When Bydd first arrived to Rimuru, he was very anxious around all the monsters. Now, since the Falmuth attack, the monsters are very anxious around the humans.
I wonder if it makes him think about how he acted when he first arrived in the city and unfair it was for him to be so scared of them initially.
behind your darkest doubts | whumptober 2020 // crack and shatter
No 12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING
Broken Down | Broken Bones | Broken Trust
// ao3 //
a reimagining of Dick and Damian's reunion in Grayson #12. inspired by this post by @hood-ex
Everything must be finally getting to him, Dick thinks, because that’s Damian across the way, staring at him wide-eyed.
Damian, his dead brother.
Damian, his Robin.
Damian, his kid.
“You’re alive?” he says incredulously, heart beating a rhythm of hope in his chest, creeping up into his throat.
“You’re alive?” Damian says, tone matching Dick’s, and before Dick can respond, Damian is flipping across the gap, leaping the railing, and throwing himself into Dick’s arms.
Dick catches him, of course. Dick will always catch him.
“I missed you,” Damian says, voice filled with relief and sorrow and pain, cheek pressing to Dick’s, and after everything, after everyone else and their reactions, Damian’s admission is just—
It’s too much, and Dick breaks.
His chest hitches on a sob, and he sinks to the ground in a slow-motion collapse, tears streaming suddenly down his cheeks. He’s done, he’s spent, and his emotions are seeping out of him faster than he can rein them in. Damian is abruptly tense in his arms, calling his name in increasing worry, hands tightening in Dick’s jacket, but Dick just grips him as tight as he can, holds him as close as possible to his chest, reveling in the beating heart beneath his hands, the warmth of Damian’s skin, and the steady rise and fall of his chest against Dick’s.
He’s alive he’s alive he’s alive.
He buries his face in Damian’s hair as he shudders through the sobs wrenching from his chest, hand tangled in the hair at the nape of Damian’s neck. Damian seems to realize that he needs this, needs this release, needs to hold close the brother who died for him— Don’t you ever fucking do that again, do you hear me?— and he winds his arms around Dick’s neck and grips back just as tightly, burying his face in his shoulder. Dick thinks he may feel tears seep through his jacket, but he can’t tell for sure.
He’d never tell anyway.
“I missed you,” Damian whispers again as his sobs subside, and Dick grips him tighter in response. He pulls back just enough to press a kiss to Damian’s hair, and rests his cheek against his head, rocking them back and forth.
“I know, kiddo,” Dick rasps, settling more comfortably against the railing next to them.
“Me too,” he says, arms not loosening their grip on his boy.
behind your darkest doubts | whumptober 2020 // one false move
No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
“Pick Who Dies” | Collars | Kidnapped
// ao3 //
They’d all been kidnapped before. It was a packaged deal; be the children of the wealthiest person in Gotham, or be a vigilante, it all worked the same. Being kidnapped was bound to happen now and then.
The four of them being kidnapped together and in their civvies, though. That one was new.
Jason groans as they wake and find themselves in an abandoned warehouse office. “I thought I outgrew being held for ransom," he complains, flopping onto his back.
“Once a Wayne, always a Wayne,” Dick grunts, pushing himself up and blinking against the harsh LEDs glaring down in the small space. “Unfortunately, these types of things never change.”
“Bruce is gonna be pissed,” Tim breathes, rubbing at his eyes. His wrists are crossed over one another and tied with a flimsy strip of rope. He turns to look it over in confusion. "...is this a prank?"
“If not, these people are clearly amateurs,” Damian sniffs haughtily, rubbing grit from his eyes and begins to fiddle with the ties. “I could break out of these in under a minute.”
“Could be a prank, but I’m going to guess amateurs,” Dick muses, mind going a mile a minute as they all get to their feet and tug at their restraints. “Let’s just see if we can find a way ou— ”
He cuts off as the door to the room swings open, and a sturdy, middle-aged man strides in. He’s exuding confidence, as if capturing them was his greatest accomplishment. He had a handgun in one hand, fingers loose around the handle.
“Wakey, wakey, boys. Judgement day is here.”
“Oh goody,” Jason mutters, rolling his eyes. “Bruce is gonna be so happy we got kidnapped by a trigger-happy nobody. What a way to go. Who wants to go first?”
