#non consensual drug use

[wildlife4life]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @exhuastedpigeon @spotsandsocks @spaceprincessem @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings and @daffi-990. You are all so wonderful and I cannot wait for all your upcoming works! Mwha!

Super excited for todays snippet share. Not only is it from NFL Buck, but I have finally got to work on one of the best scenes from the show itself. Dosed! So I present to you, LSD Eddie (and Ravi!) Enjoy!

The pollen is just so pretty. Glimmering in the beams of sunlight and making beautiful dance moves. Eddie knows how to dance.  He’s tried teaching Buck a few times, but for a man who’s footwork is so flawless on the field, he has two left feet when it comes to moving them to a beat. Eddie doesn’t care though. He loves to dance with Buck because he smiles so big and bright and oh, he laughs so loud that it vibrates Eddie’s entire being. He wishes he could dance with Buck now, show him how the pollen moves and see his boyfriend glimmer among it. Tears burn in the corner of Eddie’s eyes and for what seems like the 100th time today, he rubs at them. “Man allergies are going crazy today.” Eddie lies because he can’t tell the others he’s crying over his secret boyfriend. “Yea you too huh?” Ravi remarks next to him. Okay, now Eddie thinks it may be allergies and not the thought of his too beautiful Buck. “The index wasn’t elevated this morning.” Probie relays, “Think it’s a new kind?” “New kind of what?” Eddie is really confused now. “Pollen.” Ravi responds. Can Ravi see the pollen too? Oh god, can he read Eddie’s mind?! He looks away from the younger firefighter and at his hands, hoping it would keep the kid out of his inner thoughts. Whoa, now the pollen is weaving its way between his fingers, making them tingle. “A new kind of pollen?” Chimney questions from across them. “You’re not feeling this Chim?” How could he not? It is everywhere, seeping into every pore of his skin. Eddie peeks at Ravi, whose eyes are drifting around the truck cabin.  Ravi can see it, Eddie isn’t alone. Chimney gives him an odd look, “No I do not.” He answers. Eddie looks out the window, sees more glittering puffs twirling in the wind, “I can see the pollen.” “I can hear it.” Ravi comments. And oh! That’s what that sound is! The pollen sounds just like Christopher and Buck’s laughter. It’s wonderful.

Hehehe. I am having so much fun writing this, especially since I have the dosed clip pretty much on repeat. Anywho, hope you all enjoyed! Everything NFL Buck can be found here.

Tagging (no pressure): @wikiangela @lover-of-mine @disasterbuckdiaz @jamespearce9-1-1 @athenagranted @eddiescowboy @rainbow-nerdss @evanbegins @elvensorceress @jesuisici33 @giddyupbuck @malewifediaz @hippolotamus @thewolvesof1998 @911onabc @911-on-abc @bekkachaos @loserdiaz @hoodie-buck @try-set-me-on-fire @theotherbuckley @ladydorian05 @bigfootsmom @watchyourbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @thekristen999 @shortsighted-owl @spagheddiediaz @monsterrae1 @rogerzsteven @eowon @princessfbi @honestlydarkprincess @vampbuckley @bitchfacediaz @buck-coded @housewifebuck @glorious-spoon @buddierights @prosperdemeter2 @gayedmundodiaz @lemonzestywrites

#wip wednesday #tag game #my wip #911 show #911 abc #911 on abc #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #evan buckley #eddie diaz #chimney han #ravi panikkar #nfl #dosed #non consensual drug use #lsd #pollen #hallucinations #eddie diaz can dance #buck cannot dance #high eddie #high ravi #quarterback buck #firefighter eddie #secret relationship

[tadalyme]

whumptober, day 2

There are many things Finnick Odair is good at. He's good at swimming, good at fighting, good at making knots. Good at baking decently tasty bread. He's also very good at pretending.

It's a skill he's honed throughout his whole life, ever since he was a little child. Pretending that he likes his mother's vegetable casserole. Pretending that he's completely fine when his father leads him to Mags’s house, his hand held in a forceful, painful grip, and proclaims in his booming voice that it would be the greatest honour for his son to train for the Games, right, boy? Pretending that he isn't scared to die and to kill.

Pretending that all the things that are done to his body on a regular basis aren't happening to him.

It’s somewhere past three at night and Finnick is sore and extremely dizzy and in the backseat of a car, coming back from his client. He’s in a car, because despite being just a District whore, he's an expensive one. President Snow doesn’t want anyone else to harm his investments. At least, not anyone not paying.

He’s just glad that it was the only appointment for today, because the guy, a flamboyant man in his thirties, a grandson or a nephew or a step-son of one of the influential Gamemakers, wanted to spice things up a bit in his sex life and made him swallow some colourful tablets before the act itself.

Well, it certainly spiced things up for Finnick, though probably not in a way the man intended to. He spent the whole time hearing the colours, and tasting the sounds, and seeing the images from his past and present all mixed up together.

The man was pounding into him and moaning and exclaiming something animated and probably over-the-top sexual in his shrill voice, but all Finnick could think about were the glistening in the sun tridents and spears and knives, and faces of the dead children, and his late father and ill mother and disappointed sister, and, for some reason, the Capitol's latest obnoxious vogue of inserting precious gemstones into their skin.

He desperately wanted to cry, so he laughed frantically, and he wanted to push the man away from him, too overstimulated, so he willed his muscles to relax.

The lights of the never-sleeping party area of Capitol fly by dizzyingly behind the window and Finnick has to lean onto it in an attempt not to puke. It's got a bit better in the past half hour, but the thoughts are still floating around his brain like dozens of little brightly-coloured butterflies. It’s hard to properly grasp any of them in a sticky daze of disorientation, though.

The car stops near the entrance to the Tribute Centre and he staggers out, swaying on his feet and almost ending up on the pavement. His limbs finally rearrange themselves in the correct order after a few moments and he musters a lazy salute with only some of his usual flourish to the back of the driving away car.

Still performing, even now. Gods, what a mess.

He doesn't know how exactly he reaches the elevator, but he does and the numbers swirl a bit in his eyes before settling down properly on the buttons.

He remembers well the first time he was here.

The thing is, he wasn’t even supposed to participate in the Hunger Games that year. That questionable honour was supposed to go to Jacob Maren, not yet eighteen, but the oldest among the trainees.

Instead, Dorothea, their escort, gracefully put her powdered hand with baby-blue nails, that matched her enormous wig, and pulled out his, Finnick's, name. There was a bit of a standstill after that - Jacob locking eyes with him across their separate pens. Should he volunteer, should he not. Finnick was too young yet but still a Career. In the end, Jacob stayed silent.

Just as well, thought Finnick, pushing through the crowds to the stage and already putting on a brilliant wide smile, I've trained for this, I can win, it'll be easy.

He knows now what his dumb, arrogant younger self didn’t understand back then - that even if you manage to become a victor, the only one who ever wins the Games is the Capitol.

Jacob did go the following year and died to a back-stabbing One girl. And Finnick has spent three years cursing that day and all that led to it.

Gods above, it has only been three years, hasn’t it? It feels much longer than that, so far away, so long ago. Almost like ancient history.

He did kind of make history with that one, didn’t he? The youngest Victor ever. A fat lot of good that did for him.

Fourth floor. He practically falls out of the elevator, only managing to catch onto the wall at the last moment.

Mags, curled up on the couch, perks up at the sound of sliding doors. In the dim lighting of the lounge her silver hair looks like a halo above her head. Ironic. It makes him burst out in a fit of hysterical high-pitched laughter. One would have to completely lose their marbles to call the woman an angel. An angel of death, at best. Some forget it, but she also killed in her Games, the same as all of them. And she's led enough kids to their deaths in the following years. He loves Mags with his whole heart, but she's no saint.

Mags always waits for him on appointment nights. He wishes she didn't see him like this, wishes no-one saw him like this and often snaps at her, but she only tuts in disapproval and keeps doing it. Despite his temper tantrums, he's glad she does.

Mags looks him over and frowns and he's sent down the rabbit hole of memories again.

They approach him the next day after he turns sixteen. The two of them look grim and apologetic and he doesn't know what to make of it.

‘I’m sorry, Finnick, I’m so sorry about what's probably going to happen,’ Mags says and lets out a sigh, sorrowful and tired and world-weary, and he, in a rare moment, is reminded of how old Mags really is, ‘Just… Remember that you can always talk to me, no matter what.' She inclines her head a bit, gesturing at her companion, ‘Or to Delia, if you need someone who truly gets it.'

Delia, who is wringing her hands half a step behind Mags, and looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, glances at him and gives him a bleak, perfunctory nod. He doesn’t know why he would need to or want to talk to her, but anyway it’s quite unlikely that he will take her up on this offer.

Finnick knows Delia, of course he does. Delia, a constantly nervous, twitchy Victor in her forties, teaches knife-throwing, and knife-stabbing, and other knife-related skills to the trainees and has never seemed to be a particular fan of long conversations. She's communicated with them mostly with sharp nods and half-aborted, jittery gestures, always looking on edge and shaky.

Her hands have never ever shaken with a blade in them, though.

Then, he gets the summons to the annual post-Victory tour party and President Snow asks to speak with him in his office after. He's told in detail what he's expected to do, now that he's finally sixteen, and what will happen if he doesn't.

Oh.

Oh.

That's what that meant.

