#“Reminder to self: you are being watched.

[acid-ixx]

ch.5 pt 2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read under the end for an author's note.

tw: talks about death, prostitution, self-harm, trauma & ptsd, suicidal thoughts, and neglect.

the world was still spinning when you had awoken.

you didn't know if that was good or bad news alone. didn't even know what your current state could do now that you're in some room, subconsciously recalling between the gaps of memories that had caused you to be here.

lying down, with the painful throb of the holes within your body pinning you in place.

what happened?

breakdowns, booze, flirting, tears, comfort, gunshots, acceptance and death—

— lots of it.

all in the span of one night. one singular night which reigned in spilled blood and reopened wounds.

maybe you should've never made a stupid decision in the first place, the calculating, smarter, yet easily shut-down part of you scolds yourself. the events of the night were still fresh, enough to make both your heart and your head throb: were you finally sobering up, or does this ache come from a different type of pain, more painful, more heavily emotional than being met with death?

how long has it been since you were out? how long has it been since he saved you? since he...

the name tastes bitter in your tongue, it's been months, maybe even almost a year since you've last encountered him, let alone talked to him without being met with strained eye contact and cruel scoffs; a painful reminder of how your actions were what stuck the final nail in the coffin for your own neglect against the man, the brother you consider closest to you; despite it never being enough.

jason.

your last interaction was particularly unpleasant, an act of teenage hormones swelling in your very veins caused you to be spiteful towards him, ignoring his casual small talks in favor of refusing to offer your homemade treats and grabbing the jar of your favorite sweets - that you always meticulously and willingly give him whenever he'd make his rare visits - away from his prying hands.

you remember his offended tone, the sudden venom in his words as he asked, too mockingly for your own taste,  "what's wrong with you, angel? what's gotten you snappy these days?"

these days?

most days, it was you succumbing to his wants and needs. considering the treats he liked, the books he read, the movies he watched. all an effort painfully done if it meant having his eyes on you for just more than a second.

these days? just what had you done these days that warranted his offense? all you have done, all you ever did, was tag along everyone's tail, watching from the shadows, biting back the poisonous words, the tears that clung at the edge of your throat; ready to uncoil, to pounce the moment your envy unfurls even further.

these days? yeah right, these days, you just wanted to fucking die—

'cause highschool is shit, your life is shit, and you can't- just can't afford to play nice these days. not when they've all been so cruel, not when the people you look up to treat you lesser than the worms they step on when they spend time around the garden- your garden that you've carefully cultivated, all for your efforts to go to waste.

— but Jason won't understand, nobody could. not even alfred could comprehend just how worse your mood has soured. nobody's aware of just how close you are to your breaking point.

you glare at him for a second, wanting to retort, to swear at the sight of his knotted brows and frustrated pose, but the flicker of fight within you has just as quickly extinguished. your shoulders slumped, yet jason remains as rigid as ever in his seat, no amount of softness could be found in his expression, not even the softness he directs at you.

'he doesn't feel the same right now but—'

'there's no point in even trying anymore.'

ignoring the pang of regret in your chest, the urge to apologize with widened eyes, to pretend this was all a dream; you simply turned away in spite of the brimming tears, biting at your raw lips, to escape to another room.

afraid to show anymore weakness, afraid of the consequences, your hurried footsteps had echoed across the hallways.

you left the tooth-achingly sweet treats he originally intended to take by the table.

'he can have it for all i care.'

but are you sure you don't care? are you truly sure, when your chest spiked with frazzled haste just from hearing a familiar scoff - the one he directs to the people he despises - behind you? is it indifference when your hearing began to wring just to block out whatever vile words he spewed that day?

you want to apologize, you truly do, even if you're aware you're not much at fault, but rather him for being inconsiderate to your feelings, your foreign actions, he calls you his angel, but when his angel shows obvious hurt, he doesn't care?—

hah. but you just can't deal with it, with him any longer.

so you let it be, let him think you're just having your rebellious teenager phase, that you being a piece of shit in his eyes would pass eventually.

he wouldn't know, didn't even notice the bandages plastered across the expanse of your aching arms, the bags dipping below your eyes, or your frizzy, thinning hair.

with your last encounter, there was no more after that.

and if there were, you couldn't even call it that, for he was raging fire, and you a blistering snowstorm.

those were never meant to clash, let alone part.

thinking about it now, recalling what's gotten his mind on a twist, in your little, foreign mattress, with your eyes still shut close, lower abdomen still aching; it makes you want to die a little more at how much you never considered your feelings in the past.

you still don't right now - couldn't even make past your crippling self-esteem - but compared to last time, you at least maintained a flicker of dignity.

jason, meanwhile.

he- maybe he had a terrible day that day, you recalled his argument with bruce fresh on your mind that fateful afternoon. how tense and resounding the tension was in the room they'd fought. something over morals, over his still-burning need for justice by unfairly taking the lives of most criminals, bruce stated.

how it never quite changed, even until now.

it's the norm for all their little spats, the usual dynamic with their bated breaths and venomous words, their pitiful angst. how could you not remember, when it's dick who had to physically rip jason off from plunging a weapon on bruce's chin, whilst alfred's disappointed scolding hung in the air — whilst it's you watching in the corner, witnessing the entire scene unfold, useless when it comes to intervening because your words hold no impact for their dynamic?

maybe, just maybe, you could've been more considerate of his feelings when he'd blown bruce off, throwing him the finger before bursting off to the kitchen's pantry - to stressfully feast on the treats you carefully stored in, for moments like these, because he loves to thrash around the kitchen eating your baked sweets - to ruminate on his raging thoughts.

but if you could recall all the moments of his rage, how could he not recall his promise to bring you home some of your favorite dishes the night before that, then?

how could he not consider his so-called angel's feelings, when you had to adjust to his whims?

yeah, maybe you were boiling with rage that time too, not only due to the pressure of highschool, but at yet another broken promise. maybe you just wanted to hide away the tears, the looming expectations to act normal ultimately failing, which translated to your snappy behavior— but you thought:

'maybe, just maybe, my favorite brother, my closest confidant, could understand.'

you were wrong, you always were.

and for that, when you'd run crying to your room, another fresh scar was soldered in both your skin and your memories.

— a painful reminder of losing the closest thing you had in the world, just because you finally felt brave enough to show an inch of your closeted yet forbidden emotions.

your rebellion caused a permanent rift between your already drifting relationship, you despised yourself for that seemingly small, yet highly impactful mistake.

thinking about it now, in your crippled, nearly paralyzed state, makes you just want to forget.

— and remember the even more painful present.

finally, you compiled the strength to blink away the weight in your eyes. remnants of dry, salty tears were still fresh in the corners of your lids, throat parched, mind thrumming with dull pain and aching limbs— it reminded you of your unbidden nightmare just moment's ago; a stark contrast from its pleasantness compared to the damming reality you're actually in.

it felt like a fading memory, that dream, a looming freckled dust of air you couldn't quite catch in your stretched out fingers. how her gentle touch was like a cure to all your ailments, yet her hurried good-byes an eternal scar to the broken pieces of your heart.

oh, my momma.

how you miss her and her angelic presence already.

it never truly occurred to you how much the heavy weight of missing her stumped you from actually maturing. it was always her you mourn in moments of painful respite. her fading advices, her airy voice, her silent hums and warm presence. it was a whiplash to have her in such a wicked environment, in gotham of a places.

seeing her, in that cottage, in all her glory, wrinkles and aged, sagging skin surrounding the expanse of her angelic appearance. she was so young when she had you, and it was all you ever dreamed of— watching her gracefully age before you like fine wine, rather than those... those flashbacks of those bloodied tiles and the ichor dripping down her lifeless, icy lips.

damn be her reputation, she was your momma first, and prostitute, money laundering scam, second. thinking about her just makes you want to shut your eyes once more, return to that restless dream, and stay there forever.

rather than...

— your eyes switch to shuttering quickly, faded imagery still present in the fog of your vision. everything felt suspended in air except for the mechanical churn of the hanging fan on the ceiling, yet the furniture still present itself in shaped globs rather than actual three-dimensional objects. it took you nearly a minute to regain your sight, to finally hone in on your surroundings. albeit the haze and the adrenaline slowly pumping in your veins, your mind telling you to run despite the lack of sensation in your lower half, you slowly take in this...

this unfamiliar room...

a place displaying artillery, heavy weapons on the four corners of the walls, surrounding the dainty, one person cushion you lay on. there's an array of both fresh and bloodied gauze on the tabletop on your right, it seems to be used just recently, on you, probably. they're tightly wrapped on your lower half, you can see through the dark of your blankets and the feel of its restrictions on your guts.

strange how you're here, recalling the events of the night, yet it's still night now.

have you been out for an entire day?

and your phone and other essentials is on the same tabletop, you can even make out the table napkin containing conner's number still carefully tuckered behind your phone case. the faint waft of your favorite takeout caressed your nostrils, if not for the pain of having to carefully churn around the weighted blanket splayed on top of you; you might've sat up to dig in the savory meal.

but you can't focus on your hunger, not just yet. not when the dread overpowers your bodily urges, not when this entire thing feels like it's imitating a sense of normalcy; a room, reflecting the danger of the inhabitant living within, despite your foggy vision still, trying it's best to placate you into feeling safe.

but worse yet, the most dreaded of them all—

a room with your brother in it.

a room with the person you'd least want to deal with, not with just how much you haven't calmed down, how your final resolve was to avoid the very same people who'd always avoided you.

you couldn't possibly face them now, not ever.

not even the man you once came to call your favorite.

the holes in your body, now wrapped tight with gauze, throbs noisily, as if it senses the resounding doom wrapping around your heart, until it spreads across your entire body, now cold with caution. through your careful inspection of your belongings, through the noise of your frazzled thoughts, you haven't felt the dip on the bed you lay on. dim lights surrounded your vision afterall, the same ones still clearing up after hours of restless slumber.

and everything around you was unlike the specks of sun you were greeted with when you'd awoken from that dream.

dark and heavy.

your fingertips, your head, your injuries, the dip of the bed just now, his breathless haste; as if he waited for this moment, for you to slowly awaken, to return to consciousness.

an overbearing sense of desperation: his manic trance, the tusled locks of black and white hair, the faint shiver in his breathing.

and it's not as if you needed to second-guess the man now seated on the bed, he's so easily recognizable with his toughened form and muscles churning beneath his ashy jacket.

no, no, you want to close your eyes, pretend you're still asleep.

— but you can't, it's too late now that he noticed.

"... mornin', angel. you alright?"

he asks, silent and unsure, the question drifting off his tongue so gently, so hesitatingly as if he couldn't believe witnessing you breathing in front of him. warm yet burning with need for answers. and for a second, for a measly, quintessential span of time, you might've thought his raspy words were an aftermath of some tears.

he sounded so...

broken.

like a man torn from the inside out. the last you've seen of him, he'd already sported eyebags— but not too sunken, too tired like the current one you're staring at. like a washed out ember amidst winter, everything about him felt vulnerable...

it just makes you want to die on the inside— that- that you feel a semblance of care for someone who's hurt you far more than loved you.

the gentleness in his question, the hesitant stumble of his hands that came to bury itself into your tangled hair. the warmth that emits from his raggedy fingers hovering over the scalp of your head; it just made you feel fuzzy yet awful. the image of a brother and a stranger in front of you just blurs into a singular mess.

your vision spins, his hands are still awkwardly patting your head, as if urging you to speak, yet no reply escaped from your parched throat, from your dry, cracked lips. you fear whatever words might come next will just be a product of your impulsiveness— like the last time you met, like- like how you always fucked everything up, and you just did so the other night, and you're afraid of everything that might come after—

"i tried fixin' my apartment up just before you woke up... got us some takeout for dinner, too. it's your favorite..."

a hesitant smile, teethering on near gentleness that seemed impossible for a cruel man like him. jason looked almost like the brother you once knew as he coughs to himself, a poor attempt to wash away the awkward tension between you two. you're still silent between it all, not a single word mustered from your gaping mouth.

no.

your breath hitches—

your cold hands drive away his fingers entangled with your hair, shaky breaths make up the silent space between you two. he's not- not going to go about this way, would he? how could he?

no, this was not a moment to pretend. he saw you cry out there, under the moonlit night when the world was out for your life— you begged him, implied you'd rather die than let your savior be him.

you're hurt, everything still isn't fine between you two. not a single thread of softness will make up for the broken remnants of love he left you with. he can't act like the last time you met was a warm memory; not when it was filled with icy words and barely disguised contempt.

for a moment, you swore you could see a flash of heartbreak filling his stare. for a moment, you want to take your actions back like last time and become the younger you, but it's just for a moment.

these feelings don't last for a lifeline, not anymore.

"look, angel. i'm- you're not fine, still. it's the doctor's orders that you you need to eat, especially since you just got discharged and got all drunk on an empty stomach."

since when did he care?

ignoring him, your eyes dart elsewhere, ears purposely blocking out the meaning of his words, senses entangled with anything but his vulnerable stare. you look at the rickety fan barely blowing air on your messy hair, buzzing on top of dusty ceilings and shadowing dimly lit walls, at the spare armory scattered actoss the room - he could kill you with them, could end you with just a snap of his fingers - at the spider webs housing the corners of the apartment boxing you in with a man you dread meeting, let alone facing in a space you're far too unfamiliar with.

trapped and vulnerable; like a doe locked in place in a vast forest, surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves, ready to devour the closest thing in sight.

there may only be one you're dealing with now, but they're out there. dick and the others are out there with intentions to face you too.

and you don't know which part of you triggered this sudden desperation, this sudden link between you and your estranged siblings, but you hate it.

you hate this unfamiliar care. you hate the concern laced in every sentiment of jason's. it's unlike them, it's not them in your eyes.

and you hate how this resentment is overpowered by the shadowed by something more sinister, the one thing that dictated the course of your life—

one word: fear.

it wraps around your throat tighter than the bandages adorning your body. traps you in its clawing grip and molds itself in the form of your family.

fear of how to deal with their foreign worry, their questions lingering in the air with patience in its virtue rather than disdain. jason's unmasked face, thumbs softly massaging your unfeeling, cold fingers.

where you show a hitch of a breath, the widening of eyes, and the slightest of shivers. a hint of vulnerability, the softest of hiccups, the deep intakes of air—

instead of being met with a scoff, an offensive remark about your weakness, or a flick of worry immediately wearing away as dismissiveness takes place.

you're met with unfamiliar worry, the heavier dip of the bed, the splaying of bedsheets as jason's body moves closer to yours, the quick succession of movement as he takes off his jacket to loom over your- your shivering form.

just a little more, then your teary eyes meet its gaze on his crumpled jacket with its stench of cigarettes clinging in the air. your tired eyes shakily gaze at the layers of gauze wrapping your ever-bleeding body, and feel the ache nesting in its abode.

panic, unyielding; so much fear which rattles your bones and turns your muscles into useless jelly; which worries the perpetrator of these complicated emotions—

jason.

how do you pretend you're fine? how can you act so carelessly vulnerable in the domain of unknown territory; in a room, alone, but not quite?

it takes you back to when you were at your apartment, takes you back to when you try your damned best to ignore the sensation of panic and bile rising up your throat when you saw dick's messages. all in the span of less than a week.

your life is so fucked.

yet you choose to be inactive in facing these struggles, you choose not to run, or fight, but to ignore.

it's the only common symptom you share with your... your family.

just like now: anywhere but him.

you can't expend anymore hope—

"why, angel?"

confused, pleading, perhaps struck with grief. so unlike the man who scoffed at your lack of reply months ago. maybe he'd truly change, or maybe he felt pity at watching you nearly die before he could redeem himself.

it was his voice that cuts through the tension in the air. this time, he sounds like he's begging. for a second, your tired eyes run to him: him and his stupid worry. the nonchalant buzz in his words were no more, replaced by... betrayal.

for a second, you're reminded of your last meeting. the contrast of the cold past and now this burning sensation within your chest. then suddenly, everything hurts just a little more.

suddenly, you're back at the start. just the little kid looking for answers in a world too big for them. just the little kid who wanted to be good enough for their newfound family.

"for-for wh— what?"

god, even now the past still haunts you, the present crueler too. you and your stupid stuttering, your exposed and vulnerable aching heart that yearns for answers. why is jason hurt over seeing you hurt? why does he... care?

it's just so incomprehensible for you.

his worry is just too foreign.

under the pressure of his boiling gaze, which renders you useless and pinned in damp bedsheets, you simply feel bile rise up your throat. feel anything but comfort when both your eyes met. your teeth nibbles on your sore lips, and you find jason's wince, his almost tense fingers about to stop you from drawing out blood.

"you know what i mean." you don't. or rather, you don't want to know what he means. "why were you..."

'why am i out of the manor, right? in an unknown place in the middle of the night, drunk and alone? almost killed by my own stupidity? why? you know why, jason?'

you bite your lips, its raw, peeling skin opens up old scars anyways, and it bleeds like your raging heart.

'—it's because of you and all the others.'

you don't want to explain how they're the reason for all your burdens. how his sudden presence in that fucking alleyway caused more distress than nearly dying. why you're out in public wasting away at your life, avoiding anything that you can associate with them because, just because you're always hurting.

you don't want to be reminded of the past anymore. you never expected to be in one of your sibling's damn apartment, being interrogated, almost scolded for your impulsive decisions and forced to listen to his sickly bitter worries over your health as if he actually cared for you.

sweat ran down your bobbed throat. your tongue, your lips and your skin felt damp yet dry. cold and crisp air was a commodity, everything felt blazing hot under jason's expectant stare.

an uncomfortable heat, almost burning you, turning your bones to ashes and organs to dust.

"just—" his presence almost felt ghastly, fingers hovering over your downturned chin to softly tilt it up. your eyes felt blurry, and the world felt so... just so cruel when his other hands made its way to wipe away your damp cheeks.

were you... crying?

"just answer me, please."

jason todd, no, the red hood doesn't beg. he doesn't plead. the infamous crime lord doesn't gently swipe your sweaty hair to the side so it doesn't disrupt your already blurry vision. he hurts others, cuts their skin and veins, shoots their bones, rips their limbs one by one, tortures them until all they could beg for is the sweet release of death—

but he doesn't just care for somebody easily, right? he shouldn't burden himself with your own personal issues. he never has done so, only coming to you for casual talk.

what changed?

"i—" you gulp, but the lump in your throat remains everlasting. do you tell him of your worries? do you even trust him? can you even trust him?

"i don't know..."

'i don't know, jason... i'd rather not let you know anymore than you should have.'

"i-it's fine... don't worry about it." you added to your pile of excusing, shrinking in on yourself when his eyes squint at your words.

small. you feel like an ant taking in everything that felt particularly enormous against you. jason's body blocking out the city's skyline and the moon's watchful glow made everything dimmer, made it feel like your only choice was to go through him.

it doesn't help that it feels like every word you mutter, every breath you take, feels like a daunting action devoured by the inner workings of his mind.

why should you worry? jason never— he never truly cared this much.

whether you lie or not wouldn't change the outcome. just a little slip up and he'll leave you alone once more. just a few more minutes and he'll eventually give up, right?

so why are you nervous? why are your fingers picking at the skin of your palms? why do the tears just keep leaking like a faulty pipe? why is he— why can't he just stop staring at you—?

"you're lying."

"h—huh?"

"you're lying and it's obvious, angel."

he reiterates, this time, the tremor in his voice reaches the depths of the ocean. and just like an ocean, you feel yourself drowning in the pressure of his answers. you feel the heaviness of his words, feel it pinning you in place and locking your joints, until all you could hear are his paced breathing and the subtle agitation in his voice.

"wh—"

"why? why were you out alone, huh? what were you doing all alone at night? alfred wasn't even with you— you're drunk out of your mind, you're not even old enough to drink, angel. you weren't with- with anybody by the time i reached you— so why... just why?" this time, he demands. even if his questions were mere whispers against the blaring sounds of traffic from below; it still reaches out and buries itself into your skin, tickles the inside of your ears and nips at delicate skin.

until all you could focus on were his questions.

why?

'isn't it obvious, brother? or do you still see me as a little child?'

"when's my birthday, jason?"

it doesn't take much to know when you've turned the course of the tides to side with you. it doesn't take much to watch jason stumble between befuddled thoughts until he crosses a hurdle he couldn't jump through.

'it shouldn't be a surprise to you, jay. i thought you truly changed.'

nobody... nobody except alfred knew when you were born. not even your closest brother, no. you almost genuinely convinced yourself he cared, but the delusion quickly breaks when you find him wide-eyed as the thoughts churn in his head.

"what...?"

if he truly cared, then he should've known, right?

