#in the span of the last four days
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luluxa · 2 years ago
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pathetic wet boy 🥰
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+a bit of the drawing process
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feline-evil · 1 year ago
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Dick or no dick confirmation Pickles was always going to be trans to me anyways; if he's swingin' somethin that's phallo babes, if he's not then his t-dick fat. What's not to get.
#metalocalypse#jay talkin#I'm sorry they wrote that awful gross little man far too likeable and relatable to on a trans level#for me not to hoot and holler and cheer for the trans pickles agenda#changes nothing about his character arc or any of the show anyone is capable of being the kind of person he is#don't make the mistake of thinking thats exclusive to cis men#his transness wouldnt change that#only adds on an extra layer to him that i think works fantastically.#Listen that dude was rejected by his family driven to drink and drugs young to escape that ran away to be in a band#is called fucking Pickles of all things and refuses to tell anyone his real last name;#over the span of four seasons and two movies he slowly starts to learn to be for others what he never had#he becomes more caring more supportive#it's not a stretch to say he undoes some of the toxic masculinity he's been keeping himself shielded behind#and learns how to be a kinder man.#all of which have no contradictions with him being trans!#In fact it doesn't take much extra thought to find ways a lot of this can line up with some trans masculine experiences#i mean. Did no one else have a younger phase where they swung as far as they could into crass rude and uncaring ways#to try and assert their masculinity only to grow and realise that you can be a man and be more caring.#Did no one else have father issues. 1 800 come on now i know those are both shared experiences a lot of us have had LOL.#at the end of the day this show aired nearly 20 years ago and is finished. we're not getting more of it#so nothing is altered nor changed if pickles is canonically trans or not ok. its fine#i mean hell i dont even need canon confirmation hes trans to me and thats all i care abt#but i think if yr getting suuuuuper weird abt needing him not to be canonically trans you have some issues#and bio essentialist ideals of gender if you think only a cis man can act like he does#again. anyone can be like that. its not exclusive. him being trans would not change him in any way shape or form lol#AND ALSO GODDDUUUGH for once i love getting to see a guy pushing 50 whos depicted as trans#do you have any idea how dire and barren it is out here. we never get to see a trans guy older than 30 and whos not a pristine model#I WANT MORE OLD SHLUBBY SHITHEAD TRANS GUYS IN MEDIA
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mvnces · 4 months ago
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finished 20 whole books in the span of 2024 babey !!
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gar-a-ash · 6 months ago
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Baby boy actually choosing to not be a curmudgeon next to his two biggest bother temptations
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jjba-smash-or-pass · 1 year ago
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clash skipped? no shark? chomp chomp?
yeah sorry. young man rule. you know how it is.
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crossbackpoke-check · 2 years ago
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nine people you'd like to know better
tagged by @whitenikes and @songsandswords!! thanks y’all 🥰
last listened to: technically the answer is that i was blasting PUP at work today, but i’m gonna say young the giant/declan mckenna/noah kahan/milky chance because i just got to see all of them in concert this past week!!
currently watching: drag race españa (i still need to watch the finale) and hopefully season 2 of the bear soon, although i have very little time for tv
currently reading: …not as much as i’d like to 😅 mostly related to coursework/work/applications but i do have some of the amazon first reads downloaded and about a million fics in my inbox i need to work through
current obsession: i mean. this is literally my hockey blog. however, that’s the easy way out, so i’m gonna say meijers $5 sushi (have made it so that i always go grocery shopping on wednesdays to get it)
tagging anyone who hasn’t participated yet but wants to!!! as always i’m late to the party and most of y’all have done it already
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champ-wiggle · 9 months ago
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'She is so old': One-eyed wolf in Yellowstone defies odds by having 10th litter of pups in 11 years
By Patrick Pester, published June 3, 2024
Wolf 907F recently gave birth to her 10th litter of pups, which researchers say is likely a Yellowstone National Park record.
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Wolf 907F walking past a trail camera in Yellowstone National Park. (Image credit: Yellowstone Wolf and Cougar Project)
The alpha female of a Yellowstone gray-wolf pack has defied the odds by having a 10th litter of pups at the age of 11.
The one-eyed wolf elder, named Wolf 907F, gave birth to her latest litter last month, the Cowboy State Daily reported. Gray wolves (Canis lupus) have an average life span of three to four years, so it's rare for them to reach 11, let alone have pups at that age.
Wolf 907F has given birth to pups every year for a decade straight since she became sexually mature, which Kira Cassidy, a research associate at the Yellowstone Wolf Project, said is likely a record for the wolves of Yellowstone National Park.
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At age 11, Yellowstone’s Wolf 907F has lived more than twice a wild wolf’s average life expectancy. In this photo from April, she was pregnant with a litter of pups that she’s since given birth to. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)
"Every day, I expect that she might die just because she is so elderly, but I've been thinking that for the last few years, and she keeps going," Cassidy told Live Science.
Cassidy has calculated that only about 1 in 250 wolves in Yellowstone make it to their 11th birthday, with just six recorded examples since wolves were reintroduced to the park in 1995. The oldest of all of these great elders lived to 12.5 years, according to the National Park Service.
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Wolf 907F lies in the snow in Yellowstone in 2015. (Image credit: Kira Cassidy/NPS)
Wolf 907F is the oldest wolf to have lived her whole life in the park's Northern Range, where there is more prey but also more competition from other wolves. Wolves rarely die of old age in the wild, and in Yellowstone National Park, the biggest threat is other wolves.
"In a protected place like Yellowstone, their number-one cause of death is when two packs fight with each other," Cassidy said. "That accounts for about half of the mortality."
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One of Yellowstone's oldest wolves, Wolf 907F is pictured here with her pack last year. She's the gray collared wolf on the lower left. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)
Wolf 907F is the alpha female of the Junction Butte pack, which has between 10 and 35 members at any given time. Cassidy noted that this is a large pack — the average wolf pack size is about 12 individuals — and that reduces the risk of being killed in territorial fights. Wolf 907F's experience also gives her pack an edge.
"Packs that have elderly wolves are much more successful in those pack-versus-pack conflicts because of the accumulated knowledge and the experience that they bring to that really stressful situation," Cassidy said.
Wolf 907F has likely boosted her pack's survival chances outside of battle, too. Cassidy noted that the Junction Butte pack rarely leaves Yellowstone's border and that Wolf 907F is "savvy" when it comes to things like crossing roads and avoiding humans.
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Wolf 907F, Yellowstone's aging matriarch at 11 years old, only has one eye. She's the fourth wolf to pass by this trail cam. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)
What makes Wolf 907F even more impressive is that she does all of this with only one functioning eye. Researchers aren't sure what happened, but her left eye has been small and sunken since before she turned 4. "You would never know [when] watching her," Cassidy said.
Like other elders, Wolf 907F takes a back seat in hunts now that she's older, and she spends most of her day hanging around with the pack's pups. Cassidy and her colleagues have counted three pups in her current litter, which is smaller than the average litter size of four to five but not surprising. A 2012 study of Yellowstone wolves published in the Journal of Animal Ecology found that litter size declines with age.
"The fact that 907 is still having pups is amazing, and her litter being small is expected given that she is so old," Cassidy said.
A few of Wolf 907F's offspring now lead packs of their own, but most of her pups never reach adulthood due to the perilous nature of being a wolf. However, Wolf 907F and the others in the park don't seem to live like death is on their mind.
"They are happy to be with their family going from day to day," Cassidy said. "Even if they have injuries or are missing an eye or something really stressful is going on in their life, they move through that stress and go back to seemingly really enjoying their life."
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At age 11, Yellowstone's Wolf 907F - the gray wolf in the center of this photo from 2020- has lived more than double the typical lifespan of wolves in the wild. (Courtesy Yellowstone Wildlife Project)
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northwestofinsanity · 6 months ago
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Clinical pathology is love, clinical pathology is life... (the random musing of an elated veterinary student who just hit a very clin-path heavy exam out of the park!)
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acid-ixx · 3 months ago
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ch.5 pt 2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)
directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,
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read under the end for an author's note.
tw: talks about death, prostitution, self-harm, trauma & ptsd, suicidal thoughts, and neglect.
the world was still spinning when you had awoken.
you didn't know if that was good or bad news alone. didn't even know what your current state could do now that you're in some room, subconsciously recalling between the gaps of memories that had caused you to be here.
lying down, with the painful throb of the holes within your body pinning you in place.
what happened?
breakdowns, booze, flirting, tears, comfort, gunshots, acceptance and death—
— lots of it.
all in the span of one night. one singular night which reigned in spilled blood and reopened wounds.
maybe you should've never made a stupid decision in the first place, the calculating, smarter, yet easily shut-down part of you scolds yourself. the events of the night were still fresh, enough to make both your heart and your head throb: were you finally sobering up, or does this ache come from a different type of pain, more painful, more heavily emotional than being met with death?
how long has it been since you were out? how long has it been since he saved you? since he...
the name tastes bitter in your tongue, it's been months, maybe even almost a year since you've last encountered him, let alone talked to him without being met with strained eye contact and cruel scoffs; a painful reminder of how your actions were what stuck the final nail in the coffin for your own neglect against the man, the brother you consider closest to you; despite it never being enough.
jason.
your last interaction was particularly unpleasant, an act of teenage hormones swelling in your very veins caused you to be spiteful towards him, ignoring his casual small talks in favor of refusing to offer your homemade treats and grabbing the jar of your favorite sweets - that you always meticulously and willingly give him whenever he'd make his rare visits - away from his prying hands.
you remember his offended tone, the sudden venom in his words as he asked, too mockingly for your own taste,  "what's wrong with you, angel? what's gotten you snappy these days?"
these days?
most days, it was you succumbing to his wants and needs. considering the treats he liked, the books he read, the movies he watched. all an effort painfully done if it meant having his eyes on you for just more than a second.
these days? just what had you done these days that warranted his offense? all you have done, all you ever did, was tag along everyone's tail, watching from the shadows, biting back the poisonous words, the tears that clung at the edge of your throat; ready to uncoil, to pounce the moment your envy unfurls even further.
these days? yeah right, these days, you just wanted to fucking die—
'cause highschool is shit, your life is shit, and you can't- just can't afford to play nice these days. not when they've all been so cruel, not when the people you look up to treat you lesser than the worms they step on when they spend time around the garden- your garden that you've carefully cultivated, all for your efforts to go to waste.
— but Jason won't understand, nobody could. not even alfred could comprehend just how worse your mood has soured. nobody's aware of just how close you are to your breaking point.
you glare at him for a second, wanting to retort, to swear at the sight of his knotted brows and frustrated pose, but the flicker of fight within you has just as quickly extinguished. your shoulders slumped, yet jason remains as rigid as ever in his seat, no amount of softness could be found in his expression, not even the softness he directs at you.
'he doesn't feel the same right now but—'
'there's no point in even trying anymore.'
ignoring the pang of regret in your chest, the urge to apologize with widened eyes, to pretend this was all a dream; you simply turned away in spite of the brimming tears, biting at your raw lips, to escape to another room.
afraid to show anymore weakness, afraid of the consequences, your hurried footsteps had echoed across the hallways.
you left the tooth-achingly sweet treats he originally intended to take by the table.
'he can have it for all i care.'
but are you sure you don't care? are you truly sure, when your chest spiked with frazzled haste just from hearing a familiar scoff - the one he directs to the people he despises - behind you? is it indifference when your hearing began to wring just to block out whatever vile words he spewed that day?
you want to apologize, you truly do, even if you're aware you're not much at fault, but rather him for being inconsiderate to your feelings, your foreign actions, he calls you his angel, but when his angel shows obvious hurt, he doesn't care?—
hah. but you just can't deal with it, with him any longer.
so you let it be, let him think you're just having your rebellious teenager phase, that you being a piece of shit in his eyes would pass eventually.
he wouldn't know, didn't even notice the bandages plastered across the expanse of your aching arms, the bags dipping below your eyes, or your frizzy, thinning hair.
with your last encounter, there was no more after that.
and if there were, you couldn't even call it that, for he was raging fire, and you a blistering snowstorm.
those were never meant to clash, let alone part.
thinking about it now, recalling what's gotten his mind on a twist, in your little, foreign mattress, with your eyes still shut close, lower abdomen still aching; it makes you want to die a little more at how much you never considered your feelings in the past.
you still don't right now - couldn't even make past your crippling self-esteem - but compared to last time, you at least maintained a flicker of dignity.
jason, meanwhile.
he- maybe he had a terrible day that day, you recalled his argument with bruce fresh on your mind that fateful afternoon. how tense and resounding the tension was in the room they'd fought. something over morals, over his still-burning need for justice by unfairly taking the lives of most criminals, bruce stated.
how it never quite changed, even until now.
it's the norm for all their little spats, the usual dynamic with their bated breaths and venomous words, their pitiful angst. how could you not remember, when it's dick who had to physically rip jason off from plunging a weapon on bruce's chin, whilst alfred's disappointed scolding hung in the air — whilst it's you watching in the corner, witnessing the entire scene unfold, useless when it comes to intervening because your words hold no impact for their dynamic?
maybe, just maybe, you could've been more considerate of his feelings when he'd blown bruce off, throwing him the finger before bursting off to the kitchen's pantry - to stressfully feast on the treats you carefully stored in, for moments like these, because he loves to thrash around the kitchen eating your baked sweets - to ruminate on his raging thoughts.
but if you could recall all the moments of his rage, how could he not recall his promise to bring you home some of your favorite dishes the night before that, then?
how could he not consider his so-called angel's feelings, when you had to adjust to his whims?
yeah, maybe you were boiling with rage that time too, not only due to the pressure of highschool, but at yet another broken promise. maybe you just wanted to hide away the tears, the looming expectations to act normal ultimately failing, which translated to your snappy behavior— but you thought:
'maybe, just maybe, my favorite brother, my closest confidant, could understand.'
you were wrong, you always were.
and for that, when you'd run crying to your room, another fresh scar was soldered in both your skin and your memories.
— a painful reminder of losing the closest thing you had in the world, just because you finally felt brave enough to show an inch of your closeted yet forbidden emotions.
your rebellion caused a permanent rift between your already drifting relationship, you despised yourself for that seemingly small, yet highly impactful mistake.
thinking about it now, in your crippled, nearly paralyzed state, makes you just want to forget.
— and remember the even more painful present.
finally, you compiled the strength to blink away the weight in your eyes. remnants of dry, salty tears were still fresh in the corners of your lids, throat parched, mind thrumming with dull pain and aching limbs— it reminded you of your unbidden nightmare just moment's ago; a stark contrast from its pleasantness compared to the damming reality you're actually in.
it felt like a fading memory, that dream, a looming freckled dust of air you couldn't quite catch in your stretched out fingers. how her gentle touch was like a cure to all your ailments, yet her hurried good-byes an eternal scar to the broken pieces of your heart.
oh, my momma.
how you miss her and her angelic presence already.
it never truly occurred to you how much the heavy weight of missing her stumped you from actually maturing. it was always her you mourn in moments of painful respite. her fading advices, her airy voice, her silent hums and warm presence. it was a whiplash to have her in such a wicked environment, in gotham of a places.
seeing her, in that cottage, in all her glory, wrinkles and aged, sagging skin surrounding the expanse of her angelic appearance. she was so young when she had you, and it was all you ever dreamed of— watching her gracefully age before you like fine wine, rather than those... those flashbacks of those bloodied tiles and the ichor dripping down her lifeless, icy lips.
damn be her reputation, she was your momma first, and prostitute, money laundering scam, second. thinking about her just makes you want to shut your eyes once more, return to that restless dream, and stay there forever.
rather than...
— your eyes switch to shuttering quickly, faded imagery still present in the fog of your vision. everything felt suspended in air except for the mechanical churn of the hanging fan on the ceiling, yet the furniture still present itself in shaped globs rather than actual three-dimensional objects. it took you nearly a minute to regain your sight, to finally hone in on your surroundings. albeit the haze and the adrenaline slowly pumping in your veins, your mind telling you to run despite the lack of sensation in your lower half, you slowly take in this...
this unfamiliar room...
a place displaying artillery, heavy weapons on the four corners of the walls, surrounding the dainty, one person cushion you lay on. there's an array of both fresh and bloodied gauze on the tabletop on your right, it seems to be used just recently, on you, probably. they're tightly wrapped on your lower half, you can see through the dark of your blankets and the feel of its restrictions on your guts.
strange how you're here, recalling the events of the night, yet it's still night now.
have you been out for an entire day?
and your phone and other essentials is on the same tabletop, you can even make out the table napkin containing conner's number still carefully tuckered behind your phone case. the faint waft of your favorite takeout caressed your nostrils, if not for the pain of having to carefully churn around the weighted blanket splayed on top of you; you might've sat up to dig in the savory meal.
but you can't focus on your hunger, not just yet. not when the dread overpowers your bodily urges, not when this entire thing feels like it's imitating a sense of normalcy; a room, reflecting the danger of the inhabitant living within, despite your foggy vision still, trying it's best to placate you into feeling safe.
but worse yet, the most dreaded of them all—
a room with your brother in it.
a room with the person you'd least want to deal with, not with just how much you haven't calmed down, how your final resolve was to avoid the very same people who'd always avoided you.
you couldn't possibly face them now, not ever.
not even the man you once came to call your favorite.
the holes in your body, now wrapped tight with gauze, throbs noisily, as if it senses the resounding doom wrapping around your heart, until it spreads across your entire body, now cold with caution. through your careful inspection of your belongings, through the noise of your frazzled thoughts, you haven't felt the dip on the bed you lay on. dim lights surrounded your vision afterall, the same ones still clearing up after hours of restless slumber.
and everything around you was unlike the specks of sun you were greeted with when you'd awoken from that dream.
dark and heavy.
your fingertips, your head, your injuries, the dip of the bed just now, his breathless haste; as if he waited for this moment, for you to slowly awaken, to return to consciousness.
an overbearing sense of desperation: his manic trance, the tusled locks of black and white hair, the faint shiver in his breathing.
and it's not as if you needed to second-guess the man now seated on the bed, he's so easily recognizable with his toughened form and muscles churning beneath his ashy jacket.
no, no, you want to close your eyes, pretend you're still asleep.
— but you can't, it's too late now that he noticed.
"... mornin', angel. you alright?"
he asks, silent and unsure, the question drifting off his tongue so gently, so hesitatingly as if he couldn't believe witnessing you breathing in front of him. warm yet burning with need for answers. and for a second, for a measly, quintessential span of time, you might've thought his raspy words were an aftermath of some tears.
he sounded so...
broken.
like a man torn from the inside out. the last you've seen of him, he'd already sported eyebags— but not too sunken, too tired like the current one you're staring at. like a washed out ember amidst winter, everything about him felt vulnerable...
it just makes you want to die on the inside— that- that you feel a semblance of care for someone who's hurt you far more than loved you.
the gentleness in his question, the hesitant stumble of his hands that came to bury itself into your tangled hair. the warmth that emits from his raggedy fingers hovering over the scalp of your head; it just made you feel fuzzy yet awful. the image of a brother and a stranger in front of you just blurs into a singular mess.
your vision spins, his hands are still awkwardly patting your head, as if urging you to speak, yet no reply escaped from your parched throat, from your dry, cracked lips. you fear whatever words might come next will just be a product of your impulsiveness— like the last time you met, like- like how you always fucked everything up, and you just did so the other night, and you're afraid of everything that might come after—
"i tried fixin' my apartment up just before you woke up... got us some takeout for dinner, too. it's your favorite..."
a hesitant smile, teethering on near gentleness that seemed impossible for a cruel man like him. jason looked almost like the brother you once knew as he coughs to himself, a poor attempt to wash away the awkward tension between you two. you're still silent between it all, not a single word mustered from your gaping mouth.
no.
your breath hitches—
your cold hands drive away his fingers entangled with your hair, shaky breaths make up the silent space between you two. he's not- not going to go about this way, would he? how could he?
no, this was not a moment to pretend. he saw you cry out there, under the moonlit night when the world was out for your life— you begged him, implied you'd rather die than let your savior be him.
you're hurt, everything still isn't fine between you two. not a single thread of softness will make up for the broken remnants of love he left you with. he can't act like the last time you met was a warm memory; not when it was filled with icy words and barely disguised contempt.
for a moment, you swore you could see a flash of heartbreak filling his stare. for a moment, you want to take your actions back like last time and become the younger you, but it's just for a moment.
these feelings don't last for a lifeline, not anymore.
"look, angel. i'm- you're not fine, still. it's the doctor's orders that you you need to eat, especially since you just got discharged and got all drunk on an empty stomach."
since when did he care?
ignoring him, your eyes dart elsewhere, ears purposely blocking out the meaning of his words, senses entangled with anything but his vulnerable stare. you look at the rickety fan barely blowing air on your messy hair, buzzing on top of dusty ceilings and shadowing dimly lit walls, at the spare armory scattered actoss the room - he could kill you with them, could end you with just a snap of his fingers - at the spider webs housing the corners of the apartment boxing you in with a man you dread meeting, let alone facing in a space you're far too unfamiliar with.
trapped and vulnerable; like a doe locked in place in a vast forest, surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves, ready to devour the closest thing in sight.
there may only be one you're dealing with now, but they're out there. dick and the others are out there with intentions to face you too.
and you don't know which part of you triggered this sudden desperation, this sudden link between you and your estranged siblings, but you hate it.
you hate this unfamiliar care. you hate the concern laced in every sentiment of jason's. it's unlike them, it's not them in your eyes.
and you hate how this resentment is overpowered by the shadowed by something more sinister, the one thing that dictated the course of your life—
one word: fear.
it wraps around your throat tighter than the bandages adorning your body. traps you in its clawing grip and molds itself in the form of your family.
fear of how to deal with their foreign worry, their questions lingering in the air with patience in its virtue rather than disdain. jason's unmasked face, thumbs softly massaging your unfeeling, cold fingers.
where you show a hitch of a breath, the widening of eyes, and the slightest of shivers. a hint of vulnerability, the softest of hiccups, the deep intakes of air—
instead of being met with a scoff, an offensive remark about your weakness, or a flick of worry immediately wearing away as dismissiveness takes place.
you're met with unfamiliar worry, the heavier dip of the bed, the splaying of bedsheets as jason's body moves closer to yours, the quick succession of movement as he takes off his jacket to loom over your- your shivering form.
just a little more, then your teary eyes meet its gaze on his crumpled jacket with its stench of cigarettes clinging in the air. your tired eyes shakily gaze at the layers of gauze wrapping your ever-bleeding body, and feel the ache nesting in its abode.
panic, unyielding; so much fear which rattles your bones and turns your muscles into useless jelly; which worries the perpetrator of these complicated emotions—
jason.
how do you pretend you're fine? how can you act so carelessly vulnerable in the domain of unknown territory; in a room, alone, but not quite?
it takes you back to when you were at your apartment, takes you back to when you try your damned best to ignore the sensation of panic and bile rising up your throat when you saw dick's messages. all in the span of less than a week.
your life is so fucked.
yet you choose to be inactive in facing these struggles, you choose not to run, or fight, but to ignore.
it's the only common symptom you share with your... your family.
just like now: anywhere but him.
you can't expend anymore hope—
"why, angel?"
confused, pleading, perhaps struck with grief. so unlike the man who scoffed at your lack of reply months ago. maybe he'd truly change, or maybe he felt pity at watching you nearly die before he could redeem himself.
it was his voice that cuts through the tension in the air. this time, he sounds like he's begging. for a second, your tired eyes run to him: him and his stupid worry. the nonchalant buzz in his words were no more, replaced by... betrayal.
for a second, you're reminded of your last meeting. the contrast of the cold past and now this burning sensation within your chest. then suddenly, everything hurts just a little more.
suddenly, you're back at the start. just the little kid looking for answers in a world too big for them. just the little kid who wanted to be good enough for their newfound family.
"for-for wh— what?"
god, even now the past still haunts you, the present crueler too. you and your stupid stuttering, your exposed and vulnerable aching heart that yearns for answers. why is jason hurt over seeing you hurt? why does he... care?
it's just so incomprehensible for you.
his worry is just too foreign.
under the pressure of his boiling gaze, which renders you useless and pinned in damp bedsheets, you simply feel bile rise up your throat. feel anything but comfort when both your eyes met. your teeth nibbles on your sore lips, and you find jason's wince, his almost tense fingers about to stop you from drawing out blood.
"you know what i mean." you don't. or rather, you don't want to know what he means. "why were you..."
'why am i out of the manor, right? in an unknown place in the middle of the night, drunk and alone? almost killed by my own stupidity? why? you know why, jason?'
you bite your lips, its raw, peeling skin opens up old scars anyways, and it bleeds like your raging heart.
'—it's because of you and all the others.'
you don't want to explain how they're the reason for all your burdens. how his sudden presence in that fucking alleyway caused more distress than nearly dying. why you're out in public wasting away at your life, avoiding anything that you can associate with them because, just because you're always hurting.
you don't want to be reminded of the past anymore. you never expected to be in one of your sibling's damn apartment, being interrogated, almost scolded for your impulsive decisions and forced to listen to his sickly bitter worries over your health as if he actually cared for you.
sweat ran down your bobbed throat. your tongue, your lips and your skin felt damp yet dry. cold and crisp air was a commodity, everything felt blazing hot under jason's expectant stare.
an uncomfortable heat, almost burning you, turning your bones to ashes and organs to dust.
"just—" his presence almost felt ghastly, fingers hovering over your downturned chin to softly tilt it up. your eyes felt blurry, and the world felt so... just so cruel when his other hands made its way to wipe away your damp cheeks.
were you... crying?
