#are they real or memory....a ghost or guilt....is there really a difference? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mononijikayu · 3 months ago

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right people, wrong place — nanami kento.

“And what about us? Was I something you could just walk away from?” The question hung in the air between you, heavy and raw. For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his gaze—regret, maybe—but it vanished just as quickly. “I never wanted to hurt you, you know that.” he said quietly, almost like an admission of guilt. “But this was always going to be the cost.”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence!

WARNING/S: romance, fluff, angst, marriage separation, salvaging the marriage, nsfw, rated 18 and above, explicit content, kissing, car-fuck, making out, smut, fingering, p to v sex, orgasm, hurt/comfort, alcohol, crying, drunk, emotional, pining, happy ending, characters speaking in sexual innuendo, depiction of breakdown of a marriage, depiction of alcoholic beverages, depiction of getting drunk, depiction of sexual acts, depiction of sexual tension, depiction of naked bodies, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, sorcerer! nanami, non-sorcerer! reader;

WORD COUNT: 7.7k words.

NOTE: finally!!! im putting out this chapter on my birthday which is crazy but i feel like putting it out on my birthday shows how much i really love nanami. i really wondered a lot how to do this because i don't think nanami's the sort of person who would end up hurting his lover/partner like this. but hm, i suppose it works out in the end!!! anyway, i hope you guys enjoy this a lot like i did!!! i love you all <3

masterlist

kinktober 2024 - kayu's version

if you want to, tip! <3

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IN YOUR YEARS LIVING, YOU’D NEVER THOUGHT THIS WOULD HAPPEN. You never thought you would find yourself in this position, but sometimes marriages just don't last. It’s been a while since your husband, Nanami Kento, and you became estranged. His constant absence, wrapped up in his work as a sorcerer, eventually took precedence over your marriage.

At first, you understood, even tried to be patient. But over time, the long hours, missed moments, and growing distance became too much to bear. You found yourself frustrated, feeling as though you were competing with a world you couldn’t fully understand or be a part of.

Slowly, that frustration turned into resentment. Despite your efforts to keep things together, the silence between you grew louder. Eventually, the separation felt inevitable. Now, standing on the other side of it, you reflect on the painful truth: sometimes love isn't enough when life pulls you in different directions.

You sighed, staring at the empty side of the bed where Kento used to sleep. The memories of better days flickered in your mind, but they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s life. The silence of your apartment was deafening, broken only by the occasional sound of the outside world.

“Did you ever regret it?” you whispered, almost as if speaking to the ghost of your past, hoping for an answer you knew wouldn’t come. “Did you ever think… maybe I was worth staying for?”

You shook your head, frustrated with yourself for even asking the question. It wasn’t fair to him. You knew how much responsibility weighed on Kento's shoulders. Being a sorcerer wasn’t just a job; it was a duty. But sometimes, you wished he would have chosen you, just once, over the weight of the world.

Your minds rushed to those memories again. That night when he left the house. You looked as he packed everything he could carry. His clothes, his books… small pieces of a life you once shared now reduced to what he could fit into a suitcase. The silence between you stretched, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air, almost suffocating.

“Is this really it, then?” you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper. It was a question that had hung in the back of your mind for months, but now, with him standing here, packing the last remnants of your life together, it felt real. Permanent.

Kento paused, his hand resting on one of his neatly folded shirts. He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “I don’t know.”

“That’s all you can say? After so many years?.....Kento....this is…” you replied, your voice cracking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Not even a reason?”

His shoulders tensed at your words, but he still didn’t turn around. “If I say something, it would be a fight and then that fight would hurt you and I again. Do you really want that?”

“No, I don’t.” you shot back, the frustration and hurt bubbling to the surface. “But maybe it should. Because then I would know if it actually mattered. Because it didn’t feel like it mattered, Kento. It felt like I was always second place to your work, to the missions, to everything else.”

He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable but the exhaustion in his eyes undeniable. “I never wanted it to be like this. But you knew what I was from the beginning. Being a sorcerer… it’s not something you can just walk away from.”

“And what about us? Was I something you could just walk away from?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy and raw. For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his gaze—regret, maybe—but it vanished just as quickly.

“I never wanted to hurt you, you know that.” he said quietly, almost like an admission of guilt. “But this was always going to be the cost.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound harsh even to your own ears. “So that’s it? We were just collateral damage to your sense of duty?”

Kento didn’t answer right away. Instead, he closed the suitcase with a soft click, the finality of it settling like a stone in your chest. “I thought I could do both. I thought I could be there for you and still do what needed to be done. But I was wrong.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You stared at him, waiting for something more—an apology, a plea, anything. But all you got was that same calm, distant resolve that had driven you apart in the first place.

He picked up the suitcase, his fingers tightening around the handle. “Goodbye.”

And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and the emptiness of the apartment swallowed you whole. You stood there, staring at the spot where he had been, feeling the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you. It was over.

But somehow, it still didn’t feel like closure.

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EVERYTHING THAT CAME AFTER WAS HARD. In the days that followed, the silence in your apartment became both a comfort and a curse. It was quiet—almost too quiet—but for the first time in what felt like forever, the suffocating weight of uncertainty was gone.

Kento was gone, too. But in a way, that absence, painful as it was, felt like a step toward something else. Healing, maybe. And it didn’t help, how empty the rooms were. Half of his belongings were gone and packed up when you weren’t in the apartment.

It was slow at first. You’d wake up some mornings expecting him to be there, just a shadow of his presence lingering in the air. You’d make coffee for two out of habit, only to pour the second cup down the sink. Little reminders of him still clung to the edges of your life, and each one was like a small tug at the thread of your resolve.

But as the weeks turned into months, you started to piece yourself back together. You learned how to be alone without feeling lonely, how to fill the spaces he left behind with your own life. You started to find joy in the little things again—quiet mornings with a book, walks in the park, laughing with friends who had long been neglected while you tried to hold onto something that was already slipping away.

Still, there were moments, late at night when the world went still, that the ache of missing him crept back in. It was like a dull, persistent pain—manageable, but never quite gone. You’d find yourself lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing, if he was thinking of you, too. If he ever would come back and say that he regrets walking away.

Because the truth was, you still loved him. Deeply. And that was the hardest part. No matter how much you tried to move forward, to heal, the love you had for Nanami Kento never fully disappeared. It lingered, bittersweet and aching, tucked into the corners of your heart.

Some nights, you found yourself replaying those last moments with him—the way he stood in the doorway, his back turned to you, the finality of his goodbye. You couldn’t help but wonder if things could have been different. If you had fought harder, if he had tried just a little more. But those thoughts always led to the same conclusion: no matter how much you loved him, love wasn’t enough to fix what had broken between you.

And yet, despite everything, there was still a part of you that wanted him back. It was foolish, you knew that. But the heart rarely listens to reason. You missed the way he made you feel safe, even when everything else in your world felt uncertain. You missed the way he’d brush his fingers through your hair absentmindedly while reading or the quiet moments where words weren’t needed because you both just… understood.

But loving him came with a cost, one you couldn’t ignore. You knew that being with him meant sharing him with a world that constantly demanded more of him than you could ever give. It meant always being second place, always waiting for him to come home, always wondering if this time would be the last.

You weren’t sure if you could live like that again.

It was hard, knowing that despite how much better you were feeling, the part of you that still longed for him wasn’t ready to let go. You tried to distract yourself—work, hobbies, anything to keep your mind from drifting back to him. But every now and then, you’d catch a glimpse of something that reminded you of him—a certain tie in a shop window, a scent in the air—and the pang of longing would hit you all over again.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you found yourself standing at the edge of your balcony, staring out at the sunset. The sky was painted in hues of gold and pink, the world so quiet and still that it almost felt like a dream. For a brief moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like if he were here beside you. If, somehow, you could make it work. If the love you had was enough to outweigh everything else.

But as the colors faded and dusk settled in, you realized something—wanting him, loving him, would always be part of you. But so would the pain. And maybe, just maybe, the best thing you could do was let both of those things exist without trying to fix them. To let the love you still had for him be a memory, something you carried with you but didn’t let define you anymore.

It was hard. But you were learning that sometimes, healing isn’t about forgetting the past. It’s about accepting it and finding a way to move forward anyway. Even if part of you will always wish things had been different.

You sighed, staring at the empty side of the bed where Nanami used to sleep. The memories of better days flickered in your mind, but they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s life. The silence of your apartment was deafening, broken only by the occasional sound of the outside world.

“Did you ever regret it?” you whispered, almost as if speaking to the ghost of your past, hoping for an answer you knew wouldn’t come. “Did you ever think… maybe I was worth staying for?”

You shook your head, frustrated with yourself for even asking the question. It wasn’t fair to him. You knew how much responsibility weighed on Nanami's shoulders. Being a sorcerer wasn’t just a job; it was a duty. But sometimes, you wished he would have chosen you, just once, over the weight of the world.

The doorbell rang, snapping you out of your thoughts. For a moment, your heart raced—an absurd part of you hoped it was him. But you quickly brushed the thought aside. That chapter was closed. Or so you tried to convince yourself.

When you opened the door, there he stood—Nanami Kento.

“I came to pick up the rest of my things.” he said, his voice low and steady, as if the weight of the words didn't matter. But they did. Every syllable felt like a punch to your chest.

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in, though the sight of him in the apartment again felt like a knife twisting in an old wound. He walked past you without another word, heading to what used to be your shared bedroom. It was strange—after all the time that had passed, he still moved like he belonged here, like nothing had changed. But everything had.

You followed him, your footsteps quiet as you watched him start gathering his things. His clothes, his books… small pieces of a life you once shared now reduced to what he could fit into a suitcase. The silence between you stretched, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air, almost suffocating.

“This is it, huh?” you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper. It was a question that had hung in the back of your mind for months, but now, with him standing here, packing the last remnants of your life together, it felt real. Permanent. “Is….is this what’s left?”

Kento paused, his hand resting on one of his neatly folded shirts. He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Anything, everything.” you replied, your voice cracking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “I just want to know if any of it ever mattered to you.”

His shoulders tensed at your words, but he still didn’t turn around. “You know it did. You matter to me. More than you know.”

“Did I?” you shot back, the frustration and hurt bubbling to the surface. “Because why have I never felt it? When will I feel it?”

He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable but the exhaustion in his eyes undeniable. “I showed you everything I could. I gave you everything I could. Was that never going to be enough for you?”

“And what about us? Was I something you could just walk away from?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy and raw. For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his gaze—regret, maybe—but it vanished just as quickly.Nanami didn’t answer right away. Instead, he closed the box with a soft touch, the finality of it settling like a stone in your chest.

“I thought I could do both. I thought I could be there for you and still do what needed to be done. But I was wrong.”

He picked up the rest of his belongings, his fingers tightening around the handle. “I have to go.”

But somehow, it still didn’t feel like closure.

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YOU DIDN’T EAT MUCH IN THE PAST FEW DAYS. But that was to be expected. You couldn’t eat in the place where you had so many memories. Yet you were feeling unwell as time went on and so slowly, gently, patiently — you tried to be good to yourself. Tried to be understanding. Going through separation, this suffering, it was never going to be easy.

The silence in your apartment became both a comfort and a curse. It was quiet—almost too quiet—but for the first time in what felt like forever, the suffocating weight of uncertainty was gone.

The emptiness felt different now. It wasn't just about loss or absence; it was about space—space to breathe, to think, to feel without the constant dread lurking in every corner. Still, the quiet held an echo of everything you had left behind, and that made moving forward all the more difficult.

But as the weeks turned into months, you started to piece yourself back together. You learned how to be alone without feeling lonely, how to fill the spaces he left behind with your own life.

You started to find joy in the little things again—quiet mornings with a book, walks in the park, laughing with friends who had long been neglected while you tried to hold onto something that was already slipping away.

Still, there were moments, late at night when the world went still and you’re watching television alone by yourself — you could feel that the ache of missing him crept back in.

It was like a dull, persistent pain—manageable, but never quite gone. You’d find yourself lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing, if he was thinking of you, too. If he ever regretted walking away. Or if he missed you just as much as you did.

But you had to move on. Life wasn’t going to wait for you to get better, to be better. It demanded that you keep going, even when you weren’t sure how to, even when the ghost of what you had still weighed heavy on your soul.

So, you kept going, step by step. Some days were easier than others, filled with the distractions of work, the warmth of sunlight on your skin, and conversations that pulled you out of your own head. Other days were harder—when memories of him resurfaced without warning, when a familiar scent or an old song hit you with the force of a tidal wave, threatening to drown you in nostalgia.

But you had learned by now how to weather those moments. You’d remind yourself that healing wasn’t linear, that some days you would falter, and that was okay. You had to let yourself feel the sadness, the longing, without letting it consume you.

And in time, you began to see the future more clearly, not just as a continuation of what you lost but as something entirely new. You began to make plans for yourself, not the version of you that existed with him but the person you were becoming on your own. You started to imagine new possibilities—new experiences, new places, and maybe even, eventually, new love.

But for now, it was enough to simply live. To wake up each morning with the quiet acceptance that the pain would fade, slowly, until it was just another part of you, like a scar that healed over time. And though Nanami Kento would always hold a piece of your heart, you knew that piece was no longer all you had. There was more to you, more to your life, and you would find it, one day at a time.

And maybe, tonight was just one of those nights you didn’t plan. Tonight was one more night where you tried to forget. It was just a spontaneous meeting with the friends you made because of your estranged husband.

In a way, you think that Shoko and Utahime, were the only people who had really been there for you throughout this entire mess. You met up at a quiet bar tucked away in a corner of the city, a place that felt far removed from the chaos of sorcery and everything that came with it.

Shoko sat across from you, her usual laid-back demeanor a source of steady comfort, while Utahime leaned in, her voice soft and warm, coaxing you into laughter with her lighthearted banter. The night had started out innocent enough—a few drinks, some stories, and shared frustrations. But as the alcohol flowed, so did your emotions.

“Honestly.” you groaned, swirling your drink before downing it, “I don’t even know what I miss more—him, or the idea of what we could’ve been if his work didn’t always come first.”

Shoko raised her glass, giving you a sympathetic smile. “It’s never easy, is it? Being with someone like him. The duty comes first. Always.”

Utahime nodded, her eyes full of understanding. “But that doesn’t make what you feel any less valid. You loved him. That doesn’t just disappear.”

The alcohol in your system made you bolder, more honest than you’d been in a while. You leaned forward, placing your elbows on the table, and slurred slightly, “It’s not fair, you know? I tried, I really did. But how long am I supposed to wait? How many nights am I supposed to spend alone, wondering if he’s even coming back?”

Shoko reached across the table and squeezed your hand gently. “You’re not supposed to wait forever. You deserve more than that.”

But instead of finding solace in her words, you found yourself feeling more emotional, the weight of everything you’d been holding back finally cracking open under the influence of too much alcohol. A tear slipped down your cheek, and before you could stop it, you were sobbing into your hands, overwhelmed by a mix of heartache and frustration.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry!” Utahime said softly, sliding into the seat beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You’re doing great. This is just… part of the process.”

Shoko, usually so calm and collected, looked a little more concerned than usual. “Okay, I think it’s time to slow down on the drinks, girlie.” she said, gently pulling your glass away from you.

But you were too far gone to care. The mix of pain, regret, and alcohol had you in a place where you didn’t want to think anymore—you just wanted to feel something, anything other than the ache of missing him.

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob and raised your hands in the air dramatically. “I’m a mess! A total mess! And you know what? I miss him. I still miss him even after everything!”

Utahime tried to keep you grounded, but your emotions were all over the place. “We know. We get it. Just breathe.”

Shoko sighed, reaching for her phone. “I think we might need backup here.”

You were too busy giggling uncontrollably to notice her dialing a number, the alcohol buzzing in your veins, making you feel invincible, heartbroken, and foolish all at once.

“I’m calling Nanami.” Shoko said, her voice firm as she stepped away to speak quietly into the phone.

The name hit you like a punch in the chest, and suddenly, the laughter was gone, replaced by a pit of regret. “Wait… Shoko, no. Don’t… don’t call him.” you mumbled, slumping against the table.

But it was too late.

Half an hour later, as the bar started to empty out and the world around you became a blurry haze, you felt a familiar presence. Nanami Kento stood at the entrance, his expression unreadable, though his posture was tense, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. He scanned the room until his eyes landed on you—wild-eyed and completely drunk, your face flushed from crying and too many drinks.

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a glance as Nanami walked over to the table. “She… might’ve had a bit too much tonight, you know?” Utahime said sheepishly, standing up to give him space.

Nanami didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you—really looked at you, like he was seeing you for the first time in months. You could see the subtle flicker of concern in his eyes, even if his face remained calm, composed.

You, on the other hand, were a mess. “Kento….” you slurred, your voice thick with emotion. “Why did you come?”

He crouched down beside you, his voice low but steady. “Shoko called me.”

You frowned, trying to process that. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

For a moment, you both just stared at each other, the air between you heavy with everything left unsaid. You wanted to say so many things—to tell him how much you missed him, how much it hurt to love him, but your thoughts were too muddled, and the alcohol made everything feel distant and surreal.

Nanami sighed softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Let’s get you home.”

Too tired and drunk to argue, you leaned into his touch, letting him guide you out of the bar. As he helped you into the passenger seat of his car, you felt a pang of sadness wash over you. Even in this state, the warmth of his presence made you remember why you had fallen in love with him in the first place.

But as the car started and the city lights blurred by, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was all you’d ever be to him now—a fleeting responsibility, a problem to fix.

Through heavy-lidded eyes, you glanced over at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do you still care, Kento?”

For the first time in a long while, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “Of course I care.” he said quietly, almost like it hurt to admit it. “I always have….I always will.”

But as the darkness of the night pulled you under, you couldn’t help but think that maybe caring just wasn’t enough.

The drive was quiet, the hum of the engine and the distant noise of the city filling the silence between you and Nanami. You leaned your head against the window, feeling the cool glass against your flushed skin, the alcohol still buzzing faintly in your veins. Everything felt muted, distant, as if you were floating just outside yourself, watching the scene unfold from afar.

Nanami’s presence was steady, calm as always, but there was something different about it tonight—something almost tender in the way he glanced over at you every few moments, checking to see if you were okay. He was a man of few words, but the weight of everything left unsaid between you felt heavy in the small space of the car.

You closed your eyes, letting the rhythmic motion of the car lull you into a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Your thoughts drifted in and out, a hazy mix of memories and half-formed feelings. The pain of your separation, the love you still held for him, the impossible wish that things could’ve been different.

“Do you need anything?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, something restrained.

You shook your head, trying to gather your thoughts through the alcohol fog, but the room spun, and you could feel the tears welling up again, unbidden and unwelcome. The frustration, the love, the hurt—all of it crashed over you at once, too heavy to hold in any longer.

“I miss you, Kento.” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “But I just…..I don’t want to miss you anymore.”

He didn’t respond right away, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, afraid of what you might see in his eyes. Afraid of the truth you already knew��that no matter how much you wanted him, how much you loved him, some things were just too broken to fix. Your face contorted in distress as you felt like you were going to hurl.

Kento stopped the car on a quiet side of the road and took a breath. He moved towards your side of the vehicle. He opened the door and brushed his hands on your back as though to soothe you. But nothing came out of you. Instead, you were just hiccupping. Tears were falling down your face by this point, as your eyes met his.

Nanami Kento sighed softly, kneeling down in front of you. He reached out, brushing a tear from your cheek with the back of his hand, his touch gentle, hesitant. “You shouldn’t have to feel like this about me, about everything.” he murmured, his voice low, filled with regret. “You shouldn’t let this hurt you. Not anymore—”

“But you did.” you cut him off, your voice cracking. “Every time you left, every time you put your work first… it felt like I didn’t matter.”

He bowed his head, the weight of your words sinking into him. “I know.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your hands trembling as you clutched the fabric of the couch beneath you. “I loved you, Kento. I still love you. But I don’t know if I can keep doing this… if I can keep feeling like I’m waiting for something that will never come.”

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and for the first time in a long while, you saw something break in his calm façade. “I never wanted you to wait. But I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know….I didn’t know how to stop saving people.”

The vulnerability in his voice, the raw honesty, made your heart ache even more. You could see it now—his struggle, his conflict between the duty he felt as a sorcerer and the love he had for you. But that didn’t change the fact that you had spent so long feeling alone, abandoned in a relationship that demanded more from you than you could give.

“Why did you come tonight?” you asked, your voice shaky, desperate for answers. “Why didn’t you just leave me there?”

Nanami was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Because I couldn’t. No matter how much I tell myself it’s better for you if I stay away… I can’t stop caring about you. Nor could I just….Nor could I just leave you like that. You don’t need to be alone, not like this.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. It was the truth you had always known, deep down—that he loved you, that he cared. But caring wasn’t enough to bridge the gap between the life he led and the one you needed. And that was the most painful part.

“I don’t know how to stop loving you.” you admitted, tears streaming down your face now, unrestrained. “But I also don’t know how to keep living like this. I don’t want to keep living like this.”

Nanami looked at you then, his expression conflicted, torn between his duty and the love he had for you. “I wish I could give you more. I wish I could be what you need.”

His honesty only made the hurt deeper, and you choked back a sob, turning your face away from him. “I wish that too, Kento. But wishing doesn’t make it real.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything, the silence heavy and suffocating. Nanami stood, his movements slow, deliberate. He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.

“If you ever need me.” he said quietly, his back to you, “I’ll be there. Always. No matter what. I…I’m telling you the truth.”

His voice was low, a smooth, steady rumble that sent shivers down your spine. The way his fingers touched your skin, soft yet firm, made your breath catch in your throat. You hated how even now, after everything, he still had this effect on you. Your body, your heart—they responded to him instinctively, as if drawn to him by some invisible force you couldn’t control.

Your eyes met his, those deep, unwavering eyes that had always been so hard to read. Dark, focused, filled with an intensity that both excited and terrified you. He tilted his head slightly, waiting for your answer, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. The heat between you was palpable, electric, pulling you closer despite the distance you had tried so hard to create between your lives.

But it wasn’t just lust. It was the ache of wanting something you knew you could never fully have.

“I—” You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you fought to find the words. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

It was the truth. You were caught between desire and heartbreak, between the pull of your body and the ache in your chest.

Nanami’s gaze softened slightly, though his hand remained firm against your chin. “You can always tell me. Even if you don’t know, I’m here to listen.”

His lips were inches from yours now, and your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your breath hitched, and you felt the throbbing in your core intensify, the need rising within you. But it wasn’t just physical—it was the need to feel close to him again, to bridge the distance between you, if only for a moment.

His thumb grazed your lip again, this time slower, more deliberate. “Tell me what you need.” he whispered, his voice like silk, coaxing you to let go of everything you were holding back.

Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes fluttered shut for just a second, your resolve slipping away. You wanted him—needed him—but the weight of everything between you still clung to the edges of your mind.

“I want…” you began, your voice trembling as you opened your eyes to meet him once more. “I want you. But I don't want you.”

There it was. The painful truth, laid bare between you.

Nanami’s expression didn’t change, but you could see the flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or maybe understanding. He leaned in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“I know.” he said softly. “And I’m sorry.”

But even as he apologized, his hand slid down from your chin to the curve of your neck, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path that sent waves of heat coursing through your body. You inhaled sharply, your resolve crumbling further with every second that passed.

He always knew how to touch you, how to make you forget the pain, the doubts, the distance. It was intoxicating, the way he could pull you in without even trying, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but lean into it. Into him.

His lips hovered over yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, but he didn’t close the gap. He never did—he always waited for you to make the choice, to cross that line. He gave you control, even when it felt like you had none.

“What do you want?” he asked again, his voice barely more than a breath as his hand settled at the base of your neck, fingers brushing the sensitive skin there.

You could feel the tension coiling in your body, the way your heart raced, the way every nerve seemed to be on fire. You wanted to push him away, to tell him that this wasn’t right, that you couldn’t keep doing this. But the pull of him was too strong, and your body betrayed you.

“I want…...” The words caught in your throat, your breath shaky, your lips barely an inch from his. “I want you to make me forget.”

And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the pain, not the past, not the uncertainty of what the future held. All that mattered was the feel of his hand on your skin, the way his eyes never left yours, the way his presence grounded you and made you feel alive all at once.

Nanami’s lips finally brushed against yours, a soft, tentative kiss that sent a shock of electricity through your body. You responded instinctively, pressing into him, the taste of him familiar and yet still enough to set your senses ablaze.

