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mr-ys-phantasma · 2 days ago

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🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1312

Chapter 37:

When you walked into the Iron Maiden and climbed the first two steps, you did not expect to hear Jen shouting for anyone other than herself.

"Lilla! Lilia!"

Her shouts echoed across the stone walls, and you let Agatha continue up ahead as you turned and chose to check what was going in.

Yet when you found her hitting her fists against a dirt wall, shouting the name of a certain witch that was not amongst you... you realized.

Your lips pressed against one another, forming a flat line and momentarily you closed your eyes; offering a silent prayer and a moment of respectful peace for the brave witch.

Lilia was not close to you, and the way she often stared at you made you keep your distance from her. But in the end, she cared for the coven; more than anyone.

In the end, she sacrificed herself so the rest of you could move forward; one trial closer in reaching the end of the road and the much needed prize.

A prize, one would start questioning if it was worth it, after all the mental and physical torture... and the losses.

Jen needed a moment to recover, tears being wiped by the back of her hand before she sat down by the steps; trying to process yet another loss.

One that she truly felt this time.

Teen joined her while you stood close. You could have left them behind, go find Agatha, but you chose not to. They needed to mourn, to process everything before being able to continue.

Agatha would be fine, for she was not stupid enough to walk away. Yet you could not help but have this feeling... that something was not right.

"Rio." Jen started, unsure where to start. "Green Witch with a capital G. She told us who she was in the very beginning." She continued, earning Billy's attention, who was not catching up.

"Green Craft is about the cycle of all living things. Growth and decay in constant flow." You chose to enlighten him, leaning against the stone wall with hands folded in front of your chest.

At least you were out of that dress, which was perhaps the only positive thing you could think of right now. That and the fact that you were alive, one trial closer in getting out of this helish road.

Billy looked at you, not surprised you knew. He had come to realise, with your past related to Agatha, that you knew far more than the rest of the coven members.

"So Agatha's ex is Death." He concluded, trying to wrap his head around the idea that death was a woman; one capable of faling in love from the looks of it. "Well, one of her exes." he looked at you again.

You kept your lips pressed to one another. "Pretty much,"

"That makes sense," he commuted. Somehow, it did make sense; though by now, he did question his sanity and mind.

"You knew, didn't you?" Jen asked next, her gaze on your form.

This time, though, she was too tired to judge. Too tired to throw any sparky remarks. She just wanted some more answers. She deserved to know after all the trials she had been through with the coven.

You sighed. "I did."

"And you didn't tell us."

In honour of her grief and Lilia's sacrifice, you chose not to react to her words. "You didn't ask me, not her, not anyone," you replied calmly.

It was Jen's turn to sigh. "No, we didn't." she placed the back of her head against the wall.

Silence enveloped the group of three, no one truly knowing what to say. Some were even hesitant to move, trying to savour as much as they could, this little moment of peace.

Who knew what they would face next? How quick will the next trial come meet them?

As you three sat there, it was then that your fellow witches took notice that someone was missing.

"Where is Agatha?" Jen questioned, looking around but finding no sign of the magicless witch.

"Up ahead. She should be waiting for us, " you informed, one thumb pointing over your shoulder towards the way the steps were leading.

Jen scoffed. "Yeah, right?"

"She knows alone won't do her any good in the trials," you reminded Jen as you offered your hand to pull her up on your feet. "The Road needs us together. It's the only way."

Defeated, she accepted your hand and let you pull her up; surprised by your strength. You definitely did not look that strong...and yet again, you did not look a lot of things if she were to be frank.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Path led you back to the forest, unsure if it was the same place you had started of further down the Road. Everything looked the same, but you did not trail back to question. There was no need.

As you three walked in a line, you could not help but start a conversation. Though the topic was not much to your liking.

"I mean, how did they even meet?" Billy wondered.

"Um, over corpses, I imagine." Jen answered before the duo looked at you.

You sighed. "I am afraid you are asking the wrong witch," you confessed.

"But you were first, right? You knew Agatha before Rio, didn't you?" She asked you next, remembering what Evanora's ghost was saying in the cabin.

Though Jen was still puzzled by that interaction. Evanora hated you, and Jen suspected it was because you had chosen Agatha in the end. But something was telling her there was something more.

Pieces of your puzzle were missing, making it harder to get a good image of who you truly are and what your past is.

"I was," you answered simply, clearly not wishing to continue this discussion.

It was not easy for you either. Your feelings mixed about the topic and you needed time, to finally make a decision about it... to make peace with it.

"You must have really hurt her if her next ex ended up being Death itself."

You took a deep breath at Jen's words. You had chosen not to react so far, simply as a respect to her grief, but even you had limits to your patience.

Billy took notice, and he did not really like how that topic had changed to focus on you and your rather cryptic relationship with Agatha.

And it was not right talking about Agatha behind her back, as if she was not going to show up any time soon.

"Well... I don't care," he joined the conversation. "It simply shows more proof that Agatha has feelings."

His words made you smile faintly, but you hid it from Jen, who you didn't have to look to feel her disagreement rising.

"That was your takeaway?" She scoffed. "I do not understand your loyalty to her. Hers, I understand, but not you. "

"It's not loyalty. It's analysis." Billy quickly defended himself.

"Oh, look who grew up."

"I'm fully aware that Agatha Harkness can never be anything but a coven-less witch."

You did not manage to hide your expression at those words, which seemed to sting you as much as they would Agatha.

Yet before you could ask anything, someone else beat you to it.

"Ouch!" Agatha exclaimed as she came from behind some plans.

Your eyes locked, and you could once again see right through her. You could see that something was odd, something had taken place but you were not sure what.

