#i’m literally tearing up right now

[brokenhe4ds]

i’ve cried over ayrton senna at least 20 times in the past 3 days😔

[fujunfuren]

Me:

[pipperoo]

okay, that’s just the most evil thing i’ve ever written

[mars-ipan]

man how do people deal with the constant unceasing hunger. this sounds like a shitpost but actually if this keeps up it may be my telltale heart

[whitehartlane]

this club is special. 🤍

[whumpy-wyrms]

I LOOOVE DRAWING I LOVE ART

[fizzlehead]

GODDDD i just miss being able to watch new episodes of riverdale live and have FUN with them. i remember watching the josie and the pussycats episode in my tiny single dorm room with like 5 of my friends packed onto my twin bed and when archie kissed kevin on the cheek we all ERUPTED in a screaming fit. and then a few weeks later we all did the same thing with the next to normal episode and again like when charles burst into the room singing we stood up and cheered like our sports team had just scored a touchdown or whatever. and even though i didn’t really like s6 very much it STILL had moments like these in the majority of episodes. but now every week i watch it alone in my bed on my laptop and i spend the entire time brain rottingly bored at best and genuinely upset and angry at worst. like what happened i miss riverdale!!!! :(

[autism-disco]

music(als) (screaming)

falsettos specifically (screaming louder)

[fionacle]

I still have homework to do. I’m going to throw up.

[auriandcats]

i was thinking about possible deaths for season 5 and now i am terrified for byler oh my god.

yknow how byler and lumax are always paralleled to each other in the show? what if we get a lumax/byler parallel where will is about to die after he’s been attacked by a demogorgon or some shit, mike is holding him and crying his fucking eyes out, will stops breathing for a second and el has to bring him back.

"no-, no no no. max stay with me"

"will- come on no, stay awake please. no keep your eyes open will—"

[fandomsoda]

the above image reads:

“I asked the children What they want to be When they grow up

And each began To tell me their dream Like so:

“If I grow up,”

[ecowgirl]

.

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[lass-us-slay]

Lois feels her throat close up, feeling a growing lump she cant force down. And can’t help but stare at the boy. And her body feels like it’s unable to even move, frozen in place because-

God that’s a child, just a little boy tied up like he… he’s some experimental animal, like he’s not even human.

And for a moment she just stands there, until the boy opens his eyes. And oh god those eyes, those eyes look so tired, and scared. Like he’s seen some horrible monsters that plan on eating him, and to be fair… maybe it’s not so far from the truth.

Those piercing icy blue eyes that hold so much fear (fear a child- a boy no less- should not be holding) is what makes her come to her senses.

And distantly she can see more resemblance between this boy in this… cell… and her baby boys best friend.

Like being snapped from a trance Lois comes back to reality. And further steps into the room, closing the door behind her (because so god help her she’s not going to get caught, not when there’s a CHILD (whose mind you, maybe not much older Jon) is being help captive).

She can tell the boy is staring intently at her movements, trying to discern if she’s like the rest of the people here.

And before she even starts talking, she clicks on her recorder. After what feels like forever she swallows the lump in her throat that thought it could get comfortable her throat.

Not today, or any day lump!

“..Hello, I’m- I’m Lois Lane with… god kid what…” Fair to say Lois lost her voice as quickly as she got it.

Ugh this isn’t you Lois! Focus, this kid needs you. She internally scolded herself, as the kid continued to stare at her. God did he even have enough strength to speak back from how thin and brittle he looks..?

With a deep breath Lois shoved away her own problems, she could work on it without the kids life in danger at this very moment.

“Can you speak..?” She asked walking over to the cell that held him like an animal unworthy of human care.

As she was about to touch the cell keypad she fell short. Unable to continue with the action as she heard a small, weak and hoarse voice. It made her heart break a little at how weak it sounded.

“Don’t… to-ch-…” The boy sounded out, taking a moment to clear his throat.

“Is’ not… go-na end well..” he continued, moving to sit up from his laying down position on the floor.

Lois could see his hair stick to his face and neck from how sweaty he looked. He looked so tired from the simple action of sitting up. More than how he looked before.

“Why not- I’m not leaving you here.” She stated with a ‘no argument tone�� that Jon always commented on.

“They’r not gonna.. give me’ up so easy…” He spoke back, Lois wanted to retort that. Say that she could get him out but…

She knew she couldn’t, this is a government funded facility. And she broke into it. She may be stubborn, but she she’s not foolish.

“I’ll find you a way out, I promise. So just tell me anything and everything you can think of about this- GIW. Their purpose, who they are, anything”

She almost pleaded as she stepped away from the cell with clenched fists. Barely being able to not look away from his icy winter eyes, which reminded her of Bruce’s eyes.