Tim snorts. The man’s grip tightens around the handle of the gun and Dick tenses. He watches him like a hawk, shifting his stance to lunge if the man goes towards any of the others.
“You think I give a shit what your daddy thinks?” the man snarls, sudden anger not entirely unexpected, but dangerous nonetheless. “I don’t care if he walked in here himself and picked favorites. I’m tryin’ to get back at him, y’see, make a statement, and one of you is gonna pick who that message is delivered by. I’m givin’ you agency, takin’ the choice away from him, yeah? Just like the choice was taken away from me.
“So who’s gonna pick which one of you dies tonight?”
They all stare at him in stunned silence.
“Yeah, that’s not happening, dumbass,” Jason snarks. “Good fuckin’ luck.”
“Oh, it’s happening,” the man responds, advancing on him with a scowl, gun suddenly up and pointing at Jason’s head. Jason straightens himself to his full height, snarl on his lips. “I worked too damn hard to get you all here in one spot! Daddy’s little princess was too slippery to snatch,” he growls, “but the rest of you will do just fine, I think. He’d break over losing one of you. And if any of you even think of breaking those ties, you're dead first.”
“What the hell is wrong with you,” Tim spits, fingers stilling on the loose knot of his own rope.
“Wrong with me? I’m just a hard working man, earning his keep while you all sit up in your high towers hoarding all that cash and not sharing it with the rest of us.”
“You want money?” Dick cuts in, drawing the man’s attention away from his brothers. Focus on me. Stay away from the rest of them or I swear— “Bruce would pay a fortune—”
“No, I don’t want money!” the man roars. “Money wouldn’t bring my Jessie back!”
They all stiffen as the gun swings in his outburst. The man clenches his eyes shut, sucking in a shaking breath through his nose and exhaling sharply. “No,” he says quieter. “No, money won’t fix anything. Not for this.”
He turns back to Jason with narrowed eyes, cocking his head to the side as he looks him over thoughtfully. Jason scowls.
“What, am I not good enough for you?” he taunts, shifting lazily on his feet. “I’ve already died once.”
“Jay—” Tim hisses.
“Don’t fucking joke with me, kid,” the man snaps. “People don’t just come back from the dead.”
“Wanna bet?”
The gun is back at Jason’s forehead. Jason shoots him a lazy grin, razor sharp at the edges. “I’m his secret favorite, obviously. B wouldn’t miss the others one bit, I’m the one he puts all his time into. He did all sorts of research and magic mumbo jumbo to bring me back, couldn’t handle losing me once.”
“You’re lying,” the man growls, digging the gun into Jason’s head. “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Trying to protect your brothers. It’s not going to work.” He pulls the gun back and gives Jason a once over. “You’re too rough around the edges anyway. He wouldn’t miss you, much. ...Nah,” he continues thoughtfully, turning towards Damian as Jason’s face shutters in rage. “But the baby…”
Dick stiffens as the man saunters up to Damian. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Dick snarls.
“Oh, come on,” the man says, exasperated. “I wouldn’t ever kill a kid.” Dick’s eyes narrow, gritting his teeth as the man swipes a hand roughly through Damian’s hair. Damian is stiff beneath the manhandling, rage coursing through him at the man’s attention.
“Jessie was about your age when he died,” he murmurs, pushing Damian's hair from his face. “And the man who killed him was around the age of your brothers. Just be a good boy n’ pick which of your brothers is your least favorite, and then you can all go home. I don’t have all night.”
“I will not,” he snarls. “Killing them will not bring Jessie back.”
“Of course not,” the man shrugs. “But it’ll make me feel a whole lot better.”
Damian flicks his gaze to Dick in a question. Can I just take him out already?
Dick shakes his head minutely. Don’t give up your cover.
“Oh, big brother, huh?” the man muses. Damian’s eyes widen in horror. “That’s harsh.”
Damian lunges as the gun whirls on Dick.
“Wait— no!”
“Dick!”
The gun cracks, and Dick crumples to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut just as the window explodes inwards.
behind your darkest doubts | whumptober 2020 // all in a name
No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY
Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint Swordpoint
// ao3 //
"Richard," he bites. "My name is Richard."
"No surname?"
"No."
Grayson is mine, he thinks viciously. No one else will know that name, no one else will take it away. No more Talon, no more Gray Son.
