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Uhm...hey Transformers animated fans. Did you ever want to read about uhh....the autobots discussing....funeral practices? And uhh....Jazz and Bumblebee bonding over Prowls death? Well....look no further because...here it is. In all it's glory.
Deadass I don't know how this happened. This was not even supposed to happen. I just blacked out and suddenly I've written it. Have fun reading under the cut.
Or read it here on AO3
Somewhere in space, far away from Earths orbit and halfway to approaching Cybertrons, Omega Supreme flew through the vast, stretching darkness, past Nebulas and Stars that glimmered solemnly through the window screens of the massive Cybertronian, turned ship.
Inside a group of newly made heroes sat scattered over Supremes command center. Ratchet had insisted to be the one at the helm. Optimus Prime hadn't argued with him about it.
Jazz sat to Ratchets right, idly tapping away at Teletraan-1 to let their allies at home know of their rapidly advancing homecoming and then some. Bulkhead rested on the floor, back slumped against a wall, Saris weary head leaned against the edge of his lap, her hands drawn tight to her chest, eyes dull and grey.
She looked exhausted, shrinking her even more in the eyes of the Bots, who all knew that it wasn't tiredness that painted her small face with such a muted expression. Bulkhead brushed his clawed digit oh so gently over the top of her head. Little pebbles of debris still stuck to them. They were all badly beaten up, some worse than others.
Jazz sat up, turning to Optimus. "Home base got us in the clear. Figure we'll be landin' soon. Should I-?"
"Go ahead." the Prime tried to sound composed but even he could not subdue the choked raspinesss in his voice that seeped through the cracks of his beaten up frame, and betrayed him to Jazz as a mech too in mourning to find respite or, Primus forbid, joy in the thought of fanfares and hails that no doubt awaited them once they touched base with their home planet.
Jazz merely nodded and offered Optimus his seat, no further words needed. He took it gladly.
The heavy door hissed as it slid open and Jazz exited out of the command room, past the hallway littered with alcoves, each and every one filled with a Decepticon prisoner, or what was left, bound and gagged, a mere parody of their former lethalness. Jazz ignored their following optics, blazing red and full of scorn. For now he was unwilling to aknowledge them. A luxury that would not last.
The Echoes of his footsteps richoceted off the steel floor. The buzzing of the energy fields that kept their enemies where they could await a fate that was not Jazz's to decide, but would no doubt be too kind, no matter what was decided, faded into the metallic, empty droning of hydraulics and powerlines, concealed behind the panels of aircraft metal, that made the inside of Omega supreme.
Slipping into the gaping bowel of their ship, Jazz soldiered on, to retrieve the member of their little crew they were missing.
Bitterness crept into his spark. Technically they were missing two.
Bumblebee had never liked silence.
If asked, which hadn't happened much, he had never been able to exactly explain why, perhaps he simply didn't understand himself, but there was something about the absence of noise, the stillness it created, that had always felt...opressive. Suddenly, he would feel too aware of everything, all at once.
A never ending onslaught that, the possibility dangling like bait on a string, if he just kept moving, just kept going, occupying himself with thought after action, after reaction, he might....he just might be able to escape.
But now, sitting infront of Prowls grey remains, with his servo reached out but not daring to touch and yet wanting to hold more desperately than ever before, merely the thought of a word uttered felt akin to the surging light of a dying star. Cold, bright, a force strong enough to implode his mind into total collapse.
His processor, somehow bursting and yet hollow, could not allow anything other than static emptiness, ocassionally birthing and subsequently swallowing a single thought:
The door to the dark storage unit opened with a weary sigh, rays from outside striking him like a signal search light.
Bumblebee did not react. Not even when he felt the careful touch of a servo on his slumped shoulder armor, nor when Jazz's voice spoke to him, muffled and far away.
"Hey lil' mech."
Bumblebee rose his helm in a daze, Jazz wasn't sure if he was truly registering him at all. Cautiously, he lowered himself infront of Bee, one knee on the cold floor, his servo never leaving, as if his touch could keep whatever threatened to fall apart inside of the minibot together. A bandaid solution for a thing dead on arrival.
It did not feel right to coax Bee into a response, so he kept talking,
"We're gonna land soon. Might be good to take the time and get ready hm? I can take over for ya, if you want me to," the words Jazz chose were meant to be gentle and yet a shudder overtook Bees frame at the suggestion and he clenched his servos tightly, unmoving, enduring. Jazz retracted his own tentatively.
