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suzukiblu · 7 months

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Day fourteen of fic NaNoWriMo; obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Kon comes back before Tim has finished having his internal crisis and immediately makes it worse, because as it turns out the clothes fit and he looks extremely good in cashmere.

And extremely good in skinny jeans.

Oh no, Tim thinks with no small amount of dread. A flash of self-consciousness slips across Kon's face, and then he puts on a confident smirk and strikes one of those stupid teen-magazine poses, which he unfortunately makes look very good despite, again, how stupid it is.

Tim is so far gone, isn’t he.

“What do you think, man? Is it my color?” Kon asks, smoothing a broad flat palm down over the chest of his sweater. Tim, very desperately, wants to be the person doing that.

Jesus Christ, no one should be allowed to look like this in cold blood. Especially not in an outfit thrown together in four minutes and fifty-nine seconds. But of course Kon would, the asshole.

“We should style your hair differently too,” Tim says, trying not to choke and die on how hot this stupid fucking bastard looks in stupid fucking cashmere.

“Why?” Kon asks, looking puzzled.

“You'd be amazed how different changing your hair up can make you look,” Tim says. And also he desperately wants Kon to let him change his hair for weird, weird reasons that he doesn't want to examine very closely right now.

Later. He'll examine them later.

Privately.

“Uh, okay,” Kon says, and does in fact let Tim dig out his hair gel and a comb and re-style his hair. Tim tries not to obsess over having Kon’s hair in his hands and just slicks it back off his face with a little of the gel because that’s the most efficient option, although then he’s reminded of the Kool-Aid incident and Kon standing in front of him in the base in his soaking wet skin-tight suit and raking his rainbow-dripping hair back out of his bright, bright eyes and–

Later.

Tim is in so much trouble here, he thinks in resignation, and then wonders both why he decided to re-style Kon’s hair himself and why Kon just let him. Why the hell did either of them let that happen?

He steps back, trying not to think weird things like how Kon probably would’ve tasted like black cherry Kool-Aid and wondering what he might taste like now, and then a much, much worse thing happens to him, because then he meets Kon’s eyes again and realizes Kon just let him dress and style him. Just–everything but his boots, Tim picked out. Gave to him or did for him. That pettable sweater and the tight, fitted jeans and the slicked-back hair all out of the way of those bright, bright eyes and–

Fuck, Tim thinks with far, far too much feeling.

“There we go,” he says, then reaches out for the shopping bag in Kon’s hand. “Jacket and glasses in here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kon says, blinking at him as he lets him take the bag in apparent bewilderment. It occurs to Tim that Kon has probably literally never had someone else carry something for him unless it was something exceptionally fragile or difficult to operate, but he’s committed now and also it’s not like it’s heavy anyway, so . . . yeah, he’s committed now.

Anyway, having super-strength doesn’t mean Kon has to carry everything. Especially when the bag barely weighs a thing anyway. Tim can swing around Gotham one-armed while carrying a panicking civilian; a shopping bag with a leather jacket and a couple of accessories in it is not exactly an imposition.

And, well . . . this is a date, technically. So why wouldn't he carry Kon's bag?

Aside from the doomed effort that is mapping heteronormativity onto a non-heteronormative situation and possibly making Kon feel emasculated or awkward or potentially coming on too strong and–

Kon reddens, just a little, then grins brightly at him. Tim forgets literally every single thought in his head, which is actually a very impressive feat because Tim is usually thinking several layers of thoughts and they're always annoyingly complicated. This situation is more “head empty, stomach doing quadruple-backflips”, though.

Kon grinning is bad enough when he's not doing it at him, though.

Tim should've better prepared himself for this, but in his defense, in what possible world would he have been able to predict this situation? Really? What possible one?

“Smoothie time?” Kon asks.

“Smoothie time,” Tim agrees, because anything else would require the capacity to actually think straight and that's going to take a few minutes.

They head across the courtyard towards the smoothie shop. Tim does not succeed in regaining the capacity to think straight because Kon continues to be wearing clothes he bought for him. Clothes he bought and picked out for him, specifically.

That is . . . a whole thing, apparently. Apparently that's a thing. Suddenly Tim has to reexamine the way he felt every time he gave Steph a Bat-gadget and wish he'd thought to examine those feelings sooner.

Like much, much sooner.

