but for a little thing like you to speak up… You deserve to be heard, at least.

Tim stood straighter, breathing deeply. His head wasn’t already rolling, so it was a good sign, right? She seemed amused by him, at least.

-Drake… Drake Industries is looking into real estate, to build a green area. To… to help against pollution. It’s, ah, a charity I talked my mother into creating… Mr Withyork’s wasteland would be perfect for this endeavour. Would that be okay with you? I can assure you, on my life, that we’ll make sure to protect any and all wildlife within those bounds, and…

He started to stammer when Ivy’s face came closer to his, examining him silently.

-I could just kill anyone who tries to build something there -she purred-, no need for you to worry your pretty little head over it, child.

He swallowed again.

-But… but then your plants… they’d be stained with blood and body parts… -he tried, nervously looking behind her. Damian was slowly inching closer to him, apparently done with taking the unsuspecting thug’s firearms.

-Good fertilizer -she shrugged, unbothered, but still too damn close. She seemed to find amusing Tim’s desperate attempts at looking anywhere but her chest, which she had purposely put directly on his field of vision.

-But… Damian! -he shouted abruptly, noticing how said brat was now just behind Ivy and brandishing a dagger. Quick as a whip, he reached past her, took Damian’s arm in his and dragged him behind his own back, using all the training he received from Nicole’s friend, Shiva, to smoothly disarm Damian and hide his weapon on his own coat, without Ivy noticing it. Good thing she was so close, then, since her own vision field was thus reduced.

At Ivy’s arched eyebrow, he quickly changed tracks. Turning and hugging Damian’s head tightly against his chest (to keep him from speaking), he raised his eyes to the criminal with his best cow eyes, the ones that more often than not got his mother to surrender.

-Damian, my cousin… he’s… he’s so young, Doctor Isley. Please, I just… I want to keep him from seeing something like that for as long as I can.

Said innocent lamb started to furiously fight against Tim’s hold, undoubtedly with something to say to that. Tim bent his head closer to him, whispering into his ear.

-Stay still and keep quiet, or I swear to whatever God you answer to that I’ll leave you to fend for yourself against my mom once this is all over with.

Damian froze. Tim looked at Ivy again, one hand carefully stroking Damian’s hair, eyes widened with surrow.

The woman clinically analyzing them seemed to rethink her opinion on Tim, head tilted in confusion. A spark of warmth lightened her eyes like a poisonous flower.

-You are a brave little seed, speaking up like that for him -Ivy mused, eyes twirling. She gave him a smile-. Fine. I’ll allow that scum to live today, as long as he sells the property to you, and you give it the promised use. If I find out you are lying…

-I’m not -he blurted out, letting Damian go but taking his hand hostage, making sure to keep his grip irontight. The little shit better not run away again; Tim doesn’t think he can face off against another criminal today-. Thank you so much, Doctor Isley.

Ivy grinned, a little charmed despite herself, and looked over her shoulder to Two Face’s thugs.

-I’m done here. Tell your waste of space boss to not meddle in my business again, or else.

‘They never did’, Tim refrained to say. The moment she stepped into the room, they had put a halt to their actions, and even before that, it’s not like they were there to specifically target her. But still, mom didn’t raise no dummy, so he kept his mouth shut, head bowed to the Rouge.

He startled, taken by surprise when he felt her hand reaching behind his ear. Damian made an aborted motion to shove her away, and Tim was quick to hid it by twisting his body in front of his, acting as if he were looking at his reflection on the window by their right. He could hear Damian growling at his back, but better pissed than dead.

There was a flower, on his hair. Pretty big, blue with some grey splashes, and a touch of golden pollen. The contrast against his dark hair was startling, but it did look good with his eyes. Briefly, he wondered if it was poisonous, and just how pathetic it’d be to die because of a flower.

-There, little seedling. If you ever want to venture into my domains, that should assure none of my babies eat you before you can reach me -and with that she stepped away, letting her plants take her through the broken window she had entered by.

He had survived. Miracles of miracles. And judging by the shadows he could see about to break through the crystal roof, Nightwing and Robin were here already, so the thugs (disarmed by Damian, not that they were aware of the fact yet) were mostly done for.

This was as good a moment as any to faint, he guessed.

Everything went black, the last thing he heard being Damian’s scared shout. Even unconscious, he never let go of the little shit’s hand.

#Janet Drake au #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #Janet Drake #poison ivy #my writting #this is short #no edit

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unicyclehippo · 4 years

Note

In the last Talks, Laura said she hadn't checked in about the Gentleman and his people trafficking deal, if he was still doing it. What if Beau figured out he was doing it still and confronted him so he wouldn't disappoint Jester?

the gentleman is entertaining at his table when the drifting waiter makes their way over with a new glass of wine and a brief, whispered word into his ear. the gentleman arches a brow at whatever is said, drags a thoughtful finger over his goatee.

[[MORE]]

‘gentlemen,’ he interrupts the conversation with the word, smiles winning around at his amassed guests. ‘if you’d excuse me for a moment?’

‘they might, aye, but what about the ladies?’ the dwarven lady—impressively muscled, impressively bearded—tosses a wink his way and smiles a toothy smile. ‘ah’m only kiddin’. we want ye to scarper—yer the only one we cannae take for all he’s worth.’

the gentleman laughs, quite genuinely. he stands, spreads his hands in a warm, welcoming fashion. ‘guests, i shall return shortly. until then—drink, dine...and gentlemen—do lose well.’

the sound of laughter follows him up the stone staircase that wraps around to the second storey of his den. it isn’t until he steps into his study that he allows his smile to fall away and the invisible form of his informant reveals themself, stepping up to his side.

‘through here? how did they—teleportation?’

‘doesn’t look like it. looks like they came through the tunnels.’

‘one of ours, then, to know the way in.’

‘not...exactly.’ under the gentleman’s stare, dunn continues. ‘a known entity, yes. but she’s a monk.’

‘of the reserve?’

‘yessir.’

jester’s friend, he thinks but doesn’t say. of all his close agents, dunn is the most level-headed, but the gentleman is not in the habit of pointing a knife at someone he doesn’t wish to be killed.

they make their way quickly through the tunnels to the gentleman’s quarters. his real quarters, not the false office he keeps by the bar. the door opens silently, hinges kept well oiled, and the gentleman’s gaze slips past the shelves of blood in their phials, past stacks of curious items, past several towers of gold and platinum, past the desk and chest of his most useful correspondence, to the familiar monk who stands in the centre of his trapped floor, unharmed.

‘thank you, dunn. i can take it from here.’

the hesitation is apparent to the gentleman and to the monk, who looks between them, no doubt looking for some kind of clue as to their relationship, dunn’s standing within his empire.

‘yessir,’ dunn says, and turns neatly on their heel.

the door closes behind, and babanon dusal—who wears the name so rarely it has begun to feel more like the mask than that of the gentleman—steps carefully from the entrance to his desk. he leans against it, folds his arms.

the monk doesn’t even follow his movement, not even when his stopping at the desk puts him out of her peripherals.

‘you had best have something very important to tell me,’ he warns silkily after a moment to let her sweat. ‘or else i may take this as some kind of...threat.’

‘you’re supposed to.’

‘beg your pardon?’

the monk—beauregard lionett, of the lionett family, kamordah, first child of thoreau lionett, the originator of the vineyard and brand—takes something from her pocket. a small phial. red inside. she throws it down to the floor, watches as it shatters with a crash and smear of red across the flagstones.

‘i said,’ she tells him, voice mild, ‘this is supposed to be a threat.’

‘fascinating way to go about it. trapped in there. destroying my belongings.’

‘the blood is jester’s,’ she corrects, and turns so very slowly that the trap doesn’t activate.

babanon feels a stirring of unease, glancing down at the red stain, the glass fragments.

‘i kinda have some father issues i’m working out at the moment,’ beau continues, mouth stretched in a grin that almost encourages him to laugh along. it doesn’t meet her eyes. those are flat and bitterly cold. ‘but i’m not quite done with that, so trust me when i say i’m fully invested in kicking your ass if it comes to that. he’s got ego too. i reckon it’d be cathartic.’

‘as terribly intrigued as i am to hear about your family drama, i’m far more interested in hearing how you found your way here.’

she shakes her head. ‘you think you’re all that. you’re nothing special. you’re the head at the top of a whole lotta worker bees and some are better at covering their tracks than others.’

‘for example?’

‘two in particular. a young human guy called suck my dick, and a half-elf lady called you piece of shit.’

‘ah. must be new hires.’

her eyes flash. a muscle that runs up the side of her cheek and temple jumps as she clenches her jaw tight; after a moment, a slow breath curls out from her mouth.

‘think of it as a threat, if you want. i think it’s a threat too. some of us would call it a warning, if they knew i was here.’

‘they don’t?’ it would be far easier to get rid of her if no one knew she was here.

beau must be able to read the thought on his face, or else her line of logic goes in much the same way as his own, because she says, ‘i wouldn’t try shit, if i were you. they might not know where i am but they’re expecting me back. and jester can get scry-happy when she’s worried so any minute now she’ll see where i am—and who i am with,’ she adds, and moves so very quickly that the trap that explodes behind her doesnt manage to catch her in the blast. she is at his throat—ignoring the prick of his poisoned blade at her gut—before he can blink, strong fingers pressed at some very sensitive points that have his own fingers useless, numb, around the hilt of his blade. ‘i don’t want her to see this, just as much as you don’t, because i don’t want her heart to break when she finds out you’re nothing like she thinks. one thing—one thing—she asked of you,’ she hisses. ‘don’t trade in people. something not even the lowest of the fuckin’ low would stoop to.’ she shakes him hard, throws him away from her as the numbing sensation wears off. ‘it hasn’t even been a year and you’ve broken that promise.’