"just answer me, please."
jason todd, no, the red hood doesn't beg. he doesn't plead. the infamous crime lord doesn't gently swipe your sweaty hair to the side so it doesn't disrupt your already blurry vision. he hurts others, cuts their skin and veins, shoots their bones, rips their limbs one by one, tortures them until all they could beg for is the sweet release of death—
but he doesn't just care for somebody easily, right? he shouldn't burden himself with your own personal issues. he never has done so, only coming to you for casual talk.
what changed?
"i—" you gulp, but the lump in your throat remains everlasting. do you tell him of your worries? do you even trust him? can you even trust him?
"i don't know..."
'i don't know, jason... i'd rather not let you know anymore than you should have.'
"i-it's fine... don't worry about it." you added to your pile of excusing, shrinking in on yourself when his eyes squint at your words.
small. you feel like an ant taking in everything that felt particularly enormous against you. jason's body blocking out the city's skyline and the moon's watchful glow made everything dimmer, made it feel like your only choice was to go through him.
it doesn't help that it feels like every word you mutter, every breath you take, feels like a daunting action devoured by the inner workings of his mind.
why should you worry? jason never— he never truly cared this much.
whether you lie or not wouldn't change the outcome. just a little slip up and he'll leave you alone once more. just a few more minutes and he'll eventually give up, right?
so why are you nervous? why are your fingers picking at the skin of your palms? why do the tears just keep leaking like a faulty pipe? why is he— why can't he just stop staring at you—?
"you're lying."
"h—huh?"
"you're lying and it's obvious, angel."
he reiterates, this time, the tremor in his voice reaches the depths of the ocean. and just like an ocean, you feel yourself drowning in the pressure of his answers. you feel the heaviness of his words, feel it pinning you in place and locking your joints, until all you could hear are his paced breathing and the subtle agitation in his voice.
"wh—"
"why? why were you out alone, huh? what were you doing all alone at night? alfred wasn't even with you— you're drunk out of your mind, you're not even old enough to drink, angel. you weren't with- with anybody by the time i reached you— so why... just why?" this time, he demands. even if his questions were mere whispers against the blaring sounds of traffic from below; it still reaches out and buries itself into your skin, tickles the inside of your ears and nips at delicate skin.
until all you could focus on were his questions.
why?
'isn't it obvious, brother? or do you still see me as a little child?'
"when's my birthday, jason?"
it doesn't take much to know when you've turned the course of the tides to side with you. it doesn't take much to watch jason stumble between befuddled thoughts until he crosses a hurdle he couldn't jump through.
'it shouldn't be a surprise to you, jay. i thought you truly changed.'
nobody... nobody except alfred knew when you were born. not even your closest brother, no. you almost genuinely convinced yourself he cared, but the delusion quickly breaks when you find him wide-eyed as the thoughts churn in his head.
"what...?"
if he truly cared, then he should've known, right?
"—you... i'll answer you if you answer me back. when's my birthday?"
you call him out in that sickly, sweet nickname. it was what that past you called him. it's the same verse you chirp over and over again just to gain a traction of his attention when you feel his eyes drift over the book he's read rather than on you. the name you oh-so carefully drawl out so that he doesn't drift to sleep just so you'll be given temporary respite from the loneliness, so he could rest his fingers on your scalp and promptly hug you from the side.
it feels so foreign on your tongue now, after all, you haven't spoken to him in months.
the last note you left each other with was pure bitterness.
it feels even more strange that you realized how you know all their birthdays, but they never knew yours.
never knew it passed by so quickly under their radar. how you're free from the shackles of their ownership over your name. he doesn't... doesn't even know you're not a wayne now, no?
"do you even know how old i am now?"
"it's... you know, shit—!" he mutters under his breath. it's like he just realized how much he doesn't... couldn't even remember a crucial detail of you when it's you who knows all his favorite books, his favorite author, how his comfort snacks are different for every feeling he feels; hell, even his preferred places to smoke.
yet he doesn't even remember your birthday? couldn't even recall a single moment where you blew out a candle? in all the moments he visited, spending nights with you under the moonlight or through the shine of the library's chandelier; he never even thought of giving you a present, let alone wonder why how within those years of knowing you— jason couldn't even remember the most important occasion of your life?
he bites his lips, and this time, it's him who buries the tips of his fingers on the hastily crumpled bedsheets.
if he calls himself your brother, who thinks he has the right to worry over you, then is a brother someone who couldn't remember your birthday?
now that his eyes aren't on you, you're spared a moment to take him in through the hastening of your heart and the neverending rivulets of tears escaping your blurry gaze.
'ignore the pain, (name). you shouldn't be hurt anymore. you shouldn't feel surprised that he doesn't even know when you were fucking born."
but you can't bear the thought of him stumbling through his words, formulating excuses he knows you know you could easily reject. it just makes everything hurt even more, makes the endless ache in your heart thrum at the implications that this person— his worries were nothing when he has nothing, no care in the past to bare to you now.
"i'm eighteen now, jay..." his eyes quickly flit up to stare at you, mouth agape at the newfound information. what's the use in being shocked now? when all your other birthdays were dismissed and breezed by like a normal day for them— for your family?
and yet you know the answers to your very own questions.
eighteen is a quintessential part of someone's life.
it marks the path of adolescence, the descent to maturity as you learn to grow, to make your own decisions. some children move out of their parent's home to build a nest of their own, they find jobs, maybe even a partner to make or break a life with. people in america who turn 18 are still restricted from drinking, but most still choose to break some laws, fuck up with their decision, get shit-faced and party off with some fraternities and friends who'll turn their backs on you; and then regret it all later.
they build their lives, they go through ups and downs, and slowly bring themself back up again. there's no more gentle approaches, no more excuses for a developing mind. they go through so much in just a year.
and the most important of it all, is that most graduate.
and they weren't there for you, nobody was, save for alfred.
bruce wasn't there when you graduated, so it's no surprise that jason, or even the others, wouldn't come.
jason's still a dead man in the public's eyes, after all.
and even if he wasn't, what would've guaranteed that he'll still come to watch you walk up that stage? what would've changed, when the weight of your graduation and the future to come was thwarted by their worries over damian's? it was always him they— bruce prioritized, when he'd first enter the manor, all eyes were on the brazen boy.
when you first entered the manor, it was a rainy, desolate day. bruce was busy, of course he was, why wouldn't he be when he drowns himself in paperwork to distract the horrid reminders that his second son had passed?
and you don't know what hurts even more, the heartbreak in his stare, or the thumps in your heart that felt like footsteps stepping on the beating organ until all its blood is drained?
"shit, angel. i never knew... i'm— you're eighteen now and i didn't even know? fuck, how could i have forgotten it—"
"just, please save your excuses, jason..."
it's like he couldn't even believe you were old enough now, mature enough to comprehend how his excuses don't mean shit if his lack of knowledge towards your birthday ran on for years.
your sniffles weren't as silent as your words, it hurts, everything felt like fire. the world wants you to burn as your body felt like betrayal, your vulnerabilities stripped bare in front of him.
"i... appreciate your concern, but," it hurts to lie under your breath, hurts to hesitate, let alone voice out what you truly feel. it hurts to wonder why you're unsure if what he felt for you was worry, or just mere guilt over the situation you're both in.
the lines between all your emotions were blurred, you don't even wait to see his expressions anymore. you fear you'll revert back to the younger you, who considers the others before yourself, even when you've disillusioned yourself countless of times that you've changed.
you did, didn't you?
"you don't— you have no excuse to patronize my health when... when i know my limits and..."
"—i have to go, jason..."
barely a whisper. your words were barely a whisper, like the haste of thunder striking through metal rods though without sound, without thought, without hesitation; before your hands suddenly push all your weight to straighten your slumped form. your legs, which felt like blazing jelly, made an attempt to stand despite the burning sensation. you don't offer jason a second to register what you were doing, don't even let him see how your stomach bent enough to nearly reopen wounds—
god, fuck—!
it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.
your heart, your head, your entire body.
one second, you stumble, the gravity of your body fighting against the blistering, aching pain which shoots through your veins. all in one second, seering in your abdomen, like fingers digging deep into your injuries, twisting and churning until all you could feel is pain so absolutely revolting, so mercilessly cripping in your lower abdomen, that it seizes you useless, so utterly unable to capture your balance in the midst of standing, that your legs quickly give out on you.
then another second passes like a beat, all too quickly, yet all too slow for you as the world spins in your darkening vision, all the blood from your head rushing to where the holes lay in haste. your heart thumps like a drum in a warfield, like boots splattering on wed mud, sporadic, in near panic.
another second, the third, and just as you're about to stumble down, the pain so much that your eyes shoot out salty, ignorant tears. just as your body is close to thumping, writhing on the floor, jason catches you in his arms, grip so tight it almost felt like he'd refuse to let go. like how it was back in that shitty alleyway, like how it was, you felt trapped, trapped and forced to feel his sweating muscles churning mechanically, taut and tense through his thin sweatshirt.
close enough to feel that same, raggedy panic — the hitch of a breath, the loud thrumming in your chest, adrenaline shooting into your senses, your mind registers jason as a token of danger— emerging as your elbows make way to hit him square in ribs, only for his quicker, stronger palms instinctively stop you, his larger body locking you up in place, stabilizing you as you feel like you're hovering, suspended in thin, nearly charged air.
he's— he's carrying you, left hand respectfully gripping below your thighs, the other palm resting on your backside. it still hurts, everything does, nothing about you screams okay, only the slight subsidizing of pain as your brother, no, jason carefully puts you back down to sit on the bed, like you're weightless and made of feathers and— and vulnerable with how much gentleness he placates on instinctively hushing you, like a brother would to their injured sibling after a rough hour of playing in a sandbox of a playground.
the tears still won't stop.
through your quivering hiccups, high-pitched whines escaping the back of your throat at every subtle movement, at the thoughts that drown you the more time passes by— it hurts, it hurts so much you'd rather die, you'd rather be anywhere than here. does he know that, does he know the pain of looking at him, feeling him so close like never before is why you're so desparate to leave? does he know your heart beats erratically because you can never forget the moment you last met—?
— you don't even see, let alone feel the anger brewing off his chest, at the sudden, venomous words which escape his mouth next, like chains rattling, acidic bile brewing in a hot cauldron, nearly combusting at the seams.
you don't know that you pain him, don't know that you're his weakness.
and it especially hurts him when you refuse to look him eye-to-eye, refuse to see the tears rooting at the edge of his eyelids, at his teeth grazing his teeth until blood draws out in a steady flow, the opposite of the panic resurfacing into his body as he watches your dazed, breathless form trying to recover from what happened.
wordless. he despises that. how it's like your body repels him, head dodging his lips that hint at kissing your forehead. how you hesitatingly allow him to massage and help straighten the taut muscles of your bent legs— how you remain silent all throughout like you didn't just- just fucking attempt to stand, almost killing yourself despite his warnings.
he despises your not-so subtle avoidance that he just couldn't control it, couldn't control the burning rage brewing inside his heart that he just— just screams at you before he could compose himself.
"— fuck angel, FUCK! just what the fuck were you thinking?!"
jason wasn't always known for anger, he wasn't always the spiteful man everyone makes him out to be. he was sweet towards you because he knew you were innocent in the midst of batman's schemes, so it's no joke, no fucking joke how much he scares you off right now.
it scares you watching him fight others off, scared you when he shot those bullets at the man pinning you down, but you had a semblance of reassurance that it was never directed at you.
until now.
and now that you remain the spectacle of his anger, the sight of his widened, blown out eyes, his furrowed brows and clenched fists — you're so afraid, so fucking afraid he'll end up hurting you like damian, yet conscious of his actions. he looks like a painted demon before you, with clenched teeth and frazzled hair, and you feel like a dear caught in headlights — you feel another surge of tears, another wave of nausea drowning out his voice as your throat closes in on itself.
'stop, jason, please stop. you're scaring me.'
but you couldn't say the words out loud, couldn't even compose your body from quivering, fingers clenching the bedsheets in sudden instinct so hard it crumples on itself; as if it could help ground you, as if it could control the next, hurtful and loud words surging from his mouth.
as if it could cease time just so you wouldn't bear witness to his scary, monstrous rage.
"can't you see what you just did?! don't you know how— how fucking stupid and dangerous that was of you to just stand when you're still obviously HURT!? if you wanted to, you should've told me first instead of just suddenly pushing me away. what's wrong with you, huh?! what possessed you to just— JUST STAND UP AND LEAVE?!"
it's like he couldn't believe you. couldn't even make reasons why you did what you've just done. not even a tinge of comedic effect, not even any comfort laced in any word. not the jason you knew and loved, but a stranger whom you learned to call a friend, a brother that never was.
that's all he ever is, a stranger. all of them, living under the same roof as you.
and he was the same stranger who nearly fought you if not for you leaving that kitchen.
— it was the same old scoff he gave you all those months ago after talking, the same old squinted eyes and generous rage. yet this time it's enhanced with something else, something more personal, something way scarier than just being a spectator.
you always wanted to revolve around his life, but never this way.
it hurts, doesn't he know that?
doesn't he know how much his words just hurt you more than the dull ache in your abdomen? can't he see it too? how you're backing away to the corner of the bed until your back hits the headboard, despite all the pain spreading throughout your body?
if- if he cares so much about you, shouldn't he have known that— that you're sensitive to everything he just said?
bile rises up from your empty stomach, and the tears that keep surging out your eyes refuse to stop; yet it's your words run faster than your thoughts. then suddenly, all too suddenly, everything just snaps.
suddenly, your consideration for him doesn't matter anymore.
not when you never mattered to him, right?
and it feels like a part of you broke tonight.
"... what's up with you, angel?! answer me! first you're drunk off your mind when i find you out in the alleyway, bleedin' to near death, and when i try to help you before it's too late, you come begging me to not take you to the manor. did somethin' happen, huh?! why in the name of lord are you rebelling all of a sudden?! why are you fucking—"
"BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT MY DAMN SIBLING ANYMORE, JASON!"
it just won't stop. the pain and the tears and all the words spilling from you won't stop and everything- shit, everything is spinning but you can't stop now.
it hurts. saying those eight words hurt, but it's the truth.
and the truth fucking hurts. what right should he have worrying over you? what right does he have to criticize your life now when he's only been there for you when he needs it?
"IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS ANYMORE JASON! STOP— STOP PRETENDING LIKE YOU CARE—!"
fists clench at the bedsheets bring itself up to tangle upon your matted hair, and you pull and tug and rip off the strands, biting your lips to quell the anger, the pain shooting across your scalp, your fingers stinging with every snap of the strands. shivering and trapped, and useless in fighting back; why are you like this? why does he keep watching?
you close your eyes. for what? so that all you could hear are your ragged breaths, the only thing you can hear every time you'd have reoccurring nightmares? so that you could return to that lonely child, to the lonely teenager you once were?
the lonely, scared child you still are?
'since when have you ever cared, jason? since when? since when has anybody ever cared?'
your voice trembles at the ends, you can't afford to look at him, burying yourself deeper into the mattress as if that alone can melt you until you were nothing, just so you wouldn't have to deal with this neverending heartbreak.
"stop... just please—" you bite your lips, but it does nothing to quell the overwhelming panic, the spiralling thoughts, the blazing emotions. your knees are pressed against your chest, fingers now scratching at your heated face.
until it bleeds, until it all bleeds.
you open your eyes, an array of tears come bursting off your sore eyelids, your cheeks feel considerably swollen, yet you just can't stop fucking crying. it worsens even more when your wobbly vision turn to look up at him, at his unbelievable stare, at his widened, ocean blue orbs, dull and almost unforgiving.
'this isn't the jason i knew.'
"just why, (name)? why?"  hearing your name roll off his tongue, instead of your usual nickname hurts, hearing it with such rage, contempt, like he's directing his hatred at you for something you couldn't control— god, it hurts.
"what do you mean by all this? i'm- i'm still your damn brother—" he says, as if it's a matter of fact, as if nothing between you changed the last day you saw him, as if he didn't know the reason. if he was your brother, then why does he sound so diffident, then?
why does his voice tremble? why does his care taste foreign against your tongue? why does he stand there, as if hesitant to even approach you?
"and because i am your brother... i have every right to care for you now—"
"i was never important then... so why do i matter now?"
"— what?"
"why do i matter so much now than before? how come i never deserved your care before?"
"angel, please. what the hell are you talking about—"
"JUST FUCKING ANSWER MY QUESTION, GODDAMNIT!"
all that you were, all that you ever are, was just a distraction for jason to bide his time with, weren't you? all he knew about you was that you acted as his entertainment, a quiet little kid who listens more than they ever learned to speak, who purposely read all the archived books in the manor's library, waiting every month for their favorite brother to visit. even if it was just for minutes, even if he'd leave you right after, escaping your boring rambles, because of course he'd prefer the fucking batcave over your silent, expectant, always yearning eyes.
all you ever wanted, all you ever did, was just be.
do what you thought they wanted you to be, not what you wanted yourself to be. baking because you knew they loved to raid the fridge for snacks after missions, drawing because your mother always praised your messy sketches, even if it was nothing compared to damian's now, dancing, ballet, gymnastics— going as far as trying to learn how to fight, giving up halfway through because you'll never progress with just how much you're juggling other extracurricular activities.
all that, just to be what you wanted to be for them.
even if it was never enough, even if your rare a plus', the occasional gold medals, the praise and acknowledgement from your teachers, even alfred's suggestion for bruce to just, please, take his time of the day to talk to you— all those achievements shine dully compared to your other siblings.
and you've long since accepted that it was all that you ever were. just a mere tool, ever-so-useful, yet ever-so-forgotten by all the other convenient ones.
all that you are, all that you ever were. but all that you ever wished for, was to be his child, their sibling.
but that was never possible, you've accepted that. you branched off, left and never came to look back because you knew you'll just be trudging another path of pain.
...
so why, why does he care so much now?
why, for the first time in your entire life, does it pain you more than it comforts you that he finally called himself your brother?
why, just now, does he say it to your face, when he never once did so all those years ago?
why does he pretend to be so shocked in front of you, wide-eyed and frozen, relinquished in guilt? why does he stand there, breathing, trying to compose himself as if your words ever held any weight on his chest? why can't he just understand, why can't he just let you go as easily now?
why do you still cry after all these years?
why do you still pretend that none of these... these issues mattered anymore in your heart?
why do your fingers still forcefully pierce into the mattress, grounding yourself to reality? why can't you rip your eyes away from jason?
why does his care break your heart more than it does fixing it?
you've always wanted this, didn't you? you've always wanted to be finally acknowledged, yet it still hurts. your throat still closes in on itself, like fingers clawing and constricting your airways, your breathing like jet missiles vaporizing mid air.
and yet all the pain, all the yearning and destesting for a love so passionate were still overpowered by the senseless need for answers.
'jason, why do you still try?'
"angel, calm down you're—"
on the verge of a panic attack? hands suddenly beating at your chest, tears neverending still streaking your sore cheeks and bitten, bloodied lips?
his hands reach out to grab yours, yet you slap his palms away, ignore the stinging sensation that came after; and back away to a corner. like a reckless animal, like the same young child hiding behind closet doors, biting back tears yet desperately failing.
you're both at your breaking points, you both refuse to back down this stupid game of cat and mouse.
"just calm down, please—!"
"NO, I WON'T— you don't fucking understand it, jason!
— i don't need your help, or anyone else's anymore! you have never been there for me! never been there for all the times i suffered because of your death! so don't even try to make a difference now!"
before he could even refute, before he could shout and cause another wave of panic, before he could break you even further—
"... so why do you care now?"
you couldn't even face him, too afraid to see his reactions churning. he shakily breaths, fog encapsulates the air around his parched lips. and you're reminded that it's almost winter, that your heater in your apartment is broken, that you'll be freezing underneath your thin blankets, eating off cold meals— that it's another one of those months where you're reminded of the privilege you've both lost and gained after leaving the manor.
you've lost your last connection to jason, so you thought, yet he's here in front of you now. he's here, and rather than wanting him to be here, you'd wish it was a dream instead.
you wished he never cared, for his next words stabbed you more than it did made you feel cared.
"i care, (name). because you were drunk when i got you, you were impulsively provoking the same guys who nearly killed you. because what? it's easier to escape that way?. i care because you've done something stupid, you nearly died because of your recklessness! my younger sibling did something stupid and it's my responsibility to worry over you, worry over your overdramatics! you're still fucking eighteen and you're already wasting away your life—!"
"that's why i fucking care for you, because you're my burden alone and nothing changes that!"
what...?
overdramatic? impulsive and reckless? is he serious? is that all you ever were to him? he cares because he thinks you're still that stupid, innocent child chasing after him? is that what you are? is that all you ever amounted to him after all the times you spent sleepless nights reading the books he recommended you? all the hours burning your fingers just to perfect his favorite lunch?
just that?
just a burden?
and he just stands there, so cruelly imposing, hands crossed like he's right and you're not. tears equally streak his ragged face, dripping all the way down his sharp jaws and wobbly chin. but his brows are furrowed, eyes still squinted at your body, weaker than his.
like all he feels is rage towards you, like everything's your fault.
while you're just sitting in his bed, limp and utterly unable to stand without his guidance.
and you hate this, hate being reminded that just like last time, you used to depend on him alone.
"how dare you, jason? we... i've always been so good to you... i've always done what you always wanted, i—"
this time your heart aches differently. it's not the subtle panic stinging your beating organ, not even regret shrouding your thoughts. but a painful, stabbing pain; slow and cold. your nose is clogged, your teeth rigidly grinding, the ball of your joints feel like they're pressing deeply on each other— everything just hurts.
his words feel like a knife slowly twisting inside your guts. not even the salty, warm tears feel worth crying out anymore.
it's just silent understanding, a painful acceptance.
of your pain and all those wasted summers and lonely winters.
your hands grip the headboard as you shift your weight to the uninjured side of your abdomen. you glare at him when he almost hurriedly attempts to help you, but through silent puffs of effort under your breath, you're already standing, right hand gripping nothing on the wall as you lean on it.
it still hurts, god, the burning sensation won't boil down at all.
— but you want to face him, head-to-head. you want him to face his burden. if he wants to understand you, if you want to understand him— there's no use hiding behind a semblance of comfort.
because more than anything, you just wanted a family. you just wanted to be part of their family.
yet now you've come to realize that maybe you were just a burden all along.
"it's- it's so unfair..."
your voice cracks at the seams, but there's no use composing yourself anymore. no use in trying to look decent in his eyes when all you ever were was a problem to him, to everyone else, right?
"out of all the times i nearly got killed, jason... you decided to save me by the time i accepted my death...?"
maybe your mother would've sided with jason, only for the part that she wanted you safe and sound rather than dead. but she's dead now, you wanted to be dead because it meant you'll finally have her at your side.
and it feels so cruel to be stripped away from that honor, that merciful gift of life, from the very same brother whose death caused you more turmoil than anything.
"—this isn't the first fucking time this happened to me, jason, and it wouldn't be the last."
your voice was barely a whisper, barely a recognizable tremor, but it speaks volumes of your desperation, of what could've been if he didn't intervene. of what wouldn't change despite it all.
you'll still be dead afterall. this is gotham where you're living. and you're not a priority to the vigilantes, not anybody important to the family.
even if his expression shifted to shock, even if you find an ounce of softness throughout the exterior of his fragile agitation; is it not true?
he takes a step forward, but your hands shoot out to put distance between you two. even if it pains you to see the confused heartbreak in his eyes at your refusal, you don't want him any closer, you fear you'll submit to his whims if you do.
you can taste blood in your tongue, but you swallow it all like you're swallowing all the bitterness you feel, you drown this ache in your heart, replace it with temporary assurances that this will all end, that jason's stubborn attempts of placating you is just another attempt to draw you closer, only to push you away in the end.
... and yet he's still trying even after what felt like minutes, maybe hours, stretching between you two.
jason still keeps trying, while you're close to giving up.
"why are you like this, angel? what happened between you and bruce? did he hurt you—"
"nothing happened—" you're lying, but not quite so. you're lying but it's not a lie when you mean nothing, literally nothing, happened between you and your father. that's the worse of it all, you and bruce never had a moment together, never had any memories to cherish nor times where he comforted you through the trauma of it all.
that painful reminder just makes past emotions stir within you.
of those cold nights, the barren hallways and alfred's countless excuses for bruce's absences.
"i have my personal reasons, jason." you seethe through your teeth. it hurts to admit your feelings to him, hurts that your drying tears are still overlayed by a resurgence of new ones. "it involves you guys... you and the others; but it's nothing now. it doesn't matter now and you know it..."
"... no i don't, angel. and no, it's not nothing. because if it was, then what's all of this for? what do you want from him, from me? that caused you to act this way...? to act so selfishly, trying to rebel like us when you've always been a good kid, huh? god, (name), if you just wanted his attention, to be his favorite—"
"— then there's so much better ways, angel. than being like this... being someone that isn't you."
he truly never knew you well at all, huh?
considering everything that happened tonight, you thought he did, but fuck...
hearing all those assumptions come straight from him just destroys you inside out.
"jason... please listen to me."
cutting him off, it's both an act done to just stop him from rambling any further, stops you from just— just irrationally ripping your ears apart so you wouldn't have to hear it anymore; hear all those disillusioned excuses, those painful words ripping you apart at the seams.
he looks at you, at your weak hold against the edge of the bedframe, at the hushed, shivering breathing, at your downcast, almost resigned eyes. you don't reciprocate his worried gaze, you just... don't.
"i don't want to be his favorite... i never wanted to be— fuck!"
"why do you assume all this, jason?" you faintly glared at him, but that flicker of the fight blew off, and you returned, looking at your feet, speaking through your beating heart, your irrational thoughts of shutting down, if not for the faint stench of smoke grounding you, if just by a fraction.
