#he got to Jesus IMMEDIATELY after he caught him cheating with his sister. Literally got caught and then they did it in a bush
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The best/most cursed thing I've done this week: clicked the Randomize Sim button until I got one that looked like the standard western depiction of Jesus. His name is Wet Jesus because he's a mermaid. He can also get pregnant and has a nb child who absolutely HATES him (they did this on their own btw) and it's absolutely hilarious to me bc I gave him the personality traits of a hippy so realistically nobody should dislike him but there's not been a Sim yet that he's met who hasn't gone deep into the red
#in his defense I did randomize his kid's personality and they got Mean and the only person they haven't gotten a negative relationship with#is their other far shittier dad#they have a half sister that's only 12 sim hours older than them because he went in and knocked up Wet Jesus AND his sister on the same day#he got to Jesus IMMEDIATELY after he caught him cheating with his sister. Literally got caught and then they did it in a bush#then not even a day after he gave birth to this kid that hates him the nanny got killed by a volcanic rock#and this fool TOUCHED it and caught fire and had the audacity to get mad about it#and before anyone comments about this this is actually the most normal game of sims I've ever played
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The Funeral (Part 1)
A/N: Obviously, I’ve been doing a lot of angst and shit. I needed some comedic relief. However, I didn’t feel like doing an actual “written” story so this is all in bullets. Part 2 will be up next weekend as I need this to one to start the next chapters of my other stories. I actually had a lot of fun with this though! I will confirm that who you think, given that Mr. You-Know-Who is in part one, will be in part two! ;)
Mentions of characters and such from Confinement and In Da Club
I’ll only tag a few of you because this wasn’t a request or anything. Literally just a spur of the moment idea. Lmfao
TAGLIST: @onyour-right @soulmates8 @janellemonaenae @msincognito67 @destinio1 @hutchj
Everyone is all in the midst of a game of Uno, everyone growing upset as T’Challa keeps winning which only infuriates Erik who thinks his cousin is cheating.
“This nigga cheating!”
Of course, Deja backs him up. That’s her man.
“Ya damn straight!”
Surprisingly, Y/N second the motion, confounded at how her fiancé was so easily able to grasp the concept of the American game. “I think they might be right, babe.”
You know T’Challa just lets them talk though because he knows he doesn’t need to cheat. He’s just good like that.
“It’s simple logic. Really.”
Erik was calling bullshit.
Erik is already annoyed and throws his cards down. “Man, fuck this shit.”
That’s when Deja gets the call from home. She leaves the room to take it, not knowing what it’s about, but not wanting to hear Erik starting to argue with his cousin about how if he were the Black Panther, “shit would be different.”
When she comes back, everyone can see that something is wrong, and of course, everyone’s reaction is predictable.
“Girl, what’s wrong?”
“Is everything alright, Deja?”
“Aye, since you up, can you get me a Pepsi?”
She ignores her boyfriend and tells them what the call was about. “My great aunt Louise died.”
“Oh my God, Deja…”
“My dearest Deja, you have not only mine but all of Wakanda’s deepest of condolences…”
“That’s tough….but a brother still thirsty.”
It’s only then that Deja starts jumping for joy, hitting the milly rock, the thriller, you name it, she was doing it.
T’Challa was totally perplexed, but Y/N and Erik immediately caught on.
“I don’t understand…”
“She was a bitch!” Deja shouted. “I mean, the absolute worst, everything I did, everything I said, nothing, and I mean, nothing was good enough for her old ass. It’s about time she kicked it. Old ass hag.”
Y/N whispered to her poor fiancé that she’d explain how respect for elders in America worked a little later.
“Good so you ain’t going to the funeral then?” Erik wanted to know mostly because he was eager to see how long he was going to have to go without any pussy.
“Oh no, I’m going. Her mean ass was in a really bad car accident about 300 years ago, sued, got PAIDT, and gave half of the money away to the church while setting the other half aside in various bank accounts for when she died, I.e. funds allocated for her relatives, which means me bitches.”
Erik rolled his eyes. “You don’t need her money. You making bank here as a scientist.”
It was true. Wakanda paid hella good, but Deja wanted to take her inheritance and sign it over to her half-siblings, her younger twin sister who her aunt couldn’t stand because she didn’t like their mother. They were also really intelligent, and while her dad’s side shunned them for no good reason, she managed a good relationship and wanted to contribute to their college fund.
Of course, Erik didn’t get that. Or, at least, he claimed he didn’t and proceeded to ask for his soda.
All hell broke loose when she came back and pitched it at his head.
Y/N and T’Challa quietly snuck out after that.
Y/N knew that she was going to fly to America to attend the funeral with Deja. T’Challa went just because he wanted to be there for Deja. Erik only went because T’Challa and Y/N wouldn’t stop fucking badgering him about going.
“I’m telling you. Ya’ll gon wish you had stayed home. You ain’t never been to no black church, let alone a funeral at a black church.”
“I am sure that you are exaggerating cousin.”
Then they found out that they were staying at one of Deja’s aunt’s house and that’s when things really got interesting.
They were all sitting at the dining room table when they heard a loud and annoying voice.
“Lousisssseeeee!”
“Is she alright?” T’Challa was genuinely concerned as a woman was helped in the front door by a younger man.
Deja rolled her eyes. “Don’t pay her no mind. That’s my auntie Vera. She act a fool at every event. She’s a functioning alcoholic.”
"Why didn’t you take me with you!”
“I can help with that shit...”
“Erik!”
“Girl if you don’t stop with all that yelling! You acting like you the only one beweaving. She was my auntie too.”
“Y/N....what is this....beweaving....”
“And why this nigga dressed like Ronald Mcdonald meets Ru Paul?”
Deja didn’t even have to look up. Once she heard the voice and how T’Challa and Erik were describing him....it was a wrap.
"Hi, Uncle Brown.”
She really didn’t want to talk to him.
“Now I know this not little Dinah!”
“It’s Deja.”
“Look at you all grown up! Looking like you wanna look! And they said you wasn’t finna make it outta here like ya’ mama, but I knew you would, cause I was praying for you. Mmmhhmmm.”
“You should have been praying for yourself, tye dye brown.”
Deja elbowed Erik as she attempted to introduce Erik, Y/N, and T’Challa to her uncle. Unfortunately, she accidentally let King T’Challa slip when she said his name.
Worst....Mistake....Ever
All of a sudden, everyone and they mama wants to talk to T’Challa.
“My brother, let me holler at you for a second!”
“Cuz! I knew I liked your Hakeem looking ass. You know, I got a business proposition for you!”
Hakuna Matata my nigga, arrivederci, with some mozzarella and some fettuccini! Now, you are paying for this, right?”
“HOW....DO YOU.....LIKE....AMERICA!”
“He speaks English, Uncle Brown!”
“Well you said he African, so I just thought he spoke Africanese!”
Y/N was just looking like
Deja was staring like
Erik was just sitting there like
And poor T’Challa was just stuck there like
Next day was the funeral and before they could even make it to the church, everyone was fighting over who could ride in the limo.
T’Challa, still traumatized from the prior evening’s event, offerered to just pay to order limo’s so that everyone could ride in one, much to Erik and Deja’s dismay.
“Cuz, you gon regret that shit. You think they begging for shit now. Just wait and see.”
“T’Challa, you really don’t have to-”
“Nay, please, I insist. It is my way of honoring your deceased-”
One of Deja’s ghetto ass counsin’s yelling cut the king off as the four of them shook their heads and started to load into one of them limos to make their way to the church.
Of course, as soon as they arrived, early attendees were already causing scenes.
And yes, Vera had to be helped by church mothers as she walked in, “fainting” once she saw her aunt in the casket.
Erik, Y/N, T’Challa, and Deja all sat together watching as different people walked in.
They watched as a supposed “cousin” strolled in, trying to convinve another relative of his right to be inattendance.
“Ugh. I can’t stand her.” Deja motioned as one of her older cousins who was a successful defense attorney strolled in with a scowl on her face.
Y/N’s mouth dropped as the woman walked away as she looked over at Deja. “We’re jumping her at the wake, correct?”
“Calm down, my love.” T’Challa attempted to sooth as he blinked when a bright light flashed in front of the group.
"I’ve just never seen a king before.” Deja’s other aunt on her mom’s side exclaimed with her “white people voice.”
Erik growled. “Yeah, well it’s about to be the last thing you see-”
Deja placed her hand over his hand. “Calm down, baby.”
“I’m trying. I’m just ready to get out of here. It’s hot as a motherf-”
“WELCOME!” Everybody jumped as they looked up to see that the pastor had taken to the podium. “To Jesus, the Son of the Living God, Alpha and Omega, Spiritual Holy City Faith and Deliverance Ministries Center of Love, Touch Not My Anointed, First Baptist Church.”
T’Challa’s jaw was to the floor. “Great Bast, was that the name or the mission statement?”
“That was probably the abridged version.” Erik huffed. “Just wait. You ain’t seen nothing yet.
Erik was dozing off when Deja elbowed him in his side. “Do it again, and see what happens.”
“If I have to sit through this then so do you.”
T’Challa, ever the patient man, whispered over to his fiance. “We are near the end, yes?”
Y/N looked at him like he was crazy. “End? Honey, he hasn’t started preaching. It hasn’t even technically started yet.”
T’Challa was like
#T'Challa x reader#Erik x reader#Erik Killmonger#black panther imagine#Black Panther#T'Challa Udaku#Erik#T'Challa#Black fanfiction#Comedic relief#This was actually really fun to do#And stress reducing#Lmfao#Only downside was finding GIF's
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The Worst
I wasn't really planning to touch this one because I'm so goddamn tired but this sh*t with the Duggars is itching my booty so I'm going in. I got time today. Josh Duggar f*cks kids. Some of those kids were his own sisters. He was caught, convicted, and sent off to conversion therapy camp instead of jail because his pops' unwieldy power in Arkansas. In 2015. This all came out in 2015 because of rather diligent reporters and investigators. That's when we found out about the transgressions, which actually took place before then. Dude went through all of that, did all of those terrible things, BEFORE 2015! By the time all of this came out, the "issue" had already been resolved and that coward hid behind his "faith" through PR snippets and cats just okey-doked it. Sure, the Duggar lost their show, but who cares? They're still supported by the religious zealots on the Right. They still wield unheard of power in Arkansas, all because the Duggars are “Christian” in the “right” way. Because they're "good" people. Well, it's 2021 and ol' Joshy-boy is facing forty years for the same sh*t he got busted on, way back before 2015. I guess f*cking kids is “Christian” in the “right”, according to how these people interpret the bible. Why the f*ck is this even a thing? How the f*ck is this a thing. More importantly, where the f*ck are all of these bible-thumping, Conservative hypocrites, who support straight up insurrection, now that one of their own is about to be nailed to the wall for the most heinous sh*t a person can do? Today, I awoke and chose all the violence.