‘the war has ended. profits are—‘

‘more important than your daughter?’

babanon remains stubbornly silent. he has worked to build this group up from dregs—and yet, despite all the work and the sacrifices, he cannot deny the connection. his own weakness.

‘what do you want? i presume since the traps did nothing, you have enough to have me arrested seven times over.’

beau fixes him with that cold stare. she makes a good partner to his daughter—he hadn’t missed the way she described her rebuke, all shards of blue ice.

‘i don’t give a fuck about you or your crime empire. i’m not here to arrest you.’

‘then why?’

‘i want the second phial. of jester’s blood.’

‘i don’t know what you—‘ a bladed item of some kind bites into the soft of his shoulder, thrown so fast the monk’s movement was nothing but a blur.

he throws his dagger and she steps out of its path, flings the other star of metal.

‘we each gave two phials,’ she says cajolingly, not the slightest bit winded or concerned by the rivulets of red that drip down each of his arms, down his hands, to drip drip drip upon the stone. she holds up a hand, wriggles two such phials toward him. ‘see? both of nott’s.’ these, too, she sends flying into the wall to crash. it won’t be long until the blood turns brown and dry and would be useless to anyone trying to use the samples. ‘but i found only one for jester. give me the second.’

babanon stares her down. considers his option. ‘what do i get?’

she favours him with a withering stare, one that makes it clear how very stupid she thinks he is being.

‘i won’t tell her what you’ve done. what you’ve agreed to. end the deal, denounce it. she never has to know.’

‘i—‘

‘they stole her,’ beau snarls. ‘kidnapped her. locked her up and killed her friend. slavers! how can you keep working with them?’

he bows his head very slightly. won’t meet her eyes as he lifts his hand to the silver chain around his neck, the small phial of red hanging from it.

‘end it. give me that blood. and fuckin’—‘ she hesitates and then presses on. ‘you need to actually earn her time—don’t just listen to her and send her off to have a drink. talk to her. be a dad for fuck’s sake.’

#cr tag #tagging my stories #prompt fill #very tired sorry i hope this is good

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solarcelest · 5 years

Text

escape route

Day #8

It was one of those horrid, much dreaded nights. The type that comes only once a month and somehow that still seems to be way too often. None of the family took too well to attending Fathers galas, all doing their best to produce excuses and reasons to warrant their absence. Most get away with it, especially Dick and Jason since the public are aware that the oldest Wayne has his own, separate life in Bludhaven and the second eldest is hardly ever in the public eye. He wished that Richard were there, he at least would wave off some of the offending hands and, unlike the unfortunate Cass, the irritating miscreants surrounding him would listen to the five foot eleven man. For now however he was there to suffer, with some of the other members of his family who seemed to have more of a difficulty cultivating excuses to escape these horrid gatherings.

Cassandra, the only official female member of the Wayne family, was absolutely adored by the press. There were more gossip magazines and new articles about his sister than Damian was able to make himself aware of (no matter how hard he tried to keep up on all the tabloids about his siblings). The public was always going on about how what a beautiful young lady she is (something Cass doesn’t particularly appreciate) and how everyone knows she will grow up to do great things for the world and about how great she is for the family.

Tim, being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises is therefore obligated to attend nearly every company event (except for the many he doesn't) and always does his ‘best’ to show.

Such a surprise he was not there tonight.

He was, Damian does have to credit him, at the gala for a brief time earlier in the evening. But, the city calls and with the Bats already short staffed and Tim neck deep in a nearly solved case, he had checked out early to go on patrol.

Oh, how envious Damian was of him. He was getting antsy, crowded into this (really not so) small room with so many intolerable people.

Damian was similar to Cass. Through the oh so innocent eyes of the public, ten year old Damian Wayne was nothing more than a poor abused child who was always clinging to his family members like shadows. Just a little kid who had been beaten and abandoned by his mother for the first decade of his life before being left to the father who wasn’t even aware of his existence.

And, well, Damian did have to give them a few points for accuracy.

The thing they didn’t have the right, however, the fact they had absolutely incredibly wrong was the assumption that Damian Wayne was cute. Which, to anyone idiotic enough to have to question that fact, was not.

Still, the rich snobs who occupied the event hall seemed to believe otherwise with how often they approached simply to coo and attempt to ruffle his still baby soft raven hair or pinch his, only slightly, chubby cheeks. Damian, who was not the biggest fan of physical contact already, disliked the constant attention from the ogling strangers and thus was his reason for tagging so close to Cassandra that night.

The two stood as they were, would probably make the front page, or at least popular photo the following day. Cassandra, who, even at her short stature stood nearly a foot above Damian, had each of her hands placed on either of shoulders. The boy was nearly rigid beneath her slender fingers, anxious from the crowd around him and the constant touching and pestering. She herself wasn’t much better but still, be older and the current big sister kept her discomfort to herself and helped to ground her brother.

They made their way off to the side, standing a ways away from the denser areas of the crowd in order to breath again. Pulling cover a chair, Cass motioned for her little brother to take a seat.

“Going to help Bruce.” She said, gesturing to where he was being bombarded with Vicky Bales never ending questions. She then turned back to Damian before pointing to the food tables not far to his right. “Eat.” She said, before sauntering off, her black dress flowing behind her.

Damian watched, more than a little jealous that at least she had something to go and do before he sighed and headed over to the food tables. He want necessarily hungry, he was trained to run in very little nutrients (much to Pennyworth disliking) but decided to at least see what was available.

Most of the items in the spread were finger foods, small sized appetizers and tapas that were meant to be grabbed and easily snacked on, not like the three course meal that was planned to come later in the night. There were a few different things though, a chocolate fountain that dripped lazily and cheese fondue. Damian sighed at both of the rather fattening choices, opting instead for one of the oranges resting in the fruit bowl.

He grabbed a dull steak knife then, the only blade near him that was not secured to his hip by a holster or tucked into his sock, resting the fruit on a plate set on the table before going about cutting it. He realized how hungry he actually was then, his stomach growling in response to the fresh smell of the fruit.

He had only altered his focused to his plate momentarily but, as it seemed, a second was all it had taken. Suddenly, all too quickly, there was a breath on his neck and a voice in his ear. It was sweet, sickly and male. The exact kind of things his father and siblings had always warned to watch for at events like these.

Bold of them to assume that Damian wasn’t always watching.

“Hungry?” Was all the voice asked. Yet the simple question carried so much weight and implied all the wrong intentions. Damian jumped, shocked by the voice and even more so by what was said. As he startled, the knife slipped, fingers moistened by the fruit juice, the handle slipping easily through them.

The blade, no longer in his control, cut down into the orange once again. But this time it was too far forward, too near his other hand and cut through the skin between his thumb and forefinger.

The cut was jagged, the blade too dull to slice evenly and blood began to seep from the wound almost immediately. Acidic oils from the citrus began to sting at the cut, causing a burning sensation to add to the pain.

Damian saw his opening.

After staring at this hands in offense, easily mistaken for shock by a bystander, he promptly burst into tears. It was humiliating, most definitely and he could nearly feel his pride dwindling on the spot, but Damian thought that was an okay payment if it meant he able to leave this wretched event even a little bit early.

Turning around and sliding past the creep, only after wiping just enough blood on the man's coat to mark the offender, Damian made a beeline towards his father and Cassandra. The buffet table, though out of the way, was still close enough to where the crowd was more congested, that numerous heads had already turned to see the source of the sound. Father was included, the man tall amongst the other elites, was brushing by them as he hurried past.

Damian met Father in the middle. By this time, the crowd had begun to form around them, interested in the cause of the scene. Damian had salty tears running down his soft cheeks and snot collecting in his upper lip. The perfect picture of a distraught child, he nearly smiled at his own perfected acting skills.

“What’s the matter, son? What happened?” Father asked as he kneeled down. Even then, he was slightly taller than Damian. Father was a large man.

Damian sniveled, offering his bloodied hand for observation. Father took it gingerly and began to gently prod at Damian’s minuscule fingers.

Damian had suffered much worse during his training and on patrol and was well aware that Father knew he was playing this up. Like, a lot. Presumably, the ‘world's greatest detective’ also knew his sons motives.

“I-I was c-cutting an orange a-and someone snuck up b-behind m-me!” He gasped, sucking in large gulps of air between his sobs, just as he had seen the misbehaved children and the park do.

Perfect.

“What man?” Father inquiered, looking around at the crowd. Damian reeled, pointing a shaking finger at the man accusingly. He still wore his suit jacket, a red swipe of Damian’s blood across the pocket, he was also turning to walk away. Only guilty men attempted to escape. Father nodded to Jim Gordon, who had been running security at that nights event, before turning back to Damian.

“I think this needs stitches.” He said, grabbing a cloth napkin to press against Damian’s hand. “Come on, we’ll go to Leslie’s.” And then, much to Damian’s surprise, Father lifted Damian by his underarms and rested the ten year old on his hip, motioning to Cassandra to follow. Damian stiffened, unused to the feeling of being held like this, of his feet dangling above the ground even though he was not in shackles. Father didn’t seem to mind though, and was able to easily support Damian’s small weight on only a single arm.

From over Father’s shoulder, Damian could see the other guests of the gala stare at the trio as they left the hall. Most of their faces held concern, some confusion at Bruce’s relatively calm hold on the rather bloody situation. Damian ceased his tears as the crowd became smaller, but hid his face in the collar of Bruce’s coat nonetheless. He never liked the feeling of eyes boring into him, of having all the attention on him when he was out as a civilian. It was unnerving, even if he would never admit it.

