#asylum scrabbles

[eterna-ween]

sfm is busted on my low-end laptop so i had to do this in gmod. worth it

#asylum scrabbles #i guess its art idk i made it #half life #adrian shephard #half life opposing force #half life adrian shephard #gif #animation

[pompadourks]

I feel like Bruce would be much more attentive to the goings on at Arkham after his brief admittance. Sure he was aware the place was less then stellar which was why he was working towards creating a new institution with Harvey but after he goes off the deep end and they’re just stuck with it I feel like he’d make a point to donate plenty towards funding and such but until he meets John he doesn’t really have an inside source to hear about the more mundane issues going on so he starts to donate those things also. Random stuff like new board games or better lights and nicer chairs so there aren’t fights in the rec room over the ones in front of the TV. One of the things I love most about the Telltale Batman universe is how Arkham is depicted as a asylum which is a victim of Gotham’s corruption. Doctors like Leland seem to genuinely want to help their patients and make a difference but it’s difficult when Batman can’t exactly sneak in under the high security to beat up abusive orderlies so its is Bruce’s ground to attempt to make a change in.

#telltale batman #telltale bruce wayne #john doe telltale #It starts because John spends almost an entire visit ranting ab how everyone is totally cheating in Scrabble #So he goes out and buys Life and a couple other less high tension games like Trivia for free time #And he’s struck kinda dumb when John is so happy at their next meeting for the break in monotony he starts buying more games #and donating for possible time outside the asylum on trips to places like zoos or even tours around halfway houses

[gothy-froggy]

❛  I want to taste you.  ❜

❛  all i could think about today was you.  ❜

❛  just lie back and let me take care of you.  ❜

Jonathan Crane x F!Reader

Warnings: Smut. Not proofread, Jonathan is lowkey a sub, a little rushed at the end, official first smut 😭

———————————————-

It's been a long shift. Troubling patients causing a ruckus, snotty coworkers just waiting to go home, some even hooking up in smaller spaces, angry visitors demanding requests.

It's all normal in Arkham Asylum. It felt like a normal day.

Jonathan sighed. His wrists pressed against his forehead as he leaned over the table in the break room. Out of all his years being at the asylum, this was his worst day yet. It was a lot worst than usual. One reason is because of the Asylum. On the other hand, it was his mind.

His thoughts.

Ever since last night's dream, he hasn't been focused on anything. He felt awful. He never thought he would have such dreams of his love. Not all of the sudden anyways. Never during their relationship did he have these dreams. Yes, his woman is very attractive, but he never thought about her in this way during a dream.

His mind distracted from her, gasping out his name echoing in his mind. It's not like he haven't heard them before. They've made love before, why was he so distracted by this dream?

The dream was so realistic too. He felt the warmth from her thighs as she clamped down on his face.

"The folder will be left on your desk, Dr. Crane.” One of the many workers chimed.

“Yes, thank you.” He grumbled. Jonathan removed his hands from his mouth before heading towards his office. He felt filthy for his thoughts. Even disgusted by them. He tried to get rid of that feeling, knowing it was the influence of his grandmother. His love has been helping him get over this influences. Maybe even more than she’s realized. He may not say it nor show it, but his love for her is far much deeper than she could ever imagine. He’ll show her, he just needs time. And he knows she’ll be there along the way. She’s willing to sweat and bleed with him. That’s something he’d always admired.

“Dr. Crane? Sorry, I just need your signature on these papers by the end of the day.” Jonathan flinched out of his thoughts. The woman smiled softly as she held the papers out.

“Of course. They’ll be done before then.” He slipped away into his office. He skimmed over the papers and sighed. More confirmation on patients and their state.

“Busy day?”

Jonathan froze. He couldn’t tell if this day about to get worse or better. No, that’s an idiotic thought. It’s his love. Of course this is better. The tense dissolved from his shoulders. All the negativity washed away.

But his thoughts came running back. He coughed lightly, tossing the papers on his desk with the others.

“Love, how did you get in?” He took his seat and leaned in into his chair. God he couldn’t focus anymore with her cheeky grin.

“I have my own ways.” Jonathan huffed out a chuckle. His fingers intertwined as he leaned over.

“My, my. It makes you sound like a criminal.” This truly was the only woman who could get a toothy grin out of him. Her giggled making his grin grow.

“How’s your day going?”

“Tormenting.” He groaned.

“I got them to let you off early today.”

Jonathan cocked an eyebrow. He stopped scrabbling through the papers. He barely captured her words. Getting off early? But there’s so much work to do-

No.

Jonathan pushed the partner in crime back. It wasn’t Scarecrow’s turn. He looked down at the papers. He signs the papers.

“After these, we can leave.” He replied. How thoughtful of her. She was always thoughtful. For some reason, he suddenly felt guilty for his thoughts of her. The flashes of his vivid thoughts flickered in front of his eyes. He opened his mouth before a knock interrupted.

“Dr. Crane- oh. I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that your girlfriend was here.” The worker smiled, giving her a short wave.

“What it is, Donna?” He quickly snapped.

“Oh- um, I just need the papers. I wasn’t aware you’re leaving early.” Donna stumbled on her words. Great, he startled her.

“They’re done.” He held the papers out. She quickly snatched the papers.

“Perfect. Have a great rest of your day, Dr. Crane.” She hurried off.

Jonathan couldn’t focus. He got up and grabbed his coat.

“Are you ready?” He dragged his sigh. She knew something was up, but agreed.

————————————————-

Jonathan slouched on the couch once they got home. He didn’t even kick his shoes off. Jonathan gently tugged on his tie and closed his eyes. He heard his girlfriend walk over to him, kissing the top of his head. He loves that this happens. He opened his eyes, looking up at her with puppy eyes.

“I have to do the dishes, Jonny.” She ran her fingers through his hair. A shiver ran down his spine, making him shudder slightly. It didn’t help with his thoughts. He almost winced from it. Jonathan tilted his gaze up.

“You just rest, Crane.” Her hands slipped away from his hair. He already missed and craved for her touch. It frustrated him. He watched her washed the dishes. His partner in crime sneaking into his mind.

‘Stop holding back.’

This time, he listened.

Jonathan’s hands slithered around her waist. His head rests on her shoulder. The vibration from her laugh fills him with joy every time. She turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck. She scratched his hair, instantly making Jonathan whimper quietly. He dragged her away from the dishes, guiding her to their room. The slight sloppy kisses being shared between them. The door shut from Jonathan’s body pressed against it.

 “All i could think about today was you.” Jonathan breathed. His eyes gazing into hers. He sounded so hesitant. Her finger gently rubbing his bottom lip.

“I was having thoughts. About you.” He murmured. He almost choked from her breathy chuckle.

“What were those thoughts, Jonny?” She questioned. Jonathan placed her on the bed. “Please,” he started.

“Just lie back and let me take care of you.” His hands traveled up her thighs. Jonathan  roses from the ground. His lips sucking and nipping her collarbone. Her soft gasps and hums of pleasure fueled his lust and desire. His hands help shrugging off the sleeves off her shoulders and attacks her revealed chest.

“Jon…” She mumbled, slightly tugging his hair. There were no more control in Jonathan anymore. The hair tug made him go feral. He groaned and wasted no time to remove her clothes. Jonathan buried his head in between her thighs. He was overwhelmed by her as always. She was so…perfect. So perfect, yet she’s with him.

“Why would something with such beauty allow me to do what I want?” His question was muffled.

“What do you want?”

“I want to taste you.”

Jonathan gave her clit a kiss. He slowly moved away.

“Not yet.” He slipped two fingers inside her pussy, moving at a slow pace. The grip on his hair tightens and his self control leaves. The breathy moans asking him to go faster weren’t left ignored. His fingers quickened their pace, occasionally curling up.

“Fuck, Jon-”

“Yes?”

“Please,” she moaned.

He removed his fingers and quickly latched on, sucking her juices with a satisfied hum. His lovers moans encouraged him to dive in and eat more. Making every nip and tongue swirling count. Jonathan ate her out as if he was a starved man. He made room to play with her clit, enjoying the feeling of her thighs pressing against his head. Her shudders letting him know he’s pleasing his lovely Goddess. And then he was rewarded. Her climax pouring into his mouth, leaving none to spill. Jonathan pressed kisses and love bites over her thighs. He lifts his head up. Jonathan reaches out to embrace her.

But he was stopped. He froze as he felt her hand wrapped around his neck. His heartbeat quickens.

“Jonny, we aren’t finished yet.” His eyes widened slightly as she climbed on top of him.

“I haven’t rewarded you yet.”

“You already have, love.” Confusion drove his sentence. She tsked and gave his neck a squeeze. He whimpered, his hand reaching for her arm.

“That was just the beginning.”

Jonathan couldn’t wait to heal and express his love. He truly love her.

#jonathan crane the scarecrow #jonathan crane #fan fic writing #jonathan crane x you #dark knight jonathan crane #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane x reader #cillian murphy jonathan crane #smut #the scarecrow x reader #dark knight #scarecrow jonathan crane #fanfic smut #dark knight Jonathan Crane x reader #smutty smut smut

[shuutingstar]

I need these kids to play monopoly or scrabble or like any board game like next Episode please. I want them to be kids and I want them to flip the monopoly board because WHY SHOULD I GIVE HIM MONEY WHEN HE’S CLEARLY IN JAIL?? DOES MONOPOLY NOT UNDERSTAND BASIC LAW?? Get ur own bail stfu this is my money. I know it’d probably be really odd to have them playing monopoly or something while in the asylum place but I just need them to be happy ok?? The constant angst fics are not helping me rn and I need a better way to cope (no, writing angst fics is NOT a healthy coping mechanism pls and ty) (you know who you are).

#I’m being fr #someone draw them playing monopoly in their dark outfits #like that’d be so funny?? #idc if it doesn’t happen cuz I know it won’t #unless ??? #shuu rambles #sbg #sbg (webtoon) #school bus graveyard #school bus graveyard webtoon #ashlyn banner #aiden clark #ben clark #tyler hernandez #taylor hernandez #logan fields

[writing-fanics]

a fic where morpheus is friends with the human reader who’s soon to be wed off to the mysterious golden eyes man who suddenly appeared

angered y/n consoles with her friend morpheus but forgets to mention the details of the mysterious man.