A part of you told you it had to do with Rio, but you wouldn't put your hand in the fire of it.

One thing was certain, though.

Agatha's mask was back on. Any moments of true humility, humanity, and empathy long gone by now. She had locked them all away once again.

Chapter 38

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha spoilers #agatha fanfic #agatha x reader #agatha harkness x reader #moon phases fanfic #kathryn hahn #aubrey plaza #marvel #jennifer kale #billy maximoff

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mylo-space · 3 days ago

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Stitched and Stone

Summary: Wukong and Macaque were never very concerned about the demons that intruded on their home. There was no fight they couldn't win, and it made Flower Fruit Mountain the safest place on Earth. But winning doesn't stop Macaque from being flesh and blood, and safe doesn't mean the fights don't leave scars. guys, i can't write summaries. it's soft past shadowpeach stuff.

Posted on Ao3: 2023-10-19 Word Count: 8,279

The annoying thing about being king were the demons who decided it was a good idea to challenge his rule. Wukong had long since gotten used to various demons looking to pick a fight, and it’d almost become more of a nuisance than a concern. Fortunately, as his reputation grew, fewer and fewer challengers appeared to fight him. Unfortunately, the ones that did had started bringing small armies with them.

The demons were especially difficult to deal with when it was dark. For all his many powers, he had yet to find a way to see at night. As he tore through a crowd of demons, he also lamented that he hadn’t found a way to control the weather, as a tropical storm had started showering the mountain with torrents of rain. He’d considered making a few clones to help, but they couldn’t see any better than he could, and he’d accidentally hit two of the five he made at the beginning of the fight.

“Wukong!” he heard Macaque shout from somewhere across the battlefield. “I thought it couldn’t rain on this stupid mountain!”

Wukong swung his staff at a noise to the left, the iron colliding with some blurry figure darting around the trees. “It can't!” he confirmed. “One of these guys must have struck a deal with a thunder god or something.”

“Great!” Macaque grunted, striking down a vaguely fish-shaped demon. “Someone else whose ass we gotta kick later.” Wukong felt a hand tug his arm. “Get down!”

He’d learned not to question when Macaque gave him direction, often hearing threats that Wukong couldn’t, and so he ducked, feeling Macaque’s spiked staff ruffle his hair as he swung at a demon making a jump for them. “Getting pretty tired of this,” Wukong muttered irritatedly. “Feels like there’s no end to them.”

“Yeah,” Macaque said, and his hand was back on Wukong’s arm. “Portaling, now.”

“What?” Wukong tried to protest, because they couldn’t just leave the horde of demons roaming the mountain, but Macaque was already pulling him through. “Wait, we can’t-” He closed his eyes against the shadows, falling hard on something slim and instinctively wrapping his arms around it to stay steady. “Macaque!” He yelped, claws digging into the grooves of a tree branch. “What are you-”

A hand fit itself over his mouth. “Quiet,” Macaque hissed. “I’m thinking.”

Wukong batted Macaque’s hand away and sat up on the branch, tail lashing to keep himself balanced on the rain-slicked tree. “We don’t have time for-”

“Sh.”

“There are demons swarming the mountain,” Wukong persisted. “I can still hear them from here, put me back!”

Macaque inhaled sharply. “Okay, I got it.” Wukong opened his mouth to protest again, but Macaque had a hand on his shoulder before he could manage a word, locking eyes with a determined expression that had the king’s mouth snapping shut again. “They’re overwhelming us, and you can’t see.”

“I mean, I can see a little.”

“Not good enough,” Macaque said.

“I don’t have to see them to hit them, Macaque!”

“They’re going to try and regroup,” Macaque continued, paying Wukong’s protests no mind. “I’m gonna get between them and the cave, and you need to get between them and the bottom of the mountain.” He paused for a moment, and Wukong could see a flicker of magic flash by Macaque’s ears. “I’ll hear if any demons get too close to the troupe and stop them, then I’ll work my way towards you and take out everyone I can.”

“But-”

Macaque shook his shoulder. “Listen to me,” he scolded, “we don’t have time.” Six delicate points fanned out from the sides of Macaque’s head. “It’s dark, and I have the advantage of being out of sight. Turn into something that can see at night–a wolf, a fox, I don’t care–and keep them distracted. It’ll be easier to take these guys down if they’re spread out and disoriented. With both of us thinning the horde, they’ll either all die, or they’ll start retreating.”

And there was a pretty integral part of the plan that Wukong had an issue with, the separating, not wanting Macaque to be out of sight with danger crawling up the mountain. Which made it all the more frustrating that it was actually a really good plan. “Alright,” Wukong relented, knowing that he didn’t have the time to argue, “but you come find me if the troupe is in danger.”

A chuckle echoed around the trees as Macaque opened another portal, “Don’t worry,” he said, eyes alight with a familiar purple flame, “the demons won’t even get close.”

Wukong knew better than to question the legitimacy of Macaque’s claim. As much as he was the king and ruler of Flower Fruit Mountain, Macaque was easily the better protector. Even without Wukong on the mountain with him, Macaque had managed to keep Flower Fruit Mountain safe, granting any demon that crossed his path the mercy of not living long enough to regret the decision.

Dropping from the tree, Wukong shrank his staff to hide it in his ear, overtaken by golden smoke as he took the lithe form of a wolf. His eyes pierced the dark with ease as he tore through the forests. Really, he should have thought of his transformations sooner, and he was sure he’d hear some teasing from Macaque about it once they were safe in the cave.

He slowed as he approached the sound of clanging metal and angry voices, the demons having indeed started regrouping, struggling to come up with a plan to take down Wukong and Macaque. Wukong’s new toothy maw itched to surge forward and sink into something, but Macaque had a plan, and he’d stick to it.