Duggar was convicted as a minor but was never held accountable for his bullsh*t and now, some sixteen years later since he was exposed as a predator and threat, cat is on the hook for some verifiable, factually provable, horrific sh*t. The feds found terabytes upon terabytes of graphic child porn on his personal computer. Dude had a whole ass Ashley Madison account a while back, for which has since apologized,but those thing are used strictly for adultery. So, Joshy-boy is on record for molesting kids as a minor, cheating on his wife through the interwebs, and has now got the feds on his butt, because he picture of kiddy butts on hand. You see, that's a patter of escalation. Josh Duggar is a monster and it makes me wonder how that monster was allowed to roam or, more importantly, how man other monsters are hiding in that f*cked up family. Of course, the family is denying the claims but, with that verifiable history, you can really be telling me this asshole ain't out here f*cking all of the underage partners he can get his hands on. Really? He f*cked his sisters, man! There are no limits to this dude's disgusting predilections. He's been doing the same sh*t he got nailed with from before, for decades. Why would he ever stop? Who stops their bullsh*t, especially after getting caught and let go with a slap on the wrist? If I burn down an orphanage and you make me pick up trash as a consequence, I'm just going to keep committing arson on sh*t because picking up trash ain't sh*t. The juice id definitely worth the squeeze at that point and I am thirsty, bud. So was Joshy-boy, but for kiddy-diddling, not theoretical arson.
Josh Duggar has been getting away with f*cking kids for decades. Decades of slipping the noose because of his clout and the fact his family is viewed as 'God fearing.” I'm not even going to get into that toxic mess, and how it enabled this scumbag, but ol' Joshy-boy has little girls in his own home, where, because of his "faith" his word is law. What the f*ck is he doing to those kids? He diddled his little sisters. That's fact. He was convicted of that in the court of law. That's fact. He has a record for that and was never properly disciplined for it. That's fact. If he could do that to them, and get away with it unscathed, it's not unheard of to think he could do it to his own. And that's not to slight his boys because, if he's been doing this since he was a kid and escalation is a thing, pretty sure a little boy butt is fine now, too. Of course, this is all speculation on my part but I'm comfortable throwing around these alleged accusations considering the actual evidence onhand. I'm comfortable say Josh Duggar f*cks because he f*cked his sister when she was a kid. One is more than enough, bud. Which is why I don't understand how he has gotten away with this sh*t for years after. Why wasn't Duggar put on a list like a regular person? Why wasn't he forced into proper therapy? Why wasn't he watched like a hawk for the rest of his life? Why was he allowed to escape consequence and re-offend for decades? Why were his sisters forced to interact with this dude on that show for years, when every KNEW what he did to them? Why the f*ck was he allowed back around kids and no one said a peep until the feds found straight up, hardcore, graphic child pornography on his home computer?
Sh*t like this is why i don't understand how Conservative people feel like they know the moral way. They use the bible as some sort of blanket, get-out-of-jail-free card, refusing to even acknowledge their transgressions. Even Matt Gaetz is doing that sh*t. Sure, he's leaning heavy into the "cancel culture" lie, even though there are literal Venmo receipts of him buying sex from a minor, but he claims this a witch hunt predicated on his loyalty to 45 and his strong Conservative values. Values that are intrinsically linked to that Jesus jargon. So, according to him, he can traffic women for sex, at leas one of which was underage but we'll see how many actually were, while being engaged to a woman he claims to love, but this is persecution? This is a politically motivated attack? He's the victim? Really? It doesn't even stop there. Most cats who still believe in 45, and i mean actually believe in him because they think that asshole is some sort of real life Second Coming, conveniently dismiss his long record of adultery, the fact that he uses their faith as a disingenuous prop, and, more to the point of this discussion, THE COUNTLESS ACCUSATIONS OF CHILD RAPE! Dude beat up a fourteen year old before raping her, because he wanted to take her virginity by said rape, but Epstein raped her first, so she was “defiled” when it was his turn to rape her and he was mad about it. So, I repeat, Trump beat up the fourteen year old girl before he raped her, for already being raped. Your president did that sh*t and I know he did because she sued. Put that in your pocket because we're going to circle back around to it in a bit.
There was an entire documentary about Epstein on Netflix and 45's name is riddled throughout it. There are Cosby levels of victims in his ledger and, like Cosby, where there's smoke, there is definitely fire, bud. Trump has for sure f*cked at least one child and that's more enough. He should be castrated and tossed into a hole, not uplifted as some great leader who is going to lead America into it's next golden age. If you actually think that, you're a f*cking idiot, and I mean that in the most aggressively disrespectful way possible. If you actually, in your heart, believe that Donald f*cking Trump is some sort of moral barometer, that he is the one best fit to guide this country into the future, you are the worst kind of person and don't deserve a voice in our democracy. The girl who sued him over her traumatic experience, is in that doc and recalls her story exactly the same way she's told it for decades, exactly as i heard it a decade and half ago. See? Full circle. This chick sued him and he settled. He paid her to make that sh*t go away, per usual, the December before his inauguration and no one talked about that. The difference in her case and the many, many, other settlements, is the fact that Trump doesn't pay anyone without at least three appeals or the Feds force him. He shot this chick an undisclosed amount of loot almost immediately. I don't even think her case made it to trial. I think they were still in Discovery and he whipped out the checkbook. Why was that? Maybe he didn't want her talking after he became President? Or maybe because she could substantiate the horrible f*cking claims she has never deviated from making, for two whole ass decades? I f*cking wonder.
Now, I'm not, in anyway, saying the Left doesn't have their issues. Of course they do. When you get to a certain amount of wealth and power, your moral compass goes wacky and you end up in the papers for giving everyone herpes or trying to start a cult or some sh*t. Celebrities are f*cking weird, bud. What I am saying is the fact that most of these ridiculously damaging and hypocritical f*ck problems, tend to err on The Right more than the Left. I mean, Hilary Clinton has buried bodies, for sure, and i don't mean just Benghazi but, since 2000, the Right has been riddled with some of the most egregious acts you can imagine, in terms of Christian morality. There's a list you can check out on Wikipedia and that hard "R" pops up a great many times. Lots of infidelity on the Left. Lots of the OTHER stuff AND infidelity on the right. It's pathological with these people. The harder you thump that bible, the harder you're apparently thumping some strange. Be it trans trysts, adulterous liaisons, getting it the gay way, straight up sexual battery, or outright rape, the Right is just out here, throwing their sh*t around at whatever will gush. However, when caught, they hide behind their “faith” as a deterrent from actual accountability. It's f*cking disgusting, dude. I mean, Bill Clinton got head from a co-ed in the Oval office but Trump gave head to a nine year old in one of the elevators at Mar-a-Lago. These are not the same and just because one overtly pretends Jesus is his savior, doesn't mean he should get that pass or that the comparison is in anyway apt.
The cognitive dissonance between espousing the virtues of Christ and actually living them is always so stark with these Conservatives. It's a tool to them, not a calling, not a guide. But so many of their proliferate eat that sh*t up. F*cking why? These people are pandering to you. They don't respect your beliefs. They literally f*ck kids. How can they be good Christians and do sh*t like that? None of those people are genuine in their belief. How the f*ck can you just give these assholes the pass? How can you exalt them as idols worth following, protecting, and aggrandizing? None of those frauds worship the way you do. Hell, the people you look to in order to deliver the Word, don't even live the Godly life. They're multi-millionaires flying around in personal jets they bought from Tyler Perry, because God told them they shouldn't have to fly coach with all those demons. Those demons are you, you f*cking sheep. That's how they see you. From your Orange demagogue to your sycophant senators to your televangelist false idols, you are the demons. You are the fodder. You are the rubes. And they know you'll turn the other cheek as they spread them kiddy cheeks, because all they have to do is hold a bible upside down from time to time and say “God is good.”
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200 Followers Prompt Fill
Ah, over 200 actually, so THANK YOU ALL! I’ve taken a bunch of Asks and answered them here. This is only part 1 tho, so there will be five more I believe? Anway, thanks for the loves :)
From Anon:
Prompt: What if Dick or Jason or both;) are taking care of Tim while he's got the concussion of the century, and staying awake with him and having fun. Tim, noticing Dick or Jason eyeing a really bad scar, and him not being in the right state of mind, tells them where the scar came from. Not from vigilantism or anything dangerous or villainous as Jason/Dick came to expect, but from small Tim taking care of himself (while his neglectful parents were away) and not being careful enough. Love you <3
You got it, babe.
**
And
—W—
Walter is just a pissy companion for the night.
Seriously.
Walter is a concussion that comes with a distinct lack of boundaries apparently. He’s already told Dick how much he just really enjoys his hands, and Jason is now aware of how fucking cute he thinks that little white tuft of hair is, and just…
He’s never going to live this one down.
Ever.
The Perch is at half-lighting, softly curled around the edges of his vision because of things like sleep dep and owfuck. Luckily, the two eldest Robins tried doing a rock-paper-scissors for who got to come find Timmy’s hurt ass—since, well Bats and shit, there was no chance at ever getting a winner. Dick is just that good and Jay cheats like a nasty bastard.
Cue the two of them jimming the windows open shortly after O put out the word of a possibly bad end to a little fight Red might have been in on down in the Narrows. Commence with the Where’s Red? protocol, Bat edition.
In a little less than twenty seconds using nothing more spectacular than his crappy iPhone to hack into some traffic cams, Dick verifies Red is still in Gotham and looks to be moving toward his own little nest in the city.
B at this juncture just waved them both off into the pre-dawn with the same old, same old: call me if he needs transport, call me if you need transport—just call me.
And yes, B is paranoid as fuck—that doesn’t mean his dad instincts don’t rise to the fore, especially when one of his Robins gets hurt…and doesn’t come back to the Manor for proper treatment (reads as mother-henning).
The call was promptly made within twenty seconds of N and Hood breaching the Perch, strafing through the apartment until the injured bird came out of the shower in only a towel, giving them both an ample chance to look him over for anything else. Gloved hands turned and prodded while B asked a ton of questions over speakerphone.
Anything Tim might have had to say is drowned out with a mix between finger wags, the know your limitations speech, and absurdly attentive vigilantes.
N wrangles him to sit long enough for Hood to dig out boxers and sweats, then kneel down to get the things up his legs, and even if his balance is just fine fuck you very much, N still holds him standing for Hood to get them the rest of the way up. A t-shirt is pulled over his head, muffling his useless protests; the only pause in the mother henning is when a short noise escapes when one of the wrangling hands brushes over his bruised (but no longer bleeding) temple.
Hood tilted his chin with absurdly gentle hands, leaning close to get a good look at the scrape while N fits together a small device from pieces hidden around his suit, effectively pulling out a mini X-ray scanner.
Agent A gets immediate results from the scan, looking at Red’s skull for any fractures.
And coffee is made, frozen pizzas thrown in the oven, calming over-protective Bats taking turns changing into civvies, the fight is discussed, and diagnosis per Alfred made.
Of course it’s a concussion, like he hasn’t had enough of them to know.
“What letter ya on, Timmy?” Jason just happens to ask, putting coffee right in front of him.
“I think W, so Walter it is.”
“Right on. Eat yer pizza.”
From there, since, you know, why bother trying to sleep anyway, the three of them end up on his overstuffed couch, watching something he never gets time to check out, and he just blurts out all kind of embarrassing shit.
The worst is when Jay traces a fine white line on the inside of his forearm, making Tim feel even hazier where he’s laying against Dick’s side, nudged between them. It’s telling how close he’s come to being back.