"—you... i'll answer you if you answer me back. when's my birthday?"

you call him out in that sickly, sweet nickname. it was what that past you called him. it's the same verse you chirp over and over again just to gain a traction of his attention when you feel his eyes drift over the book he's read rather than on you. the name you oh-so carefully drawl out so that he doesn't drift to sleep just so you'll be given temporary respite from the loneliness, so he could rest his fingers on your scalp and promptly hug you from the side.

it feels so foreign on your tongue now, after all, you haven't spoken to him in months.

the last note you left each other with was pure bitterness.

it feels even more strange that you realized how you know all their birthdays, but they never knew yours.

never knew it passed by so quickly under their radar. how you're free from the shackles of their ownership over your name. he doesn't... doesn't even know you're not a wayne now, no?

"do you even know how old i am now?"

"it's... you know, shit—!" he mutters under his breath. it's like he just realized how much he doesn't... couldn't even remember a crucial detail of you when it's you who knows all his favorite books, his favorite author, how his comfort snacks are different for every feeling he feels; hell, even his preferred places to smoke.

yet he doesn't even remember your birthday? couldn't even recall a single moment where you blew out a candle? in all the moments he visited, spending nights with you under the moonlight or through the shine of the library's chandelier; he never even thought of giving you a present, let alone wonder why how within those years of knowing you— jason couldn't even remember the most important occasion of your life?

he bites his lips, and this time, it's him who buries the tips of his fingers on the hastily crumpled bedsheets.

if he calls himself your brother, who thinks he has the right to worry over you, then is a brother someone who couldn't remember your birthday?

now that his eyes aren't on you, you're spared a moment to take him in through the hastening of your heart and the neverending rivulets of tears escaping your blurry gaze.

'ignore the pain, (name). you shouldn't be hurt anymore. you shouldn't feel surprised that he doesn't even know when you were fucking born."

but you can't bear the thought of him stumbling through his words, formulating excuses he knows you know you could easily reject. it just makes everything hurt even more, makes the endless ache in your heart thrum at the implications that this person— his worries were nothing when he has nothing, no care in the past to bare to you now.

"i'm eighteen now, jay..." his eyes quickly flit up to stare at you, mouth agape at the newfound information. what's the use in being shocked now? when all your other birthdays were dismissed and breezed by like a normal day for them— for your family?

and yet you know the answers to your very own questions.

eighteen is a quintessential part of someone's life.

it marks the path of adolescence, the descent to maturity as you learn to grow, to make your own decisions. some children move out of their parent's home to build a nest of their own, they find jobs, maybe even a partner to make or break a life with. people in america who turn 18 are still restricted from drinking, but most still choose to break some laws, fuck up with their decision, get shit-faced and party off with some fraternities and friends who'll turn their backs on you; and then regret it all later.

they build their lives, they go through ups and downs, and slowly bring themself back up again. there's no more gentle approaches, no more excuses for a developing mind. they go through so much in just a year.

and the most important of it all, is that most graduate.

and they weren't there for you, nobody was, save for alfred.

bruce wasn't there when you graduated, so it's no surprise that jason, or even the others, wouldn't come.

jason's still a dead man in the public's eyes, after all.

and even if he wasn't, what would've guaranteed that he'll still come to watch you walk up that stage? what would've changed, when the weight of your graduation and the future to come was thwarted by their worries over damian's? it was always him they— bruce prioritized, when he'd first enter the manor, all eyes were on the brazen boy.

when you first entered the manor, it was a rainy, desolate day. bruce was busy, of course he was, why wouldn't he be when he drowns himself in paperwork to distract the horrid reminders that his second son had passed?

and you don't know what hurts even more, the heartbreak in his stare, or the thumps in your heart that felt like footsteps stepping on the beating organ until all its blood is drained?

"shit, angel. i never knew... i'm— you're eighteen now and i didn't even know? fuck, how could i have forgotten it—"

"just, please save your excuses, jason..."

it's like he couldn't even believe you were old enough now, mature enough to comprehend how his excuses don't mean shit if his lack of knowledge towards your birthday ran on for years.

your sniffles weren't as silent as your words, it hurts, everything felt like fire. the world wants you to burn as your body felt like betrayal, your vulnerabilities stripped bare in front of him.

"i... appreciate your concern, but," it hurts to lie under your breath, hurts to hesitate, let alone voice out what you truly feel. it hurts to wonder why you're unsure if what he felt for you was worry, or just mere guilt over the situation you're both in.

the lines between all your emotions were blurred, you don't even wait to see his expressions anymore. you fear you'll revert back to the younger you, who considers the others before yourself, even when you've disillusioned yourself countless of times that you've changed.

you did, didn't you?

"you don't— you have no excuse to patronize my health when... when i know my limits and..."

"—i have to go, jason..."

barely a whisper. your words were barely a whisper, like the haste of thunder striking through metal rods though without sound, without thought, without hesitation; before your hands suddenly push all your weight to straighten your slumped form. your legs, which felt like blazing jelly, made an attempt to stand despite the burning sensation. you don't offer jason a second to register what you were doing, don't even let him see how your stomach bent enough to nearly reopen wounds—

god, fuck—!

it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.

your heart, your head, your entire body.

one second, you stumble, the gravity of your body fighting against the blistering, aching pain which shoots through your veins. all in one second, seering in your abdomen, like fingers digging deep into your injuries, twisting and churning until all you could feel is pain so absolutely revolting, so mercilessly cripping in your lower abdomen, that it seizes you useless, so utterly unable to capture your balance in the midst of standing, that your legs quickly give out on you.

then another second passes like a beat, all too quickly, yet all too slow for you as the world spins in your darkening vision, all the blood from your head rushing to where the holes lay in haste. your heart thumps like a drum in a warfield, like boots splattering on wed mud, sporadic, in near panic.

another second, the third, and just as you're about to stumble down, the pain so much that your eyes shoot out salty, ignorant tears. just as your body is close to thumping, writhing on the floor, jason catches you in his arms, grip so tight it almost felt like he'd refuse to let go. like how it was back in that shitty alleyway, like how it was, you felt trapped, trapped and forced to feel his sweating muscles churning mechanically, taut and tense through his thin sweatshirt.

close enough to feel that same, raggedy panic — the hitch of a breath, the loud thrumming in your chest, adrenaline shooting into your senses, your mind registers jason as a token of danger— emerging as your elbows make way to hit him square in ribs, only for his quicker, stronger palms instinctively stop you, his larger body locking you up in place, stabilizing you as you feel like you're hovering, suspended in thin, nearly charged air.

he's— he's carrying you, left hand respectfully gripping below your thighs, the other palm resting on your backside. it still hurts, everything does, nothing about you screams okay, only the slight subsidizing of pain as your brother, no, jason carefully puts you back down to sit on the bed, like you're weightless and made of feathers and— and vulnerable with how much gentleness he placates on instinctively hushing you, like a brother would to their injured sibling after a rough hour of playing in a sandbox of a playground.

the tears still won't stop.

through your quivering hiccups, high-pitched whines escaping the back of your throat at every subtle movement, at the thoughts that drown you the more time passes by— it hurts, it hurts so much you'd rather die, you'd rather be anywhere than here. does he know that, does he know the pain of looking at him, feeling him so close like never before is why you're so desparate to leave? does he know your heart beats erratically because you can never forget the moment you last met—?

— you don't even see, let alone feel the anger brewing off his chest, at the sudden, venomous words which escape his mouth next, like chains rattling, acidic bile brewing in a hot cauldron, nearly combusting at the seams.

you don't know that you pain him, don't know that you're his weakness.

and it especially hurts him when you refuse to look him eye-to-eye, refuse to see the tears rooting at the edge of his eyelids, at his teeth grazing his teeth until blood draws out in a steady flow, the opposite of the panic resurfacing into his body as he watches your dazed, breathless form trying to recover from what happened.

wordless. he despises that. how it's like your body repels him, head dodging his lips that hint at kissing your forehead. how you hesitatingly allow him to massage and help straighten the taut muscles of your bent legs— how you remain silent all throughout like you didn't just- just fucking attempt to stand, almost killing yourself despite his warnings.

he despises your not-so subtle avoidance that he just couldn't control it, couldn't control the burning rage brewing inside his heart that he just— just screams at you before he could compose himself.

"— fuck angel, FUCK! just what the fuck were you thinking?!"

jason wasn't always known for anger, he wasn't always the spiteful man everyone makes him out to be. he was sweet towards you because he knew you were innocent in the midst of batman's schemes, so it's no joke, no fucking joke how much he scares you off right now.

it scares you watching him fight others off, scared you when he shot those bullets at the man pinning you down, but you had a semblance of reassurance that it was never directed at you.

until now.

and now that you remain the spectacle of his anger, the sight of his widened, blown out eyes, his furrowed brows and clenched fists — you're so afraid, so fucking afraid he'll end up hurting you like damian, yet conscious of his actions. he looks like a painted demon before you, with clenched teeth and frazzled hair, and you feel like a dear caught in headlights — you feel another surge of tears, another wave of nausea drowning out his voice as your throat closes in on itself.

'stop, jason, please stop. you're scaring me.'

but you couldn't say the words out loud, couldn't even compose your body from quivering, fingers clenching the bedsheets in sudden instinct so hard it crumples on itself; as if it could help ground you, as if it could control the next, hurtful and loud words surging from his mouth.

as if it could cease time just so you wouldn't bear witness to his scary, monstrous rage.

"can't you see what you just did?! don't you know how— how fucking stupid and dangerous that was of you to just stand when you're still obviously HURT!? if you wanted to, you should've told me first instead of just suddenly pushing me away. what's wrong with you, huh?! what possessed you to just— JUST STAND UP AND LEAVE?!"

it's like he couldn't believe you. couldn't even make reasons why you did what you've just done. not even a tinge of comedic effect, not even any comfort laced in any word. not the jason you knew and loved, but a stranger whom you learned to call a friend, a brother that never was.

that's all he ever is, a stranger. all of them, living under the same roof as you.

and he was the same stranger who nearly fought you if not for you leaving that kitchen.

— it was the same old scoff he gave you all those months ago after talking, the same old squinted eyes and generous rage. yet this time it's enhanced with something else, something more personal, something way scarier than just being a spectator.

you always wanted to revolve around his life, but never this way.

it hurts, doesn't he know that?

doesn't he know how much his words just hurt you more than the dull ache in your abdomen? can't he see it too? how you're backing away to the corner of the bed until your back hits the headboard, despite all the pain spreading throughout your body?

if- if he cares so much about you, shouldn't he have known that— that you're sensitive to everything he just said?

bile rises up from your empty stomach, and the tears that keep surging out your eyes refuse to stop; yet it's your words run faster than your thoughts. then suddenly, all too suddenly, everything just snaps.

suddenly, your consideration for him doesn't matter anymore.

not when you never mattered to him, right?

and it feels like a part of you broke tonight.

"... what's up with you, angel?! answer me! first you're drunk off your mind when i find you out in the alleyway, bleedin' to near death, and when i try to help you before it's too late, you come begging me to not take you to the manor. did somethin' happen, huh?! why in the name of lord are you rebelling all of a sudden?! why are you fucking—"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT MY DAMN SIBLING ANYMORE, JASON!"

it just won't stop. the pain and the tears and all the words spilling from you won't stop and everything- shit, everything is spinning but you can't stop now.

it hurts. saying those eight words hurt, but it's the truth.

and the truth fucking hurts. what right should he have worrying over you? what right does he have to criticize your life now when he's only been there for you when he needs it?

"IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS ANYMORE JASON! STOP— STOP PRETENDING LIKE YOU CARE—!"

fists clench at the bedsheets bring itself up to tangle upon your matted hair, and you pull and tug and rip off the strands, biting your lips to quell the anger, the pain shooting across your scalp, your fingers stinging with every snap of the strands. shivering and trapped, and useless in fighting back; why are you like this? why does he keep watching?

you close your eyes. for what? so that all you could hear are your ragged breaths, the only thing you can hear every time you'd have reoccurring nightmares? so that you could return to that lonely child, to the lonely teenager you once were?

the lonely, scared child you still are?

'since when have you ever cared, jason? since when? since when has anybody ever cared?'

your voice trembles at the ends, you can't afford to look at him, burying yourself deeper into the mattress as if that alone can melt you until you were nothing, just so you wouldn't have to deal with this neverending heartbreak.

"stop... just please—" you bite your lips, but it does nothing to quell the overwhelming panic, the spiralling thoughts, the blazing emotions. your knees are pressed against your chest, fingers now scratching at your heated face.

until it bleeds, until it all bleeds.

you open your eyes, an array of tears come bursting off your sore eyelids, your cheeks feel considerably swollen, yet you just can't stop fucking crying. it worsens even more when your wobbly vision turn to look up at him, at his unbelievable stare, at his widened, ocean blue orbs, dull and almost unforgiving.

'this isn't the jason i knew.'

"just why, (name)? why?"  hearing your name roll off his tongue, instead of your usual nickname hurts, hearing it with such rage, contempt, like he's directing his hatred at you for something you couldn't control— god, it hurts.

"what do you mean by all this? i'm- i'm still your damn brother—" he says, as if it's a matter of fact, as if nothing between you changed the last day you saw him, as if he didn't know the reason. if he was your brother, then why does he sound so diffident, then?

why does his voice tremble? why does his care taste foreign against your tongue? why does he stand there, as if hesitant to even approach you?

"and because i am your brother... i have every right to care for you now—"

"i was never important then... so why do i matter now?"

"— what?"

"why do i matter so much now than before? how come i never deserved your care before?"

"angel, please. what the hell are you talking about—"

"JUST FUCKING ANSWER MY QUESTION, GODDAMNIT!"

all that you were, all that you ever are, was just a distraction for jason to bide his time with, weren't you? all he knew about you was that you acted as his entertainment, a quiet little kid who listens more than they ever learned to speak, who purposely read all the archived books in the manor's library, waiting every month for their favorite brother to visit. even if it was just for minutes, even if he'd leave you right after, escaping your boring rambles, because of course he'd prefer the fucking batcave over your silent, expectant, always yearning eyes.

all you ever wanted, all you ever did, was just be.

do what you thought they wanted you to be, not what you wanted yourself to be. baking because you knew they loved to raid the fridge for snacks after missions, drawing because your mother always praised your messy sketches, even if it was nothing compared to damian's now, dancing, ballet, gymnastics— going as far as trying to learn how to fight, giving up halfway through because you'll never progress with just how much you're juggling other extracurricular activities.

all that, just to be what you wanted to be for them.

even if it was never enough, even if your rare a plus', the occasional gold medals, the praise and acknowledgement from your teachers, even alfred's suggestion for bruce to just, please, take his time of the day to talk to you— all those achievements shine dully compared to your other siblings.

and you've long since accepted that it was all that you ever were. just a mere tool, ever-so-useful, yet ever-so-forgotten by all the other convenient ones.

all that you are, all that you ever were. but all that you ever wished for, was to be his child, their sibling.

but that was never possible, you've accepted that. you branched off, left and never came to look back because you knew you'll just be trudging another path of pain.

...

so why, why does he care so much now?

why, for the first time in your entire life, does it pain you more than it comforts you that he finally called himself your brother?

why, just now, does he say it to your face, when he never once did so all those years ago?

why does he pretend to be so shocked in front of you, wide-eyed and frozen, relinquished in guilt? why does he stand there, breathing, trying to compose himself as if your words ever held any weight on his chest? why can't he just understand, why can't he just let you go as easily now?

why do you still cry after all these years?

why do you still pretend that none of these... these issues mattered anymore in your heart?

why do your fingers still forcefully pierce into the mattress, grounding yourself to reality? why can't you rip your eyes away from jason?

why does his care break your heart more than it does fixing it?

you've always wanted this, didn't you? you've always wanted to be finally acknowledged, yet it still hurts. your throat still closes in on itself, like fingers clawing and constricting your airways, your breathing like jet missiles vaporizing mid air.

and yet all the pain, all the yearning and destesting for a love so passionate were still overpowered by the senseless need for answers.

'jason, why do you still try?'

"angel, calm down you're—"

on the verge of a panic attack? hands suddenly beating at your chest, tears neverending still streaking your sore cheeks and bitten, bloodied lips?

his hands reach out to grab yours, yet you slap his palms away, ignore the stinging sensation that came after; and back away to a corner. like a reckless animal, like the same young child hiding behind closet doors, biting back tears yet desperately failing.

you're both at your breaking points, you both refuse to back down this stupid game of cat and mouse.

"just calm down, please—!"

"NO, I WON'T— you don't fucking understand it, jason!

— i don't need your help, or anyone else's anymore! you have never been there for me! never been there for all the times i suffered because of your death! so don't even try to make a difference now!"

before he could even refute, before he could shout and cause another wave of panic, before he could break you even further—

"... so why do you care now?"

you couldn't even face him, too afraid to see his reactions churning. he shakily breaths, fog encapsulates the air around his parched lips. and you're reminded that it's almost winter, that your heater in your apartment is broken, that you'll be freezing underneath your thin blankets, eating off cold meals— that it's another one of those months where you're reminded of the privilege you've both lost and gained after leaving the manor.

you've lost your last connection to jason, so you thought, yet he's here in front of you now. he's here, and rather than wanting him to be here, you'd wish it was a dream instead.

you wished he never cared, for his next words stabbed you more than it did made you feel cared.

"i care, (name). because you were drunk when i got you, you were impulsively provoking the same guys who nearly killed you. because what? it's easier to escape that way?. i care because you've done something stupid, you nearly died because of your recklessness! my younger sibling did something stupid and it's my responsibility to worry over you, worry over your overdramatics! you're still fucking eighteen and you're already wasting away your life—!"

"that's why i fucking care for you, because you're my burden alone and nothing changes that!"

what...?

overdramatic? impulsive and reckless? is he serious? is that all you ever were to him? he cares because he thinks you're still that stupid, innocent child chasing after him? is that what you are? is that all you ever amounted to him after all the times you spent sleepless nights reading the books he recommended you? all the hours burning your fingers just to perfect his favorite lunch?

just that?

just a burden?

and he just stands there, so cruelly imposing, hands crossed like he's right and you're not. tears equally streak his ragged face, dripping all the way down his sharp jaws and wobbly chin. but his brows are furrowed, eyes still squinted at your body, weaker than his.

like all he feels is rage towards you, like everything's your fault.

while you're just sitting in his bed, limp and utterly unable to stand without his guidance.

and you hate this, hate being reminded that just like last time, you used to depend on him alone.

"how dare you, jason? we... i've always been so good to you... i've always done what you always wanted, i—"

this time your heart aches differently. it's not the subtle panic stinging your beating organ, not even regret shrouding your thoughts. but a painful, stabbing pain; slow and cold. your nose is clogged, your teeth rigidly grinding, the ball of your joints feel like they're pressing deeply on each other— everything just hurts.

his words feel like a knife slowly twisting inside your guts. not even the salty, warm tears feel worth crying out anymore.

it's just silent understanding, a painful acceptance.

of your pain and all those wasted summers and lonely winters.

your hands grip the headboard as you shift your weight to the uninjured side of your abdomen. you glare at him when he almost hurriedly attempts to help you, but through silent puffs of effort under your breath, you're already standing, right hand gripping nothing on the wall as you lean on it.

it still hurts, god, the burning sensation won't boil down at all.

— but you want to face him, head-to-head. you want him to face his burden. if he wants to understand you, if you want to understand him— there's no use hiding behind a semblance of comfort.

because more than anything, you just wanted a family. you just wanted to be part of their family.

yet now you've come to realize that maybe you were just a burden all along.

"it's- it's so unfair..."

your voice cracks at the seams, but there's no use composing yourself anymore. no use in trying to look decent in his eyes when all you ever were was a problem to him, to everyone else, right?

"out of all the times i nearly got killed, jason... you decided to save me by the time i accepted my death...?"

maybe your mother would've sided with jason, only for the part that she wanted you safe and sound rather than dead. but she's dead now, you wanted to be dead because it meant you'll finally have her at your side.

and it feels so cruel to be stripped away from that honor, that merciful gift of life, from the very same brother whose death caused you more turmoil than anything.

"—this isn't the first fucking time this happened to me, jason, and it wouldn't be the last."

your voice was barely a whisper, barely a recognizable tremor, but it speaks volumes of your desperation, of what could've been if he didn't intervene. of what wouldn't change despite it all.

you'll still be dead afterall. this is gotham where you're living. and you're not a priority to the vigilantes, not anybody important to the family.

even if his expression shifted to shock, even if you find an ounce of softness throughout the exterior of his fragile agitation; is it not true?

he takes a step forward, but your hands shoot out to put distance between you two. even if it pains you to see the confused heartbreak in his eyes at your refusal, you don't want him any closer, you fear you'll submit to his whims if you do.

you can taste blood in your tongue, but you swallow it all like you're swallowing all the bitterness you feel, you drown this ache in your heart, replace it with temporary assurances that this will all end, that jason's stubborn attempts of placating you is just another attempt to draw you closer, only to push you away in the end.