There was a flash of golden light as Wukong turned back into himself, startling the demons that had gathered together. “Hey!” he called. “This whole storm thing ain’t working out for you, huh?” He was met with a roar of voices that made him wonder if there was any clear leader in this little army, as they all began rushing forward at once. “Yeah, come and get me,” he muttered, turning back into a wolf and darting into the underbrush.

Wukong ran until the voices became distant, then stopped to shift his form again, hiding in the trees as the demons began running past him, slowing once they’d realized Wukong was no longer in sight. It was almost amusing, in a way, watching their faint outlines in the rain, prowling around the area where they’d last seen him, fanning out to try and find him faster.

It was only a matter of time before they were spread out enough that Wukong was certain they couldn’t overwhelm him. He pulled his staff from his ear and jumped on the demon closest to the tree he’d been using as refuge, only a startled cry escaping the creature before being silenced. There were shouts of alarm from the other demons, trying to figure out which one of them had just been struck down and where, giving Wukong enough time to bring his staff down on three more intruders before they found him.

Their efforts to track him were proven fruitless as Wukong once again assumed the form of a wolf and retreated to the trees. It became a sort of rhythm, running and stopping, preying on the demons who let their guard down, losing them in the dense forests only to reappear from the trees and from behind boulders, hiding in bushes and tall grass that whipped his face in the storm.

And he wouldn’t be the Monkey King if he didn’t do his fair share of taunting, whispering to some stray demons from above, sending clones to snap sticks and tree branches, tricking demons into attacking the copies so that Wukong could strike from behind. He became a fox and an owl and even a snake once, just to really mess with a few demons that had started straggling behind.

By the time that the demon army realized that their numbers had been absolutely devastated, Wukong had become almost bored with the runaround. If Macaque had taken out as many demons as he had, the horde would have been thinned to maybe a quarter of its original size. A few dozen demons were child’s play to the King of Flower Fruit Mountain, and the diminished horde knew it.

It wasn’t an official surrender, but it was a victory for Wukong nonetheless, seeing demons stumble over themselves to get off the mountain. He wondered for a brief moment if Macaque had done that intentionally, telling Wukong to lure them to the bottom of the mountain so that they could make a swift escape from the island.

Probably, Wukong decided, Macaque was always good about planning things like that. An efficient strategy on all fronts.

The storm began dying down, and Wukong didn’t quite care enough to figure out which god of thunder aided this demon army in trying to catch him and Macaque off guard. But he would be sending a strongly worded letter to the Celestial Realm about what weather was and wasn’t allowed on his mountain.

Regardless of who was responsible for what, the fight was won. “Yes!” Wukong cheered, pumping his fists in the air so fast that it jolted every sore muscle in his body. “Ah- woah, okay,” he winced, lowering his arms and dusting off his hanfu as best he could with his clothes soaked from the rain. “Man, I’m glad that worked.”

Suddenly remembering he hadn’t been alone in the fight, Wukong whirled around in search of Macaque. With the trail of demons he came across, it seemed as though Macaque’s plan had gone accordingly. Which didn’t really surprise Wukong as much as it did make pride swell in his chest, just further confirmation that his trust in Macaque to protect the mountain in his absence was well-deserved.

Wukong broke through a clearing, a grin splitting his face as a familiar outline came into view. “Macaque!” He called, “Dude, that was amazing!” he exclaimed. “I got ‘em to follow me, just like you said! And then- in the trees and I, you know, woosh! And they couldn’t see me, I totally wiped them out and…” his enthusiastic rant trailed off as Macaque staggered a bit. “Are you okay?”

“What?” Macaque turned, blinking and offering a smile that shook at the corners. “Yeah, I’m… pretty sure.” His eyes fluttered a bit. “I- did we get them all?”

“Yeah,” Wukong said slowly, “yeah, we got them, just-” HIs gaze caught on Macaque’s hanfu, torn nearly in half. “What happened to your shirt?”

Macaque lifted a hand to tug at the torn collar in surprise. “Huh,” he mumbled, “that’s… weird, I don’t-”

“Macaque?” Wukong took a cautious step. “Mac, what’s wrong?” There was something dark on Macaque’s hand as he drew it back, staining the tan fur on his palm and chest. A sharp, coppery smell reached Wukong as Macaque stumbled, darkness pooling the more he moved, too liquid to be his shadows. “Macaque!”

Wukong surged forward before Macaque attempted another step, and the shadow fell against him. Macaque made a sound Wukong didn’t recognize, a strained wheeze that punched out of Macaque’s chest before he tried pushing himself away. “I’m okay, I’m-”

“Stop,” Wukong demanded, clutching Macaque tighter to him. “Macaque, stop, what-” Something warm seeped into Wukong’s sleeve, realization dawning, a violent nausea churning the pit of his stomach. “No… no, no.” Macaque’s knees buckled a bit as Wukong pulled away, which made it all the easier for the king to slip an arm under his legs and lift him into the air.

Macaque drew a sharp breath as Wukong lifted him. “What’re you-”

“Shut up,” Wukong hissed, summoning a dark wisp of condensation left over from the storm. “I mean, don’t- no, don’t shut up, actually, keep talking to me.” The cloud swooped low for Wukong to step up, then whisked them both into the sky. “Tell me what hurts.”