"i never wanted to be an athlete like dick, or as academically talented like you, or some crazed detective like tim, or as skilled as an assassin like damian! i don't even have the determination steph has or barbara's perseverance to continue fighting alongside all of you! i can't even reach cassandra's level of fighting, and i certainly don't have powers like duke!"
there it is again: the envy, the spite, and the undertone of yearning in your words. maybe jason was right, maybe you're still the young, good kid afterall. but good kids still do bad things, good kids can still feel and fuck, you feel a plethora of negativity mentioning all their positive traits, while you have none.
you have nothing, not even a small merit to offer.
"— all of you guys are so fucking talented, and here i am, so pathetic for thinking i can reach the same level as you all when i can't!"
the medals are useless compared to damian's success in topping the entire gotham university. the certificates for placing indancing competition were none the more important than cassandra's ballet recitals. your research projects that you've spent nights crying on, was it all that relevant when tim always one-ups you within just a day of data-gathering?
so what makes you special, what makes jason think you'd even try to be bruce's favorite in the first place, when you're absolutely useless?
"—so i just can't, jason! how could i have the damn audacity to desire being bruce's priority when each and every one of you are beyond my level?!"
untouched breakfast, thrown away lunch, cold dinners. thrashed out backpack, unsharpened pencils, inkless pens, wornout diaries, bandaged arms and sleepless nights. your life was a cycle of constant wanting, of constant attempts to earn your place. even if there were moments some of them looked at you in pity, it was never enough to warrant their comforting words or even just a pat in the back.
the last time dick has ever looked at you was the first time you met.
and in those moments where you wish you were as forgettable to damian as you were to others, he'll remember to always remind you of your place.
maybe you were like them, in ways where you're always trying but never enough. in ways where their attention on you was never enough too. you need something from them, they needed something else from you too.
"angel..." you don't have to look up to know the air has changed. that wretched nicnkame plastered itself back into his mouth. this time, he said it softer, like he's come to a realization, like it was enough to draw you out of the caverns of isolation you've kept yourself in.
but before he could speak again, before you'd get lost in those memories of the past—
"i never wanted to be bruce's favorite, jason..."
"i just..."
your eyes soften, as tears begin to spring from your eyes, red and swollen, and you let them. you look down at your unclenched hands through blurry vision, and find indents of crescents present on raw, battered skin— and it's enough to make you remember your childhood, enough to deepen the heavy weight of conflict drowning your heart.
when you look up to jason again, you bite your quivering lips, just to silence the ugly wail brewing from your chest. he looks at you, as equally befuddled, as heartbroken.
"... i just wanted to be his child." the sentence comes out your lips, so silent, so broken and lightly pitched. it speaks volumes of wanting, of yearning, of years begging for even a sliver of love offered on your way. it felt like it was the younger you speaking to him, begging him to fucking understand how it was never about just wanting attention—
it was about wanting to just have a family. people who should've loved you, saw you through the veil of your reputation, yet chose to love you still.
because they're family, they're your family. and all that mattered to you was family.
how hard was it to understand that sentiment?
"i just want to be loved because i'm his child, not a charity case, or because he's doing this for my mother..."
you remembered those nosy paparazzi's stalking you even in elementary. they ask you how it's like being adopted by the bruce wayne, how it's like living a life most orphaned children dreamt of living; how lucky you must be, having a mother who's come to share a bed with him, that your life must be so full of luxury because bruce took pity on you and your poor, whore of a mother, right?
they didn't know it was alfred, the estate's butler, who'd suggested adopting you. and with a flick of bruce's wrist, a slight furrow of his brows and a dismissed thought of you, you were brought in the manor.
it was never bruce who considered you, maybe the paparazzi and journalists slowly came to realize that after discovering your father is nowhere to be seen beside your side. maybe that's why they slowly dissipated away from you year by year, leaving you as lonely as ever.
'and now,' you thought, 'bruce still doesn't care for me at all.'
that hurts.
"i just want to be selfish for once... i want to see him the same way he looks at you back then, every damn time he stares at your grave, while i watch by the fucking windows, wishing it was me he looked at."
despite never meeting jason from back when he was robin, you mourned for him too, you prayed for his soul the same way you prayed for your mother's. it helped you disillusion yourself to believe you mattered, sitting beside his grave by the gardens despite the rain pouring downcast and staining your clothes. it helped you think you were becoming closer to bruce.
"i wanted him to look at me jason! think of me as someone as important as you, even just a semblance of it...!"
you tried so hard to imitate them all. dick's athleticism, cass' elegance, tim and barbara's elite-level knowledge on the digital world, duke's cunningness when it comes to puzzles, damian's strategies and steph's awe-inspiring rebellion paired with sarcasm. you try to emulate it all, waking up early every day, schedule packed with activities in each corner of the manor just so you'd have a chance of finding bruce in the same room as you; but it just never was enough.
"god, i don't even want him to see me as a priority, i don't want him to see me and think that i'm the best damn thing in the world. i know i'm not, jay. i'm not perfect, not even half as good. but i just want him to stare and think, 'this is my child,' without any second thoughts, without any regards for my dirty fucking past."
there was one moment in your life where you almost despised your mother. almost. you blamed her for birthing you, for having you as her child, for bestowing you this curse of being unloved, as only being acknowledged as the woman who stole from others: a bitch, a prostitute who got pregnant too early, a lady with a sullen reputation bleeding into the present of her child.
you nearly hated her, you wish you never did. she was your only light, the memories of her was what kept you alive, and you dim that light off, purposely try to blow off the shining embers that gleam for you just because you wanted the love and attention from a family that was never yours.
and you nearly worked yourself to death because of it.
"jason, i just wanted to... to go through the normal things a father does with his child. i wanted him to love me, even just for the tiniest bit. is that hard enough to fulfill? am i just too high maintenance for him that he can't— can't even deal with me after you died? tell me, jason—
"—am i just the burden of an aftermath?!"
a small of you nearly excused bruce's neglect for his mourning of jason. but that mourning extended even after his resurrection. and slowly, the more the members of the family piled up, you figured it all out.
it was you that's unlovable.
and no matter what, you could never truly accept that fact.
not even as you cry out your woes to jason, not even as your voice cracks and breaks at every syllable, at every spilled word tinged with bitterness, with pain so deep it cuts through your already bleeding heart.
"i just- just wanted to be part of the family. i just wanted to eat takeout with you that day- wanted to forget you fought bruce— forget everythin' just to bond with you 'cause you never gave me enough time in your already busy day. so why can't i? why can't i have the things everyone else had? is it too entitled of me to say that i just wanted your love? am i too demanding if i just wanted a family?!"
"is it so hard to love me?"
"tell me, jason! just, fucking tell me, please..."
your fingers' grip on the edge of the headboard nearly slipped, your sniffles were unbearably loud, a reflection of the thrumming beats of your heart nearly escaping out your chest in the form of shrieking sobs.
he finally speaks, unsure. he still stands in his place, but you're crying too much to even care.
"no, no of course not. it's not... you're not..."
"i'm not what, jason? not your sibling, not bruce's child? 'cause that's what i've felt like this entire fucking decade! and now that i've left everything behind, you all suddenly want to pretend like i was never unnoticed back then? that all my damn efforts to be good enough was finally acknowledged just now—?"
"why can't you just answer me, jay? why does nobody want to give me answers?"
"... why can't anybody just love me?"
it felt like heartbreak on both your sides. like a thread snapping, jason was as quick to retort—
"we do love you, angel. i do...! i love you so fucking much that i can't handle seeing you in pain. so please let me take care of you, just... just let me handle all of this, please."
— but you can't believe him, not anymore. it hurts falling for his lies, for his words and false reassurances. he can't even promise you takeout back then, what more does his 'i love you's' do you now?
"no, no you can't care for me, jason. not anymore... you're not my brother anymore, you guys aren't family to me anymore..."
is it betrayal in his eyes, or something far deeper? is it unadulterated anger at what you'd said? why can't he just accept your words? why can't he just accept there's nothing in between you anymore other than those past memories long gone?
"... yes, yes we're family. i care for you. just let me show you i do, angel—"
"... we're not even siblings, we're not. we're just strangers to each other.—"
you whisper softly through your damp lashes, throat sore after all the screaming. it doesn't calm down the momentary adrenaline rushing through your body, though. it doesn't, all these reassurances are just a temporary distraction.
"that's not true, angel. don't even... don't even think of saying that—"
"take me back, please. just please take me back to where you last found me. i'll find a way—"
you want to go home, you want to sleep your way through this pain. but jason proves himself to be stubborn, just like his father. and you are, too; anymore of those similarities, anymore and you'll bash your head to the walls just so you could forget.
"no, angel..." he retorts just as quickly, suddenly imposing, suddenly back to square one where it's all him, all his words that matter with no regard for yours. "who the hell says i'm letting you go back there?! that's suicide!"
but you don't matter, don't you? so that automatically means he shouldn't pretend like your life matters, too.
"... i don't care, just please! jason, i'm begging you...! just do this one single favor for me. i can't..."
'i can't go back to the manor...'
just saying it in your thoughts alone makes you sick with nausea. because that means returning to yearning, returning to those sick nights filled with broken diary entries and dick's huff of dismissal, damian's weapons pointed at you, tim's click of the tongue and just... that inflicted, neverending pain.
"you're hurt, angel, you won't survive out in the dark like that. i'm sure as hell not taking you back there. we're going back to the manor—"
"NO! i don't want to be there! that's not where i live, not anymore, no take me back home...!
anywhere... anywhere but there. anywhere but that wretched cage.
"please, jay!"
you call him by his nickname, nearly yanking yourself to his side if it weren't for your legs keeping
"if you don't want me to... then let me go and i'll call a taxi or something—! whatever...! just not—"
"—not there..."
"and if i bring you back to that apartment, what now? you're gonna commit the same old mistakes, you're going to hurt yourself!? you're gonna get yourself killed, break another limb, use more than just crutches to support yourself and get yourself hurt all over again?!"
"NO! i won't, jay... i won't bother you anymore. just not there and... not with them—"
"... not with you, please."
it was a mistake on your part, to audibly whisper out those last words. and yet it was unfixable, you can't take back words once they're said, jason can't take back all the cruel statements he made your way that day, and yet it's him who's offended, who tears up, who heaves and nearly shrieks at you, uncaring for the neighbors living below.
"why are you trying so hard to push us away?! push me away right after you.. you opened up?!"
"because we're not family anymore, goddamnit—!"
"why are you so goddamn stubborn?! care for me, care for me like you care for all those strangers getting mugged in the street! not as my brother—!"
"i am your brother!"
it hurts, your chest hurts, your throat, your wobbly arms and your unfeeling legs. yet what hurts the most is that you just can't accept it, accept all the words he throws your ways. can't accept how you've both changed and it...
it just hurts...
"and i care for you, more than you can ever fucking imagine, so don't... don't fucking push me away! not especially right after i almost lost you!"
"god..." suddenly, he resigns through a sigh.
why, just why, is he calming down now?
"i'm such a fucking dick to you, aren't i? i know i don't deserve you. nobody deserves you and your forgiveness, angel. you've always been so good to me- to us...
"i'm so fucking sorry. for everything. for leaving you behind after that day, even being an asshole to you after. for ignoring you all those years, for breaking every damn promise i made like you were nothing, for realizing all of this just right after you nearly died, in my arms."
his voice breaks at the last words, as if the reminder of what transpired last night permanently left a broken fixture in his memories. as if thinking about it is enough to destroy any bite in his argument.
"you don't— you don't deserve any that—"
"i'm— i'm so sorry, angel."
that was all you wanted to hear, all you wanted to be said throughout the layers of defensive, reckless statements he threw your way.
heavy were the unspoken words that hung in the air. heavy were the unbidden promises he forged himself to ensure but ultimately failed to do so, that were all meant to repair his relationship with you. heavy were the tears that streaked both your cheeks, the unsung arguments, the fists that curl, fingers that bite at indented skin until it bleeds.
"— I should've noticed sooner, i should've known you felt that way."
"i know, jay. i know," your mind, your mouth, they both betray the words your heart wished to speak, but you lock that beating organ out before it forces you to mutter something else. you feel too faint, from the tiredness coursing through your body as an aftershock of your injury, the throbbing of the holes in your body, and the intensity of your emotions.
'i know you know that, and i wished you did something about it when you knew you had the power to change all this—'
'all that were are, all that we were.'
you wanted to tell him, but the sentiment tastes bitter on the expanse of your tongue, as if confessing it would scorch you and your aching brain even further. you just couldn't anymore, you couldn't break both your hearts.
heavy were the emotions uncurling beneath both you and jason's chest, boiling and spilling, until the only words you both could mutter were the ones that scald your aching hearts.
"jason, i'm- i'm still hurt."
"i know, angel. let me take care of it, of you. just let me do this, just once."
he takes a careful stride towards you, a knot forms in your brows and in your stomach. it curls inside your body when his both his hands grip your forearms, gently, like you're made of glass, to push you to softly sit on his mattress.
made carefully, cleaned neatly for you.
you never thought you were worthy enough to have a bed made for you.
— you don't even allow alfred to clean your own room because you don't think you deserve it.
silence ensues, only the squeak of his shoes sliding against the floor, his panting breaths, your unstable intakes of air, and the hinge of his bed were heard, drowning out the swears of the citizens from below his apartment complex and the thumping of car horns.
it's just the two of you, in this room. you and jason, just like the moments spent under the roof of the manor.
you don't fight against him, don't push him away like you did so earlier, in favor of relinquishing your control, your pain, to his squinting, wandering blue eyes that trap your body, at his calloused fingers running across the expanse of the lumps in your arms.
and in that moment, under the sheer glow of his apartment's flickering lights, under the watchful gaze of the restless city nights, of the lamp posts gleaming in the streets; you both looked a little more like each other for every passing second, every passing moment after you'd scream your woes, after he'd retort and retaliate with his excuses, his reasonings.
you had his vengeful glare, staring daggers at him as he took in your wrapped wounds. he had your silence, desperate and aching pleas. you stuttered like him when he chases after words tangling in his parched mouth. he bites his lips like you when he couldn't find the right words, bounding his hands to his delicate strands of hair to pull in agitation, just like you always do.
and both of you were- were good...
a good soldier and a good child, lost in the weave of dreams, expectations and broken, unfulfilled promises.
it reminds you of how he was the only brother you truly had a bond with, of how truly close you were to him, shared moments of brief laughter with, a respite, a paradise without the need to chase after his presence, all done in such short moments, moments that could never be enough to quench your aching thirst for love and familial attention.
he finally speaks after taking his seat beside you, muscled arms wrapping around your shoulders. he broke the intangible silence, with knotted brows and sorry, pleading eyes that look at yours. it made you feel trapped, in his arms and in his mindful apologies, it reminded you of the manor.
"i could've been better for you, angel. i should've known, i'm so fuckin' sorry, i—"
"i know, jay. i know, please..."
please stop. no more, you don't want to hear anymore,. you don't want to dream, to fantasize what could've been.
— because that meant drowning yourself in the past, that meant running back to chasing after empty promises.
and yet...
the more you think, the more the possibilities unfold in your thoughts.
a bitter part of you wished it was him who had welcomed you into your home, into the manor. you wished it was him, not alfred, dick or bruce you'd chase after, wished he was alive when your fleeting dreams were too. the child in you wished his assurances were what graced you in such an early time. just so that, maybe, just maybe, your throat wouldn't close in on itself every time you're reminded of your solitary past, a past lost and without a cause because of his passing.
running after dick, acting as his invisible silhouette, hearing the empty yes's on your invitation for him to come visit your room. tugging on bruce's sleeves whilst his eyes flit elsewhere. knuckles rupturing on the door of tim's room, only to be greeted with a silent hm, and a plea for you to come the next time. hands shakily holding a heavy tray of arabic food you learnt to cook for your younger brother, just for the same bowl to scald and prick stickily against your reddening skin
— you wouldn't have to do all that, if you had at least one ally, an ally who had to be dead when you were alone. someone as perfectly imperfect as you.
he's not like dick, the sun doesn't shine for him, the world doesn't give him grace— if it did, he wouldn't have died. he felt more charcoal than diamond, jagged and rough on the edges. yet charcoal was easier to obtain than diamonds, like the bright blue's of dick staring at you - such a precious, yet rare instance - or brazen emeralds like damian that could only look at you like you're mere pyrite; his attention was easier to obtain, because he knew you outside of your ghostly reputation. saw you as something else. jason was the only presence you were able to share your laughter with in the face of his brief visits.
as you look at him now, as he looks at you too, through his panting and the neverending tears streaking his cheeks. you look at each other in painful, understanding silence. his face, shoulders, chest, legs are painted with scars, incisions on skin, the first trait your eyes lay could on, as your gaze flitters to your equally scarred figure, too.
on the cuts that run deep into your wrists and palms, on the lighter scars, the deeper pigmentation that lay awake, like a chaotic portrait, that throbs with painful reminders that unlike jason, you chose to hurt yourself to replace that pain in your cold, beating chest. but like jason, you both wear these memories painfully on your sleeves.
imperfect, sullen and easily broken, like you.
you don't know whether to cry, or to laugh. that finally, fucking finally, you could share your similarities, your flaws with someone else too.
and at this very time, you knew neither of you could win your losing battles. if you argue even further, if your heart spills anymore words you know would only cut through the tension and break into even more back and forths— jason would only retort, would call you angel as be attempts to calm you down, as if you were an still an innocent bystander to his pain, as if you never told him you wish he'd stay dead.
if you wanted to survive this wretched night without anymore heartbreaks, you'd have to be the first to back down, to step away, be the bigger person.
like how you had to choose to give up on your family, to finally let go of your expectations on them. it was the only way, it was your way of adjusting to them, as you always do.
maybe it was fortunate for jason, that you'd already easily given up.
you'd give up when he wraps you in his arms, and unceremoniously perched you up his lap like how an owner cradles his injured cat, ensuring your injuries aren't pressed against the weapons stuck in his utility belt.
for a moment, you let time with him be. you allow the course of calmness to wash over, for your tears to dry until it feels like sickeningly dry salt rubbing against skin, for the lump resting in your throat to retreat to your throbbing heart, for the blood escaping your body from your injury to slowly seep into the gauze that wraps around it.
without the adrenaline coursing through your veins, without the haste of trying to escape from his hold, you've now access to the feel of his entire body. when the panic escapes from your heart, and all you're left with is resignation, his muscled arms wrapped around your torso; you're left reeling at the scent of motor oil and gunpowder, head buried at the crook of his neck whilst your tears are drying ever so slowly, effuse into his favorite jacket.
everything about jason felt foreign, uncharacteristically huge. his body felt too strong, too heavy, like a burden deeper than just vigilante duties of ridding the crime of gotham.
you never knew just how touch-starved you were, ignoring the specks of blood littering his clothes and the familiar scent of cigarettes reminding you of the bustling streets of gotham, even though the stench of ichor overpowers it— you feel like you're home. not at the manor which smells of fresh, flowery sheets, not at your empty apartment polluted with car smoke just wafting outside your windows; but a home you've once lived in, with just your mother and you.
it was just so fucked up, how he could easily subdue the anxiety eating you away. it was so ironic, how in an apartment filled with deadly weapons: guns, knives, bombs, and journals containing contingency plans against all his enemies; it is where you felt currently the safest, as you're reminded of your past; your humdrum life with your mother.
back when everything was normal, back when all your worries were about the chances of having dinner that night, or hoping that your new clothes wouldn't tear as much so your beloved mom wouldn't have to spend wretched hours stealing just to provide you with all your wants and needs.
it never occurred within your mind, just how similarly you lived like jason. and in jason's thoughts, he realized how much you could've ended like him if he hadn't protected you this very night. if he hadn't heard the family pitch of your scream, a scream engraved deep into his memories, a haunting record that plays nightly as he's reminded that he was the reason why you had terror shocks from the shadows in the corner of your eyes.
he hated that he made you scream as a child, that he was the stuff of your nightmares, but he despised it even more when it had to be the others tormenting his little sibling.
it was enough to make his blood curdle, the sight of those filthy men touching, pinning and kicking, shoving a gun against the head of the person most important to him, puncturing holes into their body. he takes in a shaky gulp, yet he hums - pretending like he isn't truly bothered. he can't let you worry anymore - when your fingers listlessly play with the hems of his jacket.
'they're dead, jason. don't even think of doing what you have to do.'
the palm that rests on the back of your torso digs deeper at the thought of you wriggling in pain, not enough to hurt, but enough to tell you that whatever jason is thinking right now isn't good, your ears taking notice hearing the hastening thrum of his heart, even when his body is slumped against yours, you could still feel the slight shivers trailing across his body.
yet you only bury yourself deeper into him, closed eyes dry with tears and nuzzling at warmth you knew you'll soon never be able to feel again, from a brother who was too late to take you back. his right palm, big against your head, nearly covering the expanse of your scalp, scratches and guides you to properly lean on the blades of his shoulder. you don't see his expressions, you don't know if all the comforting he's doing, all the love he's offering you right now is authentic, or just out of mere obligation as your older brother, but you're grateful either way...
entirely grateful that you'd at least be feeling what it's like to be cuddled by one of your ex-family members, before you ultimately make a quick escape from gotham. you're so grateful that despite everything, at least now, the tiny little part of you, the innocence long gone, would rejoice at their life-long dream at finally being able to coddle with just one family member.
past you would've ranted about this in your journal, would've jumped in joy, run across the manor, and thank the world for blessing you with such a miracle. you wouldn't even care if damian shoved a nasty glare in your way.
even if temporary, even if a small, unyielding part of you wishes that you could stay like this forever; the stronger version of you, the one that learned to mature, to forgive yet never forget— it is the voice of reason amongst a sea of conflicting emotions. it tells you that you've moved on a long time ago, that whatever this is right now, will have you force to let go.
and even if younger you begged that it is unfair, that this is what they've always wanted in their life, for someone to acknowledge them as much as they've loved the family even without reciprocation; you've long since given up at hoping. your heart is weary, and tired of constantly being led to believe, only to come back broken in pieces all the damn time. you're older now, old enough to learn that, well...
everything is temporary in life. the comfort your family offered you was always temporary. jason, who succumbs to burying his head in your scalp to hum foreign tunes— he'll soon be just a burning memory, yet at least you'll be left with something positive to say about him.
after all, their love for you happens in quick successions, it wasn't all the time you were ignored, but chasing after it when it had already become mere dust before you could catch it with your clawing hands.
dick had shown you a crumb of his love, back when he first introduced you to his room. hell, even bruce was decent enough to transfer you out of school, even if it was out of mere dismissiveness and to keep a reputation, he showed he cared for a child, even if it was never enough.
and now?
'now, jason will forget about me soon enough,' you tell yourself.
just like the times you stumbled upon steph and pushed yourself to be invited to watch a movie with her, only to be rejected and given her side of popcorn as compensation and an awkward grin promising that she'll find a time in her schedule to spend with you. waiting for months for an update proved fruitless, writing praises in your journal, all about her silky blonde hair, and her lighthearted smiles don't do anything to manifest time well-spent with someone you thought would at least put in effort to be with you. she was similar to you in so many ways, how she felt dismissed by the family, and never enough for them— but the sheer difference that places you both in different lanes is the fact that she was at least loved, that she still had people care for her outside her status of spoiler. people loved stephanie brown, because she was at least unique, she was noticeable with her ironic jokes and love for purple.
you still had nothing to offer.
it's like the silent moments you were able to cherish when you could last for more than five minutes in the room with damian, his emerald eyes petting titus and alfred the cat, as you sit in the far corner watching how softly, how precious like treasured gems, he treats them. he doesn't fight you, doesn't bat at eye, but witnessing the young assassin, your little brother, become a kid, watching him paint in your memories without his scowled growl directed at you, or a knife pointed on your body; it made you feel like they do have a semblance of love, of care, only for those who deserved.
you only deserve care when you prove yourself to be capable enough.
hell, despite you knowing the least about duke, watching him play with his powers against bruce's orders was what made your bleak life a bit more interesting. having to save him from nearly dying, from fainting due to the overuse of his metahuman abilities when he was still new to being signal. being the faint silhouette he sees throughout the white light in his vision, the quivering, desperate voice who assures him he'll be alive, he'll be fine; you don't know if he remembers it, if the young boy could even recall how your eyes lit up, how your chest felt lighter when his scarred palms came to cup your shivering ones to keep you from ripping at your hair—
your point proves, chasing after them amounts to nothing. you could only be a witness, a bystander if you want to relish in their shared memories, but never part of their small community. you'll never be able to know what's it like having inside jokes with them, to share your homemade meals with them, to show old albums of your life as a child before being adopted. you just can't.
even the prospect of being married, of having them help you arrange your marriage becomes mere fantasy.
everything you ever hoped to spend with them is fantasy, an unattainable desire. you should've known from the start.
to them, to you, to everybody you lived with under the same, gothic roof of a manor rich with history still unknown to an outsider like you— you are but a mere stranger. there at the wrong place, in all the wrong times.
maybe that is what jason felt after his untimely death, that he does not belong anymore. maybe he felt like an intruder instead, just like you, with how he felt replaced by tim, how the legacy of robin lives on even after his passing. how he felt like a cheap rebound of dick after years of searching for answers, or how he never truly mattered to bruce—
— but at least he still has a place in their heart. despite only knowing him after his resurrection, you've come to love him too, and learned to let go at the same time.
you hope jason understands why you're so unwilling for him to help return you to the manor. you hope he doesn't question why you chose to live in your apartment, you hope that if he does find out the reason, he'll shut up about it.
you wish that jason understands, even as you felt well-rested enough on his muscled shoulders, head slowly, eyes blinking away the drowsiness washing over you, rising even if the arms that hover over your scalp invites you to sleep instead.
you're stronger now, not physically, but you willed yourself to force your eyes to stare back at him. his lidded, dull blue oned unlike dick's, and it doesn't look like the ocean eyes you find yourself drowning in staring at bruce's whenever you watch him across the television during his interviews. it was a blue similar to the sea at night, tranquil shores that caresses the soles of your feet standing on sand. there was no shine in them, it was a symbolic retelling of his death, gazing into them, at the depths of emotions swimming in those orbs alone, you feel a sense of ease when they soften, when they give way for you to stare for as long as you want.
although you were sitting atop his lap, looking down at him, his gaze made you feel little. like you were a child all over again. both of his hands are now resting on your waist to stabilize you. you couldn't reason the sudden protectiveness, the unwillingness to let you go, but your mouth opens before you could think, yet jason beats you to it, spilling words you thought he was incapable of admitting — breaking the peaceful silence once more with the significant tremor, the apologies laced in his words— with all the years he spent looking at you in contempt before he resigned to casual, yet fleeting conversations with you back at the manor.