Bruce hadn’t said anything about the incident as they left, but Cassandra sent her brother a knowing look. Damian knew he would not be getting out of giving his sister the full run through of tonight's events later in the evening. He had a feeling he would not be in trouble though. After all, as a civilian child, a cut such as so would have them heading for the hospital whether he played it up or not. He was only staying in character acting as he was.

Father had acted well too, playing the part of the concerned parent and comforting Damian. No doubt it would be the top headline by the following morning, pictures everywhere.

Pennyworth was waiting by the main entrance for them, a gauze wrap in his hands for a temporary bandage.

Cass was looking at Damian again, a soft smile on her lips as Pennyworth began to wrap the tender cut. Father had yet to put him down and Damian was beginning to wonder why. After all, he hadn’t really been in danger and, even if he had been, Damian was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thank you.

But, even as Pennyworth secured the wrap and the buildings staff opened the door for them Father did not loosen his hold. And still, when they stepped into the cool autumn air, Father went further as to place a hand on Damian's back and honestly, the boy couldn’t tell whether the act had been continued for the sake of the few valets tending the entrance or, if it was simply just a dad, looking for an excuse to hold his son.

read on Ao3 instead

#whumptober 2019 #no.8 #stab wound #kinda #my take #Damian Wayne #Cassandra Cain #Bruce Wayne #Alfred Pennyworth #damian you little shit #but we love him anyway

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tsukoyomi-fumikage · 4 years

Text

The Wall (S/EraserMic)

Hizashi X Shota if you squint

Prompt - Write a character being thrown through a wall

Boi. BOI. Aizawa was made for this.

Shota Aizawa didn't remember hitting the wall. He didn't remember the shards of concrete and brick flying around his face and touching at his skin as he broke through the buildings interiors, landing in a dazed heap on the floor.

However he did remember the pain. It was shooting up his limbs, seizing his spine and making him unable to move. Small, fragile cuts littered his once healthy skin, and dust gathered on his back and hair, dirtying him almost instantly.

Shota's raven hair was stained red, as was the carpet as he finally drew a hand away from his throbbing eyes to attempt to push himself up to his knees. His arm wobbled dangerously as he tried to move it, sending white hot pain up his right side. Collapsing back onto the floor, his black eyes searched around for someone - one of the others had to be near by, right?

"Woah." A voice chuckled, and he froze, eyebrows narrowing and frown deepening. "Someone's looking a little dead right now."

The statement was probably true - and if it wasn't, he sure felt dead. A foot landed on his back, pressing down on delicate and sore skin: A whimper escaped Aizawa's bloodied lips as he attempted to stifle his cries. "Surely you want to call out?" Came a distorted voice through the blood rushing around his ears. "It means your friends will find you faster!"

A hand grabbed at hair, long fingers practically embedded into his scalp. He let out a groan of pain, squeezing his eyes shut. The throbbing in his head didn't let up, and the area where leather met clothes was roaring with agony. "C'mon, it's no fun if you don't call out desperately!"

There was blood collecting in his mouth, and Aizawa tried to spit it out, but his jaw refused to move - it was as if it was wired shut. Shota blinked his eyes open as his head was let go of, resting his cheek against the floor - he was certain his back was broken, so there was no use trying to move now. Although blurry, his eyes found the orange ones of the villain's; the man had crouched down in front of him, and was grinning eagerly, quirking his brows. "Well if you don't want to make a scene..." He shifted his hoodie sleeve, revealing a knife that had to be around nine inches, long, bulky and sharp. It wasn't even clean - some other poor soul's blood was dripping from the tip of it, running down in red streaks until it peppered onto the skin of the man. How hadn't Shota seen it until now? "I guess I'll just have to start without the heroes."

The pain had been unimaginable to begin with - nothing compared to the USJ incident of course, but then again, nothing could overrule that - but the agony he felt as metal touched cold skin, digging into his shoulders and finding itself embedded into muscle and ligaments, tearing through them easily was something so vile that he couldn't stop himself crying out. "Ahhh, finally!" The knife pulled out of his flesh, making a ripping sound that rippled across his body. "You're going to have to be a bit louder than that, EraserHead."

The villain sighed dramatically. "Gosh, do I really have to do all the work?" He sounded as if this whole fight had only been child's play - which Shota did in fact get 'schooled' like he would back in grade one, so he couldn't disagree. "You're ridiculous you know?"

There was no way in hell he'd win against this man - his quirk wasn't suited to mutant-types, something which, annoyingly, this man before him had. The blood dripped down from his torn open shoulder and from in between his cracked lips as he slowly bled out on the dusty floor.

Aizawa's mind was racing and wandering, calling out mentally for help, as if someone could find him just by his thoughts - shaking his head slightly to clear the thoughts, he looked down at the pile of blood growing steadily under him. "The League really got you this time, am I right?" He chuckled, waiting for Shota's dull eyes to meet his own again. "I can't stick around though, so I best just finish my mission, huh?"

Trying to quell his shaking of fear, pain, and loss of heat, he glared at him with the best look he could muster. All he got for his troubles was a smack in the face by a frustrated tail. "My mission isn't to kill you, dumbass." He drawled out boringly, walking back and forth from the downed hero as he thought out his plan, not paying attention as Aizawa struggled to heave himself up onto his knees - even if his injuries could worsen, that wasn't as bad as letting this villain get away. "Up so soon?"

Blinking rapidly to keep the blood out from his eyes, he griminced at the sound of his back cracking awkwardly. "Go... home.." Shota ground out, teeth chattering as his jaw was forced open. Blood splattered onto the floor - a lot of it too - but he was unbothered. "Don't... touch... them..."

"Aw that's honestly so sweet!" He gave a little clap, mockingly of course, and smiled down at him, tail flicking. "You know dude, you should worry about yourself."

Eraser's matted hair dangled in his eyes, poking at his cheekbones and eyelids. "Shut.. Up."

Letting out a hysterical laugh that sent shivers down Aizawa's spine, he turned to look out the window at the clear day's glows coming through the window. Orange eyes sparkling, he looked back at his victim. "I like you, you know? I was going to kill you, but I don't think I can make myself do it!" Running a hand through his slightly-damp looking hair, he sat down, curling his legs up tightly. "But then again, I have a mission, and I have places to be."

Grabbing the knife that had long gone been forgotten, he pressed the side of the blade into Shota's neck using one hand, the other tugging on his scarf, keeping him still. "I've always wanted to do this." He laughed, like one would at a childhood sleepover. This man was insane, he'd quickly concluded. "You'll have to tell me how it feels to get your neck sliced open when we meet again." He pressed harder. "Goodbye, EraserHead."

Suddenly, the weapon was gone from his throat, and he could move his neck again. Using that advantage, he turned his head to look at the opening where he'd flown through, finding Midnight and Present Mic at the entrance. They looked petrified.

"Look's like I'll be taking my leave now." Suddenly he sounded a little rushed, maybe he was just being cocky back there, because now he sounded like he'd just wet himself. "See you all!"

The only female of the four rushed forward, narrowing his eyes. "'Zashi grab Eraser and get out now." Were the only words she could ground out before her fists made contact with the villain's face, sending him wheeling back in shock. "You don't wanna be here when I give this bastard what he deserves."

Yamada, stoic as ever, charged towards the injured teacher, holding his face in his hands, thumbs rubbing at the cuts and bruises. "Shit, Sho'." He muttered before plucking him off the ground in one swoop, jumping back out of the hole and into the light of day. "Are you an idiot or something?" The blond scolded as he helped him sit down while they waited for Midnight. No one bothered to say anything about the thick pink mist that burst from the room - that was normal - That was Midnight being badass. "You knew for a fact that he was at the same strength as you and was a mutant type."

"Not my fault." He supplied, feeling too exhausted to keep talking: most people would be concerned, but Mic was just irritated at his lack of response.

Yamada scoffed, very different from his usual bubbly persona. "Sure." He couldn't keep the affection from his tone though, and sure enough he pressed his face gently into the raven hair. "You need to stop being so stupid."

"That's... my line."

A loud thump made them both jump, earning a hiss from Aizawa as his back arched in pain. Midnight was now there close by, within her grasp was part of Shota's scarf which was cut off, wrapped tightly around the villain, who was out cold, a bloodied nose and a now blackening eye. "Got him." She sounded pissed. Aizawa gulped awkwardly, feeling his throat protest at the sudden amount of fluid that wasn't blood. "Lets go you two numskulls."

Being picked up a second time that night wasn't something Shota expected but something he appreciated greatly - his back was going to take weeks to fucking heal thanks to that dick and that wall, but for now, having this simple ride gave him a small piece of his happiness back.

However being dropped off at the hospital was something Aizawa was expecting, but not appreciating. He'd been right with all of his diagnoses he'd done on himself - two broken vertebrae, three fractured ribs, a minor concussion, and one hell of a stab wound on his shoulder.

Some would say those were life-altering injuries, but Shota Aizawa liked to think of them more as memories of the day he lived rather than died. The Erasure hero spent the next two months wearing a back brace, chest bandages and a shoulder strap curled on the sofa watching movies with Hizashi and Midnight.

Oh, and did he mention that when it comes to injuries, it meant more naps and more privileges as an injured pro-hero teacher?

Yeah, being wounded isn't so bad when you're a teacher at U.A.

#bnha aizawa #bnha shota aizawa #bnha hizashi #bnha yamada hizashi #bnha midnight #bnha hurt!aizawa #bnha fanfiction #bnha hurt/comfort #bnha erasermic

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meat-husband · 5 years

Note

You know you gotta elaborate on that dick pic hc right like pls don’t tease me like that 🅱️ls

Well, since you said 🅱️ls...

Nothing too graphic, so no cut, but there’s still dicks going on lol

You felt like a piece of shit.

