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#tw// there was a scene of child death and of almost a suicide by train attempt. no blood or anything but just the subject manner

natalia-ramos · 17 days

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NAME: Natalia Sabina Ramos AGE & DOB: 35, born June 27th, 1988 GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis woman, she/her ORIENTATION: Pansexual, panromantic RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Married, kinda HOMETOWN: Havana, Cuba PAST RESIDENCE: Pennsylvania, Philadelphia CURRENT RESIDENCE: Bighorn Hills, Providence Peak as of January, 2024 OCCUPATION: Florist and Owner of The Secret Garden

biography. // wanted plots.

It's good to be soft when they push you down

aesthetics. breaking expensive family heirlooms while listening to Fiona Apple // holding back tears during an argument // the highs and lows of fighting the archetypal constructs of women // looking to all the world like a hungry dog who's too well-trained to beg for scraps // fail girlboss // having the most toxic parent at the mcdonald’s playplace // “you’re in his dms & i’m on his nerves” // dandelions growing on the cracks of a busy street // gentle hands, shy smiles, and long hugs // Atlas carrying the world on their shoulders

biography.

TW: mentions of alcoholism, suicide, and depression; child abandonment; parentification; death of a parent by alcoholism.

It is the rooms enveloped in darkness, interrupted only by the flickering light of a lit cigarette dangling precariously off your mother’s mouth, what you remember the most when you think about childhood. And her raspy voice, with misery clinging to her every word, stinging the same way battery acid would when rubbed on an open wound— it’s this overkill you’d rather forget.

You are raised partially by your mother. Raised. A strange word, you chew through it like molasses any time it needs to escape your mouth when speaking about your mother. In truth, it’s a term you use rather loosely when it comes to her or your father, considering who they are, what they’ve done and not done— you’d never let that on. You’d first bite your tongue raw before betraying one of your own.

In the early days you wonder what, sometimes who, had tricked your mother into believing there was nothing worth staying alive for. Never fall in love kid

You’d often hear her whisper in the dark. Nowadays you hope she takes her meds, lest she remains tucked in bed for days on end. All you ask for, all you pray for, is that you won’t find her floating, almost unconscious, in a murky bath of cold water, lavender oil, and blood again.

It is this incident that comes as the catalyst you need to step up and look after her and the rest of the family.

As the sunlight drowns in a wave of infinite darkness, you make your way to the local pub to drag your father back home, where he will continue to drink until daylight graces the skies once more. After an incident that you hide away in one of the innermost corners of your mind, you know better than to touch his liquor cabinet.

It feels right to be a nurse– the perfect career for the eternal caregiver. You even enjoy it at first, going from your overly protective role at home to your overzealous shift at the local hospital. Feeling invincible, you burn the candle at both ends, the uncertain flame illuminating a smile that is all teeth, eyes blinking rapidly to prevent any tears from coming.

When your father’s liver finally succumbs to decades of the disease that plagued him, you forget how to breathe. Guilt immediately burrows inside your heart, builds a home in the now vacant spot where papá used to live and ushers a devastating thought.

You can’t save anyone.

The thought haunts you, follows you to work where you end up making fatal mistakes. You don’t make a scene when they finally fire you and instead feel some sense of peace for the first time.

The world calls out to you, begs for you to break free from the ties that bind you home, and suddenly brimming with joy, you don’t hesitate to answer. The intrinsic love that is inherent in the fabric of your being remains, it only changes shape. Flowers, plants– the love and care that you put into them is always gratifying, more forgiving than your complex human.

An electrifying new lease on life brings you to become an apprentice for a florist in California, which leads to more opportunities around the country as your skills grow sharper and more sophisticated.

Since the ultimate goal is to open your own flower business, you make your way to Colorado, where the rental market doesn’t seem as frightful as that of California.

#providence.intro #intro.

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guardianspirits13 · 3 years

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I wanna talk about Natsuo Todoroki for a second here.

tw// mentions of abuse, self harm, and suicide

Natsuo visibly has the most emotional trauma out of anyone else in his family (Touya not included), and I really wanna talk about why that is.

For starters, we haven't seen him really smile since he was introduced in chapter 187. He's introduced as having a friendly, easygoing persona and it's easy to imagine this is how most people outside of his family know him. However, every time we see him appear since then, another layer of his trauma is revealed and expanded upon, and it cuts DEEP.

I think the main reason that Natsuo still seems so vulnerable compared to the rest of his family is different than what you'd assume. Fuyumi and Shouto both spend a lot of time around Endeavor, and have been in close proximity to his (relatively recent) decision to atone. They have seen his growth firsthand and come to terms with it. Rei has obviously taken a very different path to healing- not entirely voluntarily- but she has been working with doctors and therapists for years to change and recover and reconnect with herself and her children. Natsuo is off at college, and takes every opportunity he can to avoid Endeavor. He (understandably) wants nothing to do with him, and shows stagnant resistance to his attempts to atone.

The reason why Natsuo can't move on from the past is because his trauma didn't come from Endeavor. It came from Touya.

Now initially we were led to believe that it was simply Touya's untimely death that still bothers Natsuo, and it makes sense seeing how Endeavor drove him to the edge. Losing his best friend and brother as a young kid without parents to support him or any therapist to speak of can absolutely been the source of persistent emotional damage, but the more and more we learn about Touya's situation, the more evident it becomes that Natsuo's trauma is much much deeper than even grief.

Touya, as we know, was driven by an ambition instilled in him by his father and experienced extreme rejection sensitivity when those ambitions were no longer realistic. Touya's relationship with his parents could be described as insecure attachment, a psychological term primarily regarding how kids react and respond to their parents and other close relationships. As he was raised, Touya learned to equate his potential to be a hero with his personal worth and similarly confounded attention with love. The difference being, of course, that love is unconditional, but even attention was being continually directed away from him as a punishment for continuing to train and burn himself so he could once again become worthy in his fathers' eyes.

This is where Natsuo comes in. At first it was assumed that all of the Todoroki children were born out of Endeavor's strong-willed desire to have a child that could surpass All Might, but we learned that this isn't exactly the case. I'd argue that it was narratively poetic on Horikoshi's part once this was expanded upon. Fuyumi was born to support and encourage her brother, and that is the exact role she plays 23 years later, keeping her family together.

Natsuo's case is even more intersting.

It was bad enough if Natsuo was only born for the potential of his quirk, but it's even more sinister that the sole intent behind his birth was to discourage Touya from his ambitions. I'd say it was to replace him, but it was more to promote the idea that Touya was expendable than to raise aonther kid with the same ideals but the potential to actually achieve it, although that was definitely a secondary motivation.

The parallelism in this is how much Natsuo's life revolves around Touya. He was born because of Touya, he looked up to and took care of Touya as a kid, and the absence of Touya in the present continues to drive him and his decisions in life (but more on that later).

I continue to pray that we will eventually get more solid backstory on Natsuo and Touya's relationship as kids and where it cut off, wether on a bad note or not, but there are a few things we know for certain. One, Touya was mentally ill. Yes, he was rejected by his parents but he seems to have been particularly vulnerable to this compared to any of his siblings since he was the first of them and thus relied only on his parents for validation in his early years. He shows early signs of a variety of different mental disorders, particularly BPD, which I have previously written a whole analysis for on its own. Touya is shown self-harming both by the very nature of his quirk and even by very directly ripping his hair out. He was incredibly self-destructive.

This is why it is so much more concerning to me that Natsuo, who was AT LEAST four years younger than him, was his primary source of comfort. Natsuo was too young to have known anything more than 'my big brother is sad that daddy won't train him anymore' and he obviously wasn't equipped in any way to handle Touya's severe mental illness. Touya most definitely needed professional treaatment as his forms of coping were abnormal even for the neglect and rejection that he experienced. Natsuo comforted Touya through breakdown after breakdown, and more than that Touya relied on him and came to him voluntarily for support. Natsuo was the best option he had, and he took full advantage of that. The main source of Natsuo's trauma was Touya's reliance on him.

Not to say at all that this was in any way Touya's fault- he was mentally ill and desperately in need of some form of comfort to keep him sane; it was almost a survival method at this point since neither of his parents really acknowleged him at all anymore. Touya's instability hurt Natsuo more than parental neglect ever did, but it was the neglect that enabled it and striped Touya of the supportive atmosphere he would have needed at this point not only to prevent but to heal from the mental damage he had already suffered.

Natsuo dealt with this for years and you can see how much it hurt him to see Touya in so much pain, not only from Endeavor's rejection but from his own self harm as well. For Natuso to know that his brotherly love would never be the same as having loving parents; would neve be enough- but at least it was something so he continued to love and care about his brother for little in return- is indicative of the kind of character he is.

(Edit: After the events of chapter 302 we know that Natsuo's relationship with Touya wasn't perfect. I will elaborate more on this in a different post, but I just wanted to clarify that although we were shown a very high-tension scene between them, it is implied that this was a regular occurrence that Natsuo was usually more receptive too but tired out of, in addition to Touya's spiraling mental health. It fit with the natrative to show the tension Touya was feeling with his family from all directions, but Natsu and Touya clearly had a stronger relationship up to and before this point, evidenced by their sharing a room and playing together regularly.)

He is incredibly selfless, and it's interesting to note how many of his positive qualities as an adult stem from negative experiences as a kid. He never really felt love from his parents, so he relied on Touya (and likely also Fuyumi) for that as well. If he grew up learning he had to give love in order to recieve it back, it absolutely influenced who he became in the future, a solid example of this being the responsibility he feels to reach out and have a relationship with Shouto and further regrets that he wasn't able to help his abuse in the past either. Another aspect of his character that intruigues me is how gentle he is. Personality-wise he seems about as opposite as he could be from the awkward, stoic, emotionally-stunted person that is Endeavor.

There are a couple of reasons for this, beyond what I've already discussed.

One, he had little to no contact with elements of toxic masculinity growing up, especially not from Endeavor.

Two, most of the influence he did have growing up was from Fuyumi, who is established to have endlessly cared for him since he was a literal baby.

Three, he grew up in a household where almost everyone around him was in much more literal, immediate pain than he was so he developed a very strong sense of empathy that might also have been tied to early survivor's guilt.

Now I have one important distinction to make, and that's the temptation to label him as a 'softboy' or something of the like after seeing him caring for his family and more pointedly, watching him break down in tears during chapter 252. While there is absolutely nothing wrong with men being soft or vulnerable (on the contrary it's actually so so important and relevant that Hori is writing characters like this in a mainstream shounen manga but that's an essay for another time), it is unfair to label him as such based on a moment when his trauma is being exposed.

Because his truama stems from such a young age, there is a blurry line between just being born with more emotional intelligence and the situation he was in fostering those traits. You know, the classic nature/nurture thing. My point being, it's important to tread carefully when discussing the nature of his personality to avoid invalidating his trauma; I have no doubt that he is very strong for having survived these things, and the moments we see of him onscreen are definitely among his most vulnerable.

Another thing that people less familiar with Natsuo's character might assume is that he is hot-headed and argumentative. I thought that at first too- after all, he doesn't seem to shy away from yelling at Endeavor when given the opportunity. However, this doesn't seem to be the case at all.

The first real scene we see him in with Endeavor, the man walks into the room and Natsuo decides he can't handle it and goes to leave. However, Endeavor happens to be blocking the doorway. Endeavor physically stops him and provokes him to his face, asking him to say whatever is on him mind. While Natsuo is notably not confrontational, Endeavor is. I think it's fair to say that he felt at least uneasy at this gesture. Natsuo is very honest with his feelings, and it's obvious that he's pissed at the audacity of Endeavor to be so oblivious to his own son. This is presumably one of the first real interactions they've ever really had, and at this point Natsuo has been dealing with trauma (caused by Endeavor!) on his own for years, and Endeavor seems completely oblivious to his pain and dismmisive to the rest of the family's as well.

Again during the internship arc Natsuo tries to get along with Endeavor and this time he actually gives it a fleeting chance. Tensions are high, however, and the conversation very quickly becomes uncomfortable, at which point he leaves. It is continually implied that Natsuo is uncomfortable being around Endeavor because his very presence brings up painful thoughts and memories of a time when sharing the same space as him was a warning to run and hide. This is later directly confirmed by Natsuo as he says that every time he looks at Endeavor's face he remembers Touya and the pain he was in.

I feel like an important side note is that we have never seen Natsuo outside the context of his family, which is understandable, as the role he plays in the story directly relates to them. However, if you take a look at Shouto, even though his experiences have shaped him to become who he is, he definitely acts differently when Endeavor's not in the vicinity.

Back to Touya's death, it would be very rare that someone would mourn a death for an entire decade without finding closure unless there are other factors preventing it, and uncomfortably this seems to be the same thing for both Natsuo and Endeavor: guilt.

This is getting incredibly long already, but it's important to note that Natsuo probably felt an incredible responsibility to take care of Touya and protect him because of his empathetic nature. His love was never going to be the same as having loving parents. His encouragement was never going to be the same as having support from Endeavor. Even further than then neglect and abandonement, it was not being able to save Touya that really made Natsuo feel worthless.

He seems to try and remedy this inability to save Touya and diminish his guilt by doing everything he can to be better. He reaches out to Shouto to be a better brother, he consistently pushes his limits to entertain Fuyumi's notion of a happy family, and he's working hard towards a degree rhat will allow him to help people like Touya (and Rei) because he failed to do so in the past.

His bio mildly implies that he didn't have much of a direction he was heading in after high school, but Fuyumi's encouragement led him to seek out his current college career. This goes back to Natsuo's 'purpose' in a sense revolving arount Touya, from his birth to his relationship with him to his death, after which he lost his direction. They were always rather inseperable, so naturally their seperation hit Natsuo hard. He lost his direction in life so when Fuyumi encouraged him to rediscover it, he thought of helping people, because that's ultimately what he was born to do.

Thank you so, so much for reading this if you made it to the end! I clearly have a lot of thoughts on this. Let me know what you think about it as well, and hopefully we'll get more info on this soon in the manga :)

#bnha 203 #bnha spoilers #long post #natsuo todoroki #todoroki natsuo #bnha meta #mymeta #todoroki touya

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baku-bowl · 3 years

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broke 1,000 followers (the fuck? I don't even make content people), so decided to write up a list of some (but not all, I'll make other lists later) of my favorite Bakugou-centric fic recs. my tastes run towards hurt/comfort, as you'll probably figure from the list. if there are some Baku-centric fics that you've enjoyed that aren't on here, please add them - this is definitely not a complete list of the ones I've read and love, but I'm always up for some recs. <3

fair warning, most of these are wips.

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Social Media 101 by WindsChild8178

Part 1: Survival Guide to Fucking Up

[Solely Bakugou’s point of view]

Katsuki Bakugou doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body. He’s aggressive in everything he does and does everything with 100% of his heart in it. After the Sport’s Festival, Katsuki starts to get harassed by strangers for his unheroic demeanor. It starts with letters but it doesn’t end there. The moment Katsuki realizes the harassment has entered dangerous territory and he needs to tell someone, it’s already too late.

Part 2: Post Traumatic Life Disorder

[Point of View opens up to Bakugou, teachers and classmates]

When the Dorms are finally built, everyone is settling in well, but things become tense as people begin to realize something isn’t right with the recently rescued Bakugou.

[Cannon compliant right up to after the License Exam]

hands down my favorite fic in the fandom right now. it’s the one that converted me into a Bakugou lover. if you have any fondness for Bakugou as a character then it’s likely you’ve read this one already, but if not, I can’t recommend it enough. incredibly depressing, but with the hope that comfort is coming soon in the next few chapters.

The Kids Will Be Alright, Eventually by NotWithThatAttitude

Bakugou is spiraling in the aftermath of Kamino and his friends are starting to notice. He's stubborn, aggressively independent, and less than willing to dig into his past, but after a breakdown that ends with a painful secret revealed, he starts to get help.

Whether he likes it or not.

Meanwhile, a new kind of villain threatens an uneasy peace following the loss of Allmight. Whispers build as a new narrative slowly takes shape:

Hero society needs to change.

Feat. Therapy, Dadzawa, best boy Kirishima, dysfunctional families, healing, growing up, and the mortifying ordeal of being known

guys.. the medical accuracy of this fic is just... *chef’s kiss*

I rarely see mental health genuinely handled well in fics, but this one goes above and beyond. kudos to the author for doing such excellent research into psychology, and making the application of it in here not-boring. also, while this one does have abusive!Mitsuki, it’s done in a way that feels realistic, and how I usually will see it occur in real life, rather than just for the hurt/comfort feels.

fair warning, the fic can be incredibly triggering (themes of severe depression, PTSD, panic attacks, rape survival, abuse survival, suicidal ideation/attempted suicide, among other things), so be safe and heed the tw’s if you decide to read. legitimately one of my Top Favorite fics in this fandom.

Lock and Key by autochorystalize

Bakugou made a choked, gravelly noise before croaking out a low, “You can’t be serious.” His fingers ached to blow up everything in the room.

“I’m sorry, young man, but you can’t change reality! This sometimes happens.” Recovery Girl clicked through his file, adding a new symbol in a previously empty slot.

- - -

A pair of eyes discreetly locked on to an explosive blond plowing his way forward, parting people in his path. He recognized the kid, of course. Anyone in the underbelly of society would recognize him, after the publicity of both UA’s Sports Festival and the events leading up to All Might’s fall. The uniform he was wearing cast away any doubts about the young man’s identity.

It was a bit of a surprise that the little firecracker presented as an omega.

- - - - - - - - -

Or: there are certain types of evil that seemed too distant, archaic violations and perversions that would never actually threaten bright-eyed heroes-in-training in the clean, modern world...but sometimes those evils aren't as distant as one might think.

remember when I said that I love a/b/o fics that are full of plot and world-building and gender-induced tension? that’s this one. the OC’s are fabulous and you love to hate ‘em. also, it’s the fic that made me fall head-over-heels for the TodoBaku dynamic, so it’s got a special place in my cold, dead heart.

be warned, there are rather explicit non-con scenes between an adult (OC) and a minor (Bakugou) in this one, but the author warns for them in advance, and you could likely skip those parts without missing too much if you need to.

Never and Always, Eventually by Wawa_Boonliang

"Katsuki can remember the exact moment that he and Deku…that he and Midoriya Izuku became friends. He can also remember the moment he and Izuku became fierce rivals, a time when they were almost enemies.

However, what he remembers most clearly about their relationship is the moment that they moved passed rivals and became something more close than mere friends. Something more like brotherhood, something forged in fire and secured in the middle of a battlefield or in the midst of natural disaster where the number of the dead was climbing ever higher. And then it was torn from him."

Katsuki is given a second chance. A chance to save everyone. A chance to change everything.

But should he?

y’all. I’m a slutty, slutty whore for time travel fics. a time travel fic with autistic!coded Bakugou? it was love at first read.

Lessons Learned by Sif (Rosae)

Rather than the police station, Katsuki's friends bring him to a hospital after rescuing him from the villains. His wounds were minor, but it didn't make having them treated any less important. As it would so happen, Best Jeanist was also brought to this hospital after the attack.

Sometimes, small choices have a big impact on how a story plays out.

classic Bakugou hurt/comfort. this fic opened me up to the potential that could be a genuinely good Best Jeanist & Katsuki mentor-mentee relationship, and I kind of dig it and search ravenously for it in other fics now. I’m also a huge fan of the behind-the-scences Pro Hero Chat group.