"you know, angel...? i'm so sorry for everything. i really mean it... for all the times i was blind to you wishing you could've spent time with me. and i was so stupid, rejecting you, hurtin' you all those years thinking bruce was out there favoring you when it's the opposite... I didn't know he didn't even care for you. i know you won't be able to forgive me, or them, i know it took me long enough to forgive bruce too. but it's different now, 'kay? i'll be different, angel. i'll protect you from now on, in your, what? your little apartment, right? i don't mind scouting the entire area for you even if it means you're on the other side of the city. all for you, i promise."
"all for you."
he speaks in a careful manner, choosing his words and flinching - the scar on his lip stretches, it reminds you of the one on your neck - when he feels it doesn't rightfully get the message across. you can feel it, feel how every sentence is wired with regret, heavy promises, and an unspoken desperation to keep you close to him, as if- as if he actually cares for you—
you blink, vision blurry as you catch sight of a stray tear running down your damp chest. your nose clogs once more, tongue licking at your chapped lips. jason, he- he takes your fingers before it ventures to tangle upon your hair, he hushes the tight wail escaping your throat as he cradles your body, other palm nuzzling into your sensitive scalp.
are you crying again? at what he'd said?
why are you so broken, that the prospect of somebody once full of disinterest towards you, now cares for you?
and for what is he doing this for, though? all for you? he apologized, exactly like dick, with the same foreboding assurance. is it to repair, to mend a broken relationship that was never there?
"y-you don't have to anymore, jay— i just- just wanted to—"
'i just want to make peace with you before i'll be gone from your life, before you could even fulfill your promises. you don't have to be chained with someone like me for the rest of your life anymore.'
thankfully, he hums at you, interrupting your growing stutters, at the thought that noisily seeps into your head. you hiccuped in reply, drowning out the shivers jolting across your body. if not for his hands still digging at your waist, you swore the dizziness of it all could've made you stumble across the floor.
but, you can't just stay silent about this. about all the shit that happened in your life. not when he's promising you something so burdening, not when he thinks he has a chance of making it up to you.
no, you can't just let them push at you anymore.
you whisper through your inconsolable stutters, eyes drifting down to your lap, at your hands that scratch at raw scars, "i don't blame you, jason. it never really came across to me to hate you for, you know- it's not- you're not the only reason that he neglected me—"
"shh, i know, angel. i know. but that doesn't change shit 'bout how he— we treated you, does it not?"
you shake your head, downcast gaze refusing to look at his troubled one. if you do, you might just surrender to the softness, to the child-like whispers at the back of your mind saying you wanted this.
"w-well you can't change anything about it now... and i hated you still back then, for different reasons. i hope, i hope that you know that, too..." your voice cracks at the seams, "i- i'm still hurt from everything, jason—"  he shushes you again, fingers brushing away at your stray hairs sticking to your damp cheeks. his palms were huge as it cups your face, emitting a comforting warmth against the jagged surface, a heat that makes you slowly, but unsurely melt.
— you never had this brotherly love in your whole life before, never felt comforted in the hands of who was once your tormentor.
"i know you're hurt. i know you're in so much pain because of us— of me, so let me take care of it from now on, 'kay...?"
he whispers, hushed voice a gentle tremor lulling you to near sleep. but you can't just return to this uncharacteristic softness, not now. your eyes, almost squinting shut, snap open to look back at him hesitatingly.
"no, you don't have to do this, jason... i told you," you hesitate, gulping. "we're not– we're not siblings anymore. you don't have to do all this for me... you're not obligated to, unlike last time."
you can feel it, his shoulders squaring in on itself, the subtle tension returning in his muscles, as if his arms were ready to trap you in his gentle hold, restricting you for further escaping.
"... nonsense, angel. take that back— i am doing this all for you."
his voice was always tinged with gruffness, rarely any softness in the way his words were said with finality. sometimes mocking, sometimes spiteful. for a crime lord, it was imperative to always be the supreme voice, a voice of reason.
... but this time, it seems, there's a childish softness, a despondency, laced in his reply. like him, though, your resolve to leave his apartment was as solid as his promise to keep you to stay.
"no, jason, you're doing this all for your guilt... not- not out of pure hearted intentions, aren't you...? just to prove that you're right and- and you're better than the entire family. and then you'll forget about me afterwards—"
you crack at the seams.
"this will be just like all the other times..."
you ignore how his fingers dig deeper into the plush softness of your waist, how it feels like he's staring right past you, mind drifting to another plane of existence at what you'd said.
yet you continue.
"— so please, leave me alone after this...?
after all, what's the point in considering their emotions anymore, when they've never done so for yours?
a silence you couldn't swallow, strangling at the chords in your throat. it feels like a bucket of cold water had washed over the once comfortable silence he'd bask in.
"... please, jay?" your heartbeat spikes at calling him by his once beloved nickname. the one you used to lovingly mutter under your breath, shyly taking his attention from back when you were a child, a subconscious manipulative tactic.
you always called him out with that title, a wide-eyed plea, with what felt like butterflies spinning in your tongue inviting him to linger for just a few minutes with you, just so he could spare some time reading a paragraph of your favorite classic book—
— it was a nickname that fell astray, turned into a flickering memory, after your relationship with him slowly strained. after every month, little by little, you saw him less. until you were a teenager, until he felt his business were with your other siblings instead, his priority on his and their vigilante lives— like the unbidden promises he kept from you, the nickname fell short, turned stranger in your eyes like the man you're seated atop on.
your lips feel dry, your sweat clings to your dampened shirt, and jason.
god, jason's hands enclose itself on your waist, heavy head dropping to your shoulders. you can smell it, his conditioner and a heady scent of cigarettes. his hair tickles the underside of your chin, you don't know whether to laugh or to cry when he takes his space in the corner of your neck, inhaling and exhaling deeply— the heat of his breath hits your skin, it feels too warm, a stark contrast to the shivers overtaking your body.
he heaves in a breath, you can't see his face from below, can't make it out if he's laughing or groaning or what. you can't wrought his head out, he's stronger than you.
momentary panic ensues, you fear he might've disagreed, that he might end up locking you up but—
"huh..." his gruff voice returns, a deeper tremor laced with confusing you'd expect a frigid reply, a desperate plea, maybe even a familiar anger bursting right out of him
"with you calling me that," he whispers on the crook of your neck, head burying far deeper as if- as if he wants his skin to fuse with yours. the depth in his words felt utterly abysmal when he referred to his nickname.
a little more, and you swear you might feel his teeth grazing your flesh. at that, goosebumps start to trail your entire body, your teeth aches with unbidden agitation.
you can't, you can't fall into hopeless respite.
he continues with his little monologue. you're too breathless, shallow air fills your lungs at every word he punches your way, clinging, burrowing deep into your mind, with every touch pinning you in place—
"how could i argue against you now, angel...? not when you sound like the little kid i met back then."
a scoff, laced with amusement, erupted from him. you can feel the vibrations on his adam's apple, you witness the thoughts churning in his mind, the subtle reminiscing in the silence that clings onto both your memories.
a sense of nostalgia washes over you —at the night you both meet, of the gentle giant sneaking past gothic windows and his reaction to being caught, at your excitement to make a new companion— but bitter resentment claws its way faster into your thoughts.
how could he pretend like everything's fine? how could he act like he didn't break your heart when you first saw him?
"but still, i'm serious about the change, for you, just you. anythin' you want, angel, anything—"
a small part of you hates him still, despises the entire family for what they did; what they caused.
how could he have the audacity to think he has a chance at your life? to assume he deserves one? right after- after destroying all your hopes?
he's right, though,. he remembers those memories from when you were a kid. a kid, but not anymore. you're not the little child who looks up to him, to dick, to bruce— who kisses at the soles of their feet, who acts as their shadow chasing after them.
'how dare you, jason...'
you don't know what overcame you, what monstrous being possessed your soul to spitefully reply all of a sudden. maybe it was bitter anger, the past resentment, an urge— a subtle defiance that wishes to torment them like how they did you.
maybe it was the broken remnants of your child that just wants assurance, or the mature teenager in you that wants to move on, to have a new lease on life.
but, either way. it's the words that need to be said that matters, and not the reaction, the unneeded outcomes from the same people who hurt you.
you had to grow past everything, had to take the first steps if you truly wish to let go, rather than run away from the past with no final message.
they say indifference is the opposite of love, not hate. and if you want your tormentors to feel what they've done to you, to know what it's like to be met with spiritless replies, empty promises and hallways, broken hearts and cold dinners— you had to beat them with oppressive silence; a loveless nothingness.
"jay," you call out to him, interrupting his shameless rambles.
"please promise me..." at the sudden shift in your voice, your soft tone, he wretches himself away from you, albeit slowly; looking you straight in the eyes.
there was naught a sudden flicker of absolute firmness in your eyes, but a quiet resolve that demanded finality, a silent plea opposite to the screaming that ensued just an hour ago.
'be the bigger person, (name).'
'because you are not a wayne anymore—
you are your mother's child.'
and she's kind, but assertive. gracious, but cunning. you see an imagery of bruce in your reflection, your passions in dick, your trauma in jason— so many similarities, so many stark contrasts.
but ultimately, you came from her.
you can sense it, the intangible shift in the air, the curious, yet hesitant flicker in his eyes.
you lick your lips, the tinge of blood grounds you in spite of the hastening of your heartbeats.
"look, okay... promise me this—"
a deep inhale, a quivering exhale. and for once, you control the tears brimming in your eyelids.
he nods, urging you to continue.
the knot on your chest only tightens, strangling you until it feels no words could escape your mouth. yet they're mere paranoia, you can't afford fear no more.
"i... i want you to forget about me after this. promise me, jason, to treat this night like all the other nights you pretended i didn't exist. that you love your family but not me, because i am not family. treat me like you despised me because i was your terrible replacement, i could never amount to you and that's all fine with me... let's leave all this behind and- and return back to our normal lives, alright...? where i'm nobody to you, and you're just a stranger to me... "
even your resolve tasted foreign on your tongue, as your eyes suddenly dart everywhere but at his breathless reactions.
"you don't— don't have to dwell on the past anymore."
'come on, (name). don't hesitate anymore. this is your future speaking for you.'
your guts twists in on itself, everything's spinning, your heart feels like it's running a mile. but you force yourself to smile at him despite the energy draining from your body, despite how you had to watch the color wash away from his face, feel how his hands dig into your skin, watch the frustated furrow of his brow—
you smile a shaky smile, grin a final grin, clasp his vulnerable, and equally conflicted face in your scarred hands, and finally let another wave of tears erupt from your eyes.
"can you do that for me, jason?"
"..."
"— alright..."
let the cinema's curtains finally close, let there be no more acts, no more formalities to happen between you two.
let this all be a fleeting memory. just like those past thirteen years and a half: let it be buried in a treasure chest you'll never visit.
his silence acts as resignation, your hands letting go of his cupped face, to carefully bring you down from his loosening hold, as you wince at the pain still throbbing in your wrapped scar; it shall symbolize a final message of goodbye.
the unspoken agreement to move, the cushion of his red helmet brushing on his hair as he puts it on, the jingles of his motor keys in the pockets of his heavy pants, the creak of the door as he opens it, slow and unsure, the stench of your blood still lingering in the air, the uncomfortable solace as he props your hands up his shoulders to lean your body weight against him before he brings a crutch to your armpit. the gruff that came after as his hands stabilized you, for you to properly walk with the newly armed crutches beside his company—
it provides at least a grounding notion for the thoughts spiraling in your mind. the drowned thumps of the wood stumbling on the carpet, the moonlight spilling out the cracks of the hallway's windows, the faint rumbling of the city streets as passing cars honk at the traffic,  the ding of the elevator, the anything of everything.
but him.
focusing on anything else, it at least helps distract you from his heavy gaze, from jason's prying arms ready to capture you, trap you in his apartment, the moment you show slight faintness, any hesitant stumble in your steps, any wincing sound at the pressure in your joints; his overprotectiveness still at an all-time high despite the promise you proposed that he had to pretended to upkeep for you.
when you were finally propped on to his huge motorcycle, a few mishaps being met in your way when he handled you too tight, so daintily as if you're made of fine porcelain, as if he were afraid to let go — crutches graciously placed in the space between his seat and yours — and when you hear the engine's gas revving up, but no jason making a brief quip, a comedic joke only he could understand which you laugh at still...
... only one thing was for certain despite the millions of ideas racing in your mind from his quiet reaction.
'let him bring me home, give him space, and let him forget about all this in the end.'
let the past be a dream.
and you shall only hope that everything that comes after this, will also be just another dream.
after all, he had only agreed to let you go home - for now, just now... - but hadn't truly promised to leave you alone, not at all, never.
and maybe, just maybe, you should've never trusted his words at all.
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it was all that it is, all that it was.
a mere device for tactical missions.
the intercom linked directly to the batcave was just a device used to communicate with the family in the rare instances he chose to pair up with them in case jason learned his current tactics required more than a helping hand, but rather companionship in the midst of completing tasks.
its usefulness was only for practicality.
and it was just that, a tool for the greater good, yet easily discarded after he gained what he wanted.
when you left him, crutches in hand, back turned as your body fades in on the distance, he realizes that even thought it was his pride that he knew you the longest - now even bearing your deepest, most personal issues that just makes letting you (temporarily) go hurt his heart - he had only ever used you for his entertainment, not even an apology nor a confrontation was made to confess to you of his past sins towards you.
he's such a shitty brother, isn't he?
all that it is, all it ever was.
and yet as the polluted breeze of gotham flutters through his hair, the night sky still gleaming over the horizon of long standing, abandoned buildings camouflaged amongst shitty, barely functioning apartment complexes - where he knows are one of the current places you live in - he willed himself to comb them back, especially the stubborn strands sticking near his ears. in his hands, he holds an intangible device.
the same old, rickety intercoms.
just like old times.
so he presses the tiny button used to trigger direct calls, and shoves it deep into his ears, a perfect fit as every device was crafted to each individual working for the batman. you're the only member of the family to never adopt the vigilante life, he's glad you never did, but at the same time... it was what what you apart from everybody else.
everything just reminds him of how much you're worlds apart from the family. everything just pushes him to change that current position of yours; to make you know you matter more than you ever know.
"... ah, young master jason, you're back," alfred's contemplating voice buzzes through the call. no hint of surprise was evident in his tone, but rather a welcoming quip at his current rebellion towards jason. "i suppose you might require some assistance if you're calling then, right?"
'yes,' he might've said, stalling, but it's not as simple just as money heist problems or an issue regarding the resurgence of new kryptonite deposits— no.
jason doesn't want that. he doesn't want to waste anymore time, not with making jokes or pretending like the topic at hand was just a joke.  not when the matter precedes mere missions or a tendency to prank bruce, not when it's his angel who he refuses to truly let go of.
not when your life is at stake living in a completely foreign part of gotham. not when you nearly died, and if he wasn't a lick away from saving you, you'd end up like him.
but with nobody to mourn you.
"we need to talk about (name)."
and then like a thread snapping, he hears gasps from a distance, beyond the device's speaker registering. he hears hushed whispers, stephanie's feminine voice cutting through the tension, but no sarcasticness, no quips from duke, not even cass' occasional question. despite only hearing a fraction of the batcave's echoes, he feels like a witness to the tension rising, even he feels his shoulders squaring up. like a spectacle to behold, like time frozen in the hands of fate itself.
gotham wasn't always this silent, but the space between jason and your world felt like mountains apart that it just destroys any caution jason feels at the current moment; all in the name of this... this urge to feel your head resting in his shoulders once more, your arms wrapped tightly around his, safe and sound.
"tell me what happened."
it wasn't alfred's voice this time that cuts off the ever-so confusing thread, the dangerous thoughts swimming in jason's head. a deep tremor, laced with an undertone of desperation, is heard through the silent murmers of the intercoms. he couldn't see it, but he could picture the haste, the emergence of the bat to be the very
and yet all was said in a tone so different, so completely foreign to jason.
it wasn't as commanding, as opposing as what he's used to. it wasn't his voice that he uses towards criminals, it wasn't the vibrato used to interrogate criminals, let alone scold his vigilante partners.
... something completely different, yet easy to catch on.
it was batman through the call, yes, yet not quite so.
no.
it was bruce wayne asking, it was a father who hides his worry through a veil of composure. yet jason knows him, knows him enough to know that he, bruce, knows of your disappearance all too suddenly. knows that that the entire family might've finally come through their senses like he did.
"jason... did you... did something happen?" dick's voice, laced with audible shivers. jason had to do a double take at the noticeable shift in his behavior, at how... wrecked his eldest brother asked. but despite it all, it seems like he catched on as easily, at the sudden convenience, of what might implied jason's impulsive decision to call them at such a dire moment.
— that's why his next question doesn't come off as shock.
"you didn't possibly... meet them, didn't you?" it's like the athlete couldn't believe the words escaping his mouth, yet jason could feel it, the charged air, the shift of movement, as dick's mouth presses uncomfortably close to the speakers.
"tell me, did you... find them?"
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reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
PLEASE READ: 20,490+ words. no beta, we die like the reader's love for the family. anyways, wow, this was the hardest scene of all to write. so many dialogues compacted into one scene alone. because of all my hard work, revisions and even rewrites 😭 i demand you all to comment and interact with me because i am NOT wasting all this effort for only like a few comments. that's all i ever ask for actually <333 anyways, the jason and mc parallels are still prevalent, but i'd also like for all you guys to take note of the miscommunication trope that i did. like the reader who's so broken to the point they can't comprehent that people are capable of loving them, and jason who can't property communicate how much he cares for you, stumbling over all his words and saying all the wrong things wow. very much me and my siblings' dynamics to one another. we love doomed siblings trope!!!
yes, again, i am begging for you guys to interact with this post, and avoid on hate comments, please. i've already dealt w/ enough anons but oh well, that's unavoidable huh. happy late valentines day, btw! and please do remember to not directly steal parts of my work. now to check if you guys actually read the author's notes: what is your favorite line/quote/literally anything in this chapter? again, despite its shitty quality, i put a lot of time and effort into the creation of this. this is not just a fanfic for me, but something very personal. again, don't forget to interact and give inputs, thank you all for being so patient and waiting for this!
taglist: @neerathebrightstar , @ghostdoodlen , @prince-nikko , @daisy-spot , @strawberryglass , @h0neybun-was-here , @confused-they , @weirdcore-fantasy , @mystyque234 , @marssthings , @notwhoy0uthink , @aliengutzstuff , @lilyalone , @luffyadolover , @bunbunsonny, @lazyemmy , @questionthegrapevine , @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu , @winter-world , @budijojo , @budijojo , @altruisticbeauty , @dopepursebasketballplaid , @the-holy-pigeon , @red-phantom-0 , @em-draws14 , @thypplover , @cens0r3d-blog , @yl90 , @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch , @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo , @flyingpansaurus , @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog , @rogueofbullshit , @earlqurl , @dotomuses , @sheep-from-rad , @tsuniio , @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o , @radiantharry , @iwasveronica , @kdjhubby , @ashstwin , @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2 , @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink
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pucksandpower · 3 months ago
Text
Don’t Let Go
Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader
Summary: five times, spanning nearly three decades, that you and Charles held hands (a little treat for Valentine’s Day from me to you)
Warnings: mentions of Jules Bianchi’s death and depictions of labor
Based on this request
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The Mediterranean sun bathes everything in warmth, and the beach is alive with laughter and the salty scent of the sea. Families dot the sand, umbrellas casting colorful spots of shade, and kids run along the shoreline, kicking up sprays of water that glint in the sunlight. You and Charles stand together, eyes wide with the thrill of the world around you, hands clasped tightly.
“Don’t let go, okay?” He says, giving your hand a little squeeze. His face is solemn, as if this is the most serious promise he’s ever made.
You nod with all the gravity a four-year-old can muster. “I won’t.”
And then his face breaks into a grin, eyes bright with excitement. “Look! Over there!” He points, and you both tilt your heads up to see a man spinning cotton candy onto a cone, a swirl of pastel pink and blue that looks like a cloud.
“Can we get some?” You ask, voice small and hopeful, like the entire day depends on this one piece of fluffy sugar.
Charles looks at you, then at the cotton candy man, then back at you. He lowers his voice, like he’s plotting something daring. “We’ll ask Maman, but … maybe we could sneak away?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “No, we’re not allowed.”
“Oh, fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, as if being five years old and following rules is already exhausting. “But if we did, you’d have to hold my hand the whole time.”
“I’m already holding your hand,” you remind him, swinging his arm a little.
He laughs, and then your parents call out, reminding you both to stay close, to not let go of each other.
“We’re not letting go!” Charles calls back, his hand still firmly in yours.
Together, you walk with your families through the crowded boardwalk, weaving around beach bags and coolers, dodging groups of older kids with towels slung over their shoulders. But then, in one sudden, disorienting moment, everything changes. A group of teenagers pushes through, their laughter loud and jarring, and somehow, in the confusion, Charles’ hand slips from yours.
He realizes it just a split second too late, his fingers grasping at air. He turns, panicked, eyes wide. “Y/N?” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, and in the noise of the crowd, it’s swallowed up.
You’re gone.
Charles stands there, frozen, heart pounding. He looks around frantically, calling your name again, louder this time. “Y/N!”
He sees nothing, only the sea of legs and sunburned shoulders and wide-brimmed hats. His heart races, and his chest feels tight. He can’t lose you — not like this. He bolts back to where your parents are, his voice high-pitched and breathless.
“Maman! Y/N … she … she’s gone!”
The look on his mother’s face goes from confusion to alarm in an instant. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“We were holding hands, but … but then-” He’s trying to explain, but the words feel sticky in his mouth, and he can barely get them out. “She’s gone! She’s not here!”
Your mother’s face pales as she clutches Charles’ arm, her eyes darting around. “Where did you last see her?”
“There!” He points back toward the spot by the cotton candy vendor, but it’s as if the place has transformed in the few seconds you’ve been gone. Nothing looks the same. Every face, every family, every child blends together into a blur.
The panic spreads, rippling through the small group of adults as they start scanning the crowd, calling your name with voices that tremble.
Charles stands rooted, clutching at his mother’s hand. It’s all his fault. He let go. He was supposed to keep you safe. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling tears start to sting at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to …”
Your father places a hand on Charles’ shoulder, his voice calm but with an edge of urgency. “Stay with your mother, Charles. We’re going to find her, okay?”
But even as the adults scatter, scanning the faces in the crowd, calling your name with increasing desperation, Charles can’t just stand there. He looks up at his mother, his voice tiny. “I want to help.”
“Charles-”
“I have to help,” he insists, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Please. I promised I wouldn’t let go.”
There’s a pause, then a nod. His mother’s grip tightens on his shoulder, as if grounding him. “Stay close, mon chéri. We’ll find her.”
Together, they start moving through the crowd, calling your name. Charles’ voice cracks each time he says it, and with every passing minute, his chest feels heavier. He keeps glancing around, hoping to see your face, to see you waving back at him with that little smile. But all he sees are strangers.
The minutes stretch, dragging into what feels like hours. He begins to wonder if maybe you’re lost forever, that maybe this is his punishment for letting go, for letting his fingers slip from yours.
And then, in the distance, he catches sight of a cluster of people gathered near a lifeguard stand. His heart skips a beat. He grabs his mother’s hand, tugging her in that direction. “There! I think … I think I see her!”
They make their way through the crowd, weaving between the umbrellas and beach chairs. As they get closer, Charles’ heart beats faster, and he barely dares to breathe. And then, finally, he sees you.
You’re sitting on the edge of a bench, a scrape on your knee, a police officer crouched in front of you with a first-aid kit. Your eyes are red, and you look so small, clutching the edge of the bench like it’s your lifeline.
“Y/N!” Charles shouts, breaking into a run.
You look up, and the relief that washes over your face makes his heart soar. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s running up to you, arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”
You sniff, burying your face in his shoulder, and for a moment, the two of you just cling to each other, letting the world fall away.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, though your voice wobbles a little.
Charles pulls back just enough to look at your scraped knee, his face scrunched up in worry. “Does it hurt?”
You nod, biting your lip. “A little.”
“I shouldn’t have let go,” he says, voice choked with guilt. “I promised I wouldn’t.”
You reach for his hand, holding it tightly. “It wasn’t your fault.”
But he shakes his head, and there’s a fierce determination in his eyes. “I’m never letting go again,” he says, as if the promise itself is enough to keep you safe.
The adults gather around, relieved but still shaken, fussing over you and asking if you’re alright. But for Charles, none of that matters. All he cares about is that you’re here, safe, with his hand in yours.
And this time, he’s never letting go.
***
The sky is a steely gray, heavy with clouds that seem to press down on the earth. There’s a chill in the air, one that makes the hairs on your arms stand up as you stand at the back of the chapel, your hand locked in Charles’. His grip is firm, steady, and you cling to it like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground.