His first appointment with a client is the next day and it's the beginning of the end.

His sister screams at him a few months later, when he returns from one of his trips to the Capitol, ‘They don’t care about you, you stupid boy! Why won’t you understand that! Why the Hell do you keep going there?’

But it’s her who doesn’t understand, who could never understand. He can’t tell Carolyn, he can’t, not just because he doesn’t want her to know what he does, but because he’s not allowed to.

President Snow was quite straightforward about what would happen to his ill mother and his sister with her husband and their baby twins, if he were to tell anyone, even them, anything. So he keeps quiet and let them think the worst of him. The same thing that everyone else does.

(Other than his fellow victors, who are all aware of the work he and the ones like him are made to do, the only person who doesn’t look at him with badly concealed disgust, or jealousy, or fake friendliness, or lust in Four is Annie Cresta. Her eyes (also sea-green, though a few tones lighter than his own) only ever look at him with sympathy and pity these days. He would have absolutely hated being looked at like that not long ago, but now it’s just so goddamn refreshing. He used to find her annoying with her righteousness and softness when they trained to be careers together, thought her weak and kind of cowardly, but maybe there is actually nothing wrong with gentleness and timidity, he ponders.

Of course, it’s hopeless, getting used to even such a small thing. Annie Cresta is a Career. She will go into the Games soon. In a couple of years she will likely be dead.)

Mags approaches him slowly, telegraphing all her movements clearly, trying not to spook him. He must look bad, because she checks his temperature with a hand on his forehead. From her pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows he gathers that it’s not very good.

'What, doctor, am i dying yet?' he ironizes.

'Well, you certainly don't look too lively, boy,' she snaps back,'Sit down, I'll be right back.'

She lets him settle on the couch and leaves to fetch her first-aid kit. They’re not allowed to bring any pills to the Tribute centre, so as to not let tributes get anywhere near them, but she has some other basic supplies. Luckily, today they are no flesh wounds to patch up.

She comes back with a thermometer in her hand. And that’s what sends him over the edge and into hysterical tears, the goddamn thermometer. It’s an old-fashioned but trusty mercury thermometer, very common back in Four, but considered obsolete by Capitol standards.

Finnick, having been many times in the local medical over the past year and a half to get patched up after rough encounters with clients, is intimately familiar by now with Capitol’s high-tech, reliably produced in Three.

She waits a bit before his sobs and shaking subside, finally takes his temperature and asks,'You're burning up. What on earth happened to you?'

'He gave me something, I don't know what,' Finnick replies reluctantly and watches her face twist and her arms cross on her chest. She's staring at him pointedly.

'Do we really have to?' he groans,'I'm almost fine by now. You're only wobbling a bit in my eyes.'

'Come on, up you go,' she pulls him up, surprisingly strong for a seventy-year-old, and leads him to his room, to the bathroom. She walks out again and returns with a glass and a closed water bottle.

She fills the glass with tap water and makes him drink it again and again and then throw up, repeating and repeating it until there's nothing left in his stomach at all.

Then she hands him the water bottle, lightly shoves him in the direction of the needlessly overcomplicated shower and exits.

When he finally emerges into his room he's almost feeling like himself again. Mags is still there, leaning on the frame of his bed. He finds some clothes to sleep in and drops next to her. She hums softly and smooths his hair out, running her fingers through his wet curly locks.

She's been much gentler with him since his Games, but she's taken a fancy to him a long time ago.

He was a bit of a troublemaker as a child, like little boys so often are, always sneaking away to the creek to play on the wet rocky shores, or trying to catch fry with his bare hands, or diving from the pier to see how long he could hold his breath, generally making his mother exasperated. He showed up at home in the late afternoon tired but joyful after a day of exploring with a wide toothless grin, seaweed in his hair and damp dirty patches on his knees.

His father didn’t like that much. So at a ripe old age of seven he’s dumped on Mags’s doorstep, who looks at his father weirdly over Finnick’s head and then takes a look at him, slowly lowers down to his eye-level and grasps his tiny hand with her veiny, old-woman one. ‘Well, well, well, what are we going to do with you, little one?’

She's never been cruel to any of the trainees, definitely not, but she wasn't particularly warm-hearted either. She was kind, but also stern and strict, like a proper trainer. He knows that it's because, despite all the preparations, most of them would die in their Games. She didn't really believe that he would win his Games either.

But he survived and she became more willing to show her affection for him after that. And to him, she, the person who practically raised him, instead of his distant mother and constantly angry father, has always felt the most like a real family, even when she acted all grumpy.

He drifts to sleep, relaxing under the silent watch of the only person in the world he fully trusts.

#whumptober2023 #no.2 #thermometer #delirium #“They don’t care about you.” #hunger games #fic #not graphic non-con #forced prostitution #non consensual drug use #other thg-typical warnings #oh gods how do i tag on here #finnick odair #mags flanagan

[kybercrystals94]

You Can Trust Me

By KyberCrystals94

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2023|Day 2|Prompt:Delirium

Bad Things Happen Bingo|Prompt:Mind Games

Rating: T

(CW: non consensual drug use)

Words: 1,282

Summary: Captured and drugged, Tech struggles to grasp reality.

TECH

General Skywalker’s voice calls over the din of blaster fire, “Tech, open that door for Rex!”

“Yes, sir!” Tech responds instantly, darting across the open to the sealed entrance. After a moment, Rex is at his shoulder, exchanging rounds with the enemy, covering Tech as he splices into the system. This feels familiar, Tech thinks distantly, the door sliding open at his hacked instruction.

Tech scans the room. This is where the signal came from. Echo has to be here, if there is any physical form of Echo to find at all. Tech approaches a large cylindrical contraption inset within the wall, sleek and awful. Familiar...why is this familiar? His scan shows that something warm-blooded and alive is tucked inside. A heavy, knotted thing forms in his stomach. “I don’t like the look for this. I’m definitely picking up a life-form in there. It seems to be a stasis chamber.”

Rex approaches the device like it might lash out. Tech cannot see the reg captain’s facial expression because of the helmet, but his body language practically screams trepidation.

Tech goes to the controls, glancing over them briefly to familiarize himself. “I think I can get it open.” His mind processes faster than even his fingers can move, but within seconds, the chamber is hissing as it unseals, icy vapor billowing from the now open hatch. A figure falls forward, grey – almost bloodless – skin stretched thin over sharp bones. Despite his shrunken structure, familiar clone eyes stare out, open but unseeing, flitting rapidly.

Echo...Tech thinks, horror stuttering his thoughts. I know him...he’s my friend. Why do I know him?

Rex’s voice rallies Tech back. The man is holding Echo stable so that his body isn’t pulling against the tubes and wires literally latched into the broken frame of their brother. “Tech, we got to get him out of here. Figure out how to unplug him from...from this mess!” Rex is lowering Echo to the ground, holding him in his arms, whispering words Tech can’t hear.

But Tech wants to comfort Echo too, feels as though he needs to rush to his side, hold him companionably as Rex is doing now. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it happened. I didn’t know Echo before Skako Minor...I shouldn’t remember this. It hasn’t happened yet. Something is wrong.

Suddenly, Echo is gasping, eyes now seeing but wild with panic. It sounds like he’s suffocating.

“What’s happening to him?” Rex cries, pulling Echo up against him, “Do something, Tech! What is wrong with him?”

Tech falls next to them with his med scanner, his hands are shaking so badly he can barely get a reading. Echo is dying. His body is shutting down. He isn’t going to make it.

No...this isn’t what happened. This isn’t how it happened! Echo is fine. He’s going to join the Batch, he’s going to be my brother...he can’t die.

Echo’s frantic gaze meets Tech’s, a single tear tracking down the ashen skin of his cheek. “Tech,” he gasps, the word barely taking shape in his shallow, choking breaths. “It’s going to be okay. Can you hear me, Tech?” The words are garbled but distantly clear, like hearing a voice through water. “Tech?”

Tech shakes his head. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. This shouldn’t be happening.

With one last, gargled breath, Echo says, “Tech,” and his body goes still.

Tech reaches out, but he can’t bring himself to touch the dead form of his friend, his brother, his confidant. This isn’t right. We saved him. We saved him!

ECHO

The cell door is easy to hack, almost an insult to security systems, but Echo doesn’t have time to relish the ease with which he scomps in and undoes the lock. The door opens and Echo steps inside. He instantly finds Tech, curled in the corner, arms folded over his face protectively.

Echo taps his comm. “Hunter, I found Tech. Sending our location now. I’ll need help getting him back to the Marauder.”

Echo doesn’t wait for a response, rushing to his youngest brother. He kneels and puts a hand on Tech’s arm. “Tech,” he says, alarmed when his voice causes Tech to flinch and pull away from his touch. “It’s going to be okay. Can you hear me, Tech? Tech?” As gently as he can, he pries Tech’s arms away from his face. “Tech,” he says again when he sees that Tech’s eyes are open, his face frozen in an expression of displacement.

Tech’s eyes gloss over him with a look of stricken uncertainty. “Echo?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Echo says, pulling off his helmet. “Are you alright? Do you remember what happened?”

Tech doesn’t seem to hear him or comprehend the question. He scrambles to a sitting position, reaching out his hands. Echo resists the urge to recoil in surprise when Tech begins to trace his face with trembling fingers. Then they fall to grip Echo’s cuirass. “You’re really here?” Tech breathes the question on an exhale, his familiar tone tattered with fraught emotion.