"I'll stay," Bee then croaked, "I don't need to- I don't-"
He did not want to leave, did not want to move out of the hangar bay into the bright hallways with their lined up rooms and smug alcoves, where everything was loud and demanding and real. He wanted to stay here with Prowl, in the dark and the never before gentle silence, because then at least, he thought, he could remain for a little while longer. Stay and be, before the present would ultimately catch up to him and force him, drag him further away from this moment right here that was closest to when they had still been whole.
Jazz beheld Bumblebee with silent sympathy. He understood, suprising as it would have been for Bee to know. Prowl was far from the first Bot he had lost in battle. One did not stay in the Elite Guard for as long as he had, without the graves piling up behind and the names to remember became too many, to make that promise anymore. Even if with time, his grief had turned into a dull and quiet beast, the memory of the feeling, to be where Bumblebee was right now, could never fade.
He nodded, optics softened behind his visor, where no one could see it, and rose up to his full height again. Bee still did not look at him as Jazz, instead of leaving, which Bumblebee had expected him to do, stepped beside the Minibot and sat down on the floor, still towering slightly over him.
"I'd like to stay too. If that's alright with you."
His words were sincere. And though Bumblebee gave no response, in the unspoken, Jazz found his answer.
So they sat. In the dark, with the corpse. Silence filling the space between.
"What'll happen with Prowl now?" Sari asked, shortly after Jazz had left.
It was a small question, spoken timidly into the room, settled in the middle for everyone to see, not expecting and yet daring to be answered.
Bulkheads digit seized the clumsy petting of Saris hair and he looked to the side, at Optimus and Ratchet, uncomfortably. He wondered wether he should speak first.
"On Cybertron it's custom to hold a funeral service for the dead. Afterwards our bodies are shed of their armor and melted down in the great furnaces, so that our protoform can be used for new generations to come," Optimus answered.
Bulkhead and Sari wouldn't see it from where they were sitting but his gaze was distant, searching the starry systems outside. For what, he did not know,
"It is our way of giving back. To the world that made us."
Sari pressed her palm to her chest, over what she now knew to be a little, heart shaped spark chamber and let the Prime's words sink in for a moment.
In the depths was discomfort, a creeping sense of disconnect she fought against, upon the minds picture of her body, the Bots that once had made it and what this implied. A million questions of ownership and heirlooms that were all too big, too complex for a girl of her age to know the answers to, upgrades or no. She would let them rest for now.
Ratchet who had gripped his servos around the edge of the control panels a little tighter than was normal, opened his intake to speak,
"During the war, we'd bury our fallen. Mostly in mass graves. Wasn't alot of time one could waste on the offline, when trying not to die yourself. So we'd hide 'em and try to get to 'em later. Give 'em the proper thing afterwards.", he paused in consideration and then his voice adopted a grim tone, as he continued,
"I was part of a retrieval party a few times. Necrobots is what we called 'em. Wish I could say it was all sentimentality but mainly we did it, so the Decepticons couldn't get their mitts on 'em. Towards the end of the war it wasn't uncommon for battles to break out over who got to take the dead. The more graves, the worse it got. Nasty buisness."
"That's awful!", Sari exclaimed, Ratchet only shrugged,
"That's war. Protoform was a resource. Didn't matter who they used to be. All that mattered is that we needed them."
Optimus looked at him from the side and wondered what Ratchet had chosen to keep, if this was what he had decided to share. The lines and shadows cast from the medics face appeared, in that moment, as deep as the trenches themselves. He hadn't known them personally but to Optimus, the past stellar cycle had morphed his idea of war from a thing of foreboding legends, to a terrifying possibility. Even with Megatron seized and tucked away, who was to say that someone else would not take up the mantle?
History taught, again and again, that there always was. All he could do now was hope, that whoever they would be, they were nowhere near as ruthless as Megatron and chances stood well enough that they would not be as bright either. Optimus had had his taste of war and it had been enough.
"On earth," , Sari spoke then, "There's lots of different stuff people do. Where I'm from, you either bury your dead in the earth or you cremate them. It's kinda like being melted down but, you're just ashes. Dad said he wanted his to be scattered over the Detroit River"
Optimus raised an optical ridge in suprise,
"He told you this?" of course Optimus was not exactly knowledgeable about what was or wasn't appropriate for a father to discuss with his child, still it didn't seem to be the type of topic to talk about with someone this young.
Sari nodded. "When he took me home, after I woke up from when I went haywire. We just kinda...talked about important stuff. I think he wanted me to know in case something happened again. So I'd know what to do."