Furious that her father broke his promise of never marrying her off and letting her find love in her own time.

morpheus consoles her the two confess their feelings and make love.

two months later y/n is with her friend Johanna Constantine talking when she suddenly becomes pale and passed out

back home she finds out from the doctor that she’s pregnant after finding out there’s no possible way that her father could marry her off now

he pleads for her to tell him who the father is but she keeps silent. why would her father believe her that some king of dreams wishes to marry his daughter he’d have her thrown into an asylum

Morpheus’s tells her that he’ll come for her once the child is born to bring them to the dreaming. since her father is dying.

once the baby is born desire takes action disguising themselves as a maid takes the baby and disappears

weakened and terrified she can’t do anything her voice to weak to even call out morpheus’ name she didn’t even have a chance to hold him

when Dream arrived the maids and house staff were scrabbling to find the baby some going across town

when dream finds out oh he’s livid kidnapping his child his newborn.

he goes to the threshold finding desire cooing over the baby. of course he threatens desire with death if he ever comes near his baby and loved again. As Dream leaves desire only smiles for their plan was working

then leaves scooping up his child and bringing them back to have only find y/n dead

#morpheus x reader #fanfic #x reader #angst

[babydxhl]

@lylebolton | starter call.

"I didn't have anything to do with the breakout, Bolton. Or the riot."

She watched him with a black eye marring one socket, swelling her cheek, expression detached — wariness creeping in through one blood red sclera. Watching only to watch, in part, in a room with nothing but slate grey walls, gunmetal table and chairs. Searching for visual interest.

"If I did I wouldn't be sitting here, would I?"

Her ears were still faintly ringing from the blast that had taken out the cafeteria walls. The sound had shuddered every wall in the asylum; stunned into wide-eyed silence, she had seen the diamond criss-cross in the bullet-proof windows quake. After that had come the roar of voices, the swelling panic of animals sparked into action and fleeing a predator, all crawling over each other, scrabbling for a foothold in disaster.

Another long silence, another long stare. They'd cleared her wrist as unbroken, but the ache lingered up her arm. "You can let me go back to my cell now."

#lylebolton #mwah my love i have missed you dearly

[cyber-neptune]

I love Megatron so much🥰 🥰🥰

She fucks up everything, can’t do shit right, lives in a depression room, gets high to feel something, (would probably eat my insides but that’s fine with me). Probably needs to get put inside a mental asylum, has no idea how to pay taxes, would get shot on sight, has so many mental illnesses you could win at scrabble with and has no redeemable qualities.

He’s an absolute wreck but I love him, even if he’s just holding by tape and crack. He’s special to me🥰✨

#megatron #insomnia speaks☆ #It’s like 50% joke and 50% serious tbh #Megatron my beloved hot mess #watch as someone sends me an angry anon for this lmao/j

[rphelperblog]

City of Lost Souls Book Quote RP Meme

a part of the TMI series by Cassandra Clare- Feel free to edit the quotes or change pronouns

"He'd burn the whole world down till he could dig you out of the ashes. I know,"

“You can't raise a child to believe the opposite of what you do.” 

"It's my special magical power. I can read your mind when you're thinking dirty thoughts."

“You have ruthlessness in your bones and ice in your heart. Don't tell me any differently.” 

“Pain made you strong. Loss made you powerful.” 

“Doubtless the lunatic asylums of the world are filled with unfortunate women who have failed to see my charms.” 

“From what I experienced from vampires, you mostly suck. No pun intended.” 

“All I know is that I love you. And for the first time, that's good enough.” 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you smell like him.”

"Cracked...my...nail polish slapping your... worthless face. See?

“Blood isn’t love,”

"Have you been watching The Bodyguard? Because I am not going to fall in love with you and carry you around in my burly arms.” 

“You are the central point about which his world spins.” 

“Is this some manly bonding thing I can't be a part of? Are you getting matching haircuts?” 

“To destroy the enemy it can be necessary to understand him.” 

“And spare me the jokes about scoring."

"Dammit, woman, you read my mind,Is there no filthy wordplay you can't forsee?"

"Your plans are suicidal. At best.” 

"It means I love you. Not that that changes anything.” 

“That never matters when you blame yourself.”

“Watching me play Scrabble is enough to make most women swoon. Imagine if I actually put in some effort.” 

“Tell me,who it was. That my father had the affair with.” 

“What am I doing with you, you boat-stealing lunatic?” 

“If I kiss you all day every day for the rest of my life, it won’t be enough.” 

“As far as I’m concerned, this is the worst thing that’s happened since I found out why he was banned from Peru.” 

“My heart is your heart, My hands are your hands.”

"I can take the sight of your naked chest without swooning."

"Because viewing my naked chest has caused many women to seriously injure themselves stampeding to get to me.” 

“She realized that this scarred, sarcastic boy, was gentle with the things he loved.” 

“I wanted you anyway. I always wanted you.” 

"As the person being objectified, I ... object to that description of me.” 

'I think of myself as a freewheeling bisexual,'

“You may have the worst timing since Napoleon decided the dead of winter was the right moment to invade Russia.” 

"A date, Often 'a boring thing you have to memorize in history class,' but in this case, 'an offering of an evening of blisteringly white-hot romance with yours truly."

“Nerd love. It is a beautiful thing, while also being an object of mockery and hilarity for those of us who are more sophisticated.” 

“I’m pretty sure irony isn’t a deadly sin.”

“Now that I'm in your mind, want to see some naked mental pictures of him?” 

Too much darkness could kill, but too much light could blind.” 

"Too soon to joke about the happy memory thing, I take it,"

“Not to mention, that he killed him. That would put anyone off.” 

"Raging bitch, then?"

'All the boys are gay. In this truck, anyway. Well, not you,”

"It's 'Descensus Averno facilis est.' 'The descent into hell is easy,"

"I hate ducks. Don't know why. I just always have.” 

“Missing, one stunningly attractive teenage boy. Answers to '[muse name]' or 'Hot Stuff” 

'I hope you told him you were bitten by a gay spider,'

'Please never say those words in front of my parents,' 

“I will have you know I practiced that speech. In front of a mirror before you got here."

“I really wish you hadn't worn that sweater,'

"All I did was tell you the entire plot of Star Wars."

"but I know I look damn good delivering it.” 

"As far as I know, inanimate objects can accidentally kill you. So if you were planning on teaching yourself the lambada on a greased platform over a pit full of knives, I wouldn't."

“I’d die for you. You know that. But would I kill someone else, someone innocent? What about a lot of innocent lives? What about the whole world? Is it really love to tell someone that if it came down to picking between them and every other life on the planet, you’d pick them? Is that—I don’t know, is that a moral sort of love at all?” 

“I stabbed you. With a massive sword. You caught on fire."

"Definitely. He wants me to wear midriff-baring shirts and a fedora. I'm fighting it."

“I fell in love with you, because you were one of the bravest people I've ever known. So how could I ask you to stop being brave just because I loved you?” 

“I don't care what you do. As long as you know you belong to me.” 

“I know you worry about me needing you, but I shouldn't be with you because I need you. I should be with you because I love you.” 

“How could you be heartbroken and happy at the same time?” 

“Speaking of hope, did you see that shot he got off with his bow? That's my boyfriend.” 

"You don't like 'hotstuff'? You think 'sweet cheeks' might be better?

"Love crumpet'? Really? That last one's stretching it a bit. Though, technically my family is British-” 

"I see nothing wrong with 'maybe', A little modern, but the gist of the idea comes across.” 

"I think it means you crushed my spirit and beat me down. Fantastic.” 

"It's okay with me if it's okay with you."

 "Okay, so maybe our problems aren't like other couples.” 

“Otherwise, I get the feeling we’d all just lie around all the time wondering what the hell to do next. Or trying to raise the money to hire him by selling lemonade or something.”

“It was strange how your world could shift on its axis and everything you trusted could invert itself in what seemed like no time at all.” 

“Scrawny little mundane bastard.” 

"Most brother's would be delighted to see such a clean-cut gentleman as myself squiring their sister's about town.” 

"But I didn't realize you were absolutely, spectactularly out of your goddamned mind.” 

"Well, kissing, probably. But as for the rest of it..."

“But in his heart, he’s not like me. But you are.” 

You don't have to treat everything like it's a last stand.” 

“He could bring a six-foot tall pink rabbit in a bikini back home with him if he wanted to. It’s not my business. But if you’re asking me if I’ve brought any girls back here, the answer is no. I don’t want anybody but you.” 

“Anyway that other thing we almost did in Paris-that's probably off the table for a while.Unless you want that whole baby-I'm-on-fire-when-we kiss thing to become freakishly literal”

“You can’t just call the Praetor. It’s not like 1-800-WEREWOLF.” 

“No, you don’t need to help me. But if you don’t, there’s nothing stopping me from calling you up again and again, now that I know you can’t kill me. Think of it as me leaning against your Heavenly doorbell… forever.” 

“For as is often the happenstance with that which is precious and lost, when you find him again, he may well not be quite as you left him.” 

“In some ways, we've been through something no one else can ever understand but the two of us... And it made me realize. We are always and absolutely better together.” 

#open rp #open to all #open to anyone #ask meme #open meme #open to anybody #rp meme #ask prompt #roleplay meme #memes #open to anything #cassandra clare rp #cassie clare #cassandra clare #open shadowhunters starter #open shadowhunters roleplay #open shadowhunters rp #shadowhunters rp #shadowhunter chronicles #city of lost souls #clary fray #sebastian morgenstern #jace herondale #alec lightwood #magnus bane

[quilly-catkin]

A Tired Defense

My mind is spinning and it rejects

This blank paper that stands still

You laugh at blindness, at those who keep their eyes closed. Here are statistics to prove that…the balance of probability lies…where is the proof? Proof, proof, everything is proof. You look around and see a world free of assumptions, but you have neglected to look under your feet. You are standing on one, poor sap! The assumption that the truth matters. Ahhh, you look at me and blink, or perhaps you become very red about the ears and start expostulating what the HELL do you mean truth doesn’t…

What is truth and why does it matter? You say there is no heaven and no hell, no good and no bad…then why should there be Truth and Lie? Believe there is one truth that can be found if you wish…believe statistics are the way to get there…but please realize there is indeed that core belief, that assumption, at the root of it all. Blind faith is blind faith, and to find those free of it please direct yourself to the nearest asylum!