“I’m here, brother,” Echo says, resting his flesh hand against the back of Tech’s neck, pulling him forward until their foreheads press together.

“You’re real?” Tech reiterates, the words barely audible.

But Echo hears them. “I’m real. You’re safe.”

Tech’s resolve crumbles then, and he begins to sob, clutching to Echo like Echo will simply melt away if he lets go. “I’m sorry,” Tech cries. “I’m so sorry.”

Echo moves his arms around Tech, embracing him, holding him steady. He hushes him soothingly. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. Hunter should be here soon, and we’ll go back to the Marauder. We’ll get off this karking planet and never come back.”

Tech nods, tears leaking from under his goggles, and Echo holds him tighter. He hopes that Tech can’t feel the thunder of his heart under his armor. He isn’t sure what the drug made Tech see or believe, but what if there is residual damage even after they flush the toxin from his system? PTSD doesn’t sit well with the Kaminoans. While the Batch has done a decent job of hiding Echo’s…what if Tech’s is different?

Don’t think like that. Tech hasn’t even been treated yet, he reminds himself.

“Here,” Echo says, pulling back, but Tech clings to him almost aggressively, refusing to loosen his grip for even a moment. “Let’s sit against the wall. We’ll be more comfortable.”

Tech considers, breaths still hitching in gasps. “Yes,” he agrees after a moment, allowing Echo to shift and sit beside him. Once Echo has settled, Tech burrows under his arm. He feels smaller, somehow, in this state. Like a child. It reminds Echo of Ashoka, back when she would find herself tucked into Rex’s side after a particularly difficult mission.

“How’re you feeling,” Echo asks when he notices that Tech’s breathing has evened out a little.

Tech pushes himself impossibly closer into Echo’s side. Echo can’t imagine it’s comfortable with his cybernetics and armor jammed against Tech’s ribs; however, maybe that is the grounding Tech needs to know that this is real. “I don’t understand,” Tech says in a soft voice, “On Skako Minor...I couldn’t save you. You died. How are you here?”

“But you did save me, vod’ika,” Echo says gently, “I’m okay. I’m here and I’m real. You were captured and given a drug that causes hallucinations and extreme emotional distress. It’s taking your memories and contorting them.”

Tech shudders. “Then how do I know this is real?”

Echo considers for a moment. “Because I know it is, and you can trust me, Tech’ika. Everything is going to be okay.”

END

End Notes:

vod'ika = little sibling

Tech'ika = affectionate nickname for Tech (like saying 'Little Tech')

#Whumptober 2023 #day 2 #prompt 2 #delirium #bad things happen bingo #mind games #fanfiction #star wars #the bad batch #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #the clone wars #echo #arc trooper echo #tbb echo #tbb fanfic #star wars tbb #sw tbb #tbb tech #whump #hurt/comfort #non consensual drug use #fics by kyber

[italiansteebie]

I'll Cry If I Want To

TW// This involves drug use, rape, and other heavy topics that relate to those. Please do not read if this is going to affect you or your mental health negatively.

Eddie didn’t want to be here. 

He hated house parties, and he especially hated Tommy Hagan who just happened to be hosting the party. He was only here because Hagan wanted him to deal, and who was he, poor trailer trash, to pass up a night that was guaranteed to be fiscally beneficial. 

He hadn’t been doing the whole “party” thing. He mainly milled about and watched as party goers drank themselves sick, or basically had clothed sex on the couch. He also kept an eye on Harrington. Why? He couldn’t tell you. 

After the mall burned down… He seemed different. Hell, he had to be. The Buckley girl would’ve spit in his face in the past, but here they are at Hagan’s party, drinking and laughing and being… Super normal about it. 

Eddie didn’t think Steve was Robin's type but, hey. He’s been wrong before. 

—-

It was later in the night, he’d made 300 bucks, pretty good, considering that he’d only sold about an ounce. This was emotionally intensive, he marked the price up considerably. 

He’d only sold weed, nothing stronger. 

Which is odd, because Harrington was stumbling around the hall, pupils blown wide, mumbling to himself incoherently. 

“Hey, Harrignton. You alright, buddy?”

He watched as Steve’s head snapped up.

“Rob, Robin. She’s gonna be right back. Rob- Bobin,” He giggled to himself. And Eddie thought back to when he got a secret nod from the girl as she headed out the door with another girl with cropped black and purple hair. He remembers thinking ‘ah, so I was right,’ and that was about an hour ago. 

He shakes himself out of his thoughts, “No, Stevie, she’s gone.” Stevie? When the hell did that happen? Whatever. Another thought for another time. Right now, Steve looked high out of his mind. 

“Gone? No- We. I got her out. She- Not. She’s gone?” 

And Eddie could see the panic attack from miles away. 

He grabbed Steve’s jaw gently, focusing him. 

“No, not gone. She left the party. With that girl. Remember?”

And that seemed to calm him down, but Eddie knew he had to get the guy into a bed, somewhere he could rest, get some sleep. So he hoisted the guy up, “C’mon, Stevie. I’m taking you home.” He narrated, grunting as he lifted Steve. Steve sighed. “M’kay. Jus- uhh.” He was slurring worse now, whatever he took was hitting, in fall force. Eddie watched as he smacked his lips, “Just, mmmm. Make sure to use a lot of lube. N’ver had… A guy b’fore.” And that made Eddie freeze. 

What the fuck did Steve think Eddie was about to do? Did he- No. Eddie shook his head, he had to get this guy out of here. 

He’d made it to the door, when he was stopped by a girl with long black hair. “Uh, excuse me. There’s an order, kay? Freak.” She scoffed, smacking her gum, motioning to the various people in their little audience. Eddie blanched, what the fuck kind of- “What?” He said dumbly.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Look, freak. There’s a system, everyone gets their turn with him, but I’m. First.” She said, yanking Steve’s hand, making his head roll, and doped up smile on his face. “What the fuck are you talking about? Are you- You’re serious? Is. Is that why he’s like this?” And the dots started connecting. 

The girl was still watching him, bored. “It goes like this, kay. We give him the stuff, he gets high, and we get off. Look, I knew you were a freak but, I didn’t know you were stupid.” Eddie felt like he was going to pass out. The whole “king Steve” thing was based on his willingness to get drugged and passed around like a fucking joint. Even for him, that’s fucked up. And he’s seen a lot of shit, okay? 

“I’m gonna make you a compromise, I’ll give the rest of my supply, for free, if I can take him for the night.” It would deplete his supply and he’d be in debt with Rick but… He had to get Steve out. Now.

The girl lit up. 

“Alright! He always cries after anyways. Really ruins the mood.”

She releases her grip on Steve and takes the weed from Eddie’s lunch box, which he’d been holding out as an offering. “C’mon, Stevie. Let’s go home.”

Steve giggled, “You’re prettyyyy.” He reached a hand towards Eddie’s face, booping him on the nose. “Boop.” Eddie tried not to laugh, it was a rather serious moment, but Steve was being cute. Cute? Eddie please, he scolded himself. 

—--

It was a bit of a struggle, but he finally got Steve back to the trailer. Recruiting Wayne to help him get the guy to the couch, with a promise of explanation once he was settled.

Once inside, Wayne patted Eddie on the back. “Alright, kid. Tell me what happened.” And so Eddie launched into the story, Wayne looking about as sick as Eddie felt. “Let's let him sleep. Leave a bucket and some tylenol on the coffee table for him. He’ll probably freak out when he wakes up. Be gentle, Kid.” Wayne pulled Eddie in for a hug. “You get some sleep too. I gotta get to my shift. Love ya, kid.” 

“Love you, Wayne.”

—--

Steve woke up considerably more cozy than he usually does after a party. Especially one where he gives in to drinking the random cups that were shoved into his hands. Whoever was last had put his pants back on, which was nice. They usually don’t do that. 

He groaned as he shifted, pausing when he heard movement in the kitchen. “You’re up.” It was a male voice. Shit. It was always so awkward when the dads found him. “I’ll get out of your hair. Just gimme a minute, please.” His voice came out weak. 

“You don’t have to leave just yet. Let yourself wake up. I made breakfast.” Curly hair comes into view, and a pop tart is set on the coffee table next to some tylenol. He takes in the guy's face. “Munson? But I-.” He blushes harshly. “But I’m not… Sore.” He motions to his lower region. Steve watches as Eddie’s face turns into one of disgust. “No, man. I know I’m a freak, but I’m a freak with your consent. Always.” Steve shook his head, “I- I didn’t think you were a freak, you just like that stupid game- But. Why. Why am I here?” 

Does Steve know about DND? No way. So king Steve has layers, huh? 

“I uh. I found you in the hall. It was probably like, fifteen minutes after they slipped you the drug. You were looking for Robin Buckley.” 

A look of tentative recognition crossed Steve’s face. 

“Did. Did you see who?”

Eddie nodded. “I don’t think anyone else saw her. Don’t worry.” He watched as relief spread across his face. “How long… Has this happened to you, Steve?” 

“I don’t know. Too long, I guess. The first time… I was scared out of my mind but, it got me friends. Friends who kept me… Company.” Steve shook his head. Eddie mirrored him, “They had no right to do that to you, Steve.”