“Where’d this one come from, Timmy?” Is asked low and quiet, in case he might have dropped off (just to be woken up in an hour or so? Nope, all good here).
“Making dinner when Mrs. Mac couldn’t come for a few days,” he blurts out, “I was trying to make chicken the first time and slipped.”
And that is apparently not what Hood had been expecting to hear.
He makes a noise of protest when Dick straightens a little and reaches a bare hand over to grip his wrist and look closer.
“How old were you?”
He doesn’t even have to think about it, and that’s the problem. With Walter hanging with him, his eidetic memory is at the concussion’s mercy, and he blurts out, “almost eight.”
Both vigilantes stop, the creepy-like Bat-stillness. The only movement is Dick’s hand tightening on his wrist and the increasing downturn of Jay’s mouth.
“How long did she leave you alone, Tim?” Dick asks in a low, dangerous voice.
Tim blinks, knowing he’s walking a very, very fine line here.
“She was snowed in at her sister’s house,” he carefully adds, trying to deflect. “It was a bad blizzard that year.”
“You were seven years old alone in a fucking blizzard?” Is the Red Hood’s snarling reply. “Jesus-motherfucking-Christ, Timmy. How many times were you left alone?”
His mouth drops open (because Walter) automatically, but he manages to stop all processes and laugh a little instead. “Having a housekeeper let me have the opportunity to be Robin, you know.”
“Not the point, Tim,” Dick fills in for a not-happy Red Hood, who is still grinding his teeth. Like, obviously.
But there are hands, making him sit up from his comfortable slouch, and his clothes are pushed, pulled, lifted off while the two are looking for the oldest scars, but it’s not enough. And the two finally manhandle Tim up on his feet to strip him down to boxers and take in every mark on his body, causing a flush to stain his cheeks down to his chest while they find, touch, and ask about a majority of the oldest marks, horrified at his years in a silent house, being left to his own devices.
“Mrs. Mac usually made me meals once a week and left them in the freezer. It wasn’t hard to work a microwave.” He argues at one point, and had no idea why Jay looked completely crushed.
“I think it was fine,” he finally tells them, “that they were always gone. I mean, they couldn’t get sick of me if they never saw me, right?”
Dick completely engulfs him in a full-bodied hug, almost suffocating him enough that he has to literally tap out. Just please stop trying to kill me with your love.
“This one?” Jay points to a tiny nick on the back of his right hand by the knuckle.
“Trying to make a grapple so I could follow you and B better,” he yawns, finally allowed to get dressed again.
The grapple, well, it sort of worked, but really no one needed to see the scars from when it failed. The boxers and sweats are, fortunately, covering that one. (Just, it’s bad enough he’s got such a thing for these two anyway and it’s getting worse each time he comes back to Gotham, each time one of them finds him on patrol, calls out, eats roof tacos, just all of it. Their hands all over him is just not fucking helpful and Walter isn’t making the sitch better.)
“How old?”
“…” They wouldn’t want that answer.
“And none of us noticed?”
“Um, well—“ and he breathes and glances over, “I think Jay saw me. Once.” Then Tim’s face gets hot, cheeks flush a little, a sign that draws both older vigilantes like a moth to a flame.
“Timmy,” Dick draws out.
“I…” and he breathes out, “I may have accidentally been trying to get up to the old Mylar building and…”
And he just leaves it off because really.
Dick blinks down at him; he and Jay exchange a look.
Tim wakes up enough to shift, shove the waistband of his boxers down only a few inches or so by his spine, showing them an old mass of white scars. “I think B took a beating at the hands of Killer Croc because Nightwing and Robin were patrolling side-by-side. It was the first time I’d seen you two together.”
And Jay might be smiling rather than smirking because even with the Pit messing with his mind and memories, he knows he has that time, the one Tim’s talking about, buried so deep, a memory so important, not even death, his death, could smear it. And the Robin that never talks about it, about that time in his life, breathes out through his mouth softly.
“Was the first time B got all kinds of fucked, well ‘a-cause of me anyhow.” And Jay smiles faintly, accepts Dickie’s broad palm on the back of his neck. “Nice that someone took a break from his team ta come home.”
“I’m glad I did,” Dick shrugs, grinning back, and both vigilantes look over at their Baby Bird, slouched over. “How did you get the scars?”
There it is, his face heating up again, “I didn’t know you’d be up there, it surprised me so hard, I fell.”
Both older vigilantes flinch. Everyone in the cape and cowl crew knew the Mylar and its damn treacherous design, four stories of possible doom from crumbling brick to thin wrought iron.
“All the way down?” Jason’s eyes are blown wide, picturing a little kid with a camera falling four stories to the unforgiving pavement below.
“Ah, no,” and Tim scratches the back of his neck, cheeks pink, “Robin caught me, actually. Smelled like cigarettes and told me to get my stupid ass home before I got hurt.”
Dick’s brows shoot up into his hairline at the same time Jay’s jaw drops, “seriously, Baby Bird?”
“Yeah,” and it’s low in his chest because, well, he’d already told Jason when the Pit was riding him and he needed something to bring him back, “you were my Robin.” Literally, it’s true.
“I don’t remember it either, Timmy, I’m sorry,” Dick claims softly, a hand inching into Tim’s hair to rake blunt nails gently against his scalp. And he feels awful about it, the majority of his memories from that night about trying to make it work with the kid that took his place as Batman’s partner. It was the first time he’d been back to the Manor for any length of time since their fallout, and Nightwing had been the next feasible step. Something to keep going.
“S’okay,” Tim slurs, falling right into the motion, “big vigilante now, remember?”
Jason hums as Baby Bird’s eyes finally flutter closed and Dick settles him more comfortably against his chest. He finally passes out to the old scars, the foundation of his life, being outlined, and catalogued by the two vigilantes that will eventually be his undoing.
Justice is Blind AU (for @satire-please) :D
“Ah, there you are, little bird.”
And that voice. He’d know it anywhere. Well, hard to forget the first person that taught you how to maim, isn’t it?
Tim smiles faintly, fingers moving over the grooves of the delicate tea cup in one hand, “long time.”
She hums a little, and with the modified shades covering his dead eyes, the radar array pings just the outline of her lithe form sliding into the chair across from him. The sweet Jasmine always a part of her wafts over in the breeze; she only surprised him being down wind. Well, touché.
“What are you doing in Beijing?” She signals for tea, acting like they’re just here in a random tea house, you know, just hanging out. Not like he was pretty damn sure they’d been an inch from killing each other the last time. But, if there’s one thing he’s learned in his time as part of the cape and cowl crew—bad guys who generally seem to want to kill you? They get all kinds of messed up when the heroes are down for the count.
But Tim Drake smiles, flashing white against the dark sunglasses. “I think you already know the answer to that, Lady Shiva.”
And the gentle laugh rolls down his spine, settles somewhere in the base.
“I suppose you need a reminder then,” and he hears the exchange, get the impression, the outline of the waiter bringing Lady Shiva a fresh pot, her own cup, bowing low in respect.
“Things…are more complicated.” And in his civvies, a young American, ratty jeans and hooded sweatshirts, miles away from the clean-cut CEO he played on video screens wherever he happened to be needed in the world. It’s been painfully easy keeping shades on, making sure he’s in bright enough rooms to explain it away while keeping the confidence of Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors after the successful transfer of power. In less than five months, he’s already expanded Research and Development, put several new products into Production, made suggestions to exiting products to adapt to a changing world.
Profits were up, the Board was happy, and no one was more the wise about his “condition.”
Except Tam, that is.
Being taken by surprise by the Widower is the epic fail of his life, but to be blinded before he’d even found Bruce?
Not to mention that somehow during the punch drunk blood loss and perpetual night, he’d managed to patch Pru up enough that she could pilot the Jeep to one of the League of Assassins’ safe houses not far from the site of the attack. It was Tam’s bad luck to get snatched up by the League’s spies when word reached them she was hot on his heels, wrangling him for Wayne Enterprises. They thought she already found him and was the only reason Ra’s ordered her alive.
Luck of the draw there.
The downside of it all was that Tam had been there while he danced between the League and the Council of Spiders, trying to acclimate to his new condition, trying to bring everyone down, trying to keep himself from falling apart, not when he was ass-deep in bad guys of oh shit proportions.
And yeah, he’d pulled it all off like a boss. Well, other than getting kicked out of a window to a potentially fatal free fall. That? Slightly sucked.
But, all’s well that end well—he’d pulled Bruce out of space/time with the help of S.T.A.R. labs, sent him back to Gotham, and…
Came directly here.
Tam is covering his ass at WE for a few weeks while he gets his head together. The documentation is signed, sealed, and delivered.
Other than that, well, there’s really no reason to go back, is there?
Bruce will train, get himself back, and take up the cowl. Damian will keep breaking criminal faces. Nightwing will start appearing again.
Everything in its place.
Except—
To Do List:
1) Figure out where to live
2) Figure out what to do
3) Figure out how to do it
4) Figure out who to do it with
5) Figure out who to do it against
Yup, that’s why he’s here.
“You must find your balance, little bird.” She sips delicately, “to learn yourself again.”
The laugh coming from his chest is one of those unfunny ha-ha ones because that sounds a lot like one of those crazy platitudes she sprouts just before the fight starts.
“Let me guess,” the radar array pings back, and he gets the impression she’s smiling, “you can help with that, right?”
“I think,” she fills in, steadily sipping her tea, “I have an old acquaintance who may be better suited.”
“He’s in prison,” Tim fills in because she can’t really be suggesting—
“The King Snake is here in Beijing, little bird. Perhaps a week with each of us, and you may find what answers you are desperately looking for.”
His useless eyes are wide behind the shades, his brain picking up on the impossible theme happening here. His career as Robin began with Lady Shiva and the King Snake, Sir Edmund Dorrance, the blind crime lord and exceptional fighter. Kind of fitting to either end his walk down vigilante lane if one of them decides this is the perfect opportunity to kill him, or to give them all the kudos if they manage to get him able to move again.
Either way, it seems like things have a way of coming full circle.
**
*The list is from the Red Robin comic series ;) Just FYI
Angst
travellover1245 said:
Hey! I am craving some angst right now. Any chance you can take up this prompt: Tim/?? with someone else having feelings for Tim that Tim has never or no longer feel for that person. Please and thank you!!!
Angst, babe? Let’s see what I’ve got ;) Maybe something from the No Home for Dead Birds Verse, yeah? But Mentions of Adult Themes.
**
And it’s more than he remembered.
The sweet press of their bodies together, hands fitting in the most perfect niches of flesh, muscle, and bone; like this body is made for him, made to respond to his touch, made to give in.
His mouth is still soft and always slightly bitter with coffee or sleep deprivation, and it’s almost painful how much it’s like getting something back, something so crucial missing from beside him in bed, in a fight, in the shower, in all aspects.
Thumbs in the dip of hips, moving in circles, and he growls low, refusing to let up, to let go—
He needs this back in his life.
Hands grip his wrists and push.
An abrupt pain arcs in his chest, thumping hard against his sternum.