Slope by sunfleurmoon

“I’m not a hero. Or a good person,” Katsuki says, giving Aizawa a pointed look, “So leave me alone. I don’t care about the League or UA, or you—” The two years he’s been away have been fine, more than fine, fucking fantastic actually if you ignore the bi-monthly near-death experiences. He doesn’t need this place. He doesn’t miss this place.

And yet, longing, a childish desire to tear up, or maybe blow something to bits, they all twist in his chest like a band of traitors regardless. “—I just want to go home.”

Or: the one where Katsuki and Izuku fail the first term exam, Aizawa discovers their pasts, and Katsuki is booted from UA. Featuring questionable descriptions of villain organizations, a slightly illegal moving shop, and your favorite emotionally constipated badass in distress with a newly discovered penchant for collecting strays.

paaaaaaiiiiiiiin. the hurt is ALIVE in this one. lots of tortured, angsty exploding child goodness. the OC’s are excellently crafted, and the Bakugou & Eri relationship? beautiful. definitely deserves a read.

Ground Zero by WindsChild8178

In the wake of Kamino, Katsuki is tested more than anyone could imagine. Bound by a villain’s quirk to keep his silence or die, he lives each day knowing it might very well be his last. He continues to work towards becoming a hero, keeping his secret from his classmates and teachers, focusing on making it through each day and trying not to allow the panic or depression to get the best of him. When the villain finally corners him with demands in exchange for his life, there is really only one answer Katsuki Bakugou can give.

honestly don't know which I want updated more - social media 101 or ground zero. this author's fics are amazing, and I really wasn't expecting the twist in this one. can't wait for windschild to come back to this fic some day.

The Defect by LadyGreenFrisbee

"Why do you want to win the Sports Festival so badly?"

Because I want to see if the defect could usurp the masterpiece.

(In which Endeavor holds a terrible secret and Bakugo has to suffer since childhood for it.)

a great concept, and I adore the shouto and Katsuki sibling interaction here. hoping the author will come back to this one some day.

A Name That You'll Remember by Heronfem

Kirishima Eijirou is a Hero. Bakugou Katsuki... is not. Trapped in his toxic workplace and increasingly desperate to get out, Red Riot's days are only brightened by a new villain known as Caution, who's not exactly villainous and keeps accidentally doing good deeds. But when a real villain appears, a threat from the past that demands that Red Riot make the ultimate sacrifice to keep the public safe, Bakugou is forced into saving the day... and eventually, Red Riot himself.

sob story good guy villains are my weakness, this fic is a gem, and I'd kill for the sequel.

Our Hero by AnonymousTwit

He felt everything jerk to the side and throw his balance off before he saw anything, dust clouding his vision and irritating his lungs as the earth itself opened up to swallow them whole. For a single moment, in a millisecond's time, his wild eyes locked with Raccoon Eyes', hers alight with fear and adrenaline-fueled desperation. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that it was the first time she'd looked at him with something other than long-deserved hatred in days.

And then he was free falling.

After a particularly nasty encounter between childhood friends, the class learns about Bakugou and Midoriya's dark history and practically ostracizes Bakugou while trying to defend Midoriya. An earthquake during an outing has all sides regretting their decisions.

just fucking tear apart my self-sacrificing faves in every way imaginable while their loved ones watch on in terror. 💖🥰💖 this one is heavy on the Bakusquad and Class-1A feels, and VERY heavy on the Mina & Bakugou relationship (platonic).

Running back the tape, watching it replay by Faralyne

For someone ripped from their time, ripped from the few but strong relationships built by time and personal development, by self-reflection and swallowed pride, ripped from the one thing that made him feel worthwhile and needed and put-together, and forced to forge everything over again—Katsuki thinks he is handling it pretty fucking well.

A villain’s quirk sends a 29-year-old Bakugou back in time to his middle school days.

am I a sucker for time travel? yes. am I a sucker for vigilante!bakugou? also yes. am I a sucker for this fic? literally refreshing the page in wait for an update as we speak.

Liability by sandelf

After All-Might dies rescuing Bakugou from the League, Bakugou is determined to prove it wasn't for nothing.

But the world is against him, his grief is overwhelming, and his stability is splitting at the edges.

very self-indulgent bakugou angst. tw for harassment, severe depression, and suicidality.

Special Mentions:

How To Win The Sport Festival: A Step By Step Guide by mhwright

Short re-imagining of the Sports Festival Arc if Shinso had planned a little better and worked a little harder to win the Sports Festival and if the match-ups had been slightly different. Self-indulgent fic of watching him succeed.

this is completely Shinsou-centric, not Bakugou-centric, but I love and adore it and am dying for a sequel. Shinsou is Best Boy here and you'll be rooting for him the whole time.

#fic rec #katsuki bakugou #bakugou #seriously though if you have a rec for me please always assume i will be unbearably grateful for it #and hit me up with it in the comments or through messaging #thanks for the follows y'all!

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ellana-ravenwood · 4 years

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“I wish I knew how to help you” - Batsis x Batfamily

Synopsis : Everyone has tough times at some point in their lives. Bruce Wayne most definitely knows that. But when his own daughter is going through a really rough patch, he finds himself not really knowing how to fix things...

This particular subject has been requested so many times (the earliest request dating from August 2018....mmmm..), so watch me butcher it with bad writing. I thought, given how I feel lately, it was the perfect time to finally write it. I hope you will like it (runs away to hide) :

TW : Anxiety, depression, mention of suicide.

My Masterlist : @ella-ravenwood-archives.

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There hasn’t been a lot of time in his life where Bruce Wayne felt so completely lost. Of course, he would be lying if he was saying he never got confused, or if sometimes, he wasn’t quite sure what to do, what to say...

But if there was one thing he was great at, it was problem solving.

Even in desperate situations, he could always trust his analytical and collected mind to help him out.

In fact, Bruce Wayne could count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times he felt utterly lost, defenseless, and couldn't figure out a solution to his troubles. Not even a questionable one, like bottling up all of his feelings and pretending he doesn’t care while he’s screaming and dying inside.

He recollected exactly five times of such an event occurring in his life :

The day his parents died.

The day he realized he couldn’t save everyone.

The day Dick came to live at the Manor, and Bruce realized he had no idea how to raise a child.

The day Jason died.

The day he saw Damian kill.

And now, spilling onto another hand :

...The day he realized he had no idea how to help his daughter, you, with her mental health struggles.

Each time he had been completely lost, there was someone to help him.

For his parents’ death, it was Alfred.

For the day he realized even as Batman he would never be able to save everyone ? It was Commissioner Gordon, and his years of being a cop in a city like Gotham.

Dick himself, and Alfred of course, quickly helped Bruce to understand what it meant to be a father.

Tim’s arrival helped him grieve Jason.

And all his children, from Dick to Cass, and the experience he acquired trying to raise them helped him manage Damian’s problems. It was a plus for sure, that the boy wanted to be helped.

But with you...Any attempt of his trying to breach the subject would result in you brushing his concerns off, getting frustrated, or sighing “I’m fine” and leaving to isolate yourself in your room.

Sometimes, it felt like you really wanted to talk to him. Like you wanted to vent, and tell him what was wrong. But you always seemed to decide against it, maybe in fear of bothering him ?

Most of the time, it felt like you were living with your anxiety in peace. Like you greeted it like a good friend. Bruce had always known you were a rather stressed individual, but you always held yourself up so well ?

Most of the time, it felt like you were perfectly fine. How could he have known ? How could he have known you weren’t ? Ah...but maybe the signs were all there all along...

And Bruce just didn’t know how to help, when even you, didn’t seem to want the help...But maybe that was the trick ? To keep trying no matter what ?

At first, it didn’t seem to him like this would be an issue that could render him absolutely lost like this. And he hated the fact that he thought that.

Because it stemmed from one pervasive thought that made him despise himself : “Her fight with her own mind aren’t as bad as Damian’s, Cass’s, or Jason’s trauma. Aren’t like what Dick went through. It will be easier to fix.” And maybe you felt that, maybe that’s why you wouldn’t let him help ?

Why would it be easier anyway ?

Because you had a calmer childhood. Of course, being Batman’s daughter meant you definitely went through things most children will never experience. But compared to your siblings, you had a somewhat normal childhood.

The biggest trauma of it being the fact your mother, Selina Kyle (author’s note : I’m not particularly talking biological child here by the way, just to make sure y’all can all identify to this. Thought I’d mention it), decided to leave you in your dad’s care and had a very little part in your upbringing up until you turned 12 or so, which is the time she came back. You never seemed to even be mad about this. It always felt like you knew your mom had her own battles to win, that she wasn’t quite ready to have a child, and you forgave her as soon as she came back into your life.

But maybe that was the problem ? The fact Bruce always thought you were strong enough to handle things ? You always seemed to hold your own. You’d always been fiercely independent. Like you never needed help.

When Dick had fits of anger, you’d just stay quiet and withhold it.

When Jason was sometimes overzealous, you’d just stay calm and collected.

When Tim had massive freak outs at times because he felt he wasn’t enough, you’d just reassure him and stay grounded.

When Cass would have nightmare at night and be so scared she couldn’t find her voice again, you’d stay up with her and make sure to soothe her back to sleep, even if it meant not sleeping yourself.

When Damian would realize how much he missed out in life, in his childhood, and how little he knew about the real world...You’d be there, holding his hand while explaining in details why he felt the way he felt.

Even Duke, who arguably was the “sanest” of them all, had times where things were too much for him, and you’d magically appear by his side to help him through it.

You always seemed to be the one everyone relied on.

The one that has it all figured out, that has it together. The one most like Bruce, able to control her emotions. But the one even better than him, because you could also help others understand how they felt.

And that was why Bruce never really noticed your every day struggles.

Come to think of it, the fact you were always so on point and great in your explanations as to why someone felt the way they did, probably meant you felt like them before...

Oh god. God, Bruce hated this. Hated himself, even.

Hated the fact that he thought your fights with your own mind weren’t as bad as what Damian or Dick went through, as bad as Cass or Jason’s traumas. As bad as Duke witnessing what happened to his parents, because you...Well you still had both of them. And they were on good terms, now.

He hated the fact that it took you almost dying for him to realize you had a real problem too. For him to realize your apparent “I can handle my own” attitude was all a fragile facade that could break any time.

He hated the fact that he had to witness you almost letting yourself die, to realize this...The scene kept replaying in his mind.

A night out as vigilantes. Part of a building collapsing. You pushing a woman out of its way, but then just staring up at the crumbling wall that would crush you, not moving. And the state of daze you were in, when you found yourself in your father’s arms as he saved you in extremis from a certain death that you were clearly letting happen.

You later said it was a mistake. It was a simple mistake.

But Bruce, from that point and on, knew better. There had been a time, not long after his parents’ death, where he wondered what even was the point in living anymore. Where he found himself in a similar situation too, where he could save himself and yet stayed in front of the death threat. Alfred saved him at the time, gave him a good scolding which Bruce didn’t even register.

He recognize that look in your eyes.

Because he had the same one, many years ago, before he had a chance at having a family again. Before you, Dick, Jason, Cass, Tim, Damian...It was a look that meant : “What if I just let it happen, what if I end the pain by ending it all ?”.

And Bruce hated the fact that it took him witnessing this look in your eyes for him to finally realize you needed help. It tore his heart apart.

He hated the fact it took him so long to finally act upon it, to finally do something for you. No matter how lost he was as to where to even begin.

And so here he was, on a calm night in Gotham, sitting on a roof and researching on the internet what can be done to help people riddled with anxiety and such. He knew you enough to know you’d never accept to go see a therapist. But maybe...maybe he could help just as good ?

He knew how he got rid of his own anxiety.

The same way he got rid of many other things...He submitted himself to a strict training allowing him to control all of his emotions, shutting some away when needed.

But he couldn’t even imagine making you go through the things he made himself do. Not his daughter. Not any of his children.

There was a reason, the training he gave all of you wasn’t even 10% of what he used to do. Because he had nothing to live for except becoming strong enough to bring back justice to Gotham. Because he had nothing to look forward to except the fact that he was going to make sure no kid in that god forsaken city would go through what he went through ever again...

He gave himself the ability to turn into a machine. To shun all feelings away. Because he had a mission.

He would never, ever want any of his children to feel like this. Even if he managed to, in appearance, make himself feel nothing...It would always cause him tremendous pain. He knew how this felt, to force yourself to control everything.

No. His method was most definitely not fit for his daughter. He did not want her to become like him. And so, scrolling through forums, websites and blogs, he tried to find the best way he could to help his kiddo. It seems like there was almost like a “list” of things every person suffering from anxiety went through every day...

Wondering if your loved ones are upset with you.

“Are you mad at me ?”

Is the text you send to your oldest brother, Dick, immediately regretting it.

Because now, you were sure he’d find you annoying, pushy or anything of the like. Of course, Dick would never. But your mind was telling you he would.

He hadn’t responded to your text in a day, while he would usually be very reactive, and you didn’t need more to think he hated you, now.

Knowing there is no reason for you to feel that way.

Knowing for Dick to be “mad” at his little siblings, it would take a lot (you weren’t even sure you’ve ever seem him mad at any of you, except maybe the times you put yourselves in danger while he’s your team leader, but then it’s more a problem of being mad at himself than really at you.

Yet you cannot control it. You cannot. You are sure now, that he hates you.

Your father doesn’t understand why you’re so morose that day, and why you snap at everyone. He doesn’t understand, and you don’t tell him. And Bruce just ends up thinking you’re in a bad mood and leave you alone, while you desperately want to talk.

You want to tell him that you think Dick hates you. You want to hear him reassure you, even if technically, there is no need for reassurance. Of course your brother doesn’t hate you, he’s probably just busy, he just started his new job in Bludhaven, and moved in a new apartment and...Yes.

Rationally, of course you knew your brother, who has always been there and never shied away from saying he cared about you and love you, doesn’t hate you.

Yet you cannot help but think you did something wrong. You cannot help but think maybe he does. And you want to tell your dad, and have him reassure you, even if you don’t need to.

But instead, you snap at him. Instead, you push him away. Because you couldn’t handle your dad too thinking your annoying. Of course, he would think you’re annoying, a nuisance, if you told him you think Dick hates you...because obviously he doesn’t.

It was a vicious circle. So instead of possibly-but-probably-not-but-still-maybe be hurt, you pushed the one person you wanted close away, snapping at him and isolating yourself in your room.

TING ! Your phone, it’s ringing ! Oh please god, please be Dick !

It is your brother. He answered !

“Of course not ! Why would you think that ?”

You analyze every single word, and how he didn’t use an emoji, while he always does ! And the way he said “why would you think that ?”...he’s for sure mad at you now, and he thinks you’re the most obnoxious little sister that ever walked this Earth.

But you answer :

“Oh no reason lol. Hey wanna binge watch Gilmore Girls with me this week end ? Only you understand how a true masterpiece this show is.”

He doesn’t reply that day, and you think about it the entire night. He doesn’t come at the patrol of course, as again, he just settled in Bludhaven. And it starts. The spiraling of overwhelming feelings, the impossibility to let go of something.

You cannot think of anything else but sending another text to ask if he’s really not mad at you. You decide against it, because you don’t want him to think you’re annoying. Because you understand he has his own life now. Now that he moved from the Manor.

You understand he must be busy. That he has to settle in. That he doesn’t have to be available whenever you want, and that the fact he had always been up until now proved he was the best big brother anyone could ask for.

But you can’t help it. You think it must be you. That he’s not answering because it’s you.

And all of a sudden, you question every relationship you have. What if none of your siblings love you, and are just polite ? What if they’re lying because you’re really the only sibling out of all of you they don’t like and they’re just too nice to...Oh god. Your dad must hate you too.

Because you keep needing him to reassure you about stuffs. Ah yes, today you shunned him away, but sometimes, you guilt trip him so he says he cares about you. Or so he tells you nice things.

And suddenly, one of your biggest fear, the one where you ask for too much out of the people you love is back. And you cry. You cry all night. Because you have too many mood swings. You isolate yourself too much. But you don’t know, you don’t know how to make them see your fear of not being cared for...

And so you cry. Wondering over and over again “why am I like this ????” as you think all of your loved one are upset with you, and will never want to talk to you again.

Later in the day, Dick answers that he would love to watch GG with you, and there’s an emoji this time. Ah. So maybe he doesn’t hate you...

So many people wouldn’t even think this was a big deal, but for you...for you, it was...

Every small decision feels like it has life or death consequences.

You want to tell them. You want to tell them that’s why you couldn't choose what you wanted at the drive through fast enough. Why you stumbled on your words, and ended up blurting out : “Whatever Jason took !” because your taste in food was the closest to his.

You want to tell them, that even such a small issue, in your head, took a huge place. That you rehearsed what you were going to say when it would be your turn to speak to the waiter. That you got all tangled up, and didn’t ask what you actually wanted.

You want to tell them that sometimes, even the smallest “yes or no” question haunts you for days. That “what ifs” won’t let you alone.

You want to tell them, but instead you take the meal you didn’t really want, and eat it in silence, listening to everyone talking and enjoying this family moment. You stay quiet, your mind focus on how clumsy, dumb and useless you are.

Just because you couldn’t order something at the drive through.

You stay quiet, but your mind is racing about how much you suck. How you should get out of everyone’s way. Because you can’t even order food properly.

You feel guilty, because this is one rare family moment when you’re all together, and your siblings all have fun teasing each others, laughing and talking, while you just nod sometimes, smile, and die inside.

Just because you couldn’t order something at the drive through.

You think you’re absolutely insane. That you should be checked in in Arkham. You-

Bruce notices you’re quieter than usual. He notices you didn’t take your favorite burger. He wonders why, because he knows you really REALLY like that burger. Sometimes, he goes out of his way to go get you guys’ favorite food, and he knows that this burger is one of yours...

But he doesn’t dwell on it. Maybe you just wanted to change for once (which wasn’t much like you but oh well). And the fact you’re quiet ? Maybe you’re just lost in your own thoughts and day dreaming. After all, you do like to have some quiet and alone time, and this family dinner is happening on this time.

So Bruce doesn’t say anything, even if his guts tell him something is wrong.

Overthinking. Fearing something could go wrong.

You are in constant fear of what's going to happen if and when something happens to your dad ! Or your siblings ! What if you become homeless for some reasons ? What if you have no friends or family to return to ? What if what if what if what if what if what if what if what if what if what if what if...

Intrusive thoughts, they call them. And they don’t want to leave for sure. They’re persistant. They stay up until you overthink them to the point nothing makes sense anymore. To the dissociation.

And it makes your every day life a living nightmare.

Bruce, as he reads this part of an article on the internet, about how people suffering from anxiety are in a constant state of worry, feels his heart tighten at the mere idea you are going through this.

He knows you are. And he hates the fact it took him so long to realize because...

Not being able to control what's happening now or in the future.

Bruce could recollect so many times where, even as a child, you’d ask him questions like : “What happens after you die ?”, “What will happen to me when I get old ?” etc etc.

At the time, of course, he dismissed it as questions every kid asks. Wondering about the world around them. He never saw how much those questions would haunt you, how much sometimes, you couldn’t let go of things you perfectly knew you had no control over...

The signs were all there though.

You weren’t lost in day dreams, you were lost in nightmarish scenarios about what could possibly happen in the near future.

You were, every minute of every day, worrying about something that was currently happening, something that happened recently, or something that might happen in the next few moment, later the same day or in the future.

It was something you had to live with, and it never been just a child curiosity. As you grow up you stopped asking those questions out loud, didn’t mean they weren’t haunting you...

Making a mistake that will result in someone judging you.

You always had to be irreproachable.

You were a perfectionist.