There was a beat of silence, nothing but the wind rushing past Wukong’s ears, and then Macaque jolted in his grasp, “I-” he gasped for air, only for the oxygen to stutter and rip itself back out of Macaque’s lungs in a pained groan. “I can’t-”

Wukong cursed as the energy seeped out of Macaque, leaving a limp, trembling shadow in his arms. “Mac, talk to me.” Macaque shook his head stubbornly, shifting in Wukong’s arms in a feeble attempt at escape and prompting the sage to hold him tighter. “No, Macaque, you need to hold still.”

“Hurts,” Macaque managed, sounding both surprised and angry to be saying it out loud. Wukong had told the warrior before not to hide injuries from him, and he’d gotten very good at noticing Macaque’s subtle limps and careful, practiced movements meant to hide bandaged joints. Macaque prided himself on being able to handle pain, in his ability to keep up with the stone-skinned monkey, and Wukong wasn’t sure he wanted to know how grievous the injury was if Macaque was admitting that it hurt.

“We can fix this,” Wukong promised, though he didn’t know what it was he had to fix. He just knew there was something, there was blood and Macaque was hurt, and he was going to fix it if it was the last thing he did in the Mortal Realm. “Just hang on, okay? I’ll fix it.”

Macaque hummed, nodding against Wukong’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice soft, distant, “whatever you say, Wukong.”

Emotion crawled up Wukong’s throat before he could manage another word, lodging itself there as something thicker than rainwater ran over his hands. He blinked away a burning behind his eyes and urged the cloud faster, running his thumb over Macaque’s arm as comfortingly as he could manage. Never before had he wished that he could trade his cloud for a portal, preferring the wind in his hair to the cool rush of shadows, but with Macaque’s breath coming shallower with every second, Wukong couldn’t help but curse the fact that he didn’t have his own pool of darkness buried in his chest somewhere.

The flight back to Water Curtain Cave couldn’t have been longer than a half a minute, but it felt closer to an hour, Macaque curling tighter against him to shy away from the cold night air. “Home,” Wukong whispered hoarsely, the gold seal over the cave parting just enough for the cloud to zip through, lowering its passengers to the ground before dissipating. “We’re home,” he told Macaque, ignoring the way his voice wavered. “Now, we gotta- uh…” His limbs locked up with indecision for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.

He was certain they had supplies to deal with almost any illness or injury, between Wukong’s cloud-jumping and Macaque's teleportation, they had the means to acquire medicines, ointments, and cures from all over the world. It was the matter of remembering where those supplies were, and what he would need to treat the stab wound. Or the gash, or the burn, or the whatever it was, and perhaps the first thing Wukong should have done was set Macaque down.

The shadow made a small noise as Wukong began walking. He tried to keep his gait steady, but the awkward weight of Macaque in his arms and the exhaustion from their fight caused a tremor in his steps. Still, he made it to one of the alcoves they used as rooms. Macaque had his own a little further back in the cave, away from the unrelenting sound of the outside world, but Wukong’s was closer, and the door easily shouldered open.

Distantly, Wukong could hear his subjects stirring, chattering to each other curiously, calling out to their king, and he ignored them. Not something he was in the habit of doing, but Wukong felt Macaque might slip away from him the second he shifted his focus, so he pressed forward.

“Here we go,” he muttered, placing Macaque on the blankets as gently as he could. “Just gotta- yep. There-” Macaque grunted as he fell back against the bed, eyes screwing shut at the impact. “Sorry!” Wukong gasped. “Sorry, I’m sorry-”

“S’okay,” Macaque grabbed Wukong’s forearm. “It’s just- I’m okay, promise. Just hurts.”

Wukong shook his head. Just hurts. He maneuvered so that he could look at Macaque’s injury without forcing the warrior to let him go. Macaque wasn’t the cuddliest monkey to ever walk the mountain, but Wukong knew he drew a certain amount of comfort from physical contact. “This is gonna suck, but I gotta get a better look at what we’re dealing with.”

Macaque’s free hand tugged weakly at his hanfu. “This,” he managed, “it’s- I can-”

“I got it,” Wukong reached to carefully peel back Macaque’s hanfu, grateful that he didn’t have to try and wrestle the fabric over Macaque’s head. “Oh,” he swallowed back something acidic as the injury was exposed to the air, two wounds that looked like the slash of a sword, crossed over Macaque’s chest in a near perfect ‘X’. His claws clutched at Macaque’s hanfu like that might somehow help hold the shadow together. “That- Macaque, I’m gonna be honest, that looks bad.”

“Feels bad,” Macaque wheezed, his hold on Wukong’s arm loosening, “looks worse than it is.” He was still talking, just as Wukong had asked, but his voice was ragged from fighting its way to open air. “Hurts, but… it can’t be- I’ve, uh,” his brow furrowed, dazed and confused, like the act of putting thoughts into words was suddenly an exhausting task and he didn’t know why, “I’ve probably had worse, I think.”

Any worse, and Macaque might have been dead before Wukong made it to the clearing, which was something the king didn’t want to consider for very long. Wukong bitterly hoped the demons responsible were grateful to Macaque for banishing them to Underworld himself, because Wukong would not have been particularly merciful if he’d gotten the honor of sending them to kneel before the Ten Kings.

“Are we-” Macaque’s gaze darted around the room, “this isn’t my room.”

“My room was closer,” Wukong explained, tucking Macaque’s hanfu back to reveal the whole of the injury. The wound spanned the entire left side of Macaque’s chest, an angry crimson blossoming through the tan fur, deep enough that Wukong could see a layer of fat under the pools of blood. “Don’t worry about it.”

Macaque’s face twisted. “But it’s gonna… I’m bleeding. On your blanket.”

“Don’t care,” Wukong said. Macaque tried to protest, but Wukong placed a gentle hand over his mouth. “Nope.” There were far more important things to worry about, and Wukong refused to let Macaque fret over the state of a bed. The blanket was replaceable, Macaque was not. “I need you to wait here for a second, okay? Need to grab some stuff to help you.”