His other hand slid down your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every second of it. You moaned softly into his mouth, your body melting against him, your mind blissfully empty of everything except him.

For just this moment, you let yourself forget. Forget the hurt, the separation, the longing that had been eating at you for months. Right now, all that existed was the heat between you, the way his hands moved over your body, the way his lips claimed yours with a tenderness that both healed and hurt.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself fall into the moment, into him, knowing that tomorrow would bring all the same questions and heartache. But for tonight, you let yourself be with him, no matter how fleeting it might be.

The kiss lingered, both tender and desperate, a blend of longing and unresolved emotions that seemed to pulse between you. Nanami’s hands roamed your body with a careful intensity, as if he were trying to memorize every curve, every shiver that ran through you. His touch was both familiar and achingly new, a reminder of what you once had and what you had been missing.

You clung to him, your hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer as if you could erase the months of separation with just this physical connection. Every touch, every caress felt like a balm to the wound that had been left open for so long.

But even as the moment enveloped you, reality kept its sharp edge. Every kiss, every touch was a reminder of the distance that had come between you, the reasons you’d tried so hard to move on. The passion that ignited between you was a bitter-sweet symphony, playing a melody of both desire and regret.

Nanami broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against yours. He looked into your eyes with a mixture of yearning and sadness, the weight of everything unsaid pressing heavily between you.

“I’m so sorry.” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “For everything.”

You could only nod, your throat tight, your heart aching at the sincerity in his voice. “I know.” you managed to say, your voice trembling. “I know.”

He cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had silently fallen. “You mean everything to me, you know?” he said softly, his gaze unwavering. “But I know I can’t just come back and expect everything to be okay.”

You nodded again, tears blurring your vision as you tried to process the complexity of the moment. The feelings between you were still raw, unhealed, and the reality of your situation pressed down hard on both of you. You wanted to hold onto him, to keep him close, but the pain of the past and the uncertainty of the future loomed large.

Kento's massivehands slowly slid from your face to your shoulders, his touch grounding and reassuring. “We can’t go back to how we were.” he said softly, a note of resignation in his voice. “I can’t promise you that everything will be perfect.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to find your voice amidst the whirlwind of emotions. “I don’t expect perfection,” you said, your voice cracking. “I just… I just want to know that you still care, that there’s still something left between us.”

He looked at you with a deep sadness in his eyes, as if he were trying to convey all the things he couldn’t put into words. “I care,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “More than you know. But we both need to heal, to figure out what’s next. I can’t keep coming and going, leaving you with more pain.”

You swallowed hard, trying to reconcile his words with the longing you still felt. “What happens now?” you asked softly, feeling the weight of the question hanging in the air.

Nanami sighed, pulling you into a gentle embrace. “I don’t know.” he admitted.

“Me neither.” You whisper to him as your eyes echoed to him and narrowed. “But I want you to love me. Tonight. Right now.”

“But—”

You kissed him, hungry and passionate. You pull at his jaw, wanting him closer than ever before. You want him near. You want him enveloping you. As though an embrace that would lock you away in his warmth for the rest of your lives. It was as though the fire of young love reawakened after a long hibernation. And you want more than anything this spring, this warmth of spring. His love.

Kento hesitates for a moment, his gaze heavy with concern and desire, before he finally whispers, "Are you sure?"

You nod, breathless, your hands trembling as you reach for him. "I'm sure, Kento. I want you… I've always wanted you."

His resolve falters, and he leans forward, capturing your lips again with a fervor that sends a jolt of electricity through your body. His hands slide over your back, pulling you closer, and you feel the heat of his body pressing against you. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing your lips, coaxing you open to taste him, to feel him.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both panting, your breaths mingling in the confined space of the car. There's a moment where neither of you speaks, just staring at each other, the weight of your shared desire hanging in the air.

Kento's hand moves between your legs, his fingers grazing over the fabric of your clothes, and you shiver at the contact. He’s gentle at first, almost hesitant, but when he sees the way your body responds, a low growl escapes his throat. He’s lost in the moment, his mouth descending to taste you, his tongue working deftly to unravel every ounce of pleasure he can from you.

You gasp, your back arching against the seat as his tongue dances over your most sensitive parts, his spit mixing with your own arousal. His hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as he devours you like a man starved, each stroke and flick of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge.

When you finally break, a cry tearing from your throat, he doesn’t hesitate. He lifts you easily, pulling you onto his lap, his lips finding yours again in a messy, desperate kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, the tang of your desire mingling with his own.

He fumbles with his pants, freeing himself from the constraints, and you feel the heat of him, hard and ready, pressing against you. Your eyes meet, and for a moment, there’s a silent understanding — a shared want that transcends words.

With a quiet groan, he grips your hips, guiding you over him, his breath catching as he finally pushes inside. You both gasp, a moan escaping your lips as he fills you completely, your bodies moving in a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing. He clings to you, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate, and you cling back just as fiercely, not wanting this moment to end.

“I won't stop anymore." he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear, and you know he means it — neither of you want to stop.

Kento’s words hang heavy in the air, igniting something primal within you. You shift your hips, pressing down harder, taking him deeper, and a guttural sound escapes his lips, his hands digging into your waist as if he’s afraid you might disappear.

He starts moving, thrusting up into you with a roughness that takes your breath away. You hold onto his shoulders for balance, your nails digging into his skin, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure through your body.

You couldn't help but groan over and over with every sensual movement, the windows fogging up as the air grows thick with your mingled breaths and moans.

Kento’s mouth is everywhere — on your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His lips are hot, leaving trails of fire across your skin. He sucks and nips, marking you as his.

And it makes you gasp, makes you arch closer, needing more, craving everything he can give you. Your body moves on instinct, rolling your hips against him, each motion driving him deeper until you feel like you can’t take it anymore.

“More, more….Oh—” you whisper, a plea escaping your lips. He groans in response, tightening his grip on you, his hips slamming into yours with a desperate rhythm.

He shifts, one hand sliding down between your bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive nub. He circles it, presses down, and you cry out, your body clenching around him as the sensations intensify, as every nerve feels like it's on fire.

The sound of skin against skin fills the car, mingling with the soft creak of leather and the panting breaths escaping both of you.

Kento’s pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more urgent. “God, you feel so good.” he murmurs, his voice ragged, almost broken.

He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours, his eyes searching yours for something — maybe reassurance, maybe something deeper.

"Tell me you want this." he breathes, his thumb circling faster.

“I want it,” you gasp, your voice trembling with need. “I want you, Kento… don't stop, please…”

That seems to be all he needs. He growls low in his throat, his grip tightening as he thrusts into you with renewed fervor, each movement harder, deeper, pushing you both to the edge of oblivion. Your hands clutch his hair, pulling him closer as you feel the coil tightening in your belly, threatening to snap.

He shifts again, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you, and you scream, the sound raw and needy, your body trembling. You can feel the heat pooling, feel the tension building to an unbearable point.

He leans back slightly, watching you with hooded eyes, and the sight of him — pupils blown wide, lips parted, sweat slicking his skin — sends a new wave of desire crashing through you.

“Come for me, baby.” he commands, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Let me feel you.”

The words push you over the edge, your body convulsing around him as you shatter, pleasure ripping through you like a tidal wave. Kento groans, feeling you clench around him, and he thrusts a few more times before he’s there too, his own release surging through him with a low, guttural sound.

You collapse against him, both of you panting, bodies trembling and slick with sweat. For a moment, you just stay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling the aftershocks of what you’ve just shared. He strokes your back gently, his breath still uneven, his heart pounding against yours.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, his voice filled with concern, his thumb brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You smile, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. "More than okay, baby." you whisper, leaning in to kiss him again, tasting the salt of your shared exertion on his lips. "I don't want this to end.”

“I missed you.” He whispered lowly as he pressed a kiss on your palm. “More than you ever could know.”

You smiled at him. “Me too, my love.”

“I want to come home….and make things right.” Your husband tells you, his eyes tortured by desperation. “I want to make it up to you.”

“I know.” You nodded at him, leaning forward and kissing his chin. “Just come home. We’ll figure it out….like we always do.”

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ephemerensis · 6 months ago

Text

Lavender // Tim Drake x GN! Reader

part 1. this is part 2. i just took the LSAT (law school test) feeling floored and dejected right now i cannot lie! rly just ran through writing this 😖 not proofread im sry

—

When you came to, it was Red Robin at your bedside. His hands neatly folded beneath his head as he rested it on the side of the mattress. The way his back rose and fell, and the way he was still as you shifted around indicated he was asleep. You knew little of him, but enough to know that this was a rarity, to see him in his slumber. And it softened something in you, awakening a yearning to protect this peace for him.

Memories of the previous night ran through your head again, and from what you could collect you remembered that bludgeoning feeling that accompanied his little outburst. To think you were the source of his stress, and his being here amplified that. Tense even in sleep like a guard dog at your beck and call.

But he’d forget you soon enough.

If you were honest with yourself, you held a selfish desire for this arrangement to last as long as possible for all the wrong reasons. He was kind and dependable and witty; talking was easy and secretly fawning over him was even easier. This, of course, you knew was unsustainable. You’re a job. He’s a hero in a mask.

When all is good and done and you go your separate ways, he’d find something else to stress over. Although, you hoped it wouldn’t be so taxing. You weren’t happy to be a burden, but if you were his worst then the rest would be easy to bury when you were gone. Wishful thinking, there’s always bigger fish to fry. But worse was the thought that something else could make him as upset as this.

He looked so peaceful, face resting in his palms, features angelically frozen in place. A couple of stray strands dangled between the whites of his mask, brushing against his nose as a breeze trailed in from the open bedside window. You reached forward to push them back, but as soon as your fingers brushed his locks he stirred. Your eyes widened; pulling your hand back, out of embarrassment or something other— you weren’t sure, you pretended to be interested in the birds flying by outside as he’d picked his head up off the sheets.

“Y/N?” It was a wonder you mistook him for Tim the night before, the fatigue was likely to blame. What a ridiculous mistake. Where Tim sounded gentle and fleeting, like waves lapping at the shore, Red Robin was more grounded in his speech. They were uncannily similar in their own respects, but the difference was undeniable. When Tim spoke, it was like he coaxed you into listening, when Red Robin calls your name it’s like he pulls you to him.

You turned from the window to look at him, feigning as composed of an expression as you could, as if your hand wasn’t inches from his face a couple seconds ago.

He stood, stoically brushing himself off and straightening himself, “are you feeling alright? How’s your arm?”

That’s right. You’d been shot at. You glanced at your bandaged arm, neatly wrapped and tightly bound. It honestly wasn’t so bad, it was the tranquilizers that really hit you, and the worst of that effect was long over if your sudden alertness had anything to mean by it, “fine, I almost forgot about it.”

He shook his head, arms crossed, “I don’t know, you seemed pretty shaken yesterday.”

“Was not.”

“Sorry, who was screaming crying?” The ghost of a smile danced on his lips.

Your face burned red remembering your sorry state, “you said you wouldn’t show! How was I supposed to know?”

His lips curled up into a real smile with the twinge of something like guilt hidden underneath it. You didn’t mean to make him feel bad, but the fact that he was smiling was enough to ease your heart. “Told you I could get in anywhere.”

The serene expression on his face reminded you of Tim. In almost every sense they were different, but something in their mannerisms aligned as if the very fabric of their nature were cut from the same cloth and tailored by someone else’s hand. And although you’d only met him once, Tim struck you as someone you really wanted to know. He was magnetizing and more importantly, things with him felt like they were easy.

“Do you know if Tim Drake got out safely?”

Red Robin nodded, “he’s fine.”

“He hid me in the first place, you know,” you smiled to yourself, “and then he went back out for his brother or something. He seems like a really good person.”

He snorted and you swore if you could see his eyes he’d be rolling them, “he should’ve taken you outside to the police or left you with a guard at least.”

You furrowed your brows, “don’t be mean.”

“Just saying,” he mumbled. “They did book tickets for you to return, the Waynes.”

“I’m not going back, I told you that.”

“At least think it over.”

“I slept on it, I’m staying.” You cut him off before he could protest, “at least until the launch. And I meant what I said, you don’t have to watch me anymore. It’s not like I remember all the files I’d read, Gotham is safe, and I have my own people. I’ll just have to keep a… lower profile.”

“You meant what you said?” You couldn’t read his expression, the mask got in the way.

“Every word.” But the way he asked the question made you want to throw in a ‘mostly’ for insurance.

“So you really like Tim Drake?”

Your face burned, immediately crossing your arms in defense. That part of the conversation conveniently slipped your mind.“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“So you don’t like Tim.” The nerve he had to smirk at you left your jaw on the floor as you stumbled for a response. As if you’d admit it twice, you didn’t even know him that well.

“Stop bullying me,” you grumbled.

He just snorted, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “You don’t need to keep a low profile. As long as you’re here I’ll take care of you.”

You whipped your head to look at him. The last thing you needed was to be a burden to the infinitely charming, slightly annoying, masked stranger sitting in front of you.

“No way, I can handle—“

“I’ll take care of you,” he reiterated, in that frustratingly soft tone that made you forget everything else. Your resolve was by no means something weak, but you already had an inclination towards him, you knew this. And he was too tantalizing to deny, he must know this. It wasn’t fair, you had to fold.

“Thank you.”

Despite it all, you still exercised your caution. Unlike before, you were careful about announcing your whereabouts or even spending excessive time in public. He would do his job, but you would do your best to make it easier. And things were quieter, nothing happened.

A week after the altercation your schedules cleared enough for you to meet Tim for coffee. He’d reached out first but you brought up meeting, for business purposes of course. You’d arrived early, out of something like excitement or anticipation. And he was late.

“Hey, sorry traffic held me up.” Your heart sped up when you saw him walking towards the table, and you weren’t sure if it was your brain tricking you into thinking you liked him that much or if you were really that pathetic. His hair was messy in the way hair gets tousled when you change shirts, but it suited him more so than the polished, perfect look he’d worn the day of the gala.

“That’s okay,” you shook your head with as calm a smile as you could muster, “my schedule is open today. I’m not in a rush.”

He beamed at you, taking the opposite seat. “Right! What’d you order?” Tim nodded towards the cup in front of you.

“Oh, it’s—“

“Wait no let me guess.” He squinted at the cup before locking eyes with you. The cup itself wasn’t clear, but maybe he could get a sense for what it was based on the residue on the straw or something ridiculous like that. After a moment, it seemed he’d decided. He spoke with confidence, complete and certain, “a chai… dirty. Like four shots of espresso dirty, light ice, sugar free sweetener.”

And he was wrong. You burst out laughing, “What? No.”

His eyes had a tendency to smile before his lips did, you noticed. He was shocked for two seconds before laughing with you. “Was I close?”

“Not even, you order espresso with chai? Are you okay?” You scrunched your nose and shook your head just thinking about it. Not just espresso but four shots of it, he was something else.

“No, see, I’m more of a straight black coffee kind of guy.”

You had to laugh, making him stare at you with an amused confusion. First his archaic responses to emails and now this. He just looked young, but he was 40 and balding deep down inside, you knew it. “And you like reading Kafka and playing chess too?”

He tilted his head to the side in catlike curiosity, and the sunlight caught in his eyes the way it glimmers on the surface of the ocean. It wasn’t fair to compare him to a cat though, you’d supposed, he was a dog. Through and through. “How’d you know?”

When he’d gotten his coffee order (pitch black; you shuddered just thinking about it) and you’d both settled into the late morning, he suggested a walk around the city.

You were supposed to be playing things safe, sticking to quiet locations that Red Robin could clearly monitor you from. But truthfully, you hadn’t had time to see the city, nor did you want to turn down the most charming guide the place had to offer. So of course, you agreed. Red Robin was good at his job, this much would be fine.

“You know, I’m not so bad a dancer. I just hadn’t waltzed in a long time.” He’d taken you to a park in the heart of it all. It was huge, sprawling walk ways amongst rolling hills dotted with trees. Somewhere in it was a lake, he promised, so that’s where you were headed arm in arm.

“Right,”he scoffed, “I believe you.” You could’ve drowned in the sarcasm that dripped from his voice. If he wasn’t so chipper about it, you might’ve even been offended.

“It’s true!” You smacked his arm with a half hearted huff he had nerve to laugh at. After a breath, you started again, “I’ve been meaning to ask, what cologne do you wear?”

An emotion flickered across his face, going as a quickly as it came. If you’d blinked you’d have missed it, the briefest twitch of his left brow and the way his lips parted for a millisecond. Not that it meant anything to you, you could’ve imagined it, because he was back and beaming before you could push on.

“Why? Do you want it?” From seemingly nowhere, he pulled out a pocket sized atomizer and spritzed the wrist of his sweater. Tim linked his arm with yours again, before taking the cologne covered sleeve your shoulder and arm with it. The scent of that lavender vanilla washed over you again. In your head you thought they were Pavlov-ing you in some tag teamed manner. At first it was whatever, but now those gentle notes meant safety and comfort. It made you mellow. “Just hang around me more often, it’ll stick.”

“Red Robin wears the same one,” and there it was again. Except this time his face didn’t change, but you could feel the muscles the arm linked to yours tense briefly and his pace slowed by a millisecond. “I just thought it was a funny coincidence. I’ve never met anyone else that’s worn it, and I know my perfumes. You’re a fan right?”

“Oh no, not at all.” He said it too quickly and he knew it. It looked like his featured had frosted over, like a deer in headlights. Tim cleared his throat, glancing away awkwardly. “I prefer Red Hood,” he tacked on.

“Oh,” you frowned, maybe he was shy about it or maybe Red Robin yelled at him. He was displeased enough the other day. “You’re awfully similar, I think you’d get along. He’s a little meaner though. Well, not mean but like… closed off.”

“Yeah that guy sounds like he sucks,” he mumbled.

“Don’t say that.” It came out sterner than you’d intended or anticipated. You don’t know why the urge to defend your masked stalker arose so strongly within you, but you didn’t feel justified in anyone thinking anything less of him than what he was. Softening your tone, you tried again. “He cares a lot, and he tries really hard, and he’s good at what he does, and it makes a difference.”

He just stared at you. But not in a way you could decipher. He wasn’t annoyed or spiteful or anything. He just stared; mouth slightly agape and face unshakingly still.

Tim’s silence spurred on your embarrassment, maybe you’d spoken out of turn. You were suddenly very interested in the foliage, “hey, look at that… tree.”

“You’re right.” Relief flooded your body as he broke the tension, and moreso because he agreed with you. “Do you wanna go out sometime? With me?”

You slowed your steps to a halt. It came out a little out of the blue, but more importantly, “this isn’t a date?”

“I can do better than this for a first date.” And with that oh so gentle smile on his face, you were doomed to believe him.

Tim delivered, of course. He took you to a pottery house to paint your own plates and spin your own mugs; none of which were shaped very nicely by either of you, but he insisted they were gorgeous and… avant garde.

After you’d both wasted enough clay and everything was ready to be fired, he took you to a private garden with the most scenic blooms in Gotham. For a workaholic shut in, he knew an impressive amount of plant facts— at least enough to give you a guided tour of the place and tell you what each flower in the bouquet he picked for you meant.

Subsequently he’d prepared a picnic dinner under starry skies and a full moon, that he insisted he’d cooked himself. He was lying, but you wouldn’t find out until years after.

So saying yes to a second date was an easy answer. And to a third. A fourth.

Before you knew it, you were going steady, and the day of the product launch was soon approaching. You didn’t know what you’d do after. It’s not like you had everything on the files memorized, so if anyone kidnapped you for information, Gotham would be safe. But likely they’d try anyways and you couldn’t keep dragging Red Robin along on a string.

You’d grown fond of his presence though, telling him secrets or asking for advice about Timberly, and you were disappointed when he rejected your employment offer. Not that it surprised you, he had his own agenda. You weren’t scared of going long distance with Tim, he’d reassured you that the two of you could FaceTime during your 30 minute lunches and that he liked you, like really liked you. And you could believe anything out of his mouth these days. Moreso you were sad you’d miss him, well, them. One was your confidant and the other your lover; leaving felt disheartening.

“Tell me why you like me again,” you asked. You and Tim were bird watching at a local wildlife sanctuary. Even though it was a Saturday, the reserve was big (and unpopular) enough to be sparse. And the stillness of it all gave you enough room to hear yourself think and bask in the ambiance of being around him.

The truth was you didn’t know much. It was impressive how, with the lengths the two of you would talk, you learned nothing about him. Everything centered around you or the city or something other, and you couldn’t control it at all. He was enchantingly skilled at directing conversation.

“Because your eyes sparkle when you talk and your hair is shiny,” he answered.

You nudged his shoulder, making him lower the binoculars he was looking through from his eyes. “That’s not what you said last time.”

“I find new reasons every time I see you!” Handing the binoculars to you, he pointed in the distance at some vague tree. “Look there, I think it’s a blackbird.”

You peered through the lens and after some squinting to try and deliberate branches from feathers, you could see what he was talking about. “Tim that’s a crow.”

“No way,” he took the binoculars back to take another look. After a few seconds he shook his head solemnly, “it’s too small to be a crow. I’m so sorry, but you’re wrong.”

You gasped at the accusation, as if you could ever be wrong, “it’s too big to be a blackbird!” Looking for the bird again to confirm what you saw, you huffed, “its beak isn’t even—“

When you’d whipped around to tell him to look again he caught you off guard, just looking at you with the most serene smile you’d ever seen.

“Yellow,” you finished. “It’d be yellow if it was a blackbird.”

It was one of those where you couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or being genuine, although neither was every far off from the other, overlapping often like the ripples fish make in a pond. In this regard, he was uncannily like Red Robin; you couldn’t tell a thing he was thinking.

A faint whistling sound pierced through the air for a moment, so subtle it could’ve been mistaken for bird song. That moment was all it took for Tim’s expression to change, barking a command for you to duck before pulling you down by your arm anyway. The dull thunk that hit the tree you were leaning on seconds later told you why.

The red tail of a dart was stuck in the trunk where your neck was seconds before. You really couldn’t catch a break. Your head snapped towards the sound of rustling leaves in the direction the dart was fired from.

“Did anything hit you?” he whispered and you shook your head. Before you could think anything else your feet were moving on their own, trying to keep up with him as he weaved through the trees, dragging you along. The grip he had on your wrist burned and under different circumstances you’d have been impressed with his agility through the rough terrain, like a third grader admiring the fastest kid in school.

Despite his talents, you weren’t so graceful and you found yourself tumbling along. In your own way you were gifted with tripping on every root, rock, and stone that littered the ground. If it weren’t for the grip on your wrist you would’ve fallen and given up at the first rock that crossed your path.

He ushered you into a small bird watching cabin before letting you go and closing the door behind him. You gripped your knees trying to catch your breath as he peeked out the windows.

“Stay low, they can shoot through the windows.” You nodded, sliding to the floor with your back to the wall. Instead of sitting beside you, Tim headed straight towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get help. You’ll be safe here,” he flashed you a reassuring smile. But before he could leave you caught his arm, shaking your head.

“Red Robin’s here, we’ll be okay. Just stay.” This you knew was true because he said he would be, and you didn’t need much more confirmation beyond that. The only thing that irked you about the whole situation was why he was so late, he’d prevented almost everything so far, but you were certain he was rushing over or taking care of it as you spoke.

To your surprise, Tim didn’t budge, looking you dead in the eye with one of those unreadable expressions again. He didn’t tear away from you or do anything intimidating, but it was in the mystery of his expression that you found yourself nervous.

“They’re not far behind. Let me go.” He spoke gently but poignantly, like goading a child. And while it was compelling, as he so often was, it didn’t make sense.

“No he’s here, it’s not safe outside!” It felt like you were begging. In all the time you’d spent together, you knew one thing for certain. Tim wasn’t stupid, and he definitely wasn’t irrational. This was something else, and he wasn’t being himself.

“Y/N.” In your head you ran through a hundred scenarios. Maybe he got hit by a dart and it made him delusional, or maybe he was a robot clone short circuting. But the plea in his voice when he called your name struck you in the same way an apology from the other night did.

He was still as you let go, reaching instead to cover his eyes with your hand. With just half his face in view, you wondered why you’d never seen it before.

“You’re him.” It was almost a whisper, you didn’t even know if he could hear it or not. But it dawned on you as all the coincidences and reconciliations aligned. All down to the cologne he wore.

“No.”He was firm, but his voice wavered. Maybe you imagined it, but nothing he could say now would change your mind. “I just want to get help.”

Gingerly, Tim pushed your hand down and you took a step back, reeling in the thought.