A lot of time, people passed it as : “like father, like daughter.”

And Bruce should’ve known better...Why was he like this ? This part of him certainly didn’t stem from anything good. Yet he ignored the fact you acted exactly like him. The fact you were turning into him, on that front...

My brain is a TV and someone else has the remote.

... ... ... ...

************

Bruce had enough. He knew. He knew how you felt, and why you acted the way you did sometimes. And it was time. It was time to finally take action.

But he couldn’t do it alone. And he wouldn’t. In fact, they’d all be so mad, if he executed this plan on his own...

Because you. You were their precious sister.

They loved you, so much. And it would kill them, if they knew you really meant it, when you asked if they were mad at you. If they hated you. If they...

They always think you’re joking, or that you’re tired or something. That you have “mood swings”.

You don’t.

For you, all those issues are very real. But they don’t understand, because you’re always there to catch them, and they never expected you needed to be caught.

So when their father expose to them what he thinks is going on with them, and when they realize he’s right...

They feel crushed.

How ? How could they not notice their beloved sister was suffering so much ?

And so that day, they all swear that they are going to do everything in their power to help you. No matter what.

They will never give up on you.

No matter what..

************

“Why am I like this ? Why am I like this ? Why am I like this ?” You repeat to yourself, over and over again, as you feel your heart beat like crazy while it has no reason to.

While your chest hurt, and you feel the weight of anxiety on your shoulder, without even knowing why.

You keep telling yourself you suck, you keep being too harsh on yourself, and oh, oh if you only knew that your entire family right now, was plotting to help you feel better.

Unfortunately...

************

Dick’s antics soothe you for a bit, but as soon as he’s gone your heart goes wild again, refusing to stop, and your mind repeats bad thoughts to you.

The next day, Dick planned the PERFECT sister/brother day. Planning things to spend time with you, just like when you were little and it was just you and him.

It’s a perfect day indeed. Everything makes you forget your anxiety. You smile, for the first time in months since this weird extreme anxious state started.

Dick always knew how to make you laugh, and how to tease you just enough so that you wanted to show him what you were made of !

But once you’re home...

And Dick can try, try and try again, but no matter his effort, he can only relieve your pain when he’s around, and unfortunately, he isn’t always around.

************

Jason is patient, with you.

He listens, he empathizes and does not patronizes.

He’s there when you need him. He celebrates every small victory from you (like finally being able to order the burger you want). He encourages you, gives you all the hope he can. And it means a lot, coming from him.

Because Jason suffered a lot. He went through a lot. His death, and his traumatic return...

He tries to keep you hopeful. He is patient. Available. But he does things too well. You’re afraid he spends too much time with you, and forgets his own mental health. You know he loves to meditate, but haven’t seen him do it in ages.

Because he’s also keeping an eye on you. Your father probably told him the crumbling building debacle...And now he makes sure you’re ok.

But to the detriment of his own mental well being ?

You feel like you’re weighting him down. And slowly, he notices you’re avoiding him. And he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to push you, or force you to do anything...

************

It has always been easy, to talk to Tim.

Your brother is the only one in the family that did not become a Robin for personal reasons. Sure, he was struck with tragedy later in life (or he would never be your brother now...), but at the core of it...He was just a kid who wanted to help.

He was a fan of Batman, who really REALLY wanted to make himself useful. He became Robin, not because of any personal motivation but because he was just that selfless.

And so, it has always been easy to talk to Tim.

Which is why he’s surprised, when he realizes you’ve never told him about your anxiety. About your depressed thoughts. You vent a lot to him, but about small things. About things you can both laugh about.

It has always been easy to talk to Tim, and the fact you cannot address your anxiety problems tells him all the extent of it.

Tells him you’re truly suffering, and that he needs to get better.

To become an even better listener, for you. And as you witness him, just like Jason, sort of forgetting about his own well being, you cannot help but feel even worst...

They mean well. They mean so well. But you cannot stand them putting their own health on the line just for you. After all, you’re just a loser who doesn’t deserve any of those wonderful brothers and sister...

************

Duke tries to help you “temper your thoughts”.

His mom used to do that to him, as a child. He was always rather active, suffering from ADHD and such. In a lot of ways, his trouble resembled the ones you had with anxiety.

And he thought that maybe, helping you tempering your thoughts would be the best.

What does that even mean ? Well. Whenever he felt like you were anxious about something, scared or stressed, he would ask you if you were alright up until you’d finally tell him what was making you anxious.

And then he’d ask you the series of question his mom asked : “What’s the worst that can happen ? What’s the best that can happen ? What’s most realistic, or likely ?”...At first you didn’t really understand the point.

But soon enough, you got it. This was helping you turning your intrusive thoughts against themselves. Helping you see the good sides of things.

Unfortunately, just like with Dick’s technique of making you laugh and such, when Duke wasn’t around to remind you to consider the best, worst and most likely option...you forgot that trick.

************

"Let’s go to a quieter place, or go for a walk.”

Cassandra tells you, whenever she sees you get overwhelmed by something. And it works. It does.

You two just walk in silence, hand in hand.

Your sister’s presence reassuring, and warm. Her care for you sipping out of her very being, from her hand to yours.

“Let’s go to a quieter place, or for a walk.”

You go outside, and you don’t speak. She’s just here for you.

But she can’t always be around, can she ? She can’t always just magically appear next to you in moments of need, and say :

“Let’s go to a quieter place, or for a walk.”

But when she can. She does.

She knows when you get overwhelmed by sounds, by smells, by anything. And she brings you to places that makes you feel at peace.

Cassandra was never one to speak a lot, but she always understood.

************

Damian can’t help but feel sad that he, and the rest of the family, aren’t enough for you to feel better. That they can’t win against your depression and anxiety, no matter how hard they try.

And Damian. Oh Damian tries.

He makes sure you have everything you need. He makes sure to be there when it feels like you’re not feeling well, he follows you like a shadow and...

You both get more and more frustrated.

Damian puts a lot of effort into making you feel better, and you keep snapping at him, or pushing him away.

It’s because YOU’RE the big sister. YOU’RE the one who’s supposed to take care of him. But it seems like lately, Damian is obsessed with your well being, and he doesn’t even let you tuck him in anymore...He’s the one that comes tuck you in.

And deep down, you feel like it’s exactly what you need. You want to let your baby brother take care of you. And his worries are so sweet, and makes you feel all warm inside by how adorable this kid can be. How far he came back from.

Deep down.

But you’re not ready to admit you need help. Especially not from your 11 years old brother. No. He’s the one that needs the cuddles and the reassuring words. He’s the one that had it way tougher than you. And him taking care of you, although it feels nice, doesn’t feel right.

And it hurts, to see your little brother get sad because he can’t help you like he wants to. Because he thinks he’s not enough for you, and that’s why you’re feeling the way you are...

************

Nothing goes how they think it was going to go.

You do not get better right away. It doesn’t even feel like you’re getting better at all. On the contrary.

It feels like you push them away even more, that you become even more irritable, that...that...that you go further and further away from them.

And they don’t understand.

Even you, don’t understand.

Why do you feel so bad ? So Sad ? So anxious all the time ?

You don’t know. You don’t know. You don’t know.

“Why am I like this ? Why am I like this ? Why am I like this ?!”

You repeat this to yourself every day, without being able to find an answer.

And Bruce...Oh, your father came to the conclusion that the last and only option is that you need to go to therapy, you need professional help.

************

“What ? Why ? I’m fine dad !”

You say, anger pointing in your voice, as he tells you that.

“No you’re not, (Y/N). We can all see it. And there’s so much we can do we...I...”

There’s a silence. A heavy one. And it breaks Bruce’s heart, to see tears welling up at the corner of your eyes :

“It’s fine. I get it. I’m too much, aren’t I ? That’s why right ? I ruin you guys’ life ? You know, I noticed a shift not long ago. I know you’re trying to make me feel better, and I know you all get frustrated because you can’t. I swear I try dad. I swear I try to not get those bad thoughts. To not think you don’t love me, for whatever reason. To not think like I’m a burden. I swear I try to not be anxious. I try to not worry, about every little thing. I try so hard ok ?! But it doesn’t work ! And I know it’s wearing all of you down. I know it. But...I’m...It’ll be fine ! IT’LL BE FINE !!”

You scream those last few words, and a silence installs itself between you and your father.

Bruce just looks at you, and you cannot stand the pained look in his eyes. You never wanted your burden to transfer on your family like that...why ? Why did you get worst and made them notice you weren’t ok ? Why ?

Maybe it would’ve been better, if your dad didn’t see you about to get crush by this building, and hadn’t saved you. They’d have a-

“I won’t stop trying.”

Your father’s voice cuts your terrible thought, and you look up at him. He walked slowly to you, carefully, as if afraid to scare you. As if afraid you’re gonna “tt” him, and run to lock yourself in your room.

But for some reason, you don’t move. And you let him come close.

He brushes a few fingers on your cheek, as he used to when you were a child and unable to sleep. Him softly humming to you and brushing your cheeks slowly always made you fall right asleep...

“Until you feel better. And I will tell you over and over again that I love you and that I am here for you, if it’s what you need. I am your dad. I am here for you.”

And he understands your pain oh too well. It’s not because he managed to be able to shut his own mental health problems out, that he never feels them.

You are your father’s daughter. Unfortunately in that case.

Oh. Oh he wishes he could take on your pain. He could take on his shoulders your entire burden. He wishes it was only him, that felt that way. That you would never, ever feel anxiety, or depression again.

He knows it is not that easy. He understands.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Something breaks inside you. Something that was on the verge of shattering for years, but snapped only now.

“I just...I just wish I could help you. I just wish I knew how. I am trying too, (Y/N). And I won’t give up on you. No matter what you think. I will never give up on you.”

Those words. Those were so simple. Yet what you needed to hear for so long.

Because no matter your siblings’ effort, or Alfred’s, or your dad’s. Your friends at the Young Justice. Anyone you ever cared for...You always were afraid that one day, you’d be too much for them.

That one day, all your mood swings, pushing them away, venting and complaining often...would be too much. And that they’d leave you.

Alone forever.

“I’m not giving up on you.”

Coming from your dad. You knew he said the truth. You knew.

There’s a short silence. You look at your father, and even Queen Anxiety couldn’t make you think he wasn’t being genuine.

“You...That’s...I...”

Getting chocked up, you weren’t able to say anything, but he understood.

And he was there to catch you. You went right into his arms, and he held you tight, trying to convey to you all the unconditional love he has and will always have for you, no matter what.

No matter how much you push him away, how broken you get, how much you hate yourself and think you don’t deserve any kind of love...he’d always, ALWAYS love you. And would never give up.

“I’m here. I’m here. I will always be here.”

His voice was soothing. It has always been soothing. And he was there.

He was there.

“Thank you...”

You manage to whimper out, as he holds you against his heart.

And, finding it hard to reign his own emotions in (his children have always been the only ones who could cross all his walls and find the vulnerable Bruce who feels everything), Bruce repeated as much as you needed to hear that he was here.

He would always be here for you.

Always..

And the path to your recovery was now open.

__________________________________________________

Here we are. I am sorry if this is sort of...bluargh. Or not what you wanted. But I do hope you liked it. Haha I feel like this story is so ridiculous...I guess this feeling is in the theme eh..........Maybe it’s also because as usual, I wrote very late into the night, and sleep deprivation always make me feel like I do stupid things. Write terrible stuffs.

Reblogs and feedbacks are always welcomed ?

Haha. Convincing.

See you soon with another story, much lighter than this one for sure haha...

2K notes · View notes

dindooku · 3 years

Text

ao3 - loulou1810

'One stepped forwards, placing a hand on your back. You flinched at the touch, knowing that it was only going to hurt. They used their fingers to slowly stretch one of the slashes open where it had started to heal. This forced a silent cry from you. '

Things have taken a turn for the worst... will you be able to survive the torment?

TW - explicit violence (descriptive) and hints of sexual assault, death/suicide

*contains descriptive scenes of violence

*has suggestive 18+ moments, pls be advised

word count - 14,494

___________

You stepped away, eyes still trained on his. No, you’re not going to fall into his trap. You controlled your life now. You. Killing him would only send you back. You know better than this, you are better than this.

“I won’t hesitate next time. Leave the Child and I’ll leave you” You’d never been more serious in your life. The grit in your voice cut through each syllable. Every cell in your body was on fire, burning with illicit rage. To an onlooker, they’d think you were calm and composed, but they only had to look into your eyes to know. You were dangerously close to the tipping point, the last tether of your humility balancing on a knife’s edge.

He only grimaced at the wound. You’d thrown the dagger with such force it had completely sunk within him, he wouldn’t be able to pull it out to relieve the pain. Good, you wanted him to feel pain for once. No longer was he the ‘powerful’ man he thought he was only seconds ago. Now he just sat there, like a coward, whimpering in his own pain.

You turned away, re-sheathing the knives as you made your way back to the cantina. You can’t hold the stare any more. If you stayed any longer you were afraid that your tether would snap, and you didn’t want to pay the consequences, not now that you had something, someone to live for.

“I should have used you like the worthless slut you are.”

The words stop you in your tracks. Did he really just say that? You choke a little on the thought, it was now burning your throat with the vomit that had slid it’s way up from your gut. How dare he? You’d suffered your whole life, always working for someone else and never yourself. You’d been made to do things you really did want to do, taken advantage of in ways you could never get back. Everything you did was under someone else’s wish; you’d never had the freedom to make your own decisions. Well, that was to change.

You were now seething with the want to make him feel the pain you’ve felt, to at least understand, even just momentarily how the torment blisters your soul every time you close your eyes; how you never find relief from who they have made you to be. Turning back around he soon realised he’d fucked up. This had gotten out of hand, your body was acting autonomously now, the fire in your mind driving you without hesitation. You took out the knife from your thigh, swinging it in a playful manner, coaxing the grin onto your face. You wanted him to know you were going to enjoy what you were about to do to him, just like how he had with you, using you for fighting and more. He began shuffling backwards again but didn’t make it far. You grabbed him by the neck, using the hem of the fabric under his armour to pin him to the ground. You’re leaning over him now, legs either side of him. You look to his neck, using your fiery gaze to pinpoint where you position the tip of your blade, and then you slowly, meticulously begin to dig in; just enough to pierce the skin. You look into his eyes, you want to see the fear on his face, to feed off of the terror that played out in front of him, to use his torment to soothe yours.

“I want you to remember this moment,” You begin moving the knife at an antagonising pace along his neck, making sure to go a few layers in, but not enough to kill, “I want you to remember that the worthless slut held you like the decrepit arsehole you are,” this is your moment to speak. For once, you’re in control of this situation, and honestly, it's overpowering, the freedom and inexperience to manage your own feelings is choking you. Your malleable state was being overtaken, infested with your deepest, darkest temptations. He’s screaming now, but you can’t hear it. Your frenzied fury was deafening to you, it had twisted you into a violent creature. All sense of morality was extinguished now, he’d cut that tightrope you’d fought for so long to dance along and now you were falling into the dark canyon below.

“I want you to remember that the worthless slut pitied you.”

You’d slowly drawn a smart line across his neck, the blood poured out like lava from a volcano, the heat burning your knuckles as it stained the fabric around your wrist. You didn’t kill him, no, that would be a waste of time and emotion; you’d inflicted a physical pain that would soothe your violent itch instantly, but the knowledge that he’d have this scar brandishing his neck for the rest of his life, reminding him of your pity, that’s what would soothe your soul.

You stood back up, throwing him to the ground. He now lied clutching his neck, the gasps for breath muffled by your own blood rushing through your ears, your mind. It was sickly, simply vindictive, but truthfully it had made you feel better, calmed you. To know that you had done that stifled the onset of your anxiety, your realisation. He wasn’t going to die, you knew he’d find some way of coming back. You couldn’t kill him, but you sure as hell could make him want to die.

Time had slipped through your fingers. You were still staring. Watching the man struggle and shake in front of you. You almost didn’t care what happened to you now. The adrenaline was wearing off and the gravity of what you had done was sinking in. The sickly taste from earlier was threatening your throat again, but you managed to hold it down.

Suddenly something gripped you by your ankles. It wasn’t Gideon, you were still staring at his weak body on the floor. Before you had time to react, you were pulled to the ground. Two hands pushed down on your shoulders. You moved your hands to either side of your head to push up but you found something else was weighing you down at your hips. Then more hands were on you. They pulled your wrists away and now you were completely restrained on your front, the rough dirt and small stones digging uncomfortably into your bruised skin. You were struggling frantically now, but your mind was still disconnected. Maybe you were in shock, you reasoned, but you didn’t have time for emotions now, you had to get back to Din. The thought of him flying across to the cantina burned your eyes. You’d forgotten about him. He needed your help and you weren’t there, you were too busy being a vindictive animal to care for your own people, those that needed you. And that’s when you supposed that everything that was happening now was your fault. You chose this path, you let your feelings get the best of you, and like last time, you’re now a prisoner, slave, soon to be someone else’s toy.

Four stormtroopers lifted you up. Your hair had come loose and was now ruffled, rough with the dry dirt you’d just been restrained in. You pulled a few times to try and gain some control but your struggle was cut short by a firm punch into your ribs, completely knocking the air out of your lungs and causing you to choke. Your vision began to go spotty and grey with each punch. Until it went black.

____

You awoke to being on the floor, kneeling, with your wrists held around a post. Your back was burning from the sun, someone had taken your top layer off and you were just in your trousers and bandeau, back bare. It didn’t take long to realise you were still in the square where you had been fighting, except this time there was no gunfire, just a swarm of troopers filtering into the cantina.

No, that’s where the others where….Where Din and the Child were!

Before you could even attempt to help, a hot stinging slashed across your back. You screamed out, crying at the pain. This was pain that you hadn’t felt before, you didn’t recognise it; this was rich. It burned terribly, but it wasn’t dull like a hot iron, instead, it was sharp and volatile. You still didn’t have complete sense back, but you could still manage to make out a tinny-metal sound buzzing from behind you. It slashed again, causing you to cry out loudly. You couldn’t hold back the screams. You could feel the blood running out and down your back, the slick trails of crimson drops tapping the dirt like a clock, acting as a countdown to your imminent death. The next one was the worst though, it wasn’t a slash like before, but a slow, meticulous pain, like someone was dragging the painful weapon across your back just to make a point. Your eyes closed now, you couldn’t stand this pain. You tried to scream but nothing came out. Just empty, strained breathing. This was too much. The emotion from earlier had drained you of adrenaline, you were now just an empty shell with overbearing emotions. You couldn’t block this pain out, they were practically drawing it from you with each layer of skin they broke.

A croaky, pained voice whispered from behind you. “ I want you to remember this moment,” and you instantly knew who it was. You pity yourself now, you should’ve just killed the man and lived with the guilt, it would’ve been less painful than this. He’d used your words against you, the words you wanted to be yours. But everything that was ever yours wasn’t truly, it’d away been taken or used against you at some point, and you realised you should’ve known better than to think you had control of your life, even at that moment. It was a stupid mistake. The reality of it all began to make you shake, and now your cheeks were stained with your tears, slightly cooling the few bruises that you’d collected on your face whilst you’d been blacked out. This was just unbearable. You couldn’t fight this anymore, you couldn’t fight yourself, and so you gave in.

There's nothing left to fight for.