Slowly, Macaque nodded, and Wukong let his hand fall away. Macaque swallowed, eyes fluttering tiredly. “Supplies are in the washroom,” he muttered. “Shelves.”

Wukong offered him a smile. “Thank you.” He stepped back from Macaque slowly, allowing the claws in his sleeve to detach carefully. “I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” The last bit might have been a wholly unnecessary addition, as Macaque was thoroughly pinned in place by his injury. Still, Wukong felt the need to remind him. Knowing Macaque, he’d probably try and patch himself through sheer willpower alone, and Wukong wouldn’t have it.

His hands still trembled as he left, the cave now filled with curious monkeys trying to peek around him and into the room. He closed the door enough that they couldn’t see inside, but open enough that Wukong would be able to slip through again with his hands full. The subjects of Flower Fruit Mountain had always liked Macaque, even before Wukong liked Macaque, and no doubt the scent of blood was causing alarm for the troupe.

“It’s alright,” Wukong told them gently, making his way to the washroom and exploring the shelves next to the basin. “He’s gonna be okay,” and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince his troupe or his reflection, but he kept repeating the reminder as he pulled down a few boxes of supplies to look through.

Macaque might have laughed at him for being so incompetent, a good-natured tease as he guided Wukong’s hands to the correct box. He found himself a bit overwhelmed by the amount of supplies in the boxes, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been too surprised. Macaque had always taken his role as a warrior seriously, protecting Flower Fruit Mountain from any foe, be that demons or injury or illness.

But, for the moment, it was Wukong’s turn to fend off the danger, and he reached into the boxes to arm himself. Alcohol to sterilize, and an ointment made of aloe to keep out bacteria, it’d do the shadow no good to battle an infection alongside his injury. He found rolls of bandages and, in a small container that Wukong almost missed, a needle and thread.

Wukong hesitated for only a moment before taking the needle and thread and grabbing towels from a shelf higher up. The towels unfolded in his haste to leave the washroom, one even falling to the ground, but Wukong paid it no mind. He’d come back for it later.

A fearful chattering followed Wukong back to his room, pushing open the door only to stop as several monkeys tried to force their way inside. “Hey, no,” he scolded softly. “Not right now, okay? Let me get him fixed up, and then you can see him.”

The elders on the mountain were far more used to injury than some of the younger members of the troupe. Wrinkled hands reached for the restless infants and pulled them away from Wukong’s door, knowing that whatever rested upon his bed wasn’t for young eyes to see.

When he was certain that the troupe was calm–as calm as they could be with a bedridden protector–Wukong went inside and closed the door behind him. “Okay,” he breathed, “I think I got everything.” He moved back to Macaque’s side, setting the supplies haphazardly on the bedside table and the towels atop his blanket. “Now we just-” His gaze flicked to Macaque’s face, eyes closed and lips parted enough for puffs of shallow breath. “Macaque?”

Wukong shook Macaque’s shoulder as much as he dared and tapped a paling cheek, but there was no sign of consciousness to be found. If it were simply exhaustion, Wukong might feel a little better, but with blood still oozing from the shadow’s chest, fear seized the king by the throat. Panicked, he placed a hand just under Macaque’s jaw, pressing fingertips into the pulsepoint just to make sure there was something still there to feel.

And there was a pulse, much to the king’s relief, but it was slow, too sluggish for his liking. So, he pulled away and snatched up a towel, folding it in halves until it fit the wound, and placed it carefully over Macaque’s chest. The warrior made a sound as Wukong pressed on the injury, and for a moment he almost recoiled in fear of hurting Macaque more than he already had, but he persisted. He couldn’t treat the injury if he couldn’t see it, and he couldn’t stitch it closed with black fur so slicked with blood.

It could have been an eternity that Wukong stayed trying to stop the flow of blood, eventually pulling a second towel from his pile and pressing it to the wound. When the blood had finally slowed to a less disturbing dribble, Wukong was able to inspect the injury without fear of more pooling crimson. The issue that remained was the blood that stuck to Macaque’s fur. “Water,” he muttered to himself. “Of course, I forgot something.”

Reluctantly, he left Macaque again to retrieve water. After some rummaging around, he managed to find a bowl, and he brought it outside to a stream that ran past the cave. It was a pretty decent size, but there was so much blood matting Macaque’s fur that Wukong would no doubt have to refill it with clean water at some point.

He wondered briefly if Macaque might be willing to help him set up something in the cave, a clever mortal invention that allowed running water inside one’s home without having to run back and forth to a water source. There were plenty of streams that ran through Flower Fruit Mountain, and he was sure they could figure it out if the mortals could. Though he’d perhaps bring up the idea after Macaque was healed, lest the shadow try and start the task right away.

Wukong watched the bowl as he walked back into the cave, careful not to spill the contents as he waded through the crowd of monkeys that had gathered. They didn’t try getting into the room again, but that didn’t make them any less anxious, and the elders had started grooming through some of the younger monkeys’ fur in an attempt to calm them. Wukong nodded his thanks before retreating back into his room.

Macaque’s position was unchanged from where Wukong had left him, aside from his head twisting to bury one half of his face into a pillow. “I’m back,” he told the shadow quietly. To any other unconscious form, the words of reassurance might not have mattered, but Macaque’s ears still flicked at the sound, and his head turned to find Wukong’s voice again. “Gotta press on this again,” he warned, taking a clean towel and soaking it in water. “Kinda glad you’re asleep for this, actually,” he said absently, “stitching this up is not gonna be fun for you.”