“You’re Red Robin.” In your own head you tried to disprove it, but it made sense. And you almost felt bad for knowing it because you never wanted to know his identity, that was always supposed to be his to keep.

“I’m a blackbird.”

“You’re a robin.”

But time wasn’t on his side. No one else was coming and the perpetrators were advancing. So without a final refute, he took a breath and reached for the door.

“I’ll be back.”

—

tags! @jedidiah1201 @a-taken-url @lara20aral @moonccakes

#tim drake fanfic #tim drake #tim drake x reader #batman #dc #red robin x reader #tim drake imagine #tim drake x gender neutral reader #tim drake fluff

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dreamingumbrellas · 5 months ago

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why tua s1 is a masterpiece and 2-4 give me a migraine

i gotta use my english degree for something so lets talk about it

i’d like to note beforehand, that i’ve only seen about half of season 4. but given everything i’ve heard about it, i’ve decided to avoid watching it for my own mental wellbeing. i really haven’t enjoyed the last three seasons much, mostly i’ve been dredging through because of how much i love season 1. it feels painfully like seasons 1 and seasons 2-4 are for completely different fucking shows–particularly in tone.

i think tua season 1 attracted attention to its unique themes that are lost in the rest of the series. the primary themes are of trauma and dysfunctional family dynamics. it’s a story about seven severely abused siblings learning to cope with their trauma and reconnect as adults. season 1’s tone is somber. it shows us glimpses of the characters’ childhoods, and how it affects them in their adult lives. the characters in season 1 were, most importantly, flawed! they were assholes, because trauma turns people into assholes sometimes!

you can directly trace back the siblings’ character flaws to the shit reggie put them through. Luther was the golden boy, which put too much responsibility on his shoulders and isolated him from his siblings. As a result, Luther is ultra-loyal to his dead father, in obvious denial of the abuse he endured because he was never able to form an identity for himself outside of reggie and the academy! he is the only one that never moved on. and then reggie turned luther into (for lack of a better term) a giant monkey without his consent, causing him to hate himself and even further alienate himself from the rest of the world.

diego never left the ‘number 2’ headspace. he fights with luther even into adulthood. despite how much he claims to hate his father, he became a vigilante likely as an effort to finally be good enough for his dad. and lets not forget (unlike the writers) about his stutter–something that formed in childhood and came back as an adult when he was triggered with memories of his childhood. he’s inherently defensive because reginald pit the siblings against one another constantly.

allison is a narcissist–though, when we meet her in season 1, she’s more of a narcissist in recovery. she’s recognized how her childhood affected her and wants to become a better person to make up for the mistakes of her past. what mistakes again? well, she used her powers on her daughter because 1. she was never told no. reggie encouraged the usage of her powers, and the household where she grew up was violent, manipulative, and competitive. she had no sense of real normalcy, so she never learned how to build a happy, healthy family for her daughter. to cope with her trauma, she clung to her fame–this is shown both in adulthood and childhood flashbacks–leading her to become a movie star, and not accept her own faults.

klaus, well, klaus is the most obvious example of trauma. mostly due to reggie forcing his powers on him when he was a young childhood. locking him in a mausoleum for hours on end. he became a drug addict as a result. living on the streets, in and out of rehab, and stealing for money. we see him struggle constantly throughout season 1–through his interactions with ghosts (when its very possible he wouldn’t have developed such a fear of them if it weren’t for reggie), with flashbacks to his childhood and (later) to the vietnam war. his inability to take things seriously and his self-destructive behavior are both coping mechanisms. his siblings don’t trust him because of his lying and kleptomaniac tendencies.

five is a character whose development is utterly abandoned after season 1. he was only thirteen years old when he accidentally travelled in time to the apocalypse, where he remained for 45 years. i remind you of this because the writers won’t. he survived those years for his family! because he felt immeasurable guilt for leaving them! he was so lonely for these years that he developed a romantic attachment to a mannequin (something only referenced for a joke in later seasons). he was in an extremely vulnerable position when he was recruited by the handler (a character who was very creepy in her own right) and he was forced to use his childhood ‘superhero’ skillset to essentially become an assassin, a job he loathed himself for. all so he could have a chance to save his family. five is cocky, sarcastic, and yes, wants to save the world, but we forget that he wanted to save his family first. he was willing to sacrifice the world if it meant saving his siblings. and even once he returns to the present, he experiences ptsd flashbacks to his time in the apocalypse. five is severely traumatized and stuck between childhood and adulthood, has lived for far too long and has done too many terrible things to be a child, but is stuck in a childs body and never got the chance to emotionally mature past the age of 13. this in no way resembles the five we get in later seasons.

in season 1, ben is a tragedy. he is the character that haunts the narrative (literally). his death was the reason the family split up. he experienced an incredibly traumatic childhood, forced to slaughter people against his will. all so that he could die tragically young (we’ll get into his cause of death later). he’s stuck following klaus around for years, unable to interact with anyone else. he watched his brother deteriorate in front of him with no way to help. he’s angry about his death and sometimes takes out his frustrations on klaus. but at the same time, he was ‘the kindest’ of all the siblings. he cares deeply about his family, but can’t do anything about it.

i think it’s easy to forget that the initial focus of the show was viktor. viktor, who was told how unremarkable he was again and again. who was isolated not just from the world but from his own family as well. who was drugged up from an incredibly young age and forced to ignore his emotions. yes, the umbrella academy was abusive. but being isolated from his siblings was just another form of abuse. he grew up to resent his family on a lot of levels, writing his book as a method to vent his frustrations but only ended up in driving his siblings further away. viktor went through a lot of shit in season 1, and resulted in him ending the world. but did his family kill him? no. because that was the point of the entire show. that despite their trauma and how much they might resent one another, the siblings still loved each other more than the rest of the world put together.

everything ive outlined are the elements that make up season 1, and are almost entirely forgotten about later. but by losing the integrity of the characters, they lost the narrative. the point of the umbrella academy was never saving the world–it was about a broken family reconciling with one another despite everything. these points of trauma are taken seriously. it was the complexity of these characters, at least in my opinion, that attracted attention towards them. and sure, we didn’t love every character all the time. remember how much luther was hated in season 1? but it’s because he was realistic. these characters, and the shit they went through, weren’t a joke. and the season ended off in a way that forshadowed these elements being explored more in depth. remember how it ended?

with the seven siblings holding hands as the world exploded around them. and for only a few seconds, we saw them transform back into their child selves.

now, this plot point (whatever it might have been) was instantly cancelled and forgotten about in season 2. but it really makes you think about the season we could have gotten: the characters being forced back into their childhood, having to confront the root of their trauma and essentially, all their problems. they could look back at what happened to them with a mature perspective and worked through it, realizing that they were not each other’s enemies. they could have made up for lost time, helped eachother heal, and ultimately prevent the apocalpyse by being family. you know, something that would have actually wrapped up the narrative nicely.

so, what happened?

the shows original themes of trauma, and repentance, and family were abandoned in favor of humor and spectacle. it seems like the creators misinterpreted what made the first season so successful. sure, the first season had a lot of funny moments and great fight scenes. but it was the emotional depth and complexity that made the show what it was. but worse than that, it continued to spit in the faces of the characters trauma, downplaying it in almost every way possible.

klaus’ relapses were played for comedy. his fear of ghosts was drastically downplayed with the use of cartoonish ghost-buster ass looking ghosts. five’s ptsd was never acknowledged again; his coping mechanism, dolores, became a joke. luther lost all character complexity entirely, instead becoming a himbo (who we love, but, still). viktor rarely brought up the feelings from his childhood, and nobody acknowledged his tell-all book again.

one of the things that infuriated me the most was the incorporation of reginald in later seasons. lets remind ourselves of some things: he purchased seven children, treated them like objects without names, trained them tirelessly and deprived them of a childhood, traumatized them by turning them into murderers, pitted them against one another, and literally tortured them. and that’s only the things we see him do on screen. you cannot convince me for a second that any of the siblings would ever be able to be the same room as that man without having serious flashbacks. I don’t believe for one second that they’d work with him, trust him, or empathize with him in any capacity (except maybe luther) except they do, consistently. even five, who is easily the smartest member of the academy, and extremely protective of his siblings.

and- LEST WE FUCKING DISREGARD- reginald MURDERED ben.

the moment that happened on screen felt like the last shovel of dirt on tua 1’s grave. supposedly all the siblings REMEMBERED this incident in seasons 1-3. and yet they went to their fathers funeral, spoke to him (relatively) civilly, and teamed up with him after seeing for themselves their father shoot their brother in the back of the head for seemingly no reason. not only did they apparently not hold this against their father, but they never mentioned it once in three seasons.

and yes, i know, there is a very simple reason for this. it was obviously made up at the last moment for plot convenience. but the implications for this being retconned in are damning for the characters. by writing this in, the writers decided that the siblings commitment to one another is meaningless. that the foundations upon which this show was created, are fucking meaningless. they threw away not only the individual complexity of each character, but also their relationship as a family.

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c-optimistic · 1 year ago

Note

Hey, i saw you tagged something with "#Kara has been okay with dying for a very long time#makes me wanna write about it" and I just thought I'd pop in to say that if you write about it I would love to read it :D

The Phantoms lie.

She knows this, she knows this. But the truth is, the Phantoms do more than just lie.

They twist memories, create waking nightmares, force you to relive the most painful things your own mind can conjure up.

(And Kara’s mind is a dark place.)

She can distinguish it at first, what’s real and what’s not real. There’s a lot giving away the fake memories, the implanted thoughts. Little details that give Kara enough distance from what she’s seeing to recognize it’s not real.

Things like cruel smirks on Alex’s lips that she never wore in reality.

Things like J’onn’s distrustful eyes following her, like Nia’s disgust when she appears, like Brainy’s disappointed shake of his head when she takes another step.

But then, she loses focus. She loses her grip on reality. Because she sees Lena’s tearstained face, hears her blaming Kara for lies and betrayal and loss and...it’s all true. It’s true, and she finds she can’t tell the difference between the Phantoms’ lies and her own bitter memories.

(She takes another step, needing to keep moving, needing to find a way out, needing to get home.

The lies, the memories, and the hurt all follow.)

It’s cold in the Phantom Zone. Cold, dark, and utterly silent. There’s nothing but the sound of her boots against gravelly soil, chattering teeth, and guilt and blame ringing in her ears, the voices of her friends and family shouting at her, not wanting her, hating her.

(The Phantoms lie. She knows this.

She has to know this.)

There are no signs of passing days. There’s no rising and setting sun, no waxing or waning moons, no indication that time passes at all. At first, she tries to count, to create her own sense of time, using the numbers to block out the voices and the visions, but she loses track, loses focus, watches everyone she loves die and wishes she died with them.

(The Phantoms lie.

She thinks she knows this.)

Kara takes another step. And another.

(It’s painfully cold. Her thoughts make her feel colder.)

A step. She has to keep moving, even if she’s unsure where she’s going. Why is she still going?

(The Phantoms lie.

But lies with a foundation of truth are always easier to believe.)

Kara stops, surrounded by images of all her dead loved ones, and she drops to her knees to join them.

///

When she wakes, she’s in a small cave-like structure, a glow emanating from a fire that gives off no heat.

And the man who has rescued her, the man in the robes and defeated eyes, is her father.

When he notices she’s awake, he’s careful to shift, appear as non-threatening as possible, smiling benignly at her. And Kara just lays there, staring, wondering if she’s dead or if this is just yet another ghost sent to haunt her.

“Kara,” he says finally, breaking the silence, his voice cracked from disuse, tongue clearly not practiced with the single word he utters.

“I’m dead,” Kara guesses, sitting up, watching the robed man who has taken the guise of her father carefully. “Right?”

“No, you are not dead.”

“But you’re not him,” she says, not really accusatory, just stating a fact. He looks at her sadly, like she’s hurting him.

“I am Zor El,” he says, almost like he believes it. “I am husband to Alura. Brother to Jor El. And most importantly, father to Kara Zor El.”

Kara gets to her feet shakily, stepping as far back from him as she can, back pressed against the cave walls. “No, stop. Zor El is dead. He died. He put me in a pod, alone, and sent me off, and he stayed to die with Krypton.”

Like I should have, she doesn’t say. I should have died too.

“You’re not real,” she tells him, meeting his gaze defiantly. The robed man, the man who calls himself Zor El, the stranger, lets out a sigh and hangs his head.

“The Phantoms lie, Kara,” he tells her quietly. “You know this.”

///

They begin their journey. Her hallucination tells her there’s some sort of outpost. A place she can perhaps send out a message, they merely need to get to it. He tells her he will go with her.

He tells her to be strong.

(And she wonders if this ghost knows what she’s thinking, if he can look into her mind and read those dark thoughts she can’t seem to shake.

Because even as she takes step after arduous step, she is focused on a singular notion: perhaps the universe would be better off with her dead. Perhaps fighting had no use at all.

Perhaps, in those endless days, dark and cold and alone in her pod, aimlessly floating through the vast expanse of space, she should have given up. Perhaps it would have been better.)

Ghost-Zor El doesn’t touch her, but she feels his heavy gaze on her, and she turns to him.

“The Phantoms lie, Kara,” he reminds her, giving her a smile that brings back memories of her father, of sitting in his lab and learning more about his work, of listening to his stories, of watching him when he wasn’t paying attention. “You should know this.”

///

Stay warm, he tells her. Find shelter, he reminds her. Conserve your energy, he advises her.

Rest, he says, rest and keep fighting to get home—back to those you love.

She doesn’t ask him how he knows she has loved ones, people she desperately wants to get back to. She merely listens without complaint, obeying thoughtlessly to his suggestions, and lets her mind go blank.

“Are you real?” she asks him after what feels like several days, but could have been weeks or months or years.

Her hallucination never comes too close to her, but he smiles her father’s smiles and that’s enough for her. “The Phantoms lie, Kara,” he says softly, his voice lulling her to sleep. “Don’t forget this.”

///

Everything aches. Each step takes energy she just doesn’t have. It’s as though all the weight she’s always carried, all the grief and pain and regret, has finally become too much, sapping her of everything she has left.

She buckles under the burden, but before she can fall, she feels a strong grip around her arm, dragging her up back to her feet.

“You must keep going,” her father’s ghost tells her, his eyes sad, no warmth from where his fingers are closed around her arm. “This is not where you fall.”

“But it can be,” Kara murmurs hopelessly. And it occurs to her, she’s not quite sure what she’s still fighting for.

A sister who she overshadowed and whose family she ripped apart? Friends who were terrified of her and what was capable of? And Lena—Lena, who Kara has loved from the day they met, but who she has hurt so completely that the CEO will never be the same?

(Kara has been okay with dying for a long time. Okay with dying in her pod. Okay with dying to save Earth. Okay with dying to protect those she loves.

And here now, she’s okay with dying with her father’s ghost—finally, finally joining him.)

“The Phantoms lie, Kara,” the fake Zor El says firmly, forcing her to take another step. “You must remember this. The Phantoms lie, and you must live.”

She stares up at him blankly, and obeys. She takes one step. Then another.

Another.

And on and on.

She keeps going.

///

Time passes. She’s not sure how much. But her apparition father no longer walks a distance away from her. Instead, he practically holds her up as they keep going, his repeated promises than she can do this all she can really hear.

“I wish…” Kara manages weakly. “I wish you were real.”

Her ghost father chuckles, clearly hearing what she can’t say. (I wish I were with you. I wish I wasn’t alone. I wish, I wish.) “Ah, but I am real. I’m the best parts of you, daughter,” he says. “Resilience, strength, commitment…hope.” He says the last word with some force, as if needing her to understand. “You are good. You are kind. And you try, more than anything you try.”

“The Phantoms lie,” she reminds him quietly. He laughs again.

“Yes, but I am no Phantom.”

And they keep walking.

///

“I have hurt so many,” she says, half carried by the fake Zor El. “I cause nothing but damage and pain. Why would they even want me back? Lena especially?”

“I don’t believe love is as simple as you make it seem, Kara,” the fake Zor El says. Another step. And another. And on and on.

“Love? She hates me. I ruined her life. I lied. I betrayed her.”

“Sometimes we stumble,” the fake Zor El said gently. “Sometimes we fail. But as long as we learn, as long as we get up and try to do better, there is always hope.”

A step. And another. And on and on.

“I do, you know. Love her,” she adds when her fake father seems confused.

He smiles brightly at her, and it’s nice. Even though he’s not real. Even though she’s only partially sure she’s not dead and this isn’t all in her head, even though he’s at best a hallucination and at worst a trick of the Phantoms, it’s nice. Because she’d never thought she’d have the opportunity to tell her father about the woman she has fallen for—the scientist like him, the innovator like him. The woman who made her feel more at home, more like herself, than anyone else.

“Hold onto that love, Kara,” he says, helping her take another step. “If there’s one thing the Phantoms cannot destroy, it is your love.”

She nods, though she doesn’t quite understand. And they keep going.

///

She knows she’s reaching her limit physically. There’s only so much even she can endure. Between the cold, the bone deep weariness, the ache settling in her chest, and the energy sapped from her very being, she’s running on no more than fumes.

She tells herself it’s just one more step. Just one more.

Just.

One.

…more.

“Father, are you—” She stops.

She’s completely alone. The ghost is gone.

Kara trembles, choking not only on the dusty, frozen air, but on her despair. All she wants, all she wants is to stop.

To fall to the gravelly dirt.

To curl up.

To give up…

“Kara!”

(She falls to her knees. The Phantoms lie, she thinks. But what a mercy, what a kindness, she’s going to die with her name on Lena’s lips.)

“Kara! Brainy, we found her. Alex, you’d best come quick.”

(The words make no sense. The Phantoms lie. They lie. They lie, lie, lie.

She looks up, and an angel stands before her. Lena, with wide, desperate eyes. Lena, with hair in a messy ponytail. Lena, in dusty, dirty clothes.

Oh, she’s a sight. She’s an angel. She’s everything.)

“Kara? Kara, we’re here. We’re going to take you home.”

(The Phantoms…have never lied like this.)

“Lena?” Kara manages shakily, unsure if she’s dreaming, hallucinating, dead even. “Are you real?”

Lena doesn’t answer, instead she rushes forward, falls to her knees too, and pulls Kara into a hug. She envelopes Kara in her scent—sweet and flowery—envelopes Kara in her warmth. Her heartbeat is strong against Kara’s chest.

She’s so alive. So present. So very real.

“Lena, my father, he…” But she doesn’t finish what she wants to say. After days, months, weeks, years (she doesn’t know, she can’t tell) of being lost in the Phantom Zone, her body finally caves under the weight of everything she’s gone through.

And she lets go. Falls into Lena. Lets herself be supported. Her eyes close, she breathes in Lena’s scent, and she thinks, even if this is just a lie, just a dream, it’s a good one.

And she knows no more.

///

When she wakes, her first thought is that she’s still dreaming. That the Phantoms lie, and that their lies are growing more and more impressive.

She’s laying underneath a sun lamp, nestled comfortably in her own bedroom, wearing soft pajamas and enveloped in her favorite blankets. There’s gentle music playing from somewhere in the living room, but otherwise that’s all she hears.

(The silence is eerie, disconcerting. She’s unused to such quiet, always assaulted by thousands upon thousands of sounds each and every moment. What a blessing, she thinks wryly, that the Phantoms would lie to her this way—would give her this much peace after so much pain.

And she wonders if this is what dying feels like.)

“Kara,” says her angel suddenly, and Kara turns her head, noticing for the first time that there’s a chair set up next to her bed, that Lena is there, watching her. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

“Am I dead?” Kara asks. Lena’s eyes widen but she shakes her head. “Are you…are you real? Is any of this real?”

Lena slowly reaches out, giving Kara every chance to say no, to pull away, and she takes Kara’s hand into her own, threading their fingers together.

(She’s warm. Soft. And her touch stirs something inside Kara.

It’s familiar. Hers. Something lost in the Phantom Zone.

Or at least, something she thought she had lost.)

“I’m real, Kara,” Lena says. “We all are. And we’re here for you okay?”

“You found me?” Kara asks, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “You came for me?”

“Always,” Lena swears.

(The Phantoms lied.

But love, love she thinks always tells the truth.)

#asks #butimaloneandfree #prompts #fanfic #supercorp #i started writing this ages ago #back when I thought the show would do something cool #unfortunately I don’t remember much of that season #soooo #sorry

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netherfeildren · 11 months ago

Text

Austerlitz

Pairing: Simon (Ghost) Riley x F!Reader

Summary: The day he left for his hideous war, the dream changed. The house was still there, but now neither of us lived in it anymore. And when he finally came back, if that’s what you could even call it, he was nothing but a Ghost.

-OR-

Ghost goes away, comes back in a maybe dream.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: I know very little about COD so AU I guess; Heavy Angst; Unreliable Narrator; Is Ghost a ghost or a Man? Who tf knows; More feelings than fucking sorry about that; PWP; Rough Sex; Creampie; Grief Study; Mean Ghost; Size Difference; Complicated Relationships; Dom/sub Undertones

A/N: Wanted to post and then got pissed off and didn't want to post and then got pissed off that I was pissed off.

So anyways, here's my Ghost.

Word Count: 4.2K

Read on AO3

[AUSTERLITZ]

The first time my mother had the dream, it was our engagement.

They were always the same—the dreams—the house, our home. Sometimes I was there, sometimes it was only him, but the house remained. Always the image of him inside that place that belonged to us. Even if I wasn’t all the time there.

They went on for years, this idea living inside my mothers mind; different variations of our togetherness or not, parties, children, him, him, always him there. Once, he was even there with another woman, and amidst her sleep she knew it was wrong, that I should have been there but was not. It didn’t birth mistrust, that already lived between us in different ways regardless. It didn’t send me running home to him demanding answers, but it birthed fear. Fear of what could be lost—of what there was to lose.

A lot, it turned out.

It was like this fear that lived so painfully sentient within me, the fear of losing him, the fear of how much I loved him was so strong and so powerful and so pulsating that I'd given the infection of it to my own mother. She worried for me and for us the way I worried for him.

And there was guilt then—for me, from me. I felt guilty, I felt like I was doing this to her, making my own mother afraid. Sending her these dreams with my own worrying mind of a perfect life that could have been so easily lost, of all my happiness and wants and desires of him and how easily it could have all been destroyed.

The last time she dreamt of the house, months after he’d gone in my real waking life, the house was alone. Abandoned. Falling down on its own bones. A bad omen. And there was something so– I couldn’t say… but that was my confirmation, really, more than the years or the silence or the reports of missing, unknown, no answers or responses or clues to what could have happened, it was that dream of hers that told me it was all over in a real way.

She said she’d walked through the dream house, and all the ghost memories had been there: him and I, an engagement, a marriage, a happiness, losses and family and life. But everything was falling down around the past, and it was all alone, and she knew in her heart that he was gone and that I was alone now.

My real fear had gone to her dream fear had come back to my real life, and there was no true abandoned house, but there was an abandoned I.

You’d begged—before he’d gone the last time, on your knees, hands clasped, tears—wrought. You’d begged, please, Simon—don’t go, please. Please, don’t leave me. You said last time was the last time. Please, don’t go again—I have the worst feeling about this one. He’d not listened. Chasing a mission, a tour, the salvation of the world or the loss of himself, not me, which was the only distinction that mattered. But he’d gone, and the bad feeling had swelled and swelled swollen until it’d burst. Until there was some uniform on your doorstep speaking words of missing in action, comms gone dead, Simon—maybe dead, maybe not, just gone. Unfindable, but come along with a sick sort of satisfaction that you’d been listed as his next of kin when he’d never even been able to tell you that he loved you. But these were the words now, said with tongue and teeth not belonging to him, not my wife but the woman I love, the woman that’s important to me, my kin.

Simon Riley, code name Ghost: missing in action.

It’s been such a long time now, and you don’t know if that man you loved, love, is still alive or dead or missing or gone or just nothing.

All he is—is not—

—Here. And the before—it’d been complicated. Real and not real, hard, good, never easy. The complicated nature of a thing born from a complicated man such as he was. Occlusive, reclusive, reticent. But so good. So much, that it never really mattered if it was all growing pains, or just pain. How could you know? But when you were in the thick of it, it didn’t actually matter, that answer. It felt good, that was the only focus. Even when it didn’t. You loved him, that’s what mattered. He loved– war, being a ghost, fucking you, having you, maybe you.

You’d had certainty in some ways, that he wanted you, that he was closed off and silent and serious, and that he’d come back because he always said he would, and he always did the things he said. That he was a creature of habit. But everything else—uncertain.