Her eyes briefly flickered with a peculiar sense of wonder. If she was neither human, nor Cybertronian, what would happen to her? Could she decide? If she had a choice...
"Though I think If it were me, I'd like to be shot into space or something."
"Wouldn't that be lonely?" Bulkhead tilted his helm to the side quizzically.
"I don't think so." Sari rolled over to look up at him, still squished against Bulkheads thigh, warm skin on cool plating. She managed a little smile, odd as this was.
"Think of it as one big road trip that never ends. Who knows where I might end up. I think it's exiting."
Bulkhead laughed a little, more from endearment than actual amusement but the gentle rumbling that emitted from him as he did, served as a little light, flickering in the glum atmosphere of the room.
"I guess that does sound kinda fun," he admitted, "Though I don't know If I'd like that for me."
"Then what would you like?" Sari cocked her head to the side, eyes big and curious.
Bulkhead scratched the side of his jaw. The longer he considered it, the more a strange discomfort, the wired roots from a place that was both deep and old, grew within him. It wasn't a question he had ever asked himself before. It wasn't a question that was asked at all. Not on Cybertron.
"A few miles south from the Energon farm, I grew up," he began carefully. The words, his thoughts pushed and followed through only labouriously. A picture drawn slowly, that mabye wasn't right by autobot standards but still, felt right to him.
"-there's an old space bridge ruin. I used to come there after my shift and stare at it."
Bulkhead smiled wistfully. He remembered himself alone, looking up at the still behemoth at night. The stars of the black and blue sky twinkling in his optics like little sparks igniting his own, as he would let his clumsy claws scrape over the cracks of the crumbling, grey pillars in reverence, memorizing each rusty bolt, each soldering line.
"It was so big, so... cool. Nobody else on the farm thought that but I didn't care. I knew the moment I first saw it, that I wanted to build something like this."
Bulkhead was not a mech anyone had ever pegged as eloquent, let alone, enrapturing. But strangeness and the unfamiliar was becoming the norm these cycles, it seemed. His crew found themselves listening with intent and even the dark space outside stilled for a moment, and held out it's empty hands for the words spoken, the first of their kind.
Space had a habit of doing so.
"If I'd get to choose. I'd like to be buried there."
Bulkhead concluded, then looked down at Sari warmly. Something had loosened it's grip inside his spark. It almost felt like breathing. Mabye, he entertained the idea with tenderness, mabye he would look up one day and catch a glimpse of her crossing the horizon.
"You and your space bridges," Ratchet scoffed, "Figured you'd get tired of them by now."
At this, Sari perked up, "Hey now, I don't see us making fun of your plans."
"You'd be out of luck, cause I don't got any."
"Aw what? Not even one?" Sari asked, pouting a little.
She had expected more, mabye not something as sentimental as Bulkhead had delivered but she did not believe for a second that the medic had not ever spent time devising a plan for his depature. Could Ratchet read minds, he would have told her that, that was on her.
"I don't care what happens to this rusty, old frame, once I kick the bucket. Not like I'm gonna be around for it anyway." his words were spat, more than spoken.
There is always a lie in the phrase "I do not care".
Those that truly do not, would never bother to say it. What would it matter for them to be heard?
It doesn't mean that "I do not care" is a statement devoid of meaning but rather, that it is more often than not, a blanket draped. A means to conceal. An admittance to powerlessness in the disguise of apathy.
I do not care - I don't know what to say
I do not care - I don't want to say it to you
I do not care - I don't know how to say it
But that was a truth Sari only felt, not yet understood. For now, she would hold Ratchet's words in her hands, flip them, turn them over, then put them in her pocket where she would carry them around until the day she could tear the blanket off and see for herself what was left underneath. Such was the nature of growing up.
"What about you, Optimus?" Bulkhead called in the name of fairness.
They had all answered, in a way, and he couldn't deny that he was curious about wether their leader had thought about it aswell, even if only now.
Optimus, who had been looking at his crew from over his shoulder with a sheepish glance, the intimate topic unfamiliar as it was captivating, shifted a little, feeling caught and hesitant. Eyes, both human and Bot were now on him in silent anticipation. He was not sure he could bring an answer that was satisfactory, so instead he opted for the truth.
"I don't actually mind, being melted down the traditional way," he said a little awkwardly.
Bulkhead cocked his head to the side, unintentionally mimicking Sari from just a moment ago,
"I thought Primes get to rest in the Basilica of Heroes?"