You didn’t notice Gideon leave in his TIE fighter, and you didn’t hear the stormtrooper tell him that Din and the others had made it out of the lava flats on the other side of town. You were too heavy in grieving, not only for your loss but for who you thought were your friends. You knew they couldn’t have made it out there alive, and if they did they wouldn’t come back to you. Even if you hoped, you knew that holding onto hope was dangerous. You weren’t anything to them. You’d done what they needed you to do, you were disposable. You’d been hurt enough today, you couldn’t handle the thought of them leaving you behind. But then again, you couldn’t blame them, if it meant the Child was safe, you’d sacrifice yourself over and over again just for him.

“Cmon, get up” you heard from behind you. You didn’t have the strength to argue back. You slowly got up. Time had blurred and your vision greyed. Your back was burning from the heat and your injuries, and your muscles twitched and ached with each movement. Turning around you saw about 30 odd troopers occupying the square. They were mostly running, collecting equipment and placing it back onto transport trucks. You overheard a conversation just behind you, “We’re going back to Base, Gideon has,-“ and then they stop. They’d noticed you’d turned your head to try to listen better. Something metal clashed with the back of your head and the world went once more into darkness.

____

You didn’t expect Din and the others to come and find you, well, that’s if they were still alive. And they didn’t. You’d been left behind. You had judged your relationship wrongly, thinking you had made a friend…but no. You’d heard the Razor Crest fly away, the familiar drone of the engines. You’d hoped that it was your imagination, just a stupid way of your brain trying to give you hope. But deep down you wanted it to be wrong, you didn’t want to know they’d forgotten about you. But, they had, and it hurt.

You had been kept in a cell for the last week or so, at least that’s what you thought anyway. You’d lost track of time. There was no outside light to charter with, and in all honesty, you didn’t care anymore. You knew you didn’t have a life anymore. All that you were to know was the four cold walls that the remnants of your sanity were trapped in, caged like the animal you knew you were. They’d reinforced this mentality with their treatment of you. You assumed you were under the ‘care’ of the empire, as troopers in white would come in once a day to interrogate you. They’d ask you questions about the Child and the Mandalorian, but you didn’t know much. Nothing that was useful to them anyway. And so, shortly there wasn’t much interrogating and quickly the sessions turned into straight violence. You were strictly a punching bag to them. Maybe it was some sort of torture Gideon had instructed them to use just to get his own back, but you’d given up the moment you know they weren’t coming back for you, and so every day you just let them use you.

_____

Your body felt foreign now. You’d begun to eat less and less, the guilt and pain of your feelings were turning you inside out, and almost in a way to feel something other than hurt, you’d starved yourself. The feeling of hunger helped for a while, distracting you from your thoughts, but you’d realised it only made the beatings hurt more. They were getting to the bone now, you knew these were injuries that would stay with you forever. The slashes on your back were allowed to heal, only to then be re-opened by another cruel instrument. They’d edge it further each time, and you knew it was Gideon making sure he’d mark you for life as you had him. The sickly thought of what you looked like wasn’t something you could bare now. It didn’t take them long to strip you back into the person you were before Mando had saved you. Before you went ‘Rogue’. It was like a vicious cycle. You had no choice but to accept it.

____

It had been 4 weeks, or that’s what you thought at least. You presumed that they’d beat you once a day, and so you were using that as a counting frequency. There was little left of you now.

You knew that it was coming close to the next session, it was imminent. And almost like they could hear your thoughts, the door slammed open, and the two troopers you’d come to know walked in.

They picked you up from the corner, you didn’t bother fighting back now as that only lost you energy, the energy you needed to maintain your consciousness during these difficult moments. They placed you in the chair, your chest pressed against the back of it as you sat the wrong way round, straddling the seat. You knew by this what they were going to do to you, and it was the worst. You let out a sigh as they undid the cuffs from your back, only to attach them to one of the poles which made up the back of the chair. You’re leaned over. They slash a knife through the shirt ripping it open so that you back was bare, your wounds still stinging from the last bout of cruelty.

One stepped forwards, placing a hand on your back. You flinched at the touch, knowing that it was only going to hurt. They used their fingers to slowly stretch one of the slashes open where it had started to heal. This forced a silent cry from you. You’d learnt not to make any noise as that would only make them push harder like they got joy out of it. The other trooper came to stand in front of you. You’d closed your eyes at their movement, you didn’t want them to see you were in pain. He lifted your chin up, forcing your face to look at his waist. The first trooper had stopped touching your back, and instead replaced his presence with a sharp, but saw-toothed blade. They were obviously pissed today.

“Open your eyes.” The trooper in front of you instructed. You objected.

“Open,” he slapped your face with his free hand, forcing your eyes open with the shock, “your fucking eyes!”. You stared up at him. The tears were flowing now. You hoped this wasn’t leading where you thought it was. They’d never gone that far, but you wouldn’t put it past them.

“Good, we’ve been given explicit permission to do what we want with you today,” he growled. His words were laced with anticipation, the anticipation you didn’t want. You shook your head, eyes closing again, trying to hold back how hurt and scared you were. The knife dragged deeper into one of the original slashes on your back. It made you want to vomit.

Another hit, this time a punch. Before you could reel away he’d grabbed your head in his hand, wrapping his fingers around the bottom of your chin and forcing your mouth open. Your eyes stayed tightly shut, you were trying your best not to be in this situation, to be anywhere else but here.

“I won’t give you another warning,” The one in front said. The blade the other was holding sunk further into your back, forcing a pained scream from you, unclenching your eyes at the shock. It was deeper than ever before now and almost felt like it was in your lungs like you were breathing the knife in. They didn’t remove the knife, it stayed sunk within you.

You’re gasping for air now, the anxiety was clutching your throat.

The trooper in front of you moved his hand to his waist, and your worst fears were coming true right in front of your eyes. The way he was gesturing terrified you, and at this moment you wished that they’d plunged that knife too far, out of mercy.

Before he could completely finish undoing his trousers, the room sunk into darkness, then a few seconds later the red emergency lights came on, the alarm blaring. The trooper in front of you stopped momentarily, the hand at his groin still gripping himself.

“We have to go, it’s a reactor meltdown, we have 10 minutes” the trooper from behind grunted, and like that they were out of the room, leaving you strapped to the chair, back bare, knife still planted into your back.

A reactor meltdown? Maybe it was a false alarm, you hoped so anyway because a couple of minutes had passed and no one had come to collect you. You thought about trying to escape, but you had no energy left, and that’s when you realised the knife they’d sunk into you had hit an artery or something, as when you looked down the floor was being washed with your blood. That explained the lightheadedness.

And this is where you understood, this is it. This is truly how you go out. You wanted to go peacefully, and you supposed the Maker had granted you this wish by allowing you to sleep, to choose this moment to die. You were so weak now, the blood loss, the heartbreak. You had nothing left. You allowed yourself to picture Mando and the Child being safe, flying through the galaxy at light-speed, finding a new home, their home. The thought was smooth and warming. You’d blocked all thoughts of the Mandalorian out of your head, trying to prevent any more hurt, but you could revel at his presence in your heart now. You had nothing to fear, you were happy now. It was finally over. You never thought you’d be happy to die but this, this you welcomed with open arms. At that realisation you relaxed, knowing that there wasn’t to be any more pain, any more heartbreak, and you closed your eyes, waiting for the final sleep to hit you.

Until it didn’t.

Your hands flopped to the floor, the weight of the cuffs holding you being released. That's odd…then your head was tilted up. You didn’t have enough energy to open our eyes, but the touch felt leathery, warm. Your head shook violently, but that wasn’t by you, the person touching you was shaking your head, trying to wake you. You wanted to open your eyes but you couldn’t, the sheer exhaustion locked your mind inside your body, separating the two. They pulled you into something, what felt like a neck or shoulder and held you for a moment. You could feel their breathing, and a faint cry or plea, like they were saying sorry for something. A hand wrapped around you, grabbing you by the back of your head, securing you in place so you couldn’t struggle, the other hand reaching around your back. And that’s what woke you up, the intense rip of pain in your back. It felt like something had been pulled from you, deep within; forcing a heavy, pained sob to crawl from your throat. You coughed a couple of times, the taste was coppery and warm, like blood.

You were now being picked up, and it felt like you were floating. You didn’t imaging dying to feel like this, you thought it’d be a smoother transition if you were honest.

Time was now only a distant complex to you, the sounds from the outside world were dimming into a steady hum. The rock of footsteps mirrored the thump of your heartbeat, but now they were working away from each-other, the steps quickening and your heartbeat slowing. And then the footsteps stopped… and you really did feel like you were floating, almost flying maybe? Ok, this whole dying thing was really odd now… am I actually dead? The thought confused you, but with each moment you felt more and more relaxed. You felt a wave of thankfulness for some reason, mercy to who or whatever was granting you this passing. So you mustered the last of your energy to make your voice heard.

“I don’t deserve this, thank-you.” It was a whisper. True and honest. You knew you didn’t deserve to go peacefully, you’d inflicted so much pain and hurt in your life. This wasn’t warranted. You smiled at the thought that something cared for you, and you drifted into the comforting arms of sleep.

___

The feeling of something wet brushing your back wakes you, but you don’t startle, you don’t even open your eyes. You take this moment to take in where you are, what your body feels like. It was sore and achy, but real…? You’re meant to be dead and yet everything feels so…real. Is it real? Am I dead? The realisation hits you like a train. You’re not… dead. You’re well and truly alive and something is slowly stroking your back. You open your eyes slightly, looking forwards. You’re on your side in what feels like a bed, and a clay-like wall is in front of you. It seems you’re close to the ground, maybe laying on makeshift palettes of some some-sort? A bed? The stroking behind you halters. They’ve noticed you’re awake. Everything is dead still. Then you feel a hand start to rise to your shoulder and that’s when you panic. You twist around as fast as you can, grabbing the wrist that was threatening you into a vice-like grip. You let out a whimper from the pain.

You can’t believe the Beskar staring back at you.

“Hey! You’re hurt, it's okay…I’m helping you,” The vocoder cracks, sternly.

What in the name of all that is holy is he doing here? He left you behind, simply forgot about you, and now he’s ‘caring’ for you? What in the…

“You left me behind,” leaves your lips before you can stop them. You’re so emotional now, you’d given up trying to hide it a while ago, it only hurt more to keep your feelings pent up. It was like they’d beaten you so bad you couldn’t even control what you wanted to feel anymore. But you didn’t want to show any sort of thankfulness. He was the reason you got into this mess.

He doesn’t reply, instead he just slowly goes to rub your forehead with the wet cloth. You flinch and move away. You can’t trust him. Why is he being nice to you? This could be some sick trick by Gideon maybe, or maybe it was your mind torturing you. This really can’t be happening.

“I didn’t leave you behind, I—,” he stops, freezing in his sentence and movements. He what? What could he have thought…to just leave me, to forget about me?

“Get out.” You didn’t want him here. His presence hurt you. Everything that you ever cared about ended up hurting you, and if you let him back in again it only meant he’d be leaving once more. You don’t have the capacity to feel that level of hurt again.

“Please—,” He turns his helm to you, the strain in his voice was pertinent. His pain hurt you, pricking tears in your eyes. But you can’t let him in.

“Leave,” you say again, this time trembling, the weight of the situation burning you from the inside out.

“Please, just let me explain,” The pleading in his voice makes your heart twinge, a feeling you haven’t felt in weeks. He moves closer to you now, resting on his elbow to the right of you, leaning over your chest slightly, trying to close the gap between the both of you. You remain quiet, waiting for him to convince you of his justification. “I…I got hurt, badly, I coul—,” You cut him off.

“I wanted to die once I knew you’d forgotten about me.” You snap. You really did. The pain of knowing that you weren’t anything to him was what tore you open. You thought that you had made a friend, you’d never been so comfortable with someone before, despite only knowing each other for such little time, it felt special, and you thought he felt the same way too. But back in your cell, your prison, you soon realised that wasn’t the case. The physical pain was temporary, but the emotional torment of his absence was excruciating. You really did want it to end back then, to be put out of your misery.

“Don't. Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.” He orders back, almost in a way that if it comes from him it must be true.

“No, don’t tell me what I can and can’t feel. You left me. I nearly died for you, for the Child. I thought I could trust you, but you flew away without even considering me, leaving me to die. You abandoned me.” The end of the sentence was weak and choked, you couldn’t stop the tears now. The pain of the last month was finally spewing out of you, he’d pulled the plug, the last straw. You move to get up now but he pushes you down by the chest.

“I didn’t leave you behind, I thought you were gone. I thou—,” He’s sitting up now, looking desperate but angry. “I had to go. The Child was in danger by being there, and I thought that you had—,”

“Had what? Died? Hmm? You didn’t even come back to check. You flew off without hesitation,” You spit back, this was accusatory now, but there wasn’t any other explanation you could think of. You heard him fly away, you knew he did, you overheard the conversations between the troopers saying they couldn’t track the Razor Crest, they’d even beaten you for three days straight because they were convinced you knew where he’d gone, like he’d escaped.

“YES! I thought you were dead. And I didn’t want you to be. I did come back, I looked EVERYWHERE for you. Cara and Karga scoured the Cantina and the whole town, there was no trace of you. NONE.” He’s shouting now, the anger and pain in his voice only winding you up more. This is all too much. But then…how have you ended up here? You mind jumps back to the prison, there are so many gaps in your memory that you don’t have answers to.

“Well, how am I here then? If I'm dead, how am I talking to you?” You talk quietly now, you’re more confused than angry, the energy to hold your fury dissipating.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says dismissively. He wants the conversation to be over now. What? Why is he hiding this from you? What doesn’t he want you to know?

“It does to me, tell me how I am here. I should be dead,” You command this, now forcing him out of the way so you can get ready to leave. You don’t plan on staying here any longer than you have to.

“DONT, Please, It’s not relevant, what matters is you’re here now,” he tries to push you back down into the mattress but you push him away again, using more strength than you should’ve. “What do you think you’re doing?” He snaps, his hand still pushing your shoulder to the mattress, the pain in your back now starting to seep into your emotions, winding you up even further.

“Leaving,” you say, again pushing back and quickly getting up from the mattress. You spot your boots at the front of the room and step towards them, but then you’re stumbling forwards. You brace yourself on the wall, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. Your legs are shaky and you’re seeing stars. You try gripping the wall harder to hold you but before you know it everything is going black again.

___

You awake again, but this time the room is dark, too dark. You can’t see much even with your eyes open. Your head is banging, so you reach up to feel the tight pressure at the side. There's a light bump and what feels like a cut, but nothing too serious, you hope it’s only a slight concussion. You turn your head to look around, checking to see if there’s anyone here, even though you can’t see. Listening out you can sense that it’s only you in the room, and so you go to get up. You pause again whilst you are sat on the side of the bed. Nothing…you must be alone, good. You feel your legs, you’re in trousers, and you know you’re now wearing a t-shirt. Ok, good. You go to stand up, again feeling wobbly but more manageable than the last time, the rest must have given you some more energy. You remember what the room looked like from before and walk around to the doorway, tapping your feet to your boots at the foot of the door. You bend over to slip them on, not bothering to tie the laces, you don’t have time for niceties. Moving back up the rooms spins a little, but you soon right yourself.

You peek out of the open door, taking extra care not to make any noise. Karga is sat to the left of the door, snoring with his head back in the chair, the moonlight coating a soft light over the street. Right, you know where you are, roughly. It looks similar to the cantina, and so you know that the spaceport must be close. You tip-toe out of earshot to then lean against the side of the building, looking down the street. It’s empty, which is both a good and a bad thing. It means there’s no one to watch you, but there’s also no one to hide behind.

You start walking, not caring if this is the right direction. You just want to get away, away from the pain. You hope that you can find somewhere abandoned, secluded… you just want to feel numb again. You keep striding, but with each step, it becomes heavier, your head more cloudy and unfocused. Your throat is dry, and you suspect you haven’t had a drink in too long. But you haven’t got time for this, you have to keep moving. In the distance you see another cantina, the lights are on and there’s music blaring. Good, maybe you can ask the bartender nicely for a glass of water and directions to the spaceport. You speed up your pace.

Entering the Cantina as discreetly as possible you keep your head down. Just to the right, you spot someone keeled over on a table, probably drunk. Next to them is a heavy cloak hanging from another chair. You walk over and past them, using sleight of hand to ‘borrow’ their coat, slipping it on as you walk up to the bartender.

“Hey, please can I have a glass of water?” You ask in your nicest tone, slightly abusing your privilege by batting your eyelashes and forming a sweet smile. He chuckles back, turning to fill up a cold glass and hands it to you.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” He grunts back, leaning an elbow onto the table, bringing his face closer to yours. You know what he’s doing and you’re not interested, but you have to be in order to get another drink and directions.

“Just passing through, actually, I'm wondering if you would be kind enough to help me?” You chirp back, but quietly, not wanting to bring any attention to yourself. You drink the ice cold water like its liquid gold, and the bartender looks at you weirdly for a second, but resumes when you pass the empty glass back.

“Go ahead, sweetheart” He raises an eyebrow to you as he hands you another glass of water.

“Don’t suppose you could tell me which way the spaceport is?” You muse, suggestively leaning into him to make sure that his attention stays drawn on you. You stay smiling, the warmth meets your eyes, despite it being fake.

“Sure do Darlin, you leave here, take a left and follow the street to the end, then take a right. Keep goin’ till’ you see the ships, you can’t miss-em, they’re always lit up.” He points to the door, leaning in further to you. You don’t miss the move and push the last of the drink down your throat.

“Thank you for your kindness, I wish you the best,” you smile back, reaching a hand out to shake his. He seemed genuinely nice, however, not disgruntled like most men are, and shook your hand back, his smile reflecting yours, which was now genuine. Maybe now that the Imperial presence has left this place everyone is a lot happier, which is good.

You stride out the door and follow his instructions to the spaceport.

The quiet walk was therapeutic, it gave you space to clear your mind and think about what Mando had said. He thought you had died? That explains why he left. But then he said he was looking for you? The guilt was starting to roll over you. If he thought you were dead there wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t bring you back to life or anything, and really you knew it was dangerous for him to return there with the Child, it’d be asking for trouble. But it still hurt nonetheless. It was still a traumatic experience, and despite him being here now that doesn’t mean he has free entry into your trust again. You trusted him with all of this and it only lead you to pain. You knew he wasn’t explicitly the one causing it, that it wasn’t his fault it went wrong. You knew that if you hadn’t indulged in hurting Gideon you wouldn’t have been captured, but because of him, you’d been the one that got hurt, taken prisoner and used.

Your body had carried you subconsciously to the spaceport, the glaring lights and low rumbles of engines brought you out of your reverie. You glanced around, looking for a ship you could maybe hitch a ride on for free by offering work. Anywhere from here, you couldn’t stay, no matter how much you wanted to be with the Mandalorian, you knew you’d eventually only cause him pain. He deserved someone better than you, someone, who wasn’t a crazed animal. He needed someone warm and caring, someone, that he could go to for guidance or acceptance. You weren’t any of that, and it hurt.

You didn’t have any luck with the first few ships, and your body was tiring by the minute, so you knew you’d have to find somewhere to sit and take a quick nap. You noticed that there was a small abandoned building to the far right of the compound. It looked like an old temporary hut that the Imperials had set up, and obviously, now there was no one to occupy it…other than you. There was a dusty desk and chair in the centre of the room. You took the cloak off and laid it behind the chair, it was too warm to sleep in. Before you knew it you were leaning over the desk, finding the most comfortable sleeping position in the chair. And you were out like a light.

____

You awoke to someone grabbing your wrists. Your head darted up and you tried to pull away, vision still blurry from what you suspected was concussion. You couldn’t move, your wrists were being held, and now there was a hand around you waist and it was lifting you up. The pain in you back startled you awake, and you began kicking and shouting, but your voice was dry and strained so it cracked as you coughed in pain.