****
He wakes to burning heat, the cloying stench of sweat and blood, and a buzzing-ringing in his ears.
Talon—Grayson. It is Grayson, remember this—winces, curling up on his side as his eyes open, taking in the sights around him. He freezes.
He is surrounded by people dressed head to toe in black, guns slung across shoulders and katanas drawn at the ready. He panics for a brief moment as the situation registers; the sun pounds down mercilessly upon him, he is surrounded by warriors that are decidedly not-Talons and Talon— GraysonRichardGraysonRichardGrayson— does not remember how he arrived here.
His hand sneaks to his belt, fingers clutching tightly to his blade. If he must fight his way out of here to live another day, so be it. He is not done with this life yet.
The crunch of boots across sand catches his attention and he pushes up to an elbow to observe. He's tense all over, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. A set of boots pauses before him. Another stands behind.
"Get up."
The order is said calmly, quietly, but there is a danger there, a threat beneath the words that Richard picks up on all too easily. He glances upwards at the woman before him, her gaze smooth but deadly. Richard does not move, his eyebrows drawn down in confusion and anger. Her lips purse at his lack of action.
"I will not ask again."
Richard does not move, except to grip the handle of his blade tighter and loosen the rest of his limbs in preparation. The boots behind him shift forwards, and Richard is suddenly a blur of motion, kicking out at the figure behind him and bringing them to their knees as he shoves his blade into their shoulder. Before he can make another move, a hand is latched into his hair and pulling him viciously up to his own knees, a sword held flush to his throat.
He stills.
The woman glares at him, eyes cold and calculating.
"You will answer my questions honestly, or I will split your throat and leave you to bleed out in the sand. You try to attack or escape, I will run you through. Do you understand?"
Richard glowers at her, hatred seething from every pore. He had risked his life escaping from the Talons to find his way home, wherever that was anymore, only to stumble into another group of assassins. How lucky.
"Ask your questions," he grits roughly, his throat parched. "If my answers are not to your satisfaction, that does not make them any less true. Will you uphold your word?"
"That depends on your answers," she replies. "If they are...dissatisfactory, I may change my mind."
"Typical, of an assassin of the Shadows."
She freezes, there and gone before anyone else would have noticed. She hums. "Perhaps. But we protect what is ours, regardless of outcome. Now answer me this: what is your name?"
He's quiet a moment too long, and her hand tightens in his hair. He hisses.
"Richard," he bites. "My name is Richard."
"No surname?"
"No."
Grayson is mine, he thinks viciously. No one else will know that name, no one else will take it away. No more Talon, no more Gray Son.
She frowns, fingers shifting on the hilt of her sword. "I left a name behind long ago," he continues. "No one else knows me by it, or ever will. It is irrelevant, and is of no use to you."
Her eyes narrow.
“That is yet to be determined. But no mind. Next question: why have you come to this place?”
“I—it was an accident,” he admits haltingly, embarrassed. Always be aware of your surroundings. Remember all. Forget nothing, lest risk death. Mistakes will result in your termination.
And yet.
“I don’t know how I got here, or where here is.”
“You knew I was of the Shadows, and yet you do not know where you are?”
“No,” he admits quietly. “Knowing one is a Shadow does not mean I know where they reside.” She meets his gaze head on, her eyes searching for any semblance of a lie. He holds steady, sweat drenching every bit of him, too many pairs of eyes watching the situation unfold. It makes him nervous.
“Very well,” she says, roughly releasing his hair and pulling the sword from his throat. Dick takes a shaky, steadying breath, limbs trembling suddenly in the adrenaline crash and heat and exhaustion. “Get up,” she commands again, watching him closely as he pockets his blade. “We are not finished yet.
behind your darkest doubts | whumptober 2020 // keep breathing (1/2)
No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME
Caged | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building
// ao3 // part 2 //
He was always trained not to panic.
Panicking leaves room for rookie mistakes, Bruce had told him once. It causes you to make errors you can't afford to make, and wouldn't make otherwise. Take a breath and examine your surroundings. Panic can come later.
And therein lies the problem.
Being buried alive meant lack of oxygen, and all the reason in the world to panic.
This is how Jason felt, Tim thinks, clawing desperately at the wooden plank above him. I’m going to die here.
He's lucky, he thinks, in that they left him with his gloves and boots. But he has no mask to help analyze the material or how far down he was. No belt, so no tools to assist or light to see.
