My art is refusing to art for some reason,, and it's really upsetting me </3 but whatever it looks somehow decent. Not very proud of it but still better than nothing
[[HEAVEN]] ARE YOU WATCH ING?!? (spamton voice) (Also the whole reason I made those doodles LMAO I love that line it's my favorite)
The way André keeps getting ripped away from the women he love truly so sick and twisted
1) his own mother who is made to believe he is dead when his dad decides "well yk what infanticide isn't even a big deal so why not"
2) his aunt who saves him only to be sold again while he is sent to some type of convent
3) his sister and Haydée who lose him because the Count only ever pushed him to hate even after his aunt openly said that she chose André's life over getting revenge
I did not expect people to want more of the thing *shrugs*
Thank-you for the comments on my assholery with cliff hangers @txbookeater, I love you too babe <3. So much love to electra-iphigenie, emjalen, ships-lover, and @chibinightowl for talking up that post.
Based on this thing. Warning for triggering themes. Be aware of good boyfriending, kink negotiations, and mentions of past sexual assault.
Proceed at your own risk
He takes in a breath, blank for a second, his brain catching up.
“Could it possibly be in the bathroom before I get in a nice, hot shower? Followed by a few hours of unconsciousness? That would be really amazing right about now.”
Deflection is an art form, and he really is a master. He shrugs off his bag, gives him an opportunity to turn away, aware of eyes and how he’s dragging ass, feeling off and irritable. His brain doesn’t have to keep moving from one thing to the next, and things are slowing down. A shudder runs like cold fingers down his spine.
“I think I’d rather ya do it right here, Tim,” and there’s no Sweets, Baby, or any other endearments to make this easier on him. Nope.
(It’s fine. Breathe. Just some bruises. They’ve seen worse, had worse. They’re all adults here.)
“Jay, I am tired–”
“You’re looking shaky, a little strung out.” Dick, at least, makes it gentle. “And I saw it already, so we both know. I’d rather see the damage without your shirt in the way.”
“Then, we’re gonna talk ‘bout why ya didn’t tell us right away.”
“Mmhm, we might need to have another talk about the rules when we play.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” he argues gently, rubbing his hands and wrists because his fingers are tingling. “We had a play date, and by the time I was getting...you know, sore, I was already at work, you were on patrol–”
“You didn’t say a word about it to me,” Dick cuts in, “and you absolutely should have. Now, I’m wondering if you really do know your limits, and if I can trust you enough to stop us when you need to.”
“I...I didn’t–”
yes. Yes I did.
It’s as simple as breathing in too sharply, his ears suddenly ringing, and there’s rubber in his mouth, his teeth probably cutting into it, and it hurts. Normally, he’s okay with rough and multiple rounds, loves how they get when they need control, to feel like there’s something in their hands that can’t just be taken away.
He gets it. Loves that their go-to outlet for it...is him.
Even if he can’t come again, it still usually feels amazing, and crazy in his brain because they want him this much. Really, he loves them.
(The bell clenched in his fist is making an indent in his palm. His chest constricts, just like last time, but he can at least gasp through the holes in the gag. So he doesn’t need to drop it. He wants to. It hurts and he wants to, but he doesn’t. He can take it. He’s had worse. This is for them.)
Neither of them noticed it had gone from amazing to uncomfortable to painful, and he didn’t drop the bell. He didn’t tell them to stop, so really, it’s on him isn’t it?
Bile rushes up his throat, bringing him back to the very real present where Dick and Jay are suddenly really close, and he realizes he’s just sitting in Dick’s lap, shaking like a leaf.
His face is wet, his chest hitching.
He doesn’t puke, so that is about a million points.
But, he is absolutely falling the utter fuck apart and that just isn’t conducive to his attempt at coming home to snuggle and pass out in blissful unconsciousness.
(This is his life. Seriously.)
“Shit, shit, shit,” the first attempt to move is right out the window because he’s on octopus hold lockdown.
(On one hand it feels nice to be held. On the other, he can’t escape and it feels restrictive, stifling, terrifying.)
“Hey, hey, Baby. Lookey here. That’s it, that’s good.” Jay is rubbing palms up and down the top of his calves, up to his knees and down to his ankles. He’s talking low and gentle. “I’m going ta the kitchen, n’ getcha some water. Then, we’re gonna talk ‘bout what’s doing, you feel me? If me and Dickie are gonna be able ta take care a’ ya, then we gotta know what’s in yer head.”
He’s breathing too hard, too fast, his hearing spotty at best.
“Ssshhh. You’re having a panic attack, Timmy. You’re hyperventilating, so I need for you to calm down now, okay?”
Then Dick’s chest is under his tingling fingers, and the exaggerated breathing helps him slow it down, take back some of the control over his body.
He doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out or puke, so the day is looking up.
The absurdity of that thought it the thing that really makes him laugh, the sound hoarse, choked.
“Okay, okay, you’re doing good, Timmy, just stay with me,” and he didn’t notice when Dick started rocking back-and-forth in a soothing motion, or when Jay got back and slid a hand around the nape of his neck.
He’s still shaky as fuck, curled up against Dick’s warmth, and fuck is he cold and wrung out. It feels like a high fever, joints achy, brain foggy, reaction time slow.
“...it’s a fucking drop, Dick. Look at ‘im!”
“I’ve never heard of a delayed response like this.”
“Knew we shoulda waiting ta scene. He went right from bed ta the pressure cooker, Dick.”
“I should have picked up on it when I went to see him.”