“What did you think you were doing?” A digital voice demanded into your ear. Ow, that was loud. He’d found you, and you knew this time he wasn’t going to let you escape. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t put up a fight. Assessing your surrounding you came up with a quick plan. You shifted slightly, using your elbow to dig into his side. He keeled over, coughing a bit whilst loosening his grip just enough to let you slip-free. You slid over the desk, chucking your feet forwards. Clocking the window in front of you you jumped out of the window head first, glass shattering everywhere. You rolled on the landing, but not as smoothly as you would’ve liked, the injury on your back causing you to groan outwardly. You found your feet quickly enough however and started to run. It was very early morning, but there was still darkness; however, the lights of the shipyard were bright enough to light your path. You heard a not too distant mutter from behind you -

“3…2…1…” and before you could react your legs were swept from underneath you, knocking the air out of your chest. The pain in your back was only getting worse with each twist and knock, and you couldn’t stop the tears forming at the corners of your eyes. He’d used a sort of grapple to wrap your ankles to stop you from running. You turned your head towards him. He was creeping up on you, like a hunter stalking its prey. The adrenaline and fear of it all twitched on your skin, but you couldn’t hide the smile that plastered your face. It was fun and you couldn’t even deny it. The whole motion of him hunting you sparked a sickly low burn within you, something that you’d never admit to being excited by. You wriggled your ankle just enough to get them loose and made another darting run. You’d been grappled a few times before and you knew specific techniques to break free - and this obviously confused Mando as he let out a confused remark.

“What the— Hey! Stop running, I’m not playing,” but you heard the smile in his voice, the playfulness. He was secretly enjoying this too. And that made you giggle as you turned the corner. You didn’t want to like this man, your mind kept telling you no, you can't, he’ll only hurt you. But your body and your feelings were making it all that much more difficult as you ran, laughing, down the empty streets of Nevarro, the shiny shadow of the Mandalorian following you.

You knew the cuffs were electric, and that meant if you got them in water they’d disengage. You remembered that the centre of town had a water fountain. You remember seeing it as they carted you away, you assured that was where all of the animals were tied up and would rest before they were used for hiking across the harsh desert. You followed the signs and buildings until you saw the fountain. The Mandalorian wasn’t far behind you, and you knew that it wouldn’t be long until he was on you again.

You plunged your wrists into the fountain, glaring back at the chrome figure who had just turned the same corner as you. He soon realised what you were doing and stopped, almost shocked.

“HEY! Don’t you even think ab—” He put a hand up in an effort to dissuade you. It didn’t work.

The cuffs sizzled and popped but soon enough opened. You grinned to yourself, then back at the Mandalorian who looked stunned. He was now only five or six metres away. He was slowly moving towards you like he could calm you down or persuade you not to run. Oh no, you were having too much fun to stop, “You’ll have to do better than that, Mando” You said his name through a grin, and he didn’t hide the chuckle he let out from the short distance away from you. He was enjoying this! He lowered his hand. You relaxed momentarily. He thought that you were going to give yourself up. He thought wrong.

You lurched away and continued running. The sun was starting to rise now and people were filtering onto the street, the stalls now occupying a few tenders. You noticed an armoury stall just ahead, the glinting of knives sent a shiver down your spine, which was stinging through all of this. No doubt the injury had opened completely and it was staining your shirt now, but you didn’t care. You needed something to defend yourself against him with. You wouldn’t hurt him, heck he was covered in Beskar and at least a half-foot taller and twice as heavy, but you’d do your best to hold him off. As you ran past the vender you grabbed two combat knives, letting out a rushed “sorry!” as you left. The stall owner didn’t even have time to react but soon got the picture when the armoured tank of a human known as the Mandalorian came rushing past a few moments later.

Then you had the most marvellous thought…if Mando was here, then so was his ship. And how funny would it be if you hijacked his ship? Very. It would make your year. So that’s what you decided you’d do. You knew you wouldn’t escape him, but the comedy of taking his ship was too tempting and so you charted a mental course back to the shipyard. You knew where he’d parked it last time and the odds of him parking it there again were high. Mando seemed to catch onto your path and sped up a bit, pre-empting your moves in-between the buildings. You knew the space between you was dwindling, and so was your body, but surely the Mandalorian was getting tired too?

You entered the shipyard, eyes scouring for the Razor Crest. You caught sight of the orange markings in the corner of your eye and darted left, almost tripping over yourself. You kicked up dust-up at the sudden change in direction. The Mandalorian had tried to grab you at that moment but missed and went flying into the side of a ship. The clash of metal and angry Mando grunts sent you reeling. You knew this bought you a few seconds as you ran into his ship, the ramp already down. You launched up into the hull, the shiny floor not as grippy as the ground outside and you slip, but you catch yourself by rolling over and now you’re at the foot of the ladder…the Mandalorian stood opposite you at the other end of the hull.

You know you won’t make it to the cockpit in time, and this is your last dance, so let’s make it a good one.

You’re both stood staring at one another, waiting for the other to make a move. You twirled the knives in each hand, playing with them nervously. You’d seen the Mandalorian fight, he was good, very good, but you couldn’t deny the fact that your combat skills probably matched his in good health…but you weren’t in good health, you were sick with a concussion and heavy injuries which restricted your movement and reaction time…coincidentally the two things you relied upon on the most.

Mando reached into his boot and pulled out a metal object, and with a quick, and hot, flick of his wrist you were soon informed it was a Vibroblade. The way he moved had hit another nerve deep in your belly, you tried your best to ignore it. You knew how much those things hurt, so you needed to focus…but you hoped that this wouldn’t get to that point. You hoped that he wouldn’t go there.

Mando made the first move. He ran forwards, bringing the knife down and across your right forearm when he was close, just scraping the first layer of skin on your arm. Oh, ok, we are going there? The contact didn’t physically hurt, but it hurt your feelings a bit to know that he wasn’t scared to cause harm. You blocked the thought that you were enjoying this too much, he didn’t feel the same way. He saw the confusion on your face and stiffened up, almost going to apologise until you crouched down and launched a fist into his gut, the same place you’d hit just before, the sweet spot just under his Beskar chest plate. He heaved a little but grabbed your right arm, bringing it down closer to the ground. You bent down further to yank his grip from yours, stepping to the side and taking a half step back, giving you a moment to think about your next move. But he made that choice for you and launched his right arm again, bringing it close to your left shoulder, this time drawing blood. You let out a pained grunt as you grabbed his right arm with your left, pushing him back with a kick but not releasing your hold on him. He fell into the back wall of the hull as you're brought your right hand down to his collarbone, but he’d shifted his left arm up to block your attack.

You were in full battle mode now, everything was happening instinctively.

You both struggled in this position for a moment, trying to stop one-another’s knives from impaling each-other, but still refusing to back down. You were grinning ear to ear now. You weren’t going to hide it anymore. Fighting the Mandalorian was turning you on.

With that you twisted your right wrist inwards, grazing the knife across his wrist, causing his fingers to straighten and in turn disarming him. In this movement he kicked his leg out, forcing your back to the ground. The adrenaline couldn’t mask the pain and the cry you let out was genuine, exhaustive as it brought a couple of tears to your eyes. But now wasn’t the time for pain, you had to react now. His hand shifted to the pouch on his belt and you soon enough recognised it, it was smilier to the one he had given you…and now you knew what was inside. You rolled back and onto your feet, manoeuvring back into a fighting stance. You’d both traded places, he was underneath the ladder at the cockpit and you were near the exit of the ship. Noticing this he quickly hit a button on his vembrace which began to close the hull up, the ramp moving at an excruciating pace. You knew you could have run at this moment…but you didn't. You didn’t want to run anymore.

He lurched quickly, flinging a metal shard your way, but you just managed to dodge it in time, the pang of metal behind you reassuring you. You moved again and again until you were practically against the back wall of the hull, the cold durasteel prickling against the bloodied mess on your back. You had nowhere else to go.

He had stopped throwing the knives when he realised you weren’t running, and so you both stood facing one another, the loud drone of the ramp motors working hard to bring the heavy durasteel ramp up into its place. You didn’t expect what happened next though…

The ship plunged into darkness.

Okay, this was getting dangerous now. You were running out of energy and now you couldn’t see him. You knew he had some sort of night vision in his helmet and this was playing dirty. You gripped the knives a little tighter now. You heard a hiss as the door secured into place.

Dead silence.

You heard another hiss, and then a metal clank, this time not from the door, but you didn’t have time to explain it as his footsteps started to make their way towards you. You closed our eyes in an effort to hear his presence better, so you could defend yourself. You knew he was close.

A hand gripped your shoulder and pushed you against the wall, the other grabbing your right hand and pinching in a way that made you drop the knife. You swung your other hand up but stopped at the contact.

He was kissing you.

This…you really didn’t expect…at all. You froze against the wall, the shock was crippling you, your left arm was hanging precariously close to his neck. It’d only take a slight movement to slice it open…but you didn't. His warmth was comforting, calm. And you relaxed, kissing him back.

You couldn’t deny the way this was making you feel. You dropped the knife to the floor, ignoring the harsh pang of metal on metal. His hand moved away from your wrist and to your face, his other hand that was gripping your shoulder gently moves around the small of your back. You slowly move your arms up, one hand resting on his forearm and the other to the hand pressed to your cheek. You were reeling in his presence, it was intoxicating. The slow burn that he’d ignited was now starting to burn more viciously. The kisses were long and slow, but needy. His stubble tickled your lips and cheeks. He was digging into you with his emotions, he was trying to find something, or tell you something. You didn’t know what he wanted, but you knew that in this moment…it felt right. You both needed this.

He slowly moved away from you, but not far, you could still feel his warm breath on your lips, his thumb was rubbing your cheek slowly, lovingly. You managed to catch your breath.

“I came to find you as soon as I knew you were alive. Karga and Cara had heard rumours of an Imperial Base on the other side of Nevarro,” he pauses, silently asking for your permission to continue. You were calm now, you knew he didn’t want to hurt you and in reality, you did want to know what had happened. You nod gently, letting him know to carry on, “Well, Karga managed to get a tracking-fob for you. I don’t know how he did it, he knew I was… anyway, as soon as I heard you could still be alive I came straight back. We overran the imperial base and I found you in a cell, you were,—” His breath hitched. He had become more gravelly as he went on, and his grip on your cheek and back hardened. The emotion in his voice and rehashing of the events made your eyes burn and your heart thump. The trauma and its effect on you wasn’t something you could control, and it hurt, a lot. “Well, I saw what they’d done to you and I was so…I…I had to get you out of there. You were so close to not…” He’s panting now, like he’s panicked that you’re going to go again, to not be here with him. You rub his hand with your thumb, letting him know it’s ok and that you’re not going anywhere.

“I’m ok now, Din,—” He stiffened when you said his name, his real name. You know he hadn’t given you permission but you needed him to know this was genuine, you were talking to him, “You saved me,” you said softly. It was true, he had saved you, and no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself you hated him or that you were angry, you couldn’t. He had saved you, and you were thankful for it.

He didn’t release his tight grip on you, and it was starting to hurt until he landed another kiss on your lips, but this time it was more rushed, more aggressive. He had moved closer now, pushing you up against the wall with his body. His hand dropped from your cheek to your throat and gripped it lightly at first, but then slowly tightened. You loved the feeling, and that fire within you was now going crazy. His other hand came up to meet your waist, pinning you in place. He was relentless, and so were you. Both of you were desperate for touch, for intimacy; reassurance that the other was ok. You could feel something hard against your hip, and it didn’t take long to realise it wasn’t Beskar. A hiccup of a shocked groan escaped your lips, and he replied by digging his head into your shoulder, nipping the delicate skin with his teeth. That sent you wild. This man had complete and utter control over you now, you’d do anything he asked you to. You hadn’t thought of him this way, or tried not to at least, but you can’t deny your attraction anymore. The chase had wound you up, and his kiss had sealed the deal. You closed your eyes at the sensation, it was hot and desperate. Things were very close to going further but his hand grazed your back and you let out a cry. You tensed out of pain, genuine pain, and that’s when the effects of the last thirty minutes had decided to kick in. He let go quickly, realising what he’d done he shifted away, and you went cold. You missed his absence already.

The familiar sound of metal and hissing was hidden in the darkness and then the lights came back on.

___

You were both sat in the hull of the ship. Your shirt was blood-soaked from the reopened wounds on your back, so Mando offered to clean them and dress you up. Neither of you had said anything, but it wasn’t an awkward silence like you’d expect, it was understanding, and warm. You both were just happy to be in one another’s company.

You sat with your chest to a chair, straddling it like you did back in the prison, except this time instead of enduring pain, the Mandalorian was soothing your injuries with a bacta-wipe. At first, it was painful, you were gripping the chair and flinching with each wipe. You’d hear the occasional ‘sorry’ now and then, but you both knew that it had to be done so you just bit your lip and got on with it. After a while, though the antiseptic had done its worst and the wound was beginning to heal. Your eyes were closed at this point, arms crossed across the top of the chair with your chin resting on your forearms. Soon, it was relaxing, and his slow, steady contact nearly sent you into asleep. However, before you could, he stopped. You could feel his silent brewing but now it was unbearable.

“What's wrong?” You asked quietly, close to a whisper, but genuine. You wanted to know why he was so upset.

“I should’ve been there sooner,” He said bluntly. He was angry, but not at you…himself. You heard the clinch of leather-like he was gripping his fists. You recognised this and tried to soothe him.

“This isn’t your fault, it's ok, you got me out of there and that’s what matters, ok?” You chime back, turning your head to the side so that he knows you’re being honest. You didn’t want him to think that these injuries were his fault... if anything they’re your own. If you hadn’t been so vindictive you wouldn’t have been punished in such a way, or so you hoped…they’re a result from your ‘present’ to Gideon, the one that scares his neck.

“It wasn’t enough, I should’ve known where you were, I…I should’ve gone quicker, or come back and searched again…I shouldn’t have left you back there, I—,” You can hear him spiralling in his own thoughts. He was wrong, he did what he could and you knew that now, you don’t hold any bad feelings against him.

“Din.” You said sternly. You said it in a way to dismiss him completely, but not disregard his feelings. It told him that it wasn’t his fault and that he was getting wound up, and that what happened happened and he can’t do anything about that now. It told him you had forgiven him, that you were ok. “These injuries are my fault. I…I did something I shouldn’t have done, and I paid the price. Please, don’t blame yourself for this, for any of this,” You plead. None of your injuries are his fault, and it hurt you to know that he thought they were.

The ship fell back into silence.

After a while, Mando whispered, “What did you do…?”

You didn’t want to tell him, you were afraid of what he’d think of you. So you looked for a way to get out of this conversation. You’d tell him one day when you’re ready…but not today.

“I don’t think you want to know…” you whisper back. Your head sinks into your arms, your back tenses. Just thinking back to what you did makes you want to heave. You genuinely cannot believe that you turned like that…looking back, it felt like that wasn’t really you, but in fact, it was the primal, feral animal you’d kept locked away for so long out of fear for what it’d do…and now you know how far you can go, and even further.

“I’m sure it's not that ba—,” Mando tried to comfort you, you know he’s just trying to be nice but you really, really don’t want to talk about it. You’d just had such a lovely moment with him, a moment you want to happen again, and you’re scared that if he knows this side to you then he’d kick you off this ship this instance and fly away, never to be seen again. And you can’t have him leave, not again.

“No, Din. Please.” You cut back. You’re not having this conversation. End of.

Mando doesn’t say anything but slowly returns to using a warm cloth and water to wash your back, trying to relax you once again.

After a while, the water had gone cold so Mando went to put the bucket and cloth away, only after he’d dressed the wounds. He discarded the used bacta-wipe on his way out of the ship with the dirty water. You slid the clean shirt on and relaxed at the scent, his scent; the homely pine and metal lining your nostrils and cuddling your heart. You couldn’t hide these feelings now, his very open display of affection made his intentions quite clear…you just hope that it wasn’t a one-time thing. But you weren’t going to push him, you’d both been through enough emotional turmoil in the last few days.

____

You both made your way back to the centre of Nevarro, this time your weren’t running from the Mandalorian, but were stood next to him; his hand rested on the small of your back as you walked through the town at midday.

You arrived at the Cantina that it all went down in, but once you were inside it was evident things had changed. It was a school. The main room was filled with kids, and then you clocked him, the Kid. He glanced over to you and let out a shrieked coo. The class was on a break so the kids were running around playing with a whole manner of interesting toys, but the little green gremlins attention was set on you. He waddled over furiously, as fast as his little legs could take him and you bent down to meet his greeting. Picking him up you brought him to your chest. The warmth was almost godly, and the rush of calm made your skin burn, but in a good way. You’d missed him incredibly. His little embrace was enough to make it all worth it. You looked down at him, and he looked up at you, and you both giggle at the same time. It was sweet, one of those rare moments you only get a few times in your life. It was similar to the time you and Mando were walking side by side to Nevarro, hands in cuffs, joking to one another. It was another moment you’d cherish.

The kid looked to Mando and smiled a toothy grin, Mando reciprocated in a physical way, rubbing his hand along the Kid's ear. You placed him back onto the ground and he returned to his new friends, cooing and bubbling away in unintelligible conversation. You looked up at Mando who stared at the Kid. You couldn’t help but smile.

_____

Mando had brought you into Karga’s office, which is where you met newly commissioned Ranger Cara. She suited the role, almost like it was made for her. She sat in a chair just off from Karga, who was sat with his feet up on his new, professional desk.

“Nice to see you up and about,” Cara said, smirking to Mando as she said it. She must know about your little early morning tirade. You glanced to look Karga.

“Scared the living daylights out of me when you weren’t there!” Karga exclaimed, but his face was plagued with comedy and his trademarked grin. You giggled.

“Sorry Karga, just needed to stretch my legs,” you joked back, the both of you giggling now.

“Yeah, we could see that. You should’ve seen Mando when he found out you weren’t there,” Cara smirked to Mando, who shifted slightly, awkwardly almost.

“I thought he was gonna string me up like those bounties of his!” Karga jerked, looking to you then Cara as he laughed out loud. It was infectious, and soon the three of you were laughing, almost hysterically. Mando stiffened again, and you could feel his frustration as he stood next to you. You didn’t want him to feel awkward. You’re just having a laugh with his friends, you don’t mean any harm by it.

“Im glad he found me though,” You interrupt, softly, turning to Mando as you say it. And he relaxes, knowing that you did appreciate him after all. “Even if I did have to show him how to fight,” you smirk, landing a light but playful punch to his arm. He turned his head to you.

“Did you win?” He chimed back, trying to one-up you in front of his friends. No one had really lost the fight.

“Depends which way you look at it,” You say back, this time suggestively, and he stiffens into an awkward stand again. You know you’ve just hit a nerve, hopefully, a forgiving one. You didn’t mean to anger him, if anything you were trying to flirt. But he soothed your worries when he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into a small hug, your arm and shoulder touching his. It was sweet, it was his way of showing affection. You were starting to understand that he used physical touch and not words, and you didn’t mind that, not at all.

“Do we need to leave the room or…” Cara asks jokingly, pointing a finger behind her towards the door. You roll your eyes and throw her a chuckle, dismissing her enquiry.