... and yet he's still trying even after what felt like minutes, maybe hours, stretching between you two.

jason still keeps trying, while you're close to giving up.

"why are you like this, angel? what happened between you and bruce? did he hurt you—"

"nothing happened—" you're lying, but not quite so. you're lying but it's not a lie when you mean nothing, literally nothing, happened between you and your father. that's the worse of it all, you and bruce never had a moment together, never had any memories to cherish nor times where he comforted you through the trauma of it all.

that painful reminder just makes past emotions stir within you.

of those cold nights, the barren hallways and alfred's countless excuses for bruce's absences.

"i have my personal reasons, jason." you seethe through your teeth. it hurts to admit your feelings to him, hurts that your drying tears are still overlayed by a resurgence of new ones. "it involves you guys... you and the others; but it's nothing now. it doesn't matter now and you know it..."

"... no i don't, angel. and no, it's not nothing. because if it was, then what's all of this for? what do you want from him, from me? that caused you to act this way...? to act so selfishly, trying to rebel like us when you've always been a good kid, huh? god, (name), if you just wanted his attention, to be his favorite—"

"— then there's so much better ways, angel. than being like this... being someone that isn't you."

he truly never knew you well at all, huh?

considering everything that happened tonight, you thought he did, but fuck...

hearing all those assumptions come straight from him just destroys you inside out.

"jason... please listen to me."

cutting him off, it's both an act done to just stop him from rambling any further, stops you from just— just irrationally ripping your ears apart so you wouldn't have to hear it anymore; hear all those disillusioned excuses, those painful words ripping you apart at the seams.

he looks at you, at your weak hold against the edge of the bedframe, at the hushed, shivering breathing, at your downcast, almost resigned eyes. you don't reciprocate his worried gaze, you just... don't.

"i don't want to be his favorite... i never wanted to be— fuck!"

"why do you assume all this, jason?" you faintly glared at him, but that flicker of the fight blew off, and you returned, looking at your feet, speaking through your beating heart, your irrational thoughts of shutting down, if not for the faint stench of smoke grounding you, if just by a fraction.

"i never wanted to be an athlete like dick, or as academically talented like you, or some crazed detective like tim, or as skilled as an assassin like damian! i don't even have the determination steph has or barbara's perseverance to continue fighting alongside all of you! i can't even reach cassandra's level of fighting, and i certainly don't have powers like duke!"

there it is again: the envy, the spite, and the undertone of yearning in your words. maybe jason was right, maybe you're still the young, good kid afterall. but good kids still do bad things, good kids can still feel and fuck, you feel a plethora of negativity mentioning all their positive traits, while you have none.

you have nothing, not even a small merit to offer.

"— all of you guys are so fucking talented, and here i am, so pathetic for thinking i can reach the same level as you all when i can't!"

the medals are useless compared to damian's success in topping the entire gotham university. the certificates for placing indancing competition were none the more important than cassandra's ballet recitals. your research projects that you've spent nights crying on, was it all that relevant when tim always one-ups you within just a day of data-gathering?

so what makes you special, what makes jason think you'd even try to be bruce's favorite in the first place, when you're absolutely useless?

"—so i just can't, jason! how could i have the damn audacity to desire being bruce's priority when each and every one of you are beyond my level?!"

untouched breakfast, thrown away lunch, cold dinners. thrashed out backpack, unsharpened pencils, inkless pens, wornout diaries, bandaged arms and sleepless nights. your life was a cycle of constant wanting, of constant attempts to earn your place. even if there were moments some of them looked at you in pity, it was never enough to warrant their comforting words or even just a pat in the back.

the last time dick has ever looked at you was the first time you met.

and in those moments where you wish you were as forgettable to damian as you were to others, he'll remember to always remind you of your place.

maybe you were like them, in ways where you're always trying but never enough. in ways where their attention on you was never enough too. you need something from them, they needed something else from you too.

"angel..." you don't have to look up to know the air has changed. that wretched nicnkame plastered itself back into his mouth. this time, he said it softer, like he's come to a realization, like it was enough to draw you out of the caverns of isolation you've kept yourself in.

but before he could speak again, before you'd get lost in those memories of the past—

"i never wanted to be bruce's favorite, jason..."

"i just..."

your eyes soften, as tears begin to spring from your eyes, red and swollen, and you let them. you look down at your unclenched hands through blurry vision, and find indents of crescents present on raw, battered skin— and it's enough to make you remember your childhood, enough to deepen the heavy weight of conflict drowning your heart.

when you look up to jason again, you bite your quivering lips, just to silence the ugly wail brewing from your chest. he looks at you, as equally befuddled, as heartbroken.

"... i just wanted to be his child." the sentence comes out your lips, so silent, so broken and lightly pitched. it speaks volumes of wanting, of yearning, of years begging for even a sliver of love offered on your way. it felt like it was the younger you speaking to him, begging him to fucking understand how it was never about just wanting attention—

it was about wanting to just have a family. people who should've loved you, saw you through the veil of your reputation, yet chose to love you still.

because they're family, they're your family. and all that mattered to you was family.

how hard was it to understand that sentiment?

"i just want to be loved because i'm his child, not a charity case, or because he's doing this for my mother..."

you remembered those nosy paparazzi's stalking you even in elementary. they ask you how it's like being adopted by the bruce wayne, how it's like living a life most orphaned children dreamt of living; how lucky you must be, having a mother who's come to share a bed with him, that your life must be so full of luxury because bruce took pity on you and your poor, whore of a mother, right?

they didn't know it was alfred, the estate's butler, who'd suggested adopting you. and with a flick of bruce's wrist, a slight furrow of his brows and a dismissed thought of you, you were brought in the manor.

it was never bruce who considered you, maybe the paparazzi and journalists slowly came to realize that after discovering your father is nowhere to be seen beside your side. maybe that's why they slowly dissipated away from you year by year, leaving you as lonely as ever.

'and now,' you thought, 'bruce still doesn't care for me at all.'

that hurts.

"i just want to be selfish for once... i want to see him the same way he looks at you back then, every damn time he stares at your grave, while i watch by the fucking windows, wishing it was me he looked at."

despite never meeting jason from back when he was robin, you mourned for him too, you prayed for his soul the same way you prayed for your mother's. it helped you disillusion yourself to believe you mattered, sitting beside his grave by the gardens despite the rain pouring downcast and staining your clothes. it helped you think you were becoming closer to bruce.

"i wanted him to look at me jason! think of me as someone as important as you, even just a semblance of it...!"

you tried so hard to imitate them all. dick's athleticism, cass' elegance, tim and barbara's elite-level knowledge on the digital world, duke's cunningness when it comes to puzzles, damian's strategies and steph's awe-inspiring rebellion paired with sarcasm. you try to emulate it all, waking up early every day, schedule packed with activities in each corner of the manor just so you'd have a chance of finding bruce in the same room as you; but it just never was enough.

"god, i don't even want him to see me as a priority, i don't want him to see me and think that i'm the best damn thing in the world. i know i'm not, jay. i'm not perfect, not even half as good. but i just want him to stare and think, 'this is my child,' without any second thoughts, without any regards for my dirty fucking past."

there was one moment in your life where you almost despised your mother. almost. you blamed her for birthing you, for having you as her child, for bestowing you this curse of being unloved, as only being acknowledged as the woman who stole from others: a bitch, a prostitute who got pregnant too early, a lady with a sullen reputation bleeding into the present of her child.

you nearly hated her, you wish you never did. she was your only light, the memories of her was what kept you alive, and you dim that light off, purposely try to blow off the shining embers that gleam for you just because you wanted the love and attention from a family that was never yours.

and you nearly worked yourself to death because of it.

"jason, i just wanted to... to go through the normal things a father does with his child. i wanted him to love me, even just for the tiniest bit. is that hard enough to fulfill? am i just too high maintenance for him that he can't— can't even deal with me after you died? tell me, jason—

"—am i just the burden of an aftermath?!"

a small of you nearly excused bruce's neglect for his mourning of jason. but that mourning extended even after his resurrection. and slowly, the more the members of the family piled up, you figured it all out.

it was you that's unlovable.

and no matter what, you could never truly accept that fact.

not even as you cry out your woes to jason, not even as your voice cracks and breaks at every syllable, at every spilled word tinged with bitterness, with pain so deep it cuts through your already bleeding heart.

"i just- just wanted to be part of the family. i just wanted to eat takeout with you that day- wanted to forget you fought bruce— forget everythin' just to bond with you 'cause you never gave me enough time in your already busy day. so why can't i? why can't i have the things everyone else had? is it too entitled of me to say that i just wanted your love? am i too demanding if i just wanted a family?!"

"is it so hard to love me?"

"tell me, jason! just, fucking tell me, please..."

your fingers' grip on the edge of the headboard nearly slipped, your sniffles were unbearably loud, a reflection of the thrumming beats of your heart nearly escaping out your chest in the form of shrieking sobs.

he finally speaks, unsure. he still stands in his place, but you're crying too much to even care.

"no, no of course not. it's not... you're not..."

"i'm not what, jason? not your sibling, not bruce's child? 'cause that's what i've felt like this entire fucking decade! and now that i've left everything behind, you all suddenly want to pretend like i was never unnoticed back then? that all my damn efforts to be good enough was finally acknowledged just now—?"

"why can't you just answer me, jay? why does nobody want to give me answers?"

"... why can't anybody just love me?"

it felt like heartbreak on both your sides. like a thread snapping, jason was as quick to retort—

"we do love you, angel. i do...! i love you so fucking much that i can't handle seeing you in pain. so please let me take care of you, just... just let me handle all of this, please."

— but you can't believe him, not anymore. it hurts falling for his lies, for his words and false reassurances. he can't even promise you takeout back then, what more does his 'i love you's' do you now?

"no, no you can't care for me, jason. not anymore... you're not my brother anymore, you guys aren't family to me anymore..."

is it betrayal in his eyes, or something far deeper? is it unadulterated anger at what you'd said? why can't he just accept your words? why can't he just accept there's nothing in between you anymore other than those past memories long gone?

"... yes, yes we're family. i care for you. just let me show you i do, angel—"

"... we're not even siblings, we're not. we're just strangers to each other.—"

you whisper softly through your damp lashes, throat sore after all the screaming. it doesn't calm down the momentary adrenaline rushing through your body, though. it doesn't, all these reassurances are just a temporary distraction.

"that's not true, angel. don't even... don't even think of saying that—"

"take me back, please. just please take me back to where you last found me. i'll find a way—"

you want to go home, you want to sleep your way through this pain. but jason proves himself to be stubborn, just like his father. and you are, too; anymore of those similarities, anymore and you'll bash your head to the walls just so you could forget.

"no, angel..." he retorts just as quickly, suddenly imposing, suddenly back to square one where it's all him, all his words that matter with no regard for yours. "who the hell says i'm letting you go back there?! that's suicide!"

but you don't matter, don't you? so that automatically means he shouldn't pretend like your life matters, too.

"... i don't care, just please! jason, i'm begging you...! just do this one single favor for me. i can't..."

'i can't go back to the manor...'

just saying it in your thoughts alone makes you sick with nausea. because that means returning to yearning, returning to those sick nights filled with broken diary entries and dick's huff of dismissal, damian's weapons pointed at you, tim's click of the tongue and just... that inflicted, neverending pain.

"you're hurt, angel, you won't survive out in the dark like that. i'm sure as hell not taking you back there. we're going back to the manor—"

"NO! i don't want to be there! that's not where i live, not anymore, no take me back home...!

anywhere... anywhere but there. anywhere but that wretched cage.

"please, jay!"

you call him by his nickname, nearly yanking yourself to his side if it weren't for your legs keeping

"if you don't want me to... then let me go and i'll call a taxi or something—! whatever...! just not—"

"—not there..."

"and if i bring you back to that apartment, what now? you're gonna commit the same old mistakes, you're going to hurt yourself!? you're gonna get yourself killed, break another limb, use more than just crutches to support yourself and get yourself hurt all over again?!"

"NO! i won't, jay... i won't bother you anymore. just not there and... not with them—"

"... not with you, please."

it was a mistake on your part, to audibly whisper out those last words. and yet it was unfixable, you can't take back words once they're said, jason can't take back all the cruel statements he made your way that day, and yet it's him who's offended, who tears up, who heaves and nearly shrieks at you, uncaring for the neighbors living below.

"why are you trying so hard to push us away?! push me away right after you.. you opened up?!"

"because we're not family anymore, goddamnit—!"

"why are you so goddamn stubborn?! care for me, care for me like you care for all those strangers getting mugged in the street! not as my brother—!"

"i am your brother!"

it hurts, your chest hurts, your throat, your wobbly arms and your unfeeling legs. yet what hurts the most is that you just can't accept it, accept all the words he throws your ways. can't accept how you've both changed and it...

it just hurts...

"and i care for you, more than you can ever fucking imagine, so don't... don't fucking push me away! not especially right after i almost lost you!"

"god..." suddenly, he resigns through a sigh.

why, just why, is he calming down now?

"i'm such a fucking dick to you, aren't i? i know i don't deserve you. nobody deserves you and your forgiveness, angel. you've always been so good to me- to us...

"i'm so fucking sorry. for everything. for leaving you behind after that day, even being an asshole to you after. for ignoring you all those years, for breaking every damn promise i made like you were nothing, for realizing all of this just right after you nearly died, in my arms."

his voice breaks at the last words, as if the reminder of what transpired last night permanently left a broken fixture in his memories. as if thinking about it is enough to destroy any bite in his argument.

"you don't— you don't deserve any that—"

"i'm— i'm so sorry, angel."

that was all you wanted to hear, all you wanted to be said throughout the layers of defensive, reckless statements he threw your way.

heavy were the unspoken words that hung in the air. heavy were the unbidden promises he forged himself to ensure but ultimately failed to do so, that were all meant to repair his relationship with you. heavy were the tears that streaked both your cheeks, the unsung arguments, the fists that curl, fingers that bite at indented skin until it bleeds.

"— I should've noticed sooner, i should've known you felt that way."

"i know, jay. i know," your mind, your mouth, they both betray the words your heart wished to speak, but you lock that beating organ out before it forces you to mutter something else. you feel too faint, from the tiredness coursing through your body as an aftershock of your injury, the throbbing of the holes in your body, and the intensity of your emotions.

'i know you know that, and i wished you did something about it when you knew you had the power to change all this—'

'all that were are, all that we were.'

you wanted to tell him, but the sentiment tastes bitter on the expanse of your tongue, as if confessing it would scorch you and your aching brain even further. you just couldn't anymore, you couldn't break both your hearts.

heavy were the emotions uncurling beneath both you and jason's chest, boiling and spilling, until the only words you both could mutter were the ones that scald your aching hearts.

"jason, i'm- i'm still hurt."

"i know, angel. let me take care of it, of you. just let me do this, just once."

he takes a careful stride towards you, a knot forms in your brows and in your stomach. it curls inside your body when his both his hands grip your forearms, gently, like you're made of glass, to push you to softly sit on his mattress.

made carefully, cleaned neatly for you.

you never thought you were worthy enough to have a bed made for you.

— you don't even allow alfred to clean your own room because you don't think you deserve it.

silence ensues, only the squeak of his shoes sliding against the floor, his panting breaths, your unstable intakes of air, and the hinge of his bed were heard, drowning out the swears of the citizens from below his apartment complex and the thumping of car horns.

it's just the two of you, in this room. you and jason, just like the moments spent under the roof of the manor.

you don't fight against him, don't push him away like you did so earlier, in favor of relinquishing your control, your pain, to his squinting, wandering blue eyes that trap your body, at his calloused fingers running across the expanse of the lumps in your arms.

and in that moment, under the sheer glow of his apartment's flickering lights, under the watchful gaze of the restless city nights, of the lamp posts gleaming in the streets; you both looked a little more like each other for every passing second, every passing moment after you'd scream your woes, after he'd retort and retaliate with his excuses, his reasonings.

you had his vengeful glare, staring daggers at him as he took in your wrapped wounds. he had your silence, desperate and aching pleas. you stuttered like him when he chases after words tangling in his parched mouth. he bites his lips like you when he couldn't find the right words, bounding his hands to his delicate strands of hair to pull in agitation, just like you always do.

and both of you were- were good...

a good soldier and a good child, lost in the weave of dreams, expectations and broken, unfulfilled promises.

it reminds you of how he was the only brother you truly had a bond with, of how truly close you were to him, shared moments of brief laughter with, a respite, a paradise without the need to chase after his presence, all done in such short moments, moments that could never be enough to quench your aching thirst for love and familial attention.

he finally speaks after taking his seat beside you, muscled arms wrapping around your shoulders. he broke the intangible silence, with knotted brows and sorry, pleading eyes that look at yours. it made you feel trapped, in his arms and in his mindful apologies, it reminded you of the manor.

"i could've been better for you, angel. i should've known, i'm so fuckin' sorry, i—"

"i know, jay. i know, please..."

please stop. no more, you don't want to hear anymore,. you don't want to dream, to fantasize what could've been.

— because that meant drowning yourself in the past, that meant running back to chasing after empty promises.

and yet...

the more you think, the more the possibilities unfold in your thoughts.

a bitter part of you wished it was him who had welcomed you into your home, into the manor. you wished it was him, not alfred, dick or bruce you'd chase after, wished he was alive when your fleeting dreams were too. the child in you wished his assurances were what graced you in such an early time. just so that, maybe, just maybe, your throat wouldn't close in on itself every time you're reminded of your solitary past, a past lost and without a cause because of his passing.

running after dick, acting as his invisible silhouette, hearing the empty yes's on your invitation for him to come visit your room. tugging on bruce's sleeves whilst his eyes flit elsewhere. knuckles rupturing on the door of tim's room, only to be greeted with a silent hm, and a plea for you to come the next time. hands shakily holding a heavy tray of arabic food you learnt to cook for your younger brother, just for the same bowl to scald and prick stickily against your reddening skin

— you wouldn't have to do all that, if you had at least one ally, an ally who had to be dead when you were alone. someone as perfectly imperfect as you.

he's not like dick, the sun doesn't shine for him, the world doesn't give him grace— if it did, he wouldn't have died. he felt more charcoal than diamond, jagged and rough on the edges. yet charcoal was easier to obtain than diamonds, like the bright blue's of dick staring at you - such a precious, yet rare instance - or brazen emeralds like damian that could only look at you like you're mere pyrite; his attention was easier to obtain, because he knew you outside of your ghostly reputation. saw you as something else. jason was the only presence you were able to share your laughter with in the face of his brief visits.

as you look at him now, as he looks at you too, through his panting and the neverending tears streaking his cheeks. you look at each other in painful, understanding silence. his face, shoulders, chest, legs are painted with scars, incisions on skin, the first trait your eyes lay could on, as your gaze flitters to your equally scarred figure, too.

on the cuts that run deep into your wrists and palms, on the lighter scars, the deeper pigmentation that lay awake, like a chaotic portrait, that throbs with painful reminders that unlike jason, you chose to hurt yourself to replace that pain in your cold, beating chest. but like jason, you both wear these memories painfully on your sleeves.

imperfect, sullen and easily broken, like you.

you don't know whether to cry, or to laugh. that finally, fucking finally, you could share your similarities, your flaws with someone else too.

and at this very time, you knew neither of you could win your losing battles. if you argue even further, if your heart spills anymore words you know would only cut through the tension and break into even more back and forths— jason would only retort, would call you angel as be attempts to calm you down, as if you were an still an innocent bystander to his pain, as if you never told him you wish he'd stay dead.

if you wanted to survive this wretched night without anymore heartbreaks, you'd have to be the first to back down, to step away, be the bigger person.

like how you had to choose to give up on your family, to finally let go of your expectations on them. it was the only way, it was your way of adjusting to them, as you always do.

maybe it was fortunate for jason, that you'd already easily given up.

you'd give up when he wraps you in his arms, and unceremoniously perched you up his lap like how an owner cradles his injured cat, ensuring your injuries aren't pressed against the weapons stuck in his utility belt.

for a moment, you let time with him be. you allow the course of calmness to wash over, for your tears to dry until it feels like sickeningly dry salt rubbing against skin, for the lump resting in your throat to retreat to your throbbing heart, for the blood escaping your body from your injury to slowly seep into the gauze that wraps around it.

without the adrenaline coursing through your veins, without the haste of trying to escape from his hold, you've now access to the feel of his entire body. when the panic escapes from your heart, and all you're left with is resignation, his muscled arms wrapped around your torso; you're left reeling at the scent of motor oil and gunpowder, head buried at the crook of his neck whilst your tears are drying ever so slowly, effuse into his favorite jacket.

everything about jason felt foreign, uncharacteristically huge. his body felt too strong, too heavy, like a burden deeper than just vigilante duties of ridding the crime of gotham.

you never knew just how touch-starved you were, ignoring the specks of blood littering his clothes and the familiar scent of cigarettes reminding you of the bustling streets of gotham, even though the stench of ichor overpowers it— you feel like you're home. not at the manor which smells of fresh, flowery sheets, not at your empty apartment polluted with car smoke just wafting outside your windows; but a home you've once lived in, with just your mother and you.

it was just so fucked up, how he could easily subdue the anxiety eating you away. it was so ironic, how in an apartment filled with deadly weapons: guns, knives, bombs, and journals containing contingency plans against all his enemies; it is where you felt currently the safest, as you're reminded of your past; your humdrum life with your mother.

back when everything was normal, back when all your worries were about the chances of having dinner that night, or hoping that your new clothes wouldn't tear as much so your beloved mom wouldn't have to spend wretched hours stealing just to provide you with all your wants and needs.

it never occurred within your mind, just how similarly you lived like jason. and in jason's thoughts, he realized how much you could've ended like him if he hadn't protected you this very night. if he hadn't heard the family pitch of your scream, a scream engraved deep into his memories, a haunting record that plays nightly as he's reminded that he was the reason why you had terror shocks from the shadows in the corner of your eyes.

he hated that he made you scream as a child, that he was the stuff of your nightmares, but he despised it even more when it had to be the others tormenting his little sibling.

it was enough to make his blood curdle, the sight of those filthy men touching, pinning and kicking, shoving a gun against the head of the person most important to him, puncturing holes into their body. he takes in a shaky gulp, yet he hums - pretending like he isn't truly bothered. he can't let you worry anymore - when your fingers listlessly play with the hems of his jacket.