“S’all right, least we know what ta do now,” and Jay bends, pulls and lifts him like he isn’t a full grown man, pulling him in tight. “Need ta getcha all warm n’ snuggled, don’t we, Baby?”
Dick is throwing back the covers, but Tim doesn’t want to get in bed, not smelling like antiseptic and and bleach, but being warm, being able to hide his face in the pillow is really appealing.
He nods in Jay’s shoulder and lets just the scrub top be pulled off, leaving him in the nerd shirt underneath. He’s glad for it, already vulnerable, cold, shaky.
A straw to his mouth from no where and water before hands are helping him scoot over gingerly in the middle before flopping down on his good side with two warm vigilantes like bookends. Gentle circles on his back while Dick snakes an arm under his head, pulls him closer.
“All right, that’s better.”
That hand hits a tender spot, and the flinch is automatic. “Sorry, Timmy. Once yer all warm, we’ll lookit how bad, yeah? Gonna lemme see, and it’s gonna be all right. S’ just me n’ Dickie.”
It’s awful because the two wrapped around him is fucking close to perfect and he isn’t feeling as shitty as he was at the ominous picture they made when he first walked in, and yeah, yeah, maybe it was stupid to try hiding it from them. He’s fuzzy about it, but he’s pretty sure that’s a rule somewhere in the Do’s and Don’ts for Playtime talk.
He probably going to get a lecture. Possibly two.
“Sorry,” he finally says, voice stronger because his throat doesn’t feel like raw hamburger anymore. “I...that wasn’t supposed to happen. I don’t know why it was bad, but I’m s–”
“The only thing that would make me angry right now is if you apologize again,” Dick follows it up with scritches to take the sting out of it. “Something triggered you to have a severe drop, Timmy, and if you could tell us what happened, it would help us to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Can you understand that? We need to know so we don’t accidentally hurt you?”
He goes still and his chest hurts just a little.
“I...I should have safeworded out,” it hurts to say, “I sh-should have dropped it, but I thought I could take it, and then things got weird and my brain just, and I thought if I did it would be weak and-and you didn’t need that, and I-I just. I’m sore and it hurt and I didn’t– it’s my fault, okay. I should have because I know that’s a rule somewhere.”
and he keeps babbling on, rambling with his eyes getting hot and his vigilante boyfriends petting him, rocking with him, letting everything just pour out of him without stopping him or pulling away, just–
Dealing with his special brand of insanity.
(Those darn abandonment issues. Golly, some day he won’t feel like his chest is being ripped open viciously with fear they’re going to walk the fuck out of his life and never come back.)
He’s finally talked out, feeling like ass about fucking up their morning.
“Your color is coming back, that’s good.”
“Warmed all up, Dickie. Time ta tell it like it is.”
Well. Shit.
“Yeah, yeah okay,” and he blinks up out of Dick’s chest with his eyes still puffy and his side tender, those blue eyes dark with something hard to interpret.
“I’m not happy you didn’t tell us immediately because we agreed to communicate about these things. D&S can be scarring, and this is just an example of how people get hurt.”
“And I’m going to say this now so you understand how important it is. About the fact you didn’t safeword.” Dick’s chest expands, hitches, “You need to know, you’re not only protecting yourself when you do, but you’re protecting us, too.”
“I don’t–”
“Tim. I’ve been sexually assaulted several times, and you know that. So... knowing I hurt you that way makes me sick inside, okay. Can you– can you understand that?”
“I-I fuck, Dick, I’m–”
“Please don’t say it. No more sorries. But, it’s important you understand Jay and I have our own traumas, so if you, not us, want to keep trying this, we have to navigate more carefully.”
Behind him, Jay’s forehead is nestled in the dip at the base of his neck, and a hard breath whistles down the back of his shirt.
He despairs inside at how Dick and Jay must be feeling, how bad it looked to them that Tim hadn’t come clean, hadn’t safeworded at all. “I fucked up. I won’t do it again, I promise.”
Dick presses a gentle kiss in his hair, and Jay nuzzles against his throat.
He gets more sips of water and eventually a panini and soup. There’s more cuddles and warmth, more talk that sucks the breath out of them all.
His head wraps around the rules differently this time, taking careful note of the way Dick’s expression gets shuddered and Jay goes still. He assures them he still does want playtime sometimes, shoots down the notion he’s only doing it for them, tells them that when his brain is too full and he needs to give up control, he doesn’t want to do it with anyone else but them.
He realizes it’s because somewhere, he knows they’ll take care of him...if he lets them.
Then his shirt comes off so the deep bruises can have Alfred’s magical concoction spread over. His cheeks are pink when he’s laid out on his stomach with the scrub pants tossed off the bed. Soft praise while he’s spread open by gentle hands to make sure he’s not torn. Bruised and sore yeah, but nothing too awful. He gets a pair of Dick’s cut-off sweatpants that still hit him below the knee and one of Jay’s shirts that he practically swims in, but he feels about a million times better just wearing their clothes.
And when they’re careful with him for the next few days, when love making is tender and slow, when touches are easy with his bruises in mind, when everything is verbal and consent is crucial, he make more of an effort to stomp down the urges to push his limits, push himself. He stomps down on those stupid recriminations and uncertainties, tries to remember that these two could be literally anywhere else in the world, and yet, here they are at his side.
He gets to have vigilantes bleeding on his fire escape, and the men under the mask in his bed, in his shower, in his kitchen, in his life.
The next scene he yellows, gets a much needed pause before they continue, and the aftercare is truly a thing of beauty.