Tim orders a basic blackberry smoothie that has maybe four ingredients in it, counting the yogurt and almond milk base. Kon orders some ridiculous flavor monstrosity with basically every tropical fruit on the menu, which is the least Gothamite option he could've gone for but therefore not particularly surprising. There's guava in it. Tim doesn't even know what guava tastes like. He's not even sure he'd know what one looked like, if Poison Ivy wasn't a thing. Like–why would he, after all?

Tim pays, obviously. Kon gets a little bit of an odd look on his face again, but doesn’t say anything about it. Well–he thanks him, but nothing else. Tim considers that a good sign, or at least a good start.

The smoothies come in clear plastic cups, and Tim's is a uniform purple with darker flecks here and there in it. Kon's, on the other hand, looks like a sunrise with a swirly straw stuck in it, because of course it does. Tim doesn’t know what else he should’ve expected, really.

“Do you think they could’ve fit a few more islands in there?” he asks wryly. “Maybe a peninsula or two?”

“I mean, it could use some päpipi, probably,” Kon says before taking a sip. Tim has no idea what that is, but is distracted pretending not to pay attention to his mouth. It probably doesn’t work, but Kon’s not always the most observant guy, so it’s . . . fine, probably? Hopefully? “Wanna try it?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Tim says, because he cannot possibly handle even the implication of putting his mouth on something Kon has put his mouth on. Like, ever.

Ever.

“You sure?” Kon asks, grinning slyly around his straw at him. “It’s pretty tasty.”

Tim is a very, very weak man.

“Maybe just a sip,” he says.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #young just us #young justice #rinfic #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon #long post

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ketchup-monthly · 1 year

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prompt S for the fandom ask because you have so many correct hcs and more people need to see them

S - Show us an example of your personal headcanon (prompts optional but encouraged)

The prompts for this one were pertaining to Lanterns (specifically Green Lanterns bc im obsessed and need help) and Kryptonians (specifically pertaining to physiology bc i have problems)

Kryptonians- -lets get into the weird kryptonian physiology. most of the time, people don't really notice the little things unless they look too closely, but kryptonians are just off enough that it freaks people out and they're a little wary of them. -kryptonians have an extra set of canines and their teeth are a bit longer and sharper than humans teeth. kryptonians have learned to talk and smile in ways that do not highlight those because its more than a little threatening when the 6'5" guy who is built like a brick house smiles widely and your prey senses activate. -their hair has a bluish tint, even kara's, which is blonde instead of black, so they frequently get asked (kon and kara at least) if their hair is dyed. -kryptonian eyes are weird as shit. those with blue eyes (really just clark and kara, who are pure kryptonians) are unnaturally blue and kinda creepy (kon has lex's green eyes and jon has lois's purple eyes). kryptonian eyes have a second eyelid that protects their eyes as well as opens when they use their various special visions. kryptonians cant see when theyre using their laser vision, but their eyes have the ability naturally to see ultraviolet and infrared light, so when they have their second eyelids open and are not using laser vision, they can see humans stripes! their second eyelids lubricate their eyes as well as protect them, so full kryptonians dont need to blink to lubricate their eyes. half kryptonians have to blink more than full kryptonians, but its still far less then humans do, about 3-4 times a minute instead of 15-20 times a minute on average. full kryptonians only blink about 1-2 times a minute, and mostly out of habit. they also have glowy eyes like cats when light hits them right -kryptonians dont need to breathe much, and sleep far less than humans because they derive energy from the sun. full kryptonians also dont really need to eat food, but they do so they can fit in, and half kryptonians need to eat almost more than humans do so they can fuel their kryptonian ability to absorb sunlight. -kryptonians dont have fingerprints like humans do. the tips of their fingers are completely smooth. their "fingerprints" are markings on their skin that are outside the spectrum of visible light that humans can see. -kryptonians have blood that is a darker purplish red, so they blush darker than humans do. they are also very warm to the touch like speedsters are since their blood absorbs and holds sunlight stores