Ratchet couldn't hide a sneer and roll of his optics and Optimus shook his helm,
"Not all Primes. The Basilica only allows those that performed a great service or a great sacrifice for the good of Cybertron. Being a Prime might help with getting accepted but it's not a given."
Optimus had only been to it a handful of times, during his studies of history at the Autobot academy when he was still Orion Pax, and if he was honest, though he would never admit it out loud, he had found the place dreadful.
To him, the Basilica was a tomb laid bare. He had looked at the rising structure from the outside, split into outer domes and one in the heart, encircled by and larger than all of them, stained crystal windows that fractured the light passing through, where it danced over the ceiling and dust covered ground, embedded in a perfect 14 part ratio. Lined up and winding up along the walls, level after level, the metal coffins of Magni and Primes of the past, reduced to empty shells and holograms hovering above them, meant to be a symbol of honour and remembrance.
He had walked among them wordlessly back then and listened to his shuffling pede steps becoming the only thing to introduce life to a place that only knew death and yet would not allow it's inhabitants for definitive rest.
All that had passed his processor at the time was how much he hoped, that he would never have to join them. His heart sunk at the memory.
"Yeah well I doubt they'll deny you now. After everything."
Bulkhead smiled with what was meant to be reassurance and Optimus found it hard to look at him.
"I think I'd rather have it the common way," he admitted, optics narrowing back on the blackness between the stars outside. His tone grew wistful.
"I would like to think that when I go, I could give someone the chance to be all the things I wasn't. To do the things, I never could."
From the helm where he stood, Ratchet's grip on the wheel softened along with his optics, still laid on his servos. Briefly his memory core flashed back and he could feel the itch of drying energon in the crevices and pores of the metal he was forged from, millions of years old. He would always feel it. To do the things, I never could
"My Spark will be with the Allspark. And my body with Cybertron. In any case, I'll be home." Optimus finished. His spark still ached but it was a warm, blunt one.
Sari, who had been staring at Prime as he had talked, soaking up all he had to say with a uncharacteristic quietness, turned her head toward the closed door to the rest of the ship. Somberness filled her little voice where it cracked.
"I wonder...I wonder what Prowl would have wanted."
Nobody had an answer for her.
The ship shook and rumbled, the unmistakeable sign that they had entered Cybertrons orbit at last. Neither Jazz nor Bumblebee had said anything during their holding wake but now the cue for it's approaching end had been given and both knew.
Jazz rose first, glancing recluctantly at Bee, still seated, optics glassy and derma pressed into a thin line, all too aware of the rolling waves of disgust and fear that clashed and crashed over and from inside the minibot. Strangers though they were, he had noticed early on that Bee was not too skilled at concealing his EM-field but now it had reached new, suffocating heights.
Jazz braced himself, tried to push through with a reassurance that felt too little, too late.
However this time, it was Bee that reached out first, gripping Jazz's arm with a strength that would have taken him aback, if not for the look Bumblebee was giving him. Words he had never been taught to articulate, dying prematurely on his glossa. All that was left came down to a silent plea in his optics, burning a desperate white. Searing, like a flare in the dark.
"Do not leave us." the shadows cast spelled on the wall.
For the first time in vorns, Jazz wished he still knew how to weep.
"We'll stay by his side,"
he said instead and sealed this promise, that was not his to give but damm it all, it would be now, with a firm grasp of his servo laid over Bees.
"We'll carry him all the way. You and me. Right up to the furnaces."
Jazz found himself kneeling again, a little suprised by the surge of affection that pulsed through him, the current of which ran stronger than he had felt in a long time. It wasn't his style. The Cyberninja way was one of letting things pass in peace, ever aware that to keep, was to burden yourself. It had let him achieve serenity in a world as chaotic as theirs and up until now, he had been thankful for it.
Yet as he looked at Bumblebee, and for the first time it felt as if he really saw him, Jazz suddenly wondered, if he had truly lived according to Master Yoketrons teachings or wether he had simply slipped in a pattern of forbidding himself from receiving, too occupied with learning how to let go.
All of a sudden, Jazz was confronted with countless things he could have felt or done, the Bots he could have held, even if only for a moment, had he ever let himself. A sense of overwhelming failure shifted into a new kind of resolve. Mabye this was what Prowl had understood, when he had made his choice. Now it was Jazz's turn.
"And when it's time to let him go, we'll let go, together."