There’s a silence that fills the chapel, a thick, suffocating silence punctuated only by soft sobs and the occasional clearing of a throat. People fill the pews, faces somber, eyes red-rimmed. Friends, family, teammates — people who loved Jules, people who are hurting. But none of it quite feels real. Like you’re stuck in some strange dream that you can’t wake up from.
Charles squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that’s meant to be soothing. He leans in close, voice barely a whisper. “Are you okay?”
You shake your head, eyes fixed on the casket at the front of the room, draped with flowers, a picture of Jules propped up beside it. “No,” you murmur. “I don’t … I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”
Charles’ hand tightens around yours. “Me neither.”
The words hang between you, a shared understanding, a grief that you both carry but can’t seem to put into words. You look up at him, at the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes are fixed forward, like he’s afraid to let his emotions show. And yet his hand never leaves yours.
The service begins, a series of voices taking turns, sharing memories, stories that make people laugh, others that draw out quiet tears. You sit through it all, barely moving, your hand clenched in Charles’ so tightly that your fingers start to go numb. But you don’t let go. You can’t let go. Not now.
When it’s time for your parents to speak, you feel yourself tense, fighting back the tears that have been threatening to spill over all morning. Your mother’s voice cracks as she starts, her words halting, her grief so raw it’s like a wound ripped open. You stare down at your lap, feeling the weight of it all press down on your chest.
Charles leans over, voice low and soothing. “If you want to leave, just say the word, alright?���
You shake your head, blinking back tears. “No … I want to stay. I need to stay.”
He nods, pulling you closer, and you feel his arm around your shoulders, warm and steady. “Okay. I’m right here.”
The room blurs, faces and voices blending together. Your mind drifts, memories of Jules flashing through your mind, moments you thought you’d have forever but now feel so achingly out of reach. His laugh, the way he used to ruffle your hair, the way he’d tease you and then instantly apologize whenever he saw you starting to get annoyed. The last time you saw him, hugging him goodbye before he left for his race, the way he promised to bring you back a souvenir from Japan. And now he’s gone, and it feels impossible to wrap your head around.
You glance at Charles, who’s staring ahead, his expression stoic but his eyes filled with pain. He’s hurting, too. You know how close he was with Jules, how much he looked up to his godfather. And somehow, even in his own grief, he’s here, holding you up.
When the service ends, everyone slowly files out of the chapel, moving in a quiet procession to the gravesite. Charles doesn’t let go of your hand, guiding you through the crowd with a quiet determination, shielding you from the sympathetic looks and soft murmurs of condolences.
As you stand by the gravesite, surrounded by people but feeling more alone than ever, Charles keeps you grounded. You barely hear the words the priest is saying, barely register the people around you. All you can focus on is Charles’ hand in yours, his steady presence, the way he keeps glancing over at you, checking to make sure you’re okay.
And then, the moment comes. Charles takes a deep breath, his hand slipping from yours for the first time since you arrived at the chapel. He gives you a look, one that’s filled with so much understanding and pain and strength that it nearly breaks you all over again.
“I have to go,” he says softly, his voice choked.
You nod, even though you don’t want him to leave. “I know.”
He hesitates, looking at you like he wants to say something more, but the words seem to catch in his throat. Instead, he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispers. “I promise.”
And then he’s gone, moving to join the other men, their faces grim as they prepare to carry the casket. You watch as they lift it, your heart twisting with every step they take, each one a reminder of the finality of it all. It’s real now, in a way that it wasn’t before.
Jules is really gone.
You stand there, watching as they carry him to his final resting place, feeling like your heart is breaking into a million pieces. Tears blur your vision, and you quickly wipe them away, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no hiding from the pain.
When they lower the casket into the ground, you feel a fresh wave of grief wash over you. It’s like losing him all over again, like the wound has been ripped open and there’s no way to stop the bleeding. You cover your mouth, a sob escaping despite your best efforts.
And then, suddenly, Charles is there again, slipping his hand back into yours, pulling you close. His own eyes are red, his face streaked with tears he can no longer hold back. He wraps his arm around you, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, clinging to each other, letting the grief wash over you.
You bury your face in his shoulder, letting yourself cry, letting yourself feel the full weight of it all. Charles holds you tightly, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back, his voice a soft murmur. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
You don’t know how long you stand like that, lost in the pain, but eventually, the crowd starts to disperse, people offering quiet words of sympathy before leaving. You barely register any of it, your focus entirely on Charles, on the way he keeps holding you, grounding you.
When it’s just the two of you left by the gravesite, Charles finally pulls back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks at you, his expression soft but filled with an intensity you’ve never seen before.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I don’t have the right words for this.”
You shake your head, your own voice barely a whisper. “There aren’t any right words.”
He nods, swallowing hard, and then, after a moment, he takes your hand again. “Do you want to sit? Or … walk?”
“Walk, I think,” you say, your voice shaky.
He leads you away from the gravesite, his hand still holding yours, and the two of you walk in silence for a while, the weight of the day pressing down on you like a physical thing. The cemetery is quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, and you let the calmness settle over you, soothing some of the ache in your chest.
After a while, Charles speaks, his voice soft. “I miss him too, you know.”
You look up at him, surprised. “I know.”
He hesitates, looking down at his feet. “I looked up to him. He was … I don’t know. He was like a second big brother.”
You nod, understanding completely. “He was the best. He always made everything seem … possible.”
Charles smiles, a bittersweet expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. He did.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, letting the silence fill the space between you. And then Charles lets out a shaky breath, his hand tightening around yours. “I’m not going anywhere, you know. I’m here. For whatever you need.”
You feel a fresh wave of tears prick at your eyes, but this time, it’s not just from grief. There’s something else there, something warmer, something that feels like hope.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He nods, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a gentle, comforting way. “We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Together.”
And somehow, standing there with Charles, his hand in yours, you believe him.
***
The paddock buzzes with energy — the sound of engines mixing with the hum of reporters and the fast-paced clatter of team members shuffling between garages. The air is thick with the scent of fuel, rubber, and anticipation. But for all the excitement and all the people around, Charles only seems to have eyes for you.
He’s been gripping your hand tightly since you both walked through the gates, his eyes flicking nervously over every inch of the bustling scene as if he’s trying to take it all in at once.
“You okay?” You ask, squeezing his hand.
“Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, but his voice betrays him, a touch higher than usual.
You raise an eyebrow, giving him a knowing look. “Charles …”
“What? I am,” he insists, flashing you a grin that’s a little too bright, a little too quick. “I mean … you’re okay, right?” His tone shifts, softer, more concerned. “I know how you get sometimes with all the noise and people.”
You almost laugh but hold back, letting him keep up the charade. “I’m fine.”
He glances around, still keeping a firm grip on your hand as he leads you down the paddock walk. “I just don’t want you to be … I don’t know, uncomfortable or something. This place is … chaotic.”
You glance at him, taking in the way his jaw is clenched, his brows drawn together. “I think I’ll manage,” you say, your tone soft, teasing. “If anything, I think you might be the one who’s a little uncomfortable.”
His head jerks up, and he looks at you with wide eyes, feigning innocence. “Me? Uncomfortable? No, not at all.”
You smile, brushing a thumb over the back of his hand. “Good to know, because I’d hate for you to be nervous or anything.”
He clears his throat, casting a quick glance around as if looking for a way to escape the conversation. “Well, I’m not,” he says, his voice firm, though he still refuses to let go of your hand. “I’m just … making sure you’re okay.”
“Of course you are,” you say, unable to hold back your grin.
He leads you toward his team’s hospitality suite, and you can see the Alfa Romeo logo emblazoned on the side. He hesitates at the door, glancing at you as if he’s not sure if he should go in or not.
“I’ll be right here,” you reassure him, squeezing his hand again.
He nods, but instead of letting go, he steps closer, looking down at you with that soft, serious expression that makes your heart skip a beat. “Promise you won’t go anywhere?”
You tilt your head, amused. “Where would I even go?”
“I don’t know. Just … promise.”
“Promise.”
That seems to settle him, at least a little. He takes a deep breath, nodding to himself before pushing the door open and leading you inside. The room is a hive of activity — strategists and engineers clustered around screens, mechanics talking in low voices as they discuss parts and plans.
“Charles! You made it!” A tall man with a headset and clipboard hurries over, offering him a firm handshake. “Ready for your first big day?”
Charles nods, but his hand tightens around yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be.”
The man’s eyes flicker to you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Ah, and who do we have here?”
Charles glances at you, then back at the man, standing a little straighter. “This is Y/N,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet pride. “She’s … she’s here with me.”
“Ah, got it,” the man says, giving you a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Quite a day to be here, huh?”
You nod, giving a small smile. “It’s definitely … exciting.”
Charles looks at you, his expression softening. “Yeah, she’s a bit nervous, so … I thought it’d be good if she could stick around.”
You bite back a smile, deciding not to correct him. If he wants to pretend that you’re the one with nerves jangling out of control, you’ll let him. “You’re very thoughtful, Charles.”
He grins, looking relieved, as if your words have eased some hidden weight off his shoulders. “Well, someone’s got to keep you calm, right?”
The team member chuckles, clapping Charles on the shoulder. “You’re in good hands, then.”
As the man walks away, Charles pulls you closer, lowering his voice. “See? I told you I’m just making sure you’re okay.”
You roll your eyes but squeeze his hand, letting him believe his little fiction for now. He needs this, you can tell — needs you here, needs the quiet reassurance of your presence.
He leads you through the paddock, his grip on your hand never faltering. Every so often, he pauses to introduce you to someone, his voice filled with a quiet pride each time he says, “This is Y/N, my girlfriend.”
You smile and nod, feeling the warmth in his words, the way he seems to draw strength from saying them out loud. Each introduction, each little moment, seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders.
Eventually, you make your way to the garage, where his car is waiting, sleek and gleaming under the bright lights. Charles stops in his tracks, his gaze fixed on the car, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and nerves.
“Wow,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.
You look up at him, watching the way his expression shifts, the excitement and fear flickering across his face. “You okay?”
He nods slowly, not taking his eyes off the car. “Yeah … yeah, I am.”
For a moment, he seems lost in thought, his hand loosening in yours as he stares at the car. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, he turns to you, his expression softening. “Can you stay right here? I just … need to check something real quick.”
“Of course,” you say, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go.
He steps forward, reaching out to touch the car, his fingers brushing over the cool metal. You watch as he takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling, and you can almost feel the weight of his emotions — this dream he’s been chasing for so long, finally within reach.
After a few minutes, he turns back to you, his face a little calmer, a little more settled. He walks over, taking your hand again without a word, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
“For what?”
“For being here. For … everything.”
You smile, leaning into him. “Always.”
He nods, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”
“You’d be fine, Charles,” you say, nudging him playfully. “But I’m glad you want me here.”
He chuckles, his fingers threading through yours. “I’d probably be a wreck without you.”
You both stand there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you. And then, suddenly, one of his engineers approaches, clipboard in hand, looking a little flustered.
“Charles, we need you in the strategy meeting. Now.”
Charles tenses, his grip on your hand tightening. “Right … okay.”
The engineer hesitates, his gaze flickering to you. “It’s … it’s a closed meeting. I’m sorry, but your guest can’t come in.”
Charles’ face falls, a slight pout forming as he looks down at you, his expression almost pleading. “But … she’s with me.”
The team member shifts uncomfortably. “I understand, but it’s policy. Only team members and essential personnel.”
Charles’ pout deepens, his eyes fixed on the man. “But she’s … she’s my good luck charm. And besides, she’s nervous.”
You stifle a laugh, watching as Charles’ pout turns into a full-fledged puppy-dog look. It’s so endearing, and clearly, the team member is wavering.
“Please?” Charles says, his voice soft, almost childlike. “Just this once?”
The team member sighs, glancing between you and Charles before finally relenting. “Fine. But she has to sign a confidentiality agreement. A dozen of them, actually.”
Charles’ face lights up, and he turns to you, grinning. “See? You get to come with me.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Well, if I’m signing my life away…”
He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Thank you.”
Together, you follow the team member into the conference room, where a stack of paperwork awaits. Charles never lets go of your hand, even as you pick up the pen, signing each NDA with his fingers intertwined with yours.
As you finish the last signature, Charles looks at you, his eyes filled with a quiet, grateful warmth. “Now we’re ready,” he says softly, his voice steady, sure.
And as you walk into the meeting room together, hand in hand, you know that, no matter what happens out on the track, you’ll be by his side — just as you’ve always been.
***
The lights pulse in dizzying shades of blue and red, the music thrumming deep enough to shake the walls of the crowded club. The place is packed — friends, family, team members, strangers all shoulder to shoulder, all there for one reason: to celebrate Charles’ win at the Monaco Grand Prix. His first home victory. The energy is electric, and the night feels like a dream he’s been waiting his whole life to have.
Charles is beside you, his arm draped heavily around your shoulders, his hand gripping yours like he’ll lose himself if he lets go. His eyes are bright, and his laughter fills the air as he turns to you for the hundredth time tonight.
“Can you believe it?” He shouts over the music, eyes wide, dazed with disbelief and the effects of far too many celebratory drinks. “We did it! I did it!”
“You did, Charles!” You say, grinning up at him, matching his energy. “You won Monaco. Your home race!”
He lets out a roar of joy, pulling you close, swaying unsteadily as he laughs. “Home race!” He echoes, like he’s trying to savor the words, rolling them over his tongue. “Did you see it, though? Did you see it happen?”
“I saw it,” you assure him, laughing. “I think everyone saw it!”
He laughs, a sound so bright it’s almost childlike, and then he leans close, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret with you. “I really thought I’d never get it, you know? It’s Monaco. It’s just … Monaco.”
You squeeze his hand. “You deserved this one. More than anyone else.”
He tilts his head, considering your words, his gaze unfocused but sincere. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do,” you say, your voice strong enough to cut through the noise, and he nods, satisfied, the smile on his face softer now, less manic.
But then someone calls his name from across the room, and Charles is yanked back into the whirlwind. He lifts his drink — something fizzy and definitely too strong — and waves it around with a cheer. The crowd erupts in applause, chanting his name like he’s royalty.
“Charles! Charles! Charles!”
He takes a deep gulp of his drink, wincing as he swallows, then laughs, shaking his head as if he can’t believe any of this is real. “All these people …” he mutters, glancing at you with a slightly drunken smile. “Do they even know me? Really?”
You chuckle, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “I think they know you well enough to celebrate. Besides,” you tease, “I’m here. That should be enough, right?”
“More than enough,” he says, his gaze fixed on you, intense even in his inebriated state. “You’re … you’re the reason I’m even here.”
You laugh, brushing it off, but he shakes his head, suddenly serious.
“No, really.” His words are slurred but sincere. “You — remember all those times I thought I’d never make it? You were there. And now look at us. Monaco! My Monaco.”
You smile, feeling the warmth of his words, the affection that cuts through the chaos of the club. “I’m so proud of you.”
He grins, his face lighting up like he’s just won all over again. “Say that again.”
“I’m so proud of you, Charles.”
He beams, then tugs you closer, spinning you in a clumsy half-circle that nearly sends both of you toppling over. “You’re coming with me, always. Even if I’m-” He fumbles for words, laughing. “Even if I’m old and can’t drive anymore. You’re coming with me.”
“Wherever you go,” you say softly, humoring him as he wobbles, leaning his full weight against you.
“Wherever I go,” he repeats, nodding as if this is the most important promise he’s ever made. He glances down at your joined hands, lifting them for a moment as if to check they’re still there. Then, just as quickly, he clutches them to his chest. “You’re my good luck charm, you know that?”
“You’ve told me,” you say, laughing. “Probably about fifty times tonight.”
“Then fifty-one,” he declares, raising your hand like he’s holding a trophy. “You’re my good luck charm!”
“Okay, Charles,” you say, glancing around at the curious looks people are starting to give you. “Maybe a little less shouting?”
He scoffs, his face scrunching up in indignation. “Shouting? I’m not shouting!” Then he laughs at himself, realizing he’s practically yelling.
You shake your head, laughing as he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “But really,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “Thank you for everything. I wouldn’t have done any of this without you.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel your throat tighten, emotions welling up. But before you can respond, someone else is clapping him on the back, dragging him back into the raucous celebration. He goes willingly, laughing as he lifts his drink again, but he doesn’t let go of your hand — not for a second.
People congratulate him, hug him, raise their glasses in his honor, and through it all, he keeps glancing over at you, as if he’s checking to make sure you’re still there, that this night, this victory, isn’t a dream he’ll wake up from.
“Charles!” An old friend shouts, clinking his glass against Charles’. “How’s it feel to finally win your home race?”
Charles laughs, tipping his head back. “Feels amazing! Like … like nothing else!”
Another friend chimes in, “And you’ve got the best date to celebrate with, huh?” He winks at you, raising his glass.
Charles nods, his grin widening as he wraps an arm around you, his hand still holding yours. “The very best,” he says proudly, his words a little slurred. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”
You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, but you just smile, squeezing his hand. “I’m lucky to be here with you.”
He laughs, leaning in so close that his forehead brushes yours. “Not as lucky as me.”
And then, in one swift, impulsive move, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. It’s sweet and almost innocent, and despite the noisy club, it feels like a quiet, private moment just between the two of you.
He looks at you, eyes soft, the drunken haze giving his expression a kind of unguarded warmth. “Promise me something?”
You nod. “Anything.”
“Promise you’ll be with me next year, too. For the next Monaco. And the next … and the one after that.”
You laugh, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I think I can manage that.”
“Good,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting closed as he rests his forehead against yours. “That’s all I need. Just you … and Monaco.”
You chuckle, wrapping an arm around him to keep him steady. “And maybe a bit of sleep.”
He groans, shaking his head. “Sleep? No, no … we have to … keep celebrating! I mean, it’s Monaco!”
But despite his protests, his eyelids are starting to droop, his body leaning more heavily against you.
“Charles,” you say gently, guiding him to a quieter corner of the club. “Maybe we can take a little break?”
He mumbles something incoherent, his head resting on your shoulder, his hand still holding yours in a loose but unbreakable grip. Even in his exhaustion, he refuses to let go, as if the victory, the night, everything will disappear if he loosens his hold.
“Just … five minutes,” he mutters, his voice soft. “Then … more dancing.”
You smile, brushing a gentle hand over his hair. “Five minutes.”
But as he drifts off, his breathing evening out, you know he won’t be getting up for any more dancing tonight. He’s given everything — his heart, his soul, his strength — to this race, and now, finally, he’s at peace.
You sit there with him, holding his hand, listening to the muffled thrum of the music, and you realize that, in his own way, he’s won more than just a race. He’s found a sense of belonging, of fulfillment, a piece of himself he’d been chasing for so long.
And as you sit together, the noise of the club fading into the background, you feel that same sense of peace. You’re here, with him, exactly where you’re meant to be.
***
The hospital room feels impossibly small, filled with sounds of beeping monitors, the hum of the fluorescent lights, and the murmured voices of nurses and doctors. But for you, it’s all a blur — just flashes of movement and noise as you lie there, clutching Charles’ hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.
His grip is firm, steady. He’s been by your side since the contractions started hours ago, and now, with each excruciating wave of pain, he tightens his hold, murmuring to you softly, his words meant only for you.
“Breathe,” he says quietly, as if he can breathe for you. “You’re doing amazing.”
You grit your teeth, feeling another contraction start to build, a pressure so intense it’s as if your entire body is caught in its grip. “This doesn’t … feel amazing,” you manage to say, your voice strained.
Charles chuckles softly, though you can see the tension in his eyes, the worry that’s been there since you first squeezed his hand, hours ago. “I know,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “But you are. I promise.”
You close your eyes, focusing on his words, on the warmth of his hand in yours. For a moment, it distracts you, gives you something to hold onto in the midst of the pain. But then the contraction peaks, and you’re squeezing his hand so hard you hear him suck in a sharp breath.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, the pain so intense it’s blinding. “I’m so sorry … your hand-”
He just shakes his head, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I’m fine,” he says, his voice gentle. “Just focus on you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t have to stay,” you say, half-laughing, half-crying as the contraction finally starts to ease. “You can go … take a break or something.”
His expression softens, and he leans in close, his eyes locked on yours. “Are you kidding? You think I’d leave you now?”
You shake your head, managing a breathless laugh. “I don’t know how you’re not terrified.”
“Oh, I am,” he admits with a grin, glancing at the nurse nearby, who raises an amused eyebrow. “But you’re stronger than me. I have to keep up.”
The nurse chuckles softly, patting you on the shoulder. “You’re in the home stretch now, almost there. Just a little longer.”
“A little longer,” you echo, glancing at Charles, trying to find the strength to keep going. “Okay … I can do that.”
He nods, his hand never loosening from yours. “Of course you can. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Another contraction hits, and the pain tears through you like fire. You can feel your grip on his hand tighten again, your nails digging into his skin. “I’m sorry,” you gasp, but it’s all you can manage. The pain is blinding, all-consuming.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. “Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, his voice calm, steady. “You hold on as tight as you need to.”
“Charles …” Your voice is choked, and you can feel tears prickling at your eyes. “This … this is …”
“I know,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “But you’re doing it. You’re so close.”
The doctor speaks softly to you, offering encouragement, but all you can focus on is the feel of Charles’ hand in yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He’s been there through everything — every fear, every doubt — and now, here he is again, steady, unwavering.
Another contraction builds, and this time it’s different. The pressure feels like it’s reaching its breaking point, like something’s about to give. You squeeze his hand harder than ever, and he leans in, his forehead resting against yours as he murmurs, “Just a little longer. You’ve got this.”
You close your eyes, focusing on the warmth of his breath, the feel of his hand, and push with everything you have. The room fills with noise — your own cries, the encouraging voices around you — and then, finally, there’s a new sound. A tiny, piercing wail that cuts through everything.
You open your eyes, gasping, and see the doctor holding a small, wriggling bundle. Charles’ hand is still in yours, his face pale, his eyes wide with something like awe as he stares at the baby. “Is that …”
“That’s your son,” the nurse says, beaming as she places the little bundle in your arms.
You’re exhausted, every muscle in your body aching, but as you look down at the tiny face, your heart swells with a love so fierce it’s almost painful. You glance up at Charles, tears shining in your eyes, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Look at him,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “Just … look.”
You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek as you cradle the baby close, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. You glance down, realizing you’re still clutching his hand in a death grip. “I think … I nearly broke your hand,” you say, laughing softly, tears blurring your vision.
Charles laughs, glancing down at your intertwined fingers, his own knuckles white from the pressure. “I’d let you do it a thousand times over,” he says softly, his voice filled with all the love and pride in the world. “For this moment … I’d happily let you.”
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theemporium · 3 months ago
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[6.1k] most of the league welcome a bye week as all-stars hits the season calendar. with both brothers picked and the rest of the boys on the team flying out somewhere warm for the break, luke has a decision to make. and that decision ends up being a staycation in new jersey with you—not that anyone else in his life really understand why. (smut)
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“Whoever is in charge of this schedule sounds like a sadist.”
“Yeah?” 
“Yeah!” You repeated with a small huff, staring down at your phone screen where—he presumed—you were looking at the Devils’ game schedule. “Surely there’s a better way than playing, like, three back to backs in such a short time span.” 
“It’s hockey,” Luke shrugged, like that somehow explained everything. “It’s just how it is. How it’s always been, to be honest.” 
“This makes no sense,” you grumbled, your eyes narrowed in distaste. “You literally played four games last week! Four! In the space of six days!” 
Luke snorted. “Yeah, Cherry, I’m fully aware. I was at the games. Playing.” 
You shot him a look before letting your brows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t get it.” 
“The schedule?” Luke asked. 
“No, the hockey player sex god stereotype,” you retorted. “How the hell do they find the time to even have sex? How the hell do they have the energy to even have sex?”
Luke tried—and mostly failed—to bite back his grin. “That’s your big question about hockey players?” 
“Yes,” you deadpanned. “I know you are professionals and all but surely this is a bit ridiculous.”
“Hockey is hockey,” Luke answered, shrugging once again. “It’s just always how it’s been.” 
“So, hockey players are sex gods and sadists,” you muttered to yourself, your focus back on your phone screen. “Good to know.” 
Luke only laughed in response. 
“I don’t get why they don’t just move some of the games to the first week in February,” you pointed out. “You have nothing on then.” 
“Because that’s when All-Stars is,” Luke answered. “They send a bunch of guys from different teams to compete in these challenges and stuff.” 
“Like the Hunger Games?” 
“I—” Luke’s nose scrunched up. “Yeah, but less death and violence. People usually stay nice for it.” 
“Have you been reaped?” You questioned, grinning a little. 
Luke rolled his eyes. “No, I have not. They choose the best.” 
You frowned. “You are the best. You’re the best hockey player I know.” 
Luke shot you a look. “I’m the only hockey player you know.” 
“Semantics,” you waved him off. “My point still stands.” 
“No, I get something better,” he stated. “I get a week off.”
You grinned. “Big plans?” 
Luke shrugged. “Honestly, I was just looking forward to a week without Jack banging on my door for morning skate.”
“So you’re going to spend the week hibernating,” you teased, lightly nudging his thigh with your foot. But before you could pull your foot back, Luke had grabbed your ankle and easily maneuvered your feet onto his lap. “God, I’ll need to find someone else to cook for me for a week then.” 
And the thing is that Luke knew you were just teasing. For all his claims of being a great cook (which he was, just in the few meals he actually knew how to cook), he had grown into a comfortable habit with you. He enjoyed spending time at your place. He enjoyed unwinding after bad games or grueling practices. He just enjoyed being around you, both before and after his recent realisation of his feelings. 