Your mother hadn’t had the dream in years. Memory had become hard to reach, murky, but the sound of his voice, that remained. The only one that did, only because you held onto it with vapor fingers. And it was so clear, the baritone of it, the way it sounded when he was calling you his sweet girl, the way it sounded when he was telling you he was going or telling a lie. That had stayed no matter how far out to sea you’d tried to toss it.

Your last conversation: don’t be a stranger, you’d said. And it was in jest, or desperation, you can’t remember anymore. Something like please, please, don’t go away forever, please, don’t turn into someone I don’t know anymore.

There are things you remember very clearly. Others you’d been granted the mercy of forgetting—the way it felt when he slid inside you, no mercy there.

How do I know if these are growing pains or just pain?

The memory of him is distorted now, preserved under glass, entirely untouchable; just there, and the stopping point is invisible, but it’s still just there.

And you still love him because it’s impossible to let go of a ghost. A thing like that haunts you.

You’d left the home you’d become a woman in, left your country and your mother, after he’d gone missing; found somewhere far and cold and nothingful, and it all reminded you of him in a way that let you know you’d never outrace this feeling. But you’d needed to run and disappear the way you told yourself he’d had to. That excuse, blame, you placed on him, Ghost, leaving that last time, despite the way you’d begged him to stay, please, Simon, don’t go. As if the idea of him just not wanting to be with you at all was more comforting than the reality of, well, he did, but just not more than he needed to chase his duty to violence.

[When they’d come to tell me he was gone—but not really gone for sure—no one has died, they’d said, and I’d thought, just me, and violently. It was the last slap in the face, punch to the gut, fist down my throat and all the oxygen gone through a vacuum—stolen.]

Years: you’d lived with the vertigo of heartbreak, your whole life muffled. And you’d wanted to be alone with the enormity of your devastation and the Ghost shaped hole that’d been left in your body, so you’d come here, to this place you were in now, and you’d learned to be cunning like a fox, a cold that burned. You were not yourself anymore, something else, but something that didn’t hurt as much. A new version that fit that final dream image of an abandoned, forgotten home.

You walk all the time now, through the Ždánice and along the wet meadows and towards nothing. In lieu of doing something else, now you walk.

You find it on one such—it’s just like the dream—walk. Circles and circles around the Slavkovský rybník, back into the trees you go, and then it’s just there falling in on itself, eaten dead by the green overgrowth; the dream house. Your mother’s voice within your ear, I had a dream about the two of you, he’s yours, he was your husband, he was your fiancé, he was the love of your life, I had a dream about it all. There is a house.

He’d liked to smoke, when he was stressed or angry or happy or sad or just. Cloves because he could be a jackass sometimes, like when he was buying cigarettes. You smoke them now too—a griefful jackass, even still. Obviously you’re trying to hold on without saying it out loud, like being kin. Tongue slick, sucking on the stick until it’s all gone, just a stub, and standing there in the waning gray light—the sun doesn't come out much now, it’s wonderful—you watch the house.

You wonder if your mother sent it to you with her own missing. You wonder if he’ll be in there if you go inside. You feel like if you do, you’ll die in there, find something real bad, real real.

When you’re done with the lie of the cloves, you exchange the butt for a leaf, feel the smooth, dry edges of it. Folding it slow and careful between your fingers, thinking, trying to follow the path of veins, trying to decide if this is the dream house or not, trying to decide if you’ll really die in there or not. There are no more sounds, there haven’t been in a long time, and so you can't tell if it’ll really matter or not.

Recently, or years ago, you’d watched a video of a trio of swans doing battle, a rarity, the fact of three. They’d mauled each other, first two overtaking the third, and then the co-conspirators, turning their violence on each other. This is how you feel, at battle within yourself; your past, present, future, all fighting to leave you dead and bloodied, floating bloated in the water.

Horrible thoughts.

[We’re fighting a war on three fronts: me, him, fact.]

But there’s only dream here now. No Ghost.

You decide on the house—walk inside.

It’s only bones within, guts on display, covering ripped away. And very sad, very familiar.

You pass through it slow and floating, not looking where one foot goes in front of the other. You’re inside your mother’s dream just like she’d seen it so many times, returned to the womb, and like she’d said: there’s your engagement, a rarity of happiness, glorious intimacy, possibility, there’s your Ghost.

You’re not paying attention when your foot goes through the floorboards, to the knee first, jarringly painful, then the rest of your body gone through the rot. The only thing fizzing through your stupidly shocked mind is that you knew this would happen before you’re hip smashing, skull bashing ten feet down onto the basement floor. Cement ground, laying on your side and gasping like an eviscerated fish. The fist down your throat pulling all the oxygen out is back.

And all you can think, as you lay there, only a wink before pain that knocks you into sleep, is—and really, get a fucking grip, get your priorities straight—I tried to fuck so many other men to wedge the memory of you out, bring the sounds back. I’ve tried other people and other tastes and other lives, and I can't. I can't. I want you so much, I miss you so bad. I dream of you, of the way you felt inside of me, of how wet I get for you even still, wet for a maybe dead man, and how much my cunt hurts because it is so wanting. How much it hurts to love a thing that’s gone and how the physical pain is almost as bad as the one in the heart.

And then an ice blue, cold that burns. “Wake up, darling.” He’s always had the bluest eyes that’ve ever been.

“Ghost?”

“Simon.”

The jut of his chin, it’s the same. The one you missed. You come awake or alive. “Simon, you’re not really here. How did you find me?” Your body doesn’t hurt the way it should.

“Been lookin’ for you,” he says, runs his big thumb up the curve of your cheekbone, and you turn your face into his hand almost involuntarily. He even smells like a ghost, and you can’t remember if you actually ever even fell or not.

“Ghost?” You ask again—confused, full of sleep and someone else's dream.

But he shakes his head slow, and you can’t see his mouth behind the mask, but you see the smile in his eyes, joy above the skull. “No, baby. Simon,” he says again.

“You were looking for me?” His hand moves into your hair, cupping the small bowl of your skull in the big pool of his palm, the other coming to your neck, thumb at your pulse, just to feel, just to hum along to it.

“I was.” His accent is different, and you can’t hear sounds anymore, but this sound is different—you can tell.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Told ya—lookin’ for you.” Jut of your chin propped against the jut of his palm, pads of his fingers against the ledge of your orbital bone. He presses soft, probes gentle, lets himself be tickled by the fan of your lashes.

You close your eyes and tell the truth, “I wish you wouldn’t. I might hate you now. I wish you’d let me go. It’s been such a long time.”

“I know, baby.” But he doesn’t know, not really, not how bad.

You’re laying on something soft, no more hard basement you can’t really remember, and you let yourself slump into it while he touches your face. “I can’t believe I’m still here,” basement or with him or someone else's dream, you can’t tell which you mean. “I can’t believe I'm still here all these years later. You’re like a ghost.”

He agrees, “I am a ghost,” and contradicts himself.

You open your eyes again, swallow the blue. “I thought you said you weren’t.” No answer—but he hunches over you, large and brutish and falsely undiscerning, without any answers ever. “You’re not a ghost. You’re a real man, and you have to stop haunting me.”

“Not haunting, only looking.” He bends, reveals his mouth, kisses you for the first time since he’d gone, and it’s the same as before, but not. Always a beautiful, hidden mouth that he’d had.

There is nothing that Simon Riley does that is gentle, even when he is being gentle.

It’s always with a punch behind it, always with a scream behind it. Always with the certainty that he does not know how to be gentle, but that he’ll try to be so anyway. If only for you.

He tastes like cloves and ghosts. Lips warm, dry and smooth, tongue slick and demanding. He presses his big thumb bone between your molars, pries your jaw open so you’re mimicking the dying fish again and licks inside of you.

Ah—so this is how it’ll be, you think, mean.

The inside of your cheeks pinch hard enough between his grip and your teeth that you’re sure the mouthful of come he’ll be giving you soon’ll be seasoned with blood. You moan into him, take his breath on your tongue, the dream flips and switches in your mind. Rolodex of memories and unrealities. Where have you been? You ask again because the demand feels necessary, the answer, life-hinging.

He shoves you belly back, tells you, “Sometimes you talk too fuckin’ much,” and swings one tree trunk thigh over your middle so he’s straddling you, caging you, crushing you. A fist twisted in your hair so he can pull and handle you as he pleases. “Open your mouth,” so that he can lick inside again, taste you again. “It’s all just the same,” he whispers, and you can’t tell what he means. Doesn’t he see you’re the fox in the marsh now, cold enough to burn? Nothing’s the same since he went away.

You try and scratch at him, shove the behemoth away, mountain versus the moth, yank him closer—too. You bite his tongue, and then it isn’t only your own blood in your mouth, but his too. It only feeds him more. When he lets his weight fall heavier on your belly, ribs compressed, you feel the ridge of his hard cock.

You couldn’t ever keep him, but you could always make him hard.

“Ghost.”

“Not a ghost.” He tells lies now.

“It’s not all the same,” you gasp when he comes up from the well, hand at your tit, hard and punishing. “Can’t you tell?” And you say it angry or affronted. “How can you look at me and not tell? How can you look at me and not care?” About what you’ve done to me, is what you don’t say.

This makes him pause, even as he mauls you, and the blue is not ice but not warmth either. Jagged, perhaps, even though it always is a little bit so, but punctuated in a different way. Only discerning now, nothing un– about it.

“How can you look at me and think I don’t?” His words have teeth, and you want him to chew you up and spit you out. Maybe then he’ll recognize you better.

“You’re always going to choose something else over me,”—an accusation. “Because I wanted you to come back so badly,”—an explanation. You don’t remind him how he didn’t, and he doesn’t say that he wanted to. But he’s here, and maybe that’s all that matters, maybe it’s enough for you to let him slip his fingers up beneath your shirt, nipple punished between his thumb and index, mean and nasty. Other hand down the front of your jeans, sliping against your wet, fingering your cunt.

He doesn’t work hard at making space for himself in your too tight hole, merely tugs your pants down to your knees, tangled and trapped in him the way you’d always been, and with a hand on his cheek you find purchase to turn yourself over, shoving at his jaw roughly as you go. “No—like this. Like this,” you demand, belly down, ass up. “I don’t want to look at you when we do it. I don’t want to do it looking at your face,” you tell him even though you do love him.

He’s quiet for one victorious second, big hands wrapped around your hips, fingers flexing, swallowing it. “Are you trying to hurt me?”

“Yes.” He shifts, hooks you over his arm across your belly, hips up, cunt presented, swollen, needy sex like a wound. “Is it working?”

You listen to the drag of his zipper, the shift of his clothes. You close your eyes, enjoy the return of sound.

“Always.” And then it’s the warm, blunt press of a cock that’s going to hurt, and you feel very calm, entirely hungry. The pain in your cunt will be the kind you’d ask for in a few seconds; he notches, swipes, presses mean again at your clit.

“Let’s not pretend we’re something we’re not—you’re not—real.” And when he wedges himself into your too-long-untried cunt, it hurts. It hurts in a real way. Like he’d rip you in half and not care if he could. Hurts in a mean way.

He starts off hard, unforgiving, like he’s taking the pound of flesh he feels he’s owed for being made into a Ghost right here, fucking you on the dirty, cold floor.

Hunched over you, bulging arms braced around your head, wrist clasped in a death grip, breath in your ear, and he fucks you like an animal. A groan and a spit, and he’s telling you, “You’re so fucking good, best cunt in the whole goddamn world.” The wet squelch, the splash, splash, the moan like a whore agrees with him.

“It always hurts,” you tell him, whispered between a sob for more or harder.

“You like it,” and it’s a pant ending of a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth where a tear rests. Something gentle to remind you that even as a monster, he’d never hurt you in a way that couldn’t be turned back. Maybe.

“What if I don’t anymore?”

He swings his hips back, cunt dragging, when he pushes in again it’s to batter against your womb. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t stop,” is all you can say. You press your hips back, spread your knees as far as your tangled jeans will let you, back arched like you need it more than you can even say. Bent and pummeled to defy nature or some such other thing, and his balls slap heavy and stinging against your clit, cockhead at your womb again, again.

“Come on my cock, be a good girl.” Like he knows you’re just there already, pulsing and throbbing and ready to soak him, wet cheek fucked raw against the ground with every one of his pounding thrusts. His fist is so tight in your hair, around your wrist, it burns almost worse than your knees against the old wood, hand gone to numbness.

But it’s so hard to give someone so much when they never give anything in return, and it pains you to do it now. Your stomach pulls tight, heat all swirling in your pelvis. “You’re never good for me,” you moan, cunt twisting into a knot. And then you come, fluttering around his pouding length, the slap of his thighs against your ass. He shoves your shirt up so that your breasts are naked to the cold air, fingers digging too hard to be for anything other than his own vindication. It makes you come harder, cry harder.

And then like a switch, soldier on display, he flips, goes slow and soft and languid. Long deep thrusts, pressing your belly down into the ground and stretching out on top of you—longer than a river, broader too, similarly overpowering. His whole too heavy weight pressing all the air out of you, prone and caged and power stolen. He slams into you, but it’s slow and punctuated and precise now. Tip at the front of your cunt so that you know exactly what it is he wants from you, another one.

“Do you ever wish I was a better man?” He asks between thrusts.

You can’t lie. Look at you—fucked and frozen. “No.” The hurt hurts good, you like it like this. You like that he’s a Ghost.

He kisses your mouth now, gives you his tongue to taste. Cloves and you love him so much and it seems so unfair that it be so short, the love, when the forgetting is so long.

“Can you tell me that you don’t love me?” It’s a begging, it is. “That you never did—so that I can forget.” He pulses and throbs inside of you, thrusts get harder. He’s about to fill you full of come. “So that I can move on. Force me, please.”

He presses his mouth to yours again and with teeth, the bunch of his mask suffocating you. “Can’t lie to you, darling. I never could,” —not the lie you want.

And you should’ve expected it, he’s never been the merciful sort. When you beg please, please, you’re not sure if you’re asking for more of his come, for harder, for mercy, for the lie. Like so many other things now, it doesn’t really matter. He sends you into another orgasm, and he’s lazy about letting you milk him. Mouth slick against your own, breath panting hot against your cheeks, white blond lashes, too long and too pretty for such a beast, tangling with your own.

He lets it be slow. He lets it last.

And one more time is better than a last time—the once more negates the lastness of it. Now, it only exists in perpetuity. This is the lie you’ll tell yourself as he throbs and spurts once more, whispers your name into the shell of your ear, asks for his back. I got one more time. I got one more time. Now it all lives on forever, Simon. Now the house is no longer abandoned. Now we’ll exist here in this memory like so, forever.

He’s gone when you open your eyes again, sleep or unconsciousness, maybe he never was. And as you right yourself, your clothes and the thick leak from the overwrought place between your legs—no, he was, or was he?—your body doesn’t hurt as it should, only cunt-sore, looking at the dark you shaped hole in the floorboards next to you. You can't tell if the hurt now comes from the want or the truth, sound is gone again.

Outside, there’s snow on the ground. When you look up, it’s falling from the sky, against the surface of the pond, lost to the dark. A celebration happens somewhere, across the distance, in the town, you don’t know for what—or can’t remember. There are fireworks in the sky mixing with the ice.

You realize, or you think, or you hear someone say—does it really matter, it comes off the wind or the trees—a reminder that you’d come here to mourn something. To this place you lived in now. To the dream house.

[I’m mourning all the things that happened to me. I’m mourning the way I’ve been, the way I was. It was terrible, I hated how I’d been, but I still have to grieve her. I have to not hate that poor girl I used to be.]

The barium, copper lights go off and off and off, and it’s bombs dropping, pyrokinetic shelling, your life imploding, the end of everything. Him—a ghost.

Once there was only dark. If you ask me, the light’s winning—now.

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#vic fic #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #cod ghost #call of duty fanfic #simon riley smut #call of duty #ghost smut #ghost fanfiction #cod fanfic

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avionvadion · 3 months ago

Note

side effect from the puppet magic

El: needs a cane to walk

Grim: becomes far sighted

Jack: asthma like symptoms

Vil: skin peeling

Jade and Floyd: Heart problems

Trey: is half deaf

Leona: IS AFRAID TO STAND STILL TOO LONG, AND THEREFORE CANT SLEEP

Why should Elmbe the only one who suffers 😀

Oh gods I could never curse Jack with asthma he doesn’t deserve that 😭😭😭 OCs yes but NOT MY BOY.

That said LEONA HAVING SLEEP PARALYSIS IS SO GOOD. I think Vil being scared of standing still too long would be good too since he’s a MODEL and models probably HAVE to stand still for photo shoots. LEONA HAVING INSOMNIA. THE IRONY. Jack COULD have insomnia too. He’s very particular about going to bed on a certain time. It’ll definitely interfere with his sleep schedule not being able to sleep because of the trauma of staying still.

I think Jade and Floyd should have the skin peeling when in their human forms since they’re Merfolk. Azul is gonna be so confused because since they’re merfolk their skin should be naturally moist (gods I hate that word, thanks high school) and shouldn’t be dry enough to peel at all yet it is.

…I hate drawing glasses, so I’m gonna make Grim deaf in one ear.

I’ll totally give Trey the asthma though. (Sorry, Trey, but the most exercise you usually get is baking, you’ll be fine.) Cater could be the one who ends up far sighted and has to start wearing contacts and/or reading glasses. (He would totally own this? He’d be like my eldest sister, with like five different colorful and differently shapes glasses that he’d change depending on his outfit.)

Hmmmm. Am I missing anyone??? Aside from Ace, Ortho, and Kalim.

AH, LILIA. Maybe like ghost pains kind of? He came SO CLOSE to being fully puppet. Sometimes it feels like his limbs are still wood and he has to jolt his arm or leg to snap himself out of it. His fingers ache where they had once been twigs. Sometimes his legs don’t move the way he wants them to. Other times he’s frozen still and he can’t move his mouth to speak and someone has to snap him out of it. Jade also probably gets this too, along with the skin peeling.

Just… really really creepy ghost pains. The trauma be REAL.

EDIT:

Thinking about it more, and the boys who suffer the most are going to be those who were wood the longest.

I don't remember the exact order of who got caught save for Jade, Lilia, Yuu, and Grim who were the first to get cursed, but those who were wood the longest will most likely share in phantom pains, insomnia, sleep paralysis, an inability to remain still for too long, and/or suffer a more physical aftermath such as potential anxiety-induced asthma as Fellow does imply that turning into a puppet makes it hard to breathe.

All of them will have nightmares. The majority will probably feel cautious/anxious about going near Amusement Parks. Grim will never be able to eat Apple-Core Popcorn or Fried Tuna again because of the bad memories it brings up.

Those who were wood shortest will probably jolt/jerk and rub/scratch at their arms because they just suddenly felt that awful sensation of being transformed out of nowhere only to realize they’re fine. Gidel escapes without out too much trauma since he was cursed just before the Hero Trio and Fellow went out in search of the "Boss" and was therefore the last one to get masked.

Ace, however, despite not being turned into wood, will be having extreme nightmares and guilt and anxiety.

For reasons that will be hinted at in the chapters I'm currently working on and will be fully revealed at the end of Book Two, he'll be blackmailing El into going to the Amusement Park with him- and thus blames himself when she turns into wood.

He already has nightmares from Riddle's Overblot when Eleanora fell into a temporary coma (though it hasn't been really shown that he has nightmares, his fear of her dying and getting hurt badly does make itself known in his protectiveness- which we have seen) but, because of his pettiness, she died. Even if only for a couple minutes, she was gone.

He's going to have severe nightmares about Eleanora dying again and again because of him, and her turning into wood being sold off as a puppet. Ace is going to despise puppets in all their forms, sock, wood, paper- etc.

And every time he sees her walking around with her cane, he's going to remember what happened at Playful Land. Ace, Ortho, and Kalim may have avoided getting cursed in this, and Ortho and Kalim are overall unbothered (Kalim being used to trauma and it just being par to the course, which is in itself its own trauma, and Ortho being a robot who merely just feels bad because if they had listened to Eleanora to begin with, none of this would have happened) but Ace?

Not only will he be blaming himself, but Deuce is going to blame him as well and beat the ever living crap out of him when he discovers Eleanora in another coma and Poma, our sparkly school nurse, pushing his unique magic to the limit trying to heal her.

It's gonna be rough.

#twisted wonderland #twst #playful land event #playful land's miraculous marionettes #once upon a dream #twst oc #lilia vanrouge #leona kingscholar #jade leech #floyd leech #vil shoenheit #trey clover #jack howl #horror #spooky #twst spoilers

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 8: You Wouldn't Last An Hour In The Asylum Where They Raised Me.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

Scott Summers had seen Remy LeBeau walk down the path of self-destruction before. He’d watched him spiral after Anna’s death, seen the reckless edge take hold of him in ways that were impossible to ignore. Back then, it was like Remy had some kind of death wish, throwing himself into more dangerous situations than even Scott could tolerate. He watched as Remy took risk after risk, making shady deals with people even he wouldn’t cross, diving headfirst into chaos as if he had nothing left to lose. It had been hard to stand by and witness his friend unravel like that, but Scott had let it go, hoping Remy would pull himself out of the darkness in his own way.

But now? Now, it was different.

Now, Scott wasn’t watching a man who had lost everything—he was watching someone who was trying to drown himself in something much worse. Remy wasn’t picking fights with the underworld anymore, wasn’t flirting with death. This time, he was drowning in something far more subtle, far more insidious: guilt. And Scott could see it plain as day.

Every night, it was the same story. Remy would stumble home with another woman on his arm, someone new every time, as if he was trying to scrub away the ghost of you from his life. The laughter that floated from his house, the soft murmurs that could be heard through the walls—it all felt hollow. It was a facade, a way to push the pain so deep down that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t feel it anymore. But Scott knew better. He recognized the haunted look in Remy’s eyes, the hollow grin that never reached his soul. The women Remy brought home were as varied as the faces in a crowded street—different in appearance, but all the same in purpose. They were temporary distractions, fleeting moments of flesh and heat that dulled the ache for a few hours. Each one was a new mask, another attempt to bury the memory of you beneath the weight of another body. But no matter how many times he tried, no matter how many different women he brought through his door, the emptiness inside him remained.

They came in all shapes and sizes, all walks of life—some tall and slender, others curvy or athletic. Their hair ranged from jet-black to platinum blonde, their clothes either sophisticated or barely hanging on. There was no pattern to them, no real preference. They were simply there, placeholders for the comfort he couldn’t allow himself to have. Scott noticed it, how he never brought the same woman home twice, as if seeing the same face more than once might force Remy to acknowledge what he was really doing.

The first few nights, it was easy to dismiss. They were pretty, they were eager, and they seemed to leave in the morning with no complaints. But as the days wore on, Scott began to notice the way Remy’s choices became more erratic, more careless. Some nights, he’d bring home women who couldn’t even remember his name by the time they left. To Scott, it felt like Remy was inviting strangers into his home just to see if he could feel anything at all.

It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about conquest. It was about punishment.

Scott could see it in the way Remy interacted with them. He wasn’t charming them the way he used to, wasn’t trying to woo them with his silver tongue or his easy smile. There was no playful banter, no lingering looks. Instead, Remy treated each encounter like a transaction, a means to an end. His eyes were cold, distant, as he led them up the stairs to his bedroom, like he was already planning how to get rid of them the moment they walked through the door.

He was trying to outrun you.

And with it, the crushing reality that no amount of women, no amount of mindless pleasure, could fill the emptiness in his chest.

Scott sighed, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he leaned against the doorway, watching Remy with his laptop placed in front of him, his fingers gliding easily across the keyboard. The man looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his movements sluggish. He was running on fumes, and Scott could see it—the weight of his choices, the self-inflicted torment that was eating away at him.

It wasn’t about the women. It never was. They were just another form of escape, another attempt to drown the ache that had been gnawing at him since the day he walked away from you. Scott knew that kind of guilt—the kind that sat heavy in your gut, twisting and turning until it consumed every part of you. Remy was punishing himself for something he couldn’t even fix, trying to wash away the memory of you, the way you had looked at him, the way he had felt when he left.

But the truth was, no amount of distractions could erase what was really tearing him apart. Scott could see it, even if Remy wouldn’t admit it—he wasn’t just grieving the loss of you. He was grieving the version of himself that had believed, even for a moment, that he could deserve you. That he could be something more than the man he had become.