The boy, for his part just nodded weakly. Having moved to lean against the calls glass wall.

“M’ names Danny… Daniel Fen…Fenton..” he stared, Lois for her part. Started taking pictures of the room, and… Danny himself.

“M’ from… Amity, Amity Pa-k-“ he took a moment to clear his throat.

“Amity… park.. Illinois.. uh.. GIW is’- .. means, Ghost. Inves-tigation- Ward.”

“Ghost? Aren’t those superstitions?” She instinctively asked.

As the boy explained roughly about how ghosts were technically ecto beings. Lois opened up a drawer with, which lucky for her held some important information.

Taking pictures of those documents which were mostly about the boy -Danny, who looked so much like her Jon’s best friend but with Bruce’s eyes- it made her heart stutter.

They’d already had his internal workings down on paper… they had- god it made her wanna puke and feel nauseous… it’s wasn’t until she heard the next words from Danny that made her freeze

“They uh- … the last I remember of th- the outside.. was… March..?” Danny, the poor boy got out from his sore, haggard throat.

It had to hold onto the drawer for support… it’s July.

The GIW had had him for 5 months.

Her breath shuddered as she forcibly got her composure back, she couldn’t waver now. The boy will freak if he finds out.

“…Ho-w.. long..?” The poor boy asked. It made Lois purse her lips to stop herself from indicating just how much time had passed. Good thing her back was turned on him.

“Not.. not too long.” She had a feeling she didn’t convince him from his silence.

Straightening herself she put the files back. She got her evidence. With the files back in place she looked back at the boy, so similar to Jon. Her precious baby boy.

Only to find Danny back on the floor, no longer leaning on the glass wall of the cell. There was green sorta gas’s filling it now, shit did she trigger it-

“Kid—“

“S’ kay’ ma’am… their’ cmin’ back…” He managed, looking up much more tiredly at Lois now.

“Kid you with me?!” She scurried to his side, the solid thick glass separating the two of them. If only she had Clark’s strength, just this once.

“Go… their’ cmin’ back… please’ just-.. don’t get caught…” Danny looked straight into Loises eyes. As drowsy as he was, he made sure not to slur his last 3 words together.

All Lois could do was nod, and silently promise herself, and the kid that she was going to do everything she could to get him out. And destroy the GIW.

Looking around quickly she found a little body hole behind a the large mass of drawers and crates towards the back.

Luckily was still able to somewhat see the kids cell from her position. And hastily pull up her phone to record. With the brightness all the way down of course, she doesn’t want to get caught.

Not after find out out what they’d been doing with a fucking child.

Several men in white came in, all of them holding either guns or what looks to be tasers, with two of them having a pole on hand. Lois couldn’t help but think is those were even necessary… he’s a child

And seeing them talk to him like he’s an animal, even going so far as to calling ‘him’ and ‘it’. It made her blood boil.

But not as much as when they tased and beat him when he tried to move away from, or fight back at them. She couldn’t help the small flinch at his muffled grunts and slight whimpers in pain as he took the beating.

She caught the one of them saying why he was acting up now… god Danny was doing that on purpose… for her. To add more to what she has.

And as much as she appreciates it, she wishes he didn’t do that… he’s a child, he shouldn’t have had to do that.

After a 1 minute and 24 seconds (according to the recording) Danny finally gave out. She couldn’t properly see him but she could tell he was heaving hard, trying to catch his breath. The guards with the poles moved and-

And she felt pure rage at how they forcibly moved him with the poles attached to his collar. Keeping him a distance from themselves as they moved him, like a feral dog on the streets.

But it was the fact that Danny was barely making an effort to fight back, and being dragged around carelessly and cruelly by his neck was what got to her.

But she forced down the drive to go up to them and fight them herself. Because again, they’re the government. The only good that’ll do is just for her anger. It’s not gonna help Danny.

It’s not gonna help the poor boy that looks so much like her boy, Jon’s best friend.

It’s not gonna help Danny whose being treated like a feral animal by these people (Can she even consider them people from how they are treating a child?).

So she bites her tongue, waits until they leave.

And begins her search of the facility.

With her phone recording and her recorder having been turned on since she fist spoke with the boy.

Lois Lane, the best reporter and investigator of the Daily Planet. Makes her way around the facility, fitting into the white clad sorry excuse of people, with a uniform she found in one of the boxes.

———

Much later, as the morning rays of dawn shed light upon Metropolis’s waking buildings.

A certain woman with black shoulder length hair, and clad in a white suit exits a building near the outskirts of Metroplis.