“It was really the first time I felt… Useful. So I stopped trying to fight it. I thought that’s what love was but then I met Nancy, which turned out to be. Bullshit, I guess. And so I let them do it again. I figured it was what I was good for.”

Eddie felt his heart crack in two. “Steve…”

“It’s okay. I don’t know why I told you any of that anyways. Fuck. I’m so stupid. Sorry. I’ll just, I’ll go. Thanks Eddie.” Steve stood, shuffling his way towards the door. “Steve. Sit back down. You’re still recovering.” It was stern, and Steve thought that if he didn’t listen, Eddie was going to make him listen. So he sat. 

“I’ve been watching you, Steve. I’ve seen the way you snake Robin smile, and last night you knew about DnD of all things, so there has to be more to you. There is more to you. And if people don’t want to see it, just know, I do. Robin does. And whoever taught you about DnD does too, okay. I just. I didn’t like you in highschool but. Something’s changed and I. I think that’s worth more than sex.”

And a 19 year old dam broke. 

And suddenly Steve was sobbing on Eddie’s worn down couch. 

And Eddie didn’t know what to do, so he patted him on the back awkwardly. “There, there Steve. Uh. Sorry I don’t know what to do with crying people. Uhm. It’ll be okay.” 

Steve laughed wetly and wiped his nose, cringing at the sight of the snot. “Ew.” Eddie laughed and handed him the tissue box that was resting on the floor. 

“Seriously, Steve. You are so much more than just some guy who gets passed around. Trust me. If I can see it, well. That’s saying something.”

“Thanks Eddie. I really appreciate that.”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean. Especially not to you.” He bumped Steve on the shoulder, knocking him over and raising a giggle out of him. 

—---

And maybe Eddie didn’t see Steve’s real, true colors, at least not until a year or so later when the guy carried him out of actual hell, but he saw a glimpse of what Steve is really like that night. And he has to admit, he wanted to see more.  

#steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #best friend robin #wayne munson #stranger things #rape/noncon #non consensual drug use

[adrift-in-thyme]

Day 7: Made to Watch + Caged (Twilight & Four)

This is a continuation of day 3

Ao3 link

Cw for torture, blood and injury, harm to an animal (it’s poor Wolfie again), broken limbs, and non-consensual drug use

————————————-

Twilight awakens in a cage.

He leaps to his feet, wavering slightly as the room tilts and sways. Everything aches and he can feel the blood caked on his snout and side, itchy and grating on his skin. It’s not long before his legs give way, landing him right back on the floor. A low whine escapes before he can stop it. The bars of his enclosure cut painfully into his stomach, only serving to further drive home how powerless he is right now, how hopelessly trapped.

This isn’t the first time he’s been behind bars, of course, but somehow this is much worse than the previous one. Maybe it’s because the last time he’d had such a drive to find Ilia and the kids he couldn’t think of much else. Or maybe Midna’s prompt appearance had doused his fear before it could even really start to grow.

But he’s pretty sure it’s because when he turns his head just slightly to the right, he can see Four, slumped against the wall, pale and terribly still. If not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest Twilight would think he was dead. By the looks of it, they likely don’t have long until he will be. The amount of blood on his tunic is worrying, and it continues to ooze out from the gash across his shoulder, pushing past the uselessly clumsy bandaging wrapped around it.

Twilight maneuvers closer to him and slips a paw through the bars to touch the smithy’s hand.

After a long moment, Four drags his eyes open and blinks at him.

“He-hey, Wolfie,” he murmurs. “Are-are you alright?”

Twilight nods once, then cocks his head questioningly. Four gives him a small smile.

“I’m okay.”

The words do little to assuage Twilight’s fear. He has to get him out of here before he bleeds out.

It’s his fault he’s even here in the first place, he thinks, guilt hitting him like a lizalfo tail to the face. If he’d been more careful, more attentive then…

He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a huff of air. He can’t think about that right now. Right now, the only thing on his mind should be escape.

He allows himself a few more seconds to try and clear his mind, then rises on too-shaky legs. Limping forward, he presses his nose to the bars. In the darkness, he can’t make out anything more than a few large, lumpy, and unidentifiable objects.

“I think we-we’re in a cellar,” Four manages. “There’s jarred fruit over here.”

Twilight nods. That makes the most sense, he guesses. Their captors hardly seem like the sort of people who would have access to any…fancier places to imprison people. And that’s a good thing as far as he’s concerned. Once he changes back to his Hylian form, it’ll be relatively easy to grab Four and make a run for it.

…he just has to get out of this cage first.

But before he can puzzle out how, a door creaks open, sending streams of blinding light into the room. Heavy footsteps sound seconds later, and Twilight squints into the brightness to see three people coming down the stairs toward them.

He tenses, a growl rumbling deep in his throat, and one of their captors laughs.

“Still think you’re tough, eh doggie?” He kicks the cage as he passes, jolting Twilight’s abused body painfully. “We’ll fix that attitude right up.”

“Got a buyer for you already,” A tall woman says, with a leering grin. “And hopefully for this one too.”

She squats down in front of Four and he leans back, trying to escape her reach. But she grasps his chin easily, angling his head so she can inspect him. Twilight growls again, hackles rising, and the man delivers another vicious kick to the cage. It’s everything he can do not to yelp as the force of it sends waves of pain rocketing through him.

“Yeah, we’ve promised him two magical freaks,” the woman is saying now, pointing the tip of a knife toward Four’s chest. “So, you’d better have some kinda powers inside that little body.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” the third man pipes up. “If he’s hangin’ out with this one, he’s gotta be magical too. Why don’t you put that knife to use? Make him squeal enough, and he’ll show his true colors.”

“I’d be happy to.” And with a bark of laughter, the woman plunges her weapon into Four’s arm.

He jolts, eyes going wide, body going rigid as the pain hits. A choked scream escapes him, and the sound tears Twilight apart. Desperate, he lunges, colliding with the bars of the cage. Shards of agony split through his side.

“Come on now,” the woman croons, “show us your powers.”

Four drags in a breath and squeezes his eyes closed.

“No? Too bad.”

She brings the knife down again, this time into his thigh, and another scream splits the air. Twilight’s heart is pounding now, so hard he’s certain it’ll escape his chest. He charges at the bars again, hits them, falls back, tries once more.

Blood fills his mouth and runs anew from his wounds; he can hardly breathe past the pain. But he can’t give up, not now, not when Four is dying and he can do nothing to stop it nothing—

“Look at the wolf over here,” one of the men cackles. He bends down and sticks his finger through the cage. “Still trying to save your friend?”

There’s another dull thunk as metal pierces flesh, another cry. Twilight’s vision bleeds red. He rushes toward the man, intent on tearing his hand off if he has to. But he pulls back at the last minute, still laughing as Twilight’s claws catch nothing but air.

“He’s crazed! Even with the muzzle on he’s trying to kill me!”

“Well, at least he’s useful.” The woman motions toward Four, who by the looks of it is hardly hanging on to consciousness. “This one’s a waste of time. If he’s got powers, he’s not showin em.”

She lifts Four up by his hair, and the smithy doesn’t even whimper. His eyes are more glazed than ever now, his small body coated in blood. And when she drops him, he hits the floor in a crumpled heap and remains motionless.

Finally, Twilight comes to a stop, his gaze locked on the smithy. He can no longer tell if he’s breathing. Panic twisting his stomach into knots, heart in his throat, he reaches through the bars for his friend. But before he can touch him, the woman snatches his leg in both her hands and twists. A loud snap reverberates through the room.

Twilight stumbles back and hits the opposite side of his prison, fighting desperately not to make a sound.

“Don’t damage him too much,” the man chastises, but she waves a dismissive hand.

“It’s a little late for that don’ you think?” She straightens and gives Twilight a menacing smile. “Now, let’s grab ‘im and get going. Our buyer’s waiting.”

“Right.”

The man leans in again, ignoring Twilight’s warning growls, and unlocks the door. Twilight tenses, prepared to lunge at him, broken leg and all. But then an open bottle bumps against his snout, thin wisps of smoke floating up from it. Almost instantly the world begins to turn hazy.

Twilight tries to back away, struggling to hold his breath. It’s already too late, however, and he slumps forward, feeling strangely light.

They wrap the chain around his neck again, yanking at it mercilessly, until he drags himself up and stumbles after them. He veers off course as they lead him out, trying to head toward Four. But he hardly makes it two steps before they pull the chain so hard, he chokes.

“Leave it, like a good dog,” someone sneers. “Your friend’s dead.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a desperate, disbelieving sort of sorrow pricks at the haze clouding, but it isn’t strong enough to break through. One more yank on his leash, and like a kicked dog, he limps after his captors.

#febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday7 #blood and injury #non consensual drug use #torture #harm to an animal #broken bones #trin writes #linkeduniverse #lu four #lu twilight

[h1myname1sv]

FIC UPDATE: Side by Side 11/14

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: non-consensual drug use Fandoms: Star Wars, Clone Wars Relationships: Commander Cody & Obi-Wan, Commander Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: Commander Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Additional Tags: Whumptober, Whumptober 2023, Whump, Angst, Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt Commander Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Commander Cody Needs a Hug, Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi, Protective Commander Cody, Developing Relationship, Bittersweet Ending, POV Alternating, Idiots in Love, War, Not a Fix-It, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt, I love these two so much ahhh, which of course means I'm gonna hurt them Wordcount: 12k Summary:

Glimpses of pain within and pain shared between a general and a commander during a war that never seems to end. (Based on the Whumptober 2023 prompts on tumblr.)