“Wait,” is hoarse, a plea, don’t go said right into Tim’s mouth.
He’ll swear it was all muscle memory, grabbing on, pressing Tim against the wall, quieting his messy rambles until they’re both panting, ready for more.
Well, that was all before the downward spiral, the one that cost them one former Robin in Gotham—back when he took up the mantle to keep Jason from staining it with blood, from defiling the meaning behind it all, Bruce’s mission. When he made the call for the right reasons…
Not that it mattered now.
“I can’t do this,” and Timmy doesn’t sound any better, pushing away even further, breaking him open wide. “I can’t—I can’t do this.” And the tone of voice, the words, the deep, husky quality fills in a lot of blank spaces for Dick Grayson; he knows the reactions, knows the subtle tells of Tim’s body when he wants. Under Dick’s hands and mouth, Tim had shown all his previous weaknesses in spades, allowing the eldest Robin a look into his very depths, to unravel all the secrets and mysteries. The only time Tim had ever offered insight into his soul.
Being pushed away, denied, is like a stab, sharp, cutting, biting, in the soft meat and ripe viscera rupturing underneath. It literally feels like he’s dying.
“I miss you,” and oh God is it true. He’s been functioning, moving for over a year feeling like one of his limbs has been cut off, turning automatically to talk to someone—who isn’t there anymore. When he’d taken the tunic away, when he’d done it without thinking, without reminding Tim just how much he was needed, wanted, would always, always, be utterly and completely necessary, when he’d done that, he’d been cutting himself off at the knees. “I miss you and I’m still crazy about you, and—and I did what I thought was right, but I should have done it differently.”
Tim backs up until the kitchen counter in his Perch stops him, looking back at Dick without a cowl or a domino, just those blue-violet eyes narrowed slightly, full of old pain. (And it wasn’t as bad as the look Dick finally saw on old video footage from the Cave, when he was at the big computer with his back to his former boyfriend, missing the way Tim’s expression just crumpled in on itself, a mask of real, true pain before that terrible realization, the ‘I was never really part of it all anyway’ changed his face into the same separated neutrality Dick gets to this day).
And he cuts through Dick’s ramblings, forcing himself not to focus on the sentiments and false declarations (because really), he keeps his tone soft and firm, “unfortunately…I’m not available. Even if I was… I couldn’t. Not with you, not anymore.”
Oh.
Too late.
The pain is an immediate thing, low in hidden places he didn’t realize could hurt like this (too little, too late).
And Dick Grayson just lets his body slide back, brace against Tim’s fridge because his knees feel weak, and for a man that knows his body, knows his limitation, his strengths, his capabilities, he inanely thinks how odd it is. He dives off buildings, throws himself into fights, bends and twists to escape fatal traps, he’s an acrobat, a vigilante, and weakness like this is so uncommon.
With a shaky hand, he pulls at the domino, looking up bare-faced, and makes the question easy, “Kid or the clone, Timmy?”
It’s telling when red heats up Tim’s cheeks, darker against his pale skin, and his eyes move away to an uninteresting spot on the floor, and as absurd as it is right now, with his held hopes crumbling, the old recriminations biting at his heels, that the reaction can make him choke on a laugh, a genuine one. That he can drop his face into a gloved hand and snort because some things just never change.
And even getting this much is more than he could have hoped for.
**
Anon Sick!Tim or Sick!Tony prompt
Okay. But. If you had to choose. Tim Drake being the absolute badass he is but the second he gets sick around someone he trusts he turns into goo. Like be prepared to be a pillow and a servant until he's better where then he'll pretend it never happened. Or. Tony Stark being the badass he is and when he gets sick he gets more stressed (he thinks he's a burden) that he gets MORE sick until someone stops him and makes him sleep and eat and he never forgets so lots of secret gifts.
You know, I’ve done Sick!Tim, so maybe a little Sick!Tony just to round it off ;) And, ah, sorry but just fluffy? Maybe?
**
“Sir, this is the third warning. I have permission to set U lose should you not cease and desist at once.”
J.J.’s voice is just so matter of fact that it actually does permeate Tony’s running train of thought; he leans back from the hunched over crouch, several vertebrae popping in succession.
Unfortunately, leaning back makes him immediately light-headed enough that almost falls off the damn stool anyway. “Well, fuck,” is about accurate. The last fight had more of an impact than he realized.
“Scans indicate your core temperature is elevated.” And, yes, his AI sounds smug about it. All that Sir should rest after that many hits taken in one battle.
Well, going to feel it about now then. Fantastic. Schematics for the new navigation systems are due to R&D ASAP, and there’s a whole lot of damaged uniforms in need of fixing before the next Avengers fight, then he owes Fury the upgraded designs for the new helicarrier’s defense system.
Which means he has no time for this.
“All right,” he claps his hands, completely pretending not to feel the tingly soreness in his muscles, the headache starting right at the base of his skull, or the abrupt chill hitting him right in the upper body, “taking a break, J. We’ll start back on the Nav designs in four hours.”
“In that time, I suggest you contact Dr. Banner for a medical exam.”
“He’s not that kind of doctor,” Tony fills in as he stands, rides the headrush that makes the pounding progressively worse. Besides, Bruce always has to gossip to Nat, and Nat will tell everyone in the Tower just for her own amusement. She is exceptionally good at being an evil hell bitch when she wants. Hm, making a t-shirt with that phrase, just for her. In every color.
“I am certain he has and will make an exceptions for you.” Is J.J.’s smooth attempt.
“Touché, but we’ve already got a protocol,” he waves to DUM-E and U from their charging stations, and as he walks to the double doors (maybe slower than usual), the lights and systems power down behind him. The elevator is already waiting to take him upstairs to the Penthouse where he can start checking the reactor seal, make sure nothing was breached.
But, with the familiar arches and sick sucks feeling, he already knows the answer. A low whistle and Butterfingers is rolling out from the stocked shelves, following his creator to the elevator, and whatever previous events he’s learned from are telling when he sticks his arm straight for Tony to strategically lean on without seeming to do so. The bot probably thinks it’s a game, Tony is grateful one of them has some kind of discretion.
When they make it to the Penthouse, Tony gets as far as the island, sliding himself into one of the tall stools and braces himself for the next few steps. He breathes in, tightening his hands into fists to get the tingling sensation in his joints to calm down enough.
Butterfingers boops at him nonchalantly, small talk how about that weather, while he wheels to the cupboard at the back of the island where his tracks can fit just fine. And yes, the name is Butterfingers, but the bot is completely competent in grasping the handle of the bottom cupboard and opening the door. Likewise, he rolls back in to grip the handle of a large kit inside on the lowest shelf and sliding it on to his chassis to wheel around to Tony with more enthusiastic beeps.
“Mmhm,” his creator murmurs, eyes half-mast, “those really are the best kind of wrenches. Next time I’ll get you something better to play with, okay?”
Butterfingers boops back happily in agreement and lifts the large kit up in a claw, moving back and forth to wave it in Tony’s directions.
The mechanic takes it, choking on a laugh, and starts with the preliminaries. He spins slowly (to keep from falling) to scrub his hands at the kitchen sink in hot water before removing his shirt. He lays out the two sealed, sterile trays from the stacks, and gloves up before he opens any of them.
No blood around the reactor, but the bruising is absolutely beautiful, all dark blacks and purple. Apparently, that hit to the chest was a little more ow than he realized. Any compromise to the skin-on-metal seal could allow on-set infection, hitting his system like a freight train. The plan is to get the appropriate samples, ship them to Helen, and see what kind of antibiotics & etc. he would need to fight it off.
All the pizazz of being the Tin Man. Metal heart and all that.
He starts with a blood draw, leaning back to breathe, gathering himself to be steady when he already feels like doing nothing other than falling into bed for a few hours.
Priorities.
Well, that and a slightly compromised immune systems stemming from the metal magnet in his chest.
The band he manages to get around his bicep is faded blue, the ends already have teeth marks from other instances just like this one; he manages to get it tied without more fumbling than necessary and moves on to open the package with the syringe and vacuum sealed container.
He has to sit back and breathe, working the hand open and closed, getting himself steady before he can stabilize his left hand enough to actually hit a vein.
The bright red splashing into the container makes his eyes hurt slightly above aching sinuses.
Butterfingers accepts the padded envelope, one that would be sent to Helen’s lab for a discreet testing, wheels over to the far wall next to the door, and drops the envelope down a suction tube built in to his floor that could disperse anything necessary throughout the Tower (Pep hated it, just gave him more of an excuse to miss meetings).
The next samples are from the reactor/skin connection, the swab opened in gloved hands, run below the primary casing. It’s placed in a sterile vial with shakier hands, fumbled into a padded envelope and given again to Butterfingers.
Now the rough one.
Tony leans back for another get it together moment, waiting to crack the next swab just to make sure the sample is as pure as possible.
“Sir, this is highly unrecommended,” J.J. breaks in and there must be something terribly wrong with the intercom system in here because the voice cracks, fades in and out a bit.
Tony blinks owlishly up at the ceiling, adds checking the systems as another thing on the honey-do list. He ignores the warning and starts up with prepping his chest for the arc reactor seal to be disengaged and the unit to come partially out of his chest.
“Won’t be a problem,” he assures his AI, fighting down an abrupt roll of nausea. “Just a quick swab.”
Butterfingers boops worriedly at him this time, sliding his arm under Tony’s to brace. Agreeably, Tony wipes down the metal with an alcohol wipe; with a deeper breath than necessary, he palms the reactor and—
Opens his eyes to the Winter Soldier crouching a few feet away on top the island.
In full regalia, Jim’s eyes are granite gray and miss nothing.
Tony doesn’t jerk in surprise, but it’s a good damn thing.
“Troll,” the mechanic sneers.
There’s enough light that Tony can see the flash of teeth, a sharp smile, through the slits in the mask (reads as muzzle).
“Doll face,” Jim cocks a brow up at him, “thought we had a talk about this.”
“How was the mission, dear? Did you get to blow up anything exciting?” He diverts immediately and still feels like crap about it since he’s not in the best shape to meet his significant others home from a hard week at the office.
Jim moves out of his crouch, off the island, to look at the charming, charismatic pain in his ass. Between Tony and Stevie, Jim Barnes had enough to keep him mother hen instinct working overtime for the next seventy years. He works his sleeve up to press against Tony’s forehead, tisking at the smirking mechanic.
“Heya Sugar,” Jim calls to the ceiling.
“Yes, Bucky?” She chirps back, sounding suspiciously smug (and she had better not be on their side now—it’s enough Jim and Steve already have J.J.).
“Tell the others I found ‘im first, okay? Hundred points ta me.”
And because it’s just hilarious, he feels like ass and still laughs at the little things.
Good times.
The mask and gloves come off while he chorts, layers of the Winter Soldier sliding away on the island until Jim’s exasperated face makes his eyes dart away and pause in the last swab of the night, admittingly violating his own protocol for sick is ass. Besides, Helen would be able to make a diagnosis with the samples he’s already sent.
“Hit up Stevie too. Let ‘im know our fella ain’t feelin’ well.”
Oh God, not both of them.