Somewhere within Bumblebee, the clouds burst. Omega supreme descended and broke through the cloud barrier above Cybertron, for all to see. Optimus, now at the helm, Magnus hammer in his right servo, looked past the Horizon that stretched infront and down to the rooftops and streets that ran like soldering lines through this city that used to be home. Right where a crowd had begun to form. Bulkhead stood up and watched as Sari changed mode, like one put on their sundays best, then walked to join Optimus side.
He himself turned and saw Ratchet already waiting by the door, acceptance over anticipation. He thought one more time of space bridges and roots and pebbles stuck between the cracks, then joined his friend, down the hallway, toward the hangar bay, where Jazz cradled Bumblebees helm in his arms, holding him, in this moment that was closest to when they had still been whole.
I'm trying to get back into writing! This is one of eight writing prompts I've given myself.
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The writing prompt chosen by a mootie is.. Number 7: Illegal Love! This is essentially a "Jake was the killer the whole time" AU. Jake's a tad manipulative a d condescending here.
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'What the hell am I doing..?' Devon thought to himself as he walked into the abandoned warehouse. 'I should be in my room in bed... I really shouldn't be here..!' Despite his deepest anxieties and hesitations, he went deeper into the warehouse. As he stood in the middle of the warehouse, thinking he was led to a trap, he heard someone walking up behind him.
"Hey, Devon. Thanks for stopping by." The man said from behind him, being so close to Devon that he was almost breathing into his ear. A chill went down Devon's spine before turning around to face him, the modern Charles Lee Ray; "Jake.. hi..." Devon said as he took a step back from Jake. "Why'd- Why'd you call me here..? You know what would happen if someone saw-"
"Well, were you followed? No? That's what I thought. Now hush up and let me speak." Jake interrupted bluntly as he circled Devon, analyzing the smaller boy intently. "I need.. alibi's. If I don't get some, I'll be arrested for those murders. If I have a viable alibi, I could possibly be set free. You're gonna help me."
Devon wanted to call Jake crazy and run for his life, but he didn't. Instead, he was actually considering helping him. "So.. y-you just want me to be your alibi for the nights of the murders.. and.. what? You'll spare me from death?" Starting to get a little sassy, Devon stood up straight to Jake despite his nerves exploding inside of him.
"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I'll send you to Lexi and Lucas, maybe I'll let you interview me on your little podcast! Who knows? All I do know is that you're gonna help me stay out of prison." He stepped close to Devon and grabbed his waist, leaning closer to his face as he did. "Won't you, Dev?"
Devon's breath hitched significantly when Jake touched him, making him hold his breath in fear and slight excitement. He couldn't even whisper a response back. Hell, he could just barely nod in response. "Good boy! You're soo good at following directions. I might keep you!~ Now, let's get to work on my alibi..." Jake said while holding a knife at his throat, marking the beginning of a very long and potentially exciting night for Devon.
(Because Iâve been holding onto these for ages and the time is nigh.)
ART TEACHER KAZUNARI. That is all.
Tsuzuru's laptop: "low battery, connect to charger"
Tsuzuru: "if I don't get to sleep, neither do you"
Muku loves when Azami does his makeup. He's shy about it at first, but after a few times he doesn't hesitate so much in offering to be his practice dummy when Azami gets new palettes he wants to try out.
The reason half of fuyugumi's songs sound like 90s boyband shit is bc they're old fucks (affectionate) and absolutely grew up on that shit.
Kazunari doodles kinda elaborate cover designs on the front of his scripts. Others take notice and sometimes ask him to draw on theirs too.
When Citron's particularly annoyed / fed up he'll insult people in Zafran, but keep up a smiling face so most people just assume he's being silly. (Itaru and Tsuzuru suspect. Chikage actually understands, but plays along.)
Citron smiling brightly, in Zafran: "Stuff your sh*t opinions up your *ss where they belong."
Chikage chokes down a laugh, only mostly managing to keep it together.
Sakuya, tilting his head curiously: "What did he say?"
Chikage: "He said that's an excellent sweater you're wearing, Tsuzuru."
Misumi knows really basic handsewing. His grandpa taught him because he believed in things still having worth and value when most people would view them as broken and useless.
Banri to Azami: "Heh, guess we both have a thing for Hyodos."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
warnings: character death, blood, fatal injuries, bruise mentions, mental breakdowns
pairings: brio (can be taken as either platonic or romantic)
word count: 956
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for a fracture of a moment, all that could be heard were waves, crashing against the glistening sand of the shores, and lights of the city in the far distance, blinking softly in the cold night sky.
our magician bleeding out on the unforgiving ground, wearing a suit now stained in red. a boy sitting beside him, laying his head on his chest. his hands stained with blood as he clutched onto his arms and he sobbed, sobbed until his little purple eyes were sore and his heart, his heart aching.