Lanterns- -when lanterns power up, their eyes glow the color of their rings. you cant really tell with hal and kyle, who wear masks with white out lenses, bur john, guy, simon, jess, etc all have glowing green eyes. the lantern rings, when used for extended periods of time, and when worn over a long period of time, will gradually change the users body. before becoming lanterns, the characters have natural eye colors that they were born with, but after having worn their rings for a while, their normal eye color will shift to one closer to their lantern color. guys eyes change to a very pale green, hals to a green with gold sectoral heterochromia in his left eye, johns eyes become a hazel green, kyles were actually green to begin with, etc. carols eyes become a beautiful violet color. -use of the lantern rings will also dramatically alter the ageing of the user, and lanterns will begin having a hard time with their natural body rhythms since they move around through space so much with different time systems than their home planets. -The constructs that lanterns make have specific smells/tastes that they subconsciously choose. Hal’s constructs smell like pine sol, John’s smell like fresh cut grass, Guy’s green constructs smell and taste like rosemary and his red constructs smell and taste like hot sauce, Kyle’s constructs taste like green apple jolly ranchers, Alan’s taste like cucumber mint, Simon’s taste like lime, Jess’s smell and taste like cilantro, Keli’s taste like gamer fuel (mountain dew), Jo’s smell like new car -i think all green lanterns deserve to have a speedster friend but there arent enough speedsters who interact with GLs to go around :( anyway this is my petition for guy and bart to interact bc i think it'd be funny -hal and alan have the most tempestuous relationship (after guy and alan, i think, bc god the two of them are so different) but alan LOVES kyle and vice versa. kyle is like alans kid/grandkid depending on how old kyle is in relation to alan. -they basically all hate the guardians (except ganthet and sayd. kyle is ganthets little guy) -also literally none of them are straight. how can you be when not all aliens have male/female/boy/girl divides? aliens hot, man! -and most importantly, THEY ARE A FAMILY

#kryptonians #superfam #clark kent #kon el #kara zor el #jon kent #green lantern #lanternfam #hal jordan #guy gardner #john stewart #kyle rayner #other lanterns mentioned #ketchup answers

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mindshelter · 2 years

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on writing prompts: how bout timkon (platonic or romantic or the muddy in between they're laying in) + ttk shenanigans?

(also just wanted to say i loooove your timkon fics, they're the few i reread every so often bc the characterization and the dynamic you write for them Hits. hope you're having a lovely day!)

Hands slide up Tim’s face, large thumbs stroking his cheekbones in slow swoops. Water is still beading at the tips of his hair, gravity willing it downwards. The fog is clearing, heat sinking towards tiled flooring, but the temptation to sleep blurs the edges of his consciousness.

“Don’t fall asleep here,” Kon says, clearly attempting to sound stern—but Tim can imagine Kon’s scrunched-up grin even as his eyelids flutter and fatigue reduces the world to little more than a muted smear.

“Mm,” says Tim, head tipping forward. He hasn’t been able to afford a good night’s rest for nearly two months, rationing sleep on rooftops as a teammate kept watch or in the quiet of a fusty motel room close to their target, nodding off as a computer program dug up files like scraping char off a pot. Espionage work is as gratifying as it is long and soul-destroyingly boring. Being attacked from behind with a knife was the biggest highlight of the assignment aside from finishing it and going home.

The delicate pressure begins at Kon’s fingertips, wicking the excess moisture where they touch Tim’s skin. They slide upwards, smoothing back the clumps of hair clinging to his forehead. Tim shivers when Kon reaches the nape of his neck, gliding over an island of scar tissue. The nerves there are either semi-healed or beyond repair, oversensitive at some spots, numb at others, all overlaid with leather.

Kon had his palm laid over the small of his back and a smile against his mouth, the first time Tim let himself be touched like this. His hand had continued to meander before it gathered some courage to wander upwards. Unhurried and light, giving plenty of time for Tim to pull away. Tim had waited for the familiar feeling of insects crawling over him—but a hush had fallen inside of him.

Before he knows it, Kon is taking a step backwards. The distance is still short enough that Tim’s legs still flank either side of his hips.

“Is being able to sleep anywhere and everywhere part of spooky’s training regimen?” Kon asks, giving Tim’s hair another ruffle. “Alongside ‘how to hang upside down,’ intensive endurance, strength and martial arts training? Mastering the crabby grunt?”

Tim grunts.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Kon says, dragging out the first word. “I bet Bruce made you practice sleeping upside down, with all those bats in your cave. Stick with the theme, you know. My working theory is that it’s mandatory. Only after you’ve inhaled enough bat guano fumes to lose your mind—then you’re ripe and ready to hit the streets.”

“That’s just me, Conner,” Tim mumbles. And the repeated head trauma, probably.

Tim’s body lifts off the bathroom counter—and then the counter is upside down, as is everything else in the en suite. The bend of his knees dangle off of Kon’s outstretched arm, but it’s the TTK wound around him holding Tim steady. Tim yawns, but wraps his arms around himself in the best mimicry of the actual animal he can manage just to hear Kon laugh.