He'd already tried calling for Kon minutes ago. The backup distress beacon in his glove hadn't activated.
No one was coming.
Okay, he thinks, taking a shallow breath and pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. It's getting harder to breathe. Okay. Feel for weaknesses, work on those.
He lifts his hands to the wooden panels above him again, fingers skimming along for any latches or nicks.
There.
He's just digging his fingers into the gaps in the wood when his comm screeches to life in his ear, static blaring and cutting up whoever is reaching out to him. Tim stills, hope blooming hesitantly in his chest.
"...in...epor..."
"...Hello?"
"Rob...can you he...pleas...repor…"
Slowly the static begins to clear. Tim's eyes burn and his chest constricts. Someone's coming.
"...bin report."
"Bruce," Tim sobs, relieved.
"Tim? Tim ...ere are you?"
"Buried somewhere, I don't know."
There's silence over the line. Tim's heart skips a beat.
"Bruce?" he asks, dread lacing his tone.
"I'm here. Oracle is tracking your location."
"Please hurry," he whispers.
"I'm coming, Tim," Bruce says, tone comforting but strained. He's scared too, Tim thinks. "I am going to talk, and you are going to save your oxygen. You are not to respond unless prompted, understood?"
"Yes," he replies, anxiety creeping up his spine again. Bruce could be hours away; Tim was unconscious before being put in the box, and didn't wake until he could hear shovelfuls of dirt trapping him in. He could have been transported anywhere before that.
His breath hitches.
"Robin. I need you to stay calm and focus on my voice. Can you do that?"
"Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah I can do that."
"Good."
Bruce talks, and Tim listens, picking away at the wood as he does so. Just in case, he thinks. Just in case he's too far out.
Tim has a headache.
It's getting harder to breathe with every passing second. He used up too much air during his initial panic.
Panicking leaves room for rookie mistakes, Batman scolds in his mind.
Shut up, he hisses back, teeth gritting as he sucks in a shallow breath.
It's minutes later that there's a revving over the comm.
"We've found your location. I'm on my way, Tim. Ten minutes. Just hold on."
"Hurry," he gasps, head pounding and chest tight. He closes his eyes, slowly draws in the biggest breath he can and holds it, listens to Bruce speeding towards him in his ear. Oracle chatters over the comm and Bruce grunts in response, and Tim releases the breath. Takes another.
Another minute passes.
Two.
Five minutes, six, and his head and chest hurt so much. He feels floaty.
Another minute, and red and gray stars are bouncing in the darkness.
"B," he says weakly. "B, I... I'm gonna pass out." The engine revs viciously over the comm.
"I'm almost there, Tim. Two minutes. Just hold on."
"We had... a good run, didn't we?"
"Don't talk like that," Bruce growls. "You're going to make it."
"Okay," he whispers. His ears are ringing. "Thank you anyway. You...this...isn't your fault. Don't blame...yourself like...like you did with Jason." Who would be Robin if Tim died? Steph was gone, Dick would never return to the mantle. It'd be like what happened after Jason all over again.
"...Tim. Save your breath."
His breath hitches. "Promise me," he breathes so quietly he's not sure Bruce heard him.
"I promise, only because you are going to make it. I'm almost there, Tim, just stay with me."
Tim sighs, eyes slipping closed and hands falling to his chest.
"Don't...wanna...leave you 'lone…'gain..."
"Tim. ...Tim!"
Bruce's voice fades away as Tim slips into oblivion.
Awgrymiadau ar gyfer Creu Ryseitiau Iach Rhad Bydd y Teulu Cyfan yn Mwynhau!
Awgrymiadau ar gyfer Creu Ryseitiau Iach Rhad Bydd y Teulu Cyfan yn Mwynhau!
Yn y gymdeithas heddiw, mae ryseitiau iach rhad bron yn cael eu hystyried yn ocsymoron. Mae prydau rhad yn aml yn gysylltiedig â bwyd cyflym sy'n sialc llawn braster, colesterol a sodiwm. O ganlyniad, mae'n ymddangos mai'r unig ddewis sydd gan y mwyafrif ar gyfer prydau rhad yn aml yw prydau bwyd afiach nad oes unrhyw bwrpas da iddynt.
Y newyddion gwych yw nad oes rhaid iddo fod fel hyn. Mae…