But now he was staring at you from across the couch, watching the way you were lounging in one of his old Michigan sweatshirts and just felt that overwhelming urge to say something stupid. 
Instead, he settled on, “you should come over.” 
You paused, raising your brows. “Come over where?” 
“To my place,” he said, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Jack will be gone and I’ll have the place to myself. We can just—” He paused, his brain going blank at the sight of your amused expression. “Chill.” 
“Chill?” You repeated, grinning.
“Chill,” he nodded, squeezing your ankle. “Just…I feel like…I’m always imposing in your space, you know? You can impose in my space too.” 
“You are a weird guy, Hughes,” you commented, though Luke liked to think you sounded fond when you spoke. 
“Is that a no?” He asked before he could help himself.
You beamed in response. “It’s not a no.” 
He felt something quite like hope spark in his chest. “So, it’s a yes?” 
“Depends,” your eyes glinted. “Are you still Team Stefan? Because if the answer is yes, I will have to decline.” 
Luke groaned. “I said that after we watched, like, three episodes! Stop holding that over my head!” 
“This sucks!” 
“Yes, it sucks so much being acknowledged for your skills,” Dawson deadpanned, watching the way Jack wandered around the locker room after practice, whining and complaining about everyone else making their Bye Week plans.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Jack huffed, narrowing his eyes at the boy before shifting his attention to Nico, eyes wide and hopeful. “Take me with you? I want to go somewhere warm. I want to go somewhere where the chances of freezing my balls off are lower than zero.” 
“Dude,” Nate scrunched his nose, laughing. “We play ice hockey for a living, you can handle a bit of cold.” 
“Suck it up, superstar,” Curtis called out with a huge grin. “Gotta pay up for having the Hughes name on the back of your jersey.” 
“Moose lucked out,” Jack sighed. “I have Quinn and the bajillion Canucks players that are also going. I swear he rigged the thing.”
“Bajillion?” Nico repeated with a disgustingly fond expression.
“Bajillion,” Jack nodded. “There’s too many of them. No one needs that many Canucks in one place. It’s an infestation.”
“I’m surprised you even know what that word means,” Nate snorted. 
Jack glared. 
“You not going up to Toronto to support your brothers?” Dawson asked, turning his head to look over at Luke. However, the boy barely reacted. He repeated the question again, and one more time before finally throwing a ball of rolled up tape at the side of Luke’s head.
Luke tore his eyes away from his phone, snapping his head up to find half the locker room already staring at him. “What? What did I miss?” 
“Jack complaining about All Stars,” Curtis answered.
“Oh,” Luke blinked. “So nothing new then?” 
“You're not going to Toronto?” Nico asked this time, before Curtis could say whatever witty response he had ready to go.
“Uh, no,” Luke shook his head. 
“Scared you’ll steal their thunder?” Nate joked, patting Luke’s shoulder as he walked past to get to his stall. 
Jack snorted. “He thinks he’s too cool for Toronto. Probably following John to wherever the hell he is going.” 
John’s ears perked, turning whilst he was still removing some of his gear. “What? Luke said he didn’t want to come with us.” 
Jack paused, frowning a little before turning to Luke. “You’re not going away for the week?” 
Luke could feel his cheeks burning up. “No?” 
Jack’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. 
“At least he also won’t be somewhere warm,” Nico stepped in, a hand on Jack’s shoulder providing more than enough distraction from Jack asking questions as he turned to look at Nico with the embarrassingly obvious heart eyes he has always had for the captain.
It gave Luke the short reprieve he wanted, avoiding the other curious looks he was getting as he glanced down at his phone screen for a moment, grinning at the messages before he locked it and put it back in his bag so he could finish getting changed.
cherry🍒: i hope you know that i am using this opportunity to steal as many of your hoodies as i can before the week is over 
cherry🍒: consider this your one and only warning
It was surprisingly easy to prevent Jack from asking any more questions. 
A little too easy, if Luke was being honest. 
But Luke was also not an idiot so he didn’t question Jack’s silence after he mentioned a friend would be staying with Luke for the week. Jack had just stared blankly for a few moments before laughing, shaking his head and walking out the room, muttering something about needing to stop by Nico’s after he finished packing. Luke took it as the blessing it was and didn’t bring it up again.
Truthfully, it didn’t hit Luke how insane it felt to have you with him the whole week until he was running around the apartment, cleaning up whatever he could before his phone began ringing from the other room.
“Dude, you have shit timing.” 
Ethan laughed on the other side of the phone. “You’ve been ignoring me! I feel abandoned. What happened to the Luke who said he missed me?” 
“I never said that,” Luke retorted.
“Rude,” Ethan huffed. “Why do you sound so out of breath? Were you training or something?” 
“Nah, just tidying the place up,” Luke replied absentmindedly, staring at the hoodie he picked up on the floor with a frown. If he was being honest, he didn’t know if it was his or Jack’s, and usually he didn’t care. But the image of you wearing it thinking it belonged to him when in reality it was Jack’s passed his mind and he quickly shoved it into the washing basket. That would be a problem he dealt with later.
“Ugh, don’t even,” Ethan whined on the other side of the phone. “I’m so jealous, dude. I would kill to be on a beach somewhere right now.” 
“Yeah, yeah,” Luke muttered as he continued to pick up a few empty bottles of gatorade on the coffee table before pausing. “Wait, what? What the fuck are you on about? Who’s going to the beach?” 
Ethan sounded just as confused on the other side. “You?” 
“No, I’m not?” Luke replied, frowning. “I just told you, I’m at my place.” 
“Yeah, because you are tidying up before you fly out somewhere. For Bye Week.”
“Who told you that?”
“I thought it was obvious? Why the fuck would you not be flying out somewhere?” 
And honestly, Luke didn’t have much of a comeback for that one. Because to everyone else, it did seem weird. He knew that. He gathered as much from the rest of the boys’ reactions in the locker room the other day. He gathered it from Jack’s reaction and Quinn’s message (‘wtf rusty’) when he broke the news in the brothers group chat. 
He knew. 
But somehow trying to justify it to one of his best friends over the phone made him realise how fucking dodgy it sounded when none of them really knew about you.
“So, let me get this straight.” 
Luke let out a deep sigh.
“You declined on going up to Toronto with your brothers because you didn’t want to impose, or whatever dumb shit you said, and let them enjoy All-Stars.” 
“Yes.” 
“And then you had the offer to go to Cabo and the Bahamas with teammates, which you also declined.” 
“Mhm.” 
“And then you decided to stay in New Jersey instead of even visiting us up in Michigan with your week off?” 
“Yup.”
“Dude,” Ethan squawked, offended and confused and downright discombobulated. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have a concussion? Is this like a mid-season breakdown? Do I need to call for help?” 
Luke rolled his eyes. “You’re always so dramatic.”
“I think I am being perfectly reasonable here.” 
Luke disagreed—majorly—but he valued his life so he stayed silent.
“You’re gonna get so bored staying in Jersey all week,” Ethan pointed out. “What are you even gonna do?” 
Luke opened his mouth to reply just as the buzzer sounded through the apartment. If anyone asked, he would deny the way his face instantly broke out into a smile. 
“Sleep my ass off. It’s hard being in the NHL,” Luke said in the snobbiest voice he could, letting Ethan cackle on the other side and try to get another word in before he spoke up again. “Look, I gotta run, I’ll call you later. Promise.” 
“He plays in the big leagues and thinks he’s so much better than us.” 
“I am better than you,” Luke grinned. “I remember winning beer pong.” 
“That doesn’t fucking count! Mark was the one who—” 
“Bye, Ethan!” 
Luke couldn’t hang up and rush to open the door fast enough. 
Deep down, he knew it was stupid for him to feel nervous about you staying over at his place for the week. 
He had stayed over at yours more times than he could count on one hand. You had become an integral part of his life in New Jersey. You were one of his closest friends. He knew you. He knew you knew him. There should have been nothing that made the week weird. 
But he couldn’t help but feel like it meant more. This was him inviting you to stay over for a few days, to stay at his place whilst his brother was out of town, to spend the week with him when he should be resting and drinking some overpriced cocktail on a beach somewhere warm. 
You were his friend but spending his whole stay-cation with him in his apartment like the two of you were playing house was something far from platonic. 
It was a bit of a mindfuck, but not as much as realising just how fucking easy it all was.
It was different from the various nights he spent at your apartment. It was different seeing you in his space, fitting into his life so easily. It was different seeing you relaxed and laid back, looking like you belonged. 
It was different from the night at his birthday party, where you were one of many faces. It was just you and him, standing in his kitchen or sitting on his couch or lying in his bed. It felt so different but so fucking good. 
Only a few days had passed and yet Luke forgot a time where you weren’t here, where you weren’t by his side throughout the whole day. 
It was dangerous but the warning signs were easy to ignore when his attention was fully focused on you.
“Are you calling me lanky?” 
“It was a compliment!” You insisted, but there was a smile on your face—not that he could see, considering your face was currently pressed against his chest as the two of you laid on the couch to watch the fastest skater skill event. “You would do well in this challenge. It would take you, like, five less strides than the rest of them.”
Luke snorted. “Geez, thanks.” 
“You’ll see,” you murmured, nuzzling your head further into his chest. “You’ll do it one day and win and know that I’m right.”
“And then you’ll tell me ‘I told you so’?” Luke guessed, his eyes now on you rather than the tv screen. 
“Obviously,” you replied, lifting your head so your chin was resting on the spot your cheek was squished against moments ago. “I’m always right, Hughes. The sooner you accept that fact, the easier your life will be.” 
Luke raised his brows in amusement. “So when you very confidently said that you loved that movie where Andrew Garfield played Batman—” 
“Shut up,” you groaned, lightly pinching his side but he quickly caught your hand. “We were watching Twilight! I was thinking about Robert Pattinson! I got confused!” 
“Uh huh,” Luke beamed. “Just always so right—”
“You’re being a dick,” you huffed, even if you were smiling. “Here I was trying to give you a compliment—”
“By calling me lanky.”
“—and this is the thanks I get,” you shook your head. 
Luke’s expression softened, his hand reaching up to tuck some hair behind your ear as he smiled down at you. “Thank you, Cherry. I appreciate the confidence.” 
“Confidence is sexy,” you retorted, your palms warm and comforting against his sides. “Soon you won’t need me to remind you.” 
“But I like when you say it,” Luke retorted.
“Professional athletes and their praise kinks,” you sighed, grinning a little when he reached down to pinch your side this time. 
“I’m the only professional athlete you know,” Luke pointed out, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach at the mere idea that maybe he wasn’t. That maybe you knew more, that maybe you had experience with more, that maybe they were far more experienced than him and—
“And you have a praise kink,” you said, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. “Therefore, my theory has not been disproved. I’m right.”
Luke’s cheeks burned hot. “I do not have a praise kink.”
You snorted, grinning as you lifted a hand to playfully squeeze his cheeks. “Aw, baby, you do and it’s hot. Don’t get all shy about it.”
“Whatever,” Luke murmured, turning his focus back to the tv instead of the growing smirk on your face. 
But the thought lingered in his mind even as the two of you continued to cuddle on the couch, watching whatever movie you had chosen after the All-Stars events ended. It picked at his brain, chipping away at the self-restraint he had to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the night until the two of you were getting ready for bed. 
He was lingering by the doorway, watching you get your side of the bed (because apparently that was also something that came easily to the two of you) ready before you climbed into bed. And before he could stop himself, he was already blurting out the words that were on the tip of his tongue for most of the night.
“Do you really think the praise kink thing is hot?” 
His cheeks were already blushy and pink and hot when you turned your head to look at him.
“How long have you been wanting to ask that?” You asked, something lighthearted and teasing in your voice that was oddly reassuring. You didn’t think he was a freak for asking. Not that he ever assumed you would judge him, you both were far from that point. 
“Does it change your answer?” He asked, not sounding half as confident as he wanted to. 
Your smile softened a little as you walked around the bed and towards him. You tilted your head back once you were in front of him, watching him with a look he couldn’t quite work out. 
Luke swallowed a little.
“It doesn’t change my answer,” you answered honestly. 
Luke could feel something in his chest tighten. “And what’s your answer?” 
“I think it’s hot,” you told him, saying it so casually as though the two of you were discussing the weather. “I think everyone has a praise kink to some extent but…”
Luke could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “But?” 
“But it’s different with you,” you said, your fingers lightly skimming against his stomach before curling around the hem of his shirt. “You’re so…responsive. It’s hot.” 
His body twitched, like his skin was too tight for his body. “Yeah?” 
“Yeah,” you confirmed, smiling a little before using the grasp on his shirt to tug him closer and close the distance between you both. Not that there was much.
Luke was almost embarrassed by the noise he made the second your lips were on his, your hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as you used the leverage against him. He ducked his head down, trying to chase your lips as you continued to tease him and tempt him. He barely realised his feet were moving until the back of your knees hit the bed and you pulled back to look at him. 
“So pretty,” you murmured, close enough to hear the way his breath hitched before you moved down onto the bed, with your grasp on his shirt enough to drag him down with you. 
It was far from sexy, if Luke was being honest. An awkward maneuver of too many limbs and shuffling up the bed that should have ruined the moment, but it didn’t. Because it was you and you were laughing and smiling and snorting when Luke almost decked it on top of you after he got his foot stuck. You made it feel so normal. Like it was all just a part of the charm. 
Maybe it was. Maybe feeling safe enough to be human and imperfect was a part of the charm. 
Because despite the uncoordinated and clumsy scrambling onto the bed, you were still looking at him like you wanted to see how pink his cheeks could turn.
Luke barely put up a fight when you pulled him back down, happily following your movements as he settled between your legs and let you wind your arms around his neck so his nose was brushing against yours before you leaned in to kiss him again. 
Unlike a lot of the other makeout sessions the two of you had, there was no rush. There was no lingering adrenaline from a game he wanted to work off or some bad plays he wanted to forget. There were no teasing messages or risky phone calls that were building up to this moment. There was absolutely nothing but just the two of you lying in his bed, making out because you wanted to. 
Because you wanted to kiss him and he wanted to kiss you. Because you enjoyed the weight of him on top of you and he enjoyed the way your fingers entangled themselves in his curls. Because for reasons that were beyond his understanding, you wanted this as much as he did.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, his tongue lightly skimming over the area of his bottom lip you nipped with your teeth.
You smiled up at him. “See? So responsive. It’s cute.” 
He swallowed. “Cute?”
“Cute, hot, sexy, whatever word you want to use, pretty boy,” you murmured, one hand sliding down to cup his face as your thumb skimmed over the apple of his cheek. “All I know is that I like the noises you make.” 
Luke responded by leaning back down, kissing you because he could, because he wanted to, because he liked the way your laugh vibrated against his lips before you kissed back.
But whatever control Luke thought he had on himself when he was with you quickly dwindled as you pulled him closer, letting his body fall on top of you and let your thighs squeeze his sides until he was rocking his hips against yours, until he was practically panting between kisses.
“Mmm,” you hummed, pressing one, two, three pecks against his lips before your lips traced along his cheek and down his jaw. “That’s it, baby. I can feel how much you like this. S’cute how worked up you get just making out.”
“You’re hot,” he gasped out, like it was self-explanatory. Like it justified why he could feel his dick twitching in his sweatpants, probably already making a mess that he would pretend didn’t embarrass him as much as it did.
Your smile was softer, your hand on his face feeling more intimate as you guided his eyes to meet yours. “I think,” you started, your thumb lightly tracing down his cheek and skimming his bottom lip. “You’re hot too. And that you can come like this. Make a mess f’me.” 
And fuck, he could.
It wouldn’t be the first time he did, helplessly grinding against you whilst you kissed him and praised him and made his head fucking spin before he was coming harder than he really should be able to from a simple act. He could lean down, press his lips against yours and slide his tongue against yours and feel the way you cling onto him as he comes. He could do it. 
But there was a buzzing voice in the back of his head, getting louder and louder until—
“I bought condoms.” 
He could see the initial surprise on your face as you processed the words he just blurted out, the eyes locked on his kiss-swollen lips shifting to look up and watch the way he squirmed under the realisation of his words. He watched the way you tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes narrowing slightly like you were observing him, keeping on edge until he spoke.
“You bought condoms,” you repeated, trying and failing to keep the smile off your face. “Big plans for this week?” 
“I—” Luke’s face burned. “That wasn’t… didn’t mean…I was just—” 
“Luke,” you said in a softer voice, your smile faltering a little into something more sincere. “M’only teasing.” 
“Okay,” he whispered, a knot twisting in his stomach with every passing second. He swore he was moments away from just exploding out of pure embarrassment or something just as humiliating. 
“Breathe for me,” you murmured, smiling a little when he let out a shaky breath. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. Just because you bought them, doesn’t mean we have to do anything with them just yet.”
Luke swallowed, his whole body thrumming as he replied. “I…I want to.” 
“Yeah?” 
“Yeah,” he nodded, his brows furrowing slightly. “Only if you want to, too. Because consent is sexy, you know.”
You laughed a little, both hands now cupping his face so your eyes could meet his. “I do, if you want this. If you’re ready.” 
“It is,” he whispered, nodding again. “I trust you, Cherry. I want this. With you.” 
“Okay,” you whispered before kissing him again, slow and sure and content. 
It made him feel a little less like his skin was shrinking all over his body.
And you kept kissing him until his body didn’t feel so tense, until he didn’t feel like a wooden plank on top of you, until he was relaxed and making those little noises between kisses that let you know he wasn’t as nervous as before. 
You kept kissing him as you lightly nudged him back, letting him lean back on his knees until he was straddling your body, giving him enough movement to lean over and scramble through his nightstand until he found the unopened box of condoms.
He tried to tear the plastic covering over the box off, tried to peel it away but his hands were shaking more than he liked and his heart was pounding in his chest and—
“Hey, relax,” you murmured softly, sitting up and taking the box from his hands with little fight from him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled with a sheepish smile. “Nerves, I guess.”
“It’s okay,” you promised. “You know we can stop at any time, just say the word.” 
He swallowed harshly. “No, I do—”
“I know,” you smiled. “But I also want you to know that.” 
“Only if you do too,” Luke responded, looking completely serious as he said it. “If you want to stop at any moment too, you have to say something too. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this with me because it’s my…first time or whatever.”
“I promise,” you smiled before nudging him back, until he was settled with his back against the headboard and you were on his lap. “Don’t worry about the condoms right now, okay? Just focus on me.” 
And Luke did.
Because, in complete honesty, it was very easy to ignore the box of condoms and the bubbling nerves and the growing realisation of what was about to happen. The voice in the back of his head saying ‘oh fuck, this is it’ was barely a whisper when his focus was on you. 
It was easy to get lost in the familiarity of you. He was used to this. He was used to you sitting on his lap, straddling his thighs and kissing him senseless. He was used to you dragging your shirt over your head and throwing it to the side. He was used to you tugging his sweatpants down and letting your own follow and guiding his hand between your legs whilst you whispered filthy things against his lips. 
He was used to the way you always targeted the spot just behind his ear, blowing cool air until he physically shivered. He was used to the way your eyes fluttered shut when his thumb lightly skimmed across your nipple. He was used to choking out a breathless moan whenever your thumb slid along the slit on the head of his cock. He was used to the way you tugged on his hair when you were close, letting the dull pain throb wonderfully at the base of his skull whilst you pressed your face against his shoulder. 
You were right, all those weeks ago back at the start of the season, when you said he needed to build up to this moment. You were right about the different experiences and experiments the two of you had tried and tested over the last few months. You were right when you said it was just like practicing hockey. 
It felt a bit fucking poetic and pathetic to compare his sex life to hockey right now, but he got it. 
The same nerves that bubbled up before his first NHL game were no different. Because even though he had played hockey his whole life, it still felt nerve-wracking to play in the NHL. And even though he had spent the last few months doing so much with you, it was still kind of daunting to know it was all leading up to this.
But just like his first NHL game, it just felt right. 
You felt right. 
This whole moment felt right. 
Luke knew he was not like his friends or teammates. He had spent years growing up with locker room talk, hearing about random hookups in the backseat of a car or halfhearted blowjobs in a bar bathroom. He heard about one night stands and casual flings and situationships that tended to go sour. He had heard it all and it was unsettling to imagine that was the future waiting for him. 
But it wasn’t. 
And it felt a bit comforting to know that he never had to look back on this experience and regret the person he was with or where he was or whatever stupid risk it could cause his career. All he had to think about was him and you and the way you were looking just as affected and turned on as he was right now.
“You still sure?” You whispered, soft and comforting and so fucking caring, it made his throat feel a little tight. 
“Yeah,” he nodded, smiling a little as he leaned in to kiss you again to emphasise his point. “I trust you. I want this with you.” 
You smiled, still looking so fucking genuine before you leaned over to grab the box of condoms, removing the plastic peel with an ease he was only slightly jealous of. He watched you grab a small foil packet, glancing at him every few seconds like you were waiting for him to jump back on his decision.
“I trust you,” he repeated, confident and sure. 
His hands laid on your legs as you tore open the foil packet. His hands squeezed the fat of your thighs as you rolled the condom on him, stroking him a few times until he was bucking into your touch. His hands were on your waist, supportive and guiding as you slowly sunk down onto his cock. 
“Shit,” Luke breathed out, his breath shaky and gasping. “Shit.”
“I’ve got you,” you whispered, one hand on his shoulder and the other gripping the back of his neck. “I—fuck—I’ve got you.”
The squeeze of your walls around his cock made him want to close his eyes. It made him want to lean back against the headboard, keep his eyes closed and fucking bask in the feeling of you being so warm and tight and intense around him. But the desire to watch the way his cock disappeared into you was stronger, to watch the way your eyes fluttered shut and your lips parted as you settled fully on his lap. 
It was fucking memesiring watching the way you slowly lifted your hips and sunk down again. It made him feel like his head was spinning as he watched you continued to move, to sink up and down on his cock, to fuck yourself on his cock and moan his name and look into his eyes and—
“Can I—” He cut himself off, a pathetic and whiny noise leaving his lips when you squeezed around him. “Can I please—”
“Whatever you want,” you murmured, breathless and panting as you leaned in to kiss him like you needed it.
He let himself enjoy the kiss, to enjoy the feeling of being inside you and the weight of you on his lap and your lips on his before he moved. Before he reminded his brain that he can move, that he didn’t have to feel so boneless and helpless, as he shifted until the two of you had rolled over and you were beneath him and—
“Oh fuck,” you moaned, loud and shameless as he hooked an arm under your knee, lifting your leg out of the way enough for him to thrust back in as your head feel back against the pillow. “Shit, yes, like that.” 
For a second, it was hard to remember he was even in his own body as he watched you. It was fucking mesmerising as he watched you moan and whine beneath him, as he felt your nails digging into his skin and scratching down his back as you demanded him for more, as you muttered his name between pleas and begs and whimpers. 
Luke kind of wished this moment would last forever. 
Unfortunately for him, he was utterly weak when it came to you. Because you were pretty and sweet and you felt fucking unreal around him, and you were looking at him like he fucking meant something and—
It was so much. Too much. Just fucking enough. 
“I can’t—” He gasped out, his whole body feeling like it was buzzing alive as the knot in his stomach twisted tighter and his thrusts became sloppier. “I’m not gonna last long—”
“Come for me,” you breathed out, your hands cupping his cheeks as you wound your legs around his waist. “C’mon, Luke, wanna feel you come in me.” 
And well, he stood no fucking chance lasting after you said that to him.
He could have sworn his ears were ringing when he came. It was intense and overwhelming and disorienting and, fuck, it felt so good. He could feel his muscles tensing, his body rigid and shaking as his orgasm washed over him. He could feel the wave of pleasure rushing through him, leaving every fucking nerve in his body buzzing as he let himself enjoy the way you were squeezing him around him.
He felt like he was on cloud nine when you ran your hands through his curls, your lips against his ear whispering god knows what. But your voice was low and humming and comforting and he could feel his eyes slipping close to enjoy the sound of it. 
He could feel you running your hands over his body, feel the way every inch of skin was pressed against you, feel the way your legs were tightening around him like you didn’t want him to move just yet either. 
After the rush of adrenaline and pleasure, his body felt syrupy. His movements felt slow and unhurried, his thoughts felt like they were floating away. His brain felt fuzzy and pleased and content to just lay on the bed with you, bask in the feeling a little longer before the grossness and desire to clean up took over. 
Luke was more than happy to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, to close his eyes and let out a happy sigh and let himself relax after the really intense last few minutes the two of you had just experienced.
And if Luke was more awake, he would have noticed the way you tensed up the second he spoke. The way your eyes widened, the way your body instantly locked up, the way you went a little pale. 
If Luke was more awake, he would have been able to think twice before he spoke. 
But Luke wasn’t awake. He fell asleep after muttering the one thought that had been on his mind since New Years. 
He closed his eyes and slept like a fucking baby and woke up to an empty bed and an empty apartment and not a single sign of proof of the night before except the marks on his skin and the used condom lying on his bedroom floor. 
“I think I’m in love with you,” he had slurred into the crook of your neck, his voice barely louder than a rumble as the sleepiness really hit. 
If Luke was more awake, he would have stopped himself from completely fucking everything up. 
.
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youwerethedefeated · 11 months ago
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So I've been thinking a lot about the tally
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I think it's safe to assume that these numbers cover only their 3 years of high school - Hinata says later on that he hasn't counted his beach volleyball games yet. Meaning, they got into roughly ~2200 competitions over the course of three years, though not all of them were volleyball games (they also compete in races, and other silly things like who can eat faster and etc.)