'they're dead, jason. don't even think of doing what you have to do.'

the palm that rests on the back of your torso digs deeper at the thought of you wriggling in pain, not enough to hurt, but enough to tell you that whatever jason is thinking right now isn't good, your ears taking notice hearing the hastening thrum of his heart, even when his body is slumped against yours, you could still feel the slight shivers trailing across his body.

yet you only bury yourself deeper into him, closed eyes dry with tears and nuzzling at warmth you knew you'll soon never be able to feel again, from a brother who was too late to take you back. his right palm, big against your head, nearly covering the expanse of your scalp, scratches and guides you to properly lean on the blades of his shoulder. you don't see his expressions, you don't know if all the comforting he's doing, all the love he's offering you right now is authentic, or just out of mere obligation as your older brother, but you're grateful either way...

entirely grateful that you'd at least be feeling what it's like to be cuddled by one of your ex-family members, before you ultimately make a quick escape from gotham. you're so grateful that despite everything, at least now, the tiny little part of you, the innocence long gone, would rejoice at their life-long dream at finally being able to coddle with just one family member.

past you would've ranted about this in your journal, would've jumped in joy, run across the manor, and thank the world for blessing you with such a miracle. you wouldn't even care if damian shoved a nasty glare in your way.

even if temporary, even if a small, unyielding part of you wishes that you could stay like this forever; the stronger version of you, the one that learned to mature, to forgive yet never forget— it is the voice of reason amongst a sea of conflicting emotions. it tells you that you've moved on a long time ago, that whatever this is right now, will have you force to let go.

and even if younger you begged that it is unfair, that this is what they've always wanted in their life, for someone to acknowledge them as much as they've loved the family even without reciprocation; you've long since given up at hoping. your heart is weary, and tired of constantly being led to believe, only to come back broken in pieces all the damn time. you're older now, old enough to learn that, well...

everything is temporary in life. the comfort your family offered you was always temporary. jason, who succumbs to burying his head in your scalp to hum foreign tunes— he'll soon be just a burning memory, yet at least you'll be left with something positive to say about him.

after all, their love for you happens in quick successions, it wasn't all the time you were ignored, but chasing after it when it had already become mere dust before you could catch it with your clawing hands.

dick had shown you a crumb of his love, back when he first introduced you to his room. hell, even bruce was decent enough to transfer you out of school, even if it was out of mere dismissiveness and to keep a reputation, he showed he cared for a child, even if it was never enough.

and now?

'now, jason will forget about me soon enough,' you tell yourself.

just like the times you stumbled upon steph and pushed yourself to be invited to watch a movie with her, only to be rejected and given her side of popcorn as compensation and an awkward grin promising that she'll find a time in her schedule to spend with you. waiting for months for an update proved fruitless, writing praises in your journal, all about her silky blonde hair, and her lighthearted smiles don't do anything to manifest time well-spent with someone you thought would at least put in effort to be with you. she was similar to you in so many ways, how she felt dismissed by the family, and never enough for them— but the sheer difference that places you both in different lanes is the fact that she was at least loved, that she still had people care for her outside her status of spoiler. people loved stephanie brown, because she was at least unique, she was noticeable with her ironic jokes and love for purple.

you still had nothing to offer.

it's like the silent moments you were able to cherish when you could last for more than five minutes in the room with damian, his emerald eyes petting titus and alfred the cat, as you sit in the far corner watching how softly, how precious like treasured gems, he treats them. he doesn't fight you, doesn't bat at eye, but witnessing the young assassin, your little brother, become a kid, watching him paint in your memories without his scowled growl directed at you, or a knife pointed on your body; it made you feel like they do have a semblance of love, of care, only for those who deserved.

you only deserve care when you prove yourself to be capable enough.

hell, despite you knowing the least about duke, watching him play with his powers against bruce's orders was what made your bleak life a bit more interesting. having to save him from nearly dying, from fainting due to the overuse of his metahuman abilities when he was still new to being signal. being the faint silhouette he sees throughout the white light in his vision, the quivering, desperate voice who assures him he'll be alive, he'll be fine; you don't know if he remembers it, if the young boy could even recall how your eyes lit up, how your chest felt lighter when his scarred palms came to cup your shivering ones to keep you from ripping at your hair—

your point proves, chasing after them amounts to nothing. you could only be a witness, a bystander if you want to relish in their shared memories, but never part of their small community. you'll never be able to know what's it like having inside jokes with them, to share your homemade meals with them, to show old albums of your life as a child before being adopted. you just can't.

even the prospect of being married, of having them help you arrange your marriage becomes mere fantasy.

everything you ever hoped to spend with them is fantasy, an unattainable desire. you should've known from the start.

to them, to you, to everybody you lived with under the same, gothic roof of a manor rich with history still unknown to an outsider like you— you are but a mere stranger. there at the wrong place, in all the wrong times.

maybe that is what jason felt after his untimely death, that he does not belong anymore. maybe he felt like an intruder instead, just like you, with how he felt replaced by tim, how the legacy of robin lives on even after his passing. how he felt like a cheap rebound of dick after years of searching for answers, or how he never truly mattered to bruce—

— but at least he still has a place in their heart. despite only knowing him after his resurrection, you've come to love him too, and learned to let go at the same time.

you hope jason understands why you're so unwilling for him to help return you to the manor. you hope he doesn't question why you chose to live in your apartment, you hope that if he does find out the reason, he'll shut up about it.

you wish that jason understands, even as you felt well-rested enough on his muscled shoulders, head slowly, eyes blinking away the drowsiness washing over you, rising even if the arms that hover over your scalp invites you to sleep instead.

you're stronger now, not physically, but you willed yourself to force your eyes to stare back at him. his lidded, dull blue oned unlike dick's, and it doesn't look like the ocean eyes you find yourself drowning in staring at bruce's whenever you watch him across the television during his interviews. it was a blue similar to the sea at night, tranquil shores that caresses the soles of your feet standing on sand. there was no shine in them, it was a symbolic retelling of his death, gazing into them, at the depths of emotions swimming in those orbs alone, you feel a sense of ease when they soften, when they give way for you to stare for as long as you want.

although you were sitting atop his lap, looking down at him, his gaze made you feel little. like you were a child all over again. both of his hands are now resting on your waist to stabilize you. you couldn't reason the sudden protectiveness, the unwillingness to let you go, but your mouth opens before you could think, yet jason beats you to it, spilling words you thought he was incapable of admitting — breaking the peaceful silence once more with the significant tremor, the apologies laced in his words— with all the years he spent looking at you in contempt before he resigned to casual, yet fleeting conversations with you back at the manor.

"you know, angel...? i'm so sorry for everything. i really mean it... for all the times i was blind to you wishing you could've spent time with me. and i was so stupid, rejecting you, hurtin' you all those years thinking bruce was out there favoring you when it's the opposite... I didn't know he didn't even care for you. i know you won't be able to forgive me, or them, i know it took me long enough to forgive bruce too. but it's different now, 'kay? i'll be different, angel. i'll protect you from now on, in your, what? your little apartment, right? i don't mind scouting the entire area for you even if it means you're on the other side of the city. all for you, i promise."

"all for you."

he speaks in a careful manner, choosing his words and flinching - the scar on his lip stretches, it reminds you of the one on your neck - when he feels it doesn't rightfully get the message across. you can feel it, feel how every sentence is wired with regret, heavy promises, and an unspoken desperation to keep you close to him, as if- as if he actually cares for you—

you blink, vision blurry as you catch sight of a stray tear running down your damp chest. your nose clogs once more, tongue licking at your chapped lips. jason, he- he takes your fingers before it ventures to tangle upon your hair, he hushes the tight wail escaping your throat as he cradles your body, other palm nuzzling into your sensitive scalp.

are you crying again? at what he'd said?

why are you so broken, that the prospect of somebody once full of disinterest towards you, now cares for you?

and for what is he doing this for, though? all for you? he apologized, exactly like dick, with the same foreboding assurance. is it to repair, to mend a broken relationship that was never there?

"y-you don't have to anymore, jay— i just- just wanted to—"

'i just want to make peace with you before i'll be gone from your life, before you could even fulfill your promises. you don't have to be chained with someone like me for the rest of your life anymore.'

thankfully, he hums at you, interrupting your growing stutters, at the thought that noisily seeps into your head. you hiccuped in reply, drowning out the shivers jolting across your body. if not for his hands still digging at your waist, you swore the dizziness of it all could've made you stumble across the floor.

but, you can't just stay silent about this. about all the shit that happened in your life. not when he's promising you something so burdening, not when he thinks he has a chance of making it up to you.

no, you can't just let them push at you anymore.

you whisper through your inconsolable stutters, eyes drifting down to your lap, at your hands that scratch at raw scars, "i don't blame you, jason. it never really came across to me to hate you for, you know- it's not- you're not the only reason that he neglected me—"

"shh, i know, angel. i know. but that doesn't change shit 'bout how he— we treated you, does it not?"

you shake your head, downcast gaze refusing to look at his troubled one. if you do, you might just surrender to the softness, to the child-like whispers at the back of your mind saying you wanted this.

"w-well you can't change anything about it now... and i hated you still back then, for different reasons. i hope, i hope that you know that, too..." your voice cracks at the seams, "i- i'm still hurt from everything, jason—"  he shushes you again, fingers brushing away at your stray hairs sticking to your damp cheeks. his palms were huge as it cups your face, emitting a comforting warmth against the jagged surface, a heat that makes you slowly, but unsurely melt.

— you never had this brotherly love in your whole life before, never felt comforted in the hands of who was once your tormentor.

"i know you're hurt. i know you're in so much pain because of us— of me, so let me take care of it from now on, 'kay...?"

he whispers, hushed voice a gentle tremor lulling you to near sleep. but you can't just return to this uncharacteristic softness, not now. your eyes, almost squinting shut, snap open to look back at him hesitatingly.

"no, you don't have to do this, jason... i told you," you hesitate, gulping. "we're not– we're not siblings anymore. you don't have to do all this for me... you're not obligated to, unlike last time."

you can feel it, his shoulders squaring in on itself, the subtle tension returning in his muscles, as if his arms were ready to trap you in his gentle hold, restricting you for further escaping.

"... nonsense, angel. take that back— i am doing this all for you."

his voice was always tinged with gruffness, rarely any softness in the way his words were said with finality. sometimes mocking, sometimes spiteful. for a crime lord, it was imperative to always be the supreme voice, a voice of reason.

... but this time, it seems, there's a childish softness, a despondency, laced in his reply. like him, though, your resolve to leave his apartment was as solid as his promise to keep you to stay.

"no, jason, you're doing this all for your guilt... not- not out of pure hearted intentions, aren't you...? just to prove that you're right and- and you're better than the entire family. and then you'll forget about me afterwards—"

you crack at the seams.

"this will be just like all the other times..."

you ignore how his fingers dig deeper into the plush softness of your waist, how it feels like he's staring right past you, mind drifting to another plane of existence at what you'd said.

yet you continue.

"— so please, leave me alone after this...?

after all, what's the point in considering their emotions anymore, when they've never done so for yours?

a silence you couldn't swallow, strangling at the chords in your throat. it feels like a bucket of cold water had washed over the once comfortable silence he'd bask in.

"... please, jay?" your heartbeat spikes at calling him by his once beloved nickname. the one you used to lovingly mutter under your breath, shyly taking his attention from back when you were a child, a subconscious manipulative tactic.

you always called him out with that title, a wide-eyed plea, with what felt like butterflies spinning in your tongue inviting him to linger for just a few minutes with you, just so he could spare some time reading a paragraph of your favorite classic book—

— it was a nickname that fell astray, turned into a flickering memory, after your relationship with him slowly strained. after every month, little by little, you saw him less. until you were a teenager, until he felt his business were with your other siblings instead, his priority on his and their vigilante lives— like the unbidden promises he kept from you, the nickname fell short, turned stranger in your eyes like the man you're seated atop on.

your lips feel dry, your sweat clings to your dampened shirt, and jason.

god, jason's hands enclose itself on your waist, heavy head dropping to your shoulders. you can smell it, his conditioner and a heady scent of cigarettes. his hair tickles the underside of your chin, you don't know whether to laugh or to cry when he takes his space in the corner of your neck, inhaling and exhaling deeply— the heat of his breath hits your skin, it feels too warm, a stark contrast to the shivers overtaking your body.

he heaves in a breath, you can't see his face from below, can't make it out if he's laughing or groaning or what. you can't wrought his head out, he's stronger than you.

momentary panic ensues, you fear he might've disagreed, that he might end up locking you up but—

"huh..." his gruff voice returns, a deeper tremor laced with confusing you'd expect a frigid reply, a desperate plea, maybe even a familiar anger bursting right out of him

"with you calling me that," he whispers on the crook of your neck, head burying far deeper as if- as if he wants his skin to fuse with yours. the depth in his words felt utterly abysmal when he referred to his nickname.

a little more, and you swear you might feel his teeth grazing your flesh. at that, goosebumps start to trail your entire body, your teeth aches with unbidden agitation.

you can't, you can't fall into hopeless respite.

he continues with his little monologue. you're too breathless, shallow air fills your lungs at every word he punches your way, clinging, burrowing deep into your mind, with every touch pinning you in place—

"how could i argue against you now, angel...? not when you sound like the little kid i met back then."

a scoff, laced with amusement, erupted from him. you can feel the vibrations on his adam's apple, you witness the thoughts churning in his mind, the subtle reminiscing in the silence that clings onto both your memories.

a sense of nostalgia washes over you —at the night you both meet, of the gentle giant sneaking past gothic windows and his reaction to being caught, at your excitement to make a new companion— but bitter resentment claws its way faster into your thoughts.

how could he pretend like everything's fine? how could he act like he didn't break your heart when you first saw him?

"but still, i'm serious about the change, for you, just you. anythin' you want, angel, anything—"

a small part of you hates him still, despises the entire family for what they did; what they caused.

how could he have the audacity to think he has a chance at your life? to assume he deserves one? right after- after destroying all your hopes?

he's right, though,. he remembers those memories from when you were a kid. a kid, but not anymore. you're not the little child who looks up to him, to dick, to bruce— who kisses at the soles of their feet, who acts as their shadow chasing after them.

'how dare you, jason...'

you don't know what overcame you, what monstrous being possessed your soul to spitefully reply all of a sudden. maybe it was bitter anger, the past resentment, an urge— a subtle defiance that wishes to torment them like how they did you.

maybe it was the broken remnants of your child that just wants assurance, or the mature teenager in you that wants to move on, to have a new lease on life.

but, either way. it's the words that need to be said that matters, and not the reaction, the unneeded outcomes from the same people who hurt you.

you had to grow past everything, had to take the first steps if you truly wish to let go, rather than run away from the past with no final message.

they say indifference is the opposite of love, not hate. and if you want your tormentors to feel what they've done to you, to know what it's like to be met with spiritless replies, empty promises and hallways, broken hearts and cold dinners— you had to beat them with oppressive silence; a loveless nothingness.

"jay," you call out to him, interrupting his shameless rambles.

"please promise me..." at the sudden shift in your voice, your soft tone, he wretches himself away from you, albeit slowly; looking you straight in the eyes.

there was naught a sudden flicker of absolute firmness in your eyes, but a quiet resolve that demanded finality, a silent plea opposite to the screaming that ensued just an hour ago.

'be the bigger person, (name).'

'because you are not a wayne anymore—

you are your mother's child.'

and she's kind, but assertive. gracious, but cunning. you see an imagery of bruce in your reflection, your passions in dick, your trauma in jason— so many similarities, so many stark contrasts.

but ultimately, you came from her.

you can sense it, the intangible shift in the air, the curious, yet hesitant flicker in his eyes.

you lick your lips, the tinge of blood grounds you in spite of the hastening of your heartbeats.

"look, okay... promise me this—"

a deep inhale, a quivering exhale. and for once, you control the tears brimming in your eyelids.

he nods, urging you to continue.

the knot on your chest only tightens, strangling you until it feels no words could escape your mouth. yet they're mere paranoia, you can't afford fear no more.

"i... i want you to forget about me after this. promise me, jason, to treat this night like all the other nights you pretended i didn't exist. that you love your family but not me, because i am not family. treat me like you despised me because i was your terrible replacement, i could never amount to you and that's all fine with me... let's leave all this behind and- and return back to our normal lives, alright...? where i'm nobody to you, and you're just a stranger to me... "

even your resolve tasted foreign on your tongue, as your eyes suddenly dart everywhere but at his breathless reactions.

"you don't— don't have to dwell on the past anymore."

'come on, (name). don't hesitate anymore. this is your future speaking for you.'

your guts twists in on itself, everything's spinning, your heart feels like it's running a mile. but you force yourself to smile at him despite the energy draining from your body, despite how you had to watch the color wash away from his face, feel how his hands dig into your skin, watch the frustated furrow of his brow—

you smile a shaky smile, grin a final grin, clasp his vulnerable, and equally conflicted face in your scarred hands, and finally let another wave of tears erupt from your eyes.

"can you do that for me, jason?"

"..."

"— alright..."

let the cinema's curtains finally close, let there be no more acts, no more formalities to happen between you two.

let this all be a fleeting memory. just like those past thirteen years and a half: let it be buried in a treasure chest you'll never visit.

his silence acts as resignation, your hands letting go of his cupped face, to carefully bring you down from his loosening hold, as you wince at the pain still throbbing in your wrapped scar; it shall symbolize a final message of goodbye.

the unspoken agreement to move, the cushion of his red helmet brushing on his hair as he puts it on, the jingles of his motor keys in the pockets of his heavy pants, the creak of the door as he opens it, slow and unsure, the stench of your blood still lingering in the air, the uncomfortable solace as he props your hands up his shoulders to lean your body weight against him before he brings a crutch to your armpit. the gruff that came after as his hands stabilized you, for you to properly walk with the newly armed crutches beside his company—

it provides at least a grounding notion for the thoughts spiraling in your mind. the drowned thumps of the wood stumbling on the carpet, the moonlight spilling out the cracks of the hallway's windows, the faint rumbling of the city streets as passing cars honk at the traffic,  the ding of the elevator, the anything of everything.

but him.

focusing on anything else, it at least helps distract you from his heavy gaze, from jason's prying arms ready to capture you, trap you in his apartment, the moment you show slight faintness, any hesitant stumble in your steps, any wincing sound at the pressure in your joints; his overprotectiveness still at an all-time high despite the promise you proposed that he had to pretended to upkeep for you.

when you were finally propped on to his huge motorcycle, a few mishaps being met in your way when he handled you too tight, so daintily as if you're made of fine porcelain, as if he were afraid to let go — crutches graciously placed in the space between his seat and yours — and when you hear the engine's gas revving up, but no jason making a brief quip, a comedic joke only he could understand which you laugh at still...

... only one thing was for certain despite the millions of ideas racing in your mind from his quiet reaction.