The devil of your truth-religion is delusion. But a) I cannot believe in your devil when I do not believe in your god and b) It is easier, simply easier, and I am tired. Goddamnit, something has to matter, one has to choose something to have faith in. And as far as I am concerned Truth is not satisfactory, not in a world where something can be a particle and a wave at the same time, not in a world where there are as many truths as there are people.  

And it all leads back to the start, it is a circle, a snake eating its own tail. If capital-T Truth does not exist, then who cares if I, in my heart, believe in seas of milk or flowers falling from the sky? Who cares if divorce rates are skyrocketing; I can still believe in true love.

You worship Truth; I worship something else. Let us see who is the happier at the end of it. Sacrifice warmth upon Truth’s altar; I will arrange flowers upon some god’s. In the end we will both get up from mussed bed covers every morning and wince at our own sticky mouths, both clean our teeth with stale mint paste and traipse off to some niche in the world that we have scrabbled for ourselves. Pragmatism pragmatism pragmatism. It is our hands that matter, only our hands, only what dirt hides under our fingernails…my mind is a temple to my self and I decorate it how I wish.

#poetry #faith #religion

[avocado-frog]

OC incorrect quotes part whatever

Logan: We’re playing Scrabble. It’s a nightmare. Marcy: Scrabble? Scrabble’s great. Logan: Not when you’re playing with Leo, it’s not. She puts words like “ephemeral” and I put “dog.”

---

Jaxon: Wasn't icarly that guy that girlbossed too close to the sun because he was down for Apollo? Lily: ICARUS?

---

Elliot: What’s up? I’m back. Logan: I literally saw you die. You died. You were dead Elliot: Death is a social construct.

---

Leo: I’ve invited you here because I crave the deadliest game... Jaxon, nodding: Knife Monopoly. Leo: I was actually going to play Russian roulette, but now I'm really interested in whatever knife Monopoly is.

---

Leo: Happy October 32nd! Second Halloween! Cass: That doesn't exist. Leo: Not with that attitude.

---

Logan: Do you guys ever have a civilized conversation that doesn't require insulting each other every time you get a chance? Leo: No. Jaxon: No. Logan: Didn't think so.

---

*after the group has been separated for a few years* Cass: So what have you been up to recently? Logan: Leading a revolution with Leo. Cass: Good for you two! Me, I've joined the mob. Logan: Oh, how cool! That's awesome! Cass: I know! Anyway, have you heard from the others? Lily? Dylan: Happily living as a hermit in the woods. Ryan? Cass: Wrongfully locked up in an asylum, which reminds me, we need to break him out later. Jaxon? Dylan: Cult leader. Cass: Yeah, that sounds about right.

---

Leo: How many children do you have? Logan: Biologically, legally, or emotionally?

---

Cass: Goddamn it, the printer broke while printing out Leo's birthday invitations. Logan: Well, what are they supposed to say? Cass: "Leo's birthday". Logan: So, what do they say instead? Cass: "Leo’s bi". Logan: Logan: Works out either way.

---

Dylan: I scare people a lot because I walk very softly and they don't hear me enter rooms. So when they turn around, I'm just kind of there and their fear fuels me.

---

Dylan: Stop setting things on fire because you're curious about what will happen. What will happen is fire. Leo: But what if something else happens just this one time.

---

Ryan: Jaxon and I were crossing the street, and this man drove by and honked at us. Lily: What did you do? Ryan: They chased him to the next red light, and reached into his window, and- Jaxon: *walking in* Who wants a steering wheel?

---

Dylan: Everyone thinks I'm this soft cute person but I'm not! Cass: Dylan, you cried for an hour after stepping on a bug yesterday. Dylan: It had feelings! It was probably going home to dinner and I killed it! Marcy: ...It was a bug. Dylan: It was a BEETLE, and its wife is definitely worried sick, wondering where it is, and I really don't get why you all think I'm so sentimental because I'm not! Cass: ... Marcy: ... Dylan: Stop looking at me like that!

---

Logan: Coca Cola can remove rust from metal, imagine what it’s doing to your body. Jaxon: Pfff, getting rid of the rust, idiot. Logan: THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS! Leo: Hmm... I've been drinking soda and my body's rust free... not sure where you're getting your facts from...

---

Leo: We can bake these cookies at 400 degrees for 10 minutes or 4,000 degrees for 1 minute. Logan: No, that's not how you make cookies. Jaxon: FLOOR IT!! Lily: How about 4,000,000 degrees for 1 second?!? Logan: YOU'RE GONNA BURN THE HOUSE DOWN- Leo: I'M GONNA HARNESS THE POWER OF THE FUCKING SUN TO MAKE COOKIES! Jaxon: DO IT! Logan: NO-

---

incorrect quote generator I used in case you want it

#incorrect quotes #procrastination o'clock #original characters

[eterna-ween]

ANTONBLAST the Show (1994) Season 2 Episode 03

#antonblast #pizza tower #antonball #peppino spaghetti #pizza tower peppino #antonblast annie #antonblast anton #dynamite annie #dynamite anton #asylum scrabbles

[iphoenixrising]

How do you think the boys will react to Dr Tim in fear gas (like full dose of it)??

Hi babe.

I’ve said it before, but ah. Be careful what you wish for, heh. 

But no, really hasn’t poor Dr. Tim been through enough? Guy has already narrowly escaped collapsing bridges, been up close and personal with the Joker, fought off Scarecrow’s goons, AND was smack dab in the middle of an honest-to-God Arkham Riot.Now we’re going to just get him all up in some fear toxin? Good Lord, can the man get a break? He hasn’t had some smut in a while tbh. (winks over to chippon)

BUT.

WARNINGS FOR: 

Mentions of child abuse 

Mentions of gore, blood, grossness 

You will be crying by the end. Guaranteed. 

Extreme mental and emotional HURT 

Tim’s fears are Jesus-Fucking-Christ level bad 

You’ve been warned :D

**

He’s not even back to work yet after that ambulance wreck, still feels the road rash, pulled muscles, and residual owfuck from a little rough and tumble time at Arkham Asylum. 

But, he’s in a convenience store for fuck’s sake because Jay wouldn’t let him have coffee this morning (nah, Sweets. Ya ain’t godda get up yet. Jus’ go back ta sleep wid’ me, yeah? We’re gonna stay here all warm n’ snug. Sshh. I gotcha, Timmy), and he’d managed to wrangle himself out of Jay’s arms when he woke up again, found out there’s only enough grounds for a shitty, weak pot, and Tim can’t even stand the thought of it.

Unfortunately, he gets a whole lot of random bad guys stopping in for those terrible hot dogs and road drinks on their way out of Gotham.

(Crane looks just as horrifying as he remembers from the hospital that one time, and Tim fervently hopes, hopes none of these henchmen recognize him in a beat-up hoodie and saggy sweatpants.)

What makes matters worse?

Crane isn’t even trying to be, you know, an evil villain.

There’s a put-upon sign behind the mask, and the fear gas comes out of nowhere, getting everyone in the store because the guy just doesn’t want to deal with civilians right this moment. He missed the break-out and decided to have a party all on his own, but he hasn’t even gotten the time to get the plan for his next evil scheme ready yet.

So he raises a hand and sprays a little gas to keep people from being lucid enough to call the cops and rat him out. He needs some time for a good getaway.

Tim, however, sees the inevitable coming and is frozen to the spot, can’t get his weak knees to unlock so he can at least try to duck. Instead, he gets it full in the face.

In a sweep, Crane sprays the small store as his henchmen drop a $20 in front of the coughing clerk and take off back out the door. Hotdogs and all.

Tim scrabbles for his phone, the noxious cloud makes his eyes water, his lungs fucking burn on the first choked, shocked breath. Even when he tries to hold his breath, he’s too terrified, knees going out just as he thumbs the screen behind his back.  

“Timmy?” is tinny and far away while he tries to at least breath shallow, eyes dart to the door, his brain tuned into the whole get out and away before the inevitable happens.

He’s got to get to Jay, he’s got to get out of here and get to someone. If he starts talking while hepped up on fear gas, he could give away everyone’s secrets. He could tell random strangers who everyone really is, he could tell anyone their weaknesses, he could put everyone in danger.

Building blocks. If he can get to a lab, to Steph’s, back to his penthouse, anywhere not here, he can probably crack the building blocks of the toxin before it takes him over completely.

He doesn’t even hear, “Baby? Ya there? Didja butt dial again? Thought I tol’ ya ta stay in bed with me, yeah?”

Not with the door right there.

All he has to do is make his weak knees fucking work, ignore the burn in his lungs, his brain, his eyes teary with the cloud still thick around him, with the abrupt slam of his heart in his chest, with the sudden shadows in the niches that hadn’t been there before.

He just has to get to that fucking door. Has to be able to run.

Tim manages to mostly get there before the screaming starts.

**

Dick is working the day shift in the uniform when word Crane struck come over the wire.

Whenever it’s one of the big bads, he gets close enough to get the details before handily disappearing to slip into something a little more comfortable.

(He knows his ass is spectacular in the Nightwing suit.)

A boop from his pocket is his Batcomm notification, and he pops it in just as he dips into the men’s room with a plan to get out one of the usual windows.

“We’ve got Crane on the move, O. Might want to drop B a line.”

“Already aware, Boy Wonder. It’s more severe than you realize.” His phone goes off as Dick is shimmying out the window and up the building where he keeps a spare suit in a nice waterproof bag hidden in the overhang.

When he checks whatever oh shit is added to a potentially deadly scene, he’s got a text from Jay and a picture from O.

Surveillance footage from inside a convenience store where Crane evidently attacked some civilians. His breath catches when one of the faces turned away to try avoiding the gas is–

Timmy.

“Fuck,” is a little breathless with a very different kind of fear, and Dick immediately turns it up a notch, throwing his suit on and slapping a domino over his eyes. “What can you tell me, O?”

Quick check on what he’s got to work with.

“B and Rob are already in pursuit. Signal is approaching to assist. As far as we can tell, this is the only place Crane managed to hit. Everyone’s mostly been accounted for by GCPD.”