Your best friend, a kind, amazing girl you had known since you were a child, had done a lot for you over the years. She was only concerned, you knew, and you couldn’t blame her, but she had gone through a lot of trouble for you and you couldn’t even appreciate her efforts fully.

Standing awkwardly in the corner of the crowded room, you fiddled with the hem of the skirt you wore, tugging it down self consciously. It wasn’t all that short, really, but it felt like it. A Halloween party was the last place you wanted to be right now, let alone in a cheap, plasticy outfit hilariously labeled ‘sexy psycho’. It was a poor excuse for a costume, an uncomfortably tight skirt and half sized button up in bright orange, complete with fake bloodstains and a little rubber knife. You had dropped the knife almost immediately upon entering the party, but now you held your phone in one hand and a watered down drink in the other, texting rapidly with half an eye on the screen.

You didn’t want to be here, but you did want to be a good friend, for all that was worth, and she had insisted on your attendance, paying for your ticket herself, getting you into an exclusive party and not taking no for an answer. This whole event was agreed to under the pretense of ‘spending time together’, but it quickly became apparent that your friend was more concerned with who else you were spending your time with.

“Hey, he’s cute,” she yelled over the music, poking you in the ribs to draw your attention away from your phone. “Go talk to him, he’s looking at you.”

“Who?” You ask, still firing off a message as quickly as you can while typing with only your thumb.

“The guy in the big, feathery hat thing. Look, right there.”

“Uh-huh, gimme a second.”

“Who are you texting?” She sounded a little pissed, which wasn’t unreasonable considering the price she had paid to get your unsocial ass in here. She leans over your shoulder, trying to get a look at your screen, so you quickly turn it off, tucking it down the front of your ridiculously orange top.

“No one,” you say with a strained smile. “Now what hat did you want me to see?”

She frowns at you, eyeing the place where you hid your phone suspiciously. “You’re acting weird. You said you aren’t dating anyone, I thought you’d appreciate a night out. I mean, it’s been a while.” She gives you another rough nudge and a wink and you laugh nervously in response.

There wasn’t a good way to tell someone who cared about you that you had pretty much moved a serial killer into your apartment and weren’t really on the market anymore. That kind of thing tends to create worry and questions, neither of which you need anymore of.

Your phone buzzes loudly from beneath your shirt and she watches you for a moment, daring you with a glare to respond. You fidget in place, wanting to reach for it but you can’t have her seeing what’s on the screen either. You already know what the message contains, and that would probably be just as hard to explain as anything else she’s wondering about you right now.

“Alright, I’m going to get another drink and check in to see if that shitty emo band is through yet, then you’re going to enjoy this damn party if I have to make you. Get all that texting shit out of your system while I’m gone.”

You wait until you see her disappear into the crowd before finally digging your phone out of your bra, unlocking the screen to open your messages.

Yep, just like you thought.

Fuck off or that shits going on the internet, you type, message popping up under a horribly composed dick pic. Obviously he was taking these one handed, but that was no excuse for poor quality. Two more blurry pictures pop up before you can type anything else and you roll your eyes. You regretted making the joke that had started this trend of his, knowing you brought it on yourself by introducing him to it.

It’s Halloween shouldn’t you be off murdering ppl or something

You tuck your phone away again after that, taking a few sips from your drink and trying to stop a grin from spreading over your face when it buzzed rapidly with multiple new messages. It was really hilarious how easy it was to get under his skin sometimes. There were quite a few awful costumes imitating the dreaded ‘Shape’ walking around the party, and you had been quick to snap a photo of the worst one you could find.

Found a new boyfriend lol, was all you had said, along with the snap of the person wearing the misshapen mask. It was amazingly low quality, all cheap rubber and crazy, unstyled hair that was entirely the wrong color, but apparently it was still enough to set him off.

You see no sign of your friend returning yet, so you sneak another look at your phone when you realize it’s been a few minutes since the last one. Half a dozen more pictures, each looking more and more frantic and desperate, greet you once you click on your messages, but it’s the most recent one that catches your eye.

“Oh great,” you mutter under your breath, finger hovering over the screen. “He’s figured out how to take videos.”

Glancing around you can see that you’re nice and alone in your corner, but you bite your lip nervously. You can’t say you don’t want to see the video, because you can feel your stomach clenching at the thought of it, but it’s one thing to sneak peeks at pictures and another to play a video. You wait a bit, but decide that you can’t just not watch it. Another look around confirms you’re as alone as you can be with this many people in a room, so you hurry to slide down the volume, just in case, and press play.

You were right when you guessed the previous pictures looked desperate, watching him buck hurriedly into the tight grip of his hand, cock swollen and pink. His movements quickly turn jerky and rough, and you desperately want to inch up the volume to see if you can hear any groans or hisses as cum spills over his fingers. The video is only a few seconds long, just enough to make you frustrated when it ends, and you huff to yourself. This was supposed to be annoying for him, not you.

“Woah, who’s dick is that?” You turn with a scream, drowned out by the music, nearly dropping your phone.

“No wonder you were so interested in your phone, you freak.” Her tone is teasing and friendly, almost congratulatory, a big grin on her face, but you feel your face turn hot and red under her gaze.

“You weren’t supposed to see that!”

“Well, no duh, or they’d be sending that shit to me. Feel free to pass that dude my number, though.”

You don’t think you can be any more embarrassed, but your wish is granted almost immediately when your phone dings again. You lock eyes with your friend, seeing her grin widen, and you go to put your phone away before she can ask.

“Aw, c’mon, let’s see how the movie ends,” she laughs, tugging at the sleeve of your shirt playfully. “I gotta know what happens!”

“You’re so embarrassing!” You complain, pulling away.

“No, really, I wanna see round two!”

“Oh my god! You’re shameless!”

“Hey, I ain’t the one getting hit up with homemade porn here!”

Your phone buzzes again, drawing another laugh from your friend, who seems to be genuinely delighted by how embarrassed you are.

“Go on and look, I ain’t judging you. Tell him to knock it off though, I paid good money for your ticket so you’re getting drunk tonight if nothing else!”

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You murmur, slinking off with your friend giving you a knowing grin and wink as you rush towards the nearest door.

It’s not a bathroom, just the entrance to a small hallway meant for staff members, but you’ll take what you can get right now. You sit your unfinished drink on the floor, sure that your weak nerves don’t need anymore alcohol after that. Your face is uncomfortably hot and you can feel sweat running down your back as you lean against the wall, grasping your phone in one hand but not yet looking at the screen.

Okay, things were a little out of hand here, and now you had to explain away the person sending you graphic videos and dick pics to your best friend, but it was salvageable. You could fix it! Getting naughty texts from someone doesn’t mean you’re expected to introduce them to your family or anything, you can play it off as a one time thing. No one needs to know about the serial killer in your apartment.

With a few calming breaths you finally open your phone. You feel better now, realizing how insignificant the slip up was, but that comes crashing down as you see the three new photos you’ve been sent, each one a blurry and poorly lit shot of you from just moments before, taken from a distance and slowly moving closer. Well, okay, this was honestly something you should have seen coming considering the fact that he’s snuck up on you like this before, but never somewhere so crowded or public.

And what if he killed someone? It was Halloween after all, and that was his whole thing, and while you were a little less concerned for random club goers, your best friend was out there, not knowing any of this. You went back into the packed club in a rush, swinging open the door and running straight into a solid chest.

“Oh, hi.”

Michael looks down at you from behind the mask and you just know you look flustered and guilty. You glance around nervously, concerned that he might draw attention, but he isn’t very out of place at a costume party, much less one where there are multiple other ‘Michaels’ running around.

“So, uh, just so you know, the whole murdering thing is off limits right now,” you hiss, grabbing a handful of his sleeve and pulling him behind you, heading away from where you had last seen your friend. “Nothing personal, but I just can’t have that shit happening right now.”

You find a secluded spot by the actual entrance to the bathrooms, ushering him into the bit of cover provided by a merchandise stand that had yet to be filled out.

“What are you doing in here?” You whisper, far enough away from the music that it won’t cover your voice. “Those tickets are pricey, how did you get in?”

He looks down and you follow his gaze to the very real and very bloody knife in his hands. You yelp, grabbing his wrist and pulling it between the two of you to hide the weapon.

“You can’t have that in here! And no more stabbing,” you stop, and reconsider your words. “Or anything else fatal.” You amend, giving him a firm glare that you’re sure won’t stop him at all if that’s what he wants to do.

“Yo, am I interrupting you guys? Cause I kinda hope I am!”

You look around Michael with wide eyes to see your friend standing there, a big smirk on her face and a drink in each hand. You realize with a pang of horror how things must look from her view point, a big man standing over you in a dark corner, your hands hidden between your bodies-

“No, you’re not interrupting!” You nearly scream the words in your panic, wrenching the knife from Michael’s hand and dropping it carefully behind the merch table. He lets you take the weapon, turning as you do to face your friend, who’s smile widens at the sight of his ‘costume’.

“Holy shit, great get up dude, that’s the best mask I’ve seen all night!” She looks him up and down, presumably to take in the rest of his attire, but you know her well enough to realize she’s probably gearing up a flirty one liner. “So, you two know each other then?”

You’re a little thrown off, not sure what excuse you can come up with on the spot for her question, but Michael beats you to it.

“Boyfriend.” He rasps, and you’re not sure whether his voice or his answer throws you off more. You look at him in awe, mouth open in surprise. Your friend looks stunned as well, but for a different reason.

“Ohh, really,” She says, giving you a sly look. “So is he…?”

She makes a crude pumping motion with her hand and you’re absolutely sure that if it was possible to die of embarrassment that this would be the finishing blow. Michael watches her hand, and when she looks to you both for confirmation he gives her a slow nod. She cackles loudly, clapping her hands together in glee.