Excerpt:

Cody is absolutely livid.

He is on a warpath. He is going to search every inch of this galaxy. He is going to find his general or—

"Finished running the footage through facial recognition," Boil says. "We know who the guy is, and we know where he's headed."

Right. Okay. Cody's priorities have just shifted to pummeling the stalker's face to bits.

Cody glances at Boil, the stressed creases lining his face making him look just as angry and worried as Cody feels. "Is it close?" he asks simply.

Boil grins wickedly. "Honestly, if we hurry, we'll get there before him."

Cody gives him a grin of his own.

#whumptober2023 #no.23 #stalking #star wars #fic #non consensual drug use #fanfic #clone wars #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #codywan #side by side #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #whump

[kittymaine]

Radio Silence

Summary: Cass goes silent over comms during an Arkham breakout and Steph rushes to find her.

Whumptober Day Seven fill. Prompt: radio silence.

A lot of people assume that Cass doesn't talk. And Steph guesses that in the strictest of terms that's true. She's not exactly verbose or whatever. But, if you know how to listen, she has a lot to say.

Maybe she doesn't say things with words, but she communicates constantly with looks, with tilts of her head and hips, by clicking her tongue, snorting at jokes, rolling her eyes. She's super expressive for people who are paying attention, and Steph always pays attention to her.

She thinks of the two of them as the perfect combination of traumas and coping mechanisms. Everyone seems to be aware of Cass' trauma and the way she copes. She was hurt badly for a long time and as a result she has trouble communicating and probably hasn't had enough support to combat that. But few people notice how Steph watches everybody, how she's always worrying about other people's moods and their opinions and their relationships. Growing up with dysfunctional parents will teach a kid to walk on eggshells, and it's a skill useful enough that it's hard to put down even with age and distance. And, to top that off, she's great at verbal deflection, always quick with a joke or a jab, anything to keep the focus off her and off of whatever is bothering everybody else.

So if Cass was quiet, Steph could fill in the gaps for her. And, if they were both watching, then nothing got by them. They were a force to be reckoned with when they were together.

Steph hated being separated from Cass. Since they started working together, she had felt more confident and more capable than ever before. But, it was the first Arkham breakout in over a year, so she understood the need to spread everyone out as far as they could.

"Does anyone have eyes on Batgirl?" Steph asked into her comm as she finished zip tying a rail thin old man in a bright orange jumpsuit to a street sign. She had got a bad feeling in her gut, and not just because that old man needed a social worker a lot more than he needed a vigilante like her.

"You're Batgirl," snorted Damian over the comm line.

"The other Batgirl, brat," Steph snarked back. That was a lame shot. She wondered if Damian was stressed or just bored. She couldn't read him as well as she could when he was little. He was getting older, already old enough to be in high school and sometimes she missed the much more prickly preteen version she was more familiar with.

"I thought I saw her near the docks," Tim said helpfully. There was the sound of wind behind his voice, which meant he was probably pretty high up, wherever he was. "But that was hours ago."

"Batgirl, comm in," Babs’ voice cut in barely a second after Tim stopped speaking. Steph was sure it was smarting against her pride that she was the only one not out on the streets that night, but with so many of them to coordinate, someone needed to be working comms and intel and Babs was the best.

There was silence on the line, just a very faint crackle from the small earpiece. Steph took the opportunity to shoot her grapple and get up to a higher elevation. That tight feeling in her gut was just getting tighter, and she felt sure she would be running soon.

"Batgirl, respond," Babs said, her voice steely. It sounded cold and unyielding to anyone who didn’t know Babs, which meant to Steph that she was upset. When Babs got upset, she would clamp down on her emotions like a drill sergeant snapping a tight salute.

Steph started running for the docks, jumping roofs and grappling across gaps.

"Oracle, tracker location?" Bruce rumbled over the comm line. The Batman voice had always been hard for Steph to decipher. She didn't live with Bruce or work with him as closely as the Robins, so she never got the hang of the way Batman communicated the way they did. That was probably half of why she couldn't trust him as far as she could throw him. How was she supposed to trust a 200 lb tank of a man when she could never get a read on how he was feeling or what he was thinking, and he never bothered to share with the class?

"Tracker is in the alley behind the Monarch Theater. Shit," Babs cussed, a crack in her facade. Steph made a sharp turn back toward the theater district and started running faster, her thighs burning. "The tracker hasn't moved in almost fifteen minutes."

The comm line lit up with people chiming in, questions and suggestions and locations being rattled back and forth and over one another enough that Bruce had to bark at everyone to shut up and let Oracle dictate orders.

"Batgirl, en route?" Babs asked.

Steph wanted to snort at her. Of course, she was en route. She had been from the second she asked about Cass. She wouldn't have asked if she hadn't known on some level that something was wrong.

Cass was quiet, but she still communicated on the comm. Even if it was just to click or to laugh or to play a little bit of wind or music across the line. Steph knew that because she knew Cass better than anyone.

"Almost there," she answered, the golden paint of the Monarch Theater already coming into view as she swung around to get to the right street. Normally the theater would be lit up with big spotlights, but on a dangerous night like that night everything was dark.

Steph dropped from a dangerous height directly into the claustrophobic small alleyway behind the theater. She shot her grapple off at the last second and let it yank viciously on her arm to slow her descent for a brief moment before releasing it and landing with a splash in a suspiciously green, slimy puddle.

She had barely straightened her knees before she spotted the lump of black fabric tossed haphazardly against a rusty green dumpster by the back door of the theater.

"Batgirl," Steph gasped, dropping to her knees beside Cass and splashing down into what was probably garbage juice and not giving a single fuck.

Very cautiously, she took Cass by the shoulder and pulled her over to lay on her back. She groaned, a gratifying sound to hear, but the next sound wasn't nearly so reassuring.

Cass started giggling, just a little, but it sounded convulsive, like hiccups. After a few halting giggles, Cass swallowed a small sob.

"Shit," Steph spat, feeling close to tears herself. "Shit shit shit."

"Batgirl, report," Babs barked into the comm.

Steph looked around the alley with a new thrill of fear running through her already thrumming body. She pulled the joker venom antidote from a small pouch on her belt, looking at the green puddles in the alley with a new sense of foreboding.

"Joker venom," Steph whispered into her comm while carefully administering the antidote to a small triangle of gray fabric on the inside of Cass's left arm. It was the only gap in her armor, left there specifically for administering meds in the field.

"Get out of there," Bruce barked through the comm. Steph didn't need to understand him to read the fear in his voice.

"Don't gotta tell me twice," she grumbled while moving Cass onto her shoulder as carefully and quietly as she dared. Cass hiccuped, giggled and sobbed in that order as Steph carefully maneuvered her.

Steph grimaced. "Don't worry, I've got you. You're safe," she whispered and shot her grapple toward the roof of the Monarch just as an eerie and unfortunately familiar cackle of unhinged laughter echoed nearby.

Her shoulder absolutely screamed from the strain of carrying both her and Cass's weight up to the roof, but the new wash of adrenaline that laugh sent through her body was more than enough to carry her through it.

She started running, her heart beating rabbit fast in her chest. Cass was a reassuring weight on her shoulder as she ran and jumped.

"Joker's still nearby. I heard him," she panted into the comm once she was reasonably sure that she was far enough away to be safe.

"Get to safety. Let me handle Joker," Bruce rumbled into the comm, all traces of fear gone from his voice. Not that Steph cared. She had Cass safe in her arms and the giggles were already tapering off.

"Fucking help yourself," Steph snapped and then muted her comm.

She was taking Cass straight back to the Watchtower and probably not detaching from her side for a week. Sometimes she hated this fucking job.

#whumptober2023 #radio silence #batgirls #fanfiction #joker venom #non consensual drug use #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #batgirl #spoiler #orphan #black bat #kittywrites #no.7 #dcu comics

[httyddragonfox]

Unknown/Saeran wanting to "have" you.

I got into Mystic Messenger around five years ago and I thoughts about one of the antagonists...Unknown. After paying attention for all of these years, there are several moments where he mentions the intention to "have" you. I get the feeling they mean different things based on the situation and who (which version of Saeran) exactly says them.

The first time he explicitly says "have," is in 707 Bad Ending 1. This version of him is Unknown, in this timeline of the game his feelings for you are...interesting. I'll get into that in another post. Anyways, in this ending you've been taken captive by him and he decides to torture you and send pictures to 707 in order to make him suffer. He most recent form of tormenting his brother, make him think you have Stockholm syndrome. Not sure if you actually do or not, that part is unclear, but at least you can fake it. He then mentions he should "have you" after the photo session. He already has you captive, so he must mean "have his way with you." Is it consensual? That part is unclear. This is unknown I'm talking about, willing to kill you in Yoosung's route, so I don't think he cares about what you want. Still not a good ending with the implied torture and maybe non-consensual intimacy.