“I sense a but coming–” and he checks his phone two seconds before time to fly, and the text from Jay is something about Tim and screaming, and now he won’t pick up the phone...

“O?” Because dread strikes him in the chest.

“He’s the only civilian missing. He must have already taken off before the patrol car got there.”

“He was hit with fear gas, and he took off?”

The jumpline is already in his hand before he even hits the edge of the roof at a run. It’s go time.

So, it’s a race to find Tim, all doped up on fear toxin and probably tripping out of his mind in one of the most dangerous cities in America where people like the Joker and Two-Face might hold a grudge.

Jason was already suited up before he sent that text to Dickie, was outta there when the sounds came over the line, the familiar screams. It’s a particular flavor of terror spelled out that Timmy, was probably in trouble.

He hits up O with the deets while Nightwing hits the almost-night, making the first swing fucking count.

**

The world alters and shift around him, almost throwing him off his feet more than once.

He’s already completely lost his sense of direction, trying to keep his eyes closed in a last ditch effort to keep the hallucinations at bay.

(It’s just chemicals fucking with your brain. You can beat this. It’s not real. None of it is real. You know that. You know it’s just–

Brick under his fingertips, abrading the sensitive skin. Stumbles over a curb, and the loud whonkkkkk almost rips a surprised yip out of him. Tim cracks his eyes open, heart picking up when the yellow lights look like the porch light from the Johnson’s house–

– before they brought him back.

“He’s…a special child. He needs more than we can give him–”

“He can’t get along with the other children, so I’m afraid–”

“Well, you see. Mary is pregnant! It’s-it’s a miracle, and we like Tim, really we do–“

Tim grits his teeth, hears so much wahwahwah than anyone really talking, telling him to get the hell out of the street, what is he thinking?

But instead of a shadow of a motorist that had pretty much almost run him over, all he can see is Detective Gordon, way back when he’d been the one to come to the Drake’s manor and give him the news.

His mom and dad weren’t coming back, not ever.

“N-No,” he whimper screams, slamming his eyes closed, and takes off again. It’s a full tilt run, every person he meets with someone else’s face.

Michael McCannon, the guy that beat the shit out of his foster kids.

Lilly Wright, wanted the income from having a foster in her house, didn’t care if he went to school, if he slept, if he ate, if he was dead in a gutter because he fell off a roof running after–

He smacks his palms into brick, scraping his face, turns and there’s Tony Stark back when he’d first met. Intimidating and imposing, eyes narrowed in distaste.

He runs faster, only half recognizes the buildings as he goes. He knocks into someone, eats face in an alley, panting and sweating, eyes full of tears, brain on fucking fire.

“Drake!” Hissed from the shadows, the darkness parting for red, gold, and green.

But it’s too much red, too much red.

“N-no, nonono,” and now he’s outright sobbing, scrabbling to his feet because Dami, Dami, is in a ragged, torn tunic, skin broken and blood fucking pouring out of him.

He’s got both hands on the vigilante, brain failing him, spitting out the mortality rate of being run the fuck through.

“No, no, no Dami, Dami,” he’s pressing on the worst wound, tears streaming down his face, babbling incoherently, apologizing, begging this kid, the little brother he should have had, not to fucking die and leave him too.

Robin, laying where the doctor had apparently thrown him, is staring up in shock, hands on Drake’s forearms where he’s pressing at some imaginary wound.

“Don’t die, Dami. Stay with me! Please stay with me!” Is fairly screamed in the cold night.

And Robin catches his breath at this, this, as one of Drake’s worst fears.

“D-Don’t leave me. I can’t lose you. I-I can’t lose you, too.” Tim weeps, pulling both hands back, staring down at what must see as blood and viscera.

“I am sorry, Timothy,” Robin breathes out hoarsely, frees a hand to pull back, teeth clenched against what he’s about to do, and punches their doctor with real intent.

As he hopes, Tim goes down like a stone, unconscious on the dirty ground, tears still on his face from terror and grief.

In a breath, Robin is on his feet, kneeling over Drake, tapping the comm in his ear. “Hood, N, Father. I have located him. He has been…affected. I am uncertain if the anti-toxin in my belt would do further harm, so I have not administered it as of yet.”

“Rob,” Hood’s response is immediate, “Big Wing’s with Daddy Bat takin’ care a’ the last of ‘em.  I’m headin’ atcha now.”

“Meet me at the Black Bird. Hurry,” Robin cuts off, and gently, oh so gently for his normal, lifts Tim’s upper body against his chest, points a gauntlet at the roof to fire the jump line, reel them both in.

At sixteen, the youngest vigilante has nearly outgrown the doctor, and has no trouble lifting Tim up to carry him across the roof, occasionally looking down to make sure Tim is still out.

His own vehicle, the Black Bird, is hidden close to a safe house for the Bats. Balancing Tim in his arms, he taps his utility belt, the container hiding the car folding away.

Hood is on the ground, immediately takes Timmy from Rob, looking at the scrapes on his face.

“In, in!” Robin snaps, shooing Hood in the back with their Doctor. “We must get him to the Cave immediately.”

He dives in the driver’s seat, revving the engine fast, tapping his mask for the whiteouts to slide up. He takes in the immediate area with a glance, and peels out into the night.

Jay deactivates the helmet, tosses it in the front seat, wraps both arms around Timmy in his lap, tapping the comm to listen up at Dickie and B on clean-up whiles he winds up to get all the deets outta the Demon.

“Tell it ta me straight, Lil’ D. How bad wassit?”

He’s looking in the rearview because the kid’s eyes always give him away.

He ain’t prepared to see the Demon blinking rapidly, jaw clenched tight. “He is fully effected. Hallucinations, inability to discern outside voices. I called to him. He was not able to hear me. See me, yes, but he believed I was…dying. He attempted to treat me, asked me not to…”

Robin makes a hard right turn, shoves his foot against the pedal to drift it. He shoves in the clutch, shifts the gears, biting down on his lower lip (“Don’t leave me, I can’t lose you.”).

He evens out, hitting the Robert Kane Bridge to take them out of Gotham proper and closer to the Manor.

“Dames?” Jay makes it soft because the kid is obviously shook.

Robin pushes the car to 105 mph to sail over the bridge.

“His fear was he would be unable to save me. The wound…he believed the wound made by Hush would kill me yet again, I believe.”

Jason Todd breathes in sharply, freeing up a hand to fit at the back of Rob’s neck, make circles with his thumb.

“Sorry that mighta brought ya back.” His tone is low with sympathy, empathy.

And for a moment, Damian Wayne, not Robin, leans back into that hand, lets it ground him while the night flies by the window, while he watches the darkness for everything while he downshifts, when the road starts getting less defined further out of the city they go.

“It is not that,” Damian admits, “one day, one of us, perhaps all of us, will not return. Nothing he can do will prevent that.”

“I know, Baby Bat. Let’s hope it ain’t any day soon, you feel me?” And Jay, tries to keep it gentle, tries to keep the circles going, tries to be easy about it so Baby Bat won’t try ta pull away, put it all back inna box to fester.

“Agreed. However, do not be surprised if he comes to fighting. We must monitor his vitals closely if this toxin is similar to the last batch.”

“I gotcha. S’all right, we’re gonna take care of him, ain’t we?”

Damian makes an affirmative noise and leans forward out of Jay’s grip, pressing the gas, then gearing back up.

**

Tim comes to as the restraints are tightened, Alfred Pennyworth securing several sticky discs to his chest, and a pulse oximeter to his finger.

“We’ll see you soon, Son. Be a good boy while we’re gone.”

Makes his eye fly open wide, his heart slam painfully against his rib cage, his arms jerk where his wrists are restrained.

“Boys,” a cultured voice calls the second his eyes open, but Tim can’t see anything, not with his heart in his throat, not with his Dad’s voice ghosting out after over a decade and a half.

When he glances over, horrified at the tall figure coming closer, hands raised up in surrender, and his eyes were empty, gorey sockets, black sludge from the empty cavity. Purple lips and half-rotting flesh, the last clothes he’d seen his father wearing, his best suit, the one he’d wear to Drake Industries on the stints they were home and Dad worked in the office.

Tatters and grave dirt, bone peeking out from shriveled flesh…

“Dad,” is a broken, hoarse croak, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I tried. I tried to be good,” and the closer his dead, decaying Father gets, the more he fights whatever is keeping him still, won’t let him run for his own fucking sanity, “I tried! I tried and you still didn’t come home! It wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t–!”

He chokes, gags because Dad is right by the bedside, and now Tim can see the inside of his black mouth, the tongue putrid and pale without blood, and the smell–

He’s probably screaming, even if he can’t hear himself.

Something is strapped over his face, and he fights it, knows it’s a plastic mask, pumping something into his lungs, just like the fear toxin.

A turn of the head, and it’s the reversal of his first meeting with-with

The Joker.

Harley isn’t on the table bleeding out this time. It’s the two of them standing over him, a huge needle full of green sludge right by the Joker’s shoulder, right next to his horrifically sick smile.

He’s wearing a mock head lamp and white coat, Tim’s own badge dangling from his pocket. He turns to the smaller figure of Harley, the nurse sidekick with a frightening set of tools. The orbitoclast is brown with old blood and brain matter, the leucotome wire is rusty, the plunger to send that wire into his brain almost black with old gore.

And he fucking chokes.

“Hold on to those, Nurse. If my wonderful formula doesn’t do the trick, then we’ll have options! Huh, huh, huh,” and the bastard leans into him, that sickening smile, those wide, lucid eyes.

“He’s going to be our good boy, one way or the other, isn’t he?” And the dark growl of it, the promise is what makes him start screaming again.

Hands on his straining arms, a big body right by the bed when he turns, flinches away as far as the hold could let him.

“Oh no. No no no,” is a whimper, a plea, “I didn’t say anything to anyone, Mr. Johnson, I swear. I didn’t tell anyone anything.”

The grip on his arms becomes bruising, painful, terrifying all over again.

Tim clamps down, remembers the beatings hadn’t been as bad if he could keep quiet.

“Jesus Christ, you’re such a little shit.”

It’s Mr. Johnson’s words, but Jason’s voice.

“You need a good ass beaten’, kid. That’ll straighten you right out. That’s what all you fuckers need. Lucky for you I don’t mind making sure you keep on the straight and narrow.”