“Completely unnecessary, F.R.I.D.A.Y. Belay that!” Tony leans up enough to brace his elbows on the island, talking that loud making his head do that thing again. He snaps the gloves off, still feeling shaky, “this part? Not conducive to hello, honey, how was your day. But, no, seriously, welcome back. Everyone good? Mission go well?”
Jim already puts a glass of water in front of him and two white pills. The flesh hand against his forehead is nice and warm while the metal one cool on the back of his neck.
“Mmhm. Standard usual, Tones. Y’ didn’t miss nothing good.”
As silently commanded, Tony takes the pills and drinks, keeps going until the glass is empty, and sleepy is starting to look like the perfect state of mind. The bandage underneath the reactor from this morning is still holding, so he can definitely take a few hours to get it together before uniforms in need of mending start coming in from the mission, just another thing on his never-ending plate of shit to get done.
“I hate it when I do, you know,” he returns with a somewhat pathetic yawn, and Jim steps a little closer, the hand on the back of his neck directs his listing upper body right against Jim’s stomach and chest where the Winter Soldier can be a total sap and wrap a throw stolen from one of the couches around his shoulders without letting go.
“Considering yer fevering and already starting with the shakes, I’m glad y’ didn’t come anyhow. J.J. woulda ratted you out faster than Sugar-Pie up there.”
“Need to reprogram him, both of them” Tony huffs right into Jim’s abdomen, eyes half-mast. The metal hand rubbing against the ache in his joints, making him huff out low, almost imperceptible moans (but, well, got pretty good ears over here, doll face).
Jim laughs low and soft, the flesh hand tunnels in to the mechanic’s curls, gently raking nails over his scalp, easing the painful points of the headache.
“Don’t much matter. He knows how ta take care o’ you, so’s only a matter o’ time until we got ‘em both on our side.”
Tony hums (because true, rude but true) closing his eyes, letting himself shiver against Jim and pull the blanket further around his shoulders.
“S’okay, Stevie’s gonna carry ya ta bed and I’m gonna make some warm soup, take the chill outta ya bones. Sound good, doll?”
But the shorter man is already half gone, making Jim’s mouth quirk just slightly.
He doesn’t have to wait much longer for the elevator to open up and the Cap, shield on his arm, to take the floor. Always the strategist, Steve’s eyes take in the scene, narrow, and he’s striding across the room, flipping the shield to his back and pulling his gloves off, shoving them in the tactical pocket of his uniform.
“Whadda we got?” He asks low, taking in the snoozing mechanic.
“Dunno. Looked like he was trying ta take a sample of the AR when I caught him at it,” Jim waves a hand to the open medical trays. “Pretty sure he was gonna pull it outta his chest, Stevie.”
The two super soldiers exchange an irritated glance, but Steve is already bending down, sliding his arms carefully under Tony’s back and knees. Jim’s hands gentle as the two of them ease Tony up into the Captain’s arms (and yes, Steve holds him up high enough to kiss the top of his head a few times, glad to see him after a week of being knee-deep in bad guys).
“Plan?” Jim starts down the hall first, opening the Master Bedroom door for Steve and moving to turn down the blankets.
“You hit the showers first. I’m going to start some soup and sandwiches.”
“Aw, Stevie. I was gonna make matzah ball. You geta wash first, and I’ll throw everything together.”
“Haven’t had the Barnes’ special recipe for a while,” Steve admits with a grin as he eases Tony’s lax form down into bed. “Sounds good.”
“When Tony wakes up, we’ll find out what all the trays are for. Gotta feelin’ this ain’t the usual round o’ the flu.” Jim shakes his head and eases the covers up over the sleeping mechanic.
Steve paces over to the wall-length closet and opens a section—one with very familiar jeans, khakis, and t-shirts. He pulls the black case on the floor, the one Tony made for the shield, out of it place first before getting out of uniform. Jim does likewise, opening his section and hanging up the Winter Soldier gear.
“Something with the reactor, huh?” Steve muses, toeing his boots off. “Anything you can tell us, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”
“I apologize Captain.”
Both men quirk a brow at the ceiling.
“What if he uses his fancy pass code?” Jim snickers, down to an undershirt and the tight pants. He palms the twin .45s and slides them both into the holsters Tony had built in to the back of the closet door.
The notable pause is well worth the question.
“Avengers Emergency Protocol will allow the Captain to request a medical update of the team members, Bucky,” she fills in after a second. A very non-subtle hint, hint.
The Captain gives a put-upon sigh, “fine. But don’t think I’m not aware you just wanna get something to laugh at—“
“True,” Jim cackles, “don’t mean it ain’t gonna work, babe.”
“All right, all right. You take too much enjoyment outta of busting my balls, Sergeant.”
Now that look—that look is the same one from Brooklyn a lifetime ago, when shameless and scandalous was the fella’s M.O. Steve just laughs to himself when he catches it, when his heart stutters for half a second before righting itself. The curse of any time traveler—metaphysical vertigo.
But Steve puts himself back in the moment. They’ve had a rough week, Tony is apparently working his usual hectic schedule while feeling awful (and yes they recognize the signs and can now do something about it—another glaring benefit in the transition to “significant others” as Tony specified), and the others are in various stages of hurt, tired, and grumpy, getting themselves together on their own floor. The usual post-battle communal meal wouldn’t be for a few hours if everyone is already on their way to sleeping off the mission.
So: first, take care of his fellas, then make some food for his people.
Sound plan. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.? All right, here it goes. ‘This is Captain Handsome ordering you to rock and roll on that 45.’” *
As usual, Jim plain out laughs (softer than normal since Tony is just passed out a few feet away) with it, and Steve gives him a patient look.
“Subject: Iron Man.” A hologram from one of the wall projectors pops up in front of them, a 3D image of a shadowed human body with circular arc reactor in his chest, a red splash of color around the bottom.
“Was it breached?” Jim asks, stepping closer, eyes wider. How long had Tony been getting sick?
“Not substantially,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. fills in. “A small tear in the connection between skin and metal, Bucky. It is, however highly susceptible to infections.”
The two exchange a look. The look.
“What’s Iron Man gotten into while we were gone, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”
The AI goes silent a moment. “Boss has been answering the Avenger’s alarm since your mission, Captain.”
“By himself?” Jim interjects, eyes going to the lump on the bed. “We left Bruce and Wanda—“
The soldiers exchange an irritated glance and go back to eye-balling the bed.
“All right. When the team gets somewhat lucid, we’re having a meeting,” Steve growl out, pulling his undershirt over his head. “Next protocol for consideration: no one goes out on an alarm alone.”
Jim peels his pants down his legs, tossing them in the special uniforms only bin. “He’ll be a pain in the ass about it, Stevie.”
And the Cap, hair a mess from pulling his shirt off, grins a little at one of his two best guys, “really, Buck? When ain’t he?”
They share a rueful expression and lean in, hands pulling, bodies fitting together in all the right niches. A week of being around the others and toning down the PDA was just professional courtesy, but here, in their own bedroom (well, Tony’s but possession is 9/10th of the law, and they own the mechanic as much as he owns them), they can hold, touch, kiss, and take comfort in intimacy—the same way they did in their shared apartment in Brooklyn a lifetime ago, the same way they did in tents stationed outside France, Italy, Spain, and Normandy. The time may be different, the mad mechanic may be part of their bond now, but this, this, hasn’t changed.
Steve holds on to Bucky for another important second, breathing out against the brunette’s temple, stirring the hair there, and Jim sets his worry for Tony aside just long enough to shudder delicately at the press of skin, at Steve’s arms around him, holding on.
It’s comfortable and necessary, only one thing missing from the embrace—
A small noise from the bed, the mechanic shifting to his side, a hand flung out where other bodies should be.
The two soldiers laugh softly and pull back, looking at Tony with warm, soft eyes. But Jim, as much as he claims the opposite, is just as much of a sap as his two boys, and presses his mouth softly against Steve’s before pulling back to throw on sweats and a tank top. He’d get more details out of the AIs while cooking and fill Steve in on them. Once Tony was up to fill in the extra blanks, they were going to feed him, medicate him, cuddle the ever-lovin’ hell out of him, and make him sleep for another day.
“Going to hit the showers,” Steve leans down, noses at Jim’s jugular.
“Mmhm. I’ll have something fer ya ta eat when ya get out, babe.” Jim just tilts his head enough to allow the touch.
“Still worried too much about me, Barnes. Gonna make ya old before your time,” is a gentle tease, Steve sliding into the old accent when he feels particularly warm.
“Stop doing dumb shit then,” Jim snarks back, not even raising his head.
“Really?” And one broad hand goes up, fast and sharp, comes back down with feeling, aiming for Jim’s right ass cheek, the sound muffled through his sweats, and dammit if he doesn’t have to bite his lip to keep from yelping.
Smart, but Steve is already through the bathroom door, doing a little snickering of his own.
Rubbing the spot, Jim sneers at the closed door, but leans over and presses a few kisses to Tony’s forehead and jaw line without even making the mechanic twitch. Once he was awake, at least somewhat, and they got all the details on how do we take better care of you?, Jim will make sure he eats plenty, takes more medicine, and gets better.
After years of making Steve toe the line, Jim Barnes already has a plan.
**
A noise makes him come to blearily, an itch of panic takes hold. His body works even if his mind hasn’t caught up, legs and hands moving to try and stave off a blow to the—
Broad hand cups the back of his neck, pulls him into a familiar chest where a strong, clear heartbeat sounds like good things.
A hand in his hair, being gentle with nails scratching lightly.
Circles on his back made by a hand without any give.
“—oughta just give her a call, babe. It’s Cho, right?”
“Pretty sure. Don’t think she’ll tell me a whole lot—“
“Aw, Stevie. Like she can resist Captain America?”
Lips on his forehead, warm and just so nice.
“Spiking again?”
“Yeah. Need to try and get some food in him. I don’t like how light he feels.”
“I’ll get a bowl, get Sugar Pie to order us some raw ingredients, make ‘im a couplea good meals. Maybe if he eats, we can get some details on the arc breach.”
“You ask. He gets all weak when you give ‘em that look, Buck.”
“Who ya kidding? You get the same way.”
“…That’s…that’s so true—“
“A’course it is, punk. Just makes ya all the more susceptible ta my charms,” and a soft noise, lips touching, gentle hums.
Consciousness is here, and here to stay (for the moment), and he feels even more like ass when his brain finally catches up with the rest of his synapsis.
The pressure in his chest and sinuses, the ache in his joints, the cold feeling down to his bones, all big flashing signs of reactor breach.
Dammit. One of the unfortunate side effects of having a magnet in one’s chest—getting sick is usually worse than the normal garden variety.
“Hey, hey,” is Steve’s soft voice admonishing when Tony makes the attempt to get up, “don’t gotta move ‘til Buck gets back with some soup, Tony.” And those hands pulling him in just that much closer, do an excellent job of thwarting his well-meaning motion to get up and get back to the workshop.
He rambles, still muddled, about the list of things waiting for him, eyes already falling half-mast because Steve is just always so warm and comfortable, and there’s this perfect place on the shoulder/ collar bone so his ear doesn’t hurt, and he can smell Steve’s aftershave and fresh, clean skin.
“Nope, not happening, Shellhead. No workshop for you.”