Not that it was going to be particularly fun for Wukong, either. It’d been a while since he’d needed to stitch up anything other than their clothes, and the needle and thread sitting on his bedside table were quite possibly the most intimidating tools he’d ever seen. Stitching flesh together was… an uncomfortable thought, but he knew Macaque would do it without hesitation, with sure hands and a playful taunt for good measure, so Wukong furrowed his brow and grit his teeth and busied himself with cleaning the fur around the Macaque’s wound.

He wasn’t necessarily afraid of Macaque dying, though he kept pressing his fingertips to the shadow’s pulse just to reassure himself. The wound was deep, but they’d caught it fast and the blood had stopped its flow. Macaque’s chest rose and fell steadily, with only the occasional stutter of pain, but there was just something about seeing Macaque lying in a pool of blood that made him uneasy.

If there was anything to provide Wukong with some sense of ease, it was that Macaque, despite not being as invincible as Wukong, did heal pretty fast. Most small cuts and bruises were gone in a day or so, gashes healing into scars within a week. A wound of this size would probably take a little while longer, but that wasn’t unmanageable. The hardest part would be keeping Macaque in bed.

When the water in the bowl began turning an off-color pink, Wukong sighed and stood. “I’ll be back,” he said, gathering the soiled towels and tossing them into a corner somewhere. “Sometimes I wish you were made of stone, you know that?” He took the bowl of water and added, “Hate seeing you like this.”

Macaque, of course, had no response for him, so he left. The elders had begun herding infants back to their nests, and Wukong was thankful that they couldn’t see the tainted water from the other side of the cave. The scent was unmistakable, surely they knew Macaque was bleeding, but Wukong could at least shield them from how deep the wound ran.

When Macaque was bandaged and awake, he’d let the troupe swarm the warrior all they liked. Until then, Wukong would tend to Macaque as gently as his stone hands knew how.

He disposed of the bowl’s contents outside, pouring the bloodied water into the stream. Kneeling on the soft bank, he rinsed all traces of red from the bowl and watched the ribbons of pink flow swiftly down the current. When he was certain the bowl was clear of old blood, he refilled it and stood, returning to his task of cleaning Macaque’s wound.

It was a methodical process, gently working the blood that had started drying to Macaque’s fur; Wukong found it almost grounding, in a way, his hands slowly losing their tremor the longer he felt Macaque’s heartbeat under his hands. For just one split second, he considered what would have happened if the weapon had been stabbed into Macaque’s chest rather than slashed across his flesh, if there’d still be a heartbeat under his fingertips if the demon who wounded Macaque had been just a bit bolder.

He swallowed the growl that rose in his chest at the thought, forcing himself to remember that the demon had been taken care of already. There was no one else that could hurt Macaque that night.

Wukong had to pull his hand away at the sight of protruding white bone. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if it was cause for concern, not having this kind of issue with his own stone skin and near invincibility. It wasn’t like he could wake Macaque and ask, so Wukong simply continued. It wasn’t a lot of bone, a mere nick, really, and as soon as he got Macaque stitched up, it wouldn’t even matter.

Still, that didn’t make the sight of Macaque’s ribcage any less unsettling, regardless of how little was actually visible. It was a painful reminder that it didn’t matter how immortal they became, Macaque was still flesh and blood. But the wound was finally clean enough to stitch, which Wukong knew was a good thing, despite how much he was going to hate what came next.

The bowl had once again turned a dull pink by the time he finished cleaning Macaque’s injury, so Wukong took it back to the stream. He went through the process of rinsing and refilling mechanically, trying to map out a strategy for stitching Macaque’s wound, if there even was a strategy to prepare for such things. If Macaque were awake he wouldn’t worry so much, he’d trust the warrior to sit still enough for steady stitches.

But the shadow could hardly control himself unconscious, and if he flinched in his sleep, Wukong could hurt him. He’d only been a bit twitchy while Wukong cleaned the wound, but the needle was a bit more intrusive than a cloth. There were plenty of awful images that flitted through Wukong’s mind about the many worrisome and very incorrect ways that a needle could go through Macaque’s flesh.

Shuddering to himself, Wukong took his bowl of fresh water back into the cave. The troupe had largely settled, only a few of the elders stirring as Wukong walked to his room. He’d have to come up with a gentle explanation for what had happened that night, but that could be a problem in the morning, he decided.

He slipped into his room as quietly as he could so as to not disturb the infants that had managed to go back to sleep. A soft sigh escaped him as he pushed the door closed, steeling himself for the task that came next.

“Wukong?” The rasp startled Wukong as he turned to face Macaque, looking just barely awake in his bed. “Wha’s going on?”

“Hey,” Wukong said gently, setting the bowl back on the table. “Don’t worry, everything is fine.”

Macaque coughed out something that might have been a laugh if it weren’t for the way his vocal cords strained to be steady. “There’s a hole in my chest,” he said dryly.

“There’s an ‘X’ in your chest,” Wukong corrected as he took the bloodied towels and tossed them in the corner with the rest. “But!” he continued, “Not for very long, because I’m just about ready to start stitching you up.”

“Oh, good,” Macaque muttered, “glad I woke up for my favorite part.”

Wukong hummed in sympathy, grabbing a clean rag from the edge of the bed. “Well, it saves us the trouble of you moving in your sleep, at least.”

“Small blessings.” Macaque watched Wukong take the small bottle of alcohol and pour it on the rag. “Does the troupe know anything?”

“They know there’s blood,” Wukong said, “and they know it’s you,” he swiped the alcohol-soaked cloth across the needle, “but they didn’t see the injury. The elders have managed to get most of them back to sleep, but they’ll probably want to see you in the morning.”