He doesn’t realize he’s chanting, “don’thitme, don’tdon’tdon’t, please please,  don’t,” while Mr. Johnson backs off, the old recriminations and reprimands rolling right out in Jay’s smooth baritone.

He’s outright sobbing, arms trembling above his head where he’s trapped, trapped. He can’t move, he can’t run, he can’t hide, he can’t–

And a blink takes him to the same fire escape outside his penthouse where he’d found Nightwing bleeding out, pulse already weakening, breathing shallow–

“What–“

The whiteouts on that domino are up so he can see Nightwing’s blue eyes flutter open weakly, can see the hand move gingerly to the bleeding wound on his abdomen.

“I can help you,” he yells out, hoping to make those eyes look at him, to get the vigilante to come to him, “I can save you, but you’ve got to get here.” This time his hands, his arms, his whole body is straining to get free, to reach the vigilante that needs him, that’s dying on him while he fucking watches.

The vigilante half-smiles at him, finger stripes more dark than blue, and his head goes back, visibly slumping.

“Nightwing, Nightwing, look at me! Open your eyes!” He knows he’s begging, fighting, but there’s bands around his chest, around his wrists, his ankles and thighs.

“I need, I need sutures, gloves, blood bag, and-and, I need, I need–“ but Nightwing’s head flops and his chest stutters, “LOOK AT ME! You can’t die like this, you can’t. I’m right here, I can save you!”

He sobs out loud, whole body jerking to get free.

“Ssshhh, baby doll, ssshhh,” makes him open his eyes even though he can barely see through the tears streaming down his face, his sobbing, his heart pounding copper in the back of his throat.

And there’s Jay, lying on his chest, all soft and sweet, with a post-sex grin. He’s too beautiful to be real.

“Jay?” He croaks.

“Yeah,” all soft and sweet.

Until he tilts his head, and the horrific smile below his chin leaks rich red down his throat.

“J-Jay?!” His eyes go wide and horrified because there’s his vigilante boyfriend bleeding out all over his chest, far gone enough to be silly and loopy with blood loss.

“S’okay, yeah? When s’time, s’time. Don’t gotta be sad about it, Timmy.”

“N-No, no, put-Jay, listen to me, put pressure on it, okay? Put both hands and press down. You-you’re loosing too much blood. I need you to–“

“That ain’t what’s happening here, Timmers.” Slurry and low, Jay’s face getting pale, eyes fluttering. “Like I tol’ ya b’fore. One day…one day I ain’t gonna come back. S’ just gonna be my time.”

And Tim’s shirt is wet with it, Jay’s blood staining him, soaking through his clothes, the weight of his big body heavier as his strength goes, as his eyes get dimmer, the jade flecks all but gone.

“You can’t. Jay, babe, you can’t. You have to fight. Please fight,” his hands are straining, but he’s so tired, weak, isn’t strong enough to get to them, to save them from their fates. "I don't... I can't be the last one left standing again. I can't. Please, fight. Please!"

'"Nah, Baby. Small right now. Love ya. Love ya s'much."

"I love you too," he sobs, can't breathe, can't think.

(He’s never been strong enough, has he? He’s not strong enough to be what they need.)

He finally can’t fight anymore, just stays pinned under Jay’s weakening body to cry and shake apart.

**

“Do something,” Dick yells, tears running down his face where he’s pinning Tim’s legs down so he stops hurting himself fighting the restraints.

Alfred, eyes narrow and wet-looking, huffs and turns on his heel abruptly. He fishes out supplies from the cabinet, uses a clean hypodermic to puncture the sedative.

Master Jason is staring up at Master Tim’s face, trying to be that boy in the Robin cape from all those years ago. Trying to be strong in the face of such horrors.

“Master Bruce, account for general anesthesia,” Alfred calls briskly and injects carefully into the IV.

“Understood,” the quickly working vigilante calls back from the lab, running the number a second time, darting looks at his children doing one of the hardest jobs he’s ever asked them to do.

He can tell by how Damian’s shoulders are shaking, Dick is opening crying against Tim’s hip, Jay’s lower lip trembling, eyes wet where he’s keeping Tim’s forearms pinned around the IV in his arm.

He add the variables, taking deep breaths, makes mental notes all over the place to look into Tim’s past foster parents.

Johnson. Right.

And the hardened bat can’t say his heart isn’t thundering in his throat watching Tim’s struggle, scream, cry out in grief, trying to use his reasoning and logic, having the fucking Joker of all people as part of his perpetual nightmares…

Bruce takes a calming breath, forces himself to be the Bat while he aches for the kids.

**

Twelve hours later, he comes to somewhere not his Penthouse or Dick’s apartment.

It’s chilly wherever he is, but for some reason his whole body just aches, hurts like he’d been in another damn car wreck or something. It’s too much effort to lift his head and look around, not when he’s pretty sure he’s in Dick’s lap, recognizes the smell of Dick’s jugular.

He hums a little, glad someone at least gave him a blanket because he’s at least mostly warm. His nose is pretty cold, but he just snuggles into Dick’s neck and sighs.

He tries to raise his knees to fold in, get warmer, but his heels bump into legs, and cracking his eyes open, he realizes Jay is sitting by Dick on the floor of the Cave, Tim laying over their laps.

He’s got a cotton ball taped to the inside of his forearm, and no idea why. He blinks a few times, lifts up enough to see Dami on Jay’s other side, head nudged against Jay’s shoulder. A hand is still on Tim’s ankle.

The sudden need to go to the bathroom drives him from their huddle on the cold floor, but at least he spreads the blanket out over them after he manages to pull out of their arms without waking them.

From their faces and expressions, whatever he isn’t immediately remembering couldn’t have been good.

But first, bathroom. Then, maybe coffee? Because that? Would be absolutely stellar at this juncture. Maybe some ibuprofen.

Luckily, there’s swanky digs in the Bat Cave, a set of lockers, showers, nice hot tub for long soaks after a night of kicking bad guy ass.

All the vigilante amenities.

He’s bleary and sore, staggering to the bathroom, noting B is asleep on the big computer, and Alfred sitting back in another chair, tea cup and saucer on the hard drive next to him.

He smiles a little, wonders if he can find a few more blankets somewhere.

A glance in the mirror as he was washing his hands shows him a bunch of road rash city. Man, he must have been caught up in the middle of something again.  

Seriously.

He splashes cold water on his face, works out the low throbbing ache of his bandaged wrists.

He’s shuffling back, thinking about just waking everyone the hell up to send people to bed, like themselves because his ass is numb, and there’s warm beds upstairs. When there’s pounding footsteps, skitters, and slides, whoosh of air, and Dick is right there up in his face, panting like he’d just sprinted all the way across the Cave in a quick hurry.

“Timmy?!”

He blinks up, still bleary about everything, his throat and voice wrecked as fuck, “hey honey. How was your night fighting shitty bad guys?”

He has no idea why Dick’s expression crumples, his eyes getting teary out of nowhere. He’s not prepared for Dick to start crying, to see his beautiful boyfriend hold a hand over his eyes and break down.

“Dick? Dick?”

He goes from holding himself, shuddering with the cold and ache in his bones, to up in Dick’s face, hand on his shoulder, looking for some injury, something to tell him how to help–

But Dick takes a few shuddering breaths under his hand, and Tim just wriggles his arms around Dick’s chest to hold on for a few long seconds before he gets full-on octopus hold right around his everything.

(Okay, that’s a relief.)

“…was it bad?” He asks softly, making circles with his palms as wide as Dick’s hold will let him.

“Y-Yes. It was bad. You don’t remember?” Dick sniffles against the side of his head, rocking them both gently.

“Not yet.” He shrugs an unconcerned shoulder. As someone who’s had a concussion (okay, okay, concussions), and has worked in the medical field in one of the most dangerous cities on the fucking planet, he knows there are plenty of bad guys with chemical weapons that don’t always leave short term memories in tact.

Dick shakes a little and holds him tighter.

“Fuckfuckfuck. Didja find 'im??!” As Jay rounds the corner and almost slams right into them.

He skids to a stop as Dick swiftly shifts them around out of the way. Jay doesn’t do anything to dislodge Dick’s grip, but palms the sides of Tim’s face, his eyes a hard, icy blue.

“Hey, Sweets, hey,” low in a dark way, not the usual, fun dark way. Tim has a strike of fear, takes stock of himself, of Dick, of Jay, wonders who else in the Cave might be hurt! That’s why they’re here. Someone got hurt coming after his ass, didn’t they?

“Dami? B?” He interrupts, eyes going from Jay to Dick and back.

“Fine, everyone’s fine,” is curt, short with him in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t have enough evidence.

“O-kay. You both are fine. B and Dami are fine. Alfred?”

Over his head, his boyfriends exchange a look that is really starting to worry him.

But the next twelve hours are virtually impossible to escape. The sordid details come out once Tim remembers being in that convenience store. He gets snatches of half-lucid memories, probably never will remember the entire things. The brain is the most fascinating part of the body for a reason, not only as the control center, but also as the decision-maker on what things to blot out to protect itself. 

By the time Dami starts out, they’ve migrated up to Wayne Manor, parted ways to shower and wash off the night. Dick and Jay bracketing him in, being absurdly gentle, consistent soft touches, fingers wrapping around his, hands on his back, kisses pressed into his hair.

There’s some scrapes on his forearms along with the ones on his face, washed gingerly in the shower where he finally feels warm again. Alfred leaves a special bled of his healing goop and has set out pajamas for all of them before he left, requesting them to please come have breakfast.

Tim’s stomach rumbles while they’re getting dressed, and he’s pretty much picked up, and carried down the massive staircase.

(Ugh, this is after the bridge fiasco all over again.)

But the end result: food and coffee in Wayne Manor, so bonus?

Dami is looking at him like a kicked puppy. A perpetual pissed off kicked puppy, but he tilts his head to the side inquiringly, raising his eyebrows in invitation.

“I found you almost at Sheldon Park,” Dami starts softly, but at least everyone’s eaten first.

He flinches a little when Bruce tells him what he’d said about his Dad. When Alfred tells him about the Joker and Harley Quinn either going to inject him with some crazy sauce or lobotomize him.

(Yup. Pretty horrifying either way.)