And Scott knew, deep down, that until Remy faced that—until he stopped running—he would keep spiraling, keep destroying himself piece by piece. The women, the alcohol, the reckless decisions—it was all a mask for the one truth Remy couldn’t face.

That he missed you.

And no matter how many nights he spent trying to forget, the hollowness would always be there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for him when the morning light came.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw. Every time he reached for someone in the dark, it was your absence that clung to him like a second skin. And no amount of bodies, no amount of fleeting pleasure, could change that. Scott realised that Jean had her own thoughts about what was happening. She had had always been someone who saw through people's walls, who could sense the undercurrents of emotion even when they tried so hard to hide them. It was both a gift and a burden, and with Remy, it was no different. She had watched his slow unraveling with a mix of frustration and disappointment, her heart aching for the man who had once been so full of life and charm.

She watched as he buried himself deeper into his self-destructive spiral. There was a time when she might have tried to help him, to offer a kind word or a gentle nudge in the right direction. But now? Now she was just… disappointed. Watching him parade these women through the house like they were nothing more than fleeting distractions wasn’t just painful—it was infuriating.

Jean’s disappointment wasn’t rooted in judgment over his choices alone. It came from something deeper, something far more personal—because she knew what this was really about. You. She knew that every time Remy brought another woman into his bed, it was because he was trying to erase the memory of you. But what stung the most, what made Jean’s heart ache, was the bitter irony of it all: he would bring these women into his bed, into his home, but he would never bring you there.

And that was the cruelest part.

You—the one person who meant more to him than he could admit, the one person who had slipped past all of his defenses—had never set foot inside the walls of his home. Jean knew this because she had seen how he kept that part of his life separate from you, how he kept you at a distance from it, always finding some excuse to meet you somewhere else, to keep you at arm’s length. To keep you away from this side of his life, the side filled with broken promises and danger. The side that, despite being unintentional, had ultimately and cruely claimed you.

But these other women? They were allowed in. They walked through his front door like they belonged there, their laughter echoing through the house, their perfume lingering in the air long after they were gone. They were temporary, disposable, and that was exactly why Remy let them in. They didn’t matter. They weren’t a threat to the fragile walls he had built around himself. They couldn’t break him because they didn’t even come close to touching the parts of him that you had.

Jean had seen it happen too many times now. She’d heard the whispers in the halls, the quiet scuffle of footsteps as another woman tiptoed out in the early hours of the morning, her eyes half-lidded and her clothes wrinkled. She had seen the way Remy barely acknowledged them, how he let them drift in and out of his life like smoke, insubstantial and meaningless. And every time, every single time, Jean’s disappointment deepened.

It wasn’t just the recklessness that angered her—it was the hypocrisy. Remy could bring strangers into his life without a second thought, could share his bed with women whose names he barely remembered, but you? He had never let you in, not really. He had kept you at a distance, protecting you—or so he thought—from the mess of his life, from the scars he didn’t want you to see.

Jean had tried to talk to him about it once. She had tried to make him understand that what he was doing wasn’t just hurting him, it was hurting everyone around him—especially you. But Remy had brushed her off, that charming smile of his slipping into place like a mask.

“I ain’t hurtin’ nobody, Jean,” he’d said, his voice smooth but hollow. “They know the deal. It’s jus’ a little fun. Nothin’ more.”

But Jean had seen the truth in his eyes. She had seen the guilt, the shame, the way he couldn’t quite meet her gaze when he said it. He was lying to himself, to everyone.

Jean knew that, deep down, Remy didn’t believe he deserved you. That was why he had kept you at arm’s length, why he never let you into his home, into the part of his life that was messy and real. He was terrified that if you saw the real him—the man behind the charm, the man who was filled with guilt the man who had done unspeakable things—you’d turn away. He was afraid that you’d see him for what he truly was: broken.

But Jean also knew that by pushing you away, by trying to protect you from his darkness, he was only hurting you more. And it infuriated her that he couldn’t see that, that he couldn’t understand how much worse it was to keep you out, to let these other women into the space where you should have been.

So Jean watched, and she waited, hoping that one day Remy would wake up and realize what he was doing. Hoping that he would stop running from the one thing that could actually save him.

But as the weeks dragged on, as more women came and went, Jean’s hope began to fade. She saw the way Remy was slipping further and further away, the way the light in his eyes dimmed a little more with each passing day. And she wondered—how much longer could he keep this up? How much longer could he pretend that he didn’t care, that he wasn’t broken?

Because no matter how many women he brought into his bed, no matter how many nights he spent trying to numb the pain, Jean knew the truth.

There was only one person who could ever make him whole again.

And Jean was afraid that if he didn’t stop soon, there wouldn’t be anything left of the man he once was—the man who had loved you, even if he was too afraid to admit it. <><><><><><><><> It was a crisp afternoon, the kind of fall day where the chill in the air was just enough to make you pull your coat a little tighter around your body. The sky was a pale blue, streaked with wisps of clouds, and the city buzzed with its usual hum of life—people moving in and out of shops, the shuffle of feet on the pavement, the occasional laughter from a passerby.

Scott and Jean had been walking in comfortable silence when Jean first spotted you. It was a small café, tucked into the corner of a quiet street, the kind of place you might not notice unless you were looking. You were sitting at one of the outdoor tables, your back to them, your hair catching the light in a way Jean instantly recognized.

For a moment, she froze, her breath catching in her throat. She reached out and lightly touched Scott’s arm, stopping him mid-step.

“Scott,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She nodded to you.

Scott followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he focused on you, sitting there in the café, a cup of coffee in your hands. There was someone sitting across from you—a woman, around your age, who they assumed must be your sister. There was a striking resemblance between you, though the other woman’s expression was more animated, her hands gesturing as she spoke, while you simply listened, a small, tired smile on your face.

You looked… better. Not perfect, not fully healed, but better. And though there was still a hint of fragility in the way you held yourself, it was clear you were on the mend.

Jean felt a wave of relief wash over her, but it was tinged with something else—guilt, maybe. Or perhaps sadness. Because while you were sitting there, alive and recovering, Remy was still a wreck, spiraling deeper into his own self-imposed isolation, haunted by the guilt of what had happened to you.

Scott glanced at Jean, sensing the conflict in her expression, and then looked back at you. He could see the same thing she did—the slow healing, the way you seemed to be finding your footing again after the trauma. But he also saw the hesitation in Jean’s eyes, the uncertainty about what came next.

“Should we…?” Jean began, her voice trailing off as she looked at him, her brow furrowed.

Scott sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he considered the question. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, what do we even say? It’s not like we can explain why we’re here. And after everything with Remy…” He shook his head. “I don’t want to make things harder for her.”

Jean nodded, biting her lip. She understood. You had been through enough—weeks in the ICU, recovery that was both physical and emotional. And then, of course, there was the fact that Remy had walked away from you, convinced that his presence in your life was too dangerous. How could they approach you now, after all of that? What right did they have?

But at the same time, Jean knew that Remy needed to hear how you were. He needed to know that you were okay, that you were healing, that you were alive and moving forward. It wouldn’t fix him—it wouldn’t undo the damage he had done to himself—but maybe, just maybe, it would give him a small measure of peace. Something to hold onto in the wreckage of his guilt.

“We should do it,” Jean said finally, her voice firm but soft. “Not for us. For him. He needs to know she’s okay.”

Scott looked at her, his expression torn for a moment, but then he nodded. Jean was right. Remy wasn’t going to see you himself. He was too wrapped up in his own guilt, too convinced that staying away from you was the only way to keep you safe. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care. That didn’t mean he wasn’t tormented by the thought of you suffering because of him.

So they stepped forward, hesitantly at first, as though they were intruding on something private. You still hadn’t noticed them, your attention focused on the woman across from you—who they now realized was your sister, based on the way she reached across the table to touch your hand, her expression soft with concern.

As they got closer, Jean could see more details. The faint shadows under your eyes, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you lifted your cup to take a sip. You were still recovering, still fragile in ways that weren’t immediately visible. But you were there. You were alive. And that, at least, was something.

Jean hesitated for a moment, glancing at Scott, who gave her a small nod of encouragement before she took the final step forward.

“Hey,” Jean said gently, trying not to startle you as she approached the table. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but… we just wanted to check in.”

You looked up, your eyes widening in surprise as you saw them standing there. For a moment, you didn’t say anything, your expression unreadable as you processed their presence. But then your gaze softened, and you gave a small, tired smile.

“Jean. Scott.” Your voice was quiet, a little hoarse, but steady. “It’s… it’s nice to see you.”

Jean smiled back, though there was a sadness in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “It’s good to see you too,” she said, her voice warm but laced with concern. “How are you feeling?”

You glanced at your sister, who gave you an encouraging nod before turning her attention back to her own coffee, giving you space to respond.

“I’m… getting there,” you said after a pause. “It’s been hard, but I’m doing better. Just… taking it one day at a time, you know?”

Scott nodded, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “That’s good to hear,” he said quietly. “We’ve been worried about you. Everyone has.”

You smiled again, though this time it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Your sister was the first to speak after the initial pleasantries. She gave Jean and Scott a polite smile, though there was a touch of exasperation in her voice as she said, “She’s not exactly taking the doctors’ orders seriously. They told her to rest, to take it easy, but you know how stubborn she can be.”

Jean’s brows furrowed, concern flickering across her face as she looked at you. Scott, standing beside her, let out a small, knowing chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Remy used to say the same thing,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with a kind of wistful humor. “He always said you didn’t know how to rest a day in your life.”

At the sound of his name, you felt a sharp pang in your chest, like a fresh wound being reopened. Your gaze dropped to the table, your fingers curling around the edge of your coffee cup as you tried to steady yourself. The world seemed to narrow for a moment, shrinking to the sound of Remy’s name hanging in the air, to the memories you had been trying so hard to push down. You went quiet, the words you wanted to say catching in your throat.

But your sister, oblivious to the storm of emotions raging inside you, kept talking, unaware of just how much it hurt to hear his name. “She’s already pulled two stitches since getting out of the hospital,” she continued, shaking her head disapprovingly. “I swear, it’s like talking to a brick wall. She won’t take care of herself.”

Jean’s eyes flicked to you, her expression softening as she caught the look on your face—the quiet anguish, the way your lips pressed together as if you were holding back something you couldn’t quite bring yourself to say. She knew, without needing to ask, what was going through your mind. She knew you wanted to ask about him. It was written all over your face—the conflict, the fear of what the answer might be.

And in that moment, Jean’s heart ached for you. She understood how complicated it was, how much weight the silence between you and Remy carried. She could see the question forming behind your eyes, even as you hesitated, too afraid of what the answer might make you feel.

Without saying a word, Jean reached out and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her touch light but reassuring. She gave you a tight, sympathetic smile, one that said more than words could. She didn’t push you to ask, didn’t force you to voice the question you were too scared to ask. Instead, she offered you her silent support, letting you know she understood, that she was there for you, no matter what.

“It’s okay,” she seemed to say with that look, her hand still resting on your shoulder. “You don’t have to ask. I know.”

You pressed your lips together, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup as you met her gaze. There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, but the words stayed locked inside. For now, it was enough that she knew. Enough that she didn’t make you ask the question you weren’t ready to hear the answer to.

Scott, sensing the tension, shifted slightly, his voice gentle but firm as he spoke to your sister. “She’ll get there,” he said, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “We all heal in our own way.”

Your sister sighed, clearly still frustrated, but she nodded. “I know. I just wish she’d take it slower. She’s always in such a hurry.”

Jean gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before pulling her hand back, her eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. “Just… one day at a time,” she said softly. You nodded, though your mind was still somewhere else, turning over the sound of Remy’s name in your head, wondering where he was now, what he was feeling, whether he was thinking of you the way you were thinking of him.

And as Scott and Jean prepared to leave, you found yourself wishing you had the courage to ask about him. But for now, you stayed silent, holding onto the small comfort of knowing that, at least, they understood.

With a final glance back, Jean smiled at you, her eyes soft with unspoken understanding, and then they were gone, leaving you with the quiet hum of the café and the weight of the questions that remained unanswered. When Jean and Scott returned to Remy’s apartment, the air was thick with the unspoken tension between them. They had spent the whole walk back debating whether or not to tell him they had seen you that afternoon, sitting in that little café with your sister. It had been weeks since you’d left the ICU, and it was the first time they had seen you looking… well, not better, but alive, awake, and still trying to piece yourself back together.

“I don’t know,” Scott muttered as they reached the elevator, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Do you really think it’ll help? He’s not exactly in a place to hear that right now.”

Jean pressed the button, her jaw tight. She hadn’t stopped thinking about you since they left the café. The way your eyes had flickered with that brief, painful hope when Scott mentioned Remy. The way it had vanished just as quickly, replaced by the quiet resignation of someone who had been left behind—again. It had lit something inside her, a fire that had been smoldering for weeks but was now burning far too hot to ignore.

“He needs to know,” she said firmly. “Maybe it won’t fix him overnight, but he needs to hear it. He needs to know that she’s okay.”

Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair as the elevator doors slid open. “You know how he is, Jean. If he thinks it’s his fault, he’ll just spiral further.”

Jean didn’t respond as they stepped inside the elevator. Scott was right, of course. Remy was already drowning in his own guilt—about Anna, about the shooting, about you. But this wasn’t just about guilt anymore. It was about the way he was tearing himself apart, piece by piece, and how he was dragging everyone down with him.

When they reached the apartment, the first thing Jean noticed was the woman leaving. She walked past them in the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor, her hair a mess, the scent of perfume still clinging to her skin. She glanced at Jean and Scott briefly, giving a small, embarrassed nod before ducking her head and hurrying past them.

Jean’s stomach twisted. She didn’t even bother to glance at Scott, but she could feel his disapproval radiating from beside her. This had happened so many times now. Another woman, another meaningless night, another attempt by Remy to bury himself in someone who didn’t matter.

Scott sighed heavily, shaking his head as they reached the door. “Jesus, Jean,” he muttered. “How long is he going to do this?”

Jean clenched her fists. She’d had enough. She had been patient with him, tried to give him space to grieve, to work through whatever it was that was tearing him apart. But seeing you today—seeing the way you still hurt, the way you still carried the weight of what he had done—had broken something inside her. She couldn’t stand by and watch him destroy himself anymore.

“I’m done,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m done watching him wallow in this. He’s not the only one who’s hurting. She’s still out there, Scott. She’s still broken, and it’s because of him.”

Scott looked at her, his brow furrowed with concern. “Jean…”

But Jean didn’t let him finish. She pushed open the door to the apartment, her steps quick and purposeful as she stormed inside. The familiar scent of smoke and alcohol hit her as soon as she walked in, the air heavy with the remnants of last night’s chaos. She didn’t pause as she made her way down the hall, past the dimly lit living room and into Remy’s bedroom.

There he was, sprawled out on the bed, shirtless, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling slowly as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. His hair was a mess, his face shadowed with the stubble of someone who hadn’t bothered to shave in days. He looked peaceful, almost, but Jean knew better. This wasn’t peace. This was resignation. This was a man who had given up.

She stopped just inside the doorway, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the scene. The sheets were rumpled, the faint scent of perfume still lingering in the air. The woman had barely been gone five minutes, and already he was back to pretending like nothing mattered.

Jean’s eyes narrowed, her anger rising to the surface as she stepped further into the room. Remy didn’t react, didn’t even open his eyes. He probably thought it was Scott, or maybe he just didn’t care.

She didn’t say a word as she marched past him, her footsteps heavy as she crossed the room and headed straight for the walk-in closet. She knew exactly where to find it. The safe. The one he never touched anymore. The one that held the few things he couldn’t bring himself to look at, the things that reminded him too much of everything he had lost.

Anna’s photo album.

Her hands were trembling as she punched in the code, the soft beep of the safe opening echoing in the quiet room. She didn’t hesitate as she pulled out the leather-bound album, the weight of it heavy in her hands. She had seen it before, years ago, when things were still raw, when Remy had clung to it like a lifeline in the weeks after Anna’s death. But now? Now it was just another reminder of the life he had left behind, the life he refused to move on from.

Jean felt a lump form in her throat as she stared down at the album. It was old, worn around the edges, the leather soft from years of use. She could almost hear Anna’s laugh, see the way her eyes had sparkled when she smiled. For a brief moment, the memories threatened to overwhelm her, but she pushed them down, swallowing hard as she turned and walked back to the bed.

When the album landed on the bed with that heavy thud, Remy’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes snapped open, muscles instantly tensing, but he stayed still, his cigarette halfway to his lips, frozen in the sudden atmosphere Jean had dragged into the room. The sight of that photo album—Anna’s album—sitting just inches away from him made his chest tighten. It was like a punch to the gut, all the air sucked out of the room in an instant.

He knew exactly what it was, what it held—the memories, the moments, the life that had ended too soon. His fingers twitched around the cigarette, but he didn’t reach for the album. Couldn’t. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, his pulse thudding heavy and slow in his ears. He hoped if he didn’t look at it—if he didn’t acknowledge it—maybe it would all just disappear. The weight of it, the guilt, the grief.

But Jean wasn’t going to let him escape that easily.

“She would be ashamed of you if she saw what you were doing,” Jean said, her voice low, cold, and cutting.

The words hit him like a slap. His chest tightened, and something ugly twisted in his gut. Ashamed? He almost laughed, except there was nothing funny about it. Shame was practically all he felt anymore. Shame for how he had failed you. He had spent every day since your shooting dragging himself through the muck of his own guilt, trying to drink it away, fuck it away, smoke it out of his mind—but it never left. that had never healed.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see her pity or her anger. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breathing shallow, but Jean’s words kept digging into him like a knife. Remy’s jaw clenched, his cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling before he flicked the cigarette into the ashtray beside the bed. His eyes finally snapped to hers, dark and furious.

“Don’ ya dare bring Anna into this,” he growled, his voice rough with barely restrained anger. “Ya don’ know what she’d think.”

Jean didn’t flinch. She held her ground, her arms crossed, her gaze steady. “What, you think I’m wrong?” she shot back, her voice sharp, unwavering. “You think if she saw you dragging woman after woman through this place, drinking yourself half to death, she’d just smile and nod? You think she’d be okay with you tearing yourself apart because you’re too much of a coward to confront what’s right in front of you?”

Remy shot out of bed, the photo album sliding slightly as he moved. He didn’t even bother covering himself, his bare chest rising and falling with the force of his rage as he stormed over to her, closing the distance between them in seconds. His face was inches from hers, his eyes wild and burning with fury.

“How th’ fuck would ya know what Anna would think, huh?” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. His hand balled into a fist at his side, his whole body trembling with barely controlled emotion. “She’s dead, Jean. She ain’t here. So don’ stand there and act like ya have any clue what she’d say. Y’ don’ know shit.”

Jean didn’t back down. They were chest to chest now, the tension between them crackling like static in the air.

“Yeah, she’s gone,” Jean said, her voice steady, even as her heart pounded in her chest. “But that woman—the one you’re running away from? The one you’re too fucking terrified to love because you think you’ll lose her the way you lost Anna? She’s still here, Remy. She’s still there, and she’s still heartbroken.

Remy felt like he couldn’t breathe. Jean’s words hit him harder than the rage that had boiled up moments before. He stood there, trembling, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white. The anger that had flared so hotly inside him was already giving way to something colder, something more dangerous: fear.

You were the one he was running from now, but it always came back to Anna, didn’t it?

His mind shot back to that day—that fucking day—when everything had changed. He hadn’t been with her when the drunk driver hit. He hadn’t been there to hold her hand or whisper that everything would be okay. He hadn’t even known what had happened until he’d gotten the call. The surgeon had met him in the cold, sterile halls of the hospital, his face grave, his voice low. Remy hadn’t even been able to process the words at first.

Dead on arrival.

Those words echoed in his mind even now, years later, still as sharp and brutal as the first time he heard them. He had rushed to the hospital, thinking maybe there was still time, maybe there was a chance. But he’d never gotten to say goodbye, never even had the chance to hold her one last time. Instead, he’d stood in that empty hallway, his body numb with shock, as they told him she was gone. Just like that. One moment she was alive, vibrant, full of life, and the next—she was nothing but a memory.

He hadn’t been able to save her. He hadn’t been able to protect her.

And the guilt of that, the helplessness, had eaten away at him ever since. It had burrowed deep inside him, festering like a wound that never healed. So he’d built walls around it, around himself, to keep the pain at bay. To keep everyone at bay.

But then you came along.

And for the first time in years, he’d started to believe that maybe he didn’t have to be alone. Maybe he could let someone in again. Maybe you could be the exception. You had this way of looking at him, of making him feel like he wasn’t completely broken, like there was still something worth saving inside him. He had started to let his guard down around you, let himself feel something again.

Until that morning.

The memory of it hit him like a punch to the gut. You had begged him to stay in bed with you. You’d been wrapped in the sheets, your hair tousled, your eyes still sleepy as you’d pulled him close, asking him to stay just a few more hours, to forget the world and stay in the warmth of your bed. He remembered the way your voice had been soft, playful, the way you smiled at him like he was your whole world.

But he had been the one to suggest the market.

He knew how much you loved them—how walking through the stalls, smelling the fresh produce, the flowers, and browsing the little trinkets always made you light up. So he’d kissed you on the forehead, told you the market would be fun, told you the day would be perfect.

And then you’d gotten shot.

All he could think about was that he was going to lose you, just like he’d lost Anna. And this time, it was worse—because he’d been the one to suggest you go. He’d been the one to send you into danger without even knowing it.

The guilt had consumed him. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the thought that you’d gotten hurt because of him. That you might have died because of him.

So he’d done the only thing he knew how to do: he ran.

He had told himself it was for your own good. That being with him was too dangerous, that you deserved better. That if he stayed, you’d only get hurt again—maybe next time, you wouldn’t be so lucky. He had convinced himself that walking away was the right thing to do, that he was protecting you. But now, as he stood there, Jean’s words cutting into him like a knife, he couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

He hadn’t left to protect you. He’d left to protect himself.

Because the truth was, he was terrified. Terrified of losing you the way he’d lost Anna. Terrified of watching someone else he cared about slip away because he wasn’t strong enough to keep them safe. And in his fear, he had done the very thing he swore he wouldn’t—he’d hurt you. He’d shattered you. He’d walked away when you needed him most, and now, all that was left between you was the wreckage of what could have been.

Jean’s voice cut through his thoughts again, sharp and relentless. “You think you’re keeping her safe by leaving? You’re not. You’ve done more damage to her than Eric ever could. You’re the one who broke her, Remy. You.”

His chest felt like it was caving in, the weight of her words pressing down on him until it was almost unbearable. He had broken you. He had thought he was doing the right thing, but all he had done was tear you apart, just like he’d been torn apart by Anna’s death.

And now? Now he didn’t know if he could fix it. He didn’t know if there was anything left to save.

His hand shook as he ran it through his hair, his mind racing with regrets and what-ifs. He thought of you, of the way you had looked at him the last time you’d seen him—your eyes filled with hurt, with confusion, with betrayal. He remembered the way you had reached for him, your voice breaking as you asked him why. As you tried to fight him on his words. Words he didn’t want to speak, and words you didn’t want to hear.

He hadn’t had an answer then. But now, standing here, the truth was staring him in the face.

He hadn’t left because it was the right thing to do. He had left because he was a coward.

Remy’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he tried to keep it together, but the weight of it all was crushing him. Jean’s words kept echoing in his head, relentless and unforgiving.

You’re the one who broke her.

His eyes dropped to the photo album on the bed, but it wasn’t Anna he was thinking about anymore. It was you. You were still out there, still hurting, and he had been too much of a coward to do anything about it. Too afraid to face the possibility that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

Maybe he could be different this time.

Jean’s voice softened, but it still held that edge of truth. “You want to fix this? Then stop running. Stop hiding behind your guilt. Stop pretending like you’re doing her a favor by walking away. You’re not. You’re just being a coward.”

Remy swallowed hard, his throat tight. His mind was racing, his heart pounding, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something stir inside him. Something that had been buried beneath the fear and guilt for too long.

Hope.

Jean’s eyes softened slightly as she took a step back, her voice quieter now, more measured. “I saw her today,” she said, watching Remy carefully, gauging his reaction. “She was with her sister.”

Remy froze. His thoughts stopped dead in their tracks.

“She looked… fine, as far as I could tell,” Jean continued, though her voice dipped with uncertainty. “But, god, Remy. She needs you.” Her voice trembled slightly, revealing the weight of her own worry. “She’s hurting, and you’re the person she needs right now. Do you understand that?”

The words hit him like a sledgehammer. She needs you.