'let him bring me home, give him space, and let him forget about all this in the end.'

let the past be a dream.

and you shall only hope that everything that comes after this, will also be just another dream.

after all, he had only agreed to let you go home - for now, just now... - but hadn't truly promised to leave you alone, not at all, never.

and maybe, just maybe, you should've never trusted his words at all.

it was all that it is, all that it was.

a mere device for tactical missions.

the intercom linked directly to the batcave was just a device used to communicate with the family in the rare instances he chose to pair up with them in case jason learned his current tactics required more than a helping hand, but rather companionship in the midst of completing tasks.

its usefulness was only for practicality.

and it was just that, a tool for the greater good, yet easily discarded after he gained what he wanted.

when you left him, crutches in hand, back turned as your body fades in on the distance, he realizes that even thought it was his pride that he knew you the longest - now even bearing your deepest, most personal issues that just makes letting you (temporarily) go hurt his heart - he had only ever used you for his entertainment, not even an apology nor a confrontation was made to confess to you of his past sins towards you.

he's such a shitty brother, isn't he?

all that it is, all it ever was.

and yet as the polluted breeze of gotham flutters through his hair, the night sky still gleaming over the horizon of long standing, abandoned buildings camouflaged amongst shitty, barely functioning apartment complexes - where he knows are one of the current places you live in - he willed himself to comb them back, especially the stubborn strands sticking near his ears. in his hands, he holds an intangible device.

the same old, rickety intercoms.

just like old times.

so he presses the tiny button used to trigger direct calls, and shoves it deep into his ears, a perfect fit as every device was crafted to each individual working for the batman. you're the only member of the family to never adopt the vigilante life, he's glad you never did, but at the same time... it was what what you apart from everybody else.

everything just reminds him of how much you're worlds apart from the family. everything just pushes him to change that current position of yours; to make you know you matter more than you ever know.

"... ah, young master jason, you're back," alfred's contemplating voice buzzes through the call. no hint of surprise was evident in his tone, but rather a welcoming quip at his current rebellion towards jason. "i suppose you might require some assistance if you're calling then, right?"

'yes,' he might've said, stalling, but it's not as simple just as money heist problems or an issue regarding the resurgence of new kryptonite deposits— no.

jason doesn't want that. he doesn't want to waste anymore time, not with making jokes or pretending like the topic at hand was just a joke.  not when the matter precedes mere missions or a tendency to prank bruce, not when it's his angel who he refuses to truly let go of.

not when your life is at stake living in a completely foreign part of gotham. not when you nearly died, and if he wasn't a lick away from saving you, you'd end up like him.

but with nobody to mourn you.

"we need to talk about (name)."

and then like a thread snapping, he hears gasps from a distance, beyond the device's speaker registering. he hears hushed whispers, stephanie's feminine voice cutting through the tension, but no sarcasticness, no quips from duke, not even cass' occasional question. despite only hearing a fraction of the batcave's echoes, he feels like a witness to the tension rising, even he feels his shoulders squaring up. like a spectacle to behold, like time frozen in the hands of fate itself.

gotham wasn't always this silent, but the space between jason and your world felt like mountains apart that it just destroys any caution jason feels at the current moment; all in the name of this... this urge to feel your head resting in his shoulders once more, your arms wrapped tightly around his, safe and sound.

"tell me what happened."

it wasn't alfred's voice this time that cuts off the ever-so confusing thread, the dangerous thoughts swimming in jason's head. a deep tremor, laced with an undertone of desperation, is heard through the silent murmers of the intercoms. he couldn't see it, but he could picture the haste, the emergence of the bat to be the very

and yet all was said in a tone so different, so completely foreign to jason.

it wasn't as commanding, as opposing as what he's used to. it wasn't his voice that he uses towards criminals, it wasn't the vibrato used to interrogate criminals, let alone scold his vigilante partners.

... something completely different, yet easy to catch on.

it was batman through the call, yes, yet not quite so.

no.

it was bruce wayne asking, it was a father who hides his worry through a veil of composure. yet jason knows him, knows him enough to know that he, bruce, knows of your disappearance all too suddenly. knows that that the entire family might've finally come through their senses like he did.

"jason... did you... did something happen?" dick's voice, laced with audible shivers. jason had to do a double take at the noticeable shift in his behavior, at how... wrecked his eldest brother asked. but despite it all, it seems like he catched on as easily, at the sudden convenience, of what might implied jason's impulsive decision to call them at such a dire moment.

— that's why his next question doesn't come off as shock.

"you didn't possibly... meet them, didn't you?" it's like the athlete couldn't believe the words escaping his mouth, yet jason could feel it, the charged air, the shift of movement, as dick's mouth presses uncomfortably close to the speakers.

"tell me, did you... find them?"

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 20,490+ words. no beta, we die like the reader's love for the family. anyways, wow, this was the hardest scene of all to write. so many dialogues compacted into one scene alone. because of all my hard work, revisions and even rewrites 😭 i demand you all to comment and interact with me because i am NOT wasting all this effort for only like a few comments. that's all i ever ask for actually <333 anyways, the jason and mc parallels are still prevalent, but i'd also like for all you guys to take note of the miscommunication trope that i did. like the reader who's so broken to the point they can't comprehent that people are capable of loving them, and jason who can't property communicate how much he cares for you, stumbling over all his words and saying all the wrong things wow. very much me and my siblings' dynamics to one another. we love doomed siblings trope!!!

yes, again, i am begging for you guys to interact with this post, and avoid on hate comments, please. i've already dealt w/ enough anons but oh well, that's unavoidable huh. happy late valentines day, btw! and please do remember to not directly steal parts of my work. now to check if you guys actually read the author's notes: what is your favorite line/quote/literally anything in this chapter? again, despite its shitty quality, i put a lot of time and effort into the creation of this. this is not just a fanfic for me, but something very personal. again, don't forget to interact and give inputs, thank you all for being so patient and waiting for this!

taglist: @neerathebrightstar , @ghostdoodlen , @prince-nikko , @daisy-spot , @strawberryglass , @h0neybun-was-here , @confused-they , @weirdcore-fantasy , @mystyque234 , @marssthings , @notwhoy0uthink , @aliengutzstuff , @lilyalone , @luffyadolover , @bunbunsonny, @lazyemmy , @questionthegrapevine , @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu , @winter-world , @budijojo , @budijojo , @altruisticbeauty , @dopepursebasketballplaid , @the-holy-pigeon , @red-phantom-0 , @em-draws14 , @thypplover , @cens0r3d-blog , @yl90 , @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch , @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo , @flyingpansaurus , @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog , @rogueofbullshit , @earlqurl , @dotomuses , @sheep-from-rad , @tsuniio , @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o , @radiantharry , @iwasveronica , @kdjhubby , @ashstwin , @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2 , @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink

[wonysugar]

g!p sugar mommy giselle🫦🫦🫦

g!p.... sugar mommy...... giselle..... ANON. holds you by the neck dearly thank you for this. also! it’s barely even mentioned at all but just know giselle is like 37ish and reader is in her mid-twenties. :]

cw : age-gap!

giselle as the sugar mommy you randomly met on your day to day minimum wage job at a fast food place MHMMM LET ME COOKKK..... having her be a regular who always comes in like once a week, always wearing something super fancy.. like a black prada trenchcoat or sometimes even a dolce & gabbana blazer. point is, she immediately stuck out like a sore thumb among the rest of the crowd.

plus, you found her undeniably gorgeous as soon as you laid eyes on her, so it's not like she'd go unnoticed otherwise, either.

she often approached you at the register and made small talk, as stupid as it often was. she'd find some stupid excuse not to use the self checkout machine and would find a lame conversation starter while you're watching her pull out a dior purse, proceeding with the payment of her order. that often lead to you asking her questions of your own.

"why do you eat here? you look like you have other.... better places to be eating at."

she'd chuckle at your words, finding them amusing, before answering in a gentle tone, "trust me, i do. my niece doesn't seem to think the same way i do, however, as she seems to really like this place. i appear to be the only one indulging her."

soon enough, you'd warm up to her with each visit of hers and the conversations would get much, much longer. so much so that, often times, your manager would have to step in and remind you to get back to work prompty. it got annoying quickly, as the conversations were just getting good; chatting about studies, travel plans, ambitions and goals, etc.

so, wanting to have these incredibly interesting exchanges in a more comfortable and relaxed setting, aeri asked for your number.

naturally.

who cares that she was like, ten years older than you. it wouldn’t hurt to make a friend… right?

numerous nights of friendly-texting-turned-flirty later, you two quickly agreed on a set date and location, which turned out to be a friday evening spent in the very expensive restaurant right across the block from your workplace. it was a date! she informed you to come in 'appropriate' attire, whatever that meant. how would you know? your closet consisted of hoodies, sweaters and some t-shirts as well as your work uniform. that being said, you showed up to the date wearing a low cute dark blue dress you found laying around in the darkest depths of your drawer for probably more than seven years. saying you were nervous would be nothing but a huge understatement.

she, on the other hand, came wearing a creamy white turtleneck under the black trench-coat she was usually seen wearing when ordering food at your job, the look topped off by wide legged black pants and really expensive looking black leather heels.

what the fuck are you doing.

getting cold feet, you nervously sat down at the table and bowed your head in her direction. intimidated by the light yet impacting amount of makeup she had on her face, you avoided eye contact as much as possible. she was breathtaking.

she told you to choose whatever you’d like on the menu and to not look at the price, as she insisted you not to worry at all about the bill. you, of course, felt guilty so you proceeded to pick the least expensive thing on the menu and attempted to convince her that you genuinely loved the dish, hence why you’d pick it among everything else.

who were you kidding though, you couldn’t even pronounce whatever fuckass french name it was that you picked to the waiter. she smiled at you as you finished ordering, making you turn red in embarrassment.

“you know y/n, i couldn’t bring myself to mention it in a place as unflattering as your workplace, no offence,” she started as you shook off the statement, practically agreeing with her before she continued, “but i must say that i think you are absolutely adorable.”

it gets to a point. and at this point you’re just short-circuiting at her words and intense eye contact, finding it difficult to even act properly in front of her!

she noticed that, of course, especially in times during the conversation where she called you endearing names such as “darling”, “love” and “honey”.

that wasn’t much different in bed, either.

as it turns out, you really did want her to fuck you at the end of the night! honestly, how could you not when she’d been opening every single door for you, insisting on paying for the entirety of the bill at the restaurant and offering to drive you home despite it only being a 10 minute walk?

she’d done nothing but drive you crazy all evening with her sexy and gentle manners, it’s only natural you gave her a sloppy handjob whilst she drove her grey lexus lx back to her own house with the pure intention of fucking the shit out of you.

…and she did! very well, at that!

two of her fingers deep into you, she circled your clit with her thumb and left gentle kisses on your jaw down to your collarbone. slow and steady pumps of the digits, she thrived in hearing your soft whimpers.

that didn’t last long, however. she was getting impatient, and her dick was aching to feel you.

ass up face down, you’re getting pounded relentlessly into the mattress before you know it. getting treated like nothing but a queen all night only to be later fucked like a depraved slut… it had to be the best thing you’d ever felt in a while. of course, you let her know of that with guttural moans that left your body with each thrust of her cock. she didn’t care, her house was big enough to muffle your screams, after all.

she whispered obscenities into your ear whilst you did so, gripping a fistful of your hair and humming at each sound that came out of your mouth. talking about how tight your cunt was for her, about how good it felt, how she couldn’t wait to use it every other day, about how she would kill to take care of a pretty little thing like you.

gripping onto your sides and ramming into you shamelessly as she drove you to your climax, you bit your lip until you felt like it was bleeding. her breathier heavier and each of her moans slightly higher than the previous, you both orgasmed together, a wave of euphoria washing over the two of you immediately.

oh and, you know what she said about ‘taking care of a pretty little thing like you?’ yeah, she meant every word.

soon enough, she’s taking you on dates every other weekend, referring you to a slightly better paying, less agonizing job thanks to the connections she possesses, sending you excessive amounts of money she labels as your ‘monthly allowance’ and overall spoiling you with whatever your heart desires. hell. she even payed your university tuition! she finds it endearing to see you always so shy and embarrassed to accept the money she gives you; you always go on about how ‘you don’t give her anything back’ and how it isn’t fair.

but to her, you do give back. your happiness and joy is what aeri does it for, and you give her great amounts of that. not only that, but you also give back by whoring yourself out and looking pretty for her. giving her unwarranted boners by sending her risky pictures and videos while she’s at work, having you wear the lingerie she buys you, knowing you use the toys she got you whenever she’s too busy to take care of you, etc. aeri could name nothing better than having you be the beautiful doll she gets to play with every now and then. :]

[yandere-sins]

Yan-Poll #32

It only took a few months, but you were finally free.

Gripping the reigns of the stead galloping beneath you tighter, you couldn't hold back the tears as you realized it. Realized that you finally did it. The road leading to your escape had been cut off so many times. So many people put stones in your way and built walls you had to escape. But finally—finally—you were rid of them.

No more sitting quietly on a throne too big for a province noble like you. No more watching your husband behead his own officials because they looked at you. A shuddering breath escaped you as you realized you wouldn't wake up to his piercing red eyes watching you sleep anymore or to the unwelcome touch of his hands that always felt like they were blood-soaked.

You would no longer be a doll he could admire. He could disgrace in front of his court as if you wouldn't suffer from the shame and embarrassment his actions brought over you. Undoubtedly, he loved you, but this love was not the one your maid read you stories about as a child. It was crushing to your soul, poisoning your very being until you were only a shell of your former self.

But no longer.

As long as you kept riding, you'd get away from him. And once your horse could no longer run, you simply had to walk on your own—as you would from now on. Being a runaway beggar would be better than being the spouse of a mad king, no matter what you had to do. You'd live quietly as a mouse, far away from the golden cage that was his castle, and live by your own free will only.

Tearing through the forest, your surroundings melted into each other. Green, brown, black, it was all the same as you let the horse choose the way. It didn't matter where it went as long as it didn't take you back. There was no place you called home, not the one you grew up in nor the one you married into. So anywhere was fine, absolutely anywhere.

You would have taken the pest-ridden bed of a woodsman over any soft, silken mattress. Over the shackles that bound you to it and the king that suffocated you in the countless pillows. And now that you got away, you'd take what you could get, never judging it like you had been judged from morning to night by everyone who scrutinized your status as you were forced into this marriage.

And with your newfound euphoria, you galloped on, feeling always a step ahead of him. Anyone, really, but especially him. The king was cruel, ruthless, cold. Not to you... not always. He held you your whole wedding long when you couldn't stop crying from fear. He got rid of those who mocked you openly. He listened when you told him about yourself and gave you whatever you desired. Certainly, he had his bad days. The ones where he was angry at the world, and you were the comfort he needed. Or those where he was too proud of owning you, so he forced you to do things you didn't want. He might have been the king, but he shouldn't have done everything he desired—at least not to you.

Perhaps that's why your fall hit your head so much harder. The horse he gifted you, a beautiful stead, neighing as it crashed to the ground. One second, you were up in the air; the next, your head hit the dirt. Your thoughts were spinning relentlessly, reminding you of the first time your husband almost choked you to death. No clear idea of what was happening, where you were, and what to do now could take root.

But your instincts still worked.

So you ignored all the warning signs—the stumbling, the blood dripping down your face, the pain in your muscles—and ran. Ran like your life depended on it, which it did.

"Stop!" you heard behind you, and you would have known the voice in a crowd of hundreds. The king didn't like insubordination. He didn't like sharing his toys. And he would not give up on you that easily.

It made you run faster if anything.

But as you dashed through the forest, blinded by your need to get away, your luck seemed to run out, too. In the thicket, you were concealed. Between the trees, you could hide. Not so much in a clearing, one lit up by the sun and barely covered by grass. That's where you found yourself when your body finally gave out. Tumbling to the ground, your bones ached as your arms tried to cushion the fall.

At some point, anyone has to admit defeat. But it was hard. So, so hard for you. Your conscience was wrecked by guilt for your stead that you left behind, and your body shivered, fear-stricken in anticipation of the punishment you would receive. What was the point of running away when he caught up so fast? Why did you even try?

"You seem troubled. Come here, let me help you."

Forcing your head up, you had to blink away the tears first before you could see. Everything before you was a bright shimmer of something you couldn't discern, but even when your vision cleared, you thought you must have hit your head very hard after all.

Something, a creature perhaps, approached you steadily. Calm demeanor, a proud posture. It looked like a man, yet it appeared more like an angel. His eyes seemed like an endless starry sky, while his hair flowed in the air like waves across the sea. He held out his hand for you as if to offer help, giving you an unlikely hope in these dark times that seemed to swallow you.

But there was also something strange about him. You thought he was coming to help you, but the hand never reached closer. He expected you to come to him, opening his arms for you, but didn't attempt to approach your sorry form.

"Do not listen to it," a stern voice rang out, the clanking of armor shaking you out of the trance. "Don't even think about going there, it will only take advantage of you."

That was enough to get you back on your feet with what little strength you still had. The man you were running from emerged from the darkness of the woods, drawing his blade with the same sickening sound of metal scrapping that instilled fear in you back at the castle. You didn't even know who he was drawing his sword for, but it couldn't mean anything good.

However, your husband wasn't looking at you. If anything, his anger seemed to be dedicated at the man whose expression turned into pity as he never looked away from you.

"How cruel. You poor thing, I can help you," he offered softly, shaking his hand. You looked at it for a long time, feeling yourself pulled in as if a thread was binding you both together. Only when you forced yourself to focus did you notice the ring of mushrooms around the man's... fae's feet.

"It won't help you, it will harm you. Get. Away. Now."

You shuddered at your husband's command, his footsteps approaching faster and faster. One more chance. There was one more chance right in front of you. But at what risk? What would you have to pay?

(Reasoning and discussions welcome! ♥)

[corner-in-corner]

Breath of spring

desc: James Lee finds discovers something new about your, Jinrang returns home from prison

obsessive!(yandere) James Lee x reader

established relationship and simp!(maybe) Jinrang

mostly fluff, kinda open ending

notes: this is kinda a sequel to this story

Happy Valentine’s Day!

If somebody had ever asked James Lee (currently known as Diego Kang and formerly know as DG) about your flaws, despite being a genius, he wouldn’t have found an answer.

Even so, there was one.

Your horrible taste in men.

He could find no other explanation for why you sat so happily by the cafe window, sipping your coffee before the start of your workday. While you effortlessly warmed the whole place with your presence, DG ached—because he knew the reason behind your happiness.

The Wolf.

The King of Busan.

The man adored by all.

Your only flaw.

Jinrang.

You counted the hours until you would finally see your lover again after his long imprisonment. The mere thought of it made your heart beat faster, your smile widen, your eyes glow with anticipation. Oh, how you had missed him. You couldn’t help but think about him.

Little did you know that you longtime admirer had plans of his own for today.

Diego Kang slipped off the gold signet ring, the one so similar to those work by Jinrang’s gang higher-ups. It’s too soon, he thought. You’ll notice.

---

“Thank you for choosing us”, the head of the department said, his voice cautious as he stole glances at DG—the man infamous for leaving the music industry at the peak of his career behind to build his own empire. He couldn’t shake the unease creeping his spine. There was something about the way Diego Kang sat there, utterly indifferent to the meeting. Something that made the air feel colder.

Then came a knock at the door. You entered with a smile, carrying a tray of drinks.

To James Lee, you were the first breath of spring after a brutal winter. Not a single detail escaped his notice. The way your eyes flickered in brief confusion, the second where he was almost caught—before you dismissed it.

Your senior struggled with the projector, the machine refusing to cooperate with him. It was a trivial inconvenience, but for Diego Kang, it was a gift from above. It meant that the task of entertaining him fell to you.

And for the first time in this endless, agonizing crush, he had you—smiling, speaking, focused entirely on him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing, sorry”, you chuckled. “It is strange to say, but you just reminded me of someone.”

James Lee’s heart pounded.

“And… who might that be?” he asked., masking his excitement with a smirk.

“Oh, just a classmate of mine.” You laughed, brushing the thought away. But DG caught something in your expression—a flicker of nostalgia.

“You even smirk the same way! If I didn’t know who you were, I’d swear you were him.”

“And what was he like?”

“Oh,” you looked away, smiling fondly. “He was… a genius. Sorry, it’s not like we were close. He was kind of a star at our school. Imagine a guy whose trophies filled entire shelves—our local celebrity, every girl’s dream.” You laughed, lost in old memories.

James could still remember those days—passing by your classroom just to steal a glimpse of you through the window, wondering how he looked in your eyes when he stepped onto the stage to claim another gold medal.

“And did you love him?” he asked, his smirk deepening.

“You bet! He was literally EVERY girl’s idol!” You laughed, waving it off.

To hear you speak of him so fondly—to hear you praise him, without even knowing he was right in front of you—oh, how it thrilled him. If not his self-control, he would have revealed himself that very moment, even if every King of Korea were watching.

The projector was finally fixed, and DG turned his attention back to the meeting. Half-heartedly.

Because now, he was certain.

He will steal you away from the Wolf.

---

Meanwhile, in Seoul, the gates of the prison creaked open, releasing the King.