The ensuing conversation might have some placating or some justification, but the Captain obviously ignores him, all for keeping a hand in his hair and the other around his back, keeping him completely weak and helpless and—
“Startin’ ta come around, doll face?”
“Work.” Is his slurred return reply because Jim would understand. Things needed to get done and if Tony’s down for any amount of time, who would—
“Ya ain’t going nowhere, Mr. Stark. Already had a word with Pep and One-Eye. Nothing gonna be needed ‘til ya fever’s down.”
Shit. Usually having at least one of them on his side means winning, but it’s really a moot point because he’s getting tired just from being awake and makes a questioning noise while his eyes slip closer and closer to good night.
And the feel of Jim’s warmth against his back again, the other soldier turning him with gentle hold, maneuvering Tony to be laying on Jim’s chest instead of Steve’s. Something warm close to his face, metal arm pressing around him—
“Open up, doll. Slaved over a hot stove ta feed my poor fella.”
And Jim smells absurdly good too, recently showered and shaved (and no fair his brain taunts him, missed the communal shower—saving water and all that), enough that he hums in appreciation and sighs in contentment.
Home. They’re both home—
“S’good ta be home,” is said softly against his mouth while Jim noses at his cheek.
“Missed you two, worried—”
Jim half-hums, half-laughs, and his eyes are that soft kind of gray, one that means he’s happy and safe and—
“Yer a good boyfriend, Tony. Gotta heart and all that. C’mon an open up fer me, yeah?”
When his mouth opens next, something good and warm is spooned in, and he swallows on instinct even if his throat is sore and scratchy. If he was just a little more on the up-and-up, this might be mortifying, being hand-fed like he was helpless. But Jim is relaxed while he focuses on the task, making soft humming noises in his chest, and Steve is right beside him against the headboard, running a hand through Tony’s hair and checking his forehead at intervals.
They talk softly and fondly, mission details he picks up between a spoonful of soup or a drink of water, his mind fuzzy with their presence and the medicine Jim made him take.
And since he’s lying in the tangle of their bodies, being fed, held, and oddly pampered, well, the usual urgency fades down to mild irritation, an itch of creation and completion. But the warm broth, fresh vegetables, noodles, and spices sliding into his stomach rules out the itch just as sure as Steve’s hands and low tone vibrating against Tony’s back and Bucky’s gentle laugh and equally gentle scolding.
**
*This phrase was really one Tony gave Steve in the comics. Lol, just because Tony couldn’t remember his own birthday.
Sad Anon: JLA Posthumous Award
Just throwing this out there: Tim Drake, AKA Red Robin (or whatever alias he was going at that time given his split from the Batfam), is posthumously and unanimously inducted into the Justice League. This could be after he dies during the multidimensional counterattack in the Fractured Destroyed universe/timeline, or some other verse where Tim dies in the line of duty away separate and away from the Batfam.
Tim is remembered as a Robin of legend among the Titans and the JL at large, but the Batfam struggles with their regrets for the rest of their lives. (I might be a little vindictive on Tim's behalf.)
Ah, I did something similar to this one time because SUFFER BATS! Lol, but I’ll give it another go for you, babe, okay?
**
Outside the Hall of Justice, the Batman steps out into the early morning quiet. Flanking him, the other founding members follow silently, solemnly. They stay with him, close, as he lowers each flag to half-mast.
**
The nameplate is added to the wall, below the original seven.
**
For the ceremony, the Titans accept the award, something to hang in their own remembrance hall. They all wear a yellow bandana (red, gold, and green was the OG Rob) tied around a bicep.
Kon-El and Kid Flash are turned slightly, trying to hide wet eyes and trembling forearms, trying to be the epitome of super and hide their mortal weaknesses.
Superman follows the group away and wastes no time in pulling his sidekick right into his chest to hold on, talking softly against the teenager’s ear—how sorry he is, how much Red will be missed, how he’ll be here for Superboy anytime, anytime.
It’s not the first time the hero has ever taken his “clone” (reads as son) into an embrace, given him desperately needed comfort, but it’s still not an easy thing, stiff and awkward, but Superman can’t help it. Some inner instinct drives him forward, wraps his arms around the younger man to just try. When Kon-El allows it, slumps to let the older hero take his weight, to let the pain and recriminations (where were we when he was bleeding out on the battlefield? Why didn’t I hear his heart slowing, stopping, until it was too late?) overcome him, Superman just picks him, carries him like a child while rubbing circles on his back and making soothing noises in the base of his chest where he can.
It’s a crucial moment that shows him how remiss he’s been—the moment he swears Kon-El, Conner, won’t be left alone without a safety net again.
The rest of the Titans disburse before the service is over—BB and Rave leave go back to their own little apartment in the Village to hold one another and remember the bird, their bird. Bunker will be taking some time off, to remember what it is he’s fighting for, or so he tells Cassie before he leaves, back to El Chilar and the man he left behind. If anything, Miguel has learned to cherish what he has while he has it.
Wonder Woman goes for Wonder Girl, making certain she puts a gentle hand to Bruce’s shoulder first, gives him a squeeze, just before she wraps an arm around the floundering teenager and flies.
A small inlet off the coast, a place where they once trained together, where Cassie Sandsmark was first given the lasso and bracelets, was taught how to use them, she tells all the stories, hands shoved in her thick hair, weeping while she recounts the best times, tries to burn them in her memory. It’s Diana that holds on to her, making supportive noises, laughing when necessary, her eyes wet and heavy with the terrible ones. And when the sun sets, when night picks up a peaceful pace in the rhythm of the sea, Cassie feels like she can breathe again without pain.
Without a word, Kid Flash runs. He runs like the world is ending. He runs like the Speed Force is going to suck the life out of him. He runs like he’s trying to escape the future. He runs until he’s screaming.
The Flash finds him in the Swiss Alps, bent over in the snow, tearing himself apart, ripping his uniform because he just wasn’t fast enough. And the older speedster knows what it’s like to bury someone you love that much—someone that would walk with you from one fight to the next, one catastrophe after another, someone that would step out in front of the fatal shot to save you. Someone that knew you, not the mask. And that’s why he doesn’t let Kid, his little bro, fight him on it. It’s why he breaks off from the JLA, lets the rest of them see to the obviously grieving Batman, follows no matter how far or how fast. It’s why he refuses to let Kid push him away, convince him all good, nothing to see here, it’s why he just sits his ass down in the snow and grips the smaller speedster tight, tucking the smaller boy into the shelter of his body to shake apart, to scream, to rip himself apart at the seams.
The bravest thing he’s done all day—is to keep holding on.
**
Flanked by superheroes on all sides, Ra’s al Ghul steps up to the podium, dressed in the colors of mourning.
The immortal speaks briefly on the character of the Red Robin, to agree his membership is long overdue. There is no mention of the Council of Spiders, the Widower that ended his life. The undertone, the he died alone in the desert while the rest of you moved on, is certainly there.
Slyly, he laments the loss of a great detective, one that would have fit among the ranks of the League of Assassins with such ease, and turns just enough to catch the Batman’s shadowed figure, offering his condolences for yet another dead bird.
From the audience of mourners, O makes a note to put cameras up around the sparse span of ground where Red would be buried in his civilian identity. Best not to give Ra’s the opportunity, he already has plenty of motive.
Beside her, Batgirl and the Black Bat look pale and worn against the darkness of their masks and suits, even with the whiteouts, O is aware Batgirl has been crying since she heard the news. Of course, didn’t they all have their regrets? Batgirl certainly for the deceptions and betrayal, the broken friendship and lost respect. And O knows the next few weeks, few months, few years are going to be full of the should’ve, could’ves in respect to keeping up with the former Robin, that maybe a phone call, an attempt to catch up, an attempt to get back into his life, no matter how miniscule, some level of effort on the part of the Bats could have made all the difference.
None of them would have felt like he wouldn’t want them to be here.
All his arrangements had been made, his final wishes come through lawyers not associated with Wayne Enterprises. The instructions were short, and obviously never meant to be seen by anyone in the cape and cowl crew. Just a simple coffin already purchased, an ordinary blue suit and white shirt, a generic headstone with his full name and the dates. O and Agent A are the ones who went to see the stone the day after when B was falling apart, down in the Cave, stripped of the Batsuit, and working the punching bag until Superman finally gave in, came to Gotham, and restrained the Bat in his massive arms, forced him to stop trying to work through the pain with more pain.
O and Agent A let the two heroes have their privacy so one of the few people on the planet Bruce would actually yield to at time could get through self-destructive rage.
Instead, they found themselves on the outskirts of Gotham, a husked-out neighborhood, staring down at the stark engraving, and O could keep it together, did so in fact, for N if nothing else. She prides herself on the ability to keep moving despite all the wrongness of the world, the burdens it wrought upon her, prides herself on the distribution of strength—until she and Agent A realize the only other markings on the stone is a small picture in the lower corner.
A robin.
When she cries, Agent A kneels down with old, creaky knees, wraps his arms around her shoulders, and holds on.
In this moment, with the JLA inducting Red Robin into their ranks, to honor his deeds and sacrifices, O is the one with both arms around Batgirl’s shoulders to keep the teenager grounded, to try and give her some much needed strength. Since Nightwing and the Red Hood refuse to let anyone comfort them, to let anyone near them, this is the best she can do.
**
One week
Robin stands in front of the glass case, staring at the familiar (and yet not) suit displayed. It’s the first one Drake wore during his time in the tunic—red, gold, and green instead of the strict red and black Robin recognized, one that signaled his predecessor’s downfall, when Drake’s Robin lost the vestiges of innocence, of light that previously embodied the Robin mantle, even after the years of fighting the worst, most twisted criminals on the planet. As he learned later, the red and black suit was meant to be the colors of remembrance when really it signaled something in his predecessor breaking open wide.
It is little wonder Father chose this suit to display. To remember Drake as he was before.
And his eyes take in the details, the shuriken R, the laces over the chest, the nearly imperceptible broken stitches to create hidden pockets; he catches the glint off the ring added to the memorial—the same ring Father wore on occasion, the entire obvious one with JLA in a circle.
He had said the appropriate words during the ceremony: a good soldier. He knew the risks and died bravely. The epitome of a positive demise.
He said the right things Robin would have said about anyone in their ranks.
And yet, he has been in the Cave for hours, staring at this suit.
Father is finally sleeping, the alien apparently successful in pinning him down long enough to let his eyes close for longer than a few moments—to put his grief on hold. Grayson is in the wind, Todd chasing after him all over the country probably. Cain remains in residence, seemingly in no hurry to return to Hong Kong.
The three of them, him, Brown, and Cain, patrolled tonight, planned on where to meet up tomorrow.
Like him, like Father and Grayson and Todd, they show how deeply they mourning by fighting, trying to drown out the emotional pain with physical. The least he can do is be there should the situation become dangerous for them, to try and do his best to protect them, these two Drake cared about so deeply.
He’d played Pennyworth’s role in a safehouse close to the Wallstone apartments when dawn was but a few hours away, patching up the road rash on Brown’s arm up to the shoulder, making Cain wiggle her fingers while he bandaged her bloody knuckles.