His mind raced. You were out there, walking around, living your life—wearing a brave face, no doubt—but underneath it, you were broken. And it was his fault. He had left you to deal with the pain, to heal alone, and now Jean was standing here telling him that you weren’t okay. That you were just surviving without him, not living.

“She needs you, Remy,” Jean repeated, her voice firm but full of something else—pleading. “Maybe she hasn’t said it, maybe she’s trying to be strong, but I saw her. She’s not fine. Not really. And she’s not going to be until you stop running and face this.”

His chest ached, the weight of everything crashing down on him all at once. He had done this. He had hurt you, abandoned you, and now you were out there, trying to piece yourself back together without him. And all the while, he had deluded himself into thinking that walking away was the right choice, that it was better for you.

But it wasn’t.

She turned on her heel, her shoulders tense, and started walking toward the door, her steps heavy with the weight of everything she had just said. She had tried to be patient. She had tried to let him grieve, to let him drown in his guilt if that’s what he needed. But this? This self-destruction, this endless parade of women and alcohol—it wasn’t helping him. It was killing him, slowly, piece by piece.

Just as she reached the door, she heard the sharp sound of something hitting the wall behind her. She didn’t turn around, but she knew it was Remy kicking something across the room, probably the ashtray or a bottle. His frustration, his pain, his anger—it all exploded in that one violent action.

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t turn back. She had said what she needed to say, and now it was up to him to decide whether he was going to keep destroying himself—or finally face the truth.

As she walked down the hallway, the sound of Remy’s ragged breathing followed her, and she could only hope that somewhere, deep down, her words had broken through the wall of guilt and anger he had built around himself.

She hoped, for his sake—and for yours—that it wasn’t too late.

Remy stood frozen in place, his fists still clenched at his sides. His chest heaved with each breath, his mind spinning as the sound of Jean’s footsteps faded down the hall. The apartment felt like it was closing in on him, the walls pressing tighter, suffocating him. He stared at the door she had just walked out of, his emotions tangled in a storm of anger, guilt, and something deeper—something more painful and raw.

His gaze flicked back to the bed.

The photo album sat there, untouched.

He hadn’t looked at it since the day he brought it to your house. Since the day he realized that maybe—just maybe—he could risk letting someone in again. That you were worth that risk. He had thought he could keep his two lives apart: the life he had as someone to be feared, someone dangerous and the life he was beginning to build with you. But the memories inside that album—the photos of Anna’s smile, her laugh, her life—were too much. Too heavy. Too painful.

But that day, when he handed it to you, the weight had felt… different. It wasn’t about the past anymore. It wasn’t about Anna. It was about you. About the way you’d started to break down the walls he’d spent years building. About the way you made him feel things he thought he’d buried.

The first time he realized he was falling in love with you was the night he showed you that album.

He had placed the album in your hands, his fingers trembling slightly as he sat down beside you. For a moment, you had just stared at it, your brow furrowing in confusion. And then, slowly, you opened it.

The first page had been a photo of Anna—laughing, vibrant, alive. So alive. His chest had ached when he saw her face again, the familiar pull of grief and guilt rising up, threatening to drown him. But then you had looked at him, your eyes filled with something he hadn’t expected—understanding. You hadn’t said anything. You hadn’t asked questions or pried. You had just… looked at him. Like you saw him. Like you understood.

And that was when he knew.

He was falling in love with you.

It wasn’t the way you touched him or the way you smiled at him or even the way you made him laugh on the rare occasions he let his guard down. It was the way you saw him. The way you looked at him, even now, after he had laid his past bare in front of you. The way you accepted him—flaws, scars, and all.

He had watched you flip through the pages, his heart in his throat. Part of him had been terrified that you would react differently—that you would see the depth of his guilt, his pain, and decide you didn’t want to be a part of it. But you hadn’t. You had reached out instead, your hand resting gently on his knee, your touch grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Thank you,” you had whispered, your voice soft and full of emotion.

He hadn’t known what to say. Maybe there were no words for it, for the way you had made him feel in that moment. For the way you had taken something so heavy, so painful, and made it feel lighter. Instead, he had just nodded, his hand covering yours, his grip tight—desperate, almost—as if holding on to you could keep him from falling apart.

That night, after you had looked at the album and closed it, you had kissed him—softly, tenderly. It was gentle. Healing. And in that moment, he had felt something shift inside him. Something he hadn’t thought he would ever feel again.

Hope.

He had stayed the night. Not just physically, but emotionally. He hadn’t run. He hadn’t pushed you away. He had let himself be vulnerable with you in a way he hadn’t been with anyone since Anna. And it had terrified him. But it had also made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years.

Alive.

But now, standing in this apartment, with Jean’s words still echoing in his ears, that feeling of being alive felt far away. Distant.

Jean had no right to bring Anna up like that. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand.

Remy stormed across the room, kicking the ashtray hard enough that it clattered against the wall, scattering cigarette butts and ashes across the floor. His hands were shaking as he ran them through his hair, cursing under his breath. He wanted to punch something, break something, do anything to release the pressure building inside him.

But all he could think of was Jean’s voice, ringing in his ears.

She would be ashamed of you.

The words cut deeper than anything else she had said. Anna had been the only person in Remy’s life who had ever really seen all of him—the good and the bad, the light and the darkness. She had loved him despite it all, and even though she was gone, her memory still weighed on him like a chain he couldn’t escape. He had made a promise to her, hadn’t he? To keep going. To live. But here he was, drowning in the same guilt and fear that had haunted him since the day she died.

And then there was you.

Jean’s words about you hit even harder, echoing in his mind as he paced the room, his hands still shaking. He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not since he had walked away, convinced that leaving you was the only way to keep you safe. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into his world, didn’t deserve the danger that seemed to follow him, the chaos that always surrounded him. He had convinced himself that staying away from you was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. But then Jean had laid it out so plainly, so brutally:

You did more damage to her than Eric ever could.

It was like a punch to the gut. He could still see the look on your face that last day, the hurt in your eyes as he had turned his back on you. He had thought he was protecting you, but now… now he wasn’t so sure.

He stumbled back to the bed, sitting down heavily on the edge, his elbows resting on his knees as he let his head fall into his hands.

You had been different from Anna. Where Anna had been light and fire, you were something quieter. Steadier. But that didn’t mean you were any less important. If anything, it made him fall for you even harder. He had thought he had nothing left to give, that his heart had died the day Anna did. But you had proven him wrong. You had shown him that he could feel again, that he could love again.

And that had terrified him.

He reached out, his hand hovering over the photo album. His fingers trembled as they brushed against the leather cover, but he still didn’t open it. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not like this.

Jean’s words kept echoing in his head, cycling over and over again until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He had pushed you away because he thought it was the only way to protect you, but all he had done was tear both of you apart. He had been too much of a coward to face the truth, too afraid to love you because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone else. He had built walls around himself, convinced that isolation was the only way to survive.

But now? Now he wasn’t sure whether he had been protecting you—or whether he had just been protecting himself from the pain of loving you.

He stood up suddenly, knocking the album off the bed as he grabbed his shirt from the chair. His hands were still shaking as he pulled it over his head, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. He couldn’t stay here. Not like this. Not after what Jean had said.

He needed to move, needed to get out. The apartment felt like a prison.

As he reached for the doorknob, Jean’s words came back to him, louder now, clearer.

I saw her today.

His chest tightened. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, but the image of you flashed in his mind. Jean had said you were with your sister. That you looked… fine. But he knew better. He knew the kind of pain his absence would have caused you. He had seen it in your eyes that last day, the way your voice had trembled when you begged him to stay.

God, Remy. She needs you.

He stopped, his hand frozen on the doorknob.

You needed him.

Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still time to fix things. To make things right. He had been running for so long—running from the pain, from the guilt, from the fear of losing someone else. But maybe this time, he didn’t need to run.

Maybe this time, he could stay.

Remy took a deep breath, his heart pounding as he opened the door. The hallway stretched out before him, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid of what came next. <><><><><><><> It was the sharp knock on the door that made your mother look up from the stove, her hand pausing mid-stir as the sound echoed through the small apartment. For a moment, she stood still, listening, as if expecting the knock to repeat. Her heart gave a familiar, anxious flutter as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and made her way toward the living room, the air thick with the scent of roasting vegetables and simmering broth.

She had been here for weeks now. Ever since that night when she had received the gut-wrenching call that nearly stopped her heart. The night they told her you had been shot. The hours long drive to the hospital had been a blur of fear and disbelief, her hands shaking as she gripped the steering wheel, her mind racing with every worst-case scenario. Even now, the memory of it was enough to send a fresh wave of panic through her, that cold, sinking feeling of almost losing you.

The doctors had said you were lucky. Lucky. That word had rung in her ears like a cruel joke as she stared at you lying in that hospital bed, pale and fragile, hooked up to machines that beeped and whirred around you. You had been unconscious for what felt like weeks but it was barely even days, your mother sitting vigil at your bedside, refusing to leave—even when the nurses gently suggested she get some rest. But how could she? She needed to be there. She needed to see your chest rise and fall, to remind herself that you were still breathing, still with her.

In the weeks since, she had taken on the role of caretaker with a kind of fierce determination, tending to you as if her love alone might somehow heal those wounds faster. She made sure you rested, made sure you took your medication, made sure you ate enough, even when you didn’t have much of an appetite. But more than that, she stayed close because a part of her still couldn’t shake the fear that if she let you out of her sight, she might lose you again.

Your sister had arrived a week after that fateful day, barely giving herself time to breathe before booking the first flight out, leaving her baby in the care of her husband. She had called your mother from the airport, her voice trembling with a frantic kind of urgency, demanding to know how bad it was, how you were holding up. Your mother had tried to reassure her, but her voice had cracked when she said, “She’s alive, but…” There was always a but. The kind of but that left a lingering shadow over every moment, as if the danger wasn’t quite past, even though the worst had already happened.

When your sister arrived, she had rushed into the hospital room, her eyes wide with worry, her arms wrapping around your mother in a fierce embrace. She had taken one look at you, lying there with blood still on your face, so pale and her face had crumpled. The baby she had left behind, her life back home—it all seemed so far away, irrelevant, when her sister was lying in a hospital bed, fighting to recover from something so violent, so senseless.

Since then, the two of them—your mother and your sister—had worked together in quiet, unspoken solidarity. They had taken turns watching over you, making sure you had everything you needed, making sure the apartment was stocked with food, making sure you rested when your stubbornness tried to push you too hard, too fast.

It wasn’t just about taking care of your wounds, though that was a large part of it. It was also about reassuring themselves, about proving to themselves that you were still here, still alive. They couldn’t forget how close they had come to losing you, how your fate had hung by a thread in those first few hours. Though the doctors had said you would recover, the trauma of that close call lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken.

Your mother, especially, had taken to hovering. Every time you winced or moved too suddenly, she was there, asking if you were okay, if you needed anything, if the pain was manageable. She couldn’t help it. She needed to see you, to touch you, to know that you were real, that you were healing, that you hadn’t slipped away from her.

And you, in your own quiet way, allowed it. You didn’t complain when she fluttered around you, didn’t protest when she brought you meals or fussed over your bandages. Maybe you understood that she needed this—needed to mother you, to care for you in a way that soothed her own fears as much as it soothed your pain.

Your mother stepped into the living room and opened the door cautiously, her heart still uneasy.

And then she saw him.

Remy.

He stood there, just outside the door, looking nothing like the man she had met in that hospital waiting room all those weeks ago. She remembered that day clearly. He had been tall, composed, and intimidating, the kind of man who seemed to carry the world on his shoulders without ever flinching. He had been arguing with James, the tension between them palpable, but it had been controlled, restrained. Even then, she had sensed the danger in him, the kind of danger that came from a man who was always a few steps ahead, always calculating, always prepared to do whatever was necessary.

She had learned more about him later, from whispers and rumors and things people had told her. The mobster. The king of New Orleans. The man who ruled the streets with an iron fist and wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who got in his way. She had known her daughter was involved with someone dangerous, but it wasn’t until after the shooting that she fully understood who Remy really was.

But now, standing in front of her, he was a shadow of that man. His clothes were rumpled, his face unshaven, and his eyes… His eyes were dark and hollow, filled with the kind of regret that seemed to weigh him down with every breath. He looked lost, broken in a way that shattered the image she had built of him in her mind.

She had been right all along, though. Her daughter had a power over him, even if you didn’t realize it. You had brought him to his knees, in ways neither of you fully understood. The man who had ruled the streets, who had inspired fear in everyone who crossed him, was now standing on her doorstep, looking like he didn’t know what to do next.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Your mother’s heart was still heavy with anger over what he had done—how he had walked away when you needed him most, how he had left you to face the aftermath of the shooting alone. But seeing him now, like this, that anger softened just enough for her to do something she hadn’t expected.

She stepped aside.

“Come in,” she said quietly, her voice steady even though her heart was racing. “I was just making lunch.”

Remy blinked, clearly surprised by the invitation. He opened his mouth as if to protest, to say something about not wanting to intrude, but your mother shook her head.

“She won’t be back for a while,” she continued, gesturing toward the kitchen. “You look like you need something to eat.”

For a moment, he hesitated, as if unsure whether he should accept. But then, slowly, he nodded and stepped inside, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

Your mother closed the door behind him, her heart still conflicted, but her mind set. She didn’t know what would happen next, didn’t know if you would be ready to see him when you returned. But for now, she could offer him this one small kindness—the same kind of kindness she had always offered to those in need.

Because even though Remy was dangerous, even though he had hurt you, he was also just a man.

And right now, he looked like a man in desperate need of something more than what she was offering. Remy stepped inside, his body moving on autopilot as the door clicked shut behind him. The apartment was small, quiet, but it held a weight he wasn’t prepared for. Every step he took felt heavy, as if the memories that lingered in these rooms were pulling him down, dragging him under.

It was strange how easily the past came rushing back. The scent of home-cooked meals still hung in the air, blending with the faintest trace of your perfume, even though you weren’t here. It was enough to make his throat tighten, his heart clench in his chest. He hadn’t been in this apartment for weeks—hadn’t let himself think too hard about it, about what it would be like to return here after everything.

But now, as your mother led him quietly toward the kitchen, the memories hit him, one after another, relentless and vivid.

He could see you, clear as day, sitting on the kitchen counter just a few feet away, laughing at him while he cooked dinner. You had always teased him about how serious he looked when he was cooking, how he could go from the hard-edged mobster everyone feared to someone so focused on making sure the sauce didn’t burn. He remembered the way your legs would swing back and forth as you watched him, the way your eyes would light up when you tasted what he had made, leaning down to steal a kiss as if you couldn’t help yourself. He’d playfully swat you away, but only because he knew if he kissed you back, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

His eyes drifted to the living room, and there it was—the couch. The same couch where you had curled up against him on countless nights, a blanket wrapped around you as you laid your head on his chest. He could still feel your weight on him, the warmth of your body seeping into his as he stroked your hair absentmindedly while you dozed off. You were always so peaceful in those moments, and it was in those quiet hours that he had let his guard down, had let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have something good in his life. Something pure. Something that wasn’t stained by the blood on his hands.

And then his gaze caught on the open bedroom door.

His heart skipped a beat.

He couldn’t stop the flood of memories that came crashing through him. The nights he had spent in that room, the way your nails would dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him deeper, as if you needed him just to breathe. He could still feel the ghost of your lips on his skin, the way you kissed him like he was the only thing that mattered, like he was the air you needed to survive. Those nights had been filled with passion, with a hunger that neither of you could ever seem to sate. But they had also been filled with something more—something he wasn’t used to. Something he couldn’t name but felt in every touch, every kiss.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away from the bedroom door. His chest ached with the weight of it all. The memories, the loss, the guilt. And beneath it all, a longing that he didn’t know how to deal with.

Your mother gestured toward the kitchen table, her voice soft but firm. “Sit.”

He obeyed, sinking into the chair, though his muscles felt painfully tight. His hands rested on the table, but he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He felt out of place, like a stranger in a home that had once been his second home.

She moved around the kitchen with a quiet efficiency, pulling out plates, setting utensils on the table, all the while keeping an eye on him. He could feel her watching him, studying him. Judging him, maybe. He couldn’t blame her for that. Not after everything he’d done.

There was a brief silence as she ladled soup into bowls and placed them in front of him. The smell was warm, comforting, but he had no appetite. His stomach churned with nerves, a sensation he wasn’t used to. He, who had faced down enemies and stared death in the face more times than he could count, was now sitting in a kitchen, feeling like a lost boy.

Your mother sat down across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes sharp and assessing.

“What are you doing here, Remy?” she asked, her voice calm but direct.

He stared down at the bowl in front of him, watching the steam rise. He didn’t have a good answer—not one that would make sense. Not one that would explain why he had shown up on her doorstep after disappearing for so long. He had told himself that you were better off without him, that leaving you was the only way to protect you. But that had been a lie, hadn’t it?

“I don’t really know,” he said quietly, his voice rough and low, like the words were being dragged out of him against his will.

Your mother didn’t respond immediately. She just sat there, watching him with those knowing eyes, the kind that saw more than you wanted them to. She didn’t press him for more. She didn’t need to.

And in the silence that followed, he realized she already understood. She knew what he was struggling with, what he couldn’t bring himself to say. She knew that he was lost, that the man who had once walked so confidently in and out of your life was now broken, unsure of how to fix what he had shattered.

“You’re trying to figure it out,” she said softly, her voice gentle but firm. “Trying to figure out if there’s a way back.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. The truth was written all over his face, in the way his shoulders slumped, in the way he couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

She sighed, a long, slow breath, and picked up her spoon, gesturing for him to do the same. “Eat,” she said quietly. “You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

He hesitated for a moment, then picked up his spoon and took a small sip. The warmth of the soup spread through him, but it didn’t take away the ache in his chest. Nothing would.

Your mother set her spoon down gently, the soft clink of metal against porcelain barely breaking the quiet that had settled over the kitchen. Her eyes lifted to meet Remy’s, searching, as if trying to find something in him that wasn’t immediately visible. She had been talking for a while now—telling stories about you, about your childhood, about the way you had always been so full of life, so eager to escape the small town where nothing ever seemed to happen. Remy had listened, absorbing every word, but now the focus had shifted.

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers lacing together on the table in front of her, her gaze steady and unflinching.

“How did you get caught up in all this, Remy?” she asked, her voice soft but direct. “How did you become a part of that world?”

Remy’s chest tightened, the familiar weight of the question settling over him. It was a question he had been asked before, but never like this. Never by someone who was looking at him with both understanding and judgment, with both sympathy and a fierce protectiveness for the daughter she loved. He shifted in his seat, his hands resting awkwardly on the table, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He hadn’t come here to talk about himself. He hadn’t planned on explaining anything. But now, with your mother sitting across from him, her eyes locked on his, he felt the weight of her question pressing down on him, demanding an answer. And for some reason, he felt like he owed it to her. Maybe because of the way she had welcomed him in, despite everything. Maybe because she had fed him, listened to him, offered him a kind of understanding he hadn’t expected.

Remy sat there for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his hands, which rested loosely in his lap. He could feel your mother watching him, waiting patiently for him to answer. He wasn’t sure why he was even telling her any of this. Maybe because she had opened her door to him, or maybe because, in some way, she reminded him of the kind of mother he never had.

He took a deep breath, finally looking up to meet her gaze. “I wasn’t born into this life if that’s what you mean,” he began, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “I was… adopted.”

Your mother’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She just waited, quietly urging him to continue.

“I don’t remember much about my birth parents,” Remy said, his mind drifting back to the hazy fragments of his early childhood. “I was too young when they gave me up. I was in foster care for a while, bouncing from one house to another. It was… rough. I guess I was a difficult kid. Angry, confused. I didn’t understand why they didn’t want me.”

He paused, the old bitterness rising in his throat, but he pushed it down. He wasn’t here to wallow in self-pity.

“Eventually, I got adopted by this couple. Seemed like good people at first. They had money, stability. I thought maybe things would finally get better, you know? But… it wasn’t like that.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening as the memories came flooding back. “They weren’t bad people, but they weren’t ready for a kid like me. I was already too far gone by the time they took me in. Too angry. Too broken.”

Your mother’s face softened slightly, her eyes filled with something close to understanding, but she stayed silent, letting him tell his story.

“I fell in with the wrong crowd when I was about thirteen,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Started running with kids who were older than me, kids who didn’t have much to lose. We got into trouble—small stuff at first. Skipping school, stealing from corner stores. But it escalated fast. By the time I was fifteen, I was doing things that no kid should ever have to do. Selling drugs. Running errands for people who had real power in the city.”

He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as the memories churned inside him. “I thought I was tough. Thought I didn’t need anyone. But really, I was just trying to survive. I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

He looked up then, meeting your mother’s eyes. “By the time I realized how deep I was in, it was too late. I had already crossed too many lines. Made too many choices that I couldn’t take back.”

Your mother nodded slowly, her expression softening, though there was still a hint of sadness in her eyes. “It’s hard to break free from something like that,” she said gently, her voice filled with the kind of wisdom that came from years of seeing people make mistakes, from knowing how hard it was to find redemption.

Remy nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. It is. Once you’re in that world, it’s like quicksand. The harder you fight, the deeper you sink.”

He paused, his voice lowering as he forced himself to admit the part that hurt the most. “And by the time I met her... your daughter… I was already too far gone. I thought I could keep her away from it. Protect her from who I really was. But I couldn’t. And now…”

He trailed off, the weight of his own failure hanging heavy in the air between them.

Your mother sat quietly for a moment, her hands resting on the table, her expression thoughtful. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but steady. “You can’t change the past, Remy. But you can decide what kind of man you want to be moving forward.”

Remy sat back in the chair, his eyes dropping to the floor as a tension settled over his shoulders. He had already said more than he planned to, already laid out pieces of his past that he wasn’t used to sharing with anyone, let alone your mother. But there was one more thing, one more truth that felt like a weight pressing down on him. If he was being completely open with your mother, showing her that he wasn’t what she perceived him to be, then she needs to know everything. Know the reasons why he is like he is, to gain her acceptance in a way that only a mother could give.

He took a slow breath, then forced himself to meet your mother’s gaze. “I’ve been married before,” he said quietly, the words coming out rough, like they were scraping against his throat.

Your mother didn’t react immediately. She just stayed still, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processed what he said. Remy watched her closely, waiting for the judgment, for the disappointment, for something that told him he had just made things worse. But it didn’t come.

Instead, your mother’s lips curved into a soft, almost bemused smile, her eyes glinting with an understanding he hadn’t expected. “So was I,” she said, her voice light but tinged with the weight of her own memories. “Twice, in fact.”

Remy blinked, surprised. He hadn’t known that. You had mentioned your childhood, your mother’s second marriage, but you hadn’t gone into much detail. He hadn’t thought to ask.

Your mother leaned back in her chair, her expression shifting to something lighter, though Remy could still see the weight of past experiences in her eyes. She took a breath, her lips curving into a small, almost mischievous smile.

“My first husband,” she began, her tone casual but laced with dry humor, “was an idiot. Couldn’t keep it in his pants if his life depended on it.”

Remy blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. He tried to hold it together, but a grin tugged at his lips, threatening to break into a full laugh. It was the first time since he’d walked into your house that he felt the tension lift, even if just for a moment.

Your mother noticed, her smile widening as she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “Oh, don’t worry,” she continued, her voice warm but matter-of-fact, as if she’d told this story a hundred times before. “It didn’t last long. I was young, thought I knew everything. We had my oldest together, and I tried to make it work for her sake. But… well, we just weren’t right for each other. Didn’t take long before we were more like strangers living in the same house.”

Remy stayed quiet, unsure how to respond, but the way she spoke—with such calm, as if she had made peace with it long ago—made it easier for him to listen. There was no bitterness in her voice, just the kind of wisdom that came from living through it and coming out stronger on the other side.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he finally let the smile fully form on his face. “Sounds like you’ve been through it.”

Your mother smirked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh, honey, I’ve been through more than you can imagine. But I learned a lot along the way.”

Remy nodded, his smile lingering. “Guess life has a way of teaching you the hard lessons.”

She nodded in agreement, her gaze softening. “It does. But sometimes, those lessons are exactly what you need to figure out who you really are—and what you deserve. When I met my second husband,” she said, her eyes softening at the memory. “I wasn’t looking for love. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d never fall in love again after the first marriage. But the universe has a funny way of proving you wrong.” She chuckled softly, a sound that carried both amusement and affection. “It’s like it just knows when you need something different, something better.”