The things he does for love. “I am the night,” Tim says.

Kon chortles before flipping Tim back upright—Tim lands in his arms, and he rolls his eyes as Kon elbows the light switch and unceremoniously kicks the en suite’s door open to cross the short distance needed to reach Kon’s bed. It’s on the smaller side for two grown men, but Tim can’t say that he minds.

There are a few thin, faded strips of moonlight threading past the window curtains. Kon chose an East-facing room to get the most sun in the morning. The bedsprings squeak and whine as Kon drops their combined weight onto the mattress. TTK rearranges the duvet over their bodies while hands draw Tim in by the waist; Tim wriggles to nuzzle closer.

This kiss tastes of spearmint. Tim is sure Kon is listening for his pulse; he can hear it too, loud, steady, and just as well as the soft breaths Kon releases as Tim licks into his mouth. It’s perfect, even if Tim’s exhaustion is apparent in the way their teeth clack together.

Tim can’t see Kon properly in this darkness. But he traces Kon’s jaw, his browbone—indulges, luxuriates in the softness of Kon’s hair, the rise and fall of his chest, his golden heart—

“Missed you,” Kon murmurs once they break apart. Tim uses the last dredges of his energy to leave one more kiss between Kon’s eyebrows.

It’s so warm under the covers, his limbs tangled with Kon’s. Like they made their own hearth.

He never wants this to end.

Tim’s more than terrified that it might. (It will, part of him insists. He’ll come to his senses; it’s just a question of when.) Good things rarely last, and Kon won’t ignore the rot inside of Tim forever.

In the meantime—he’s happy, pursuing the indomitable challenge of being enough, and is entirely too selfish to walk away from this.

Kon’s happy too, Tim thinks; sadness always paralyzes him. Tim becomes volatile—and so, so angry—but Kon prefers to vanish, making himself scarce and quiet if he could wish himself away.

He’s been singing, lately—off-note, but Tim never says a thing. It’s only as it started happening again that Tim had realized it used to be a regular habit of his. His laughter is loud again, booming down hallways, no longer fearful of taking up space.

It’s Kon’s turn to yawn. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Tim says. “You,” he amends.

thank you for the prompt, anon! i had fun with it, and hopefully it’s to your liking. i think i adhered to the ttk theme enough dsksls <3

i’m accepting fic prompts; details here!

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #dc #my writing #heavily influenced by the fact that post-resurrection tim basically lets kon get away with anything #he has infinite patience for this guy now #fic requests

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muddshadow · 1 year

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✅🔒🌹for Yulei/Nara!

(-@tragicbackstoryenjoyer)

HUZZAH @tragicbackstoryenjoyer // character dynamic asks

— for Yulei and Nara, from my Godspawn trilogy

✅️ Who cares more about being right and winning the argument?

probably yulei. it's not that she MUST be right about something, she's perfectly capable of admitting to error (she is very prone to error), it's more like an obsessive tendency to explain her point of view. you don't have to agree, but you DO have to understand. also yulei typically has the stronger opinions and is much more vocal in general. nara in contrast is rather non-confrontational. he has an escort, espionage, and diplomatic history, so he's got QUITE the silver tongue, but overall he's very reserved and is first to say "whatever, fuck this" when things start getting turbulent.

🔒 Who's more guarded with their secrets and who is better at sharing them?

both of them are very guarded about their secrets, but in different ways. like mentioned above, nara has a long history of manipulating people to steal their secrets. so that's given him some trust issues lol. someone could ask what his favorite color is and he'd think, 'hm how will they use this information against me....' As for yulei, she grew up without any stability; watched a lot of friends die, has been abandoned by plenty more, has been homeless and wandering and alone for a big chunk of her life, and she’ll always be afraid of hurting people with her volatile magic (she’s done it before). for her, sharing secrets isn't worth the time and effort of plucking out a piece of heart. It takes both of them a long while to open up to others, but once they do, they're LATCHED ON. however, i think yulei would be the first one to spill. she's the braver one between them.

🌹 Who's the flirty one and who gets shy and flustered?