Dami tells him about seeing everyone die around him while Dick has a firm hand on his knee under the table, their chairs closer together than necessary. Jason gives no shits keeping his fingers wrapped up tight, squeezing occasionally. Alfred keeps the mug in his free hand full, stands just by Dick’s other shoulder.

“I mean,” he finally starts after everything is out in the open, “it’s literally a toxin that fucks with your brain chemistry. Not shocking I’d see pretty awful things. I see awful things...a lot, so,” he shrugs a little helplessly in the face of the whole family looking utter raw and split open. “I...I’m...sorry, really sorry I worried everyone. I’ll try to stop getting into trouble so much, you know? But, um. It is Gotham.”

The family crowds around him, bringing in rank around the table. 

And if he doesn’t have to stay at the Manor for the next week, geeze, and get coddled as fuck by the Batfamily, and get picked up from Mercy General every. single. night. for a while, and get wrapped up against two incredible vigilantes that whisper soft things against his throat, his ear, his mouth, his, well, his everything. 

If he doesn’t get Bruce herding him into the study where the fire is burning, and it seems like the Batman is the most patient person ever to let him–let him talk about some of those old pains when he was in the system. 

If Alfred literally can not make him eat enough food to be satisfied. Ever. And gives him a side-eye when he starts to push away a plate that has even a bite left.

(Alfred pizza is god-level, and you’ll never convince him otherwise. But if he eats anymore, he’s going to die. Please stop killing him with your tasty love.)

If Dami doesn’t make him watch NatGeo Wild with popcorn and boxes of candy, then grudgingly plays Mario Kart with him until Rainbow Road is like theirs. No questions asked.

If he finally doesn’t go back to his penthouse, breathes in the familiar smells, gets absolutely destroyed in the Best. Possible. Ways for the next five straight hours. If he isn’t a boneless pile of I can’t possibly come again, for the next week at least. 

If Baby Bird, Timmers, Sweets, Timmy, and Baby aren’t wrapped around him with arms and sweet kisses pressed to his forehead and hair every time he leaves for work or they leave for patrol.

If he was before this, in the slightest bit uncertain he belongs with them, as part of their family–

–he sure as hell knows better now.

At least that’s one less thing to be afraid of.

**

Note:

In Tim’s fear fueled delusion, the Joker is Alfred, Harley is Dami holding equipment to treat him. His dad was really B taking the blood samples from Alfred to analyze. He’s horrified once he realizes what Tim is seeing.

Mr. Johnson, the abusive foster parent is Jay, which Tim kind of associates because of the accent.

Dying Nightwing is Dick bent over to hold his legs down, and the next switch is really Jay laying over him upper body to keep him from hurting himself more.

(Congrats for making it to the end. *Hands tissue*)

#winter answers #doctor!tim #tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #read at your own risk #read the warnings #hurt/comfort #fear gas #holy shit tim #you will cry #but it's worth it #my fic #my writing #dickjaytim #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth #cuddle tf out of our boy #bruce wayne

[forthetaintedsorrow-whump]

@whumpmasinjuly Day 10: Share a snippet from something you’re working on.

Here’s a snippet from my Chuuya Whump Bingo - #5: Made a Slave, where Chuuya is undergoing some nice cold hydrotherapy to cool his attitude.

Contents: hypothermia, hydrotherapy, asylum whump, bath whump

The chill water circulated around Chuuya’s skin, and his heart beat frantically as he tried to leverage the lid off up, but it was locked tight.  His legs kicked out, thumping hollowly, and his fingers scrabbled at the edges, at the seam down the middle, but there was nothing to grab onto.  He squirmed, trying to squeeze his fingers through the cutout his neck was trapped in, but to no avail.  It was shut tight.  He sat there, panting and shuddering under the onslaught of water pouring down. After several long minutes, he found himself wishing for the warm straightjacket.  But all he had to do was hold out.  It was just three hours in some cool water.  He crossed his arms and drew up his legs.  He could tough it out – he’d been in worse conditions before, he wasn’t hurt, wasn’t injured – just sitting in cold bathwater.  

It was a half hour before Chuuya was shivering constantly, a bare whimper coming out, his face tilted downwards toward the lid of his metal coffin.  His mouth hung loose as he breathed, the water tracing pathways down his face and creeping across his lips, teasing at his mouth.  The relentless stream pressed into his head, chilling his brain, curled its fingers around his neck, no matter which way he turned his head to find some ease to the pressure.

#Whumpmasinjuly #wij21day10 #whump #nakahara chuuya #asylum whump #bungou stray dogs #hypothermia #hydrotherapy #bath whump

[nyoschief]

Heart Of The Darkness

This was a Secret Santa that I never posted for @Nikki!

Rating: Mature Characters: John | KryozGaming/Jaren | SMii7Y, Eddie Gluskin Tags: Outlast, Panic Kisses, Secret Santa Warnings: Violence, Minor Character Death, Creepy Motherfuckers Words: 2,135

It’s only when John turns around, looking as though he’d been in a dozen fights and is still ready for another, that Jaren feels hot tears spill over reddened cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry! Are you okay? I—No, you’re not okay.”

{Read here on AO3}

Three simple words keep Jaren quiet. They repeat like a broken record, a mantra that increases with every blood-curdling scream and fresh wave of iron-laden air that floods the damp room. He’ll return once the exit is clear. Shaky hands flatten against rusted metal, taking comfort in the cool chill as he peers into the gloomy area, straining to see human-shaped demons in the shadows.

“Darling!” a sultry voice crows from the right, singing sweet lullabies.

‘No, fuck, not him.’

Every muscle tightens, lungs clenched and breath held, but frantic eyes refuse to close. Pleading cries respond to unnervingly saccharine words. A dull thump preludes a sobbing groan, hoarse and crying with desperation as nails scrabble against moldy tiles.

“What did I say about keeping your stress levels down? No child can be borne like this.”

The stomach-churning memory of mangled bodies cut apart and sewn together, a mockery of a carrying woman, has Jaren silently gagging, a palm covering his mouth and nails cutting into his cheek.

They should never have come here. ‘Abandoned’ mental asylum, his ass! No power doesn’t mean the crazies inside are gone.

“No, no, no, please, please!”

“I warned you and you didn’t listen!”

A wet squelch spills into the air, Jaren choking at the possibilities. His eyes grow wet, face turned against his torn and muddied sleeve.

“Oh?” the man purrs, a childish laugh bubbling beneath. Jaren freezes, swallowing and peering between the metal slits of the locker. “Have my followers… brought me another bride?”

He’s a deer in headlights, a hare hypnotized by a stoat, a hen frozen in fear of a fox. Fingers twitch, useless when his arms can’t even push the door open.

He has no chance when a body slams against the front, jostling him within. Manic eyes stare back at him, lips pulled into a grin. Can’t breathe, can’t scream, can’t move.

“There you are, dear! The perfect gift after… a terrible tragedy.” Yeah, tragedy. He can only imagine the leftovers, the body slit and covered in gore and blood, still warm. Something metal tracks across the front of the locker. “But don’t worry, I’ll fix you up, make your body a welcoming vessel.”

Voice cracking, he lets out a shaky, “Fuck you.” A crazed laugh echoes through the grotesque room, head thrown back as he smacks the rusty locker. Barely illuminated, he looks like a dirtied man from the mall, covered in blood and grime, bowtie falling off. Palms sweating, Jaren smacks his hands against the door, only for the rattle of metal to trap him within. “Let me out!”

“Nooo, no, no, my love, I can’t let you out in this state, you’ll only hurt yourself!” Blood pounds within his ears, rushing like a torrent, an uncontrollable stream. Jaren slams his fist harder against the metal, the growl in his throat fading into a desperate whine.

He’s not getting out of here alive.

A blade scrapes across the locker, barely glistening in the light shining through the window. Jaren shrinks away, knees buckling, ducking down from the slits in the door. He’d rather not have a scalpel in the eye.

“Now, I don’t want to ruin your perfect body,” he begins, voice dropping with warning, “but I will if you keep fighting me.”

Tongue dead weight, Jaren swallows and scrunches his eyes shut. ‘Where is he?’

“Why would I fight you?”

A coo spills forth, hair standing on end and spine rigid. “Much better, sweetheart,” he hums, taking a step backwards. Metal scrapes again on the locker, hinges squealing and revealing the crazed man’s horrifying appearance. It takes every single ounce of self-restraint to stop from running, hands shaking and gaze darting, searching for an escape route. “Look at you, the perfect vessel, don’t you think?”

Jaren’s stomach twists over itself, tightening up like a knotted rope. A shake to every word, he whispers, “Okay.” His stare lingers on the blade in the other’s raw-knuckled grasp, the weapon raising when he takes a shaky step forth.

“You want this, don’t you? Want to become beautiful, to pave the way for our loving family.”

‘No,’ he thinks, ‘I want to leave with John.’

He refuses to let this psycho know of the other’s presence. Fingers crossing behind his back, Jaren hopes to at least have his body recovered before it’s mutilated beyond recognition like the corpses of earlier.

“Okay…”

The hand against his elbow has him jumping, strung taught and on edge. “Come, my love, I’ll show you the way, the truth…”

Movement catches his eye, moonlight glistening against silver.

Jaren snaps his gaze away, movements slow and steady, gaze tracked onto the blade. He needs to get the weapon away, get the scalpel out of his white-knuckled grasp, so John has a winning chance. They won’t get out of this alive if this fucking maniac still has his weapon.

He stumbles.

The man’s face twists into a grimace and he lunges.

Jaren yelps and finds himself slammed backwards against the wall. His head pulses, skull smacking against the tiles as metal stings at his throat.

“Wait!”

“You scared me, darling, you shouldn’t try to escape like that,” he pants, leaning in closer. Nostrils flared, dark eyes soak in his appearance, leaning closer. His stench alone has Jaren swallowing bile, flinching at the hand caressing his cheek. Shaky hands grab hold of the man’s elbow, struggling to keep him at bay, to squirm his way to freedom. The blade digs into his throat, bringing him to a halt as a strangled cry spills forth. “Maybe it’d be better if I just cut out your voice box. Wives are supposed to be seen, not heard.”

Frantic, Jaren rushes to say, “I’ll be quiet, I’ll be quiet, please, I promise.”