Baek was there to greet him, just as expected. But Jinrang barely acknowledged him—his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts were of you.

Baek handed him a piece of tofu, a symbolic fresh start. Jinrang took a large bite, silently making his wish.

A new beginning. With you.

As they drove, Baek spoke, but Jinrang barely listened. His thoughts wandered, flickering between anticipation and dread.

Would you still be there? What if you had moved on?

You had loved him when he was just another fighter clawing his way to the top of the Arena. You had nursed his wounds after brutal battles, crying for him even when he swore he was fine. You had stood by his side when he became a champion, when he became the King of Busan.

He was a man loved by everyone. But the only love that mattered is yours.

And what if you no longer loved him?

What if someone else had taking his place? Someone who could cherish you the way you deserved? Someone who hadn’t left you behind.

It wasn’t that he doubted your love. No.

Jinrang never admitted it out loud, but if you were to stab him in the heart, he would accept it as a blessing from his goddess.

But the thoughts of you leaving him?

Unbearable.

As they neared Busan, Baek asked, “Where to first?”

Jinrang’s answer was unexpected.

“To the office.”

This wasn’t a whim. He refused to return to you like this—straight from prison, still tainted by the filth of that place.

A real man loves his lady. That was the first lesson his teacher had taught him. (Though he had conveniently tweaked it a bit and overlooked the fact the his teacher was a manwhore)

---

By the time he reached your shared home, the sky was awash with hued of deep violet and gold.

You had been pacing for hours, anxiety gnawing you.

What if he wasn’t the same man anymore? What if prison had changed him beyond recognition?

The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Your breath caught.

He was the same. The same stoic face—only now softened with guilt for the time lost.

Before he could say a word, before he could extend the flowers in his hand, you crashed into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck.

“Y-you’re back… F-finally, you are back!”

Jinrang let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his arms tightening around you.

The flowers were crushed between you, their scent mixing with his. But neither of you cared.

For the first time in years, the world faded away.

He lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Will you… allow me?” he murmured.

You pulled him down into a kiss.

Jinrang’s hand slid to the back of your head, his grip firm—desperate to close the distance between you. The moment stretched, everything else ceasing to exist.

When you finally pulled away, he brushed his lips against your tear-streaked cheeks.

After a long silence, you mumbled, “I should have let you in first.”

Jinrang chuckled, holding up the slightly crushed bouquet.

“These are for you.”

You laughed softly as you took them, your favorite flowers. The sight of you, blushing, was like a breath of spring after a long winter, and made something in him settle. For the first time in a long, long time—Jinrang felt at peace.

---

“How was your day?” Jinrang’s voice was low, gentle, as his fingers threaded through your har. The moonlight bathed you in silver, making you look almost ethereal, as if you might disappear with the breeze.

The pendant he had finally gifted you rested against your chest, rising and falling with your breath. The day he had intended to give it to you had never come. Instead, he had been dragged away in chains, left to rot in a prison cell. And now, after all those years, it was finally where it belonged—resting against your heart.

Jinrang pulled you closer, his grip tightening ever so slightly, as if to make sure you were real, that you wouldn’t slip away like a fading dream.

Your head lay against his bicep, face buried in his chest, comforted by his warmth. A small smile played on your lips. It had been so long since you felt this—the warmth of his presence. How many nights you spent sleepless, staring at empty space beside you, heart aching for the man who should have been there?

“Nothing serious. Just embarrassed myself,” you murmured, your voice drowsy. “Told a client he reminded me of the most popular guy from my high school”

Jinrang hummed, continuing to stroke your hair, listening, indulging in the lull of your voice. But when you started reminiscing about your old high school crush, the wolf couldn’t resist baring his teeth in amusement.

“Do you still like him?” he mused. “More than me?”

You scoffed. “Do you even believe what you just said?” A breath of laughter escaped your lips as you shook your head. “You’re the only one for me.”

You pressed a kiss against his lips, and he deepened it, as if savoring your words. The warmth of him, the sheer presence of him, pulled you into a quiet lull. Your eyelids grew heavier, sleep crept upon you.

“And what was his name?” Jinrang yawned. The warmth of you, the security of having you in his arms again, made the past few years feel like a distant nightmare.

He traced the curve of your collarbone and lifted the pedant. The golden ring meant to accompany it, the one he had planned to give you as part of his proposal the day he was imprisoned. Your engagement ring still lay hidden in his belongings. It would remain there for now. The time wasn’t right. Not yet.

First, he would destroy James Lee and his bitches.

First, he would ensure your safety.

First, he would make sure nothing—not even death—could take you away from him again.

“Don’t remember,” you murmured sleepily. “We never talked. Maybe one time”

Jinrang chuckled under his breath. Only you can give such a naive answer.

“It was something like James Lee I think…”

Notes: only at the end I realized how I fucked up the timeline

Please ignore this and think that James started his hunt for gen 1 later🥺

[madamedulac]

Betrayal.

Synopsis: A familiar set of purple eyes stared back into her own colored ones. But instead of happiness and joy crawling and bursting through her very core, all she felt was the utter and overwhelming feeling of complete betrayal.

Tags: sfw; ANGST; hurt; mild spoilers for homecoming wings ig?

Author’s Note: the mcs reaction to finding out caleb was still alive was lacking imo. so in order to appease my own annoying self, i decided to do my own take with that whole thing. this is my first fic after a LONG, LONG while so im sorry if it’s kinda ass lol. i’m also ESL so i apologize in advance if there’s any mistakes, i tried my best to proofread this.

Word count: 1.7k words

Ao3 / OST

There was a part of her that died that day. 

When that door closed in on her. When that explosion followed suit; its flame burned not only her skin, but so did the other half of her soul. She wished she also died in that fiery hell that consumed the only family she ever knew. 

But as fate liked to play a cruel joke on her, she was left to mourn and let the loneliness of surviving such tragedy comfort her in the nights their—his—memories haunted her dreams. 

The constant reminder of what she had lost laid consistently close to her heart. Its metal chains absorbed the heat from her skin, like it was alive, like it was his very heart that stayed close to her. 

『 When U Come Back. 』

Those were the words that are inscribed on its surface. It was a promise. A reminder that he will always return to their house, to their home, to her. He never broke his promise. She always reveled at that fact. He will always come back to her. That even if he was injured and crawling, he will do what it takes to return to his home.

In the sea of people that surrounded her on a day to day basis, he was the only one she could trust to keep his word. 

He was her only truth. 

“If you understand the situation, then let’s go ahead and have a nice chat.” 

The ringing in her ears was deafening but so did the loud hammering of her heart within her chest. Standing before her was a familiar face. Yet the warmth that was always flickering and present in his eyes was gone. Instead, what she saw in those purple irises was a coldness that she was unaccustomed to, at least when it came to him. 

“… Caleb?” His name left her lips before she could even comprehend it. 

Instead of giving her a reassuring smile like he always did, the man frowned. “Show some respect to the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel.” He said in a strict tone. 

Colonel. 

A title she had never expected to be bestowed upon him. It was so imposing. So daunting. So not him. This man in this intimidating uniform and glaring at her with a coldness she has never seen in his face could never be her Caleb.

There was no way. 

She wanted to say more. She wanted to ask him if he really was Caleb. To ask why he looked like her Caleb. But the words were stuck in her throat and the mixture of confusion and suddenly being hyper aware of where she was made her press her mouth in a thin line.

“There’s more than one pair of eyes observing you in this room, so I suggest you watch your mouth.” The man wearing her childhood friend’s face said. She immediately caught on to what he was implying and her eyes darted to the camera behind him. 

There was an ache that was slowly forming in her heart but she pushed it aside and opted to hide it behind a wall.

It was like a switch had been flipped. The distress that marred her face seconds ago was replaced with a blank one. She bravely stared back at the imposing figure before her. 

The doctor who examined her when she was small called it a coping mechanism of sorts. It is her own way of keeping everyone at arm's length when things get overwhelming. Even Josephine was not immune with how she quickly shuts her emotions down and hides away in her little corner.

But there was only one person who was an exception to this rule.

Someone who she could always confide in. Someone who she was not afraid to tell how she truly felt and never fear any judgement whatsoever. Someone who she knows would whollfully accept her, irregardless of her character flaw and her ever so changing moods. 

‘And that someone is already dead.’ The voice in her head whispered. 

The way the Colonel’s eyes twitched at her sudden change didn’t escape her but the woman merely overlooked such detail.

That is not him. That is not your Caleb. The voice reminded her. 

“Let’s get started then,” the man walked closer and grabbed the gun that was hanging on her hip. “This is both an interrogation and a thorough inspection. If you understand that then answer me.” He said as he threw the gun to the nearby table. 

“I understand, sir.” She replied, almost robotically. In a sense, this mission was indeed perfect for her. There were probably only a few within the hunter association who could turn off her emotions as quickly as she does. 

The expression on the Colonel’s face was unreadable as his fingers latched onto the necklace that was hanging around her neck. The frown was still there, but there was something else that was brewing behind his purple irises. 

“… it belonged to someone from my childhood.” She didn’t know what prompted her to talk but the words were flowing out of her mouth before she could realize. “He died in an explosion. Like the one in the Cascade District.” I miss him. She bit her tongue before she could utter those last three words. 

His eyes once again found hers and she saw a flash of emotion that almost made her believe this could be the same person who she gifted this necklace to.

But he was not.

She told herself he was not.

After all, he would be last person to ever betray her in that way. Her Caleb would never make her believe he was dead and let her suffer through that grief alone.

Never her Caleb.

The woman merely balled her hands in tight fists so that her resolve wouldn’t falter. 

That is not your Caleb. 

The succeeding interrogation came almost like a blur. She barely remembered the questions that he asked her. The ringing in her ears was loud and deafening and her answers were practiced and calculated. She had always been good with bullshitting her way out of things. It worked on most people. It worked on Josephine. It worked on her friends. 

But there was always an exception to that rule. 

That is not your Caleb. 

“This is your last chance.” He said threateningly, pointing the device closer to her throat. He called it a Mood Tracker but she wouldn’t be surprised if it was a device that could easily severe the artery on her neck.

The Colonel might kill her. That was such a frightening thought and she doesn’t doubt it. Not for a bit.

Steeling herself, the woman kept her eyes glued to the man. “… I don’t know anything.” She replied. She lied.

The device continued to beep loudly and seemed to reach its peak before it was subtly cut off the person holding it. His thumb pressed on the switch swiftly, practiced, and would’ve easily missed by anyone not standing close to them.

“You passed.” He declared.

Behind him, the camera made a clicking sound before it completely shut off.

The cold expression he wore melted away and suddenly she found herself looking at the familiar warmth that had surrounded her all throughout her life.

A breath escaped her mouth as the man straightened his posture and the restraint on her wrists was loosened. “… You.” Was all that she could utter.

Smiling, he tossed the Mood Tracker next her discarded gun. “Surprised?” He said, seemingly unaware of the emotion that was rising up her throat. Or perhaps he did saw it and was very much aware of it. Perhaps he was just refusing to acknowledge it. He was never the type to miss any emotion that she wore on her face. “Sure it’s been a while, but you already forgot about me?”

And suddenly, the mask that she wore all throughout that interrogation broke.

A pool of tears had quickly formed in her eyes and blurred his image, of this man, who she had been convincing herself to be not the same person she had mourned for the past year.

This man…

She heard him say her name, worry heavy on his tone. She almost wanted to laugh. But the tears were not stopping. “Did I scare you?” He asked as he held her face in his hands.

It felt rough. The leather gloves felt foreign in her skin, almost like it was mocking her. His touch as she remembered was warm and comforting. Like the touch of the summer sun after a heavy storm. That was what he was to her. Her summer.

That was the Caleb she remembered.

She wanted to laugh. To scream. To punch this man who wore that expression she was so familiar with. But no words were forming on her tongue.

All she felt was an indescribable anguish. Of pain. Of pity.

Pity for herself.

For that woman who stood by his grave and let the rain soak her entire form, hoping that it somehow gives her bleeding heart the comfort it so desperately needed. For that woman who clung onto his remaining set of clothing and held onto it until she fell asleep, hoping that it would be him cradling her the moment she wakes up.

Her cries echoed loudly inside the interrogation room but she no longer cared.

Perhaps, she thought, it would annoy him or his subordinates and they finally put a bullet through her skull. Perhaps that would’ve been ideal. Perhaps with death, it would finally end this nightmare.

She heard him say something but the sound of her broken heart and the heaviness of his betrayal made her deaf to his words. She wanted to push him off, to punch him, to spit on him.

But the reality of what he had done weighed heavy on her body, rendering her unable to form any coherent thought.

She didn’t protest when he hooked his arms under her knees and carry her off the chair. He swiftly maneuvered their position so that he would be the one sitting down and her being closely held on his arms. It was almost like an instinct when she curled closer into his touch, like she wanted to be one with his skin. To be one with him.

He smelled so familiar.

So like her Caleb.

“… you traitor.” Was all that she could managed to whisper in anger.

She felt his grip on her arms tighten but he didn’t say anything. Merely nuzzling into her hair and pulling him even closer into his chest, like he was scared to lose her.

“You traitor…” that was all that she could say.

———

a/n: happy valentines y’all. can’t believe lads and caleb managed to get me out of my retirement from writing. smh. sorry if this is lacking, it’s genuinely been a while since i wrote something. wwww

[aventurineswife]

Hey! How about a break from my parental requests (there were 4 requests as I counted) with a totally normal one? (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

Anyway, I was wondering if you could make a reader based on a gem, it consists of the reader having a rather unique structure compared to his gem siblings, having holes in his chest. The reader does not care much about this fact because they can replace them with gems, with the characters Aventurine Sampo, Dan Heng and Jing Yuan, something else to add is that the reader would change the gem depending on the character: He explained to me, Aventurine with a Phosphophyllite gem of hardness 3, with Sampo with a Euclass gem of hardness 7.5, Dan Heng with an Alexandrite with a hardness of 8.5 and finally with Jing Yuan with a Phantom Quartz of hardness 7. I hope I have explained myself? Ó⁠╭⁠╮⁠Ò

-💤🩵 anon

Gems of the Soul

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Found Family, Emotional Bonds, Angst with Comfort, Slow Burn, Philosophical Themes, Vulnerability, Growth, Self-Discovery, Metaphorical Imagery, Introspection, Emotional Healing.

Warnings: Exploration of emotional trauma, themes of fragility and vulnerability, existential musings, potential for bittersweet moments.

A/N: I had a hard time writing this because I never watched the anime...🧍‍♀️

The first time Aventurine met you, his eyes gleamed with intrigue. The shimmering hue of your Phosphophyllite core caught his attention immediately. "Fragile," he remarked with a grin, tapping a finger against the gem embedded in your chest. "You’re gambling with life itself, aren’t you? How fitting."

Despite the fragility of your gemstone, you stood tall. You didn’t flinch under his calculating gaze, nor did you shy away from his sharp wit. Aventurine, for all his charm and strategic genius, had rarely met someone willing to expose their weaknesses so openly.

"You think fragility is a disadvantage?" you asked, your voice steady. "It’s a reminder to adapt, to evolve."

Over time, you became his confidant—someone who understood the delicate balance of risk and reward that Aventurine lived by. The way your gemstone changed after every encounter—cracking, chipping, and being replaced—fascinated him. Yet, he also found himself oddly protective, ensuring his schemes never pushed you too far.

One day, you confronted him. "You don’t need to keep gambling with yourself, Aventurine. Even the strongest strategists deserve peace."

For once, the man of a thousand masks faltered. In you, he saw the strength to acknowledge fragility without shame—a strength he secretly envied.

Sampo leaned back with his signature mischievous grin as you held out a piece of Euclase to slot into your chest. "So, you picked the wise and kind gem, huh? I’m flattered," he teased.

You smiled knowingly. "You’ve lived enough lives to appreciate this, haven’t you?"

Sampo wasn’t quick to analyze you. He watched, he joked, and he danced around your purpose with the ease of a merchant spinning a yarn. But the moment you placed the gem into your chest, he sobered. "Y’know," he murmured, "you’re a bit of a puzzle. People like me… we don’t deserve kindness, yet here you are."

Traveling with Sampo was chaotic but enlightening. Where others saw a swindler, you saw a man fighting to survive, a soul tired of constantly being one step ahead. The Euclase within you resonated with his hidden wisdom, giving him moments of clarity he rarely allowed himself.

"You’re not as selfish as you pretend to be," you told him once. "You just don’t think anyone will see beyond the façade."

Sampo laughed it off, but the way he lingered by your side spoke volumes.

Dan Heng’s eyes narrowed the first time you placed the Alexandrite gem into your chest. Its iridescent colors shifted under the light, much like his emotions—hidden yet always present.

"You don’t need to do that," he said softly, his tone laced with concern. "I don’t want to hurt you."

You shook your head. "This isn’t about fear, Dan Heng. It’s about understanding."

The Alexandrite gem was perfect for him. Just as it reflected multiple colors, Dan Heng’s past and present constantly collided within him. You understood his struggles—the isolation, the guilt, the fight against the storm raging inside.

When his anger or self-doubt bubbled to the surface, the gem in your chest pulsed with light, grounding him. "You don’t have to run from yourself," you told him. "You’re stronger than you think."

Over time, Dan Heng grew to trust you, allowing you glimpses of the man behind the stoic exterior. In return, your Alexandrite core remained unbroken, a testament to the strength he inspired in you.

Jing Yuan’s eyes gleamed with quiet curiosity as you inserted the Phantom Quartz into your chest. The layers of white and black within the gem mirrored his own duality—peaceful yet commanding, calm yet ever-watchful.

"I see you’ve chosen a gem with depth," he remarked, his voice like a gentle breeze. "Fitting, isn’t it?"

Jing Yuan was a man who carried the weight of centuries, yet his serene demeanor rarely faltered. You, with your multi-layered gem, became a mirror for his own internal conflicts. The Phantom Quartz spoke to both your insecurities and his—an understanding that neither of you needed to voice.

"You’re too hard on yourself," you said one evening as the two of you gazed at the stars.

"And you’re too selfless," he replied, his tone gentle but firm. "You put yourself in harm’s way for others. That’s not a burden you need to carry alone."

With Jing Yuan, you felt both the safety of his wisdom and the quiet sorrow of his regrets. The Phantom Quartz within you grew stronger with every moment, its layers shifting and intertwining—just like the bond you shared with him.

[bonesxbows]

Brain & Heart (Lucifer X Reader)

My Masterlist

It's Valentine's Day; the most romantic day of the year. For most. For you, it's another reminder of just how...different you are. Society, even in Hell, expects you to act a certain way on this holiday, so you do, despite the overwhelming distress it causes you. That is until Lucifer notices just what these expectations are doing to you and he promptly puts a stop to it.

(WARNINGS)

Ace (Asexual) spectrum reader

Female reader

Plus size/chubby/heavier build reader

Talk of pressures of societal expectations

Negative self image talk

Bullying about weight issues

Descriptions of anxiety/panic attack behaviors and feelings

This is dedicated to myself, @heart-of-the-morningstar , and anyone else who falls on the ace spectrum and has a hard time with this particularly bittersweet holiday. I speedran this bitch just to get it out in time before today was over. Have a (sorta) happy Valentine's Day <3

Banners by @strangergraphics

Your insides churned. Your head spun. Your heart pounded in your ears, eyes threatening to pool over with tears. And you wanted to tear your own skin off with the way your clothes consistently rubbed against it all wrong. 

You were going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both. Preferably both, you reckoned. 

Charlie had insisted on throwing a party at the hotel tonight to celebrate the human world holiday. Valentine’s Day, they called it, though you had stopped paying attention to it long before you had even arrived in Hell. It was still well and thriving down in the fiery depths, however, fake love and sex appeal amplified to eleven all week. It was driving you absolutely mad.  

But you could hide away from the populace and the advertisements til this all blew over, that wasn’t the hard part. What was sending you into a frenzy and had tipped you over the edge into insanity had been the invitation to this blasted party. Lucifer had been ecstatic to go, excitement coursing through him like a puppy once he learned that his daughter had once again invited him to something, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him you’d rather chew your own leg off than be surrounded by certified Love Day vomit. 

So here you were; hyperventilating in a fitting room in some shitty clothing store in the middle of Pentagram City instead of being locked away in a cozy cocoon of blankets, watching dumb comedy movies and halfway lost in a tub of ice cream like you had been doing for the past week. 

No one had told you to come here. No one had insisted that you needed to buy a new dress for tonight. No, you had decided that all on your own, you had thrown this misery onto yourself. But it was expected of you, wasn’t it? If you didn’t show up tonight on Lucifer’s arm in something revealing, flashy, and seductive, then you’d be the laughingstock of the whole hotel. Whether they said it to your face or not. It was Valentine’s Day, and that equaled sexiness. Or so the rest of the Pride Ring told you so. 