"it's okay." the former magician said, his words coming slow and ragged. "i'm okay."
"no you're not. you're not. stop that. stop lying."
"hey. it's okay. go... go back to the others, your friends, your sister. get them back home. they need you."
"no, shut up, i need you. bryan. i need you. you- you can't..."
he choked up with tears. his grip on his arm grew tighter and his shaky breath comes in low purple smoke. parts of skin started peeling from his face, wilting. and bryan, past the world of pain he's going through, could feel the ground shake.
the lights in the city flickered wildly. the sand started parting and the ocean water quickly came streaming onto the coasts, the cold wind of midnight started swirling strongly around them without restraint and leaves hurled through the air, and the deep, purple eyes hovering over him, filled with tears, shone violently.
then suddenly, everything came to a halt.
the lights stopped flickering. the ground stopped shaking. the water was still in the cold air and even the grass, the grass stood on its edges. he couldn't feel any wind.
time had come to a stop.
"vio..." he said, a low whisper.
however, the boy, the boy wearing a purple satin suit, the young boy, whatever his age is, he didn't want to hear it.
he was desperately clinging onto his body, hands on his flimsy blood-soaked jacket, squeezing his eyes shut and his body shaking, brows furrowed, hoping that maybe he could hold him together, maybe, with his powers, long enough so he'd survive.
"i can fix you, i can bring you back. stop your suffering. stop the bleeding. i can do more. i can-"
"vio-"
"i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry i did this to you, you didn't deserve any of this-"
"hey-"
he grunted. after several long, uncomfortable minutes of struggling and coughing, his eyes glowing, skin wilting, and pushing himself until his body weakened. vio's head lowered onto the magician's chest, sobbing. defeated.
"you can't die." he muttered, almost a whisper through the sobbing mess that he is.
he knows that he can't stop his pain. he can't save him. he wishes that he could just stay like this, with him, forever. but that'd be unfair to him. to his sister. to the others. but he just can't bear losing someone else.
he doesn't want to lose him again.
but he has to let go at some point.
he knows.
as for bryan, his mind was blank as he stared pitifully at the boy sobbing into his chest, arms wrapped around his body. all he could hear were his silent whimpers.
but he's okay with that. in his final moments, all that he could ask for was someone to accompany him. at least he still has vio. at least he still has vio.
though it feels like every bone in his body is shattered, though the blood spilling from his body starts becoming far too real, far too quick, he still lifts his arm regardless to gently rest his hand on the boy's dark, scruffy hair.
"hey. hey. it's okay. where's that smile you always loved to show me?"
"how... how could I smile at a time like this? you're- you're gonna die- why would I smile about that-"
bryan laid his hand on his cheek, and vio gazed at him, his eyes tired from crying. it was a struggle to breathe, but he managed to form three slow words.
"please... for me?"
vio's eyes were wide.
he looked down at bryan's bleeding chest, his skin vast with cold bruises.Â
he closed his eyes shut and swallowed, and after a moment, through all the pain, he opened his eyes and he managed a small, wavering smile.
in truth, it hurt him more than he's able to know, more than he's able to describe to see bryan like this. but he tried hard not to let it show, for his sake.
"hey, bryan, look, I'm smiling now, see?" he said, tears streaming from his eyes.
bryan beamed at him, and he started getting misty eyed as well. as he stared at his face, he started to sob, and soon his smile faltered and faded.
"...thank you."
after what felt like an eternity, he closes his eyes.
and then, he could feel the wind again. he could hear the low stream of the ocean again and the city lights blinking in the night sky. he could feel a sense of peace, though he knows, he knows he doesn't have much time left.
"hey, vio."
vio turned to him desperately, his smile completely warped.
"yes? yes, what is it?"
bryan looked at him for a moment, smiling. he could feel his body getting weaker by the second. and then he opened his mouth, to mutter what were his final words.
"it's gonna be okay. it's not your fault."
for a fracture of a moment, all that could be heard were waves, crashing against the glistening sand of the shores, and lights of the city in the far distance, blinking softly in the cold night sky.
Here, have a gay drabble I wrote after seeing so many posts about yearning and sword-fighting from the gays. (me. I'm the gays)
I tried something new with the pov. It turned out more like a love letter retelling events to me lol
This was actually far outside my comfort-zone so hopefully you like this! Plus, there were no names mentioned, so you can imagine this being your otp!