_____

Mando and the group had gone on to explain that they hadn’t had any luck finding any of the Kid’s kind, or any Jedi in fact. They’d all been sent into exile after the Empire rose, and Karga assumed that not many were left. There were odd talkings here or there of rogue Jedi, but the odds of that actually being true were beyond slim. So they’d decided to keep the Kid in school until anything pops up. In the meantime, Mando had been collecting quarries here and there to tide him over and fill the void, to take his mind off…you. They also said they’d been looking for traces of you, and that Mando had gone onto search a few suspect planets but had no luck. They said they were shocked to find out you were actually still here on Nevarro and not on the other side of the Galaxy, which was relieving in a sense. Karga had managed to get hold of some of your DNA from your belongings on the ship, allowing him to create a tracking fob for you. It was quietly comforting to know Mando had kept hold of your stuff like he was still expecting you to return. And with that, they pieced together that you were probably at the Imperial Base they had just found on the outer stretch of the planet. They had two motives for going there, Mando’s motive was the chance to find you and theirs (Karga and Cara’s) was to completely rid the planet of Imperial jurisdiction. They didn’t go into much detail about what happened after they found you, other than the fact that you got a free ride with Mando and his Jetpack; which explained the weird floating experience. Mando had tightened as soon as the conversation went in that direction, and when it came to talking about you he’d left. That confused you, and hurt a little until Cara and Karga explained.

“He was really worried about you y’know,” Cara said quietly, knowing he could well be listening outside.

“Yeah, he was…almost feral. He didn’t know what to do, he was lost," Karga said under his breath. “As soon as I managed to make you a tracking fob he was on his way here, I’ve never known a ship to make that trip in such short time,” He chuckled, but only to ease the tension. The thought of Mando being this upset hurt you a little. You knew he was only like this out of care for you but you didn’t want him hurting. You felt bad that through all of it you thought he’d forgotten about you.

“I thought he’d forgotten about me…that he’d left me for dead,” You said, voice cracking a little bit because it still hurt to say out loud.

“No, he’d never do that. He didn’t really have much choice,” Karga interjected, noticing your strain.

“He was injured, quite badly… we thought he wasn’t going to make it,” Cara said, looking to Karga towards the end of the sentence. The thought of Mando dying tugged you on the inside. It formed an ugly face, and the sheer weight of how bad it was dawned on you. He must have got knocked up real bad.

“Was it from the blast? He landed quite…” You asked, that was a hell of a crash and he didn’t move afterwards.

“Yeah, he was bleeding out from his head. But IG saved him, and, well…now he’s here,” Cara said, smiling to the door he’d left from a few minutes ago.

“I’m glad he is,” you said, drawing a solemn smile. It was sad, you didn’t know he was that close to death but you’re glad that IG saved him, more than glad. Then your mind jumped erratically, reminding you of what happened on the ship. How he’d touched you, held you, kissed you. You shuffled slightly at your uncomfortable thoughts…

“There's something else you should know,” Karga said, instantly bringing your attention back to his, “There was a Mandalorian covert here on Nevarro. When Mando went Rogue to save the Kid, the other Mandalorian's came out of hiding to protect him. The Empire caught wind of this and soon they were…” He stopped briefly, looking at Cara as if for her to continue, and she did.

“The Empire took them out. They were his family. We found the remains of their armour in the lava flats under the city as we escaped. He was devastated, as anyone would be. He doesn’t have any family, it’s just him and the Kid,” She said, her stare boring into you. The memory was harsh for Cara, you could feel that. You’d never really had family either, but the feeling of losing Mando could give you some sort of hint towards what he was feeling, which to you was stifling and suffocating. Maker knows the pain he must’ve felt, still is feeling after that experience. It makes you shudder.

“…And now you,” Karga follows. This surprised you, and you turn to him now, confused, “You’re his family now. He swore an oath to another Mandalorian, that if he found you you’d be part of his clan, clan…” He stopped, his face strewn in confusion like he’d forgotten the name.

“Mudhorn” A Digital voice broke through. You jumped in your seat, the tensity of the conversation and his shock prickles your skin. You didn’t notice him walk in, you don’t think anyone did. You were all so deep in chat.

You turn behind you to meet his gaze, then turn back to Cara and Karga. Mando places his hands on the back of the chair you’re sat on, leaning on it slightly. His presence is intoxicating, but in a good way, especially after your little embrace on the ship. You smile, subconsciously knowing that you’re safe in his company.

“That's the one!” Karga chuckles, and you smile back. It’s sweet, all of this. They all felt like family... like you’d finally found your people.

______

Karga had given Mando four pucks. You knew you’d be going as soon as you could. You were excited to leave and experience new things, but then you were also nervous to leave the safety of Nevarro. This was the first time you felt truly safe on a planet, and Cara and Kargas company was definitely something you were going to miss. You and Mando collected the Kid from the school, letting him say goodbye in his own language before setting off into town and back to the ship.

______

You browsed the stalls. There was such a range of what you could only call ‘stuff’ on sale; clothing, food, materials, weapons. You stopped a little too long at the weapons stall, and Mando noticed. You eyes glared over the selection of knives. None of them were particularly fancy or rare, but practical nonetheless; it was better than nothing.

You didn’t notice him creep up behind you until he placed a hand on your shoulder. You jumped slightly at the touch and he leaned in, his helmet just millimetres away from your cheek.

“I’ve got something to show you back on the ship,” he said in a quiet, sexy voice. It sent shivers down your spine, but not the ones you get when you’re scared, no, the ones that make you feel good. You turn your head slightly, acknowledging his words without reply. He steps away and continues walking in the direction of the ship, the Kid’s pod hovering just behind. You smile awkwardly at the stall owner, nodding your head quickly then stuttering back to Mando, who replaced his hand at the small of your back like before.

______

You arrived back at the ship. You were bubbling with anticipation. You wanted to know what he had been talking about back at the weapons stall, ever since his comment, your mind had been swirling. Mando walked you into the ship and closed the ramp, leaving the lights on this time. He set the pucks down on the table and walked over to the other side of the ship. He pushed the Kid’s pod into his sleeping quarters, the school must’ve really knocked it out of him as the Child was not fast asleep. After closing the door to his sleeping quarters, Mando pressed a few buttons on his vembrace, and then a familiar closet opened, revealing his small armoury. It took your breath away like it had the first time, the shiny tools glinting and sparkling. This is what he spent his credits on; not fancy clothes or fast ships or stunning women, no, he acted as though weapons were his religion. And you supposed they were.

He reached in and brought out a leather parcel. He turned toward you and held it out in his hands, prompting you to unwrap it. You undid the leather string and pulled the wrap aside, revealing two beautifully crafted knives. You stepped forward, wanting to get a closer look at them. They had beautifully etched waves covering the blade, which was slightly curved like a claw. The inside edge was sharp, mirrored to the point you could see your own reflection looking back at yours as clear as day. You could cut air with these things… The outside edge was serrated instead, and towards the handle it had three deep notches, each having a different type of blade at the bottom of the dip. The metal looked to be Beskar, as the waves of dark Mandalorian Iron were similar in style to the knives Mando had given you… before they were taken. The handle was carved of a sort of bone, but it was smooth, with three small dips on each to mark out where fingers would sit. Etched into the bone however was the same Signet Mando had brandished on one of his pauldron’s, what you assumed to be a Mudhorn, the name of his clan. Towards the end of each knife was a ring, which made the knives what you recognised to be Karambit’s. They were the best looking knives you had ever seen, the craftsmanship was exquisite, so detailed and precious. But their strength and versatility were clear. You knew Mando would take good care of these, you approved of his taste.

“These are amazing, I hope you’re happy with them because I would be,” You say, glaring at your reflection in the knife-edge, almost drooling.

“They’re yours,” He says softly. You head darts up, and if looks could kill he’d be dead. No, this was too much. You were expecting a souvenir or whatever normal people get as little gifts, this was crazy. You shook your head as you looked back at the knives, no matter how much you wanted to you can’t accept these, you haven’t earned them.

“Mando I—,” You go to reject them, slowly moving away but he cuts you off.

“Din.” He says sternly. He makes it clear just through his tone that this is what he wants you to refer to him by between the two of you. It makes you smirk to know that it was just you allowed to call him by his real name… your skin prickled with the familiar, molten goosebumps you felt last time you were on the ship with him, “I had them made for you by the Armourer, as a gift. She made you part of my clan, you’re under my protection now. I didn’t want to believe you were gone.” He chimed, his gaze still on you, your’s still on the knives. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“You had them made…for me?” You whisper back, slowly bringing your eyes to his, they’re now stinging at the corners. No one has ever done anything like this for you, ever; and the motion has hit you deep, pulling at your heartstrings.

“Yes, they’re for you and only you,” he nods at you, prompting you to pick them up. You hesitate a little, but he encourages you by shifting a little towards you, almost pushing them into you. You slowly reach down, almost not wanting to disturb them because they look holy, forbidden. But you do eventually, taking them off of the leather and feeling them in your hands. They’re perfect, more than perfect. Incredibly light. They give off a strong and foreboding feeling. ��

You step back from him, giving yourself a little space with your newest additions. You swirl them around playfully, showing off a little. You’d learnt a few tricks over time and Mando seemed impressed.

“You owe me a few lessons,” He chuckles as he leans back into the Armoury. You’re too busy swinging them around to notice what he’s doing.

“A magician never reveals their tricks,” you chuckle back. You would happily teach him a few new tricks if it meant you got to beat up a Mandalorian, the clout would be a winner at socials.

“Oh really? I was hoping we could go somewhere to train, practice even,” He says with his back turned to you. You’re still fascinated by his present to you, only paying half attention.

“Are you being genuine or taking the mick? If so… I suppose I can arrange something,” You curt back, acting way too big for your boots. The confidence these knives have given you is dangerous.

“I'm being genuine…here,—” he cuts you off by turning around, pushing his hands forwards to you again. This time he’s holding some leather straps, similar to the ones he gave you the first time, but these seem to be tailored to you. You smile at him, you're so inexplicably happy right now you cannot contain your grin. He hands the set to you. A thigh and arm holster. You put them on straight away, finding that they fit without adjustment needed. You go to sheath the knives in them but he stops you by handing you something else. It's another handful of leather, but this one looks different to any you had seen before.

“It goes on your back,” He says, like he was reading your mind and answering your confusion, “you’ll have to take your top off so I'll g—,” You interject.

“It’s ok, I don’t mind, plus I have no idea how this thing works…” you say back, bringing your gaze to his. You drift your hands to the hem of your shirt and bring it up and over your head, letting it drop to the floor. You’ve still got your bandeau wrap underneath, but your stomach and ribs are exposed now. His helm doesn’t move, but you suspect his eyes have already summed you up by the sharp intake of breath that his vocoder doesn’t manage to hide. Usually, he’d use his helmet as a shield, allowing him to hide his true reaction. But just by his body language alone, it was evident he’d tensed up.

He prompts you to turn around, so you do, remaining still, your hands at your side. You’re completely aware of the state your back is in… the cuts and bruises must look terrifying. It certainly hurt enough, and you knew that his fists were clenching at the sight. It put you at ease knowing that he wasn’t mad at you, or disgusted. You felt comfortable in his presence, more comfortable than you had ever been with anyone.

He reaches to the left, opening one of the straps so you can slide your arm in, repeating the movement on the other side. It was similar to putting on a jacket or coat, sliding arms into sleeves but instead, it was just leather and buckles. Your breathing has quickened now, and you hope he hasn’t noticed. Once on, you find that he reaches forwards, pulling each strap that sat at the top of your shoulder, tightening the leather against your skin. It doesn’t pinch as you expect; instead, it’s soft and padded.

He leans forward, asking with a whisper that the vocoder doesn’t completely hide, “Can you pass me the knives?” His voice was so gentle and warm. You lull your arms back slightly, letting him take them from you. His fingers graze yours and you twitch a little, the goosebumps plaguing your skin. He must’ve noticed your bodies reaction because he slides his fingers gently up your arms from your wrist and over your shoulders and to your neck, stroking his thumb at the nape for a second, the cold of the Knives prickling you. You sigh slightly as he pulls away and slots the two knives gently into the holsters on the back. It felt like they sat crisscrossed to your body, the handles facing towards the floor. “Try it,” He says and steps back. It takes you a second to figure out how its work, but you reach bending you, wrapping a finger in each of the hole’s at the end of the knives and pull them out quickly, swinging them in a half-circle until they sat comfortably in your grip. That felt so good, your smile was hurting now. You reached back and placed the knives back in the holsters, then reached down to grab your shirt to put it back on. After, you turned round to catch Mando staring, silently admiring you. You couldn’t contain your emotions and you lunged forwards, embracing him in a hug. You heard a pained breathe leave his helm and you presumed it was because you were squeezing too tight, so you loosened up. But he quickly returned your tight embrace with his, leaning his helmet down to rest on your shoulders.

This was another of those golden moments. Something you’d cherish forever. You would do anything for this man, anything. At the drop of a hat, you wouldn’t even hesitate, and it felt like he’d do the same for you.

“Thank you,” is all you could muster without letting on that you were crying a little. The gesture was so foreign to you yet you couldn’t believe you’d gone so long in life without experiencing it, and you hoped that Mando had felt this warmth before as well, that this wasn’t the first time he was feeling this; or you hoped he was feeling this.

“I've got one more thing,” he says. This surprises you, surely there can’t be anything else?! He’d given you more than enough. He’s being too generous now.

“Din this is all too much, you shouldn’t have—,” He cuts your rambling.

“No it's not, anyway, these are quite complicated,” He breaks away from your hug, you frown a little, not wanting him to leave but it’s not long until he’s back close to you. Now, these contraptions you never really have seen before. There is a mix of leather and metal, and your curiosity is instantly peaked. They’re dark leather wrist wraps, with a hole for your thumb and middle finger. On what looks like to be the inside of the wrist sits a metal contraption, and you can’t make out what it is. “Hold out your hands,” he says, and you do as told. You hold them out with your wrists facing the ceiling. He slides them on carefully, and it makes you nervous. These seem quite dangerous… Once on he secures a couple of straps, making sure that your middle finger and thumb are secured properly. “Now, you have to be careful with these and they’ll take a little getting used to,” Your eyes dark up to him, hands still facing the ceiling. You’re feverous now… are they going to slice your fingers off or something?! “Now very carefully, without slicing your fingers off, pull your wrist back, closing your fingers AWAY from the blade,” blade? Where’s the—

“MAKER!” You shout as a blade on each wrist shoots out, almost catching your fingers. Mando shoots forward but stops when he realises you’re ok. You chuckle, now these are cool. “Whatever the hell these are I am never taking them off!” You laugh, moving your hands around gingerly, making sure you get a right good look at them. They’re sick, and that’s the best way you can describe them. You go to hug him again but he quickly steps away, then you realise it's probably because you have two Beskar daggers pointing at him. He slowly moves towards you and shows you how to retract them; it’s a slight flight of the wrist and they’re back in the holsters. He removes them and sets them back inside the Armoury, despite you protesting a little.

“Din, I — I don’t know what to say, Thank-You” You really don’t know how to process all of this. The gifts are incredibly personal. To normal people, they might be a bit confused and discouraged, but to you; it means everything. He knows that you take great pride in stuff like this, and he went out of his way to ensure that you had the best of the best, and he did all of this just in the hopes that you’d still be alive.

“You don’t have to thank me, just look after it all,” he nods. He turns around and hands you another pair of knives, these aren’t made of Beskar and are smaller, but they sit in the thigh and arm holster he’d given you earlier.

You couldn’t deny the confidence he’d just handed you. You felt like you could take on the galaxy and only come out with a scratch. It was a crazy and illogical thought but it was still there nonetheless. And with that he’s closed the Armoury and is off up into the cockpit, plotting the coordinates for the first quarry.

#the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #the mandolorian x reader #mando x you #mando x reader #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din needs a hug #angry din #fanfic #fan fiction #star wars #mandalorian x you #smut #mando smut

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oh-boleyn · 4 years

Text

anne / infamy

words: 5733, one shot, language: english

anne / jane / katherine / catherine

tw: there are suicidal thoughts, eating disorders (no vomiting), mentions of being acussed of incest, miscarriages, death, being beheaded, trouble sleeping and I don't know what else, tell me if you think I should add something.

it is heavily bassed on my other one shot katherine, but still can read it as a separate thing. it is kind of a character study, or something like that. I haven't read it whole in one sit so it might not be really good but oh well, it’s done.

the commentary between scenes are things I got from internet about anne boleyn.

Anne Boleyn – “The Great Whore”

(…)

She suddenly can breathe.

She does it quickly, fearing the air might go out soon. Fixing her eyes, she can see Catherine of Aragon —great, she is like dead— but then she sees Jane Seymour.

Wasn’t she supposed to be alive?

There are three other women, who she has no clue who they are. But the six of them are sitting in a room, and she has a bad feeling in her gut, or maybe is just Jane presence that doesn’t make her any happier.

(…)

The memory of Anne Boleyn has always accreted extraordinary excrescences: an alleged large wart on her face, a fabled sixth finger on one hand, and a whole host of other half-truths.

(…)

They are all living in a house that could only be labeled as too small.

Anne ends up sharing a bedroom with two queens she doesn’t know before arriving in this century. One of them is a total stranger, whose name isn’t even in her mind. She talks half German and speaks about Edward as king and Mary as queen, which is something idyllic Anne never thought will happen. The other one is none other than her cousin.

Her cousin, who is younger, and even in reincarnation she is. Who doesn’t talk as much, and keeps to herself. Her cousin who was a child. She tries her best to make her feel welcomed to the new century, even when she has to put a façade because she is terrified of it too.

Anne is scared out of her mind, but as she was taught, she keeps a smile on her face and a flirty tone in her voice.

(…)

There’s no smoke without a fire and that she was partially guilty.

(…)

The Internet is a great way to look for information, she learns.

She also learns about her daughter, her sweet kid who she left behind. She reads for days, when Anna and Katherine are long asleep, she takes her phone and reads. About the conquers, the golden age, how she was loved, how she never married.

And Anne tries to be happy, she really does try, but it doesn’t work.

There is always a feeling of regret on her chest, of the idea that she might 've been able to see her daughter grow if it wasn’t because she couldn’t bear the king a son.

Boleyn cries silently while trying to make peace with the idea that her daughter was a great monarch, who died five hundred years ago.

(…)

Another might be that she was indeed a loose-living lady.

(…)

Whore was a word that sat heavy on her stomach.

She knew what was, and what wasn’t her fault, but still the cheers when her head hits the ground haunt her in her nightmares, and sometimes during the day.

The first time they do the show, there is tension and anxiety around them, around what they are going to say. She thinks to try and be honest, to really tell her story, but she can’t bring herself to do so. She protects herself saying almost nothing new, nothing outside what anyone could’ve read in a history book, because it’s easier, and it’s safer. It’s better to be an airhead than not having a head at all. Anne doesn’t need the pity of four hundred persons a day like Jane does.

But when they finished their performance, the cheers became so much that she needs to run from there, because she can swear people acted just like the day she lost her head.

(…)

Perhaps Henry’s reactions were harsh by our standards, but they were not irrational.

(…)

“Anne, wake up.” She feels a gentle hand on her back.

Boleyn opens her eyes, trying to take in what she is watching. She is in the kitchen, having fallen asleep on the kitchen table while doing her research on her daughter. The hand comes from none other than Catherine Parr.

“You should go to your room, Kat and Anna might be waiting for you.”

The last queen talks in such a maternal way that makes Anne want to punch her in the face. She had a chance to be Elizabeth’s mother, but instead sent her away. Jeopardized her daughter’s wellbeing, and then sent her away if blogs were true.