But for you? The whole idea made you want to reel in disgust. It was just so…unlike you. All this lace, and frills, and low cut necklines, and high slits, and too tight corsets, and barely there straps. Trying to find anything that fit comfortably was becoming an uphill battle. 

This was now the third store you had been to and currently you had on a black velvet dress; corseted at the waist and flowing down to your knees, a high slit sliced up to your hipbone and two pieces of fabric draped off the sides of the top of the corset to act as sleeves. You could barely breathe as it smushed your chest in all the wrong places. Tears pricked at your eyes as you nearly tore the wretched thing off of you, throwing it into a black heap on the ground. You aggressively wiped your eyes as you got dressed in your own clothes. 

When you exited the room you found a store attendant, politely handing her the dresses that you had taken with you. Swallowing your embarrassment you asked her, “Would you by chance have any other dresses besides these? Perhaps…um…in a bigger size as well?” 

She looked you up and down, her snake eyes burning holes into your skull. You wanted to disappear right then and there for even asking her. Either she didn’t recognize who you were, didn’t care, or felt particularly brave because Lucifer wasn’t currently with you. “I don’t think we’ll have anythin’ that’ll fit you, hon. We don’t sell dresses that flatter your…certain…body shape. Too form fittin’, if you ask me. You’ll wanna hide…all a’ that, try the shop down the street. They cater to your clientele.” She snatched the dresses out of your hand, avoiding contact with you as if the mere touch with you was gross to her, before she strutted away, her too-tall heels clicking condescendingly against the floor behind you. 

You bolted out of the door before anyone else in the store could see you. 

It took about another hour but you finally worked up the courage to finally walk into another clothing store. You couldn’t go back empty-handed, but you’d take anything at this point, just so you could go home. 

A tiny bell jingled above your head, a small frown etched into your face at the task laying in front of you. There was a wild assortment of dresses to choose from, in a wide array of colors. You sighed, already defeated and on the verge of giving up. You weren’t sure how many more humiliating dressing room incidents you could handle. So you grabbed the first basic dress you saw; a blood red simple-looking thing vaguely in your size. 

You sulked to the dressing room and went through the motions for the umpteenth time that day, pulling the satin fabric over your body. It wasn’t super unflattering per se, the babydoll shape sitting right at your waist and the bust fitting more or less comfortably. You could at least breathe without struggling this time. But there was still that infuriating slit, revealing your entire thigh, and the neckline sat way too low for your liking. But it was good enough. It would have to be. You were done. You just wanted to go home.

Lucifer was waiting for you when you arrived home, nearly toppling you over as he pounced on you as soon as you stepped foot inside. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his smile lighting up the room as he lifted you up and spun you around. 

“Ducky! You’ve been gone nearly all day! Where’ve you been?” He placed you back down on your feet but still held you in his arms. 

“I uh…went shopping. For tonight.” Your voice was flat, exhausted. Dreading putting that blasted dress back on in a mere few hours. 

He eyed the bag in your hand, a small smirk growing on his lips. Guilt seeped its way into your veins. You knew what he was expecting and what you had ended up choosing was not the same. 

“Oh? Bought something special, did you? A surprise, or do I get a sneak peek before everyone else?” He cocked an eyebrow, his look turning sultry. Your stomach twisted into a knot. Satan, you hated today. 

“Um…we’ll see, Luci. I…I need to go get ready.” You needed to be alone. Is what you wanted to tell him, but you didn’t want to douse his excitement. You weaseled out of his grasp, slinking down the hallways toward your shared bedroom as fast as you could. 

He followed you for a spell, rushing after you, his smirk replaced with a look of concern. “Wait, ducky, are…are you okay?” He reached out towards you, but you had reached your bedroom door before he could get a hold of you. 

“I’m fine, Luci. I just need a moment. Please.” You told him fleetingly, shutting the door in his face as soon as the words left your lips. He stood staring at the wooden surface, eyes wide, unsure of what to do. 

You were going to explode. 

You grabbed at your hair, tears flowing down your face at what you had just done. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed the nearest pillow off the bed and chucked it against the wall. A dull thud resounded against the plaster. You huffed angrily, half stomping into the bathroom and aggressively pulling out everything you would need to make yourself look at least half decent. You owed him that much after how you had just treated him. 

Makeup and hair tools and various jewelry littered the bathroom counter, but yet nothing was looking right. You were on your third makeup look attempt; a subtle red eye look with a sharp eyeliner, mascara, and matching dark, blood-red lipstick. You weren’t satisfied, but you were running out of time. Sighing, you finally slipped on that awful dress before searching the room for the highest pair of heels you owned. You’d probably break an ankle by the end of the night, but at least they would make Lucifer happy. That was all that really mattered tonight. 

Again he was waiting for you by the door when you opened it, though this time he seemed more nervous, waiting for you to come to him instead of rushing towards you like before. His eyes lit up at the sight of you, though you didn’t notice at first, with your head downcasted towards the floor. 

“You look absolutely breathtaking, ducky.” He whispered. You finally turned your gaze up to meet him, being met with a downright impressive sight when you did. He had changed into an outfit you had never seen before, all black leather, a skin-tight high V-cut crop top accompanied by extremely low-cut pants with heart netting cutouts near his thighs, topped off with a new black and red ringmaster coat around his shoulders. He looked amazing compared to you. 

You kept silent, too afraid that your words would betray you and release the waterfalls all over again. You couldn't risk ruining your makeup. Again. So you instead gave him a small smile, the best you could muster through your inner turmoil. He seemed to not notice was what hidden behind it. 

He walked forward, taking your arm in his, snapped his fingers, and led you through a glowing portal straight into Charlie’s hotel. 

The place was already buzzing with people, music, and lights. 

You regretted coming already. 

Though you were grateful Lucifer never let go of you as he went around saying hello to all of his daughter’s friends, staying well and clear away from the mop of red and black hair that peeked above the crowd. You were lost in your mind the entire time, seeing the colors and shapes move around you but not really hearing what was happening. You were holding on to Lucifer with a death grip, not letting him leave you for a second. You could feel a thousand eyes on you, everyone in the crowd staring at you, the queen of Hell, half exposed for a few dozen of people to see. On this day of all days, with sex on everyone's mind, you were nothing but eye candy to them. Something to ogle at. A piece of meat to be caught and savored. 

You wanted to disappear. You were suffocating from their views. 

“Hey,” You heard someone call out. A hand came to rest on your forearm and you instinctively flinched. Whoever it was pulled their hand away immediately when you did. “Sweetheart?”

“She seems a bit tense. You’re sure she’s alright? Perhaps our queen isn’t much of a partygoer.” You heard someone else say with a mocking tone. Static threatening to tickle your ears with their words but you closed your eyes and blocked them out. 

“She’s fine.” A closer voice snapped back. “Come on, ducky.” They continued. And then you were being moved, led through the hotel’s hallways with someone’s arms firmly around you. You were brought to a door and once it was opened you were led outside onto a balcony, the city of Hell sleeping below you. 

The cold air hit your face like an icy slap, sending a shiver down your spine and forcing you to gulp in a deep breath. It felt like icicles in the back of your throat but it relieved some of the tension in your mind, the cold working its way through your system like a soothing syrup. 

You wrapped your arms around yourself to cover your exposed skin, continuously drinking in the frigid air in steady, deep breaths. Like…like you had taught Lucifer to do during his panicked episodes. 

“Ducky,” You heard him timidly call out your nickname next to you. He had let go of you as soon as you had stepped foot onto the balcony and now he seemed afraid to touch you, a horrid mixture of fear and worry stuck to his face, uncertainty controlling his limbs. 

You flicked your eyes back down to the city below, guilt once again gnawing at your insides. You had ruined the night. “I’m fi-”

There was a gloved finger placed on your lips before you could finish your two-worded sentence. “Don’t, sweetheart. I know you’re not okay.” He removed his silencing finger, not caring about the lipstick that had smeared onto him, and went to lace his hands with yours. “Tell me what’s going on. Please. Let me help you.”

You nearly burst into tears at his words. Your bottom lip trembled and your jaw ached from the building pressure. You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I…I…” But the pressure snapped, muddy blackness pooling at the corners of your eyes and dripping down your face. “I ruined everything.”

A look of confusion flashed across his face as he instinctively went to wipe away your tears, doing his best not to smear the watery makeup all over your face. “What?”

“I ruined everything, Luci!” You sobbed, your tears flowing in earnest now, too quickly for his fingers to keep up. He resorted to just cradling your face and listening to you as you continued. “Tonight was supposed to be special, everybody says it’s supposed to be special, but I don’t even know what that fucking means half the time! Why is it that romance is all about attractiveness and sex and being seductive on this stupid ass holiday? It makes me feel so…so gross!” You screwed your eyes shut and stomped your foot. It was childish, but it felt good to finally say how you felt out loud. “Never mind the fact that I don’t even have the body for it! Do you know how hard it is trying to find a dress that isn’t revealing down here? Let alone one that fits me?” You pulled at your skirt, knocking your knees together in an attempt to keep the slit closed, to no avail. 

Lucifer was still, silent, his brow furrowed as he absorbed your words. But after a moment he seemed to make up his mind, being broken out of his frozen state. He let go of your hands and shrugged off his coat, but before you could ask what he was doing he had thrown the warmed clothing over your shoulders. You looked at him, your mouth trying to form words, but he didn’t notice, being occupied by trying to guide your arms into the sleeves of his jacket and clasping the front shut, effectively dressing you in his coat. He looked practically naked without it, being left in his leather crop top and pants, and the cropped nature of the jacket didn’t do much in the way of covering you, but the warmed leather on your bare arms and the smell of sweet apples wafting off of his collar was more than comforting. You weren’t home, not yet, but it was close enough to feel like it. 

He looped his arms around your neck, pulling you closer to him, using his body to cover everything that his jacket still left exposed. His touch worked to slowly melt away the rest of your stress. 

“Would you like to go home, love?” He asked, his fingers finding the nape of your neck and massaging it soothingly. 

“Huh? No, Luci, this is- Charlie invited you and- you were so excited…isn’t this important to you?” You were on the verge of rambling, your eyes going wide at his suggestion. You hated the idea of making tonight about you. Wasn’t that the opposite of what you were supposed to do? 

“Not as important as you, ducky. Charlie’ll understand. Sooo, what’ll it be? Choice is all yours, my beautiful angel.” You smiled sheepishly at his compliment, your gaze falling down to the ground. A grin grew onto his face, sharp teeth fully on display. 

“I…I’d like that. I’d like to go home. Please.” 

“Done! Just let me say goodbye to Charlie, okay? Two seconds, love bug, I promise.” He kissed you on the forehead before letting you go to step through one of his portals, the bustling party just on the other side. The glowing circle zlipped closed as soon as he was through, leaving you alone on the balcony. The silence was deafening, but not overwhelming. It was comforting compared to what the party had sounded like. 

A cool wind blew past you, ruffling the tails of Lucifer’s coat and the ends of your skirt. You pulled the sides of his jacket tighter around you, fighting off the chill that threatened to run through you and trying to hide what the wind wanted to expose. 

As soon as the wind died down another portal opened up and Lucifer stepped back onto the balcony. He grabbed your hand and laced his fingers in yours as the portal shifted behind him. The slightly distorted view of the party died out and was instead replaced with the comforting sight of your shared bedroom. 

In one swift motion Lucifer scooped you up into his arms, being extra careful to not let your clothing sway out of place from the quick movement. You shrieked out of surprise, throwing your arms around his neck and clutching onto his shoulders for support as soon as you were lifted off of your feet. He chuckled softly, shifting your body against his so that your front was facing him, what was left of your exposed skin now blocked by his frame. 

He carried you through his portal, back into the familiar comfort and safety of your home, and placed you on your bed. He turned on a bedside lamp to get rid of the surrounding darkness and then he left your side for only a moment, making his way to a nearby dresser. You took the time as an opportunity to start shedding your horrid outfit. The sooner the better.

But he heard your movements and stopped his search through the various dresser drawers, turning back around to face you. You were halfway done working off one of the clasps to those infernal heels when he interrupted you. 

“Oh no no no, allow me, sweetheart.” He rushed over, kneeling in front of you and placing his hands on top of yours to stop your motions. He swatted your hands away and started unbuckling the clasps himself before you could argue. 

“You don’t have to, Luci, I can do it.” You told him regardless. Three seconds later he had one heel off. You hadn’t realized how much your feet had been hurting until they started screaming at you once the shoe was off. 

“But I want to, ducky.” He retorted, working at the buckles of the other heel, his claws making short work of it. He stood up and walked back over to the dresser, taking the discarded shoes with him. You didn’t have the energy, or the heart, to argue with him anymore, so you sat patiently and waited for him to return. 

When he did he held two pieces of clothing in his hands, two pieces you instantly recognized. A hoodie and matching pair of sweatpants you always wore, particularly on days when you wanted to hide yourself away from the world. He laid them on the bed beside you for now. 

“Do you want me to help you with your dress or would you rather change in private?” He asked, giving you full control over the situation. You merely shrugged off his jacket and stood up, turning around to give him access to the dress’s zipper. He worked quietly, unzipping the dreadful thing and letting it pool to a heap at your feet. It was soon replaced with your hoodie coming over your head. “I figured you’d wanna be in something more comfortable after…all that.” He said as his hands guided the shirt down over your body as your arms instinctively found the sleeves. “I’ve always seen you wear this, so I assumed it was a safe option.” His eyes never wandered, not even once, as he knelt down again to help you into your sweats. Both articles of clothing were extremely oversized, hanging off of you like a blanket, but that was what made them so appealing on days like this. 

You pulled the drawstring of the sweatpants tighter, tying it into a bow to keep them from falling down. “It’s perfect, love. Thank you.” A small prideful smile found its way onto his lips and he leaned over your shoulder to give you a gentle kiss on the cheek. He snapped his fingers and his leather clothing was soon replaced with his duck-print button-up pajamas, his look now more matching yours on levels of comfortability. 

“Cuddles, my angel?” He asked as he began to run his claws through your hair. 

“Cuddles.” You agreed, nodding your head. He hopped up onto the bed, situating himself with his back against the headboard before he pulled you on top of him. You locked together like puzzle pieces, your face buried in his chest, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, and your legs tangled together. You sighed contently for the first time that day. 

His claws continued to card through your hair soothingly, being careful not to pull at any strands. “You didn’t ruin anything, you know.” You looked at him, and he continued once he had your attention. “I didn’t care what we did today, so long as it was with you. Besides Charlie, you’re all that really matters to me, not some silly rules made up for a human holiday.” He kissed the top of your head once he was finished. 

You didn’t know what to say, exhaustion starting to settle in your bones in earnest. So you just hummed in understanding, to let him know you had heard him and acknowledged what he had said. Your eyes fell closed from his rhythmic motions against your scalp and his heartbeat thumping underneath your ears. An angelic lullaby reserved only for you.

A silence fell over the two of you for a while. Long enough that you were almost on the verge of sleep before he called out to you again. “I remember what you said, you know, about yourself. I think you’re beautiful, ducky. Gorgeous, even. No matter what your body looks like,” He paused, using his free hand to lace your fingers in between his, squeezing it gently. “You’ll always be beautiful to me.”

[florencebirdsong]

Could I request Agatha + Rio + Deaf!Fem reader?? I was thinking of possibly they learned how to say I love you or something meaningful to sign to Reader..or something along the line of them being protective of reader on their date because people are quick to judge reader because she is loud without realizing it..

( I would like to say that I am a irl deaf person myself so I would love this!!)

Yes, I can! I only know super basic Auslan. Like the stuff you’re encouraged to learn in multiple languages (hi, how are you, I’m good, finger spelling, where’s the bathroom, I love you, help, hospital, etc) and I don’t know which sign language you use so I’ve kept the actual sign language descriptions vague. I hope that’s okay :) Please enjoy!

Valentine’s Day Event 2025

Tags: annoying man, small moment insecurity, ficlet

Authors note: sorry the bickering isn’t actually written at the start. I’m trying to keep these as ficlets and those two could go for pages

You watch fondly as Agatha and Rio’s hands fly as they sign. Their bickering-like banter easily picking up your mood. The start of the year has been rough but tonight is just what you need. A romantic dinner at a fancy restaurant that you’re going to leave far too early to go and find something much more unhealthy to eat.

A particularly witty response from Rio has you snort a laugh. Agatha quips back just as fast and you laugh freely. She winks at you before turning a smug look on Rio, who would look annoyed if it weren’t for the smile tilting the edge of her mouth.

Both of their faces drop at the same time and it takes you a moment longer to realise a man has stopped by your table and interrupted you all. He looks agitated, his gestures sharp and his features hard. He’s on the other side of the table from you and clearly only addressing your two girlfriends. You can’t tell what he’s upset about and you watch Agatha and Rio for any indication of this becoming a serious altercation. Relaxing when they only look slightly madder than usual, you wonder what the man is talking about. They both seem more pissed off than their usual reaction to being hit on by a man, even when being interrupted during a special dinner. But it is Valentine’s Day. Surely the man has some clue?

They continue to sign when they respond to him but you still can’t glean what exactly this is about. Only that they seem to be about to chew him out.

“No one asked,” Agatha snaps, her hand movements short and sharp.

You tap the table to get Rio’s attention. The dark look means she needs to be distracted. Agatha may be vindictive but Rio is merciless.

“What’s happening?” you sign.

“He thinks we’re being too loud,” she signs back. “Like he hasn’t been bellowing for the last half hour.”

Your eyebrows furrow, suddenly self-conscious. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt badly about being too loud, but for it to be bad enough for someone to try and interrupt a romantic dinner…

Rio taps the table within sight of your dropped gaze. You reluctantly look up.

“He’s been shouting half the night,” she reminds you. “It’s not your fault. Don’t apologise,” she adds pointedly.

Your eyes flick to Agatha, whose disgusted scowl is directed at the man’s retreating back. She notices your gaze and her face immediately softens.

“You know the study, dear,” she signs. “Women speak up slightly more and men think they’re dominating the conversation. I’m sure it’s the same for volume.”

You nod, hesitantly. Knowing you aren’t likely to stop thinking about it without a distraction, Rio stands up suddenly.

“I want cheap chocolate in stupid shapes,” Rio declares.

Agatha doesn’t take any more prompting. She picks the napkin from her lap and flings it onto the table. Rio holds her hand out to help you out of the chair. You all have finished eating and you haven’t even glanced at the dessert menu yet so you don’t feel too badly about taking Rio’s hand.

“Such a gentleman,” you sign after she helps slip your coat on.

Agatha steps closer to you both and signs without shame, 

“I doubt you’ll be saying that once she has you in bed.”

“Nope,” Rio agrees with a sharp smile. “But chocolate first.”

You don’t even glance at the man on your way out.

[mywomankatarina]

"𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐍𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐀𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭"

Katarina x f! reader - 𝗔𝗿𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗲

A = Aftercare – Katarina isn’t the softest person in battle, but when it comes to you, she’s surprisingly gentle. After an intense night, she won’t say much, but her actions speak louder—cleaning you up, pulling you close, and running her fingers through your hair until you drift off. She’s not used to vulnerability, but she’ll show it in the way she makes sure you’re comfortable.

B = Body Part – Her favorite part of your body? Your thighs. She loves gripping them, kissing them, and leaving marks as proof that you’re hers. But if we’re talking about her own body, she knows her abs drive you crazy, and she doesn’t hesitate to flex a little when she catches you staring.

C = Cum – Katarina is possessive in bed, and she loves making a mess of you. Seeing you covered in proof of her efforts makes her smirk in satisfaction. She’s also a bit of a tease—she’ll drag her fingers through it and make you watch before she cleans you up herself.

D = Dirty Talk – Oh, she’s filthy. Katarina has a sharp tongue, and in bed, it’s no different. She’ll whisper the dirtiest things in your ear, telling you exactly how good you feel, how desperate you are, and how much she loves ruining you. Expect teasing insults mixed with praise—she loves pushing you until you’re whimpering from her words alone.

E = Experience – Let’s be real—Katarina knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s confident, precise, and absolutely ruthless in making sure you’re satisfied. She’s been with others before, but none of them ever mattered the way you do, and that makes her even more determined to make you fall apart beneath her.

F = Favorite Position – She loves being in control. Whether it’s pinning you down and making you beg or having you straddle her lap so she can guide your movements, Katarina is a dominant lover. She also has a thing for bending you over anything nearby—tables, walls, even her own desk—just to remind you who’s in charge.

G = Goofy – Katarina isn’t the type to joke around during sex. She’s intense, focused, and completely consumed by you. But after? If you’re all flustered and breathless, she might smirk and say something cocky like, “Didn’t think you could handle me, huh?” just to see you get flustered all over again.