Macaque smiled and shook his head. “Of course.” He tugged at his hanfu. “Can we take this off me before you start? It feels gross.”

Wukong hesitated for a moment. “I really don’t want you to start bleeding again.”

“It’s gonna bleed either way, Wukong,” Macaque huffed, “at least let me bleed comfortably.”

“You’re gonna have to sit up so I can get the bandages around you, anyway,” Wukong pointed out. “We can get it off then, okay? It’ll be a lot easier than trying to do it laying down.”

Still tugging uncomfortably at his ruined hanfu, Macaque considered Wukong’s request. “Fine,” he relented finally, “just be quick about the stitches, yeah?”

Making an unsure noise, Wukong clumsily pushed a silk thread through the eye of the needle. “I mean, I can try to be fast, but I’m not gonna risk making this worse.” Macaque huffed at that, but he didn’t counter. Which either meant he was too tired or in too much pain to argue. In either case, it had that anxiousness creeping back into Wukong’s chest. “Macaque?”

“It’s fine,” Macaque said, though his voice was pulled tight. “Just get this over with. Please.”

Wukong studied Macaque for a moment, watching his jaw set and his claws curl into the blanket in preparation. There wasn’t anything Wukong could do to make the process easier or less painful, and it left him feeling a bit helpless. He couldn’t even provide comfort with a needle and thread in his hands.

Although, when the king’s frantic mind gave it a couple seconds of thought, he realized that he might have a solution for that. Reaching up with his free hand, Wukong plucked a strand of hair from his head, blowing gently to form a clone sitting on the other side of Macaque. “Hey,” the copy greeted warmly.

Macaque blinked. “What-”

The clone took the shadow’s hand, gently prying the blanket from his claws. “Really should have thought of this sooner, huh?” Wukong smiled as Macaque’s shoulders untensed a bit. “I’ve been walking all the way to the stream to get clean water.”

“Oh, yeah?” Macaque asked, realizing the bleak comfort the clone was trying to provide, keeping him distracted while the real Wukong began the grueling process of stitching. “Incredible. A whole fifteen steps.”

“Mm-hm,” the clone pressed its palm to Macaque’s, curling its fingers loosely around the shadow’s trembling hand, “it’s actually thirty steps, when you think about it, fifteen steps both ways.” Macaque’s fingers twitched as Wukong placed a hand near the wound in warning. “And I did it three times.”

Wukong watched Macaque’s reaction carefully as he began pushing the needle through skin. “Oh, three times,” Macaque said mockingly, “can’t believe the Great Sage would waste his energy on… what? Eighty steps?” Macaque’s hand latched onto the clone’s as Wukong started stitching his flesh together.

“Ninety steps,” the clone corrected. “That’s, like, a whole workout.”

Macaque rolled his eyes. “You disappear for weeks to go train, and ninety steps is-” His breath hitched, his entire body seizing and his eyes screwing shut. Wukong’s head snapped up, his hand going to Macaque’s arm to stop it from twitching. “Okay,” Macaque grunted, “I’m okay.”

“It’s fine if you’re not,” Wukong told him. “We can take a break if-”

“No,” Macaque said through gritted teeth, not bothering to open his eyes to look at either Wukong in the room. “The faster you stitch this together, the sooner I can get out of this bed.” Wukong deliberated for a moment, knowing Macaque would forgo taking a break in favor of just getting it over with, and he didn’t want to overwhelm Macaque because the warrior decided he was too stoic to take a breather.

His clone glanced up, giving Wukong a minute knowing nod. If Macaque couldn’t decide when to take a break, Wukong’s clone could monitor it instead. “Alright,” Wukong relented, releasing the arm he'd been holding and placing his hand over Macaque’s chest, steadying both himself and the shadow as he went back to stitching. “We’re almost halfway there.”

“Hey, that’s good,” the clone said, taking Macaque’s hand in both of its own. “We’ll be done before you know it.” With a crooked grin, the clone informed him, “And you’re absolutely not getting out of bed, by the way. Not for, like, at least two weeks. Probably more.”

“Yeah?” Macaque challenged, finally cracking his eyes open. “I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

“I have my ways,” the clone said.

“You ain’t got nothin’.” A small smile making its way to Macaque’s face. “I have portals.”

The clone hummed. “True,” it admitted, “but I have the softest blankets and the best hugs.”

Macaque’s voice was strained, pulled taunt with pain, but he still managed a chuckle. “Oh, hugs, you say,” he drawled. “How could I possibly refuse such a generous offer from the king?”

“You can’t refuse,” the clone informed him. “I simply will not let you.”

Wukong inhaled sharply as the needle caught awkwardly, Macaque’s barely concealed flinch not going unnoticed. “Almost done,” he promised. “We’ll get you bandaged up and then move you to your room, okay? And smother you with every blanket I can find.”

“As long as none of them are made of hair,” Macaque sighed.

The clone perked up. “Ah, so you’ve admitted defeat,” it exclaimed. “Don’t worry, bud, you’ll be the comfiest bedridden celestial primate in the realm.”

“Bedridden for the night, maybe,” Macaque said. “I’m exhausted. I’ll be your worst nightmare come morning, mark my words. I am not staying in bed.”

“Aw, are you sure I couldn’t persuade you?” the clone asked. “What if I bring you some fresh mangoes for breakfast?” Macaque looked like he was about to argue, then his face turned contemplative at the offer of breakfast in bed. “Yeah? Pretty good deal, right?”

Macaque huffed, though there was an unmistakable smile in his voice. “Whatever.” He turned to Wukong, who had started delicately tying off the stitches. “You done there?”