(It's a little unclear whether the tally only accounts for wins when they're competing against each other, though - I'll assume that's the case since it'd be kinda unfair otherwise lol)
BUT. Here comes the interesting part. This is their updated tally, as of 2022 (the All-Stars special match):
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According to the Haikyuu wiki, the Black Jackals vs. Schweiden Adlers game happened in November 2018. The All-stars match happened in August 2022. That's about 45 months later - meaning, they got into another 1852 competitions in the span of almost four years.
But, but.... before, during high school, these morons saw each other almost every single day. They competed on almost EVERYTHING, and averaged a total of 2 competitions per day.
Now, though- they lived in different cities during Hinata's first year in the V.League, and after that Kageyama moved to Italy. As of 2022, Hinata is back in Brazil playing for Asas São Paulo. Meaning, for the better part of these last 4 years, these two weren't even in the same country.
And yet they kept the tally going, counting almost religiously. So that's 1852 competitions over 45 months - average of 1,37 competitions per day. Meaning, on average, Hinata and Kageyama must've talked to each other at least once a day, for four years, to update their tally.
TL;DR they probably talk to each other regularly and that makes me so happy. Even though they're not in the same team (or even the same country) they still keep thinking about each other every. single. day.
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could you write about Robby’s gf/fiance coming into the ER and the residents don’t know they’re dating but they’re blown away by how beautiful/kind she is 🙏🙏
Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby" Rabinovitch x younger! Langdon's little sister! reader
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The sun was shining in Pittsburgh today and the last thing you felt like doing was going to work and dealing with emails and co-workers and the general panic of having a job that your body thinks is a war zone but really it's just not calling Brenda from Marketing a ‘dickhead’. So after a couple of fake coughs down the phone and a promise to check your emails as the day progresses you earn yourself a ‘snow’ day.
But it wasn’t so much fun having a day off in the middle of the week when your boyfriend was at work, and by the messages coming through it was a hectic day filled with unhelpful meetings with admin and too many beds filled with people that should be elsewhere.
So as the sun beats down on the city, you slip on shorts and your favourite shirt, a slightly small tank top from a long closed Irish bar and head into the hospital via the local donut shop.
The donut shop was your boyfriend's favourite new spot, he was always finding an excuse to swing by there almost daily for a pistachio creme for himself and a simple cinnamon glaze for you. So with your hands now filled with most of the shop you wandered the four blocks from your apartment to the hospital, smiling at the admin desk before gesturing with more your shoulders then hands for Dana’s attention.
No one really knew you at the Hospital, which was fine, both you and he kept your work lives pretty separate after an almost disastrous Christmas party at your work, where someone compared your job to his as the same high stakes. You had almost thrown your wine in your colleagues face, and your boyfriend had tried to defend your work before you laughed at the absurdity of it all.
It also didn’t help that your brother worked with your boyfriend and that made life always a little more challenging.
The charge nurse Dana ran to the door and helped you with the boxes, laughing as she glanced down at the absurd amount of sugar.
“What do we owe for this wonderful surprise?” She asked as you both made your way to the staff room.
“I took a sick day and thought I would give everyone a little treat.”
“Everyone or just-”
“There may be one or two pistachio creme’s in there for him, but really it's for everyone.”
Dana had been there when life had gotten a little too hard about a year ago and you had had to put everything on hold to help your big brother, Frank. Everyone at this hospital had been so kind and helpful as you managed work, your niece and nephew and then a love life. No one more than your boyfriend.
“You are a sight for sore eyes!” A familiar voice said as they almost fell through the break room doors, Frank was all limbs as he pulled you into a hug. He was clean for 13 months now, and was back at work under strict watch of his seniors but he was good, healthy and back to his normal over the top ways.
“If my work calls you, I’m terribly ill and may never recover.” you joke.
“Deathbed and all that?”
“It's sad and I want roses and frangipanis on my coffin.”
“Frangipanis?”
“I don't know they’re pretty.”
You both bantered, his arm around your shoulder as people started milling into the room, no matter the workplace, free food was a beacon to all.
Frank wandered off, his attention span failing him again as he went to talk to another doctor while you looked around. With your overly comfortable clothing you stood out like a sore thumb compared to the staff in scrubs.
You settle closer to the door about to make your leave in the way you loved, without a goodbye. Your boyfriend was obviously busy but Dana had hidden his treats away so you knew it was time to go and enjoy the rest of the sun filled day.
As you gathered your bag you heard the whispers.
“Who is she?”
“I saw her with Langdon? Maybe his new girlfriend?”
“Nah, I think they are related.”
“Seriously?”
“Same nose?” Which made you immediately grab your nose to check it was nothing like your brothers.
“Why else would she bring him donuts?”
“I thought he was not dating at the moment?”
“Plus she is way too nice for him!”
“And too pretty!”
“Dana knew her, maybe she's her friend?”
“Her daughter?”
“Don’t let Dana hear you say that!”
“Does Princess know?”
“Nope, just told us to mind our own business and eat the treats.”
“If there are no pistachio cremes left I will be very disappointed.” a gruff voice whispered into your ear sending a shiver down your spine as you smiled broadly.
“You’ll have to check with Dana, she is in charge.” You smile turning to the tall figure who had just entered.
All the whispering stopped as broad hands wrapped around your waist and pulled you close.
“I thought I was in charge.”
You smile against his lips as he kisses you deeply. His fingers almost bruise against your skin, as your shirt rides up and you lean further into the kiss, standing now on your tiptoes as you kiss him back.
“We let you think that, Dr Michael Rabinovitch.” you whisper to him as cat calls are heard around the room.
You can’t help but grin brighter as his beard bristles against your neck as he hides his face. You knew he had forgotten where he was the moment he saw you in the tiny shorts and tank top and you knew his colleagues would not let him forget it anytime soon.
“Get your hands off my sister!” Frank yelled before throwing his napkin at Robbys head.
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honeyroots · 1 month ago
Text
— training day, ft. SOLDIER BOY
SYNOPSIS: ben is particular with what he likes, but he knows how to train you well.
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WARNINGS: NSFW (18+) / fem!reader / soldier boy training reader to take him / finger sucking / power dynamic / oral (m receiving) / praise / objectification
“Slow down,” SOLDIER BOY tutted, pressing his gloved fingers down on your tongue to stop the sucking motion. Getting too ahead of yourself, you were almost swallowing his finger. He had you in his lap, legs swung over his princess style. Dark eyes scanned your face, searching for any micro-expression that might flicker across your features. Your expression was always a telltale sign of how you were feeling. His gaze was intense, slanted eyes that made you feel like an unexpected deer in the direct path of a mountain lion. “You can’t take it all at once. We’ve been over this.”
It was hardly fair, the way you were in his lap, borderline naked. Ben was in his suit, the green one that you ogled and drooled over— at this point, it was a pavloved response. When you saw the suit, you were ready to peel your clothes off for him; needy, desperate, and aching. A pink lace bra and the matching panties were the only pieces of clothing holding the last grain of modesty you had. When Ben slowly peeled your jeans and shirt off, he snickered at the sight of your matching undergarments, whispering something snide about how you planned to get naked for him. 
You did.
“Ben,” you sighed around his fingers, the gloves leaving a weird taste in your mouth. Your saliva was tainted with leftover cigarette ash, and droplets of spilled beer that had managed to dry on the fabric of the glove. That’s what Ben tasted like; cigarette ash, beer, and a vanilla musk. It was a scent that drove you mad, coming completely undone when he walked in the room. Another pavloved response, you’d say. “Just let me try.”
“No,” Ben was blunt, removing his fingers from your mouth. Lacing his hand under your chin, he held your face firmly in his grasp. With one thumb hooked on one cheek, his other four fingers spanned the other. The size of his hand compared to your face was comical in retrospect.
“Why?” You whined, jutting out your bottom lip in a petulant pout. You weren’t used to things not going your way, and Ben liked to remind you that you were never the one in charge. When you thought you were one step ahead, he always managed to knock you down a peg. It was like a game of cat and mouse, just as you thought you were about to win, he had a cheat code up his sleeve. “I’ve done it before.”
Ben rolled his eyes. Gently, but with enough force for you to feel it, Ben used his four fingers to tap on the side of your cheek in a disapproving motion. “Gotta train for my cock if that’s what you want, sweet girl, you know that.”
“I’m your sweet girl? Really?” The unamused frown still present on your lips while your eyebrows creased together to offer that sad, almost puppy dog look. 
“Course you are. You’re my little plaything, doin’ anything to please me.”  Ben swiped your bottom lip, the one that was jutted out in a pout. He tugged on it gently before leaning in and taking it between his teeth as if to correct. Letting out a soft squeal, the harsh feel of Ben’s teeth sinking into the flesh of your lip, you pulled away. “But don’t tell anyone I’m gettin’ soft.”
Your movements were calculated, almost cat-like as you peeled yourself from his lap and sank between his legs. Fingers dragging up and down the pant leg of his supe suit, you offered a quivered lip, hoping that he would give into your desperate desires. Ben’s fingers tilted under your chin, his eyes darting between yours, and when he gave one curt nod, you knew that he was going to give you a treat. Leisurely, at a speed that wanted to make you scratch the insides of your thighs in anticipation, Ben pulled his shaft out.
“So pretty,” you gasped at the sight of him. A pink-flushed tip, leaking with precum, invited you in. Mouth watering and in a ditzy trance from the mere sight of his cock, you took in the details; the vein on the underside of the shaft that ran from the base to the tip, the breadth of his shaft was vast which was expected. Blinking once, like you were trying to take a photo of it, you learned forward with your jaw slack.
“Nope,” Ben chastised, pushing his index finger against your chin to create distance. He sported a frown, his brows furrowed in a way that signaled he wasn’t happy by your eager lunge toward his exposed shaft. “Ask nicely.”
“Please?” Your begging was immediate, and laced with raw honesty. The speed of the word tumbling from your lips before he was able to finish his sentence would have been embarrassing if you weren’t so cock-whipped. “May I?”
“Good girl,” Ben praised, and your ears perked at the sound of his reaction. Eager for more encouragement from Ben, you leaned forward, pressing a closed-mouth kiss to the tip of his dick, using his precum like it was lip gloss. Could you do that? Would you be able to bottle it up and use it as a glossy overlay? “Start with just the tip.”
With a deep need to please him, you were compliant and it reflected in your actions. Mouth opening just enough to fit the tip in, you sucked on it like it was your own personal lollipop. The taste of him was salty and tangy, though an undertone of sweetness caused your spit glands to release. Ben wasn’t a moaner— typically quiet, but he knew that you needed praise to feel confident in your actions. Releasing what sounded like a gentle groan, Ben looped his hand behind your hand and began pushing you down further. “Now take it halfway. That’s it, that’s right. You’re doing real good f’me, doll.”
Peering up at him through your lashes, you hollowed your mouth out to squeeze the sides of him. While your tongue worked the underside of his shaft, focusing on the vein that ran up and down the base, you analyzed the way his lips twitched when it felt good. Ben’s hand stayed behind your head, controlling your movements and just how much of his cock he would allow you to take. When he thought you were ready for more, he pushed you down, letting you sputter around the shift, gasping for air through your nose. 
“See?” Ben clicked his tongue, lifting his hips just enough to have you gagging and lurching around him as you took him deeper into your mouth. “That’s why you have to train for it. Can’t take someone like me in one go, sweetheart.”
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moonlinos · 1 year ago
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It would’ve been sweet if it could’ve been me
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��� Pairing: Bang Chan × fem!reader
♡ Genre: Single dad!Chan, friends to strangers to lovers
♡ CW: Explicit sexual content (minors dni!), mentions of parental guilt, themes of loneliness, Chan is stuck in the past, lying, mentions of feeling lost in life, story spans over a number of years, nipple play, oral sex (male receiving), unprotected sex, creampie
♡ Word count: 8.2k
♡ Synopsis: Being a single dad to Hyerin is all Chan has known for the past four years. He and his ex-girlfriend reached an agreement that saw her going off to live a life she had always dreamed of while he was left with a life of loneliness, which he endured with a smile on his face for his daughter. A small gleam of hope seems to appear in his life in the shape of you. But hiding himself under a haze of lies seems to be his only option if he ever wants to keep you.
♡ A/N: Based off a request by anon! Thank you for requesting, this was so much fun to write 🩷 I will admit this is a lot more focused on Chan as a character than I originally wanted it to be, and I kinda went a bit crazy with the plot, but I hope you still like it! The song Chan sings to Hyerin is Little Star by Standing Egg 💗
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Every day in Chan’s life is a monotonous, never-ending cycle. Like watching reruns of bad TV shows on gloomy Sunday nights, every second of his past and upcoming days is etched into his mind like a quilt of mundane tasks and repetitive moments.
But that wasn’t always the case.
Once, excitement filled his every waking moment. His weekends were a whirlwind of new places teeming with bustling crowds and unfamiliar faces who became fast friends. During his university years, he and his friends lived their lives with ardor, savoring every moment as if it could be their last. His days were filled with an array of unplanned parties and impromptu trips which brought a kaleidoscope of color to his life.
Until he met Dana.
He was about to graduate, and she swept into his life like a hurricane — flipping everything upside down before disappearing just as quickly, with only destruction and ashes remaining in her wake.
He was infatuated; she was bored. That was clear from the start, but Chan was too blinded by affection to be concerned with such a minute detail. So long as he got to have her by his side, he was happy. Their relationship lasted a year, yet it changed his life forever.
He was twenty-one when Dana announced her pregnancy. On his twenty-second birthday, she told him she didn’t want to be a mother.
By that point in his life, Chan had already forsaken everything he had for her. He turned his back on his old friends, the vibrant life he once led, and everything that once made him who he was. Without Dana, he would be left with nothing but the ugly reflection of his self-destructive choices made in the name of a loveless love.
And so, they came to an agreement. Dana would leave — that had been her plan from the start, anyway — but she would leave Chan with a small piece of their story.
Hyerin was born on November 20th, 2019.
Dana left on a plane to New York City on December 1st.
Now, the only speck of color in his life is Hyerin. In the four years Chan has been lucky enough to be her dad, he has found she is much more than simply a reminder of Dana or what could have been between them. Hyerin is his entire world. She is the love he’s unknowingly been searching for his whole life, and he would sacrifice every last bit of himself to make sure she only ever knows happiness.
They live a quiet life, with Chan working a less-than-fulfilling corporate job and spending all his free time with her. He sometimes allows himself to wonder what happened to his old friends — did they all eventually settle for the mundanity of adult life, or are they still chasing an endless thrill? But he never dwells on it too much. The sweet memories of his early twenties are now nothing more than a comforting escape when the weight of loneliness becomes too overwhelming.
Today is one of those days. A late Friday night after his shift, Chan sprawled on his couch with Jisung, a co-worker who became his first friend after many years, a silly smile on his face as he reminisced about a trip to Jeju in his sophomore year of college. This is how he lives most of his life; when he’s not in the present with Hyerin, he’s stuck in the past.
How could he not be stuck in the past? So many people he loved and memories he cherished were there.
“I don’t get how you just left all of that behind for someone,” Jisung scoffs, loosening his tie. “Why couldn’t she just join your group of friends?”
“It’s complicated,” Chan sighs, eyes wandering toward Hyerin’s bedroom door for the umpteenth time to make sure she’s still sleeping soundly. When he turns to look back at Jisung, his expression prompts him to elaborate. “What? You want the whole story?”
Jisung shrugs. “It’s not like we have any other plans for tonight.”
“Well, there was this girl in my friend group. We hooked up a lot, but our relationship went beyond that,” Chan explains, fingers tapping his thighs as the memories flood his mind. It was a sore topic, one he certainly didn’t enjoy remembering. “We never dated, but Dana was jealous, and I couldn’t blame her. Me and this girl were… very close. I couldn’t be in a relationship while also being that close to her, but I also couldn’t imagine us being only friends. So it was easier to walk away.”
Chan conveniently leaves out the fact that he walked away because an artificial love strangely provided solace for his heart, unlike the searing torment of unrequited love, which engulfed him like molten lava.
“And that was the last time you ever had that type of relationship with anyone?”
“With Dana? Yeah—”
“Hyung, you know what I mean. You told me yourself Dana didn’t love you,” Jisung points out. “I mean this other girl.”
Chan shrugs dismissively. “I guess, yeah. Doesn’t matter, though.”
And Jisung scoffs loudly at his words, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. Memories of that love flood Chan’s mind, and he's ready to let them sweep him away when Jisung abruptly turns so he sits facing him, resolve swimming in his eyes.
“Give me your phone,” his loud voice reverberates through the small apartment, prompting Chan to shush him with a stern look. “Give me your phone,” Jisung repeats himself with a harsh whisper.
Chan rolls his eyes but ultimately smiles at his friend. He retrieves his phone from the end table, handing it to a much too enthusiastic Jisung. “The password is Hyerin’s birthday,” he tells him, albeit a bit apprehensive.
He watches amusedly as Jisung types away at his own phone before doing the same on his, handing him the device with a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
“What did you do, you little menace?” Chan questions the younger boy, narrowing his eyes. Jisung simply shrugs.
“I got you a date tomorrow. Thank me later.”
Chan immediately sits up on the couch, eyes darting toward his phone screen. A chat with a single message from him to an unknown contact makes him question his entire friendship with Jisung.
Me: I’m your date for tomorrow 😉 Me: O’neul restaurant, 6 pm. See you there, cutie
“Jisung, what the fuck?”
“What?” His friend asks between giggles. “Sora has this friend she said desperately needs a date, and I have you in the same situation,” he explains, clearly proud of himself. “I just did you both a favor while also getting boyfriend points.”
Chan’s eyes shift toward his phone once more, inwardly cringing at the messages with a heavy sigh.
“And was making me sound this creepy necessary?”
Jisung waves his hand dismissively. “Nah, that was just a little treat for me.”
“And why the fuck is her name Mystery Girl?” Chan queries, the irritation making him unknowingly raise his voice.
“It’s a blind date,” his friend explains. “This girl’s apparently super picky, kept turning down every guy Sora suggested. So, she came up with this solution. Can’t turn you down if she doesn’t know what you look like.”
Chan groans, ultimately sinking back onto the couch with a defeated sigh. Jisung was trying to be a good friend, he knew that, but he wasn’t at all thrilled with the prospect of a date. Not only did he not want one, but he also had no time for such a futile thing. He had Hyerin, and she was the sole reason for his existence. He didn’t need anyone meddling in their little world. But he didn’t have the courage to tell Jisung that.
It would be a lie to say the past four years weren’t lonesome. Falling asleep alone in a cold, empty bed was a sorrow he had simply grown numb to. Yet, he still yearned to have someone to share the grapples of routine life with, someone whose presence alone would effortlessly diminish his worries, someone he could make love to before falling asleep and waking up intertwined.
But he couldn’t afford to have that.
At least this date was bound to fail; the woman’s demanding nature, coupled with Chan’s unwillingness to even be there in the first place sure to make their wasted time brief.
Just as he’s about to grumble about the messages again, Hyerin comes stumbling out of her room, her small feet shuffling against the floor as she rubs her sleepy eyes.
“Oh, honey, were we being too loud?” Chan asks sweetly, and his eyes discreetly shoot daggers at Jisung, who mouths an apology.
Hyerin firmly shakes her head, the crooked pigtails Chan clumsily had tied this morning coming undone as she does so. He smiles at her, propping his elbows on his knees and waiting for her to speak her little mind.
“I had a dream,” she mumbles. “With a dragon.”
Chan gasps, hands wrapping around her tiny frame and picking her up before walking toward her room. It took him some time, but he ultimately learned that it’s best to ease her back into bed while she’s distracted, lest she throws a tantrum.
“And was it a nice dragon?” He asks. Hyerin giggles, and Chan is positive that the sound has the power to light up even his most somber days.
“Of course it was a nice dragon, daddy,” she tells him. “You said I only have nice dreams ‘cause my mind is pretty, remember?”
Chan nods as he gently tucks her back into bed, triple-checking that she is comfortable and warm. “Of course, of course. How could I forget?” He slaps a hand on his forehead with a sigh. “Hyerinnie has the prettiest mind. It can only make up pretty things.”
Hyerin smiles at him, tugging her blanket close to her chin, her doe eyes already heavy with sleep and blinking languidly. Chan asks her the same question he does every night, although the answer remains unchanging every time: would she like him to sing to her? She drowsily tells him she wants to hear him sing her favorite song, Little Star.
Chan promptly gets under the covers beside her — Hyerin pouting and whining about how he’s stealing her blanket for himself, to which he can’t help the hearty laugh that escapes his lips. Since turning four, she’s developed quite a strong personality that Chan soon finds he adores, much like everything about her.
He turns on his side to watch her features as he sings; her nose and mouth so similar to his, and the way she furrows her brows while falling asleep mirrors his own habits. Chan might not be a happy man in his job or his personal life, but the boundless happiness his little gift provides him surpasses anything else he could wish for. Every now and then, he finds himself wanting more, but it’s not long before he realizes he already has everything he needs.
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Chan goes over his rather extensive list of how to care for Hyerin with Jisung for the tenth time that evening, making sure the younger man knows what to do in any situation that could arise in the couple hours he’ll be gone. Hyerin is the one to usher him out of the apartment, assuring him she’ll be fine with her uncle Han, and Chan has to stop himself from wallowing over the fact that his once tiny baby is rapidly blossoming into a young kid.
He made no real effort to dress for his date; a simple button-up shirt and jeans served him just fine, seeing as he plans to return home as soon as possible. His date and he haven’t talked much at all since his initial texts yesterday, texting each other only to confirm the time and place of their basically forced date.
He arrives fifteen minutes late, all but running from the bus stop to the restaurant while cursing Jisung under his breath. This was definitely not worth the hassle, and Chan wanted nothing more than to be back at home with his daughter. He’d pick watching Tangled with her for the hundredth time over an unwanted date in a heartbeat.
Chan finally walks into the restaurant, informing the waiter that he’s there to meet Cherry. His face visibly grimaces as he mutters the words. Fuck this blind date bullshit.
He’s led to his table, dragging his feet behind the waiter. His attention is immediately drawn to the pencil holding his date’s messy ponytail together. He chuckles quietly, circling around the table and forcing out a smile to introduce himself.
But then he’s met with a sight he had long given up hope of ever seeing again: you.
You, who were next to him as he made stupid decisions during college. Like when he drunkenly thought it wise to bet his laptop in a game of beer pong.
You, who always made him your special hangover soup after a party. He especially loved it when you let him keep the leftovers, knowing that he and his roommate were hopeless in the kitchen.
You, who filled the space in his cold sheets with warmth and always made his bed feel like a sanctuary.
You, who let him make love to you despite you both swearing to be only friends.
You, who later had to watch him walk away from you like a coward, driven by sheer fear.
You, staring back at him with a stunned look on your face.
“Chan?” You ask, an unsure lilt to your words.
And Chan embarrassingly fumbles over his words, his tongue tying itself into knots in front of you. He notices you pursing your lips to stop from giggling and clears his throat a bit too loudly, a few patrons turning their heads to look at him. But he can’t bring himself to care, not when it seems the universe has turned the wheels of his fate in his favor for once.
“Uh, hi,” is all his brain can muster among the jumble of thoughts inside his head. He mentally berates himself for acting so damn awkward when you’re clearly not as affected by this encounter as he is.
“Damn, it’s been so long,” you marvel, eyes not leaving his face for a second. “I thought you moved to a different country or something. It’s so strange how we never ran into each other.”
Chan forces out a chuckle, hands now fiddling with the menu on the table. Of course you two never ran into each other; he only ever leaves the house for work or when he has to accompany Hyerin, and he doubts you frequent playgrounds or zoos.
“Yeah, I… don’t go out much anymore,” he simply says.
You hum, and he properly takes in your appearance. You haven’t changed one bit; from your hair to your choice of clothes, you’re still the same girl who ruled over his every thought during college.
You two order your food and fall into an infuriating cycle of small talk. Chan doesn’t want to talk about the weather or if you have seen the latest movie yet — he’s desperate to ask you how you’ve been, if you ever pursued your dreams, if you can still outdrink anyone in your friend group, and—
And if you’re still single because you find relationships a hassle.
But as the food arrives, you fall into an even more frustrating cycle: silence. Chan feels restless, squirming in his seat every few minutes while you calmly eat and watch the people around you. He remembers your habit of scanning crowded rooms and making up stories for strangers with your vivid imagination. He wants to ask if you still do that, but it seems he’s only grown into more of a coward since your last encounter.
You’re the first to break the silence, waiting for the waiter to leave with your plates to ask what Chan has been doing since graduating. It’s a casual question with no weight to your words, as lighthearted as you have always been. And the complete opposite of his every possible answer.
How can he tell you he’s given up music altogether, now surrounded by gray walls and lifeless faces in his corporate job? How can he tell you he’s alone most of the time, partly by choice and partly because he doesn’t know how to dig himself out of this comfortable hole he’s trapped himself in?
How can he possibly explain that he agreed to be a single father, sacrificing his own happiness for the selfish whims of a woman who never even loved him?
You’re still the same; the same carefree eyes and attitude, same easygoing approach to everything life throws your way — such as meeting him again after years.
All of him has changed.
Chan can’t tarnish your colorful life, can’t sit before you and spill out his problems or grumble about the overwhelming loneliness in his life when he knows damn well that was a consequence of his own choices.
He wants nothing more than to be the same Chan he was in college. Creating life stories for strangers in dive bars with you, not caring about whether he’ll have enough money to pay the water bill next month, not having to bear the burden of something as precious as a human life depending solely on him.
It’s selfish, but he wants nothing more than to go back.
So he does.
“I actually still write songs, though it’s only a freelance thing,” he lies. He hasn’t written a single note in years. “Other than that, I’ve just been taking it day by day. Same as I’ve always done, I guess.”