H = Hair – She keeps herself well-groomed but doesn’t overthink it. Katarina is all about practicality, so she prefers to keep things tidy without making it a big deal. That said, she loves when you tug on her hair, especially when she’s between your legs—if you do, expect a low growl and an even rougher pace.

I = Intimacy – Katarina isn’t used to soft, tender moments, but with you, she’s learning. She might start rough, but the way she holds you afterward, the way she murmurs your name in a rare, breathless moment—it’s raw, intense, and deeply intimate. You make her feel things she’s never felt before, and that scares her, but she’ll show you in the way she kisses you like she never wants to stop.

J = Jack Off – Katarina has incredible self-control, but when she’s away on missions for too long, thinking about you is her only relief. She’ll run a hand down her body, thinking about the way you moan her name, how soft your skin feels against hers. If she has a piece of your clothing—especially lingerie—she’ll keep it close, smirking at how desperate she’s become for you.

K = Kink – Possession. Marking. Control. Katarina loves owning you, whether it’s biting your skin until it bruises or holding you down until you’re completely at her mercy. She also has a bit of a praise kink—but only when you beg for her. Hearing you whimper, “Please, Kat, I need you,” is pure fuel to her dominant nature.

L = Location – She has no shame. The bedroom? Too easy. She’ll take you against a wall, on a desk, in the training room, even in risky places where someone might hear. Katarina thrives on adrenaline, and knowing you’re just as desperate for her, no matter where you are, only makes her want you more.

M = Motivation – You. The way you look at her, the way you react to her touch—it’s enough to drive her crazy. But if you’re being a little brat? Acting defiant? Oh, she’ll put you in your place. Nothing makes her more eager than reminding you exactly who you belong to.

N = NO – Katarina is dominant, but she’s never cruel. She respects your boundaries without hesitation, and if you ever tell her to stop, she will—immediately. She might tease and push limits, but she would never do anything that makes you uncomfortable.

O = Oral – She’s a master at it. Katarina is skilled, relentless, and loves watching you fall apart under her tongue. She’ll take her time, teasing you until you’re begging for more. And when she finally gives in? She won’t stop until you’re completely wrecked.

P = Pace – Fast and intense. Katarina doesn’t do slow unless she’s teasing you. She loves making you squirm, loves the way you arch into her touch, but once she’s started, she won’t stop until she’s completely satisfied with the mess she’s made of you.

Q = Quickie – She loves them. Missions, meetings, even training sessions—if she wants you, she’ll take you. She’s skilled enough to make it quick, but she’ll make sure you feel it for hours afterward.

R = Risk – She’s a thrill-seeker, and that applies to the bedroom too. She enjoys the risk of getting caught, whether it’s a hidden corner of the war room or sneaking into your quarters late at night. The danger just makes it hotter.

S= Stamina – Insane. Katarina has trained her body for endurance, and that applies in bed too. She can go for hours, pushing you to your limits until you’re a shaking, overstimulated mess. And the best part? She loves seeing you struggle to keep up.

T = Toys – She doesn’t use them often—she is the toy. But if she ever does? She’ll make you watch as she tests it on herself first, just to see how desperate you get before she even touches you.

U = Unfair – She’s a tease. Katarina loves pushing you until you’re begging, dragging things out just to hear you whimper. She’ll hover her lips over yours, whispering, “Do you really want it? Beg me for it.”

V = Volume – She’s not loud, but the low, husky growls and breathless curses in your ear? Absolutely sinful.

W = Wild Card – She loves using her knives. Not in a dangerous way, but she might trail the cold blade along your skin, watching as goosebumps rise. The contrast of the steel against your warmth? It drives her insane.

X = X-Ray – She’s fit, toned, and incredibly strong. Years of training have sculpted her body to perfection, and she knows it. She catches you staring? She’ll smirk and say, “Like what you see?”

Y = Yearning – If she’s away too long, expect her to make up for it tenfold when she returns. The moment she sees you? You’re not leaving that bed for hours.

Z = ZZZ – Afterward, she’ll pull you close, one arm draped protectively over you. She might not say much, but the way she holds you? It says everything.

Author's note - Send request!! btw i do wnba too

[coldsaturn]

I finished my reread of TKM (in its Italian translation, for a change) in preparation for TGR, and I have thoughts

There's something inherently addictive about a character knowing they're on a countdown and trying to make the most of the time they still have

"I didn't tell her." They were the only two in the car, but it took Neil a moment to realize he was being addressed. He glanced over at Aaron, but Aaron was gazing out the passenger window. "Neither did I," Neil said. "She asked you about Andrew." It wasn't a question, but Neil said, "Yes. You too?" "She doesn't ask me anything anymore," Aaron said. "She knows there's no point. I haven't ever said a word to her." //Of course they hate each other so much, they're way more similar than they're comfortable with

Aaron, Matt, Renee, Wymack, e Andrew are all like "should we tell Neil he's now in a relationship or?" but they all decide to leave Neil in his painful obliviousness for the same reason. The fact that it will be Roland to tell him will forever be iconic.

On the translation for "Every inch of you," Andrew said. "That doesn't mean I wouldn't blow you." I forgive the translator every past mistake. That line got me like a freight train in the face.

"Whatever Kevin saw on Neil's face, it was enough to kill his curiosity. Kevin slowly closed his mouth, withdrew his hand, and went back to drinking" // Kevin in this scene

Andrew keeps on being hilarious even unmedicated.

"Cool it," Ricky warned them, with his hands out toward both of them. "We've got enough trouble to deal with right now without your bullshit." // I want a book about him

The whump level of attention Neil gets starting from his Evermore stay and onward is absolutely delicious.

Neil spends the night with Kevin watching Exy matches, then Nicky tries to get Neil to go for ice cream and Neil is about to say no when he sees Andrew and suddenly he's all existential "Exy can't be everything" lmao

Andrew going against Kevin multiple times to favor Neil is my new kink

"I don't want to be that person anymore. I want to go back for you." // Andrew has five (5) people he'd save in a zombie apocalypse. That's an entirely respectable number of people to care for that intensely. Neil chose one and one only.

It's almost impossible to comment anything once we start snowballing toward the end because that would require putting the book down, but I'll make an effort: Andrew's fierceness is heartbreaking. He threatens people left and right and most of the Foxes around him treat him like he's an immortal, vengeful god. Kevin trusts him to protect him from Riko, Neil hilariously trusted him to protect him from Riko and the mafia behind him. Riko himself reacts to him with caution like he's dealing with a rabid dog that might just be faster than a gun drawn in self-defense. Andrew threatens the FBI and Abby, and it's like he genuinely thinks he can win against multiple armed and trained adults. But he's not invincible. He's so far from that it's painful. He can be overpowered, his strength is proportional to his body, he has been brought down again and again. Hes' just a dude. But so many around Andrew treat him like his strength is a bottomless well, for better or worse, and I wonder what his self-confidence would be if he didn’t receive so often positive feedback on his ability to take everything and everyone down with him. I don’t think he’s even aware of it, but I’m glad it’s there nonetheless.

"She taught Coach Exy," Neil reminded him. "And what, he didn't notice that he knocked her up?" Aaron asked. // AARON lmao

Still can't believe Andreil got off on Kevin's drama queen tattoo and didn't even bother trying to hide it

Still can’t believe Andreil had a full on makeout session at Evermore. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, dark Andreil from the perfect court felt a tremor in the force

Reading my bound trilogy gives the pace of the entire work a completely different feeling. This truly is one single story, and not three separate books. Once you feel them being whole in your hands, without boundaries between one and the other, you can truly appreciate the avalanche that this story is. You start slowly with all the puzzle pieces around you and then accelerate until you reach the last 200 pages where you can't even find time to breathe, the entire narrative a single unified crescendo built on the 500 pages that came before.

Neil is an amazing protagonist, but he could have been unsufferable so easily if Nora hadn't done such a good job of keeping him an active character with a mountain of agency. The things that happen to him are obnoxiously incredible, but he never becomes the cliché passive protagonist bound by plot because they have nothing of their own to keep themselves upright. Everything that happens to him he reacts to with equal if not more force; hell, half of what happens he instigates with his own hands. So many books give you an empty protagonist meant to be the stand-in for the audience, just an empty shell so the reader can project onto them and fantasize about a different reality. Neil is complex, absurd, uncomfortable, and doesn't care if you relate to him or not. As a reader you are a fly on the wall and are treated as such. Neil isn’t here to make you feel good about yourself.

Insane rereadability rate. Read one book per day and I didn't even feel it, I already miss it and want to go back to the beginning to ride the roller coaster again. I'm a decade older than when I read this trilogy the first time, but these books are still a dopamine injection straight into my eyeballs.

[oldestfriend-invisibly]

Little Agatha "Can you help me?"

Early on (in the first decade-ish after meeting Rio) Agatha has only ever regressed involuntarily, but part of her wants to be able to enjoy feeling small the way Rio does.

This idea came to me last night and it was all I could think about so I needed to write it. It is extremely extremely self-indulgent, came out twice as long as intended, and is largely unedited... enjoy!!

2.2K words.

Warnings- Agatha is very uncomfortable with her regression at first and so thinks about it very negatively. There are also a couple of brief references to Agatha's childhood but nothing in detail.

The evening summer sunlight painted streaks across the floor of the cabin. Agatha was drying the dishes from that night’s dinner whilst keeping an eye on Rio. The green witch was currently playing in the garden in front of the cabin, and tonight she was acting younger in the way she sometimes did. 

In the way both of them did- if Agatha was being honest. 

In the few years the two had been living together in the cabin, they had settled into a comfortingly familiar dynamic. Whilst some of the time they were both as they were the day they met- as lovers, at other times their relationship was more similar to what Agatha had observed between the kind women in Salem and their daughters. 

Sometimes, her fascinating enigma of a wife liked to let herself feel younger, and Agatha felt herself naturally falling into the role of Rio’s caregiver. She wasn’t even sure if Rio had ever actually been a child, but she said it made her feel secure, and loved, it calmed her when she was overwhelmed, and soothed her during the cold winter mornings when the two would curl up by the fire for warmth. 

This was familiar to Agatha, and caring for her little girl made her feel important in a way her mother had once convinced her she would never be.

 Not all of Rio’s regression was smooth-sailing and happy, however. Agatha reminisced, wincing at the memories of the cosmic witch crumbling under the weight of her duties, arriving home already in her younger headspace and weeping openly for her Mama. She watched her girl now, Rio’s hands windmilling as the fireflies- beginning to emerge in the fading light of dusk- flickered around her, Agatha’s smile softened. 

Though her girl may not always be as happy as she was right now, Agatha, as Rio’s Mama, would always be there to comfort her and remind her how loved she was. Because that’s what Mamas are there for. And because Agatha knows how it feels- how it feels to be small and so so scared. 

It was an unspoken rule that they never discuss it after the fact, but occasionally, after a particularly bad nightmare, or an unexpected reminder of the abuse Evanora inflicted on her, Agatha felt her grip on her adult headspace slipping away. And in these instances, all Agatha could seem to comprehend is how badly she wanted her Mami. She’ll babble ‘Mami’ over and over through her tears when all other words fail her, she’ll reach for her with trembling hands, only begin to calm down when she felt calloused fingers card through her hair, and heard soft Spanish reassurances break through the fuzziness in her head.

Agatha absolutely hated that this happened to her. She hated not being in control, how quickly she went from being the powerful and feared witch-killer to being three years old and terrified again. For Agatha, regressing to a younger headspace was humiliating, and she’d never considered trying to do so voluntarily. 

Despite her own hesitance, she could never judge Rio for seeking such comfort. Rio was only just experiencing humanity for the first time, and Agatha was more than happy to help her explore anything and everything being a human had to offer. 

Gazing back outside at her girl, however, Agatha felt a pang of something unfamiliar. Rio really did seem so happy and unrestrained when she let herself be little like this. She wondered if she could feel like that. Unexpectedly, she found herself yearning to be held, to be read to and gently rocked, and tucked into bed all cozy. If only she were able to choose to hand control over to her Mami.

Shocked with how her thoughts had strayed, Agatha shook her head to clear her mind. Her conflicting thoughts confused her and she decided to quickly stop this train of thought. 

After all, it had gotten dark now, and she had a very excitable toddler to try and coax into bed.

…

Agatha didn’t think about the possibility of choosing to be small again until nearly a week later. She and Rio lay side by side in a grassy forest clearing, mostly in silence they had just been enjoying each other’s company. Rio’s hand in hers drew tentative swirls over Agatha’s palm, and the simple comfort of the action brought Agatha right back to her train of thought from the other night.

She was nervous to bring this up with Rio. Their dynamic had already been established, how would Agatha be a good Mama for Rio if she herself needed such care? Would Rio even want to provide it for her? 

But Agatha thought back, through hazy memories, to the last time she slipped, after a horrible nightmare. Thought about the way her Mami had pressed soft kisses into her hairline and gently wiped the sticky tears from her cheeks. How she changed Agatha out of her sweaty nightdress and pried Agatha’s thumb from her mouth and replaced it with something smooth and chewy. Agatha sucked in a sharp breath, once again overwhelmed by the thought of wanting her Mami whilst hating her regression.

“What is bothering you, Querida?” Rio turned on her side to face Agatha, and reached to brush away the hair that had fallen over Agatha’s face. 

Agatha’s voice came out quiet, tension radiating from her body. “How does it feel when you’re young, Rio? When you choose to be so.”

The question wasn’t new to Rio, Agatha had asked it many times before whenever she wanted to better understand her and how to care for her. Though now, the purple witch's, nervous tone made her wonder if the question was now coming from somewhere more personal.

Rio knew all too well the struggle her lover had talking about the times when she too found herself small, and she understood why. Agatha took great pride in her strength and independence as she’d had to tirelessly forge it for herself after leaving Salem. However, Rio had always worried about how unhealthy it probably was for Agatha to avoid all conversation on the matter. 

Her response was measured, she closely observed Agatha, watching for any adverse reactions. She didn’t want Agatha to shut down, sensing the conversation was leading somewhere important.

“Once I’ve decided I want to be small, or realised I need to be, I don’t usually have any trouble allowing myself to fall into it.” Agatha said nothing in response, clearly deep in thought. Rio resumed tracing swirls over Agatha’s hand and continued. 

“My head starts to feel a little fuzzy. Not unpleasantly so, not like the nasty buzzing when my senses become overwhelmed, more like the mist settling over the grass on a winter’s morning, or the sound of the running brook washing over pebbles. My thoughts all become simpler, like nothing else in the universe matters outside of you and I. It just feels peaceful, Agatha, really really peaceful.” 

Swirls changed to tracing the lines of Agatha’s palm as Rio waited for a response. She could practically hear the moving parts of Agatha’s brain, and refrained from pressing a kiss to her temple so as not to startle her. 

“But,” Agatha paused, clearly struggling, “how do you- how did you know you wanted to do it?” 

“Agatha?” Rio paused until the other woman turned her head and met her gaze. “Do you want to be small? To be able to choose to be?” 

Agatha tensed up again, her internal defenses clearly slammed back up. “No, that’s ridiculous! I’m not- I don’t- that’s not-” her words trailed off and she turned back away from Rio, staring up at the canopy of leaves above, she willed her anxious tears to disappear. Rio remained silent, never ceasing the movement of her fingers across Agatha’s palm. Agatha’s denial of her feelings was one of her favoured defense mechanisms, so Rio wanted to give her time to make sense of what she was feeling.

Eventually, the Purple Witch swallowed heavily, nodded almost imperceptibly, and whispered, “Yes.” then after a moment, “Can you help me?”

…

It was the following afternoon. After arriving home yesterday, they had eaten and gone straight to bed. Both women were exhausted, and decided they wanted to be rested before Rio helped Agatha regress. 

They sat together on the living room floor, cross-legged and facing each other. Rio could tell Agatha was still wary and on-edge about it. But after Rio’s repeated assurance that they would go at whatever pace Agatha was comfortable with, and that she was more than happy to be Agatha’s Mami more often, the Purple Witch no longer viewed regression solely as something to be feared.

The reminder that Rio loved every part of her made the thought of giving up control much less scary, after all, she trusted Rio completely.

Rio had to admit that she wasn’t entirely sure how to go about this, but she’d secretly longed to be able to care for Agatha like this for a while now. She had started to run her fingers through Agatha’s long hair, both grounding herself and hopefully providing comfort for the other. This appeared successful as Agatha leaned into Rio’s touch, swivelling round to be able to rest against Rio’s side. 

“Is this ok, Love?” Rio asked, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. Agatha nodded.

“It is. Could you carry on?” 

“Of course, Cariño.” Over the next few minutes, Agatha relaxed further, melting against Rio until she was virtually sprawled across her. Slowly, as not to startle her out of this sense of calmness, Rio pulled Agatha into a more comfortable position in her lap. In doing so, Agatha’s head, now supported by Rio’s hand, came to rest against the Green Witch’s chest, and she let out a contented little sigh. 

“I’ve got you right here, Bunny, you’re doing just wonderfully.” 

“I’m doing good?” Agatha asked, staring up, searching Rio’s eyes for any hint of a lie- finding none. 

“So good, Agatha, my Little Love. You’re being so brave.” 

Agatha broke the eye contact by returning to her prior position- laying back against Rio’s chest. After another minute of Rio silently stroking her hair, she spoke again.

“Think I can feel the fuzzy. Is like the waves from the beach.” 

Rio considered it- the small beach on the near-side of the large lake they often visited. How the water lapped over the sand in a constant soothing rhythm. How peaceful it was there. How it felt to stand and gaze across the vast expanse of water and feel so small in comparison.

“That is right, Bunny, just like the beach. We could go back there soon, if you would like to. Would you like Mami to tell you all about it?” 

Agatha’s breath got caught in her throat for a moment, and she nodded. “Please?” she added in a tiny voice that made Rio’s heart melt.

“You and Mami will take a quiet walk together through the woods. I will hold onto your hand to make sure you don’t get lost, and I might even carry you for a while if your little legs get tired. Once we arrive, we will eat our lunches. We will have the cheese from the goats, and slices of apple with a little honey, and some of the vegetables and berries from Mami’s garden. After that, you can play all afternoon. You could try and find all the prettiest flowers for Mami to braid into your hair, or you could visit your bunny friends, maybe you could even feed some of our leftover lunch bread to the duckies! Or if my baby gets really tired, maybe I could just hold her, and rock her gently like the leaves floating on the surface of the lake. We would sit so quietly and let the sound of the waves wash away all of our other thoughts, and your Mami would kiss your little head and remind you how much she loves you. Does that sound nice, Cariño?” 

Given the lack of audible response, Rio thought for a moment that her baby might have fallen asleep, or that she’d upset the girl, or even that she’d scared Agatha right out of the headspace she’d been teetering on the edge of. The response came eventually though and immediately dispelled her worry. 

“Is nice, Mami. Go soon?” 

Rio’s smile grew impossibly wider, and she shifted her baby in her arms so she could see her face. Agatha’s smile, by comparison, was shyer, yet was full of joy at the thought of getting to spend such a perfect day with her Mami. 

“Yes, Little Bunny, we can definitely go soon.” 

“Thank you, Mami! Thank you, thank you!” Agatha promptly flung her arms around Rio, burying her face into her neck. 

Rio knew that Agatha’s voluntary regression going forward likely wouldn’t always be this easy. If little Agatha was anywhere near as stubborn as her lover, Rio was in for a tough journey. But for now, all Rio could do was bask in the pure joy of finally holding her baby in her arms.

“You’re so welcome, Baby Bunny, Mami loves you so so much.”

“Love you too, Mami. So so much.”

[holeodemony]

TMA has influenced my life more than I'd like to admit.

I carry around a tape recorder at all times.

I correlate every single thing with the fears.

I have a fashion sense sense which is literally a strange mix of Elias, Jon, Martin, and Gerry.

There's just so much of me that has become due to the archives.

It's wonderful and terrifying... which is appropriate when considering this topic.

[fallowtail]

controversial take here but i really hope hetty is on her absolute worst nastygirl/comedic clown behavior in s4 to push back against the poor little meow meow woobification curse shes been experiencing since holes because i am tired

[thedreadvampy]

sometimes I forget that my experience has been. um. not 'your experiences are not universal' vibes but more like 'your experiences are EXTREMELY atypical'

[shannonsketches]

he's so important to me

[peapodsplace]

Hey Baba, it seems like you've been seeing a lot of yucky stuff online right now. A lot of people who aren't remembering their manners and are forgetting that there's people behind a screen. I know you like your screen time but please remember that the world isn't all like that okay? Some people are different online and forget their values and let's remember that these days, algorithms perpously show you things that'll make you upset. Yes, yes it's not very fair, is it sweetheart. Please remember to take some breaks and that the world isn't really like that. It's so important to protect yourself. Yes, silly even if you think you don't deserve it; because you do.