“Oh, why didn’t you tell me you were dating someone?! He’s hilarious, too!” She passes one of her drinks to you to free up a hand, waving it around in her excitement. “Where have you been hiding him, girl? What’s your name?”

The last one is directed at Michael, and you give him a moment to see if he’ll speak again, but apparently that was a one time deal because he remains silent. You speak up before the silence turns awkward, an evil little smile on your face.

Grabbing his wrist with your hand, you lean against his arm and answer, “His name’s Audrey.”

#Slashers #Michael Myers #Slasher x Reader #Female Reader #further proof that michael is a thot #as if we didnt all know #he has no shame lol

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oh-mother-of-darkness · 5 years

Text

The hotel room was dark— too dark to write— so Damian slid open an inch of blackout curtain. The slice of light fell perfectly across his lap and onto the dresser beside him. Across the room, Grayson shifted softly, but he remained asleep.

Day three, Damian wrote. It is difficult to stay awake.

The first night had been easy; he and Grayson followed their targets down south, out of the city and into new turf. They found the hideout immediately. They were Batman and Robin— of course they did. At the hideout, they learned that the shipment they expected wouldn’t arrive until three days later.

Grayson decided to wait. He said that the ring was unpredictable; if they left, it might move, and then they would lose their chance. They would stay in town, gather information, and strike when the time was right.

Damian didn’t like the plan, but he hadn’t said so. He wouldn’t show weakness. He could power through. He volunteered to take the first shift awake and spent the three hours cleaning his equipment while he listened for sounds from the bugs they planted.

Nothing happened. Grayson woke up, and Damian took the bed. He turned away from Grayson, so his open eyes wouldn’t be visible. He held still and breathed shallowly, evenly, like he was asleep. Grayson believed he was.

Damian did not fall asleep. Three hours later, they switched again, and Damian spent his shift recording their case notes in the black book he had taken from the stack in the cave. His father didn’t need casebooks anymore. His father was dead.

Another switch: Damian lay still and pretended to sleep. It was easy. One day without rest was nothing.

The second day was harder. During the day, Damian and Grayson were up together, listening and planning. At night, Damian sketched in his casebook during his shifts awake. When he was meant to sleep, he fought to keep his eyes open. He had to stay awake. If he didn’t…

Day three: Damian was tired— tired enough for his vision to blur and his body to ache. His eyes itched. His hands shook. Grayson slept while he wrote.

I have read my father’s files. He was able to go days at a time without sleep and still fight crime as he always did. I will learn to cultivate that skill. Grayson will never know that I have not slept, and he will never see me sleep. There will be consequences if he does.

Grayson believes that I am a child, with a child’s capabilities. He is wrong; however—

Damian cut off. There was a small sound from outside their door: soft movement in the hallway, the kind that could be an enemy approaching. Damian set his casebook, still open, on the dresser and crept towards the door.

The same sound came from directly outside. Damian pulled a knife from his boot and yanked open the door.

A startled mouse scuttled down the hallway. Everything else remained still.

Lovely. Damian stepped outside for a quick security sweep, just in case, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Reassured, he retreated back to their room. He slipped through the cracked door, pulled it shut, and stood just inside, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the darkness after the lights of the hallway. When they did, he found Grayson out of bed, leaning against the dresser.

“Just a rodent,” Damian reported. “Otherwise quiet.”

“Good,” said Grayson, holding up Damian’s casebook. “Would you care to explain?”

Damian froze. “Explain what?”

“This says, and I quote, ‘I have not slept.’”

“I’m not tired.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“Why?”

Damian considered his options and decided on the truth— a understated version that might stop the questions. “Nightmares,” he shrugged. “I prefer to stay awake.”

“For three nights, when you’re on the job and need to stay alert?”

“It’s not a problem. I trained for this.”

“Bull-shit,” Grayson repeated, drawing out the word.

“I’m not a child.”

“So I read.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

Damian looked down. They were.

“You’re benched,” said Grayson. “Get some sleep.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Damian clenched his shaking hands into fists. “You need a second man.”

“I need a partner that can watch my back effectively, and right now that isn’t you. You’re sleep-deprived, and you’ll make mistakes. You’re a liability, not an asset.”

Damian crossed his arms.

“C’mon, Damian,” said Grayson, crossing his arms too. “Tell me the truth. Why didn’t you sleep.”

“I have nightmares.”

“And?” “And I didn’t want—” Damian cut off. “It’s none of your concern.”

“Is it because of Bruce? You want to follow his example?”

“No.”

“Because his example was shit. He never took care of himself, and I don’t want you thinking—”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that!” Damian bust out.

Grayson stepped back in surprise. His frustration softened fractionally. Damian got the feeling he hadn’t expected to get anywhere. “Like what?”

“Afraid.”

“Oh.”

Damian stared at the floor so he didn’t have to look at Grayson’s face. “I’m not weak.”

“I never said you were.”

“It’s what you think.”

“It’s not. Look, Damian… I’ve been there, okay? It’s hard to be vulnerable, especially when… especially because of who we are. There’s this pressure to be, I don’t know, invincible. It’s hard to be human when people… and you… expect yourself to be more.”

“I’m not a child,” Damian repeated.

“It’s not childish to be afraid. It’s smart. There’s a time and place for fear. The only childish thing you did today was try to hide it from me.”

“I thought—” Damian cut off again. “Okay.”

“You’re still benched.”

“Fine.”

“I’m going to go do some recon. Stay here and sleep.”

“You don’t have to go.”

Grayson shrugged. “You’ll be more comfortable. Do I have your word that you’ll stay here? No sneaking out?” Damian thought about it. “Fine.”

“Okay.” Grayson pulled on his shoes, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door. “I’ll be back before sunrise.”

Damian dreamed of drowning. He sank into the ocean. His lungs filled with water. He could taste the salt. His cape wrapped around him as he fell down into the darkness, slowly, painfully towards the seafloor. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. His vision darkened as he began to die— he could feel himself dying.

Outside the dream, a hand fell on his shoulder.

Damian jerked awake, gasping for air, one hand grabbing for the knife underneath his pillow. He lunged back against the headboard and jabbed the knife in front of him. Grayson stepped backwards to avoid the blade.

“Hey! It’s me. It’s just me.”

Damian collapsed back into the comforter, half-sobbing as he fell. He felt Grayson’s hand again, this time in his hair.

“It’s okay,” Grayson muttered. “It’s okay.”

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

Anonymous said:

Dick & Damian, when Dick was batman please

Anonymous said:

What about a fic with Batman and Robin Dick and Damian where Damian still thinks he needs to prove himself but Dick cares more about his safety?

Anonymous said:

Prompt: in the early days of Dick & Dami’s run as B&R, they end up somewhere that requires them to sleep in the same room for a few nights. Damian outright refuses to sleep even thought he is exhausted past the point of functioning, because he is scared and ashamed to fall asleep and have Dick find out about his nightmares.

Anonymous said:

Prompt- Dick & Dami “hey, it’s me, it’s just me”

#dick grayson #damian wayne #fanfiction #mine #okay time to disappear for two weeks #exams you know #bye kids #anxiety #nighmares #drowning

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whereflowersbloom · 4 years

Text

Pumpkin Disaster

Richard could almost smell the cinnamon spice, vanilla scent and cinnamon sugar in the air. The colors of the leaves changed from green to a dazzling display of red, orange and yellow. The air became crisper and temperatures dropped a bit as a chill came into the air.

Richard Grayson absolutely loved Halloween. As expected of the eldest Wayne sibling, he was the kind of person who enjoyed decorating and preparing the manor for Halloween because of his everlasting enthusiasm for holidays. He loved the cheesy and horror movies, the excuse to stuff his face with candy, the seasonal special editions of cereal, the elaborate and extravagant costumes, the creative decorations. It was his second favorite holiday. And he definitely considered it a holiday.

Halloween wasn’t just a day to him. Oh no. The whole month of October was Halloween. But with his vigilante duties, intermittent Titans training and constant Gotham crises cropping up, he had made it through two weeks of the month without an ounce of Halloween festivity. But that was about to change.

“You never carved pumpkins for Halloween?” Dick Grayson asked incredulously, pressing a hand to his chest in a move overly dramatic.

Damian exclaimed a familiar ‘TT’ in response. For him seeing people playing pretend, wearing flashy and ridiculous costumes was not particularly interesting. Thought they weren’t much different from the impractical clothing Todd and Richard insisted on wearing. It was just a recurrent reminder that he was not a normal child.

“Which part of I was raised in the inhospitable and desolate mountains you didn’t comprehend, Grayson?” Damian brusquely returned with furrowed eyebrows.

“But we cannot celebrate it without carving your first pumpkin...” Grayson sounded so downhearted it stung Damian with shadowy guilt. Out of all his adoptive siblings Grayson was the pleasant and tolerable one. Damian swallowed hard.

“I want all of us to carve a pumpkin!” Dick declared holding up his index finger in contempt. Damian raised a dark eyebrow as a go on communicating silently. “We are all doing this together as a family.”

“It’s not necessary. I’m not a small child anymore.” Damian scoffed, rolling his eyes before refocusing on his Robert Frost book, flipping another page. No. He would not acquiesce easily into this. He was self-sufficient, mature preteen. Not a child.

“Demon spawn, you are only eleven.” Jason commented before putting out a finished cigarette. Fortunately Alfred wasn’t lurking around to give him disapproving eyes for smoking inside the manor.

“Is this your way of asking for a new scar, Todd?” Damian threatened through gritted teeth and clenched fists, mind quickly calculating the damage of throwing an explosive batarang.