(To the very core of her heart, Anne was jealous. Envious of the fact that Elizabeth probably remembered more of Catherine Parr rather than her own mother.)

Anne stood up, going to her bedroom.

“Goodnight Anne.”

“Night, Parr.”

(…)

Anne Boleyn: witch, bitch, temptress.

(…)

When they finally move to a bigger house, Anne takes the attic.

It is the room farthest away from the rest of the queens, which gives her a feeling of release from them. The chance to ignore them as much as she wants. If she could be honest, except for her cousin Kitty, she is not too keen on the rest of them.

There is a voice inside of her that is constantly telling her that they don’t like her either, and that she should probably just ignore them before they do that to her. To have the dominance of the situation.

Having control was always something she craved. The upper hand was nothing else than the final objective. Not controlling things made her feel powerless, numb and weak to the outside world.

So she tried to have everything under her hands.

(…)

Scandal of Christendom.

(…)

“Kitty, I bought new chokers.” Anne says one day, entering her cousin’s room.

“Great.” She responds, smiling.

Her smile looks tight, not quite exactly pleased. Anne gulps and get the accessories on her hands.

“I thought you might like the pink ones, after all you wear a lot of pink.” She passes Katherine pieces of pink fabric.

“And you wear a lot of green.”

“What can I say? It’s my brand.”

She bites down a bitter laugh. That stupid excuse of a poem Henry allegedly wrote to her. About green sleeves.

He wrote her every day, gave her gifts, showered her with affection. Anne would love to remember those days as happy and easier, but instead she was plagued with remembering how the other ladies looked at her, how Catherine of Aragon sat so calmly, calling her a witch who had the fault of everything. She didn’t want it, any of it. Hated being the talk of the court, being the whore.

“Are you okay, Annie?” Katherine asks. Anne tries to put a good face.

“Yes, just Aragon getting on my nerves.” She says, sitting on the younger’s bed. Her words are not a lie, but not the entire truth. “I’m sure she hates me. It’s not news, we have known for like, I don’t know, five hundred years. But I hoped it would change.”

The last of it comes as a surprise, she wasn’t trying to say that. A slip of her mind.

“I’m sure she hates me too.”

“Why would you say that KitKat?” Anne frowns. “Did she say something to you?”

Concern starts rising from inside her. Katherine had nothing to do with her, and her acts from her past life shouldn’t backfire on her little cousin. Her mind works mechanically, going back into memories trying to find a moment of fury between the other two queens.

Katherine talks before Anne can hyperventilate: “No, but I’m sure she is not too fond of me. Mary wasn’t.”

Mary.

Just saying that name brings regrets to her. She should’ve been kinder, better. It was all her fault for not being the bigger person, for not acting like a real adult. That is something she can understand from Aragon, her hate towards someone who was apparently treating her child in an awful way.

She stops her train of thoughts, knowing she is just spiralling into the big nothing.

Anne looks at Kitty and wonders if she would’ve liked her back in their old lives.

“I love this pink.” Katherine breaks the silence.

(She is sure she would, after all, she loves her so much in this life, that she will probably love her in any other.)

(…)

Someone made a film about her sister; she discovers one day while idling on YouTube.

The other Boleyn girl.

Anne does not watch it whole; she doesn’t want to, but there is a scene posted that she can’t ignore. She wishes she could’ve, but instead touches the screen of her phone and regrets it while tears start forming on her eyes.

She quickly goes through the Wikipedia page.

That movie made eighty million dollars.

Eighty million dollars made out of her, of a scene where she is almost committing incest.

She feels sick, down to her very core. Anne feels sick of the idea of someone believing she did that, of people watching her (or not her, but rather someone who is portraying her) do that. She starts crying, losing air quickly and having trouble breathing. Her mind goes from the movie, to the Wikipedia page, to the day she was at the tower, watching George getting murdered.

The feeling of being helpless, impotent, of knowing she will never erase that scene from the mind of whoever saw it. Nobody will ever really, truly believe her she wasn’t the one to fault. The loss of control over her own story breaks her from inside.

Anne does not sleep that night.

(…)

Control stars spreading through her mind, as a plague.

First it is the little things, controlling how much shampoo she used while bathing, or how much money she had saved so far. Then it increases, controlling every hashtag on her social media account, and begging Anna to not post videos of her unless she authorizes them.

She can feel Jane’s glace on her while she reprimands Anna and it’s enough to make her feel disgusted by herself.

But she can’t help it, she needs to be in control of what she does, what other people think of her. Anne goes back to her days in court, and how she had to control what she said, thinking every word that ever comes out of her mouth as if a death warrant is waiting for her at the end of the day.

On 1536, it was.

(…)

A cold-hearted, husband-stealing bitch, who, from the moment she arrived at the English court, had her eyes firmly set on the crown, stopping at nothing to get it.

(…)

Anna sits in Anne's room, while they are going over their clothes, trying to pick an outfit to wear that night. They decided to try a bar for the first time, with music, alcohol and all the other things that are supposed to be in a bar.

“I like this one.” Cleves show the younger a translucent green shirt. “Try it on.”

She obliges, asking the other queen to turn around while she is changing. Her black bra can be seen through the thin fabric of the shirt, and she is relieved when she realizes her jeans are high-waisted. Suddenly while looking in the mirror she feels huge, with the clothes tightly wrapped around her.

“You look hot.”

“You think so?” Anne questions.

“Yes, I love it.”

Boleyn considers it for a moment and wonders if brutally-honest Anna is lying for the first time.

She pushes that thought aside and decides to wear it.

(…)

It is easy to see Anne as some vicious monster.

(…)

Anne sometimes prays, even if she is no longer sure of what God and religion means.

It might be because it’s what she is used to doing, but sometimes the second queen relies on it as the only thing that she can keep from her old life. Nights and nights praying to God for a healthy baby boy that might take the kingdom one day, and secure her place as queen. At some point it changes, asking for forgiveness to her brother and the other men who had been convicted. Her last prayer goes for Elizabeth, begging internally to let her have a life.

Praying never truly works, but it still calms her when things become too hard.

Anne thinks that she only calls it God because she wants to, but calling it destiny, force, or any other term would be the same. People need to believe in something greater than themselves, to try and obtain a calm that would only be granted if you were mad (or sane) enough to be blind against it.

(…)

Anne apparently grabbed Mary’s hair and pulled it in a fit of fury when she found out Mary had married for love to a nobody.

(…)

Control starts haunting her more after the first few months.

The idea of being back in the spotlight is terrifying, counting with how many opinions people have, and how easy it is to distribute it. She knows she can’t control every single aspect of her life, but will try to do so in order to feel more secure.

Anne slowly finds herself eating less and less, and it calms her mind. She forces herself to watch food, be around it, and just eat what her mind needs, not what it wants. It’s a way to overcome temptation, to prove to herself and others that she has the discipline needed.

Sometimes she wonders if it’s healthy or not, or overthinks too much about what she ate in a day, but tries to be as conscious and healthy as she can be, it shouldn’t be a bad thing.

(…)

She appears inconsistent-religious yet aggressive, calculating yet emotional.

(…)

Being in the bar is not as bad as the first time. The loud music and dark atmosphere are quite a view. The tables and the quantity of people make her remember the court, and how the nobles would sit on a celebration, but it is something totally different from what she is used to seeing.

“Anne, what do you think I should drink?” Her cousin asks.

“Nothing too heavy, you are not used to drinking. Maybe something sweet, with fruit.” She searches through the drinks written on the board. “Try a screwdriver, it’s orange juice and vodka. It’s not too sweet nor bitter, you might like it.”

“Corrupting the girl much, Anne?” Anna laughs. “I will ask for one Kat, you can try a sip from mine.”

Katherine smiles tensely, nodding lightly with her head.

“I will have a shot of tequila.” Anne announces to the barman.

The man quickly prepares it, letting it on the table, with salt and a slice of lemon. While Anna asks for her screwdriver, Anne takes the lemon.

Was it lemon, then shot, then salt? Or the other way around?

She considers, letting the lemon back in the counter and taking a pinch of salt, drowning the shot in one move and then getting the slice on her mouth.

“Is it good?” Kat asks, watching the displeasure on Anne’s face.

“I like it, but you should probably start with something lighter Kitty.” She lies.

Tequila definitely doesn’t have a good taste, but it was still good. Strong enough to make her tolerate through the night, but not as much to leave her out of her mind.

“Bloody Mary?” Katherine wonders out loud.

“What?” Aragon moves forward, inspecting the sign with the different cocktails.

She quickly turns around, walking towards the exit. Anne makes a gesture to Anna, commanding her to stay with Kitty while she’s gone. Instead of walking to the exit, she goes back to their table, where Jane and Catherine are talking over their non-alcoholic beverages.

“Aragon just saw that there is a cocktail named Bloody Mary.” She lips, her speech getting slurred for the previous shot. “I would have gone with her, but I think she wouldn’t appreciate it as much.”

Parr quickly takes action, grabbing her purse. “I will go, you did the right thing.” She smiles, a hand reaching for Anne, touch she doesn’t reject.

“I will go too.” Jane says. “Thank you, Anne.”

“Text me if we can help.” Boleyn smiles. “We will text when we get home.”

The two queens disappear, crossing the door while Anne sits. She feels dizzy, clearly a little tipsy, but not enough to make her lose her senses or similar. A concern for the first queen is clearly in her mind, even if she tries to ignore it. Anne shouldn’t care about Aragon, after all they were never friends. The older hated her from the very beginning, even if that was most probably because of her sister being the king’s mistress.

“What happened? Where is Aragon?” Kit interrogates her cousin, sitting with her screwdriver in one hand and another colourful drink in the other.

“Parr and Seymour are behind her; they will text if help is needed. Let’s just relax.”

“If you say so…” The younger says, unconvinced. “We brought this thing, it has strawberry and tequila, want to try?”

(…)

Anne, Destroyer of Marriages and Churches.

(…)

At first, she truthfully had it under dominion.

Anne didn’t think of it as a risk, but speculating how much she was eating became not enough, so she moved on to the next thing, counting calories. A website said that she needed around a thousand eight hundred calories a day, which seemed normal for her, except that another one recommended way less.

She settles for the smaller number, trusting herself and the fact that if she feels bad, going back to eating more wouldn’t be a problem.

(…)

I guess it’s possible that, while in France, Anne learned not just blow-job skills but also black-magic skills. Who even knows what goes on in France?

(…)

They are driving back to the house, but Katherine had been replaced by the other Catherine, Parr.

“Why don’t we put some music?” Anna tries to ease the air.

“I’m really worried about Katherine, I’m sorry but I don’t have the mind space for music right now.” Anne replies, face stern.

“She is going to be okay.” Parr tries to calm her down. “Katherine is strong, we know that. We saw her as queen, and she went through it as graciously as she could.”

There is a silence forming, before Anne decides to break it. “I forget that you’ve known her for longer than I have.”

She releases a dry laugh.

“It’s okay, we can always tell you about our past if you want to.” Catherine says, softer.

“That much is true.” Anna seconds.

“I… I wish to know more about Elizabeth.”

For a moment, Parr faces changes. Anne doesn’t feel bothered by it, instead she feels touched. The survivor’s face had changed from neutral to quasi sad, and the beheaded swears she knows that feeling.

She knows deep inside that blaming Parr for being Elizabeth's mother figure is nothing but wrong. Her daughter truly needed someone, and she was long dead and forgotten. It was hard to rely on what happened with Henry, after all he claimed love. The king moved an entire country just for her, broke England for the Church so they could get married.

It was hard to understand that it wasn’t love, just a sick obsession.

“I will tell you.” The last queen almost whispers.

“Thank you, but tonight let’s focus on Katherine.”

(…)

A downright nasty creature.

(…)

Anne starts feeling faint and unsteady one morning.

She knew as soon as she woke up that it was going to be a bad day. Her stomach was making noise, and twisting and it even hurt. As much as she wanted to eat, she preferred having control. It soothed her, made her feel just numb enough to feel a little more peaceful.

Anne remembered days after the miscarriages. How much her body would hurt, and how it all felt dizzy and slow. When it was worse, time seemed to stop, slow down. Instead of feeling a minute had passed it felt like an hour. Laying in bed was never something she truly enjoyed.

Trying to shake thoughts away, she stood up, her vision going black for a moment. Changing into her clothes was almost hard, but she went through it.

Once downstairs she settles to eat some fruit, trying to reduce the headache she is having. Katherine enters the kitchen looking pale and tired, and grabs a cup of coffee. They talked about it, Anne tried to make Katherine not drink as much caffeine, to reduce or stop drinking energy drinks that later settled bad on her stomach, but she didn’t want to push the matter.

Anne felt bad enough for her doble moral of pushing Katherine to be healthier while she was eating less and less each day.

(…)

The film depicted Anne Boleyn dabbling in witchcraft, taking a potion to bring on the miscarriage of a baby (which turns out to be monstrously deformed) and having a “witch taker” help to bring her down.

(…)

Anne was crying her eyes out in the bedroom, feeling silly and equally foolish.

Losing control and binge eating were just so stressful that once she realized how bad it was, she wouldn’t stop. Instead just losing herself along with her domination over food, to then wanting to beat herself up for it. Along it came losing her temper with Anna, who didn’t exactly do anything wrong except asking if everything was alright.

Her breath was becoming more and more rapidly, letting her gasp for air.

Boleyn was sure of how wrong it was of her to be doing it, to not control herself and stop the goddamn crying. It was unbecoming of anyone her status, and if the court had seen her like this she would have been executed way sooner. She was tired of being a fragile, emotional moron.

Everyone thought of her as someone above it all, calculating and smart, who turned things her way, but people never tried to sincerely try and see beyond it. She was ambitious, sure, but that didn’t mean her emotions were straight up fake. It was also hard to see it nowadays, where people didn’t hold the same opinions of what women should be doing, but still tried to push the witchy temptress narrative on her.

Anne was just incapable of keeping her façade of being strong.

(…)

A downright nasty creature.

(…)

“Anne, can we talk?” Catherine Parr asks, entering the other queen’s bedroom.

“Yes, sure.”

Her heart is beating fast, growing nervous of what the other queen might want to say.

“I want to be straight forward, and I’m sorry if it sounds rude…” the survivor takes a pause. “I have noticed you lost weight.”

Anne’s heart stops suddenly, but she manages to put on a smile.

“It’s just because of the show, working out a lot and eating the same. But I’m okay, truly.” She brushes it with a laugh.

“Don’t lie, please.” Cathy’s eyes water. “I’m worried. A lot.”

“You shouldn’t, I’m okay, and if I ever need help, I will talk to you.” Guilt creeps from inside.

Catherine just nods.

(…)

I also think she deserved to die.

(…)

Anne wasn’t sure if she was still upset and resentful toward Jane or Catherine. Both Catherines.

Once upon a time she hated the plain, blonde woman who just stole her husband and sent her to death, but thinking with perspective, it wasn’t at all Jane’s fault. Jane was no clueless, sweet innocent either, Anne was sure she wasn’t, but she wasn’t guilty. Jane was just like her, saw an opportunity and took it. Her death sentence was formed by not being a noble woman, miscarrying three pregnancies and a man with more power than any man should have.

It was hard to think of the woman as not her rival, but rather a friend. It was also forward probably.

Jane was not perfect, nor a saint. The woman had a range of multiple defects and virtues, as any other of them. She played the game and almost got out victorious, if it wasn’t because God had other plans. Anne found herself liking her more when true colours started showing, discussions, screaming. She might have never truly hated Jane to begin with, but despised how she seemed perfect, something Anne craved her whole life, but instead always failed to do so.

(…)

Today, she would probably be diagnosed as being a sociopath.

(…)

“I think I sometimes hate technology.” Anne says. “Why does it work so low sometimes, I have been trying to get the page to reload for like a minute.”

“Maybe you don’t have patience.” Anna retorts. “Just wait a moment, the internet will come back before you even notice it. Why don’t you sit and eat some apple pie?”

It is sitting on the centre of the table, one slice already eaten. Anne wonders, trying to remember how many calories it could have. Calculations going quickly through her head, but before finishing them she decides to stop. It was wrong, and she was tired of it.

“Yeah, that sounds good. Want some tea?” She moves, preparing everything to heat the water.

“Yes, please.”

Anna grabs another plate, setting a slice of apple pie on it. Catherine enters the room, with a book in her hands and an empty coffee mug.

“I want pie.” Parr states.

“Magic word?” Anne teases the survivor.

“Je t'aime beau cul.”

Boleyn bursts out laughing.

“What? What did I say wrong?”

“You pronounced bad the last part, it’s beaucoup, no beau cul.”

Seeing as Anne still can’t contain herself, Anna proceeds to question: “Why is it so funny? She just messed up pronunciation, it’s not that bad.”

“Instead of saying ‘I love you so much’ she said “I love you, nice ass’.”

It is enough to make Parr chuckle and Anna start giggling.

“Don’t worry, mon petit chou.” Anne grabs a plate and settles another slice of the pie. “A sweet, to a sweetheart.”

She winks an eye to Parr, who can’t contain her smile.

(…)

She was just naive to a very severe scale.

(…)

“Catherine.” Anne calls.

They are the only ones in the house, being Catherine’s night off, and the fact that Anne could barely stand without her blood pressure going really low. Her body was reacting badly to the lack of nutrition, even when she added more calories and food, some days were just awful.

“Yes, Anne?” The older queen asks.

“I wanted to apologize for our past life. I never said it to you, but I’m sorry for what happened. I can’t imagine what being far from Mary could have been, and I shouldn’t have been so cynical about it.”

“It’s fine.” Catherine says, trying to smile. “We were different back then.”

“I am not.” Anne speaks easily. “I haven’t changed. I’m just not a good person and… And I wanted power. I wanted to be queen, to have control.”

“That is not bad.” Aragon tries to go slowly, to not say something she might later regret. “I think that is something we both have in common, control. I wished every night I would have the chance to escape the tower, and I wished for nothing else rather than to be free. I will admit it, being in a high rank gave me that. I always had some control, call it my title or a powerful family member by my side.”

Catherine locks eyes with Boleyn.

“You just wanted to have control over your own life, and not have to sacrifice yourself and your reputation for your family.” She touches Anne’s shoulders. “But you didn’t. We are women, we didn’t have a say in anything. Don’t assume you had control over Henry, because we know that’s not true, but you know what? You can breathe now, he is gone. You don’t have to work so hard for control, because you have it. You are free to be yourself, Boleyn.”

The queen is shaking, almost sobbing. The Spanish kisses her head in a sweet manner.

“And I’m rooting for the day you decide to do so.”

(…)

I'm sure Anne was an inspiration to the Grimms for the character of the evil stepmother.

(…)

Eating starts to get more and more lawless.

Her calorie counting apps are left untouched for days, maybe even weeks, but that doesn’t mean her habits get better, they just get wilder. Eating a lot sometimes, and other days barely touching her meal. It’s not quite better, she knows that, but she feels more at ease. Letting go of her rules it’s a difficult task, and two steps forward and three steps behind is not a good thing, but it’s just the bare minimum.

Getting a medical check up also contributes to how she acts. Apparently, there is something called anemia and the doctor asks her if she lost a lot of blood recently.

(She thinks for a moment if consulting how much blood you lose when someone chops your head off, but decides to go against it and say that she didn’t.)

Iron supplements are quite horrible, and it tastes like blood, mixed with the orange juice she now has to drink every morning. Tomatoes and lettuce were truly better back in the old days when it had actually taste, and wasn’t just watery genetically modified seeds.