HM i could see this going both ways. Nara is the Flirty One in THEORY. he's a smooth-talker, crushingly aware of his attractiveness, and it was his job for several years to make people flustered. but nara also resents that part of his life because it's paired with a lot of bad memories, and so he associates coldness with flirting/sexual attraction/romance. nara flirting with someone he genuinely cares for translates to unabashed honesty. on the other hand, it's very difficult to fluster yulei. she's bold, mischievous, and fiercely adaptable, and she doesn't really take anything seriously. she's a casual flirt and doesn't notice doing it. anything INTENTIONALLY flirtatious, however, collapses into awkwardness. which makes for many oblivious moments between them (and kon the detective in the background like (-_-) )

#mud writes #ask mud #oc. yulei #oc. nara #i've been thinking about these two so much lately #their romance is very slowburn. they are smack dab in the middle of a god's final vengeance arc rn so finding time to kiss is difficult LOL #their story focuses on building their friendship and learning trust. the romance trickles along EVENTUALLY #but despite their razorblade cleverness these two are actually morons so it takes them a while to notice they're in love lmao #thank you kindly for the ask <3 #muddshadow #tragicbackstoryenjoyer

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griffle-musings · 2 years

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Drabble: Fear Gas Training (FTMWU)

TW/CWs: Fear Gas Exposure, Mentions of Anxiety, Disturbing Imagery, some body horror, bugs, Angst, Open/Ambiguous Ending, basically a "Hurt No Comfort" fic

Fandom: Batman (AU, of sorts)

Characters: Damian, OC (Jenna)

-An idea I had. Set in the Fly Through Universe, a couple of years past the original events. Probably won't make sense if not familiar with the AU, but tbh this is more of a writing practice for me. idk how good it is.

"This is boring."

"This is training."

"This doesn't make sense."

"It is Fear Gas endurance. We have to know the baseline. That's why it's part of training," Damian repeats to her, as if she's some drooling child. As much as she wants to roll her eyes and continue to complain, to argue, in the end he's right. It's hard to replicate what Fear gas truly feels like, and even if she wasn't training to be a vigilante, just being a Gotham citizen stands to be a risk. She gets it- honest.

She's older now, and now they're getting into the actual gritty aspects, the type of "yeah-this-totally-happens" aspects with actual, serious consequences. Case in point- Fear Gas exposure.

Apparently in the past, most just experienced it first time in the field, or under the impartial glare of B, but Dad then stepped in and said no, and wanted Damian to make the Robin's costume have a full mask with a built in rebreather, but then Dick stepped in and they all argued in circles and she had to step in and say how much it wasn't cute to have to wear a full mask. Robin was supposed to look friendly and not scary, which pleased Dick but not Dad. Damian then suggested Fear Gas training, which apparently B used to do, a lot, and then both Dick and Dad weren't pleased, and all three started arguing again, but the consensus was that Fear Gas training would be the best, and that it would be better if Robin got used to Fear Gas in an controlled environment, and not in the field.

So they're in the Cave, Damian having her inhale an older, lesser strand, to understand how it feels, to overcome it. And then afterwards she gets whisked away to Dad and Kon up in the family room and chill in a blanket fort with a bunch of blankets and pillows everywhere, and she's totally not a little kid, she's twelve, but- Kon is like a giant heated pillow and maybe, the teenist, tiniest part of her, kind of misses having cuddle time with Dad and Kon.

Currently, she's laying up on a mat in the training area, glaring as she waits for it to truly hit, with Damian cleaning his weaponry on a bench nearby. She wonders if this is what waiting to get high feels like. All impatience at wanting the actual experience to start.

"How much longer?"

"Twenty minutes in total, then the antidote," He switches to a worn cloth, smooth strokes over the steel. "You're at five minutes."

"I hate this," Jenna stares up at the ceiling. There's a pricking of something under her skin, though she's unsure if it's Fear Gas or just the general need of needing to see and catalog everything. "I hate this."

"Hatred is a coward's emotion," Damian absently intones.

"You know he just quoted that from some drivel that acrobat spoon fed him."

Her eyes veer to the image leaning against a stability pillar. It's so close to Damian, that Jenna knows it's only an apparition; otherwise she's positive she'll completely lose her damn mind if fucking Lenore is here, in the Cave.

She knows it's not real because Lenore would never wear what she's wearing in the Cave, much less be in a cave; she's dressed in one of her gala dresses; the white and silver one with the flair at the bottom but not the mermaid, hair in a chic bun, wearing her silver jewelry with the understated diamonds because she's "not a whore" so the overall effect makes her look like a diamond, pristine and dazzling. Timeless. Classic. Hard and lifeless to the very atom.

"Oh tell me how you really feel, sweetheart," Lenore sneers.