The klang of our blades could be heard from miles away. The tension between us was thick and heavy in the air. Your sword forced me backwards more and more, until there was a mere meter between me and the wall.
My tears were involuntary, rolling down my cheeks. But I was fighting you with all the might I had. All the might I had, after your betrayal. I couldn't help the curses and insults running out of me. Almost like a waterfall overflowing after a storm. I don't remember what I said to you.
"I-" huff "-had too!"
You pleaded, with your raspy and worn voice. You must have been exhausted, but you didn't stop fighting. I didn't either. We were both too captured in the moment.
I felt your blade press against mine, digging into my armor. Pushing me against the wall. Oddly enough, you didn't smile. Your face glossed over. It was just a few. So few. Centimeters away from mine. Our eyes locked with a mutual desire sparking between us. Perhaps it had always been there. Just waiting like a weak ember to get the fuel it needed to come back to life.
My eyes fluttered close. I didn't mean to do that. My body might have been responding to your mere presence so close to me.
We both leaned in closer than ever.
Your chest flush against my armored one.
Our lips crashed together.
It was powerful, hungry, passionate. But it was also sweet. So sweet and full of longing, yearning, wishing. It was hopeful, it was regretful.
Most of all it was alive. I felt it. No doubt you felt it too.
These feelings. They were raging within. Like a burning, thrashing fire, silenced by my walls. The walls I put up, their purpose to not let you in.
But those walls were broken now. Completely disintegrated by the flames. The flames I was allowing to consume my entire being. It was like, well, I don't know how Above all the unacceptance we both faced all those years ago.
And there was no doubt in my mind that you felt the same.
Jasonâs been shot and itâs like dying all over again.Â
AO3
Jason is underwater.
           He knows it because everything around him is blue and dark and his vision is blurry and he feels like drowning. He doesnât want to open his mouth but he does, water filling his bodyâhe shouldnât, but he remembers that dying was just like this; his throat burns and his lungs feel like theyâre going to explode, and he starts kicking, trying to reach the surface, but heâs deep into the sea and heâs dying andâ
           Jason is now in a field covered by wildflowers and a scarecrow in the distance. He canât see anything beyond, not a city, not a house, and heâs not wet or dead and he feels good, something he hasnât felt in a very long time. He closes his eyes and inhales the sweet perfume of the wildflowers, the corners of his mouth turning upwardsâbut when he opens his eyes again, the scarecrow is right in front of him, laughing at him, andâ
           Jason has his hands tied behind his back. Heâs on the floor. He canât move his legs, feels something wet under him; when he looks down, he realizes itâs bloodâhis blood. Suddenly heâs scared, wants to come back to the field of wildflowers, but heâs forgotten everything Bruce taught him. Someone laughs. This time itâs not the scarecrow, but someone lingering in the shadows. Jason opens his mouth, but he can only whimperâhe wants to curse but he also wants to beg for his life and he certainly doesnât want to die again. He closes his eyes for a second, andâ
           âJason,â the shadows whisper to him. âJason, Jason,â they say, trying to lull him, to laugh at him. They poke at his sides, his stomach, and Jason tries to get away from them, but he canât. He just canât. He doesnât open his eyesâheâd thought that dying a second time would be easier than the first one, but heâs even more scared now. âJason!â they shout. Jason opens his eyes andâ
           âOh,â Tim says, and he sounds relieved. âOh, fuck.â
           Jason looks at him, his vision a little blurry. He doesnât think heâs ever heard Tim say fuck. When he gasps, anyway, itâs because of the sharp pain he feels at his sides.
           âI thought I lost you there, buddy,â Tim mutters, wiping the sweat from his brow.
           Jason looks for his wrist, grabs it maybe a bit tighter than necessary. He croaks, âWhere am I?â
           âA safe house,â Tim says, looking at the wrist Jasonâs holding. âYouâre okay, calm down.â
           âIââ Jason begins, but he loses it when he feels tears dripping from his eyes. He remembers drowning, the scarecrow laughing at him, the shadows kicking him. He lets go of Timâs hand to wipe the tears from his cheeksâTim looks away, as if this was something heâs not supposed to see. âWhat happened?â he asks finally.
           Tim bites his lip, and Jason is about to grab his wrist again when he feels his sides throb. Tim looks like heâs ready to punch someone now. âYou were shot,â he says, picking up something from a nightstand Jason cannot seeâgod, how he hates when he canât see.