When they parted ways, Cain followed Brown back to her own haven, and he returned to the Cave, his own meager injuries notwithstanding.
Rather, it is here, in front of the display where Pennyworth brought him tea and toast, informing him Father was out cold and Kent still in residence. Summer is here and no school to attend, so Pennyworth left him to his thoughts while he stares up at the colors of remembrance.
**
Nightwing has shaken off the Red Hood off his trail twice while he fights his way through Detroit’s seedy underground. He’s in the same suit he’s put on for days, clean, but ripped up and worn, an obvious I don’t give a fuck, I’ll still break you.
The fight tonight is a good one, constant to keep his mind from taking a stroll other places. A lot of guns and knives to keep him on the move, a lot of strong players with righteous left hooks or upper cuts, guys in fight clubs that earn the real cash. It makes the vigilante that much more vindicated when bone crunches under his fist, his boot, when blood arcs wildly, when he takes a few good ones himself.
It’s pain he needs.
And the ghosts follow him when he moves to the next hot spot, only a duffle of belongings for the trip. The next BI safe house is outfitted with the usual gadgets and first aid; he wraps his bad knee and ignores the laptop, the comm link, and anything else that would let O trace him. Instead, he drinks water while standing at the kitchen sink, staring out into the daytime like it’s a curse—he needs nightfall, he needs the dark and the shadows to twist and bend around him (Batman). He needs the fight and all the broken skin that goes right along with it.
It’s the only thing that can stop him from seeing Ra’s al Ghul walking into the Cave holding Tim’s body in his arms, close against his chest.
It’s the only thing that can stop him from screaming until his throat rips and his ribs creak, until his lungs tear, until he can forget the feeling of cradling Tim’s cold, stiff body, of the matted blood around the fatal wound. It’s the only thing that can cover up the recriminations and regrets, the where-were-yous and how-could-you-have-let-this-happen-agains. It lets him get out of the endless loop of reliving the last time they’d spoken in person, when he’d given Damian the Robin mantel without Tim’s knowledge, when he let Tim leave Gotham alone.
In the broken mirror of the shoddy bathroom, his upper body is a roadmap of bruises and contusions, half-assed sewn-up lacerations; he peels the falling apart gauze pads off, ignores the old blood, and gets in a weak shower of cold water, his eyes falling half-mast while the water washes over him.
And it’s just like that moment when he’d taken Tim’s body from Ra’s, fallen to his knees, and laid his cheek against Tim’s to cry, it’s pain and regret, cold and terribly hollow.
It’s a place he expects to be for a while.
**
One year
Ra’s al Ghul is not normally one for anniversaries. In his extensive lifetime, he’s had many moment, dates, he could celebrate, and all those instances would fill a year ten fold.
Rather, he is a man to celebrate accomplishments. The ones in need to careful planning, time, care, those are the ones he chooses to remember.
This will be one of those.
“Demon’s Head,” one of his soldiers bows low, “we are ready at your will.”
“Excellent,” said absently while he raises a hand to the large, wooden box sitting on a stone slab, the usual eerie green glow reflecting off the dark wood. “Prepare the platform.”
His people do as instructed, working to bring the descending platform level. When the Demon’s Head is pleased with the results, he gives a simple nod to continue.
The box is loaded on the platform by four more soldiers, centered perfectly.
“As I once said to your mentor,” he begins casually, “true greatness cannot be learned or acquired. It cannot be made. It must be bred.” The platform rises steadily, pulled by a soldier at either fulcrum points, and Ra’s eyes follow the progression intently. “Those in this world with the genetics are the ones bound to save it.”
Carefully, the platform moves, follows the track until it looms over the suspicious body of liquid. “I had planned to wait as long as necessary. Until you were older, mature, until you understood the real way the world must work and why the balances of power must be occasionally tipped.”
He sighs a little wistfully for those days, for better days.
“The unforeseeable circumstances almost foiled all of my carefully laid plans, plans to tip the balance. Plans that hinge—on you.”
The platform comes to the end of the track and sways just slightly, alarmingly. An ominous click begins a slow descent.
“But we can still have our day, can’t we? You will still save the world. At my side, we will be unstoppable. Where I have failed with others, I will not fail again with you.”
And the platform starts to sink into the turgid green waters, the box sinking with it.
“We shall have our day, won’t we, Timothy?”
**
Thank-you for following and reading! I’ll post Part II when I get them done, lol
#200 followers#prompts#an amalgamation#I love you guys seriously#tim drake#jason todd#dick grayson#damian wayne#some mentions of#tony stark#bucky barnes#steve rogers#ra's al ghul#is a creeper as usual#my writing#my fic#blind!tim au#no home for dead birds#fracture verse#forward momentum
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Reasons why I know our education system is shit
- I was told by a teacher and a school counselor that my mother abused me and my siblings because we didn't help enough around the house and needed to be better kids.
- My older sister's nerdy boyfriend used to get beaten up by some boys from the football team over and over. The staff did nothing about this. One day, he had enough and when the football boys came to attack him, he ended up beating the shit out of one of his bullies in the parking lot. He was immediately expelled.
- My class wanted to make a rainbow road themed float for our mario bros themed homecoming parade but wasn't allowed to because "some people might think it's for gay pride and be offended"
- I signed up for Spanish classes in high school two years in a row and they just didn't put it in my schedule. When I asked them to fix it and put me in a Spanish class, they conveniently never got back to me about it.
- I also signed up for welding and never got it. I'm pretty sure it's because I was what they defined as a girl.
- My autistic 8 year old brother was being consistently bullied by a kid in his class. The teachers and staff did nothing to stop this kid from bullying him and left my brother alone with him despite being informed of his neurodivergency and being told that he's easily overstimulated. When my bro (after at least months if not a couple years of being bullied by this kid) turned to his bully and said "if you don't leave me alone I'm gonna kill you", he was immediately expelled.
- Speaking of my little bro, he (understandably) would become overstimulated easily and have what we always called "meltdowns" (idk if there are other words for it, that's what we always called it). Meltdowns are VERY VERY different from tantrums. People throw tantrums when they're mad about not getting their way. People have meltdowns when they become overwhelemed and aren't given space to breathe and calm down, resulting in an emotional explosion that is absolutely NOT their fault. The school's response to these meltdowns (during which my brother made an active effort to not hurt anyone) was to call my mother and tell her to come pick him up instead of calling on the resource people they had AT THE FUCKING READY who were trained to fix these situations and get him back on track. He had an IEP and a person (social worker maybe? I was young when this went down, I don't know all the details) who was specifically assigned to him to help him in these situations and the staff just? Refused to acknowledge any of that?
- ALSO SPEAKING OF MY BRO. The superintendent, in response to one of my brother's meltdowns, told my mother that she needed to "discipline him more at home" (proving that the superintendent knew absolutely fuck all about autism or neurodivergency as a whole)
- That superintendent went on to become the principal of the middle/high school and implemented a rule involving wristbands. There were three wristbands dividing the students into three groups; well behaved, in the middle (? i guess?), and badly behaved. Keep in mind, this guy is a white mormon Trump supporter who is principal of a school consisting of mostly hispanic students. So while I wasn't there for the wristband thing, I can be fairly certain the system was racially biased. I don't know a whole lot about how much the wristband system governed but I do know this: "good" students were free to take bathroom breaks whenever they pleased. "Middle" students (or whatever they were referred to as) had to ask for bathroom breaks (and were often denied). "Bad" students only got bathroom breaks between classes. Gonna piss yourself cause you gotta go in the middle of class? Too bad, guess you gotta deal with it. So needless to say, the wristband thing breaks multiple laws.
- Speaking of that principal, he flat out refused to speak to any parents/family members of students who don't speak english (this area is heavily populated by immigrants) despite having a translator at the ready who showed up to all the school related events and provided wonderful and clear translations.
- The school I went to had a program that was specifically for teaching non English speaking students to speak English. Sounds great right? Well not when you consider that they just listed a bunch of students who already spoke English under that class to make it look like they had done their job. Meanwhile when students didn't speak English, they would pair another student with them and say "teach this kid". Even I (a student who does not speak Spanish because they woULDN'T FUCKING TEACH ME HOW) was told to sit with a student who didn't speak English and told to teach her how to use the school computers.
- My school got the funding for Ipads. For most schools, Ipads/laptops/whatever other electronics they might provide to the students are used as an addition to the classes. In my school, they threw the Ipads at us with some barely followable online classes and said "teach yourselves". Teachers were reprimanded if they were caught you know, teaching? Like? Doing their job? And oftentimes, the tests included things the lessons didn't cover resulting in A+ students dropping to Ds and Fs (and of course the principal and superintendent and shitty teachers played dumb and pretended they couldn't possibly know what was causing the failure)
- With these online classes, students would be given a pretest before starting a new lesson. The pretest would consist of the content of said new lesson. If the student passed the pretest, they could skip the lesson and move on to the next. Now my friend was a real science wiz. It was his favorite subject and he generally knew a lot about it. So when he took the pretests for his science lessons, he would almost always pass them. The science teacher accused him of cheeting because NO KID could POSSIBLY pass these pretests! Just UNTHINKABLE! So if he passed a pretest, she would make him do the lesson anyway. I watched him do at least five of these pretests (probably more) and I can tell you definitively that he did not cheat. I told him he should ask the teacher to sit with him while he does the pretests and then she'll see he's not cheating. He said he had already asked her and multiple other teachers to do so and they all refused without giving him any reason.
- The one positive thing was that I was able to opt out of coming to the school to do my classes and simply used my Ipad at home for the latter half of my 12th grade year. Why was I able to do so you ask? Well, let's get into it. February of 2018. I'm at home sick. At school, a boy who's been harassing my friend for years (my friend and other kids tried to report him multiple times for harassment and the staff never did a damn thing about it) comes up to him in the locker room and says "I've got a bomb in my backpack." So this kid is threatening to blow up the school and my friend of course goes immediately to the principal at the time (another white morman trump supporter homophobic racist and literal puppet of the superintendent turned principal I mentioned earlier) and reported that this kid was claiming to have a bomb. It took half an hour for the principal to believe him and take any kind of action. When action was taken, the kids were evacuated to the old gym/lunch building (a short walk from the middle/high school). You may be wondering "what's the harm in that?" Well none... If you don't count the fact that they evacuated the kid making the bomb threat to the same bulding and put him in the same room with all the other kids. The kid who made the bomb threat then started saying he had a knife and threatening to stab students. They escorted him out. And when I say they, I mean the FUCKING JANITOR. Their reasoning for keeping him in close proximity to all the kids he was threatening to murder and then having a janitor escort him out as opposed to someone with some proper training for this kind of stuff? "We didn't wanna single him out :("
So I was allowed to do my classes at home because I made it clear I was not comfortable coming into a school where it takes half an hour to respond to a bomb threat and then when the response comes, the staff just further endangers the students. When the lady at the desk (who I'd known for six years at that point) asked me why I wanted to work from home, I said "because I don't feel safe here" and she couldn't even look me in the eyes after that.