“You’re getting less insufferable to be around.” Jason scoffed and met Damian with a sly smirk. “Dickie, pouting is not an acceptable reaction for a full-grown adult.” Jason sing-songed as he grabbed his motorbike keys.

“This includes you Jaybird. I plan on getting you into the Halloween spirit.” Dick announced with his authoritative leader tone, letting Jason know he would be part of this wether he liked it or not.

Jason groaned dreadfully, cursing under his breath. Great. Now he was part of the Halloween circus. At least he didn’t have to take the annoying gremlin pumpkin picking. God knows what would happened if they fed him candy. The thought gave Jason chilling goosebumps.

Damian folded his arms over his chest in a sign of disagreement. “I don’t do pumpkins. It’s a waste of food. It amounts to about 18,000 tons of pumpkin, including flesh and seeds. Have you read the recent studies on how it’s destroying the environment?”

“Come on, D. You will have fun. You can carve your own Robin lantern” Dick encouraged, practically vibrating with excitement. Damian wondered what on earth he did to deserve such blinding sunshine as his adoptive sibling. “...and I’m sure Alfred will find a convenient way to make use of the pumpkins.”the last words seemed to have done the trick to convince the younger boy.

Damian considered the options carefully for a solid minute. He knew better than ignoring Richard wouldn’t get him anywhere. He wouldn’t leave it alone. Sigh. If it meant he could help Pennyworth baking a pumpkin spice pie with ginger-snag crust...

“Lead the way, Grayson.” Damian sighed resignedly.

Dick squealed in joy, bouncing to his feet and wrapping his arms around Damian’s neck.

It was just pumpkin carving what exactly could go wrong. Right?

~~~

Less than two hours later Jason Todd walked into the kitchen of the Wayne manor, initially looking for a cup of peppermint tea as the Gotham chilly autumn winds were making him crave a hot beverage.

“Would anyone care to explain why is there a whole fucking pumpkin patch on the kitchen table?” Jason muttered audibly, mouth opened in stupefaction. What in the name of Halloweentown....Where did all these pumpkins come from?

“Language, Jay.” Dick scolded him glancing up at him over a pile of massive mutant pumpkins with a provoking grin.

“I grew up in the Narrows. I’m allowed to swear.” Jason rolled his eyes in reply as he tried to avoid stepping on the pumpkins, accidentally squashing them, they were scattered on the floor, table, those fucking things were everywhere. “Dickie, are you going to explain?”

“These are from Roy.” Richard gestured the numerous orange bulbs with his right hand. “I think he got these from some illegal smuggling bust. I didn’t really ask a lot of questions. I just accepted them because I thought it’d be fun to try carving Batman lanterns with little D.”

It took Jason less than two minutes to process the information. Why was the golden boy not bothered by this?

“You mean these are contraband pumpkins.” He remarked skeptically, green-blue eyes widening still rather incredulous.

Dick simply shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d have a problem.”

Right. Only if Bruce found out about the origin of the contraband pumpkins. Then he’d be blamed for being the bad influence and his merry band of disreputable friends. He groaned as he rubbed the nape of his neck.

“And where is the demon spawn. I don’t seem him anywhere.” He questioned narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the side the slightest. He had to be close to Dick, but the kitchen was alarmingly too quiet. Too quiet for his liking. This meant trouble.

Tim didn’t try too hard not to flinch as a knife flashed dangerously close to his face and flied past Jason. “This is the third time in the last hour. I’m starting to think it’s personal.” Tim spoke calmly with a sarcastic tone as he continued sipping his black coffee expressionless as usual. Getting knifed by the little demon spawn before Halloween would hav been the cherry on top of the misfortune cake.

Jason was genuinely concerned and wondered how many cups of coffee Tim has had today. Hopefully not over five.

“If he wanted you dead, you’d be already in a casket.” Jason pointed out. It was no secret Damian’s strong aversion towards replacement, but he didn’t wish the shortstack dead.

Tim just shrugged his shoulders casually. “Well, I suppose we always could use your old one.” Fuck that. He took it back.

“Low blow, replacement.” Jason feigned hurt putting a hand to his chest right above his heart in a offended manner.

“It’s juts not cooperating.” The young kid voiced his frustration and discontentment . Leaving the kitchen knife he used on the table. Tt. He was trained and raised for excellence and he couldn’t carve flawlessly a stupid pumpkin. Mother would be entirely displeased.

“Requires time and practice, Dami.” Dick whispered softly with a warm smile, running his hand up and down the preteen’s back.

“I don’t know D, to me it looks like you’re slaughtering it mercilessly.” Jason joked with a wolflike smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Head moving in different angles trying to find a figure or face in the pumpkin Damian had been carving. “Unless you were thinking of the Joker, If so then you have my seal of approval.” The little demon spawn was never the most pleasant person to be around but deep,very deep down maybe Jason had a soft spot for him. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. Never.

“Do us a favor and keep your mouth shut, Todd.” Damian barked, glaring daggers at him.

“I never did Halloween with my parents.” The words escaped Tim’s mouth before his brilliant brain registered the order. The pain wasn’t there anymore. No. There were charity Galas, social events for wealthy socialites, last minute journeys for significant discoveries. Because people often assumed there will be plenty of time later. Tim didn’t want Damian to live for the later.

“I remember trading a cheap wristwatch for expired candy once. Not a great deal.” Jason muttered nonchalantly, giving it unimportance. Tone flat and factual. His memories from the narrows weren’t memorable for being happy or enjoyable but he had what he managed to obtain and he did what was necessary in order to survive. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“There’s always a first, Timbo.” Dick placed sympathetically a hand on Tim’s shoulder in a comforting way. Tim smiled softly back. Well, perhaps this pumpkin carving experience could be fun.

~~~

“This is the grossest thing I’ve ever done.” Tim announced, scooping a handful of pumpkin guts out of his pumpkin and examining them distastefully. “Seriously. I’ve done some pretty gross things, but this takes the cake.”

Jason flicked playfully a few pumpkin seeds at him and Tim moved fast enough to evade almost all of them. “Don’t be such a crybaby, replacement.” He has been playing with the large pumpkin, stabbing it numerous times picturing the joker’s fAce.

“Look at the gremlin, he’s been doing it for like two hours. What if he’s developed an addiction?” Jason mumbled slightly concerned and half-joking to Tim.

Damian pulled the pumpkin impossibly closer to him, practically cradling the thing in his lap. His mind completely absorbed in the task of carving the perfect pumpkin. His back was pressed to the cupboards behind him, a series of knives and napkins scattered at his sides. He looked focused, impossibly focused, like there could never be a more important thing for him to pour his energy into. Because Damian Wayne even if he didn’t admit it was obsessed with maintaining perfection. Failure was not a word he accepted.

Damian rolled his eyes. “I’m fairly sure no one has ever got addicted to pumpkin carving and I can hear you, mindless fools.”

"Any behavior can become compulsive.” Tim supplied absently, eyes fixed on the small pumpkin in front of him.

Dick paused briefly from working on his Nightwing lantern to just observe Damian, not even trying to hide the smile on his lips.

Dick and Jason quietly exchange discreet glances. Quickly they picked a few pumpkin seeds out of the bowl that resided in the scented of the kitchen table, flicking them over towards Damian who squawked and tried unsuccessfully, to duck. Due to being too focused on the task assigned. “Will you stop distracting me? I have a masterpiece to finish!”

“A masterpiece?” Jason asked teasingly, glancing pointedly at his Batman lantern.

“Yes. A masterpiece, Todd.” Damian exhaled exasperated. What did anyone have to do to carve a mere pumpkin in peace?

“Come on, little D. It’s time to have some fun!” Jason threw a handful of pulpy flesh at his face. Oh. This would be seen as a declaration of war. Quickly, Damian grabbed a portion of pumpkin and aimed for Jason’s leather jacket. ‘NOT MY JACKET’ several minutes later, Drake was covered in the orange flesh from head to toes. He was in urgent need of a bath. Grayson was smart enough to grasp a breakfast tray and use it as a shield, however it didn’t work for long. Damian and Tim teamed up to caught him on the top with a surprise attack, Drake sneaking behind his back. Needless to say the kitchen was in shambles at this point. Good thing Pennyworth has been busy the whole day reorganizing the library.

“What’s all this mess in my kitchen?! Master Richard I demand a proper explanation!” A very agitated British voice came from the doorframe. Alfred very upset, furrowing his grey brows appeared looking utterly baffled by the chaos.

Oops.

“Fuck me” Jason and Richard grumbled in unison from the floor covered in pumpkin pulp. Soon they broke out in bowls of laughter all four of them. Damian genuinely laughed at his heart’s content with the innocence of a normal child. His family may have been unstable and insane, but canned if they weren’t entertaining and the best part of his new life.

Some mandatory batbros bonding October prompt 🎃 🙈🙈🙈❤️💜💜

Also I’m celebrating 1.8K followers. Thank you so much for your support and reading my stories. I appreciate it 🥺🥺

Edited here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26891536

@sofiii @chromium7sky @deep-in-mind67

55 notes · View notes

autumnhobbit · 5 years

Text

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559116/chapters/41380742

"Hood here, come in, Agent A," the communications line buzzed, and Alfred quickly answered it. "Present, Master Hood. What is Batman's condition?"

"We think it's stable but who the hell knows," Jason said, exasperation leaking into the tone. "He's letting Wing and Red help him, somewhat reluctantly. But he's being a total ass. Sorry not sorry," he tacked on.

Alfred sighed. "Considering the circumstances, I will not hold it against you, Master Hood." He pursed his lips as he walked towards the medical bay to prepare it for their arrival. He’d heard the undercurrent of stress in Jason’s words. “And I may even be persuaded to privately admit that I am inclined to agree with the sentiment."