The next time I can think of is in 707 Bad Ending 3. Still Unknown in this ending, but he's more focused on the fact that his brother's here rather than you. In this ending, he tricks us into thinking we've convinced him we're right so he could capture us. He more wants to capture Seven than you, he wants to learn everything he knows about hacking before he gets rid of him. Seven begs for him to let us go free seeing as he's the only one Saeran wants. This makes him actually consider us being there for the first time. Apart of the cult, he probably wouldn't want to release us that easily. Also, based on what we know so far, he thinks we're cute, and he knows Seven likes us. He decides he's going to keep us around, near him. He promises Seven that he'll give us a good life as long as Seven behaves, so basically using us as motivation and a punishment. Seven then threatens the complex if Saeran doesn't release us. Before deciding to let us go he does say this, "My savior says I shouldn't have too many nice things." (I don't remember if he said "nice things" or just "things") In this case, "have" in our regard would be having us captive. Of course this line would imply he'd enjoy having us around. Who knows what he'd do to us, seeing as we're his captive. That's probably something Seven would be afraid of.

The third time it is mentioned is in V's Bad Relationship Ending 1. This version of him is Ray, in this timeline he is split into two personalities: Ray and Saeran/Unknown. His feelings for you are through the roof. You are someone new, who will trust him, and rely on him, and always be there. You are not like the other believers, as you are someone who will see him as just 'him,' and like him for who he is, not just for his authority and hacking skills. This made him become very possessive of you, calling you "his" a couple times before this ending. The Savior has to remind him we're not his yet (mainly because she wants to try to claim us). This Bad ending happens because you're not attending most of the chat rooms; in story this would look like you're out of it, not seeming to care about your new location. It is because of this, that in the ending she tells Ray we can go back under his care because we're obviously not happy staying with her. When going back to our room, he tells us she said he could "have" us. Ominous music starts playing at this point, so you might think it's the same "have" as in the first example, of course when we get to our room, he decides to get us a gift like a game. Ray is a tamer personality who genuinely likes you, who mentioned wanting us as his lover earlier in the game, and he doesn't immediately want to fade to black upon reaching the bedroom; I believe in this instance the "have," is "as a girlfriend." This is considered a bad ending (minus him yelling at us with fourth wall break) for it shows he will leave us locked in our room if we step out of line. The relationship will be controlling, and he also says he'll come up with a way to punish us for our misbehavior. This is a non-consensual strip of agency, that's how it's bad. We are his possession, he "has" us.

The last example I found was also in V's route. It's after the Unknown personality comes out of Ray. It's during the first phone call with him. This guy is called Unknown and Saeran, he's a mix of Saeran from his route and Unknown from the other routes. He likes you: He wants you to be his doll, his toy, his assistant. He likes the idea of freaking you out, calling you to tell you his plans for you and your friends. Near the end of the call, he says he wants to "have" you, no matter what. Ray also mentioned this apparently. He then goes on to say Ray looks tame but you don't know what he's thinking, and that he will show you what he means when you get back. Ray meant lover, but Unknown is making some of us question things. Ray seems pretty tame in his route, not wanting to try much with you. In V's route he seems a little more bold, imagining kissing you, nearly grabbing you when you went back to your room, trying to drug you into staying with him, forcefully grabbing you to keep you from running away. Who knows, maybe he did imagine naughty things? Unknown certainly has meant naughty things before. So this "have" is ambiguous, but I'm pretty sure it's non-consensual either way.

Also if you don't show up for the chat room with Unknown, he mentions asking the savior if he can "have" you as his doll. Maybe that's what he meant?

TLDR; Whenever Saeran in his many personalities mentions something about "having" us, it is usually non-consensual and not good.

#mystic messenger #saeran choi #unknown #707 #MC #mystic messenger ray #savior #707 route #V route #Ray route #to “have” someone #+18 #non consensual drug use #non consensual intimacy #To hold captive #no agency #kidnapping

[actress4him]

Stabmas 2023

Welcome to a celebration piece for the Ides of March, featuring Kamaria 😈

Bruno (mentioned) belongs to @painful-pooch .

Contains: lady whump, blood, stabbing, implied noncon drugs, mild gore, referenced noncon touch, very brief self-deprecating thoughts, hurt no comfort

.

.

Among blinding pain that seems to radiate from one end of her body to the other, the tip of a knife pressed into soft skin is hardly worth considering. It’s just a nuisance, another sensation to add to far too many.

She’s cold. She’s far too cold and far too bare, the unforgiving stone floor seeps into her skin like ice and she wants…

She wants a blanket.

She wants to be held.

She wants warm, calloused hands to caress her cheek and wrap around her waist and reassure her that everything is alright, everything will be alright, even if it’s not right now.

She doesn’t want anyone touching her, touch brings nothing but pain and fear and the very thought of hands on her makes her stomach churn, makes her want to scream and cry and scratch off her own skin.

But she’s so cold and so alone. Something burns in her veins that shouldn’t be there, but it doesn’t warm her. Her hand stretches out into an open, empty space that she can’t even see and is met with nothing but air. No one reaches back for her.

The knife presses in farther and breaks skin. Blood trickles out, and it’s like fire in its warmth, running down the side of her leg to drip onto the floor beneath her. There’s so much blood already. Her hair is stiff with it, dried patches of it cake her body. The smell is thick in the air.

She still doesn’t notice the pain. Not when her whole existence is pain, when she can’t remember a time that everything didn’t hurt and burning, throbbing, screaming pain encompasses everything she is and knows.

It’s not until the knife slides farther in, slicing through layers of skin and into muscle before pausing again, that it breaks through the fog. A low groan vibrates in her throat. Her head jerks to one side, and she tries to move the leg away from the source of pain but it feels somehow detached from her body.

Voices float through the air and swirl around her. Meaningless. One is shouting, perhaps, but the words are like a swarm of bees, muffled by the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears.

The knife cuts deeper.

Her back arches up off the ground and she chokes on what should be a scream. More blood runs down her leg. It’s gushing now, not trickling. The blade embedded in her thigh can only hold it back so much.

She wants Bruno. He said he wouldn’t leave her, but she doesn’t know where he is.

“Mai amachari, relintis ma nos.” Her words slur together as they stumble off her tongue. “Ey vourer moriti nos. Pralut aydeti.” A tear, hot like the blood on her leg, slides down her temple and pools in her ear.

He’s not here, he’s not here. If he was here he would help her. She doesn’t want to die without seeing him again.

Someone pushes the knife deeper still, until the cold hilt rests against her skin. She throws her head back, sobs ripping through her throat. “Pralut perlem’a moriti nos!”

Her fingernails scrape against the floor, digging up bits of dirt and half-dried blood. It won’t stop. The pain never ends, she can’t escape it. Her eyes open, letting more tears loose, and rove across the ceiling, but it’s all just a blur. None of it means anything, nothing makes sense except for pain.

Voices again. Someone is laughing, she thinks. The sound forms a pit deep in her stomach.

“-mari-!”

“Kam-ia!”

She wants Bruno.

Suddenly the knife is yanked back out of her leg, all at once, tearing sideways through new bits of flesh. Everything flashes to bright white. She doesn’t scream because she can’t breathe, can only jerk against the floor and make choking sounds while the blood flow triples.

She wants it to be over.

She deserves this.

She can’t take anymore, she needs it to end. She’s just waiting for darkness to take her away from the pain, but it won’t come. Whatever it is that burns inside her veins won’t let her go. No matter how much she wishes for escape, she’s trapped here - lost, alone, and cold.

She’s so cold.

.

————————

.

Translation of Vaya: “My love, don’t leave me. I don’t want to die. Please help me.” “Please don’t let me die!”

#stabmas2023 #ides of march #kamaria the assassin #the shadow of death #maybe it’s canon maybe it’s not who knows #lady whump #lady whumpee #stabbed #stabbing #blood #nonconsensual touching #non consensual drug use #mild gore #hurt no comfort #whump writing

[nobody-is-evil]

Dream, Why Don’t You Have a Snugglefest with Hob and Maybe You’ll Calm Down

Summary: Results inconclusive. Dream was calm during the snugglefest, but...

This is for the Feb prompt (Cuddle) Pollen for the @yearoftheotpevent.

Thanks to @littledreamling for being my beta.

I’ll reblog this with the link to the fic on ao3.

Warnings: non-consensual drug use that usually comes with the pollen trope, mentions of period-typical homophobia (in the form of fear of it), Dream is not nice to himself, sad/open ending

There is a fight going on right next to him. Hob Gadling fights the two smugglers that Lady Johanna Constantine brought in with her, two men named Michael Stoker and Tobias Underwood.

Dream does not pay them any mind. Mere mortals cannot hurt him. No, what is important is the discomfiting sensation of—something. He cannot place what affects him, but something is.

He feels...cold. His form’s head is aching. This body, like that of a fawn’s, struggles to keep him upright. Most worryingly, the Dreaming is fading away from him.

Lady Johanna Constantine’s words make their way to him, “...mix something into your drink.” He feels the weight of her gaze when she continues, “I’ve been assured it will work on your kind.”

No.

This is her work? Her petty hedge-magicking?

He grabs the seat of his chair hard enough to whiten his knuckles. It requires more control than it should not to growl and shout at her.

Few things should be able to affect one such as him at all, and less should be able to rip away all that makes him Endless and replace it with human flesh, but without his endless memory, he cannot remember. All that he can think about is the chill and how weakened he feels.

He falls out of his chair and to the floor on his knees, clutching his head with both hands to try to relieve the pain. His form protests even this position, swaying, and he presses one hand against the ground to steady himself.

(There is a thud that could only be the sound of Hob succumbing as well. The delay is likely from his immortality, but it could not stop the effects forever.)