Her hands are clenched in tight fists as she walks out of the facility’s grounds. As she walks towards the City to where she last parked her car, she brings up her phone once more.

Having recorded all she needed within it, she calls a certain man of steel.

“Hey Lois, where are you?” A man’s voice spoke after not even the second ring.

“I’m coming come right now, but I need you to get ready. This may need a certain man of steel.” She responded back, not even acknowledging his question. For realistically he already hears where she is right now.

“Understood-“ as Clark was about to continued Lois cut him off.

“We need all hands on deck, especially Batman.” Lois could feel Clark tense from this far away as she continued her way back to the street she left her car at.

“I see, I’ll let him know. Your safe thought right?” He asked, that lovable goose, oh how he brought a small, painful smile to her face.

“Yes I’m safe, is Jon okay..?” She suppressed a wince at how her voice cracked towards the end. The image of the broken and beaten boy coming it the forefront of her mind.

“Yes of course… is he somehow involved?” Lois almost lost her footing at the idea. And the tense voice of Clark just amplified the fact that- the kid.

Danny had no one… she saw the little note on the files, on how they’ve been ‘brainwashed’ and were forced to be ‘put down’.

Danny had no one to care, and it broke her heart to think of something like that happening to her boy, to her little Jon.

“Never.” She answered firmly. No way, over her dead body.

“We’ll talk move when I get back.” And with that she ended the call. Having neared her car she reaffirmed her resolve to absolutely crush the GIW for what they had done to Danny.

She’ll make sure they are sorry for doing all they did to him. She has all the evidence.

All she needs now is time to shut them down.

Time that she doesn’t have.

Time that Danny, doesn’t have.

"This better get on the front page" Lois mutters under her breath. She's currently hiding in a crate that's being transported into a secretive "government" facility that calls themselves the GIW. No official data has been released as to what that acronym stands for. A new facility of theirs opened up in Metropolis and Lois is determined to find out what this organization is doing behind closed doors. From the rumors she's heard it sounds like it's Project Stargate level of crazy. This might get her another Pulitzer Prize.

Lois feels the truck holding her, and many many pallets of lead lined crates, pull to a stop. After that it's a blur of muffled words spoken by GIW employees as they unload the truck. Her crate gets picked up by a forklift and moved somewhere deep into the facility. Perfect.

After ten agonizing minutes, the forklift stops and lowers the crate into an unknown room and drives away.

Lois waits.

She has a thermal reader to detect if anyone is inside the room with her that (thank you Bruce) works through two inches of steel and lead.

The only thing she saw that was noticeable was an oddly large cold spot in an adjacent room.

Well it's now or never.

Lois moves cautiously, slowly opening the lid of the crate from underneath just enough to crawl herself through and then slowly put the lid back, careful to not make a sound.

She turns away from the crate and goes to investigate that cold spot.

Past a door, through a short hallway, and inside a high security cell, Lois saw the source of the temperature anomaly.

It's a boy. A boy no older than her son… A boy who was emaciated, collared, handcuffed, and covered in gauze.

A boy who looked near identical to her son's best friend, Damian.

[mostly-imagines]

Motion Sickness

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason makes you cry after a fight

warnings: angst with comfort

“Jason—”

He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”

Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” he challenges. 

You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”

He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently. 

A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”

“It’s not about needing it—”

“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”

You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”

“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways. 

You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung. 

Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen. 

“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”

There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.

The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.  

You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.

You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that. 

Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?

You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat. 

It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.

He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.

Dick stills, blinking warily.

“What’re you doing here?”

His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.

As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”

Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”

Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch. 

“What’d you do?”

Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth. 

“Be myself.”

Dick says nothing, 

When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.

“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.

Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.

He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.

“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.

Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”

Jason exhales desperately.

“Both, I think.”

Dick nods, understanding.

“Then go home.”

Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What did you say?”

He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”

Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”

“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”

Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to. 

He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it. 

The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.

He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.

“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.

He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.

So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.

“Not right now.”

Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.

He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.

He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.

He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance. 

Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands. 

It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now. 

Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.

He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.

He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.  

He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.  

“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.

It takes a long few moments, but you nod.

He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.

“Will you turn over?”

An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot. 

He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.

He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.

You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to. 

He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.

“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”

Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated. 

You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”

He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”

Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.

You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out. 

Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly. 

“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”

But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.

He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.

“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”

“No, it’s not.”

That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.

It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.

When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.                    

He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.

You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”

You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”

“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”

His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.

Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.

“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.

He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?” 

You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement. 

He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.  

“I love you,” you tell him quietly.

His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered. 

“I love you too, baby. So much.”

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