Jenna turns her head back to the shadowy mass of the ceiling. "You're not real," she sighs. "Go away."

"What?" She can hear Damian stop cleaning.

"I'm not going anywhere," Lenore says. "Your hapless mentor gave you the wrong vial, you little piece of trash, so now I have to be stuck with you." The words hisses and distorts, like a cartoon snake. Hazily, she watches it slip away into the shadows.

"No he did not." The chitter of bats overhead. She looks up, glaring at the unimpressed illusion. "No, he did not, you're just spouting anxious rhetoric." Overcome, Damian said earlier. That was what the exercise was all about. Or was it just about the experience?

"Jenna, are you seeing someone? Are you hearing someone?" Damian is getting up, standing, except everything is starting to feel completely unreal, the only pinpoint of reality is Lenore rolling her eyes as she stands in a pool of blood.

And, of course, the two evil red eyes that were behind Lenore. Giant, glowing eyes that seem to radiate evil. There's not blinking or twitching or anything, but just the blank, evil stare.

The Fear Gas is hitting harder than she thought.

"Check the vials again."

"What."

"Have him check the vials again," Lenore enunciates, just like she did to Dad, no- Father- no-

She groans, rolling over. There's a steady beat now, a dull, throbbing pain that follows in time with her heartbeat. Unsteadily she gets up, to try and stalk to the bench, but it's hard to avoid the rivers of blood and toxic green liquid criss-crossing the floor.

"There," she spits, shoving the vial in Lenore's face. "See?"

"Look again."

She looks at it, at the label, at the purple and blue band indicating that it's from a current batch.

Dully, she looks down at the other, the solid purple of the older strain mocking her eyes. Stupid trash, it says, hissing and wavering. Pathetic trash.

"Ah." Is all she gets out before her knees buckle, her bones deciding for, just a moment, to not exist right now.

Faintly, she hears Damian shout, loudly shouting, and maybe he goes to her only there's silver heels blocking him, the pointy kind. They look exactly like the type Lenore especially loved to ground the heel on top of her head.

"He gave you the wrong dosage," Lenore comments.

"Fuck you, he didn't." The eyeball in the blood seems to be judging her. "He didn't."

"You wouldn't have this reaction on an older strand," Lenore says, covering the faint but still close sound of someone shouting her name, and then someone else's. There's a bunch of strange shapes, writing under the Red Eyes.

"Remember? That time at the doctor?"

"No."

Now everything was Fear Gas green and tempered glass, dull and terrifying, and yet Lenore kept staring at her. Really, Lenore should keep her eyes to herself. They're falling out everywhere.

Oh wait no- they're spiders- balls of tiny white spiders, rolling around in the pooling blood that surrounds Lenore's feet.

The Red Eyes distressingly keep watching.

"A blocked memory is still a memory, and you may have shoved it back under the bed in your mind, but you learned under my hand of what happens when you don't remember. After all, you're resisting the toxin- you still have some of your tolerance. Even though it's less than what I could handle. I didn't collapse on the floor. I handled Fear Gas just fine," Lenore says, almost sympathetic, and much closer than before. She squints upwards, looking at the white and blonde being, the pure red eyes above. "I wouldn't be a pathetic mess on a cave's floor over a little bit of Fear Gas, like some useless piece of garbage. You're supposed to be better than this. You're supposed to be stronger. And you can't even handle Fear Gas."

"You really don't know how to shut up," she's sure of trying to say, but her tongue has become a roach and flown away. "Shit, I think I lost my tongue," she tries to say through the liquid copper in her mouth, staring at her old tongue scuttles away. "Can I get one that isn't a cockroach?" She asks Lenore, mostly to see the way the blank face wrinkle. Strangely, she doesn't feel afraid- or rather, the Fear is somewhere far away, something wild and howling and distant. She actually feels pretty numb. Reigned.

"No, you just bit off a piece of your inner cheek, my trash; it's rather impressive," Lenore says, not maliciously sweet but- neutral, like she would when she was pleased at the information Jenna would bring to her, a cat or dog bringing a carcass to their owner.

"Honestly we should've gotten a dog," Lenore absently replies, placing her heel on Jenna's head, making it roll on the ground underneath her foot, just like she used to. It weirdly feels like hands. "Would be less of a burden than you, be more useful than you, and Lord knows even the most dull-witted of beasts would be smarter than you-"

There's a dull throbbing in her head, her heart, her entire being. "Stoppit."