She paused, her gaze drifting for a moment, as if she was lost in the past. Then she looked back at Remy, her smile turning just a little mischievous. “Sometimes, the universe lets you fall in love twice.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, settling over him like a blanket of quiet reassurance. He hadn’t expected her to respond like this—to take what he had said and turn it into something softer, something that didn’t feel like a confession weighed down with guilt. There was no judgment in her eyes, no disappointment. Just a quiet acceptance, as if she had seen enough of life to know that love wasn’t always neat, wasn’t always perfect the first time around.

Remy exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest loosening just a little. He hadn’t talked about his marriage in years, hadn’t let himself think about what it had meant, or what it hadn’t. But sitting here, with your mother looking at him like she understood more than he’d ever expected her to, he found himself speaking again, the words coming out before he could stop them.

“Her name was Anna,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “My first wife.”

Your mother’s expression softened, her eyes watching him closely, understanding that this wasn’t something he spoke about lightly. She didn’t push, didn’t interrupt—just let him talk.

“She… she died,” he continued, his voice catching slightly on the words. “Drunk drivin’ accident. She wasn’t the one driving… but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

He paused, his throat tight as the memories rushed back—memories of that night, of the phone call, of the shock that had ripped through him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air. “She was on her way home from a friend’s place. Some guy blew through a red light, hit her car. She never had a chance.”

He clenched his jaw, fighting against the familiar surge of guilt that always came with thinking about Anna. “I wasn’ with her that night. I should’a been. But I was workin’ a job—deep in my life with the crew. Thought I was doing what I needed to. And then she was gone."

Your mother’s face softened with sympathy, her hand resting lightly on the table between them. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice filled with the kind of quiet understanding that only someone who had lived through their own losses could offer. “Losing someone like that… it’s not something you ever really get over.”

Remy nodded, his chest tight. “No, it ain’.”

They sat in the stillness of the kitchen, the air thick with the weight of everything Remy had just laid bare. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was filled with the kind of tension that only comes when someone’s past is laid out raw and vulnerable. Your mother didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t push him for more. She simply sat, her fingers lightly drumming on the edge of the table as she processed his words.

But after a moment, her expression softened, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she shifted the conversation. “How did you meet my daughter?” she asked, her voice gentle, steering them into safer territory.

Remy looked up, his throat still tight from the weight of his earlier confession, but the mention of you brought a flicker of warmth to his chest, something that softened the edges of his guilt and regret. He couldn’t help but smile, just a little, as the memory of that first night came rushing back. “At the bar she works at,” he said, his voice quieter now, a touch lighter. “I was there one night. Saw her and James. She was… different. Strong. Unafraid. But there was something else in her eyes, too. Something that drew me in.”

He paused, the memory playing out in his mind like a scene from a movie. “She was on her break, I think,” he continued, his smile widening slightly. “Sittin’ on a crate, eatin’ her dinner. Just… completely comfortable in her own skin. I don’t know, there was somethin’ about her. The way she carried herself. How she didn’t take life too seriously, even though it’s clear she’s been through some tough stuff.”

Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smirk. “Bloody James,” she said with a playful roll of her eyes. “I swear that man is a bad influence on her.”

Remy chuckled softly, but he could see the fondness in your mother’s expression. She didn’t mean it. If anything, Remy could tell she trusted James, maybe even saw him as a kind of protector for you.

“So, that’s how it started?” she asked, leaning forward slightly, her interest clearly piqued.

Remy nodded, his gaze softening as he thought back to that night. “Yeah. I overheard her badmouthin’ her boss to James.” He smiled a little at the memory. “But it weren’ jus’ what she said. It was how she said it. She wasn’t angry, she was laughing about it, like nothing could really get under her skin. I don’t know… there was somethin’ about her. The way she seemed so unbothered by the world, but at the same time, so aware of it. I couldn’ stay away.”

He hesitated then, his expression growing more serious. “She had this… way of lookin’ at me, like she could see past everythin’. Past the life I was in. All the mess, all the mistakes. Like she saw somethin’ in me that I ain’ even know was there. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”

Your mother’s eyes softened as she listened, her hands resting lightly on the table, but there was a flicker of something else in her gaze—something sharper, more protective. “James told me about the night you pulled a gun on someone harassing her in the club,” she said, her voice steady, though there was a slight edge to it.

Remy winced, his gaze dropping to the floor. He knew that story had spread around, and he wasn’t surprised that James had told your mother. He wasn’t proud of what had happened that night, but he wasn’t about to deny it either. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low. “That happened.”

He could feel her eyes on him, sharp and assessing, weighing him in a way that made him feel exposed all over again. “Is that what you do, Remy?” she asked, her tone firm but not harsh. “Pull guns on people to solve problems?”

Remy’s jaw tightened as he looked down, shame twisting in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to be that guy. Not in front of you. Not in front of anyone. But that night… that night had been different. “I ain’ proud of it,” he admitted, his voice rough. “It ain’ something I’m proud to say I did. But…” He paused, his hands tightening into fists on the table as he forced himself to meet her gaze. “But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Your mother’s brow furrowed slightly, her gaze hardening as she tried to make sense of his words. “Why?” she asked, though there was no accusation in her voice—just a mother’s concern. “Why would you think that was the right thing to do?”

Remy took a deep breath, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest. “Because I couldn’t just stand there and watch it happen,” he said, his voice low but steady. “That guy… he wasn’t just harassing her. He wasn’ gonna stop. I could see it in his eyes. He was going to hurt her if I didn’ step in. And I wasn’ going to let that happen. Not to her.”

Your mother stayed quiet, her expression unreadable as she considered his words. But there was something in her eyes that shifted, something softer, though still guarded. “You know,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, “she’s not someone who needs saving. My daughter’s been through a lot. She’s strong. She can handle herself.”

Remy nodded slowly. “I know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know she don’t need me to fight her battles. But that night… I wasn’ thinkin’. I just acted. I couldn’ let her get hurt. Not when I could do something about it.”

Your mother leaned back in her chair, her gaze softening slightly as she studied him. “You care about her,” she said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

Remy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his own feelings pressing down on him. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

Your mother’s expression softened even more, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose there are worse things than a man who’s willing to protect the people he loves. Just… no more guns, alright?”

Remy let out a soft chuckle, though there was still a heaviness in his chest. “I’ll do my best,” he said, offering her a small, tentative smile in return.

Your mother nodded, her smile lingering for just a moment before she turned her attention back to the table, her fingers tracing the edge of her mug. “Good,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that hadn’t been there before. “Because my daughter… she deserves someone who’ll stand by her side, not someone who’ll fight her battles for her.” The quiet inside the house was suddenly broken by the sound of a car door slamming shut outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of laughter—your laughter, joined by your sister’s, floating through the cool evening air. It was the kind of sound that carried warmth, the kind that spoke of inside jokes and years of shared memories.

Remy’s entire body tensed at the sound. His breath hitched, and his gaze flicked toward the front door as if he could see through it. He knew it was you. He knew the sound of your laughter anywhere, the cadence of it, the way it lit up a room. But here, now, it felt like a punch to the gut—a reminder of everything he had been running from and everything he had returned to face.

Your mother noticed the shift in him immediately, the way his shoulders stiffened, how his hands clenched slightly on the table. She reached across the space between them and placed her hand gently over his, her fingers warm and firm. The gesture was small but grounding, drawing his attention back to her.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said softly, her voice steady and filled with a quiet, maternal reassurance that cut through the tension in the room. “Thank you for talking to me. For opening up… about all of it.”

Remy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. He hadn’t expected your mother to look at him like this—to see him, really see him, and still meet him with understanding instead of judgment. He nodded slowly, dipping his head as if he could absorb the weight of her words.

“And thank you,” she continued, her eyes softening as she held his gaze, “for loving my daughter enough to come back.”

Her words landed like a quiet challenge, but not one meant to intimidate—more like an invitation to step up, to be the man she believed you deserved. Remy let out a slow breath, the tension in his chest loosening just slightly, though the weight of everything still hung heavy on his shoulders.

“I ain’ sure I’m the man she needs,” he admitted, his voice low and rough, like the words were scraping their way out of him. “I don’ know if I’ll ever be. I don’ wanna drag her down.”

Your mother’s grip on his hand tightened for just a moment, a silent insistence that he listen to her. “You’re here now,” she said simply. “That matters. It means something.”

Remy nodded again, his brow furrowed, his mind racing with everything he wanted to say, everything he didn’t know how to say. He wasn’t sure what being here would fix, wasn’t sure if he had already done too much damage. But sitting across from your mother, seeing the way she still had hope for you both, something inside him shifted. A quiet resolve, a determination that maybe—just maybe—he could try. He could be more than the man his past had shaped him into. He could be the man you saw in him.

“I know,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tryin’.”

Before your mother could respond, the sound of the front door opening filled the room, followed by your sister’s voice, still mid-laugh. “Okay, but you cannot tell me that Bangerz wasn’t a cultural reset,” she was saying, her words punctuated by the thud of shoes being kicked off.

You followed her inside, your own voice teasing as you countered, “Plastic Hearts is superior, and you know it. Miley’s rock era is—” “Yeah but you’re biased aren’t you miss I-Never-Let-Go-Of- My-High-School-Emo-Phase,” Your sister countered earning a snort from you.

But then any retort you had froze on your lips the moment you looked up and saw him. Remy. Sitting at the kitchen table with your mother.

Your eyes locked onto his, and in that instant, the world seemed to narrow. The laughter, the lightness of the moment, evaporated, replaced by a sudden rush of emotions you weren’t ready for. Your heart hammered in your chest, and for a second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Remy stood slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There was a mixture of emotions written across his face—hesitation, guilt, relief. He looked like a man caught between apology and hope, like he wasn’t sure if you wanted him there, but he couldn’t walk away again.

Your mother rose from her seat as well, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room. She glanced between the two of you, her expression soft but knowing. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder as she passed, leaning in just enough for you to hear her quiet words. “We’re going back out for a bit,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Your sister, however, wasn’t so easily convinced. “But we were just—”

Your mother shot her a look—a single, sharp glance that silenced the protest before it could fully form. Your sister huffed, her frustration evident, but one glance at the tension between you and Remy was enough for her to understand that this wasn’t the time to argue. With a sigh, she followed your mother out the door, leaving you and Remy alone in the kitchen.

The door clicked shut behind them, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. You stood there, still frozen by the sight of him, your heart racing as a swirl of emotions warred inside you—relief, anger, confusion, hope. You couldn’t quite figure out which one was winning. All you knew was that he was here, after everything, standing in your kitchen like a ghost from a past you hadn’t fully let go of.

Remy took a small step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, his face a mixture of hesitation and something deeper. “I—” he started, but the words seemed to catch in his throat, like he wasn’t sure how to begin.

Your chest tightened as you tried to process what you were feeling. Part of you wanted to rush across the room and demand answers—why he left, why he hadn’t called, why he thought he could just walk back in now, after all this time. But another part of you… another part of you was just relieved to see him. To know that he was still here, still trying.

“You can’t keep doing this Remy. You can’t keep walking in and out like this.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice soft but laced with the confusion and hurt you’d been carrying since the day he walked out.

Remy flinched slightly, as if the words stung more than he expected. He looked down for a moment, his hands flexing at his sides before he met your gaze again. “I came back,” he said simply, his voice rough. “I… I couldn’ stay away. Not anymore.”

Your heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice, but you weren’t ready to let the walls come down just yet. “And what makes you think you can just come back?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly. “After everything?”

Remy swallowed hard, his eyes pleading as he took another step closer, his hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching you. “Because I love you,” he said quietly, the words raw and unguarded, like they had been waiting on his lips for far too long. “And I’m sorry. For all of it. For everythin’.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his confession hanging heavy between you. You wanted to believe him—God, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that this time, things could be different. That maybe he could finally be the man you needed him to be. But the hurt was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, the scars from the last time he left still fresh and raw.

You could still remember how it felt when he walked away. The emptiness, the sense of betrayal, the hours you’d spent staring at the door, waiting for him to come back. But he hadn’t. He had left you to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart alone, while he disappeared into the shadows, convincing himself that leaving was somehow better for you. And now, here he was, standing in front of you again, saying all the right things, looking at you with those eyes that once made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

But could you trust him? Could you trust that he wouldn’t do it again, that he wouldn’t break your heart all over the second things got hard?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking slightly as he took another step closer, his hand hovering between you like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. “I don’ know if it’ll ever be enough, but… I’m here. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

His words were soft, almost pleading, but they couldn’t erase the doubt that gnawed at you. You wanted to believe him, wanted to throw yourself into his arms and let everything else fall away. But you couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of your mind—the one that whispered that this wasn’t the first time he’d promised to stay. That he had said similar words before, only to walk away when things got tough.

What if he left again? What if, the next time the world got too heavy for him, he decided you were better off without him? What if you let yourself believe him, let yourself hope, only for him to shatter you all over again?

You took a shaky breath, your heart pounding as you stood there, torn between the pain of the past and the fragile hope of what could be. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the raw emotion in his voice. But sincerity wasn’t enough. Not anymore. The decision wasn’t just his to make. It was yours too.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Remy,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you hadn’t said. “I don’t know if I can keep picking up the pieces every time you decide you’re too scared to stay.”

He flinched, the pain in your words cutting deep, but he didn’t look away. He didn’t back down. “I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I know I hurt ya. And I don’t expect you to forgive me jus’ like that. But I’m willin’ to do anythin’.”

You closed your eyes, your chest tight with the flood of emotions swirling inside you. You could feel the pull of him, the way your heart wanted to believe him, to trust that this time would be different. But trust wasn’t something you could give so easily. Not after everything.

When you opened your eyes again, he was still there, standing close, his face etched with the same conflict that was tearing you apart inside.

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” you said softly, your words barely audible, but you knew he heard them. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. He just nodded, as if he understood that this wasn’t something that could be fixed with a few words, no matter how much you both wanted it to be.

And in that moment, you realized that the decision wasn’t just about whether he stayed. It was about whether you were willing to take the risk. Whether you were willing to open yourself up again, knowing that he could still walk away. Knowing that loving him meant facing the possibility of getting hurt all over again.

The decision wasn’t just his to make. It was yours too. And you weren’t sure if your heart could take it. Not yet.

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starzzmissthesun · 5 months ago

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drop the bartylus song explanations bestie (pls pls plssss plsplss)

Hiiii!!!! Sorry this a little late I've been a little busy the past couple days! This ones definitely gonna be a long one, but i might skip a few songs, so if their are any other ones you'd like to hear about lmk!! Some of these i associate with one of them in particular rather than both. The relation to them and the song is not necessarily what i interpret the song as, but just how it fits and relates to them!!! (also guys dont judge me for the music taste)

Trees-Mcafferty

So this one is very much like catholic/religious guilt, but is even just like being in a family and culture (like the purebloods, like the blacks) that is very very homophobic and strict. The first verse says "my mom was a christian, my dad is an alchie, i bet that he kills me", this to me is very regulus in the whole, walburga being someone who was brought up in a strict and 'be perfect' way, which she then puts onto her kids. And orion someone who is way harder on them, no room for repenting, just damnation. Though they both could represent this song, for they both had such controlling and strict home lives. I feel like it also, especially towards the ends of the song, talks about being different and "wrong" and a freak, feeling just so outcasted and trying to fit in, but never being able to.

If I Saw Him, Id Still Kiss Him-Mcafferty

This is veryyyy Barty's POV after Regulus died. It describes a house filled with ghosts and memories. Barty wishing they ran away instead "Lets go to italy, just you and me, i think wed really like it there", thinking that maybe regulus wouldnt have had the fate he did if they left the whole war behind. It describes the depression and loss of self/hope throughout the rest of this war. The verse from "took a picture of a picture" to "Get to New York for the sunsets" to me, describes how regulus had a different relationship to him than anyone else. I mean this song to me is especially sad if you think of it as they never really got together it was just an almost/what if?

Blue Eyes Like The Devils Water-Mcafferty

This is another Barty POV song to me, but its overall just a description of them being in bad situations and them falling for each other was just making everything better and worse at the same time. This shows how they were kind of raising themselves, both parents ignoring them so long as they do what theyre supposed to. It's just the two of them kind of deal.

The Lions Den-Mcafferty

Another song about them going down together, Barty POV again too. He sees Regulus falling more and more into this dark obsession and going down together. I especially think of the lions den as The Cave, especially in a Barty went with him Au. Him watching regulus getting pulled down everywhere, in his dreams, in real life, hallucinations. "I still remember his eyes on mine" The guilt consuming him, wishing he went with him too. Going crazy because of it "Let me break, let me slip to the bottom of this hill, let my body fall into the pit, into the lions den" and "this is just a bad dream, everybody wakes up soon" convincing himself its not real, that one day hell wake up and regulus will be ok, so everything is. Or the "waking up" is death, he wishes to fall under the water aswell, to die, to be at peace with regulus.

Alligator Skin Boots-Mcafferty

This song is regulus when he's had his change of mind, when he's decided to sacrifice. It starts with him kind of comparing himself to his parents and their complacency and their being messed up. Then from "Im cold to the touch" to then end, is him in the cold waters dying, for his friends who are now in the order, and hoping the others will be safe once the war is over, too.

Pine Point-PUP

Ok so this ones very special to me for them! To me, its them both looking at each other as they go their own way once they've lost each other in the war. "where i kept my eye on the prize, it was you" Barty going crazy after loosing reg, Regulus seeing barty get more and more into the death eater stuff right as he is changing his mind. They have such a intertwined history and memories. Now they're both praying they're doing right for the other, and that the other is doing something right. Bonus points for this song: mentions of loosing an older brother, also just like an awesome breakdown riff.

Just gonna saying im not gonna go into the pheobe bridgers ones rn cause soo many of her songs are them (specifically reg's pov in my mind) but if anyone wants me to, lmk.

Geyser-Mitski

This is the yearning for your best friend song!!! Like just being like, "is this not enough? i have everything, yet i still want to be more with you" To me, its so them cause of the "ive turned down every hand that has beckoned me" cause i think they never would even consider being with anyone else, its JUST the other for them. And also "I will be the one you need, i just cant be without you" is their obsession and need to be with eachother, and the way they idolize each other, the need to be congruent. The whole song just describing a love so strong it builds up inside you, it calls to you, but pushing it down ruins you from the inside out.

Old friend-Mitski

This is in a scenario where they've broken up(which would never be by their choice imo). Idk i feel like if they ever broke up, itd be similar vibes to these lines: "I havent told anyone, just like we promised, have you?" "everytime i drive through the city where youre from i squeeze a little" "Ill take anything you give me". Do you see the vision?? Drowning mention too!!! It's more of a mentally/emotional drowning(like in depression/insanity, etc). in my mind the "someone whos loves me now, better than you" would be less of a literal statement, and more of a hope or a wish. Like they each would be unable to be together because they each have to be with a person who is "better" for them, since they enable each other to be really themselves. It's denial that they actually want the love the other gives.

Me and my husband AND two slow dancers-Mitski

Literally regulus as he's drowning in the cave. He's remembering barty, all of their shared memories, and praying that theyll "stick together" like they always have. Two slow dancers, maybe his afterlife. Or his last thoughts that lull him to "sleep". In the chaos of the hands and air squeezing out of his lungs, hes brought back to a memory of them. They both wish they could go back to before the whole mess, "to think that we could stay the same" hes criticizing himself for hoping the two of them could join this war and stay as they were.

I will-Mitski

ok, picture me this: regulus lives AU!! Maybe Barty went with him, or found him, or reg goes to him after the cave, but nonetheless!!! He's weak, hes scared for defecting, theyre both at odds. But all Barty can do is take care of him, and reassure his fears, though he, himself, is feeling those as well. Just like listen to the lryics:(((

Crack Baby-Mitski

This is Regulus watching Barty get more and more obsessive over Voldemort, as he's slowly doing the opposite. Reg knows Barty doesn't notice and doesn't know why he craves this approval, but Regulus does, he can tell. "With wild horses running through your hollow bones" that father figure voldemort is to barty is something he need so bad, its unstoppable. Just like that, dark magic, the murder. He caught a taste of it, and he can't go back.

Once more to seeyou- Mitski

(starts shaking) They can't be seen together, not just the homophobia of the time, and pretentiousness of their families, but their families hating each other. "but with everybody watching us, our every move, we do have reputations" GOD tell me that's not them!! They are both in such "important" families, for two opposing beliefs, that taught them they must hold themselves to high expectations to keep up the family name. Everyone's eyes are on them both!!! Rumours start easy!!! "and felt the taste of you bubble up inside me" Having so much love for each other, but having to hide it!!! It destroys you!!! Having to hide your emotions and wants not just in public, but to your family as well, and just wanting and yearning for the fairytale domesticity!!!

Im your man-Mitski

Everyone's like, this is barty to reg. NO!!! Its regulus to barty!!! REGULUS was the one who grew up in the pureblood culture/beliefs, he might've been the one to convert barty, to introduce him to it. i could quote the entire song, but i wont... BUT!! This is, to me, Regulus towards the end of his life. He's changed his mind, and now he sees how he destroyed Barty, how he guided him to voldemort, and told him all of his beliefs. How, in his old, skewed view of the world, he was "turning" barty away from what he now saw as the right way. He wishes barty chose someone else, who wouldnt've done that. And now, standing at the edge of the water, he can feel his death, his fate coming close. He knows that it was his choice to be so horrible. And now, after leading barty astray, hes leaving him there, hes betraying not only voldemort, but the love of his life.

The frost-Mitski

Barty's all alone. All of his friends are dead, his family is gone, regulus is missing and betrayed him. "youre my best friend, now ive no one to tell, how i lost my best friend" he not only lost regulus, he lost the only person who would truly know how he feels about it. He feels resentful towards regulus, not for betraying him, but that he was never told!! did he forget? did he think he wouldnt understand? Did something change? Did nothing change and he never really knew Regulus like he thought he did? Should he have seen it coming, but he was to busy pretending everything was ok? "but me, i was hiding, or forgotten"

Heaven-Mitski

Either one of them POV reminiscing over the last time they were together, regulus before his death, and barty after regulus' death. Equating their love to heaven, the love they have for eachother is religious. Very love song by LDR. Both sensing their fate coming near, the calm before the storm. Regulus knows hes going on a self sacrificing mission, and barty knows his mind is unraveling quicker and quicker as the days go on.

When memories snow-Mitski

"and if i break, could i go on break? be back in my room, writing speeches in my head" Barty is crazed with guilt, hes breaking. Hes replaying the last conversation, moment, argument, touch, glance, anything he had with regulus. Looking for anything different he could have done instead that wouldve changed the outcome. His memories are mixing together, he cant remember what actually happened and when. Those memories snow and they obscure his view of reality.

Early sunsets over monroeville-MCR

STOP!!! Barty is grieving!!!! "running away and hiding with you, i never thought theyd get me here." him staying down low enough that he wasnt suspected to be a DE, he ran away from his dad to be a DE. He thought they could never find him, and now his soul is close to being taken from him, til hes nothing. all he has left are jumbld memories. "but would anything matter if youre already dead? and should i be shocked by the last thing you said?" The betrayal means nothing, for regulus is dead, who is he supposed to be mad at? and maybe he shouldve seen it coming, maybe there were signs. He can never go back. "and in saying you loved me made things harder at best, and these words changing nothing as your body remains" Regulus loving him makes the hurt only worse, and admitting that to himself hurts even more. No matter any scenario in which he said something different, where he begged regulus not to go, or that hed leave with him, or they never joined in the first place matter, because regulus is still dead, his body is still at the bottom of that lake.

Living legend-Lana Del Rey

This is Regulus POV!!!! He worships Barty, he idolizes him. "..all the things you do, and the ways you move, send me straight to heaven." He regrets never telling Barty just how much he loved him, and he regrets having to betray him "and darling i never meant to defy you" This is set to me, once again, once hes changed his mind and is going on his mission. "I never meant to be bad or unwell, i was just lving on the edge right between heaven and hell, and im tired of it." trying to balance how he feels about barty once hes switched beliefs, he still is utterly devoted to barty and loves him, but they now have these huge opposing beliefs. and he cant help but blame himself. That part right after the last chorus that is just "why?" over and over and over again.

Mojo Pin-Jeff Buckley

This song is literally describing still feeling your lover there, long after they are gone, and feeling conflicted about how you should feel. "Dont want to weep for you, dont want to know" maybe barty is conflicted, he doesnt want to know what happened to reg or why, he knows he wont like the answer. he doesnt want to accept regulus is gone, and he doesnt want to accept why hes gone. "oh the welts of your scorn. my love, give me more, send whips of opinion down my back, give me more" Barty has now changed his mind, he realizes that he would rather know, he would rather regulus had gave him reason, then he couldve gone with him, and maybe he wouldnt be dead. As long as he's still getting something tangible from his lost lover.