Jason huffed a half-laugh, the sound echoing fuzzily in the comms. "You know him better than anyone, A."

"That I do, Master Hood," Alfred sighed, shaking his head even as he wheeled a few machines closer to the gurney, reclined the bed so it would be ready when they returned. "That I do."

"...I've gotta go," Jason said all of a sudden, more of the strain he was undoubtedly feeling leaking into his voice. "We'll be back as soon as we can. Eta thirteen minutes."

"Copy," Alfred responded, heart heavy. "I'll be waiting."

Jason disconnected the communication without another word, which left Alfred to his work. He prepared the necessary tools, retrieved a bag of Master Bruce's blood type from the fridge and attached it to an IV pole, dug out the saline and hydrogen peroxide. He washed his hands and made sure the box of sterile gloves was within reach, as well as the phone in case they wound up needing more professional help than he could provide. With that done, there was nothing to do but wait for the boys to arrive with their patient.

It was only a few more minutes before the distant rumbling of engines signaled their return, and Alfred brought the gurney out to right outside the parking spaces.

The door was thrown open, and Master Damian was the first one out, staggering a bit as he landed on his feet as he spun and held the door open. Next was Timothy, who exited a bit more slowly than his younger brother. He stood next to the door, arms raised and ready to help guide the injured party out of the vehicle. And finally, Jason slipped out of the car. Bruce's arm was draped across his shoulder, his head hanging against Jason's chest. Dick clambered out of the driver’s seat, and quickly ran to Bruce and Jason, and pulled Bruce's other arm around his own shoulders.

"Will you survive, Master Bruce, or must I retrieve the will from the safe-deposit box," Alfred asked, leaving just enough point to his question to make certain he knew what trouble he was in.

Bruce didn't respond beyond a grunt mixed with a groan. Jason snorted. "I get the Corvette."

"Uh, excuse you," Dick said, mock sassily. "He expressly promised me that car for my eighteenth birthday."

"Yeah, and you're twenty-five," Jason shot back.

"I'm pretty sure the Lamborghini is mine," Tim said brightly.

"Why did Father tell me I could have it, then?" Damian asked imperiously. Tim stuck his tongue out at him.

"Meant...for you to share it," Bruce rasped, raising his head just slightly from Jason's shoulder. "Have t'....get along if you want the car."

Silence. "Father." Damian said, sounding a mix of impressed and disgusted. "You are despicable."

"--Savage," Tim said simultaneously, and the two of them looked at each other, sputtering in surprise.

"Did you? Did you just say 'despicable?' Are you Daffy Duck?"

"The most fitting word you can conjure up is 'savage!?'"

"It's a meme! I don't expect you to know it when you've just now gotten into Looney Tunes jokes! What kind of compound is Ra's running over there?"

"Hush," Bruce grunted, as Jason and Dick helped him ease down onto the gurney. "Hurts my head."

Tim and Damian both instantly closed their mouths.

"Besides," Bruce mumbled. "It makes me sad when you fight."

Jason laughed. "If you think that was a fight, you haven't been paying attention."

"That was playful banter," Dick agreed, easing Bruce's head and torso down onto the mattress.

"I...didn't mean to disturb you, Father," Damian said quietly, dipping his head a bit in shame.

"Me neither," Tim said a bit awkwardly.

Bruce huffed. "S'alright," he sighed dismissively. "m getting old, is all."

Alfred gently stepped up beside Richard, and pressed two fingers to Bruce's pulse, glancing at his wristwatch to measure the beats. Bruce lay still and blinked up at him as he did so, while Richard carefully removed the cowl, and Jason yanked his own helmet off and promptly dropped it on the floor.

"A bit irregular and thready, but mostly stable," Alfred declared after a moment, removing his hand from Bruce's neck. "Boys, if you would move him into the med bay..."

Jason and Richard didn't hesitate, Richard taking the head of the gurney to push it while Jason walked alongside and guided it in. Alfred followed, leaving Damian and Timothy behind to shower and change.

When the boys brought the gurney to a stop, Alfred bustled up alongside them and began working. With a sterile gauze and antiseptic, he began cleaning the surface abrasions and similar minor injuries. He gently wiped the blood from Bruce's forehead and cheek, while Jason cut away at the suit with a utility knife. Richard attached monitors and carefully inserted an IV into his father's arm.

The entire time, Bruce lay still and uncomplaining, blinking sluggishly up at them. Alfred suspected a concussion, and whipped a small penlight from his pocket to confirm it. Bruce cringed, a pained hiss escaping him as he clenched his blown eyes shut. Tsking, Alfred placed the light back in his pocket and donned a pair of gloves. "You are actively attempting to drive me to an early grave, aren't you," he asked, mostly to himself, carefully pressing against Bruce's neck and chest to check for injuries.

"No, Al.” Bruce mumbled. "You know that." He smiled, though it was a bit strained, his eyes still closed and face still tight with pain. "What would I do without you, anyway?"

"Heaven knows," Alfred said. Richard clicked the last connection together to set up the heart monitor, and rapid beeps immediately came from the machine. Alfred lifted his head in concern, glancing at the monitors. "Master Bruce...?"

"'M alright, Al," Bruce assured weakly. He grinned faintly, almost a grimace, and shifted one shoulder just slightly in a shrug. "...Hurts," he admitted quietly, voice thick.

Alfred sighed. "Richard, if you would please prepare the morphine pump...?"

"Already on it," Dick said, emerging from the storage closet, pushing the pole in front of him.

Alfred fixed his gaze back on Bruce, as he continued to probe him for injuries. When his hand applied deft but light pressure to one section of Bruce's ribs, Bruce's breath stuttered and the heart monitor picked up a bit.

"That one at least is definitely broken," Alfred muttered under his breath, feeling around for how extensive the damage was. Bruce's eyes were shut, and though he was trying to breathe steadily, sweat was still breaking out on his forehead. Richard finally managed to get the IV in, and he pressed the button on the pump a few times to start a dosage. Bruce finally relaxed, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly.

"What was it, Master Richard?" Alfred asked, not looking up.

"Lead pipe," Dick said, and Jason snorted.

"Still not as bad as...you with that tire iron," Bruce said, breathless but fond, tilting his chin in the direction of Jason's snort. Jason rolled his eyes, leaning his elbow on the rail of the gurney and brushing back Bruce's sweaty bangs with deft, gentle fingers.

“Sure it wasn’t. ‘Tis but a scratch,’” Jason’s voice rose in a mock British accent.

“Right. I’ll do you for that,” Dick parroted back.

“You’ll wHAT.” Jason had been pressed into service by Alfred to hold an icepack to Bruce’s side, and gave an impersonation so indignant while bent halfway over and not looking up that Bruce snorted with laughter and immediately winced. Jason immediately looked flatly at him, long-sufferingly. “What’re you gonna do, bleed on me?” he went on, dropping his gaze back to the bruised ribs he was holding the ice pack on.

“I’m invincible.” Bruce replied, in a chipper tone that drew a high, surprised noise out of Jason.

“You’re a looney.” Alfred replied calmly, reemerging from the supply drawer with gauze and medical tape. He passed his dumbfounded grandsons, who promptly dissolved into helpless laughter, and set the supplies down primly on the adjustable table, moving to start removing the top of the suit.

Beneath the loud, obnoxious yet endearing cackling of the boys, Bruce glanced up warily, with the same hesitant expression he’d had as a misbehaving child. “You okay, Al?” He asked, in the same way he used to ask, are you mad at me.

“Of course, sir,” Alfred replied solemnly, prying the top panel off the uniform and setting it down next to the gurney. “Simply....weary of your city returning you to me like this.”

Bruce watched him studiously for a moment, doubtless trying to gauge his honesty, before slowly transitioning to sheepishness upon finding it. “It...has its issues,” he hedged.

“Understatement of the century.” Alfred sighed.

Jason, unsurprisingly, was the first to clamber up from the floor and his overblown hysterics, using Dick’s head as a crutch. “Al,” he wheezed, slightly breathless, “never change.”

Alfred arched an eyebrow. “I should hope not, Master Jason.”

Dick scrambled to prop an elbow against the floor and promptly flipped from there onto his feet, and enthusiastically wrapped a limp Bruce in an unhesitating hug. “And you never change, either.”

Bruce smiled a small but warm smile and tipped his head against his oldest’s arm in reply.

#my fic

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arteacactus · 6 years

Text

“I’m pregnant.”

Warnings: Cursing, vomiting, nsfw mentions, slight gross imagery?? Virgil just got anxious Pairing: Logicality Prompt: “I’m pregnant.” Word count: 2054 Notes: This was probably asked as something humorous but I had a cute thought ok. And this is also probably like.. really bad I’m sorry it’s past 4am

See, technically, the Sides were not people. Therefore, laws that applied to humans did not necessarily apply to them. So, it was entirely possible for a man to get pregnant.

Logan just.. Didn’t think that would happen to him.

So, when Logan woke up for a week straight with terrible morning sickness, he didn’t really think much about it, and therefore never told anyone- managing to keep it a secret.

Until, of course, after a ‘night’ with Patton, and he woke up next to him that morning, he was faced with a dilemma.

Slowly try to get out of bed and risk getting sick everywhere but not waking Patton, or rush to the bathroom, but disturb Patton and get questioned?

In his exhausted, pained mind, the latter seemed much, much more appealing.

Logan had bolted upright in bed, ignoring Patton, who’d been startled awake by the movement, and Logan was thankful he’d put on pants before going to sleep, because he didn’t have time to stop and dress- he dashed out the bedroom door, into the bathroom just down the hall, and fell to his knees at the toilet, just managing to get his head over it before emptying the contents of his stomach.

Patton, who was concerned but still really, really tired, moved slowly as he stumbled around to grab pants and a shirt, jabbing himself in the eye with his glasses when trying to put them on.