- Not a story from my school but my grandmother was a special ed teacher in an elementary school. One of the other teachers in that school was racist as hell. This racist teacher had a hispanic student in her class named Jesus. This teacher said it was blasphemous to have the name Jesus and refused to call him that. Instead, she referred to him as "Jose" (not his name??? Tf???) Luckily, that teacher was at least punished in some way and I think fired? Good riddance.
Anyways, there's some of the reasons why I know the education system in this country (and probably almost every other country on Earth) is absolute garbage.
#education#school#education system#high school#tw bullying#tw harassment#tw homophobia#tw racism#story time
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As a 21 year old often does, I live with a good friend of mine in our ( first 😄🎉) apartment. Box dinners are definitely a thing and we've accepted that's how life goes- for now, until we become rich and famous. (Slowly) I have to say, I never thought I'd smell Red Barron's French style pizza again, but believe me, that's a smell I could never forget. I was fed those often as a kid, and I could never really get away from the vision of my mom holding a, very large, knife to her throat after serving me one while screaming at me, (whilst I was very comfortable on my dad's recliner, watching "Hey Arnold", which side, side note- I often follow this up with a "how rude to interrupt my show!", but people don't take humor very well under these topics- but whatever), "DO YOU WANT YOUR PIZZA CUT?" I was around 6 years old- I am a little girl that wasn't allowed to go outside often, or have visitors, or.. visit. My dad didn't want me to go to church, and I couldn't eat sugar. They allowed me to eat one candy bar on Halloween, and we threw the rest away: THINK OF THE CHOCOLATE, YOU MONSTERS 😢 So 2001 rolls around and they buy me the ps2 the second it drops- That and Girls Gone Wild commercials are my favorite things at this time. I was born in (Place A), of (State A) and then moved to (Place Bumfuck), of (State of Bumfucks) to this lady that looked like the world danced around her (it really just shit on her) and a dude who was so old I think I saw Jesus in his highschool yearbook. Btw, His brother looks like the green river killer, and was born around the same time, living only two states away from each other. They're both creeps- my uncle would physically and verbally hit on my mom, even infront of his own wife- uh, fucked dude. NEXT! A little more about my family: My dad's parents were both born in the 1800s. Late af 1800s, but still. I don't really know much about them, just that my grandma had some possibly genetic heart problem that caused her heart to "explode" (their words) whilst they were doing open heart surgery. His dad had a heart attack, My dad had 4 different heart surgeries. (Exciting, huh?) Other than that, I have his service flag- but no records of his service. He was a strange guy from my observations, but my mom said he was ladies man. He went from broke af and living in a basement to being a college professor and at some point played for a pro baseball team. My mom is from a liter of 22+ children, We shall call my mom's parents Mr. And Mrs. G, very similar to the characters from a really awesome tv show- Shameless.. I hope that's not infringing or anything, it's just very relatable in some cases, Mr. G was a construction worker that moved his family randomly from state to state, he enjoyed drinking heavily, and probably left a slew of children with different women along the way, Mrs. G, well I'm not quite sure what she did, but my mom and her sibilings figured out her mom had a kid on average every 11 months. I never met her, she passed away almost 20 years before I came along, but they tell me she lit up the room. She also enjoyed drinking heavily- infact, she could take down any dude at the bar I've heard lol. My mom and her siblings were mostly on their own, their parents were often passed out or fighting. The cops were over more often than not and Mr. G was very abusive to his wife and the 9 ish kids they kept. There was only one kid he wouldn't hit, the youngest son. His other son was gay and he hated it, and another was in the military. Unfortunately, his squad was blown up infront of him during combat and ultimately he took his own life after dealing with ptsd and violent flashbacks that lead to my mom getting a severe skull fracture when she was younger. My mom had stories of her siblings slicing her with knives, countless stories of breaking her head open, and even more on her drunken father almost killing them. .. and tons of other life experiences I just can't comprehend. When my mom was 14, she had two best friends who were twins. Before a fun holiday, they were planning a class party so my mom was going to head over to their house that day. On the way home, my mom changed her mind and went home instead. By the time she got home, there was a story on the news of two twin girls aged 14 walking into their house after getting off the bus from school and immediately getting shot and killed by their father- who just shot their mom, and then turned gun on himself. My mom had a brother who thought his girlfriend was cheating on him, so when she was in the garage, he beat her with a hammer and killed himself. My mom had a friend who got shot by stray bullets fired at a ceremony they were attending. My mom was the smartest one of the bunch, I think. One sister ate dirt pies all day, and stole my mom's identity when I was young, and then stood on the opposite side of the street as our house and just stared. Unfortunately, the drugs caught up with her, a vein (or something) in her neck burst, even though they controlled it, she still didn't make it. Unfortunately though, she still had a really big heart and I think that got her in trouble. My mom dated a guy when she was 18 who ended up raping her and she had my sister because of it. She and my sister were best friends and my grandma loved to take care of her while my mom was on college (she was the first and only to graduate). My grandma passed away shortly after, leaving my mom to raise her two youngest siblings and my sister, while trying to go to med school- already dirt poor. She quickly gave up on becoming a doctor which she had always dreamed of. She's never said she regrets any of it, she definitely doesn't regret raising her siblings and my sister - but I think she wonders what it would be like. Which honestly saddens me to think my mom didn't live up to her own dreams. I often try to get her to go back to school because she is a gifted, beautiful soul that could do alot, but I think over time all the people that didn't believe in her or controlled or abused her rotted her brain in a sense. That's why life scares me sometimes. My dad didn't allow my mom to talk to her family often, or really do anything of her own. When I was born she stayed at home, she cleaned the house, literally all ducking day I have no idea how she did it, but she'd have on her makeup and her heels and her pencil skirts, and she's just be vacuuming the life out of every nook and cranny she could find. She cooked for us, and it was awesome. She smoked exactly 3 cigarettes a day, and I looked forward to them. Morning, lunch, and night. I think I'll always enjoy the smell of a cigarette in the crisp State A air. (Or really any air, for that matter) She went to the casino sometimes and also came home really drunk. She would force me to dance on her toes with her to "Genie in a Bottle" by Christina Aquilara, but she'd always try to sing it and her breath was terrible. One night, I disinctly remember her blowing up my air balloons with me, and she kept popping them in my face. It scared me and now they always scare me. My parents got in a argument one time at the top of the stairs, my dad pushed her down and then sat on top of her. She was screaming at me to call 911 but I didn't have the phone. My grandpa got cancer when I was in the 2nd grade, my mom wanted to take me out to see him (i had only met him a once at a casino) but my dad refused and while my mom was out of state visiting him my dad went to the hospital and his brother dropped my off at these strangers house with a trash bag of clothes while he stayed at my house and slept in my bed lol. They fed me too many aprocots and I got sick AF dude, in a Walmart bathroom. I'm telling you, I hate hundreds of these things while we played neopets. Turns out later they got arrested for cooking meth. My dad kicked my mom out for two weeks, she slept in a little old sad Nova with no windows (bc students threw rocks at his car to break them out) Or air conditioning (reminder she also doesn't have a job or money). She took me to a fair with money my dad gave, and there they got in an argument- basically from the fair my mom and I got a ride to the airport, where we flew to the State of Bumfucks, Or SOB for short, without any clothes or any money.. and here I am. I am 7 now, I'm sleeping in an airport, and I had to leave my dog behind. But whatever man. The air is different and by now I've gained atleast 100 pounds. I get laughed at and made fun of every day at my new school, the food tastes like shit so I don't eat until I get home, my mom doesn't have a job so we don't have much food at home, I have headaches everyday, and it kinda is just whatever because in the apartment complex I have tons of friends and we have all the fun in the world together. We have no parental supervision, so we fuck some shit up: our favorite game is GTA bc we love to pick up hookers, have sex with them, and then kill them after so we can get out money back. Also the flying car cheat code. I hung out with the bros and we saw dead stuff and explored. We raced cars and blew up frogs with firecrackers. I had a crush on this boy who always told me I was fat and ugly and constantly picked on me. Years later, he actually retracted that statement and said I was probably the coolest person he knew- and I was hot af. I didn't want to date him after 3rd grade, but that was cool to hear. Dr. Pepper came into my life around this time, and I am thankful, but I gained hella weight, and my mom smoked upwards to 7 packs a day. LITERALLY. Several times the teacher took my back pack and put it outside because it smelled so bad, kids were getting sick from it. OOH yes Ms. teacher, thanks for telling me infront of the whole class. At some point I'll stop telling pointless stories, I just want you to get a sniff of what I'm stepping in, ya dig? I remmeber eating Hot Pockets for Thanksgiving because my dad wouldn't send money to my mom for child support because he didn't want her to spend it. I tried to start a successful car wash with my friends to get some money... We made 5 bucks- but didn't wash a single car. I remember being so mad at my dad once I called him 9 times and told him he was being a douche. I worry that played apart of his decisions later on. After almodt two years, we went back to get some stuff from our old house. We had to sell most of our belongings, I don't have any toys, vcrs, any tapes, just a few of the items we could pick up and take back- and My dog, and our two cats: Rosie, Yang, and Sally (who on the way to SOB, decided to live with another family across the street from my uncle: Cute/weird side story, my uncles partner had died a year before, and visited my uncle in a dream saying, "I'm sorry I left you, but I can't be without you. You will join me soon and we will be together again." A week later he was diagnosed with throat cancer. He was a professional pool player, a pro bowler, the best cook in the world, knew every answer to Jeopardy, had a boa in his house, and helped me build my first and only snowman and showed me how to make snow ice cream. He bottled jack Daniels in coke bottles and glued them back up so he could carry it in with him when he got chemo at the hospital. The cancer was actually treated, but he still passed away in his sleep, I know they're happy together again.) My grandpa died around Christmas, my parents got an offical divorce, and a few days after that- which happened to be a few days before my mom's birthday, there was a message on our answering machine. It was my sister, who we moved here to love close to, but still hadn't seen yet. She called to say, "Its over, it's done. He died last night." My dad had told them he didn't want to suffer anymore, so they "put him to sleep" I heard. That night, was a weird night. I was laying down, with my mom and my dog and we felt tear drops land on us, but neither of us was crying. He had alot of money and still to this day do I find random bits he stashed away for me, as if he knew people would be grabbing at it in every direction. After, we got kicked out of the apartment for having a dog. We found our own cheap little place, and made it our own. At some point, my mom, who was once a drug and alcohol abuse counselor, turned to heavy drinking herself. So at this point I should probably introduce what I'll be talking about, And that is: I'm 21 years old, and I feel like I'm floating through every day, like everything is foggy and dim- I spent my 21 birthday at both jobs and never really celebrated it- even though in a huge milestone type of person. I'm trying to figure out when I became so depressed and alien in my own skin, and what I can do to revise that because I feel like it's taken over parts of my personality and my caged butterfly self is ready to fly.~ And I'm going to start by hashing up what my loved ones have lived through and in turn what I've lived through.. There's a lot of different reasons as to why, mostly, I've just wanted to be heard- just for once. This is my way of standing up to hiding myself because of being put down and ridiculed so often for, honestly, everything I can remember. But I don't want to make this sappy and sad all the time, Feel free to laugh with me as I tell my story, and I hope you share yours as we continue to grow into our butterflies. Honestly it might be awkward and rough, but that's my first for now. :)
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