Oh my GOD!!! go listen to ghost of you by My Chemical Romance, every single lyric is barty after regulus died, im not doing this one, cause id have to to just say every line, but PLEASE look at the lyrics and think of them!!! JUst some of the lines are: "if i died wed be together", "all the things that you never ever told me", "ever get the feeling that youre never alone?", "And all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me" like please somebody help barty!!!

Yours, mine, hours-mcafferty

So, first of all, this song switches from regulus' POV to barty's at the lyric "and i wrote all of my songs..." just to be clear. Regulus wants to be the perfect son for his family, and he takes it too far in the process. "and you are innocent, at least you wish you finally were, you gotta keep your head up, but not too high, cause youll lose sight of what youve got" He doesnt realize barty is in the DE stuff just as deep as himself until hes changed his mind. "and im sorry, my love, that i ruined what we had" hes betraying barty, hes abandoning them. Then every line from bartys POV is just perfect. "he says 'i miss my brother, but hes not coming home, and i know that hes better, so its tie to grow up'." i mean COME ON? "you were my best friend, so i will love you 'til the very, very end" They both have so much guilt and regret and have wronged each other, but they still cant bring themselves to hate each other.

Anyways! im done for now!!! but if anyone wants my thoughts about them (about anything really) in relation to a song lmk!!it doesnt have to be angsty! also sorry if this is long and doesnt make sense:/

#bartylus #starkiller #regulus black #barty crouch jr #barty crouch junior #marauders

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itsmalachitenow · 9 months ago

Text

MORE CHUCK HEADCANONS!

You guys seemed to really like my last post, so I'm sharing the other headcanons I've gathered for my personal take on Chuck since then. Get ready for angst!

Chuck did, in fact, hit Gus with the Ghost Train. It was an accident, and to this day he's incredibly broken up about it. Gus, on the other hand, isn't nearly as upset about being dead. He will, however, use his death to guilt Chuck into doing things for him because he knows just how awful Chuck feels about it. Any time Gus wants a new game system or toy, if Chuck isn't too keen on getting it for him, Gus will just bring up that Chuck ran him over and now he's stuck here, and Chuck will look utterly miserable as he climbs into his wheelchair to leave the Ghost Station.

Chuck is very talented at many different types of instruments, including but not limited to: piano, trumpet, saxophone, violin, harp, french horn, clarinet, cello, and oboe.

He can also sing very well. He is a baritone.

Chuck's true full name is Carlo Toscanini. He prefers the Chuck nickname, though, because it sounds like a train noise. He likes train noises!

Because he's been alone for so long, Chuck is incredibly self conscious about needing any kind of help because he's disabled. Especially when he's in his chair. The idea of being helped and not having to do it all himself is completely foreign to him, and he absolutely abhors the idea of needing to rely on someone else to help him do what he sees as 'basic things'. He would rather struggle by himself than swallow his pride and ask a loved one to get involved.

Related: If you touch this man's wheelchair without asking him first, he is going to run you over with it.

Chuck will never finish his 'magnum opus'. He is a perfectionist, and hasn't had what he considers a 'good' piece in decades because he's constantly going back and changing them, never satisfied with the results. Even if he does finish a musical composition or opera, he will always find some fault with them afterwards and not want to dwell on them. Being alone for so long with no real audience for his works other than Gus (who doesn't really understand or care as much because he's a kid) means he's his only critic, and he will always be his worst critic.

Chuck makes his own coffee and is a total snob about drinking anyone else's. It tastes like diesel, but it'll keep you awake for three days straight.

This man does not have a consistent schedule for anything other than 'work'. Food, sleep, self care, all of it comes second to his job and to his music.

He has chronic insomnia, and horrible nightmares whenever he does drift off to sleep, so Chuck prefers to just keep going for as many days as possible until his body physically cannot stay awake anymore.

Because he's lived so long, Chuck can barely remember any of his early life, and that terrifies him. He remembers the name of his hometown, he remembers he had a father who was a conductor, but everything else is a blur. He can't remember his parents' names, their faces, whether he had siblings or not...those memories are gone forever, and Chuck will never get them back.

His biggest regret is not saying goodbye to his family the night he left to join the Train.

Chuck is also terrified of going back to his hometown, because he knows it will be entirely different from what little he remembers. If he never returns, he can always pretend it's still the way he was when he left it, and ignore the gravity of his choice to join the Ghost Train.

Because he's scared he'll forget other things, Chuck is a compulsive journaler. He writes down the day's events, no matter how trivial, and gives a massive amount of detail about every person he interacts with. He only started doing this about a hundred years ago, once he realized he couldn't remember his family anymore.

Chuck has a small apartment in the Ghost Station. It's small and cramped, but it's a place for him to stay when he's not working, and also for any lovers or loved ones to stay if they're 'living' with him. He has a room entirely dedicated to all of his journals, though the manner of sorting them is known only to Chuck.

#brawl stars chuck #chuck brawl stars #brawl stars #slaps chuck's hat. this bad boy can fit so much angst in him.#my art #my writing

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sprout-senior · 10 months ago

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some nightmare headcanon type things, bc some thoughts invaded my brain and i needed to get them out(in depth headcanon shit under the cut)

the ‘nightmare’ we know now is a completely different person from the former guardian of negativity, though he possesses all the same memories. he goes by the same name, brings up past events, and generally acts as if he’s the same person but evil. he’s apathetic and calm in his downtime, but he becomes manic/psychotic when wreaking havoc and feeding off negativity. if he has a soft spot for the ghost child residing in his head, he will never admit it or intentionally show it.

the real nightmare is dead, but his consciousness remains tied to the entity that took over his body, an echo of a soul. he spends a lot of time dormant/“asleep” due to the pain of constantly bearing witness to this parasite’s atrocities. he will always stay awake during any interactions with dream. he misses his brother so much. there have been a couple occasions where he has saved his life by wreaking absolute havoc in his shared mind(he SHRIEKS. he screams like a banshee and will not let up for even a second until dream is safe). this takes up a lot of energy, so he reserves this method for dream only for fear of not being able to use it when it matters most. his morals have… eroded, a little; he simply does not have the capacity to truly care for anyone but dream. 500 years of being a helpless bystander to mass murder was bound to desensitize him. as it stands now, he’s not about to waste precious energy on random people, even if it brings him a nonzero amount of guilt.

they refer to each other as moon and terror respectively, to avoid the headache of sharing a name. in downtime, they’re almost amicable; neither are much for conversation, but they will read together and generally let each other exist in peace and quiet.

moon knows that the pain and misery he feels is not his alone. he is intimately aware of terror’s inner struggles, and is not afraid to use it against him in arguments. he haunts him, tells him everything he doesn’t want to hear, laughs in his face when he lashes out in anger. terror retaliates by describing exactly how he wants to kill dream, insisting that moon won’t be able to do anything about it. their arguments usually end abruptly, either due to being interrupted or just running out of steam.

moon will never be able to exist independently from terror. hypothetically, he could interact with the world etc if terror relinquished that control, but that isn’t happening any time soon(or maybe ever).

the incidents where terror lets dream go leads him to believe that his brother is still in there, which… isn’t entirely inaccurate, but not in the way he thinks. terror holds no love or care for dream, and very firmly wants him dead.

just looking at the code, you would not be able to find moon’s presence. there are some people who could deduce it based on terror’s behavior, but only if they’ve experienced it themselves(dust, cross, etc) and they’re REALLY paying attention. dust is currently the only one who knows what’s up, having walked in on terror arguing with nobody one too many times. even then, he’s only going off an extremely educated guess; he’s not about to cause trouble with his boss.

#utmv #undertale #undertale au #creative writing #undertale art #utmv art #nightmare sans #passive nightmare sans #headcanon #utmv headcanons #sprouts sketches

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rubydubydoo122 · 10 months ago

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Jason gets de-aged because I've seen fics of Tim or Dick being de-aged, and Bruce losing his memory, but no one has realized the potential for angst if you de-age Jason.

When Jason woke up to the familiar ceiling of the batcave, feeling… whole.

He remembered everything.

He remembered dying, crawling out of his grave, and jumping out of the Lazarus Pit. He remembered the moment Talia showed him pictures of Tim as Robin, he remembered planting the bomb under the Batmobile. He remembered every single thing that happened in the past five years.

And he remembered things from before. Things he had forgotten due to the blunt force head trauma. He had forgotten about the nights they would spend in the library after Jason had a nightmare. He had forgotten about the moments he had with Dick where they would team up against Bruce, like real brothers. He had forgotten about most of the good moments he had while living at the manor. At his home. And they were really good memories.

He didn’t know whether to cry in relief or guilt or mourning, because that was just another thing to add to the list of things that the Joker took away from him. The memories of all the good things.

He covered his face with his arm and he could tell by the size and weight of it that he was back to normal.

Back to being the Red Hood. The real lone-wolf vigilante in Gotham because he had burned bridges with anyone who had cared about him. What a fucking asshole.

“Jay, Lad, you’re awake.” He heard the squeak of the chair that they kept in the medbay, “How are you feeling?”

He didn’t lift his arm up to look at Bruce. Fuck, Jason had collapsed in front of his grave. He probably given Bruce an aneurysm. A week ago, he would’ve laughed, but now… he just felt guilty. “I'm sorry.” He meant that for a million different things. He’s sorry for trying to kill half of the family. He’s sorry for digging up Bruce’s trauma. He’s sorry for believing that Bruce didn’t love him.

“Jason, I’m sorry—“

“Bruce. I know we have a lot to talk about, but can you give me, like… a couple minutes to sort out my brain?”

The chair squeaked again, but Bruce didn’t say anything.

Jason sat up to look at Bruce, who was sitting in the chair, stunned. “Sorry, I just thought you would be… more upset.”

“I am upset.” Because even though he was lost in a tornado of emotions he could tell that upset was one of the major fronts.

“I didn’t mean to make it seem like I cared about the younger version of you more than—“

“That’s not why I’m upset.” Maybe a week ago, but not really right now. “I’m more upset that all of you made the collective decision to keep my death from me.” He paused looking for the right words, “I— younger me really thought I made it. I thought I got to perform in the school musical, open acceptance letters, I thought I got to walk across the stage and move into a dorm.” He felt his eyes burn in shame as he looked down at his hands. The hands that were once stained in Tim’s blood. The hands that once held a gun aimed at Damian, “I thought I would’ve been a good older brother, and you all just let me believe that. And I get it,” he looked back up at the stalactites hanging from the ceiling, “telling 15 year old me that, despite everything, I still didn’t make it, it would’ve been hard, but it was worse to realize that I never really got those things.” He took a deep breath, “I’m not angry at you. Not anymore. And there’s more we need to talk about, but I think I’m going to need to sleep on some things before we do.”

Jason looked back at Bruce, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bruce this… vulnerable. “Yes. Ok. Yeah, take as much time as you need.” But Bruce took Jason’s hands in his, “Just- know that I’m proud of you. For all that you’ve been through, and all that you’ve overcome, you still have a good heart. You have always had a good heart.”

“I love you, Dad. And I see now how much you love me too.”

Jason found Dick in his room. He doesn’t know what possessed him to come to Dick first— he was planning on sitting in the library, bawling his eyes out, and then talk with Bruce about whatever he wanted to talk about. Yet here he was, standing in Dicks doorway, feeling like he was 13 again, wondering if Dicks “I’m always here to talk if you need to,” was real.

Turns out, everyone in the manor, besides Bruce and Alfred, were already there.

They were all curled up in some way against Dick. Damian under his right arm, Tim under his left. Cass was curled around Tim, but had her head resting on Dicks shoulder, and Duke was laying perpendicularly across Dicks legs, though he was clutching Zitka tightly in his arms.

There was also part of him that felt kind of left out. Realizing how close everyone was except for him. And he knew that was his fault. He had burned the bridges before he could even try to cross them. Now all he could do was gaze at the city from across the river.

No.

He’s been building a new bridge. Getting closer and closer to the city. To this family. He wouldn’t mess it up again. Because the 12 year old kid who jacked the Batmobiles tires deserved a home. The 13 year old kid who had been in the middle of a custody tug of war deserved a family. The 15 year old who ran away from home desperate to find a mother deserves love.

“Jason!” Dick shot up, effectively ruining the cuddle pile, and drawing attention to him lurking at the doorway. Though, he wouldn’t be surprised if Cass already knew he was there.

There was a collective look of relief throughout the group, even from Damian. Of all people.

He shoved the knot that was in his stomach down and opted for a laugh, “I have fought valiantly, and I have reclaimed puberty from the wicked witch of the west.”

He was almost knocked over by everyone coming in for a group hug.

“You little lying bastard.” He felt Duke's hand swat the back of his head, “man, it took us a whole hour to figure out that none of us knew where you were. Dick was about to kick down your door when Bruce came up with the key.”

Of all the old memories that Jason had gotten back, Bruce had never intruded on Jason’s space without him wanting to. He didn’t even think he had a key. So why…

“And then, Bruce brought you back unconscious. We thought you were gonna die again, but then you magically poofed back into your giant ass self, and—“

“Breathe!” Because he knew Tim would keep rambling, “and I just woke up, give me a minute.” Because he was expecting just Dick to be in his room. Not everyone. And as much as he cares for the whole entourage, he doesn’t think he has the energy to.. stay strong for them. He just wanted his big brother. Dick was his big brother first.

And thank god for Cass’s people reading skills, because she cupped Jason’s cheek and offered him a small smile, “Might be big again, but you’re our little brother.” She glanced to Dick, and then guided Tim, Duke and Damian out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Jason suddenly felt like he was still 15. Like he hadn’t been changed back. Like he was transported back in time to before everything had become so messy.

Dick studied his face, “What’s wrong?” He patted the space next to him on his bed. Just like that time Jason had gone to Titans Tower after Bruce had said he wasn’t Jason’s father.

He sat down next to Dick, and then scooted down, so that he could comfortably rest his head on his chest. He could feel his face twitch, holding back the knot in his stomach that had risen into his throat.

How could he have forgotten how much Dick cared? Maybe he wasn’t around that much, but he cared . He cared so much .

He felt his expression crumple and fall. How could he have forgotten how much Dick tried?

Dick rubbed little circles into his back, as Jason muffled his sons into his shirt. Just like he had done when Jason wasn’t able to help Gloria Stanson. A couple nights before he left for space. He didn’t ask, or push, just waited.

“I- I remember everything . I used to only be able to remember the bad. Now I remember…all the good too.” He stared at the tree outside of the window they used to climb together, “I remember now that even though you weren’t here often, you were a good brother. You were a really good brother. And I feel like shit for thinking you’ve always hated me, because—“

“Jason, can I be honest with you?” Dick dabbed at the tears that had fallen from Jason’s face. “I kind of assumed. When you wouldn’t get an inside joke, or when I would bring up something, and you would just stare blankly. I never felt offended when you didn't know, just upset with myself that I didn’t make more time, because maybe then certain memories would stick.” He traced the scar on Jason’s temple, “and I think a lot about how you were the one who reminded me how to love freely.”

Jason looked up to make eye contact with Dick, “I was wondering how you went from angry at Bruce and the world to adopting the kids Bruce adopted.”

Dick chuckled, “I passed the angry child mantle down to you too. It comes with the post-Robin era.” He continued to trace the scar, “but seriously. Bruce having the emotional competency of a turnip while I was growing up really affected the way I connected with people. Then you came along, this kid, who despite having nothing but the clothes on his back, still loved with his whole heart. You were a lot like my parents in that sense. You turned Robin into a legacy, and I couldn’t think of a better person to have done that.”

Jason turned away, “Fuck you. You’re making me cry.” They stayed like that in silence for a bit. “I, uh, found my old phone. And I listened to a bunch of the voicemails.”

He felt Dick tense up for a moment, “Oh?”

“You were Batman? Like I knew you were Batman with Damian, but I didn’t realize you were also Batman with Tim.”

He felt Dick relax under him, “That was not the direction I expected you to take.”

“I’m prioritizing.”

“Yeah, I was. It was only for a couple months, but I hated every moment of it then. Alfred was in England, and Bruce was training to get his strength up. I guess the good part was Tim. That was when we really got close. I think that was when I actually started to see him as my little brother.” Dick paused, “Though, if you’re bringing this up as a Segway to why make Damian Robin if you and Tim already had the Batman/Robin thing in the past, I did it because I saw Tim as an equal when it came to vigilantism. The Batman and Robin dynamic wouldn’t work with us.”

“Yeah… that makes sense.” Jason paused, “you killed the Joker?”

“Yeah.” Dick rested his head on top of Jason’s, “and just so you know, Bruce also came close right after he killed you. Close to the point where Clark had to stop him.”

“I never really wanted Bruce to kill the Joker. I just wanted him to prove he cared. If he had given me a hug, I probably would’ve stopped everything. I gotta tell him that.” He sat up, “Bro, Bruce said he was proud of me. I think he’s still following that mission to keep me happy.”

Dick snorted, “How do you know about that?”

“I snooped.” He shrugged and put his head back on Dicks chest, “I think we should make one for how Bruce should take care of all of us. And then make one for Tim to eat three meals a day and get at least five hours of sleep per day.”

“But, seriously, we probably do.” He felt Dick start to fiddle with one of the bat charms in his hair as they fell back into silence. “Talia?”

Jason didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to, but I’m here if you want to talk about it.” Dick let out a breath, “You… listened to the voicemails, you know I… I won’t judge.”

Jason nodded and reached out to stroke Zitkas trunk, “I know I’m your… little brother, but you can talk to me too if you want to. It won’t change how I see you.”

Dick moved Zitka so she was closer to both of them, “yeah I know.”

Jason sighed, “I… I didn’t know how old I was until your birthday back in March. I simultaneously felt too old but too young. For everything.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I get that.”

There was a long stretch of silence. It was the first time in a while that both of them had a heart to heart. It was the first time in a long time since they had an understanding between each other.

“Is it bad? That I still see her as a mother?”

“Sheila?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” because even after the betrayal, he still knew she did it because she didn’t really have any other choice, “but I was talking about Talia.”

“Oh.” He heard Dicks jaw click.

“So yeah?”

“No, it's not that.” Dick gave it some thought. Choosing his words carefully, “I mean, she took care of you when no one else did, so it makes sense, but…every adult figure in your life has let you down in some way, and you deserve so much better than that.”

Jason thought about it for a minute. His papi had turned to a life of crime, his mami fell victim to heroin. Sheila had chosen her own life and reputation over Jason, and Talia kinda just… took Jason in to score points with Bruce.

Bruce… Bruce could never fully be his dad. Not anymore. Not with all the bad blood. Not when Batman would always be more important. “It’s, uh, I guess it’s too late now, but I’ll never regret the three years I spent calling this manor my home. They were probably the best years of my life.” He pressed at a vein on Dicks hand. “Alfred and Bruce were good for me, though. They just… didn’t expect me to come back, which is understandable, but that was when I needed them the most.” He pulled Zitka in close, “Sometimes, I wonder what things would’ve been like if Bruce had found me instead of Talia.”

“I wonder that all the time too.” Dick continued to rub circles into Jason’s back, “You know, you’ll always be my little brother. My first little sibling. No matter how far apart we grow from each other, or if you annoy the shit out of me, You’ll always have a home in my heart. I promise.”

Jason stayed quiet while he basked in the comfort of his older brother for a while. Soaking in the feeling, making up for the years lost without it. “I love you too.”

After Jason was done talking to Dick he went straight to the kitchen. For one, he was hungry, because magic sucks, and he also felt the need to do something. Specifically, bake a strawberry cake. Because of course he had forgotten about his tradition with Alfred. Even during his past Birthday he had spent in Gotham, he didn’t— he didn’t even celebrate at all. He remembered it was his birthday, he just didn’t know how many candles to put on the cake.

Jason just wanted to do this with Alfred. Like old times. Of course, Alfred was still out getting the groceries, and it felt like he’d been out for years, but nonetheless, he was a grown man allowed in the kitchen. So he started getting out the ingredients for the cake.

Except they did not have any strawberries. Which put a real stickler in Jason’s plan because the fresh strawberries were the best part. They added a burst of tartness with each bit and balanced out the sweetness of the buttercream.

Just then Alfred came through the kitchen with a brown paper bag. He looked from Jason to the countertop that had a neat array of ingredients and then back to Jason with a smile. Alfred set down the bag and reached into it. “I suppose we had the same idea, my boy.” He pulled out two boxes of the fancy strawberries he always got. “You’re going to have to double the recipe.” Alfred pulled out two more boxes.

“Alright, Alfred.” Jason smiled back, and exchanged the bowl he’d originally taken out for a bigger one. Even though Alfred was working on dinner and Jason was working on the cake, they fell back into their old rhythm.

One by one his siblings started filing in. First Cass, who nabbed a strawberry. Then Damian, who Jason may or may not have discretely gotten flour on his face, making him look absolutely adorable. And while Jason was pouring the batter into the pan Duke, Tim, walked in, so he had given them the bowl and spoon to clean off.

He got started on the buttercream, slowly adding the strawberry compote that he’d made before he’d made the batter, when a finger made its way into the bowl, and then swiped his nose.

He swatted at Dick when he tried to get another dollop to taste, “Nope. Nuh uh. Getchur fingers away from my buttercream.”

“Come on! Duke and Tim got to lick the batter!”

“And I was going to give this spatula to you, but if you're being impatient, it’s going to Cass.”

Dick huffed and rounded the counter, sitting on the chair next to Cass.

Tim and Damian were bickering, and Duke was adding comments that seemed to be egging on both sides. The subtle agent of chaos.

Jason took the cake out of the oven and put it on a rack to cool. He made his way back to Alfred, who had just put the stove on simmer, and held his hand, “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Whatever for, my boy?”

Jason observed everyone in the room. Cass ruffling Tim’s hair, and Duke finally cracking. Dick wiping the flour off of Damian’s face while he huffed about not tolerating this childish behavior. Bruce leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen with a fond smile on his face. “Wishing for this. For Bruce to have people to live for. For wishing for me back.”

Alfred smiled and looked at Jason, “I always assumed it was you who made it happen. Using your magic to put everyone in a place to meet eventually before coming back to us yourself. And I am so so grateful that you did.”

And Jason knew Alfred meant it. Because it was Alfred. It was Alfred who loved them all so much that they were all just as much his kids as they were Bruce’s. Bruce might’ve built this family, but Alfred held it steady.

Jason rested his head on Alfred’s shoulder. “You mean so much to me, Alfred.”

Alfred brought a hand up to cup Jason’s cheek, “However much I mean to you, I can assure you, you mean infinitely more to me.”

And Jason knew that. He picked his head up to look at Alfred, and gave him a smirk, “Does this mean I’m your favorite?”

Alfred raised his eyebrows, “I care for you all equally.”

Jason could feel himself grin from ear to ear, because yup. He was definitely Alfred’s favorite, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

He went back over to the cake and started frosting it, casting another look at everyone in the room. He made eye contact with Bruce and offered him a smile, and he returned it.

If someone had asked Jason a week ago if he considered these people his family he probably would have shot them in the face. He’d been so afraid his entire life that the home he’d founded would never be permanent. He had thought in the past five years he had lost the love he had gained. He thought it had all died along with him. Except it hadn’t. It had grown so much bigger and was waiting to engulf him back into the fold. Jason was finally ready to walk back into it.

The door opened, and Stephanie Brown slid across the wood and used Bruce to stop her momentum, “Guess who’s ready to collect blackmail consisting of Sunshine–” She paused and caught sight of him, “Jason! You’re a giant again.” She huffed, “I was going to convince little you that I was your favorite.”

“Blondie, you scared little me.” He held up the piping bag with the strawberry compote, “Quick, what should I write on the cake.”

Steph walked over and punched his shoulder, “ I lived, Bitches! All caps. ‘X’s to dot the ‘I’s.”

“You do know your don’t dot capital ‘I’s right?” Jason looked over to Alfred for permission.

“Well, Master Jason, You did live. Let the bitches know.”

The whole room erupted into howls of laughter, as Jason grinned and piped the words onto the cake, “Hell yeah, I lived Bitches.”

#jason todd #batman #batfam #dc comics #red hood #dick grayson #tim drake #bruce wayne #damian wayne #duke thomas #cassandra cain #stephanie brown

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