Fingertips touch his shoulder. The heat is tangible through his conjured clothing. Dream yanks himself away, and his words come out as a hiss when he speaks through gritted teeth, “Do not touch me!”

His irritation is far more palpable than he usually allows himself. It is unbecoming of an Endless, if natural from a mortal.

“Oh, do not try to trick me. I know exactly how you’re feeling now.”

She cannot comprehend even a drop of the power he usually carries, evident in the way she attempts again to touch him—this time, directly on his skin. Dream resorts to crawling backwards away from her.

A footstep echoes across the room like a gunshot. For half a second, Dream fears (fears!) that one of her lackeys has awoken, but no—it is Hob. The sun washes his features in golden light, painting him as the archetype of an avenging angel as he charges at her.

In seconds, she has fallen limply to the ground. She does not move, so she must be in his realm—how galling it is to have to figure that out, like trying to understand another through the movements of her lips rather than her voiced words. He rashly attempts to reconnect to the Dreaming, but only strains his mind in the process, adding to the existing pounding in his head. He clutches his head again.

Hob’s voice comes from right next to Dream, “They could get up at any moment. We should leave.” (Dream has to dig his fingers further into his scalp.) “Can you stand?”

Can.

He.

Stand.

Dream rises unaided—for about half a second before he lurches to the side and has to grab onto the table. But that cannot be the end of his humiliation; no, his muscles fail him even with the help from the table, and he falls all the way back to the floor.

Hob does not offer help. This is not something Dream is unused to, but after fighting off his three attackers unasked, Hob seems like he would be the kind of person to do so.

Or, perhaps, Dream is complicating a simple zest for fighting.

“No. No, I cannot stand.” Each extra word is an arrow he rips out of his skin. “...help me...”

“...please...”

Hob says, barely audible, “Certainly.”

Even expecting the touch and watching his hands approach—

(Dream is not unused to heat. The power of an Endless has a similar effect, such that he seldom bothers giving his form in the Waking World a temperature in the range of humans. But without his power, all Dream has left is this body, this body that has never been anything but freezing, and from this perspective, even another mortal’s body heat is...hot.)

—he still flinches when he feels the heat they emit.

Hob retracts them as if he is the one burnt. “Are you sure?”

Grinding his teeth is a familiar sensation (the accompanying pain, not so much). Of course Hob would pay attention and be concerned about this body’s involuntary reaction. In his peripherals, he can see that his own limbs are shaking. “Do it!” Dream spits out.

The heat returns to the backsides of his knees and his upper back, and this time, it does not leave when he flinches. With longer than an instant to adjust to it, his body decides that it rather likes being warm. A good thing, as Dream is pressed against something that warms even more of him at once.

His body moves instinctively, seeking the configuration that allows for it to be in contact with the warmth the most. His head digs into the warmest spot of all, a little crook that he fits into so well, it is like it was made for this purpose.

And it is rumbling.

Dream cracks open an eye (that he does not remember closing) and is reminded that he is being carried by a human, Hob—who is laughing at him.

“You have regained your strength, old stranger. I could drop my arms and you would stay as you are.”

“Do not!” Dream tightens around Hob further. It is as he said; Dream’s strength is, inexplicably, back, though he still does not want to lose the nest of Hob’s arms.

Hob tenses in turn, voice dropping to an urgent whisper, “You must not speak so loud! If anyone sees that I’m carrying a man like this...”

It takes Dream a moment to realize that Hob is referring to him as a man, and longer to place his fears. “The anti-sodomy laws,” he realizes. “Then we shall not be seen. Concentrate on your destination.”

“What?” Hob asks, even though Dream can sense his daydream.

Dream manipulates the sand out of his pouch with more ease than usual—the difference between leading a dog with a leash and simply calling for it—and it surrounds them.

When it dissipates, they are inside his home.

“That is convenient,” Hob breathes, turning in the direction of the still-locked front door. Then he suddenly says, “Er, I’ll put you down, now,” and stops in front of his couch.

Naturally. Now that Dream is back to full strength, there is no reason for a mortal to carry him.

He allows himself to be released—up until he is reminded of how frosty it is outside of Hob’s arms. Then he retreats back up like a cat scrambling out of water.

Hob accommodates the aborted motion, though there is no small amount of confusion in his voice when he says, “My friend?”

Perhaps Dream could request that Hob light the fireplace? No, that would require him to let go of Dream. There is no distracting him from this. “It...is cold,” he admitted.

“Oh.” Hob seems to consider this. He takes to pacing down the length of his living room. “So, it’s not normal for you to be freezing to the touch?”

Dream corrects, “It is. The part that is unusual is that I feel the chill.”

Hob gasps. “This is because of what Lady Johanna mixed into your drink!” he exclaims at first with realization and then with righteous anger.

“Perhaps,” Dream agrees as though he already thought of that.

“Do you know—well, you’ll be fine, surely? How long before you’re back to normal?”

Dream considers this. He does not quite remember. “After a fashion, I shall. Between one and eleven hours.”

Hob huffs. “My endurance is not what it used to be. I doubt I can stay awake that long, let alone carry you the entire time, old stranger, even with how light you are.”

Hmm. Dream allows magnanimously, “Let it not be known that I would keep a...human from his rest. If you wish to recline, then we shall.”

Hob stops. His throat shifts as he swallows. “Thank you, my friend.”

The walk to Hob’s bedroom is silent. Dream does not pay any mind to the decorations—he is content to rest in Hob’s hold. They stop in front of his bed, and only then does Dream reluctantly drop down from his grasp onto it.

He immediately regrets it when the chill returns. It should be warm, what with all the bedding, but it is not. The memory of warmth slips away, like sand would slip out of his grasp in his weak condition, and it is only on conscious knowledge that he knows the heat will help and not hurt when Hob climbs into bed after him.

Once he is used to the boiler that is Hob again, Dream’s body seeks out the position that allows him to squeeze out as much warmth as he can get. Hob lays on his back, so Dream lays on his left side, with his left arm pinned underneath Hob and right arm crossing Hob’s chest. Like this, he can fit his head back into its rightful place in the crook of Hob’s neck.

Extra, much appreciated warmth comes in the form of Hob’s right arm down Dream’s back and his left hand in Dream’s hair. The repetitive movements calm him, succor almost enough to make him forget that this is not his natural state.

They lay in silence.

“It has been 25 minutes,” Dream says later. “You are not asleep. You are no closer to being asleep.”

The hands in his hair and on his back slow in their motions. “I’m not.”

Dream almost drops it and asks him to keep doing it, but he stands by his resolution to not keep Hob from sleeping. “Why?”

“These clothes are not made to be slept in,” Hob admits quietly. His next words come out in a rush, “But it’s fine; I’m sure you would not appreciate the time it would take me to change them—”

“Nonsense.” Dream barely has to use any of his sand to undress Hob. In an instant, he has left Hob in only his white underclothes (recognizing how many Dreamers fear being nude in public).

The change is immediate—Hob gives off heat tenfold, a hundredfold. Dream lets out a surprised purr. The only thing that is important is soaking up as much of this new, extra warmth as he can. He lets his instincts guide his body again and ends up laying on top of Hob.

If removing one layer of clothing yielded this result, what would happen if Dream gets rid of his own clothes?

He banishes them.

The influx of heat no longer feels like it can be attributed to just physical temperature. He feels simultaneously like he is underwater and like he is floating, like he is spinning and like he is still, like he is laying on Hob and like he is melting into him until they are just one being.

A slight shift underneath him brings him back down to Earth until he breaches the surface of the water.

“My friend,” Hob says, with a strained quality to his voice that Dream has never heard before, “you’re too—heavy, to be on top of me.”

Yet, Dream is simply too comfortable to move. This nest is perfect; there must be some other way to fix it. Hmm—of course. He calls a bit of sand and uses it to make his form as light as a feather.

Hob swallows again, and when he speaks, his voice is closer to normal. “Er...I thank you. This is considerably better.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

For a moment, silence reigns.

“Would you mind...” Hob is oddly hesitant. “I find that I can lull myself to sleep by telling a story. Would you mind hearing one?”

Dream has to stop the purr that tries to escape at this. Hob does not know who he asks, who he freely offers his stories to—he is ignorant of the implications. Instead, Dream reminds himself of the foundation of their relationship, “You would continue where we left off before we were interrupted?”

Hob lets out a chuckle at that. “If we’re to continue where we left off, I remember that you were about to tell me your name.”

That...is true. Hob has been very patient, has he not? 400 years is a long time for a human. Dream, relaxed because of his presence, cannot think of how he could be more worthy. “Very well.”

“I have many names. You may know me as Lord Morpheus, Shaper of Forms, Oneiros, the Oneiromancer, King of Dreams and of Nightmares. You likely know me as the Sandman.” Dream pauses at Hob’s sharp intake of breath, trying to choose whether to give him the name of Prince of Stories, before deciding against it. “My first and truest name is Dream of the Endless. Put simply, Dream. And I would be pleased if you would tell me a story.”

“...right. It’s wonderful to meet you, Dream.” Hob swallows once again. “I have to ask, do you know all dreams?”

This is when he usually corrects that he is all dreams. But he is not, not at the moment. “Perhaps.”

Hob’s hands find Dream’s back and hair again, resuming their ministrations. “Only, I would like to be the one to tell you about my life, in person. That is why we meet up. So, could you block mine out?”