There’s a flicker of movement over the man’s shoulder.

Jaren looks for a moment too long.

“What—”

The man twists in time for a grazed elbow to slam into his unsightly face, flinging him aside.

Jaren jumps away, grabbing his own throat, feeling a thin line of blood beneath his palm.

The stumbling form snaps his head up, scowling and frothing with broiling hatred. “How dare you—”

“How dare me?” John spits, backing up and glancing over a shoulder at Jaren. Upon realizing the other isn’t in immediate danger, he glares at the crazy man and huffs, “Stay the fuck away from him!”

“You can’t come between us!” he shouts, posture menacing and looming. The blade in his hand draws attention like a magnet, dragging their eyes towards it as he flicks the weapon within gnarled fingers.

Jaren flinches when the man steps closer, hip bumping into a table laden with jars of intestines. A whimper slips out, capturing both of their attention for a split second.

John positions himself between them, shoulders hunched and fingers clenched, shielding Jaren. The blade raises. John flinches, balancing on the balls of his feet, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed.

“No, no, nothing is as strong as… as the bond we form—”

A boot slams into the man’s shin, dragging a shriek from raw, bloodied lips. Jaren’s head whips to the side, spotting a door and quickly running towards it. He freezes in the crooked doorframe, looking back, spotting John grappling with the bedraggled man, mouth pulled back into a sneer. The silver scalpel wavers, tip nicking at John’s clothing, held back like a snarling dog.

No warning, the man yanks himself away, pulling his arm free, only to slam the blade downwards.

A scream tears free of Jaren’s hoarse throat, the metal sinking into John’s arm, drinking rich scarlet blood.

Wild eyes scan the room, flicking between the garishly cut body on his right to the mess of broken furniture to his left.

Jaren latches onto a metal rod, breath rapid and uneven, yanking it free from the wooden debris.

No hesitation, he runs closer and swings, a sickening crunch filling the air as it connects with the man’s skull. He tumbles to the side, leaving John scrambling free. When he freezes up again, staring at the blood already dripping from the damage he’d caused, John takes the weapon from him and wastes no time in bringing it down directly on the deranged man’s neck.

He falls to the ground and goes limp. Air slides free from rattling lungs as haunted eyes grow dull.

‘Oh god.’

Jaren hiccups, eyes locking onto John, on the fucking handle still embedded in his bicep. Tears well within green-blue eyes, brows furrowed and lips parted. “Your arm,” he gasps, stepping closer, hands raising, only to freeze when he realizes he doesn’t know what to do.

A yell reverberates through the dusty air, a low growl following, filled with hunger and desperation.

John grabs him by the elbow, already yanking him away. It doesn’t matter where they’re going, as long as John’s with him, they’ll be fine.

They’re red-faced and panting by the time the shouting dies down, inaudible. John shoves them both into a shadowed room and slams the rattling door shut. A metal cabinet serves as the perfect blockade, stopping any unwanted visitors from entering their makeshift safe room.

It’s only when John turns around, looking as though he’d been in a dozen fights and is still ready for another, that Jaren feels hot tears spill over reddened cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” he whines, stepping closer and staring through bleary eyes at the weapon still in John’s arm. “Are you okay? I—No, you’re not okay.” Every inch of John is tensed, frozen as he keeps glancing at the door, breathing through his nose. He flinches at the hand on his shoulder, finally meeting Jaren’s watery stare. He’s still ready for a battle, on edge, antsy to keep them both safe. “Fuck, John, your arm, oh god…”

“It’s fine,” he grits out, still standing there with a doctor’s scalpel sticking out of his sleeve, careless of the blood soaking his shirt. Jaren’s instincts are screaming to run, to get away, John’s a threat. But every other part of him is desperate to help, to ease his pain, make him better, and repay his kindness.

Jaren takes hold of his good arm, leading him towards the unsteady table against the wall. “Let’s just… fix it up, yeah? Make it better. We can fix this—” A loud crash from outside has John jolting, pushing himself to his feet, despite Jaren’s attempts to get him seated. “It’s fine, they can’t get in, let me—”

“They’re close—”

“Don’t worry about them—”

“How can I not worry when they’re—”

“You’re bleeding!”

“I can make more blood.”

Fingers snatch hold of greasy hair, snapping John’s gaze towards him for long enough that he can press a desperate kiss against his bloodied mouth. The wildness in his eyes fades, returning to his familiar stare.

Jaren relaxes his hold, eyes flickering to the side.

“You can’t make another you,” he counters.

John licks his lips. “What was that for?”

Jaren backs up, mouth twisting to the side, failing to hide his embarrassment. “You weren’t listening and I—” He swallows. “I’m scared we won’t get out of here and I just—I just wanted to, just once, sorry, I shouldn’t have…” The silence that ensues has Jaren’s fingers itching, staring at the blade which, now that he looks at, isn’t all that deeply embedded into John’s arm. Swallowing, he clears his throat and says, “Let’s get this—”

“Better be more than just once.”

A frown embeds itself on Jaren’s face, blinking at John. He’s met with surprising determination.

He doesn’t even ask before John’s explaining, “We are getting out of here. That better not just have been a once off haha joke.” Jaren doesn’t have a response to that, letting slip a confused little noise followed by an awkward laugh. When he says nothing else, John asks, “You gettin’ this knife outta me or what?”

“Wh—Yes! Yeah, hold on, I…” Jaren fumbles for a moment before shedding his overshirt, figuring it’s cleaner than anything in this place. “Can you—” John grabs hold of the scalpel and yanks it out, a grunt and hiss following. Crimson spurts out, seeping quickly. Jaren gasps and hurries to wrap the fabric around the wound to stop the bleeding. “Fucks’ sake, John.”

A bloodied hand against his chin has Jaren freezing, allowing his head to be tilted upwards until he can meet the other’s gaze. “We’re gonna get out of here,” he states firmly. His hold shifts, resting against the side of Jaren’s face. Warm concern and conviction replace the earlier rage. “We will, I promise.”

The knot of unease wrapped vice-like around Jaren’s heart unwinds, loosened by trust and belief. On his own, no, he wouldn’t believe that, but with John here…

“I know we will.”

#krii7y #kryozgaming #kryoz #smii7y #bbs #writing #fanfiction #outlast #secret santa #nikkitheduck #listen i love horror and stressy times!!! #:D

[iblewthewhistle]

Nightmare Asylum

It’s a quiet night, when Waylon walks through the quiet halls of the asylum, trying to ignore the evil lurking within the bricks of the old building.

As he strides, the announcement system started to crackle, the sound harsh and aching his ears, covering them in an effort to dampen the sound.

When it stops, Waylon looks around, to see the halls looking broken, twisted, and rusted. There was the sound of metal groaning on metal, and when he looked over the edge of the railing, there was only fire and metal below.

A loud sound from somewhere behind him made him turn, and terror seized at his throat, as a monster stepped out onto the walkway ahead of him.

Big, and bulky, wearing a leather butcher’s apron, and dragging a sheet of metal bigger than Waylon himself, it took a step towards him. There was a giant helmet it wore on it’s head, big and red and triangular, riveted and sturdy, as it let out an odd, disjointed groan, a hand reaching out for him.

Waylon tried to back away, getting caught on a piece of jagged metal, trying to pull his torn shirt off the piece of pipe he was caught on, even as the clanging grew louder and louder.

An unbearable heat clamped down on the scruff of his shirt, pulling him free, like a kitten being dragged along by it’s mother.

Scrabbling for purchase on the behemoth’s wrists, Waylon managed to grab on, as he was hauled along, trying to find a way to walk. “Let me go!”

Another loud groan erupted from the thing, and it set him down, placed into a chair, groaning again behind him. Waylon jerked and gripped the edge of the chair, looking forwards at the wall in front of him.

Images flashed in front of him, and he groaned, doubling over himself to fight the rising nausea. A strong hand grabbed his chin, pulling him upright to continue looking at the images that swam in front of them, his skin almost burning from the contact.

A word started to form among the pictures, it burned just as much as the arm around him, and there came another low groan, closer behind him, as the word burned into his retinas.

Witness.

“What do you want me to see?” He asked, as the groan came again, as the word burned into his eyes, even as the rust seemed to flake away in front of him, the lingering, scalding touch on his jaw keeping him still.

A hand grasped at his shoulder, and Waylon jerked, staring at the computer monitor, with green text flowing in front of him. The program was busy compiling, he must have had a nightmare. Too many horror films. He looked up to see a concerned looking janitor.

“You okay there? Thought you were dead to the world.”

“S-sorry, Alex. I’ll be a little longer here.” He stretched, his back popping painfully. “I’ll clean in here, it’ll be okay. I can do it while I wait for this...” He turned to look at the monitor, that was still flowing with text.

He saw one more word as he looked over at the flowing text.

Witness

#silent hill #outlast #pyramid head #waylon park #murkoffjanitor #surprise cameo xD #can you imagine a SH walker #or gluskin #fuck

[momentofmemory]

FICTOBER 2020 - day thirty-one

Prompt #31: “I trust you.”

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall.

Words: 2218

Author’s Note: an underappreciated aspect of chess culture? games played for fun are called Skittles. set post 5B, Scott & Stiles take a break to play a game of chess, and wind up talking about a whole lot more than just a game. Gen fic, Scott & Stiles focus. Stiles POV.

>> j’adoube (i adjust)

Stiles tosses his pen in the air. Watches it flip, twice. Catches it, barely. Toss and repeat.

“Hey, Scott.”

Scott, who’s sitting across from him at the desk, just grunts without looking up. They’ve been going over scholarships together for the past three hours, and it’s the most mind-numbing use of a Saturday Stiles has had in a very long time.

Which, considering most of his Saturdays have been more of the terrifyingly bloody variety, is probably still preferable. But still.

“Scoooooooott.”

Scott flips to the next page. “Mm?”

Stiles throws his pen at him and smacks him squarely across the face.

“Ow, Stiles—what?”

Stiles flips over onto his stomach, triumphant to have finally gotten Scott’s full attention. “You wanna play a game?”

Scott puts his own pen down and leans back in the chair, stretching and popping in a way that suggests being hunched over for that long is unpleasant for even a werewolf. “What kind? Board game?”

Stiles grins.