           âWho?â
           âJasonââ Jason doesnât wait for a response when he incorporates, which was the worst idea because his brain now feels like itâs liquefied. âDonât move you stupidââ But Jason faints before he hears the rest.
           When he opens his eyes, heâs in a room he hasnât been in before. Itâs small and the walls are grey and heâs not claustrophobic, but he feels anxiousâthere are no doors or windows and the air feels thick and poisoned. He blinks, and suddenly Stephanie is there. Sheâs knelt before him, her hands tied behind her, a big bruise in her eye. She sputters his name and cries out in pain. Jason tries to reach out a hand, to help her, but he canât move. He blinks again, and Damian and Cass appear too, also knelt, hands tied too. Damian has a knife in his stomach, Cassâs head is bleeding. They look at him in the eyes and start crying. He blinks. Alfred and Bruce are there now. They have their eyes closed and are hardly breathing. Stop, Jason wants to say, but canât. Tim is there nowâhis Red Robin suit is ragged and he has a bruise forming on his cheek. Dick and Barbara are lying on the floor, bleeding.
           âJason,â someone whispers. This room wasn't big enough for all of them before. It wasn't. Thereâs no way they are all there, thereâs no way they are all dying. âItâs your fault,â they keep saying, louder and louder. Jason falls to his knees, covers his ears, closes his eyes.
           Jason is standing in front of his bed. Blood is soaking through his shirt, but he doesnât feel a thing. Heâs looking at his bed, where heâanother version of him at leastâis kissing Tim. They are both shirtless, and Jason remembers this, remembers this from weeks ago, when they were too tired to face the world and decided to stay home. He smiles because he feels the same he felt when he was kissing Tim, but he stops smiling when he sees the other Jason pull a knife from under a pillow. No, he says when the other Jason stabs Tim. Jason now feels pain in his own sides, collapses to the floor, shouts, closes his eyesâ
           âYou did this,â she says, staring down at him. Jason is now on a rooftop on some building of Gotham, the bat-signal glowing in the sky. His mother chuckles. âYou did this,â she repeats, kicking him. Jason clutches his bleeding wounds, tries to breatheâ
           âMom,â he sputters, tasting blood.
           His mother spits at him and Jason sobs quietly while he bleeds out and looks at her go away, away, away. He closes his eyes.
           âJason,â he hears, barely. Someone touches his cheek, and Jason recoils. âItâs me,â they say, slowly, painfully. âItâs okay. Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry.â
           âStop it,â Jason sobs, covering his closed eyes with his hands. He doesnât want to see what nightmare is awaiting him now. He doesnât want to see.
           Someone is stroking his cheek. âLet go,â they say, but this voice is different. It sounds like Bruceâs. âLet it all go.â
           He remembers what happened. He was patrolling with Timâtheyâd been waiting for some crooks to come out of a house, and theyâd been talking when they spotted someone. Jason went to investigate, and Tim said, âIâve got your back,â only that he didnât and Jason was shot twice.
           âIâm sorry, Jay,â they say again, the first voice, and Jason realizes that itâs Tim. His hand is warm against Jasonâs cheek. âI shouldâve been more careful. Please,â he says, âwake up.â
            Let it all go, he thinks to himself. Heâs drowning and in a field of wildflowers and tied up and looking at his family dying and bleeding out as his mom leaves him and he feels Timâs hand against his skin andâ
           Jason starts coughing, as if vomiting the water from his lungs, and Tim gets up with a worried look on his face. He feels a needle in his arm and a wet cloth on his forehead and bandages around his torso and it hurts like hell, but at least heâs not underwater.
           He looks for Timâs hand, and when he finds it he holds it gently. Tim sits down again, and he lets out a sigh. âYou dumb idiot, you scared me.â
           Jason smiles dreamily. âItâs what I do.â
           âIâm sorry,â he says again, and covers his face with his free hand. âIâm really sorry. Jay, I donât knowââ
           âItâs alright,â Jason murmurs, groggy from the drugs Tim has surely given him. âIâm just fine.â
           âYou almost bled to death,â Tim says, as if making a point.
           âHey, Iâmâitâs okay,â he repeats. He remembers the scarecrow laughing, lying in his own blood. He takes Timâs other hand from his face, looks into his blue eyes. âIâll be okay.â He wipes the tears from his eyes before they fall.
           Tim leans on, rests his forehead against Jasonâs. âOkay,â he whispers very low.
           âOkay,â Jason whispers back, pressing a kiss to his lips.
           When Jason closes his eyes, he doesnât see anything.