He let out a pained whine, then heard the distant sound of vomiting, and his eyes sprung open, suddenly wide awake as his instincts to protect and care took over.

He followed the sound to the bathroom, where he kneeled next to Logan and rested his hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles in it and drawing patterns with his finger on his bare skin.

“Hey, buddy,” Patton crooned when Logan finally seemed done, groaning in agony as he leaned back against the bathroom counter, letting Patton flush the toilet. “You feel okay..?”

“I feel like dog shit that’s been stepped on.”

“So I take that as a no?”

Logan let out a huff, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve been feeling like this for a week now.” He confessed, “It doesn’t seem like the stomach flu, but that’s all it could possibly be.”

Patton let out a soft exhale, and stood, gently helping Logan to his feet as well. “Let’s go get some tea. You think you can handle some toast?”

“With Crofters?” Logan mumbled.

Patton grinned. “Yeah, with Crofters.”

Logan let himself be led to the kitchen, despite the fact he had nothing but soft, space-themed pajama pants for clothes. Everything was a blur in front of him, his glasses still in his room, but the cold air on his hot, sweaty skin was a relief.

Thankfully, they woke up early, so Logan could sit on the couch and let Patton wrap him in a blanket and make him hot peppermint tea.

Patton helped Logan sip at the tea, before setting the mug on the coffee table and taking Logan’s hands in his own. “Logan, when exactly did the morning sickness start?”

“Uh..” Logan scrunched his face up as he thought, “.. Sometime after the second time we copulated.”

Patton nodded and bit his lip. “Well.. have you ever stopped and.. Considered the possibility that.. You may be pregnant?”

Logan paused.

No, no he really hadn’t.

But now that he thought about it..

“I’m.. pregnant?”

Clearly, they did what any smart person did, and hid it.

And they managed to do this successfully, the whole time- it wasn’t really different for Logan to spend time in his room, and Patton brought him his food during mealtime, and when he actually showed up, he cleverly used the shapeshifting ability to hide his swollen stomach. Besides, a birth of a Side is much different from a human pregnancy. Physically, it looks the same, but once the Side is formed fully (which usually takes a month to two months), they are toddler-sized. And when they are ‘born’ (really, it’s just a blinding flash of light, agonizing pain, and with the light is the essence of the new Side that gets formed into a body) they have a room that is naturally formed in the mindspace, which is relating to the child’s trait.

Logan felt prepared. He knew about what was going to happen- surely it couldn’t be that bad, he told himself.

Up until Logan collapsed and screamed.

It was a calm, content day, setting the dinner table- Logan and Patton cooking, Roman setting the table, and Thomas and Virgil helping with whatever they could.

Logan felt sharp, agonizing pains running down his spine and throughout his body, sending tingles through him and making his hair stand on end. He managed to keep this much hidden, not letting more than a pained grimace show his discomfort.

But when a harsh, burning pain, like a lightning bolt rushing through him, Logan was startled into letting out a gasp.

The others didn’t pay him any mind, probably not hearing him, but Patton sure did.

He immediately swiveled his head around to stare intently at the other, taking in the pain etched in his features. “Logan?” Patton whispered, “You okay?”

Logan exhaled heavily through clenched teeth, “I-I am in immense, gut-wrenching pain, but I think I’ll be good.”

Patton hesitated, glancing at the others before leaning into Logan and whispering, “Do you think you’re..?”

“I don’t know.” Logan replied honestly, when suddenly, pain hit again, like the last strike, but intensified by a hundred.

He couldn’t help it- he screamed, falling to his knees and holding himself, pure agony ripping through his body, shuddering as waves of pain rolled through him.

Patton immediately dropped what he was doing, grabbing a hold of Logan. “Hey! Hey, are you okay? Logan? Is it-?”

“Yes!” Logan sobbed, clutching his stomach as more waves of throbbing pain rushed through him, “Yes it is! It’s him- fuck!”

“W-What? What’s going on?!” Thomas asked in a panic, Roman busy calming Virgil before the poor man worked himself up too much.

“Give us a minute, Thomas-” Patton replied, clutching Logan’s arm- and they sunk out.

And quite frankly, not knowing a thing about what was going on, freaked Virgil out even more, and he spent the next hour rambling about what could possibly be going on- what if Logan was dying? Was he stabbed by a knife? Did a bug crawl inside of him and it’s eating his organs from the inside out-?

And then he was reminded that they seemed to be talking about a ‘him’- and well, that just sent them into a fit of confusion (with a side of panic).

Luckily, they didn’t have to wait long, though- Patton was soon coming back, his sweater on rather than tied around his neck, and holding something in the pocket.

“What was that?!” Virgil immediately demanded, stomping his foot on the ground, “Where’s Logan? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine!” Patton hurriedly replied, “Shh! Quiet down! You’ll disturb him!”

“Disturb- who? Logan?” Roman asked in confusion, scrunching his face up. There was no one else there?

Patton huffed, and shifted the pocket of his sweater, revealing a head of a small kid, perhaps one or two, with a head of messy brown hair and freckles dotting his face, tiny fists curled in Patton’s sweater.

“This.. well, we actually don’t know who he is yet. Logan was gonna figure that out whenever he wakes up..”

“Wait, what?” Thomas sputtered, “I’m confused, what’s going on-?”

“There’s a new Side,” Patton replied, slightly vexed, “This little guy right here- who happens to be the- ehm, child of Logan and myself.”

“Wait-” Roman started again, but Virgil cut him off.

“You two fucked?”

“Virgil!” Roman scoffed, slapping the Anxious Side’s arm, but Virgil didn’t react.

Patton’s face flushed at the blunt wording, but nodded. “E-Essentially, yes- and now we have him!” He chirped, trying to move past that particular subject as he bounced the sleeping kid in his sweater pouch.

“… Logan takes dick-?”

“Virgil!”

Logan woke up to muffled speaking from below him, and he groaned, rolling onto his side before flinching at the pain that resulted.

He laid there for a few, agonizing seconds, then got up slightly, a dull, throbbing pain in his abdomen and spine.

The others were probably all downstairs, with Patton and- and.. Their son.

Oh, shit, the realization was setting in.

Logan and Patton had a son.

Logic and Morality had a son.

Holy fuck.

He scrubbed a hand across his face and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, slipping them on his face and getting up from the bed, pleased to note that Patton had made him comfortable and removed his jeans and tie in exchange for soft pajama pants.

Much too exhausted still to bother changing again, Logan wobbled on shaky legs out of the bedroom. He needed to figure out who the newcomer really was.

Leaning against the wall for support, Logan limped down the hall, and pushed the newest door open in the mind palace’s hallway- a tall, pastel green door, that had a silver handle. It was, by far, the most colorful door.

He looked into the room to find it stocked full of books and action figures and stuffed toys.

He limped inside, taking in the surroundings, taking in the blue and green color scheme of the whole room, and then the books- which were solely focused on video games and tv shows and their history, lore, characters, etc., and it clicked.

It contained the trait of Logan’s love for knowledge, his adoration for books, and Patton’s love for cartoons, games, and other entertainments-

The son of Logic and Morality was Geekiness.

Logan heaved a breath, and he shook his head. A feelings-y Side. At least he still loved books and learning.

Wait. Did he have a name?

Logan supposed he didn’t know who named the main Sides- they didn’t really have parents or anyone who named them. They just formed, and knew their names. Would it be the same for Geekiness, or would Logan and Patton get to name him themselves?

He refused to believe he was excited by the thought of hand picking a name for their son.

“Logan?” Came a small voice from the doorway, and Logan turned to find Patton, watching him study their son’s bedroom.

“Patton.” Logan greeted quietly, “I’m.. sure you’ve figured out what, ah.. Our son represents,”

“Geekiness.” Patton confirmed with a wide grin that lit up his expression, “It’s so cute! Logan, I’m a dad! Again!” He giggled.

Logan’s lip twitched into a small smile, and he chuckled.

“Does.. he have a name? Or do we pick it?” Patton questioned after a second of silence.

“I don’t know,” Logan replied honestly, “I suppose we can pick it ourselves, call him something for now. And if he does end up having his own given name already, we can bump it to middle name.”

“You’re so smart!” Patton gushed, “That’s a good idea! What do you want to call him?”

Well.. Logan actually hadn’t thought about that.

“.. Let’s ask the others for their input.”

“Roman Junior.” Roman had immediately declared the second Patton told the others their dilemma.

Virgil scoffed, but didn’t try to pitch in with his own name- it’s not like he could. Roman and Thomas were spewing three names a second.

“Elijah?”

“Adrian!”

“Or Lukas.”

“Evan,”

“Connor?”

“Jared!”

“You’re just giving musical names.” Logan scoffed, cradling his sleeping child in his arms.

“Virgil?” Patton asked, “You wanna give a name suggestion?”

Virgil squirmed a bit uncomfortably as all eyes turned to him suddenly. “N-No, not really-”

“Falsehood.” Logan cut off, “You looked like you wanted to cut in multiple times.”

“It’s a stupid name-”

“Virgil! C’mon!” Patton whined, and damn it, Virgil couldn’t say no to his puppy eyes.

“.. August?” The Anxious Side finally managed to get out.

“I like that.” Thomas smiled, giving Virgil a thumbs up, and Roman shrugged, “It’s not bad.”

Logan and Patton looked at each other, as if asking each other if that would be fine.

“I think it’s adorable.” Patton finally confessed, wide grin settled on his face.

“Then August it is.” Logan settled.

And August Sanders, Geeky Side to Thomas F. Sanders, came into being.

#logicality #fanfic #fanfiction #logan sanders #patton sandes #geekiness sanders #oc #my fic

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