"Why would I?" Lenore inspects her talons, long, white gleaming things, with blood dripping at the end. The eyes keep staring. "All I am is just a figment of your brain. You're having a panic attack along with a massive dissociation episode, and your blood pressure is reaching hypertensive crises, if not- ah," Lenore pauses, and faintly, she can hear a beeping sound. "Looks like your systolic just hit 198. Not even 200," Lenore gives her a mocking look. "Really?"

"At least I have a heart," she snaps, but talking is actually hard right now, over the vague shittiness she feels and the thrumming of her blood in her chest. "I actually- don't feel good."

"Because your pressure is climbing to stroke levels," Lenore comments. "Also the antidote they gave you originally is reacting badly- your tolerance perhaps." Things aren't real, things are just sensation, reality is lying, with one moment being in the Apartment, the next in a tube and then in a medical bay, hooked up to machines. Lenore is peering at a grim faced Alfred, her red eyes glaring at the man. She blinks and there's eight of them. She blinks and all she sees are the eyes, but still she hears Lenore. "My word, this is who constitutes a doctor? The butler?"

"Shut up, shut up," she says, or perhaps it's more rasping, something is over her face, a mask, a claw, a hand that forces air in and out of her face. Her head turns and Lenore is still there. "You horrid woman, why can't you just shut up?"

Finally, Finally- Lenore is leaving, dissolving into little bits of foam and spider silk; in fact, everything is fading, even those awful evil eyes, blurring into void and she the last thing she registers is relief, relief that she doesn't have to listen or see or hear anything, at all.

----

It's not really waking as it's sudden cognizance.

One moment she is asleep, the next she's awake with full clarity.

Hands try and push her back down, and it takes several moments of her fighting the attacker before she realizes it's Damian. In the medical bay. She's in the medical bay.

"What?" And her mouth hurts.

"You had a bad reaction to the gas," he tersely replies, settling back down to the chair next to the medical bed. "You have stitches in your mouth, as you bit off a piece of your inner cheek. You were sedated, for a bit." He pauses. "Only sedation. No painkillers."

She can read between the lines- she's been reading between the lines. No painkillers because they were worried about another adverse reaction.

She massages her brow, trying to lessen the band of pressure around her skull so she can think. She remembers Lenore, and the spider symbolism; she vaguely remembers someone screeching, possibly her. Her head throbs in a band around her head, but also in a specific part of her skull, like she back-headbutt into a pole.

Cautiously she touches the back of her skull, wincing at the sharp pain it brings. But there's only a sense of tackiness, with no tell tale feel and sensation of an open wound. Jenna looks over at Damian.

"B went to grab you and you head-backed him so hard you smashed his nasal bone and made slight hairline fractures on his maxilla. Your skull is perfectly fine, your stubborn girl," he says with a hint of a smile, and she can feel a faint throb on the back of her head, but she can't remember that.

A pen and notepad are slipped into her hands. "Write down all you remember," Damian requests, and there's an urgency that makes her look down, any flicker of rebellion dying out.

She writes the truth, as much as she knows; it won't do her any good to hold back, and Damian tends to be more impartial than Dad, especially with Lenore. Perhaps it's because Damian knows how it is to love and fear a supposed beloved adult, and the repercussions if you show that fear.

It's quiet as he reads her writings; actually it's very much like a report. Perhaps one of her first ones. How embarrassing she absently thinks. Her first report is not about stopping a heist or solving a case, but her own body betraying her and causing a scene.

His gaze is flat, closed off as he reads; he's hiding something, and he's displeased about something, and usually she could figure it out but her head is throbbing. Carefully, she rests back and closes her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Damian pauses. For a moment, it's only the sounds of the Cave, the MedBay, before he shifts. She doesn't open her eyes.

He leans forward, and touches the blanket near her hand. He doesn't touch her and yet she feels herself wince away.

"We're in the process of innovating the rebreathers so we can talk once we have them in," Damian says. "And a new protocol for mandatory usage for Arkham break-outs." The hand moves away, the pressure disappearing. "For the meantime- rest. Tomorrow will be light practice. Drake and the rest of your parents will be in shortly."

#FTMWU #writing exercise #drabble #jenna oc #damian wayne #batman #fanfic

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medicalwarrior · 5 years

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"Hey Sakura, you mind holdin' something for me?" Kon asked, as he slipped his fingers between hers, squeezing gently once they're woven between each other.