Board games, to his mind, are sacrosanct.

Not necessarily because he loves them—given a free range of choices, he’d rather do just about anything else—but because it’s so easy for them to suck.

Yahtzee, Monopoly, Shoots and Ladders, Candy Land, Sorry, even Risk—there’s just too much luck involved for his taste. Draw randomized but predetermined cards, roll uncontrollable dice. And that’s not even touching the disaster that’s Life, where the only two choices that ever matter are college or career, kids or no kids.

Absolutely nothing about bite or no bite, or possession or no possession.

Or ‘betrayed by a monster that gets your best friend killed and your crush of five years committed to an asylum,’ but.

Either way, it’s a joke.

There are better board games. Clue or Scrabble, which still rely on the hand that’s dealt, but at least can be salvaged with enough knowledge and strategy.

But he has the best one in mind for today.

“Chess?”

Scott’s eyes light up with a competitive glint Stiles feels like he hasn’t seen in ages, and he knows he’s won.

“I could do a round or two,” Scott says.

“Oh, thank god—”

“But, then we have to get back to work on these.”

“Yep, uh-huh, absolutely,” Stiles says, rolling off the bed and hunting underneath it for his set.

He fully intends to bribe Scott into playing way more than that, but one thing at a time.

His fingers close over the wooden case and he draws it out, blowing a bit of dust off the top. He turns it over in his hands.

If board games are sacrosanct, then chess is the holy grail.

Most people don’t get the attraction, and he respects that. It takes a certain level of concentration to be good at chess, and considering how many strategy books he’s read on the topic—even if he rarely remembers them—he can beat a casual player without too much effort. Plus, most people prefer games that don’t require much thought, perfectly wiling to just roll their dice and move their mice.

Stiles respects that a lot less.

What he likes about chess is that it’s the one game that’s completely and totally winnable every time—with no variation from chance or random dealing. He might be outmatched, but he’s not outnumbered.

Every choice he makes is fully his own.

It’s the best game.

The only marginal difference is that white has a slight advantage, as it gets to go first, so as Stiles tosses the set onto the bed he says, “I can be black this time.”

Scott barely glances up from the scholarship he’s still worrying himself over. “Hm? No, that’s okay, I don’t mind. You can take white.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and flops onto the bed. “You’ve been black the past like, eight times we’ve played. You’re white this time.”

“Stiles, I really don’t care if you want it.”

It’s an innocuous statement, but Stiles’ temper flares because all he can hear is that Scott thinks he needs the advantage—even if it’s one that, statistically, barely even matters. “What, because you don’t think I can beat you otherwise?”

“What? No, Stiles, I—” Scott falls silent, and it’s enough to instantly cool Stiles’ frustration. “I just—never mind. I can be white.”

Stiles hesitates for a few beats, then turns the board and starts setting the pieces up so the white ones are facing Scott.

He pauses. He’s been trying to pay more attention to Scott lately, but it’s hard—Scott tends to fold pretty quickly on smaller issues, and he tends to—

Well.

Not.

“Then again,” he tries, “I guess it doesn’t really matter—”

“You asked me to play white, so I’ll play white.” Scott’s voice is flat. “You were right; we haven’t switched it up in a while, so it’s only fair. Just give me a sec to finish this.”

“…Okay.”

Stiles toys with the edge of the board as he waits for Scott to finish restacking the papers.

One of the reasons Stiles likes chess is because it makes for a surprisingly good Rorschach test, and he’s played it with every member of the pack at some point or another.

Liam’s not much of a challenge, mostly because he’s made it clear he doesn’t care. The one time they played, he’d started strong—aiming to capture more than aiming to secure—but his failure to consider long-term strategy had gotten him into trouble almost immediately. With Malia, she has a good concept of how to control the center of the board, and favors trap-based strategy, but her ability to pay attention to her opponent’s gameplay is usually her downfall. Lydia tends to focus on a bishop and pawn strategy, which works very well for her mostly because it infuriates Stiles—his own strategy relies heavily on a more spontaneous approach to movement, and her method thoroughly demarcates most of the board. That’s probably why he enjoys playing with Kira, whose strategy rotates every time they play—as soon as he’d introduced her to the game, she’d started binging chess tutorials at speeds that put his own research to shame.

He hasn’t had the chance to play with the new pack members, but he has his guesses as to how that will go. Mason will play circles around him, but be super nice about it. Hayden will either trounce him thoroughly if she cares, or lose terribly if she doesn’t, and there will be nothing in between. Corey… Corey will probably favor the knights, which will make him hard to beat on the front end, but almost impossible to lose to in the endgame.

But he can work with that. All of those strategies make sense; make it easier for him to understand and categorize them.

He looks down at the white and black pieces, standing silently in anticipation of the match.

He can’t think of any reason Scott would want to reject the advantage, unless it was just for his benefit, but he hadn’t appeared to be lying.

And now Scott probably won’t tell him because he’d snapped at him instead of just asking.

Stiles winces and rakes his hands through his hair.

It’s just a chess preference. It’s not like it matters.

Except it does, because everything between them feels so fragile after Theo.

Stiles’ thoughts are interrupted when Scott vaults onto the bed, accidentally knocking one of the pawns forward as the board lists to the side.

“Whoops,” Scott says. The tiniest of smirks appears on his face as he moves to fix it. “J’adoube.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to announce that that’s not your move when I can clearly see what just happened.”

“Can’t be too careful,” Scott says, adjusting the piece. “You’ve definitely called me out for less in the past.”

“You tried to change your mind after wrapping your whole hand around a bishop! How is that less?”

Scott shrugs, and Stiles is relieved he doesn’t seem to be bothered about the pieces anymore. “I’m just saying. Can’t be too careful.”

“A mindset I would normally endorse wholeheartedly, however.”

Scott laughs, then settles in cross-legged and stares down at the board, elbows resting on his knees and face furrowed in contemplation.

Stiles glances at Scott, then at board, then back at Scott again.

Scott doesn’t move.

Suddenly, it’s really bothering Stiles that despite having played with him more than anyone else, despite knowing him better than anyone else, Stiles still doesn’t understand why Scott plays the way he does.

It’s not that Scott’s exceptionally bad, or that Scott’s exceptionally good. It’s that he’s both.

When he plays with Stiles, he matches him step for step, pivoting his goals almost as quickly as Stiles does. But the few times Stiles’ seen Scott play with others, that ability seems to vanish—his level of competence almost directly mapped onto the level of the person he’s playing with, above or below where Stiles would expect it.

It doesn’t make sense, but that’s just Scott. Stiles had long since acknowledged that there were always going to be some things that didn’t make sense about his best friend.

That was before Theo. Before everything that was Scott & Stiles fell apart.

And also, Scott still hasn’t moved.

“Hey Scott?” Stiles waits until he glances up at him, chin still resting in his hands. “You gonna go, bud?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. He blinks down at the board. “There’s just… a lot of options.”

“Okay, right, that’s true,” Stiles says. “But it’s also just the first move.”

“Yeah.”

Scott reaches out and touches the pawn from before. He hovers there for a moment, then retracts his hand—the pawn still unmoved.

Stiles clears his throat.

“Really? You want me to—” Scott sighs. “J’adoube.”

“Technically, you’re supposed to say that before you touch it.”

“And technically, you said I didn’t have to say it earlier, so that one could count for the one I just did.”

“Bro,” Stiles says, because this is getting ridiculous. “Literally just move the pawn. Or a knight. Or any of the other pawns. There are zero other options.”

“I know, I know,” Scott says. “I just… what if I move this piece, and then you move like your knight or something, and it turns out I made the wrong move?”

Stiles squints at him. “It’s your move. Why would my move, which comes afterward, make yours wrong?”

“Because I have to stop your plan.”

“Right, but like.” Stiles tilts his head. “What about your plan?”

“That is my plan.”

Stiles’ brain short circuits, and he spins rapidly through every game he’s ever watched Scott play. “So—so wait. You mean every time you’re playing you’re just… trying to figure out your opponent’s plan? You’re not making one of your own?”

“I mean, kinda?” Scott reaches for the pawn again, then pauses before touching it. “J’adoube.”

“Yeah, whatever, just move the pawn,” Stiles says. “So earlier, it wasn’t about wanting me to have an advantage; you wanted black because… it’s to your advantage?”

Scott spins the pawn around in a slow circle, then lets go of it without moving its position. Again.

“I guess,” he says. “You like playing white better and I like black better, so it just… makes more sense to let us play the ones we actually prefer.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that?”

Scott shrugs. “It just seemed like it was important to you, and I… I didn’t want to argue.” His eyes drop, and so does his voice. “I don’t want to argue with you anymore.”

Something clicks in Stiles’ mind. “J’adoube.”

“Uh,” Scott looks pointedly at the pieces, which are still unmoved, and his hands, which aren’t anywhere near them. “What?”

“‘I adjust,’” Stiles says. “That’s what you’ve been doing. Adjusting your plan to match mine, or—or anyone else.”

Scott picks at the edge of his sleeve. “And that’s bad?”

“Um.” Stiles hasn’t gotten that far. “No? I mean like, you’re clearly very good at it. You’ve definitely beat me enough times doing it.”

“I sense a ‘but.’”

“See, there you go, anticipating me again. You’re a pro.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, okay, the point.” Stiles glances down at the chessboard—and then at the pile of scholarships, too. “Look, I’m just saying you gotta just take the shot sometimes. Or move the pawn. Whatever. My point is, it’s okay to make your own plans.”

Scott shifts a bit to look behind him at the paperwork, something both worried and hopeful in his expression.

“And then, y’know,” Stiles continues, “you can always adjust them later if you have to. But you don’t have to start out that way.”

Scott picks up the pawn and turns it about in his fingers. He bites his lip. “And… you trust this to work?”

“Nah, man.” Stiles settles back against the wall and nods towards the board. “It’s the first move; I have no idea how it’ll play out. But… I trust you enough to know that you can handle it if it doesn’t.”

Scott’s eyes get suspiciously bright, but Stiles doesn’t comment. “I trust you, too.”

(And, well.)

(If Stiles’ eyes get a little bright too, no one comments on that either.)

Scott moves the pawn to e4, and lets it go.

#fictober20 #fanfiction #scott mccall #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #chess metaphors