And your eyes immediately light up — you’ve always loved his songs, after all. Your conversation flows much like it used to in the past after that, with you making witty jokes and Chan laughing loudly at them. You tell him you started working as an art teacher for the elderly when living off of commissions became impossible, and that you adore the stories they share about their younger years. They remind you of your own stories together, you admit with a genuine smile.
Your conversation is endless, continuing even as Chan walks you to your car in the empty parking lot. The night has grown colder, and the crescent moon gleaming in the sky above him almost feels like a sign that things will change for the better.
As you two stand in front of your car, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Ever the free soul, you ask him outright if he would like to come back to your place. There are no further implications hidden in your request beyond a hookup. Nothing’s ever heavy with you, every little thing always feeling light as a feather.
He says he would love to, but quickly excuses himself under the guise of calling his roommate about the spare key. Chan hurriedly calls Jisung as soon as he turns a corner in the parking lot, ensuring you won’t be able to hear him. It’s juvenile, the way he’s actually taking pleasure in almost creating a different version of himself — a version much closer to who he was when you were his, at least in some sense of the word. He’s a father, he should be responsible and dependable, but the weight of that role had been thrust upon him far too abruptly. He can’t be faulted for wanting to go back in time.
“Okay, I have no time to explain,” he blurts out as soon as Jisung picks up the phone. “Would it be too much to ask you to stay the night?”
Jisung chuckles at the other end of the line. “Damn, was the date that good?”
Chan ignores his sly comment, because yes, the date was everything he never thought it could be.
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” he assures him. “I’ll even pay you if you want. How much—”
“Hey, no need for that,” Jisung cuts him off. “You know I love looking after Hyerin.”
And the pang of guilt inside his chest at the mention of his daughter’s name almost knocks the air out of his lungs. He feels ashamed, as if he’s neglecting his daughter for a hookup, going after a fantasy that has long crumbled and faded away.
“How is she? Is she okay?” He asks, guilt washing over him like a wave. He hadn’t thought of his daughter for a second that entire night. “Did she cry at all? Did she notice I was gone for longer than I promised?”
Jisung calls out his name with a chuckle, prompting him to stop his rambling. “Relax. We painted each other’s nails, she did my makeup, had her dinner, and is now sleeping soundly after listening to another one of uncle Han’s phenomenal stories about frogs,” He details, causing a hearty laugh to fall from Chan’s lips at the image of Jisung’s face painted with Hyerin’s cheap children’s makeup. His friend then adds, “Go get laid, man.”
And so Chan hangs up the phone, all but running toward your figure waiting by your car. You smile at him, taking his hand and pulling him into a tight embrace. It’s the first time he holds you in almost five years, and he feels his dull world away from Hyerin slowly fill up with vibrant hues.
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It takes you less than fifteen minutes to reach your apartment building, and Chan is thanking any higher power that might listen for that. The sheer anticipation of what is implied to happen once you two are alone together has him picking at his cuticles until it stings.
He’s nervous, to put it lightly. A couple of terrible drunken hookups in dingy motels after office gatherings were his only sexual encounters after Hyerin was born.
But once you’re standing in front of him in your living room, your eyes never leaving his even as you’re slipping off your heels, Chan knows you’re both equals in this playing field. 
He’s the one to pull you into a kiss, lips barely grazing against yours. But the feeling of finally kissing you again after so many years was like wildfire, consuming him wholly until the kiss turns feverish. His hand travels from your shoulders to your lower back, pulling you flush against his body. You hum against his lips, fingers clumsily undoing his buckle, and the prospect that you might be as eager as he is has him gripping the fabric of your dress.
Chan swears his vision goes black the moment your fingertips brush against his hardening erection, the feathery touch enough to make him sigh into your mouth.
A hand is pressed to his chest before he has the chance to think, and you’re pushing him backward until his back meets the wall. You immediately drop to your knees in front of him, leaning forward and nuzzling your face against his clothed cock.
“I missed you,” you whisper, hungry eyes looking up at him. “Don’t think I got to say that.”
Chan takes in the sight of you, memorizing and storing it in his mind alongside the countless images he already had of you on his knees for him. His fingers thread in your hair, your lips falling open with a sigh.
“I missed you too,” he professes. You have no idea how much.
With a smile, you quickly work his zipper open, pulling his jeans down his legs and pressing a wet kiss to his clothed erection. Chan feels your tongue lap at his member through his boxers, lips sucking around the head as your nails scrape the flesh of his thighs lightly.
It feels like you mouth at his length for hours, the light gray fabric of his boxers stained with your saliva and his precum, leaving Chan panting and tugging at your hair. You trail soft, wet kisses down his thigh while pushing his boxers out of your way, his cock already swollen and flushed. He’d be embarrassed for the way his body reacted so responsively to you if you weren’t also visibly as affected.
Your tongue circles his length languidly, lapping at a small bead of precum with a hum. Finally wrapping your lips around his tip, your tongue flicks teasingly beneath the head of his cock, Chan sucking in a deep breath and using his grip on your hair as leverage to pull you toward him. You almost obediently drop your jaw to slide his now fully hardened length into your mouth, your hand wrapping around the base as you begin to bob your head up and down his cock. Chan hisses your name when you relax your throat after a few passes, taking him fully into your pretty mouth, your nose brushing his pelvis.
“Fuck, you always looked so pretty like that,” Chan chokes out. “Pretty lips taking me so well.”
You groan at his words and the vibrations traveling along his shaft have Chan growling with a harsh tug of your hair, causing you to sputter as his cock hit the back of your throat. You seek purchase in his hips as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You’re unrelenting nonetheless, circling your tongue around him before pulling away, hands now sliding up his thigh before gently gliding over his balls. As you slowly lick from the base of his shaft all the way up to the sensitive tip, Chan’s gaze shifts down as he catches a glimpse of your thighs rubbing together. He feels himself twitch, and immediately pulls you away from him.
“Don’t wanna come like this, I need to fuck you,” he rasps out.
You stand back up, legs wobbly, and fumble with the buttons of his shirt while he slides your dress down your shoulders. Your movements are messy and filled with urgency, your breaths quickening as you both want nothing more than to strip away any form of barrier between you. Piling up five years of yearning will do that.
As your impatience reaches its peak, you tear open the last remaining buttons of his shirt, your nails grazing his skin as you slide the fabric down his shoulders. A wave of goosebumps travels across Chan’s body, and his hands abandon the task of removing your dress in favor of tracing the curve of your ass before picking you up off the floor.
“First door on the right,” you tell him, your words answering his unspoken thoughts as if you could read his mind. Chan nods, your proximity making it impossible for him not to press his lips to yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip before licking into your mouth with a low hum.
He collides with a wall, missing the entrance to your bedroom by a hair’s breadth, and you giggle against his lips. Chan smiles back. Nothing’s ever heavy with you.
He lowers you onto the bed gently, his body instinctively slotting between your spread legs the way he did so many times before. You soon also wrap your thighs around his waist as you always did, pulling him closer until his cock is pressed up against your clothed pussy.
“Wanna ride you,” you tell him, grinding your hips forward and eliciting a quiet moan from Chan’s lips as he hastily nods. With a tight grip on your waist, he flips you both effortlessly.
Promptly sitting up on his thighs, you finally rid yourself of the inconvenient fabric of your dress, followed by your bra, your nipples instantly hardening. Chan sits up, eyes transfixed on your chest as his calloused thumbs trace the nubs before his lips circle around one, sucking harshly. As you gently roll your hips, he can feel the way your soaked panties cling to his skin as your core presses up against his thigh.
Your fingers tangle in his hair with a whimper, pushing his face into your breasts as he bites the sensitive skin. His lips leave your nipples with a wet sound, then trailing kisses up the column of your neck until his gaze is locked on yours again. He was dying to mark you, bite and suck on your skin until it blossomed into a beautiful maroon — but he knew better. You weren’t twenty anymore, and you weren’t his; in no sense of the word.
“I’m on the pill,” you tell him, eyes heavy with lust.
And he knows this is a terrible idea. This was exactly how he came to be a father.
But it’s not his mind that’s doing the thinking, and so he nods, his grip on your hips tightening as you pull your soaked panties to the side just enough to slide the swollen tip of his cock against your slick folds. Chan sucks in a breath, fighting a war against his own body not to come from this feeling alone. It wasn’t just how long it had been since he was with someone, it was you. It was all you. The effect you had always had on him having never faded, simply laying dormant until his body had you again.
Chan rests his forehead on yours as you slowly sink down on his length. His lips find your neck again, gently sucking the skin into his mouth as you slowly grind down on him, a whine falling from your lips and going straight to his cock. His hips buck up unwittingly, causing you to moan loudly in his ears. But your slow pace remains, and Chan knows he should savor this moment, but he wants nothing more than to fuck you into the mattress until he forgets every minor issue aggravating his brain.
Such as the fact that he knows you will leave his life again the second you find out he lied to you.
So his hands find your waist and he flips you down onto the mattress once more. His eyes bore into you as you suck in a breath.
“Fuck me,” you plead, hips grinding into his cock again. “I want it, please—”
Chan doesn’t waste another second, retreating only to plunge back harshly into your cunt. He moves with deep strokes, hips falling into an erratic rhythm, your nails digging into his back as your thighs clenched around his waist. All he can hear is static and your choked moans as he presses you into the mattress.
“Missed this so fucking much,” he groans against your ear. And finally succumbing to his desires, he bends down to suck and nibble on the delicate skin of your neck, mind too focused on how your walls squeeze around him to worry about marking you. He laps at the small bruises he leaves behind, your fingers tangling in his hair as you mewl.
You roll your hips, matching his rhythm, and Chan feels a familiar heat rise within him. He reaches down to glide small circles around your clit, your body jolting and squirming. He absentmindedly smiles against your skin.
After an entire night of pretending his life was the same as it was five years ago, fucking you required no acting.
“It’s too much, fuck,” you whimper, tugging him by the hair until your lips are crashing together in a sloppy kiss. Your walls tighten around him, body clenching as the tension finally snaps, your orgasm coursing through your shaking body as Chan growls into your parted lips.
He keeps fucking into you, until his hips meet yours one last time, and a low groan reverberates through the room. His cock twitches inside of you as his body stills, filling you with his warm release which leaked out of you and onto your sheets as he pulled out with a sigh.
Chan throws himself onto the mattress, labored breaths leaving his heavy lungs. He pulls you into his arms, and you melt into his embrace as if it were a habit. It’s as though he’s gone back in time, even if temporarily.
He feels like he’s simply a guy making love with the girl he adores in the familiar comfort of his dorm room again.
When the first rays of sunlight seeped into your room, Chan was already awake. He watched as you slept, eyelids fluttering and a small smile adorning your lips.
It was as if you were his, in every sense of the word.
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Guilt.
That’s what Chan feels every time he sees Hyerin’s laughing face on his phone’s wallpaper when he’s out, entertaining the silly lie he crafted.
It’s been two months since you reconnected and you effortlessly slipped him back into your life. The reunion with his old friends was expected — but Chan dreaded it, regardless. He found that out of the nine people that once comprised their group, only five remained. He wasn’t the only one who had gone his own way.
But he was the only one who had done it in the worst way possible, carelessly ghosting every single one of them, hoping his existence gradually faded from their memories.
That made facing his once best friend frightening. Minho was the first friend he made on the very first day of university, when Chan walked into his dorm room only to find he had snuck his cat into the building.
They were roommates for two years, and best friends for four. Chan complained loudly when he was assigned a new roommate. Minho was silent as he watched his best friend turn his back on him with no explanation.
Minho initially ignored him entirely, and Chan doesn’t fault him. When his vibrant face turned cold upon seeing him walk into a bar, Chan knew he earned that the moment he decided to ignore his friend’s every text message and phone call. When Minho made backhanded remarks about how nice it felt to have him back in their group, he knew he deserved it for not answering the door the only time his friend came looking for him.
It takes a drunken argument leading to a fist colliding with Chan’s cheek for Minho to finally address him. It takes them being escorted out of the bar by security for them to finally have a conversation, tears and resentment flowing freely as they sat at a bus stop late at night. After that, their friendship returned to what it was before, as if they had never been apart even for a second.
Despite the years and the changes, Minho was still his best friend — which was why he was the only person he came clean to.
Hyerin loved Minho, especially his cats. Her new favorite pastime quickly became going over to his house to play with her new ‘friends’, as she called them. And Chan was overwhelmed with happiness to witness his best friend falling under his daughter’s spell — his house now containing its very own box filled with every toy Hyerin mentioned even once, his kitchen stocked with all her favorite foods, and his cats falling asleep beside her anytime they came over to visit.
It was as if he was watching his two worlds collide. His past and present, which he had separated out of a senseless fear, intertwined so effortlessly it made him feel stupid for ever thinking he needed to build this barrier. For assuming the people he loved so much would reject him.
Made him feel even worse for walking away in a futile attempt to protect his feelings, because it only resulted in more hurt.
After so much of his time spent wondering, Chan finally has the answer to his questions. Some of his friends did settle for an ordinary adult life, some already married and some focusing their energy solely on climbing the corporate ladder. Still, some remained relatively unchanged — much like you did.
His social life blossomed again after reconnecting with his old friends. However, he still refused to hire a nanny, too fearful to leave Hyerin to a stranger’s care, resulting in constantly having to come up with excuses when his parents aren’t able to babysit. He won’t deny that he often fabricated these lies purely because staying in with his daughter and watching Tangled now outweighs any appeal of noisy nightclubs.
Jisung remained his salvation whenever he wanted to spend the night at your place, with Chan slowly but surely running out of reasons as to why you can’t go to his apartment for a change. He hasn’t had the heart or the courage to tell you the entire truth yet, only owning up to his lie about his job after you understandably asked him to listen to his new music and he was put on the spot.
Ever since you walked back into his life, he finds himself weaving a web of little white lies that slowly chip away at his heart.
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He’s at a small gathering for his friend’s birthday, listening to Minho all but eulogize his fiancee. They have been a couple since university, Chan playing the wingman and encouraging his friend to finally do something about his crush (mostly because he couldn’t handle any more of Minho’s whining before going to sleep). Despite what everyone around them surmised, they beat all the odds and statistics and stayed together even after university. Chan would be happier about that if he hadn’t bet money on them breaking up before graduation. He wonders if Hongjoong will ask for his twenty bucks now that they’re friends again. 
“No, really, settling down with someone is so good,” Minho says after another shot of Soju, a silly smile etched onto his lips. “I thought I would hate it, y’know? Thought slapping such a significant title on our relationship would wear it down, but it’s the complete opposite. Ever since she proposed, it’s like we’re two love-struck nineteen-year-olds again.”
Chan smiles, saying they should drink to that purely because he hopes the sensation of alcohol burning his throat will numb his overwhelming jealousy. After congratulating Minho for the umpteenth time, he finds himself listening to yet another story about his relationship.
And he’s happy for Minho, just as much as he’s happy for Wonwoo for getting married last year. He couldn’t express the overwhelming joy he felt upon discovering these people, who once meant so much to him, had successfully navigated their way through life. But envy rears its ugly head every time he listens to one of their stories, because Chan’s direction in life seems to be a winding road. He’s a father, and his love for Hyerin is immeasurable, but he’s still actively lying about this side of him simply because he feels as if maybe he made the right choices in life at the worst possible time.
As he’s walking out of Hongjoong’s apartment with you later that night, he wraps an arm around your waist, a smile spreading across his face when you nestle closer to him. You two discuss Wonwoo’s marriage, with you talking about how beautiful the ceremony was, but ultimately scowling at the mere thought of getting married. Chan feels the corner of his heart crack at your words, but he laughs it off.
“Do you think he wants kids?” he wonders aloud.
He expects you to laugh at his sudden curiosity. He doesn’t expect you to dig at the fissure in his heart with your words, causing it to shatter completely.
“Gosh, it’d be so weird to see.” You cringe, snuggling deeper into his arms as a chilly breeze brushes against you two. “I like kids, but I’d never have them myself. Feel like it’d kinda ruin my life.”
Chan feels his grip on your waist loosen.
“Having kids doesn’t ruin your life,” he reasons. “You’re given the chance to care for something so precious, so important to this world…” he trails off, shaking his head and taking a step away from you. It feels as if exasperation has filled his entire being. “You look into their eyes and see yourself, and it’s— the love you feel when you first see them is so pure and earth-shattering that you can’t think of anything but how to make that tiny being only experience the good in the world. It doesn’t ruin your life.”
You eye him with confusion, cocking your head to the side and huffing out a laugh. “You talk like you know what that’s like. If you ever have kids one day, then you’ll know—”
“But I do know,” he’s yelling before he can stop himself, his footsteps coming to a halt. “I know because I have that. I have that and it’s the most precious thing in my life and yet I’ve been taking it for granted. And for what?”
He scoffs bitterly, his gaze fixing on your features; your flushed cheeks and slightly smudged lipstick, the way your puzzled eyes gleam under the moonlight. He shakes his head. 
“For childish illusions. The illusion that I could go back in time if I pretended hard enough, the illusion that this romanticized idea I have of my early twenties was superior to the life I have now,” Chan lets out a heavy breath, averting his gaze to the pavement. “The illusion that I could ever have you.”
“So it’s my fault you chose to lie about being a dad?” You blurt out.
He doesn’t lift his head. He can’t, the burden of guilt and shame weighing too heavily on his shoulders for him to face you.
“It’s my fault. You were simply the catalyst.”
“What do you even mean?”
“I mean I’ve always felt this way,” he exasperates, finally lifting his head but keeping his gaze anywhere but on you. He’s a coward. “I’ve always felt like maybe I was too young to be a dad, too immature to fully understand the consequences of the choices I made. I don’t regret my daughter, but I certainly regret the timing, and this haunts me every day. Meeting you again just made these feelings worse because you represent everything about my past that I no longer have.”
You remain quiet for a beat, but it feels like an eternity as Chan is forced to endure the deafening ring of your silence.
When you finally speak, your voice is unsteady. “You know, that’s why I always figured it was for the best that you left.”
“What?” Chan turns his gaze toward your face at last, your words stomping on his scattered heart one last time. He expects anger, but sorrow has taken over your expression, one so heavy he doesn’t recall a single moment in the years he’s known you where he’s seen you like this.
“You were always like this, Chan. You might think you were a different person back then, but you said it yourself,” you shrug with a sullen chuckle. “It’s only an illusion.”
He hums, nodding his head as it dawns on him. “You were never gonna be mine, were you? No matter what I did. I lied to you because I thought you would never want someone like who I am today. But I guess that was all in vain, ‘cause I’ve always been like this.”
“You always talked about getting married, settling down, having kids.” As you run a hand through your hair, an exasperated sigh falls from your lips. “You went along with our bullshit, but even back then, you were always like the dad of our group. This has always been you, Chan, but that’s not a bad thing. Don’t think you need to change or lie about who you are ‘cause you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met, but…”
He scoffs. “But?”
“But we’re too different. We’ve always been. We’re great together in every way but the way you want us to be — the way I would love for us to be as well,” you simply say, offering him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“And would it kill you if we tried? ‘Cause this unfulfilled hope has been killing me since I first fell in love with you.”
“What’s her name?” You simply ask, avoiding his question altogether. Chan furrows his brows. “Your daughter, what’s her name?”
He shifts on his feet. “Hyerin.”
“I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you as a dad.”
Chan shakes his head. “I’m far from the perfect father.”
“Good,” you state matter-of-factly. “Perfect wouldn’t be you.”
You fall into a much lighter silence, although it’s still far from comfortable. A swarm of questions fills Chan’s mind, but his words fade into silence and die on his lips.
He knows everything is over when you suck in a sharp breath, muttering, “I can’t be what you need. When love becomes too serious, I feel trapped and run away. You know what that’s like,” you trail off. “I know we loved each other back then, and I know I still love you now, but I think it’s my turn to walk away. I’m sorry, Chan.”
And just like that, he’s left to watch your figure slowly grow smaller and smaller as you fade into the dimly lit street. You don’t reprimand him for lying or question if he also loves you still. You don’t explain why you can’t make an effort, probably because you’re unsure of the answer yourself. It turns out you both remained unchanged.
And after all this time, it’s only then that Chan realizes you were always just as lost as he was.
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Chan didn’t allow himself to think much about you since he watched you walk away that night. He missed you often, as he had done for so long before your last encounter, but he had long grown numb to that feeling.
In the two years he was apart from you for the second time, he learned that life isn’t black or white. He could be a father while also being his own person; a son, a friend, a boyfriend. He learned that prioritizing Hyerin didn’t mean neglecting himself, as that would negatively impact her as well. She couldn’t only know happiness if her father was always dripping with sadness.
He learned he doesn’t have to choose between who he is now and who he was at twenty years old; they were both him, with certain moments bringing out glimpses of one or the other.
Hyerin started elementary school and is blossoming into a caring little girl, no longer needing Chan to tie her pigtails in the morning or remind her to brush her teeth before bed. Although she still demands that they maintain their nightly routine of lying together until she falls asleep to the sound of his voice singing her favorite song.
During his first parent-teacher conference — after walking into the classroom fifteen minutes late — he’s stunned to see you sitting across from him yet again, a pencil holding up your ponytail the same way it did that night at the restaurant. He couldn’t help the smile that spread on his lips.
You were Hyerin’s teacher. He recalled picking her up after her first day of school and listening to her gush over the art teacher who was so pretty and nice, and talking about how she wanted to be like her when she grows up.
It felt as if you were destined to find each other every time one of you chose to walk away.
Your friendship picked up again slowly this time — no rushing into bed together and no rushing into long overdue serious conversations. They had already been avoided for years, anyway, they could wait a bit longer. This is exactly what you needed; patience. Chan had never had the patience to wait for you, while you never had the patience to understand your own feelings.
It’s been ten months now, and he’s yet again sitting before you. The teachers and parents converse around you both as you sit in silence. When you think no one is watching, you exchange glances, struggling to suppress the silly smiles that insist on spreading across your faces.
As people leave the room one by one after the meeting, Chan approaches you.
“You’re Bang Hyerin’s father, correct?” You speak with a grin.
“Correct.”
“She’s an amazing kid,” you tell him.
He smiles, shifting his gaze toward his feet before his eyes find yours again as you speak.
“We could grab a coffee this weekend.”
This time, there are further implications hidden in your request. You’re not asking as a friend, like you’ve been doing these past months. Some things are heavy with you now, and this is something he’s only recently come to find. He’s also come to find that he loves that change.
So he answers, “Sure. Tomorrow at three?”
“Then I’m your date for tomorrow,” you say with a giggle. “See you there, cutie.”
And Chan lets out a hearty laugh at that, which earns him a scolding look from the other teachers in the room.
He isn’t sure what will come of this. Maybe you two are better off as friends and all it will take is a couple of months to figure that out. Maybe time has changed you both more than he can understand, and you will finally be able to try something real after all these years of unfulfilled hopes and childish illusions.
Either way, Chan knows he won’t let go of you this time.
He wants you to be his, in any sense of the word.
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♡ taglist: @bloom-ings, @linocz, @farahia, @mirbokk, @jisunglyricist, @jazziwritesthings, @seungseung-minmin, @yourcvndx, @hynjinnnnnnnie @vlctorriaa @yongbokkiesworld
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sim-songs · 10 months ago
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3000 Follower Gift! A conversion set for children!
I can't believe how many of you there are on this silly blog 😱 as a thank you, I've made a conversion pack of children's clothing, since last time I made a toddler pack I thought this was fitting hahaha 😊
Individual information and download under the read more!
Friede Jacket:
♪ Original post here by @adrienpastel-blog ♪ For children males and females ♪ Four recolorable channels (jacket, shirt, jacket pockets, buttons) ♪ Three presets ♪ Enabled for everyday, formal and outerwear ♪ Polycount ~4.7K
Workers Trousers:
♪ Original post here by @adrienpastel-blog ♪ For children males and females ♪ Four recolorable channels (pants, panel 1, panel 2, buttons) ♪ Three presets ♪ Enabled for everyday, formal, athletic and outerwear ♪ Polycount ~1.5K
Casey Jeans:
♪ Original post here by @adrienpastel-blog, edited from @serenity-cc ♪ For children males and females ♪ Three recolorable channels (pants, cuffs, button) ♪ Three presets ♪ Enabled for everyday and outerwear ♪ Polycount ~1.1K
Wesley Cardigan:
♪ Original post here by @adrienpastel-blog ♪ For children males and females ♪ Four recolorable channels (cardigan, trim 1, trim 2, buttons) ♪ Three presets ♪ Enabled for everyday and formal ♪ Polycount ~3.8K
Jeremy Sweater:
♪ Original post here by @adrienpastel-blog ♪ For children males and females ♪ Four recolorable channels (sweater, undershirt, cuffs, front pocket) ♪ Three presets ♪ Enabled for everyday, athletic and outerwear ♪ Polycount ~3.9K
Shiva Jeans:
♪ Original post here by @adrienpastel-blog ♪ For children males and females ♪ Three recolorable channels (pants, cuffs, buttons) ♪ Three presets ♪ Enabled for everyday and outerwear ♪ Polycount ~1.1K
Alessia Boots:
♪ Original post here by @adrienpastel-blog ♪ For children males and females ♪ Four recolorable channels (boot, sole, trim, laces) ♪ Three presets ♪ Enabled for everyday, formal and outerwear ♪ Polycount ~0.5K
Notes:
These were all done in the span of the last few days, and I've been kinda very sick. Any mistakes in these clothes are entirely my fault and I blame being sick 😓
The Wesley sweater DOES NOT have a shirt underneath. I forgot to take a picture without the accessory shirt I added so keep that in mind.
I threw some preview pictures with names in the zip file so you can pick and choose 😜
Like my work? Consider giving me a tip on Ko-fi! ❤
♪ Download on SimFileShare ♪
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