@maddmuses

「サクラ」

　　　　“Hm? Oh, yeah, sure.” She said when he suddenly just put his hand in hers. “Oh...” she let out a laugh. “Okay, that was smooth I’ll admit. You nerd.”

#maddmuses #v;;Modern Cherry Blossoms #subverse;;Super Healer #❀サクラは話せ。(Sakura speaks)

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mamawasatesttube · 1 year

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timkon for “Please don’t do this.”?? :))))

It's a scene from Tim's worst nightmares, come to life.

The Time Trapper. Superboy-Prime. Back in their dimension, hell-bent on exacting his revenge on everyone who "scorned him" for being misunderstood. The havoc and destruction he wreaks everywhere he goes are bad enough, but they're not the thing striking true terror, frigid and fierce, into Tim's bones.

"How much time do we have?" Kon asks, watching the red smear in the clouds grow larger. His arms are folded across his chest; his jacket shimmers with starlight, his eyes aglow against the inky black of the night sky.

Dread roots Tim to the spot.

"About three minutes," Cyborg reports, his voice taut even over comms. "We need at least ten."

Kon nods, more to himself than anything. Tim can see the determination in the set of his jaw, knows exactly what he's going to say before he can even open his mouth.

He knows innocent lives are at stake, so very many. He knows it's bigger than just the two of them. He knows, and yet—

His hand moves on its own, grabs a desperate fistful of Kon's jacket. "Please don't do this," he begs, and hates himself for it, because they both already know it's the only way. He needs to be a cape right now, a strategist, a hero, but the terror clawing up the inside of his chest belongs merely to Tim, a man who can't bear the idea of losing his beloved. Not again.

Kon looks down at him so tenderly Tim's heart hurts. He can't do this again, he thinks; it broke him before and it'll shatter him now. But Kon smiles at him—the sky is growing redder and the air already smells of smoke and Cyborg and Oracle need another ten minutes before the motherbox trap can be sprung, and Kon smiles anyway.

"You're not losing me this time, Rob," he says. The leather of his glove is smooth against Tim's cheek as Kon's thumb caresses along the lower edge of his mask. "Promise. It's just ten minutes—this chump won't know what hit him."

He leans in, presses a gentle kiss to Tim's forehead; his lips are warm and soft against Tim's skin. Tim's eyes are wide behind his mask. He has to get a grip, he knows; he's normally so much more levelheaded than this, he needs to keep his head screwed on straight if he's going to be useful at all out here, he... he can't be a distraction, he can't get Kon hurt—

"I'll give you a proper kiss when I get back," Kon tells him, and somehow even flashes a grin. "See? Now I have to come back to you safe 'n' sound."

Distantly, some horrible part of Tim is already packaging and processing that into the grief he doesn't want to drown in again. He can just picture himself falling to his knees by Kon's broken body, again, shaking him and demanding he wake up, that he promised he'd kiss him when they saw each other again—he can already feel the shards of that broken promise cutting into his heart and he hates himself for that, too.

"You'd better," he tells Kon. His voice, at least, comes out steady this time. "I—"

He can't even bring himself to joke. To tease and tell Kon or else I'll find someone else to cosplay Star Trek with next summer, or anything stupid like that. On any other day, in any other battle, with any other opponent, sure.

But today?

He cups Kon's face in his hands, draws him in, presses their foreheads together. Tries to convince himself he isn't saying goodbye. "Be careful, clone boy."

"I will." Kon gives his shoulders a quick squeeze, still smiling at him. Tim doesn't know how he does it. It's one of the many things he'll never be able to stop admiring about him; the thought makes his heart lurch.

And then Kon is tapping a finger to his comm again, as that blood-red streak in the sky draws nearer, and Tim desperately tries to find his usual levelheadedness somewhere deep beneath all the panic, all the instincts clamoring at him to keep Kon safe. He has to make himself useful.

"I can buy you that time," Kon tells Cyborg. "I'll hold him off until you're ready."

The comm crackles again as Vic answers, but Tim hardly registers it. He's too busy watching Kon shoot up into the night sky, his silhouette dark against the stars.

♥ angst/fluff prompts ♥

#hmmm i dont know that i like how this one turned out but ah well #its kinda melodramatic but i mean....... if any situation calls for that i guess this is one huh #i DONT like wooby tim i just like putting him in situations i hope the distinction is evident skjdhfkjds #timkon #tim #kon #rimi writes #nightmareinfloral

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