That is a new request.

“I understand if n—” Hob adds in a rush before Dream cuts him off.

“I can.” For some reason, he is less reluctant to admit weakness now, “I am...disconnected...from the majority of my usual abilities. When I regain my full spread of powers, I will ensure that knowledge of your dreams is still hidden from me.”

“I thank you again, my friend.”

“The tale you promised me?” Dream prompts.

Hob starts, “This story begins many years ago...”

Dream listens attentively. In this state, without his endless memory, he does not know the story. It is a new experience, rare for one such as him. He sinks into peace, ataraxy, serenity, in the depths of Hob’s voice.

Dream of the Endless and Hob Gadling are at a meadow. There is nobody else around. They walk for a while, enjoying each other’s presence, before stopping on a hill.

Hob has a picnic basket. He lays down the blanket and arranges the food. The sun washes his features in golden light, painting him as the archetype of an angel.

While Dream stares at Hob, Hob stares back.

They stay like that for ages before Hob leans in to Dream—

The scene disappears from around him, his surroundings changing to that of his throne room.

Lucienne stands before him. “There you are, my lord.” She sounds perfectly composed, or would, to anyone except Dream. He hears the undercut of worry.

“I apologize for my absence.” What happened? He is disoriented...he was stuck in one facet of himself for some time, separated from his function.

Oh.

Myitzur pollen.

Most importantly, his powers are rapidly returning. If he does not address it immediately, he will further break his promise. “Find Hob Gadling’s books and remove them from the library. Put them where I cannot access them.”

“Right away, sir.”

Dream does not look away from her as she efficiently walks away. Only when she has fully left the room does he allow himself to relax.

She did not see what she interrupted. She could not have. Only 3 should know: Dream, Fiddler’s Green...and Hob. The Heart of the Dreaming will not tell; Dream does not mind him knowing. Dream has nothing to worry from him, unlike many other residents of the Dreaming.

Hob, on the other hand, will be most displeased with Dream. An hour, less than that, passed between making and breaking the promise.

Not to mention everything that happened before that. He allowed himself to be incapacitated by a mere mortal, had to accept help from another, and then went so far as to seek comfort from him.

Weak.

He should have kept his wits about him. Never again will he ingest food or drink from the Waking World, not even in the presence of Hob Gadling.

That reminds him. Dream removes the physical body he left behind.

Despite the fact that he is far less affected by the Myitzur pollen than he was before, he still shivers—a much too human reaction—at the loss of body heat.

He cannot allow himself to react like that. It is best if he does not think about Hob until their next meeting, both to reduce the anger Hob most certainly feels for him and to lessen the...feelings that he is having. He should never crave comfort.

Dream is decidedly still as a statue when he finally fully returns to normal, and the contents of Hob Gadling’s books are unknown to him.

———

Hob wakes up freezing and alone.

———

Omake:

“Do you know—well, you’ll be fine, surely? How long before you’re back to normal?”

Dream considers this. He does not quite remember, but, “It should not take long.” What is a reasonable range of time to an immortal human? “Between an hour and...eleven months.”

...

...

“Eleven months,” Hob repeats quietly.

Nope. What is the measurement of time just longer than an hour? “I meant to say days. Not months. Days.”

“I guess that’s better than eleven months...”

———

Reblogs, likes, reblogs that just say extra likes, etc. are all welcome!

#yotp 2023 #dreamling #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless #hob gadling #year of the otp #my writing #my fanfiction #angst #cuddling & snuggling #hurt/comfort #negative self talk #non consensual drug use #non graphic violence #nonsexual intimacy #platonic cuddling #pre slash #requited unrequited love #sad ending #sleepy cuddles #touch starved #whump #lady johanna constantine #lucienne #fiddler's green #asexual dream of the endless #bisexual disaster hob gadling #good friend hob gadling #miscommunication #pov dream of the endless

[silvershewolf247]

In case some of y'all want to see a bit of my inspiration for that last fic.

I.e. the scene that made me want to include paralysis and drugging.

#its not always prodigal son #but a lot of the time its prodigal son #i miss that show so fucking much #prodigal son spoilers #Chapter 2 Au: Not Out Of The Woods #non consensual drug use #non consensual touching

[asexualbert]

Guess what

The dragons are back

Finally wrote some more Thing; this time we're paying attention to the baby! Have some smol pre-dragonification Timbit for the soul (because it only gets worse for him from here)

Timothy Drake was also a detective. Just like Batman. And being a detective meant using evidence to solve problems and figure out facts that no one had told him directly; and all of the evidence Tim had pointed very clearly to the fact that Timothy Drake was big now.

———

Timothy Drake was five years old (and a half); he'd been in the first grade for a whole week now, since winter break ended, because he was "a very clever boy;" and Mama and Father had said they trusted him to be good and take care of himself for the afternoon, since his new nanny wasn't going to be there until tomorrow, because he was a "responsible young man."

Tim knew lots about being big; he'd been looking forward to it because being little wasn't much fun. (He was the littlest kid in his new class and Bobby Nelson had been teasing him for it all week, which was very rude in Tim's opinion; Bobby Nelson wasn't even that much bigger than he was!)

One of the things that Tim knew about being big was that it meant you were responsible and knew how to do things. Being big also meant that you could take care of yourself which was good, because Tim couldn't find his bus buddy anywhere and the bell had rung forever ago now.

But that was ok. Because Timothy Drake was big now, so he could manage all on his own.

—–-–—

Everything was going perfectly smoothly when the bus arrived at Tim's stop.

Usually, his nanny would pick him up and drive him the rest of the way home, but Ms. Katie wasn't his nanny anymore so today he would be taking a regular, not-school bus.

Tim was a little bit nervous; he'd never taken a bus all by himself before; but he was a very responsible young man, so Mama and Father knew he could do it.

He knew what he was supposed to do: he was to walk two streets over to the bus stop and wait for bus number 88. He was not to wander off and make a problem of himself. He had to be good and focused and keep his head out of the clouds.

Mama and Father hated when he got distracted.

—–-–—

Tim had gotten nearly to the bus stop when something caught his eye partway down an alleyway. There was something shining in the dim afternoon light but he couldn't tell what it was even though he had excellent eyesight. (That was what Father had said when he asked about Jimmy Carlsons going to an eye doctor last year: that Tim didn't have to go there because he had excellent eyesight.)

Tim knew he wasn't supposed to run off. He was very close to Park Row, and Ms. Katie said that that was a bad place where he didn't want to get lost. Tim didn't want to get lost anywhere, but apparently this was an extra bad place to do it.

He really wanted to know what was over there though. He was a detective and so he was supposed to find evidences. It would only take a minute anyway, and his bus wasn't coming for another fifteen. What if it was related to a case Batman was solving? Maybe it was important and Tim would be a real detective just like Batman and Robin!

Tim was already moving before he'd even decided.

—–-–—

A batarang.

There was a real, actual, metal batarang stuck in a garbage can.

Batman had probably thrown it. Or maybe even Robin!

He wasn't sure if he should touch it... It was probably very sharp. But maybe Batman would want it back, and Tim could meet him for real to give it to him. And he could be very careful not to touch the sharp bits and…

—–-–—

Timothy Drake was a very clever, responsible young man, but sometimes he got distracted. Mama and Father hated that he could never stay focused on things but sometimes he focused on things too hard and forgot to pay attention, and they didn’t like that either.

As he very carefully touched the batarang, to figure out which bits were ok to touch, he focused too hard and forgot to notice the other person coming into the alleyway.

He didn't notice until he felt something stabbing his neck and started feeling queasy and sleepy and, as the world went dark, it became hard to properly notice anything at all.

#dragon AU #its back! #Tim Drake #batfamily au #kidnapping #non consensual drug use #it's implied but like pretty blatantly #this one's actually not so bad #Timmy's just kinda vibin' right up until the end

[miles2g0]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Joker (DCU) Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Joker (DCU), Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Whumptober 2022, Tim Drake is Joker Jr., Tim Drake is Red Robin, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Torture, Hurt Tim Drake, Protective Jason Todd, Past Brainwashing, Past Rape/Non-con, Blood and Gore, Like, a lot of blood, Hopeful Ending, Good Sibling Tim Drake, Protective Tim Drake, Tim Drake Has PTSD, Flashbacks, I'm serious about the blood Series: Part 8 of Whumptober 2022 Summary:

It was hard to open his eyes. His eyelids, his body…he was so heavy.

But he could feel something brushing against his face. Something hot and humid. And the smell, he—he knew that—

No. No—nonononono—He was dead. He was dead, Tim had killed him. He'd seen his body, Bruce had taken care of it, turned it to ash.

He forced his eyes open and—

If he could move he would have flinched.

Inches from his face, plaque encrusted, yellowed teeth, acid green eyes, fetid breath against Tim's skin—rot and cigarettes and shit.

"Good morning, son," the Joker crooned. "Did you miss Daddy?"

#whumptober2022 #no.16 #paralytic drugs #batman #fic #past rape/non-con #blood #gore #tim drake is joker junior #tim drake is red robin #tim drake #jason todd #joker #non consensual drug use #non consensual electroconvulsive therapy #torture #hurt tim drake #protective jason todd #past brainwashing #good sibling tim drake #protective tim drake #tim drake has ptsd #flashbacks #hopeful ending #hurt/comfort