It helps with her low blood pressure, and it makes her feel grateful for being able to stand up fast without seeing black dots everywhere. Eating normal seems like a possibility one day, maybe in a long time. Maybe if she can forget about how many calories there are in a gram of fat.

(…)

She was just cruel and crazy!

(…)

“She was smart.” Parr concludes.

They are sitting together outside, being one of the least cold nights of the year. They still have to wear sweaters, but the sky is without a cloud.

“I love her.” Anne smiles. “I remember the last time I saw her. She was so small, still so ladylike. I knew she was destined for something great, even knew it when I was pregnant. That’s why I thought she was a boy, honestly. But just staring at her for the first time I knew she was it for me.”

“She loved you, and she was great. The greatest.” Cathy puts a hand on Anne’s back.

“I wish I had the chance to see her grow up.” Tears start forming in her eyes. “It was my fault.”

“No.” She insisted. “Don’t say that, Henry was insane.”

“I thought he loved me.” A watery smile passes through. “I was foolish enough to think he did.”

There is a silence, and for a moment they stay like that. But the survivor speaks up: “Did you love him?”

“Yes.” Anne states easily. “Or no. I probably didn’t, and he most certainly didn’t either, but I think we both believed we did.”

“Do you love him?”

“No, do you?”

“Never did.”

“Be careful, your neck is quite delicate… I don’t think it would be hard to cut with a sword.”

A sarcastic laugh makes its way to Catherine’s lips. “Funny.”

“Did she love me?” Anne asks, going back to the serious conversation.

“I think she did.”

(…)

Anne May Have Encouraged Her Cousin To Have Sex With Her Husband

(…)

“How was therapy today, Kitty?” She asks, taking a cookie from the jar.

“I think it was good.” Her cousin smiles.

“I’m glad it was, I still don’t understand how it works.”

“You should try it sometime; you love talking about yourself after all.” The younger nervously jokes. “It’s just my advice, but maybe one day you should go.”

“I don’t know, I would rather solve things by myself. But if I ever think I might need it, I will go.”

She smiles, and moves to hug her relative.

“I love you Kit, and I’m happy you feel better.”

“I love you too, Annie.”

(…)

Anne Boleyn was certainly no saint – no person living or dead is – but she was certainly no cold-hearted scheming bitch either.

(…)

Eating never becomes as normal as it used to be.

It’s not about recovery, or getting better, it’s just there are things you can’t forget. When times get hard it’s easy to rely on it, to think about old times as something better, and Anne had too many old times to try and go back to. But she learns how to fall and rise again, time after time.

Things scars. Emotions, feelings, fears. They are no more than scars. Some are visible, her neck when she doesn’t wear chokers is an example of it, but she still shows it. Because she knows there is nothing better than being true to herself, to tell how it was from her point of view.

Control stops being the most important thing, but telling her truth is.

(…)

She came back smarter, stronger.

(…)

“I love you, queens!” Anne says, entering the kitchen one morning.

“What did you do this time?” Parr questions.

“Nothing.” Her voice is small.

“Cousin?” Kitty wonders.

“It might, or might not be my birthday.”

“Ha! I told you, all of you!” Aragon smiles. “Happy birthday, Anne!”

“Ugh, I was sure it was tomorrow, I hate you.” Cleves complains, while moving to embrace the smaller girl into a hug.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner? I will go to buy a cake.” Jane is quick to give Anne a kiss on the forehead.

“No! We can go later, now I want to stay here for a while and…” she clears her throat. “I know I never had the best relationship with all of you, but really I’m glad you gave me a chance. And I’m happy I gave you all one too.”

“Annie we love you!” Katherine squeaks.

(…)

From sparking a radical religious reform to giving birth to one of England’s most beloved monarchs, it’s possible that Anne shaped her country more than any queen before or since.

(…)

Anne changes, and she notices it.

She notices how mature she can act, but still be playful and joke around. She learns how to commit errors, how to fail and say she is sorry, and not to hate herself for it. She learns to learn, to not try to outshine everyone.

And for the first time she gets peace, with herself, her body and her story. She stops spiralling into a million questions and “what if”. Anne learns to live with herself, to love what she is and what she is not and stop pursuing an idyllic dream.

She learns to forgive, which is the hardest but most rewarding thing to do when times get hard.

#six the musical fanfiction #six fanfiction #six fanfic #six the musical #six the musical fanfic

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ephemeral-afterlight · 4 years

Note

Clearly I desire suffering by asking this but... want to elaborate on the Logan accidentally killed a bunch of people except possibly he didn't, but he definitely thinks he did, thing?

logan backstory time? am i hearing some Logan Backstory Time?

tw for mild descriptions/mentions of torture, murder, child abuse/off-screen child death, human experimenting, drugging/needles, and homelessness, (most only mentioned, not heavily described) so please stay safe!

so logan obviously hasn't had the best home life. his mother died a few years after he was born, so he doesn't really remember her that well, but he sure does remember his father.

although he didn't understand it very well in the beginning, especially since it started when he was six years old, his father was the head of a team of assassins working to a larger political revolution. recruiting people to their cause proved difficult because of the high security networks in the city, so he decided to start training logan to be his subordinate from a young age.

the main goals were to teach logan about their world leaders and their governmental systems, teach him how to withstand being tortured for information, and show him how to execute the perfect kill and get away without leaving any tracks.

logan was only six when he went down into that basement for the first and last time. he doesn't remember a lot of it, but he can recall the way he was thrown down the stairs, immediately starting him off with a sprained ankle. that injury is nothing compared to what he had to live through for the next seven years.

there were others there, other children logan had never seen before who all were kept drugged so that they couldn't relay any information about their past lives. logan was drugged too, sometimes, but his fear surmounted any kind of bravery he could muster up in opposition of his father, so he never said anything just to keep himself as lucid as he could possibly be.

there were other people who worked with his father, scientists and doctors and other assassins who would be frequently going in and out of the basement for some reason or another. despite him being held prisoner, logan was never alone, so he at least has that.

logan is still unsure what the scientists did there (at least he assumes they were scientists—they had lab coats), but they seemed to be there the most out of everyone else. the other assassins would come down and teach them "lessons" on how to live through certain kinds of torture, how to properly kill someone, how to clean the scene up, how to stage it as a suicide or burglary-turned-murder—if you can think of it, logan probably can do it. logan knows how to stab someone in the throat and still keep them alive to spill secrets, he can be electrocuted and stand back up immediately, he can create a long line of red herrings and diversions to throw police off of his path.

he shouldn't have had to undergo waterboarding and branding at nine years old, but his father wanted to make him into the perfect criminal. and although that experience was traumatic, it was one he shared with the other children, the other kids that were being held down there. there was a girl and a boy who logan didn't talk to much, but then the boy died in one of the trials they put the kids through when logan was eight years old, so logan doesn't really remember him well.

that boy was replaced by another boy, some kid who was always fidgeting and tapping on the wall beside his shackle bracket. logan felt guilty for not knowing the other kid, so he started talking to the new guy, and learned that he was four years younger than logan himself, that he was only four years old and was barely able to hold a full conversation with him. the kid doesn't remember his own name, doesn't know where he came from, so logan just talks to him about mundane things to get his mind off the terror he's going to come to know down here.

the kid only gets worse and worse the longer he's down there, the more he's subjected to awful things. for all of a year, he gets quieter and quieter, doesn't say a word when someone comes down to "teach" them, to treat their wounds so they can do it all over again. he still talks to logan, though, so he doesn't really mention it.

when the weird kid is five, logan is nine, and the other girl (who they've learned is named emily, after lots of coaxing and uncomfortable silence) is ten, the scientists come down all at once. there's usually never more than three adults down here at once, so seeing six scary people in lab coats and weird dark glasses come down the stairs all stepping at the same time is overwhelming. they unhook the kids' shackles from the wall, push them toward the door in the corner that's never been opened since logan has been there, and they learn just what the scientists really do.

the tests and experiments are excruciating. they always fail, and the scientists always looks disappointed when they're finished for the day. they inject all three of them with needles, faces blank through their screams, and then the rest is fuzzy and swimming until the effects of the weird dark liquids fade. for a very long time, nothing happens.

and then, two years later, when logan is eleven years old, something does happen.

it feels like just the same as any other day. they're back in that white room, eyes squinting under the harsh lights, all three of them being stuck with that liquid. the weird kid gasps for air as he writhes on a cold metal table, and emily just cries and cries in the corner. logan is injected, and it's the same, for a moment. it's that familiar searing pain, that acute ache deep in his bones. but then the feeling starts to take on a different buzz, turns into numbers and equations and he can feel the air, can feel every single particle and atom around him.

the explosion rocks the basement so hard that the glass separating the white room and observation area shatters. it's not a fiery explosion, but an explosion of energy, bright blue light shooting from logan's whole body to attach itself to whatever it can. the lights flicker wildly, the steel tables buckle, and the equipment in the observation room shorts out. logan's body quivers as he unintentionally propels himself into the air, nearly smacking into the ceiling with how much he wants to get away from this. papers and pencils and electronic parts whips around the room in a whirlwind, converging in on logan to create a shell, a shield to keep the bad people away.

he doesn't hear the panicked and triumpahnt yelling, just the blood rushing in his ears. as his energy starts to dwindle, so does his protective layer, and the various items surrounding him being to fall and clank onto the floor. he floats down again, body weary and begging to rest, and he lands on his own table with a whimper.

but he can't sleep. not when he hears one of the scientists smugly call him a "success", when he reaches for a device that logan just somehow knows will keep him down here, that will suppress his newfound powers. he doesn't know how he knows, but it's like the device is speaking to him, telling him what will happen if he stays compliant. he can't ignore that voice.

so his head whips up, eyes wild, and his hand shoots out on instinct rather than conscious forethought. the device in the scientist's hand sparks once and then crunbles into dust, leaving the group of adults gaping in terror when logan looks straight at them. they scramble over themselves to leave out a back entrance, and they're immediately replaced by very familiar "teachers", the very assassins that tortured logan for years. he wants to return the favor, make them feel what he felt. but if he does that, he's no better than they are, no better than his father, so he doesn't.

instead, he jumps off the table and rushes to pick up the weird kid and emily, helps them over to the door and back into the main part of the basement. they barely make it to the stairs before the weird kid trips and falls flat on his face, and emily immediately turns to help him. they never stood a chance. the assassins have them restrained in less than a second, leave them struggling in strong arms and reaching toward logan for help because of that single second of hesitation.

for a moment, logan turns back and raises his hand to try and help. to try and use those powers, the ones he doesn't understand to save the other kids. but then he thinks of his father, thinks of what'll happen if he fails, and he turns tail and runs. he flicks his hand at the door to the basement, lets it crash down and trap them all down there, and he runs straight out the front door and as far away as he can. his tears choke his lungs for hours after he stops to rest.

he doesn't get very far. of course not, he's eleven, and he doesn't know how to use his powers or what his powers even are. a nice lady finds him and takes him in when he tells her that he has nowhere to go, that his father hurt him, that the police would just make him go back. and the lady is kind. a little too pushy, maybe, but she feeds him and gives him his own room at her weird house that smells like something he can't identify, and she reads him stories when he wakes up screaming.

for a long time, logan considers going back, or telling the police about his father and what he's doing, but ultimately, the fear wins out. so over time, he banishes it. he forces it and all other emotions that could cloud his judgement out, pushes himself into numbness, and as a result, his powers become honed at increasingly rapid rates. but the time he's fifteen, he can control his powers almost completely. they're not at their full potential by any means, but he at least understands them better, and he doesn't accidentally shatter his cereal bowl when he isn't paying attention anymore. he also studies himself to weariness every night, desperately trying to learn about everything he missed out on, leaving him constantly exhausted when combined with training his powers.

eventually, though, logan knows he's burdening the nice lady, that the financial struggle is weighing down on her, so when he's sixteen, he leaves. he manages to get a job at a fast food place, lives on the streets for a few years until he has enough for his own place, and he's lived there ever since. when he managed to get enough rent money backed up, he quit his job and started his teaching, one that pays less frequently, but the money gets better as he does more and more classes.

and then comes the realization that he can change himself. logan finds out one very slow day that if he concentrates really, really hard and combines all of his power-related energy at once, his appearance completely changes into something more fitting for his powers. the circuitry lines are a bit cheesy, but logan adores them, and he eventually gets used to the feeling of not needing glasses when he's transformed. the lab coat is something that at first almost sends him into a full-blown panic attack, fills his mind with memories of that white room, but after a while getting used to it, he starts to like it purely out of spite. he's expected to be scared of that coat. but logan has always been one for defying expectations, and he decided that fear would never rule his mind ever again, so the coat stays.

that same defiance logan holds toward his past and his father is the same thing that motivates him to become a superhero and do good in the world, as a way to reverse the bad karma he's gained, to atone for what he did that day. he has to make up for causing those kids' deaths and prolonged suffering in a way that only he can, so the next time he sees someone on the street getting mugged, he doesn't look the other way. instead, he sends the person flying into a pile of garbage bags, sends the terrified teenager home, and basks in the glowing feeling he gets from having helped someone like that.

it only gets bigger from there.

small taglist: @illogical-anxieties @kazykazu @sharp-as-hyalus @bookwyrminspiration @thekitchenpan @bunny222 @agoddamnrayofsunshine @rizzyluke

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isdamned · 5 years

Text

floyd's trauma/ptsd

(heavy tw for (child) abuse of all kinds, suicide, self harm, and discussions of mental illness)

floyd suffers not only from ptsd but from complex ptsd or c-ptsd - a subtype of ptsd which shows up in cases of elongated trauma over a period of years - often , and in this case , in childhood . he was diagnosed with ptsd ( but not c-ptsd) by the therapist on call at belle reve , though he refused to do anything about it .

i. safety seeking mechanisms

people who grow up in unstable environments and go through the stress of unexpected and violent situations often become attached to things they believe they can protect them , in addition to having paranoid behaviors . smoking makes floyd feel safe because he is in control of what he's doing and his body . guns make him feel safer because they mean that he has a means to defend himself and fight back against people who would hurt him and the people he cares about .

ii. violent flashbacks

emotional flashbacks are a type of flashback common in c-ptsd - where the person suffering from it , typically without realizing it , will , when triggered , regress to the emotional state they were in at the time the trauma happened to them . floyd becomes violent when people trigger him by bringing up his own fatherhood in relation to his son , edward , because he was violent when edward was kidnapped .

iii. emotional repression & dissociation

floyd copes with his emotions - many of which are negative - by repressing them , pushing them down as deep inside of himself as he can , and doing his best to numb them with things like alcohol . floyd often doesn't feel quite really in his body , and is detached from it , which makes it easier to let himself get hurt and to hurt himself .

iv. fight/freeze coping dichotomy people with c-ptsd often have one or two main methods they use to cope with their trauma . floyd , when triggered , defaults to fight and freeze . he becomes aggressive , fighting back , becoming irritable and angry and taking it out on people around him . the fight reflex sometimes shows itself in homicidal impulses and violent intrusive thoughts . he also freezes , coping by dissociation and repression , often using alcohol to numb himself . the emotional repression and dissociation symptoms become more intense when he's triggered.

v. suicidal impulses and actions

floyd is suicidal - primarily passively ; he does aggressive and reckless things that he expects to get himself killed . he says that he doesn’t care if he dies or not , and has had a reckless disregard for his own life for years - since he was a teenager .

floyd experience multiple types of trauma which caused this reaction in him , all of which affect him to this day .

i. childhood physical and emotional abuse floyd's father beat him and his brother as 'punishment' ; often , eddie took the beatings in floyd's place .

i. normalization of violence

the severe violence that floyd grew up with as a child - once or twice culminating in broken bones - and , later , the death of eddie i , brought death and violence into his life at a young age . he sees it as a ‘normal’ , almost , experience , one that’s to be expected from the world and his life . it numbed him , gave him the knowledge of the world as a violent place and his own place in it as a violent person .

ii. startle reflex

floyd’s startle reflexes - and one of his triggers - is getting startled from behind or having his wrists grabbed . he gets violent , and has trouble being close physically to people that aren’t people he trusts the most .

iii. emotional incompetence

floyd never got good role models when it came to interaction . his relationships are often dysfunctional because he just doesn’t figure how to treat people , and though he learns more as he goes on , his young self is particularly dysfunctional and his romantic relationships are often tense .

ii. childhood sexual abuse floyd was sexually abused by his mother at various points in adolescence ; and witnessed his mother sexually abusing his brother / was aware of it happening . by the time he was thirteen , he'd blocked it out , and still does not remember (a condition called dissociative amnesia) - though he sometimes gets mini-memories that come up and he pushes all the way back down . the trauma still remains , though slightly blunted . floyd's main triggers are mentions of sexual abuse , being emotionally manipulated , and very ornate rugs in a parisian style .

i. hypersexuality/hyposexuality floyd oscillates between being hypersexual (very sexual) and being hyposexual (sex-repulsed) . he dislikes the emotional commitment that comes with relationships , but often solicits escorts when he wants to have sex . he's primarily hyposexual , and often becomes hypersexual when he's in a situation where he's triggered .

ii. distrust of women floyd distrusts women , and often believes that they are out to get something from him , or manipulating him behind the scenes . he associates women getting emotional with being emotionally manipulated ; this is where some of his misogyny stems from .

iii. obsession with abuser(s) floyd is fixated on his parents and what they did to him . he blames both of them , to some degree , for eddie's death - but mostly his mother . he sometimes insists he was "born an orphan" or "had no parents" - and took a very specific , thought out revenge on his mother for all she had done to him .

iii. eddie's death floyd shot his brother on accident when his brother attempted to kill his father at his mother's behest ; he meant to shoot the gun out of his brother's hand , but missed , and hit him in the head instead . this could easily be called the most formative moment of floyd's life . he remembers the moment when he pulled the trigger and seeing the gun go through eddie's head , but he did not remember what lead up to the incident for about five years ( until he was nineteen or twenty ) .

i. traumatic fixation floyd was adept with guns before the incident , but afterwards became even more obsessed with them . he trained as much as he could , until it took up almost all of his waking moments , determined to never miss again .

ii. nightmares floyd has nightmares about his parents , about eddie , about the day that eddie died , and also occasionally about batman . he usually wakes up and drinks to forget them .

iii. recreation and habitual retraumatization the route of an assassin seemed natural for floyd . every time he pulls the trigger , it's like he's reliving that first moment - hoping it might turn out different . it doesn't , of course , because he never misses . he gets himself back around into these self triggering situations over and over , and almost dissociates every time he shoots - despite feeling a thrill for danger and excitement .

iv. eddie ii's death

eddie the ii , son of floyd’s divorced wife , is kidnapped by people who want to get to him . floyd goes on a rampage to get him back instead of cooperating , leaving bodies in his wake . he gets there too late , and eddie ii is molested and murdered by a pedophile .

i. retraumatization

the situation activated floyd’s own trauma and reminded him of his traumatic childhood ; this was part of the reason he reacted so violently and refused to cooperate . it made the trauma from the event that much more intense , and made him very afraid for the people close to him .

ii. emotional distance

eddie’s death was the nail in the coffin when it came to floyd’s relationships with other people . even the people he did care about , even a little, weren’t safe from him and his work . afterwards , floyd was more unstable , cared less about himself , and began to take on more and more suicidal missions .

#ᵇᵘˡˡᵉᵗ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇʳᵃⁱⁿ ( headcanon )#cw csa #cw child abuse #cw abuse #cw suicide #cw mental illness #cw incest #/ oh god my boy has been through so mUCH

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