“Think we’ve got it.” Wukong set aside the needle and thread, picking up the small container of aloe. “Gotta put some of this on, and then we’ll start wrapping bandages.” He passed the bowl of water he'd set on the bedside table to the clone.

“No infections on our watch,” the clone agreed, releasing Macaque’s hand to take the bowl of water and a grab clean rag, gently dabbing away some stray droplets of blood from the stitches. “Can’t have you injured and sick. The elders would have a fit.”

“Don’t remind me,” Macaque groaned, the clone chuckling as it set the bowl aside. “Really not looking forward to being fussed over for the next two weeks.” He hissed a bit as Wukong began spreading ointment over the wound. “It’s fine,” he told Wukong before the king could ask if he was alright. “Just cold.”

Wukong winced. “Sorry,” he applied the ointment as quickly as he dared and then set the container back on the bedside table. “Alright, let’s sit you up.”

The clone slipped an arm under Macaque’s back. “Gonna go real slow, okay?”

“Yep,” Wukong supported Macaque on his side, gradually guiding Macaque to a sitting position., “nice and easy, bud.” The movement was slow, but a few pained, ragged breaths still escaped the shadow as he was moved. “You okay?”

“Never felt better.” Macaque looked down at himself. “Can I get a clean shirt, please?”

“I’m on it,” the clone slid off the bed and walked to the dresser tucked into the corner of Wukong’s room, pulling open drawers and sifting through clothes. “Find you something good and comfy, and get you moved.”

The room was quiet as Wukong began wrapping the bandages around Macaque’s chest. The clone spent much longer than necessary sorting through Wukong’s clothes, making sure Macaque didn’t have more of an audience for his vulnerability than necessary. Luckily, the bandages didn’t take long to wrap, just a few minutes of careful binding, and then Wukong sat back with a smile. “Okay! I think we’re all good here."

“Finally,” Macaque shifted like he was going to get off the bed, and Wukong stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Wukong,” Macaque said sharply, halting any protests before Wukong could say a word. “My legs aren’t injured, I can stand.” He glanced up, his voice softening at the sight of Wukong’s concern. “I can get changed into new clothes by myself, alright? I’ll be careful.”

And as much as Wukong wanted to say ‘absolutely not’, he also knew how much Macaque valued his independence. Reluctantly, he nodded, “Okay,” he relented, “just yell if you need help with anything, okay?” he reassured himself knowing that he’d have every opportunity to tend to Macaque while the shadow healed, anyway. “Me and the clone will step out.”

“Thanks,” Macaque breathed.

The clone returned from the dresser with a loose fitting shirt and pants. “Got it from here, bud?”

Patting the clone on the shoulder, Wukong said, “Yeah, he’s got it.” He steered the copy towards the door. “C’mon! Let’s grab some blankets to smother him with.” Macaque snorted, which was enough to relieve some of the weight in Wukong’s chest.

Wukong left the door open a crack behind him, just in case Macaque needed him for anything. The clone immediately began padding around the cave in search of blankets for Macaque. Luckily, there were plenty of comfort items lying around, a necessary collection for a king with the world’s most affectionate subjects. And while the clone was busy, Wukong visited the stream one last time to clean off the blood that had dried on his skin and fur.

He let the current flow over his hands for a few minutes, trying to suppress the urge to go check on Macaque, giving the shadow some time to dress himself. When he was certain that enough time had passed, and his claws had been thoroughly picked through and cleaned of blood, he stood and flicked the water from his hands, retreating back into the cave. The clone gave him a clumsy thumbs up with an armful of blankets, and trotted to Macaque’s room.

Making his way to his bedroom door, Wukong cleared his throat. “All good in there?”

“Yeah,” Macaque answered. “You can come in, if you need to.” Despite having permission, Wukong still opened the door cautiously. Macaque was dressed in a plain, loose fitting shirt that hung off his frame, and a pair of soft pants. If Wukong hadn’t just finished stitching his chest back together, he wouldn’t have guessed that Macaque was injured at all.

The shadow glanced up at him, brow furrowing. “Should probably change your shirt, too,” Macaque noted as Wukong stepped in. “Got some, uh… you know.”

Alarmed, Wukong pulled out his shirt and looked down at it. It probably should have occurred to him sooner that carrying Macaque would leave a good amount of blood soaked into his own shirt, but it hadn’t really crossed his mind until Macaque pointed it out. “Yeah, probably,” he said. “The clone has some blankets ready in your room, if you wanna go ahead and-”

“Yep,” Macaque scrubbed his hands over his face wearily. “I’m ready for tonight to be over. Going to bed.” He slowly made his way to Wukong’s bedroom door, though he lingered at the door frame for a moment. “Are you, um… your bed kinda has a lot of blood on it, so- I mean, if you wanted to crash in my room, you’re more than welcome.”

Wukong smiled warmly. “Of course,” he replied, knowing that Macaque had a hard time asking for things like company and affection. “Lemme get changed and assign some clones to clean up, and then I’ll be there.”

Relief flitted across Macaque’s expression. “Alright,” he said, pushing open the door and leaving Wukong alone in his room. “Don’t take too long,” he added as he walked away, “I’m tired.”

The king shook his head at the shadow’s theatrics, smiling to himself as he dug through his dresser for something clean to wear. He took a few seconds to pull out a lock of hair, summoning a small team of four clones. “You guys mind cleaning up?” Wukong asked, tugging off his bloodied clothes. “Macaque and I had a rough night.”

Of course, the clones knew that, seeing as they were just Wukong, and they set to work cleaning up the towels and medical supplies, stripping the blood-soaked blanket and sheets off his bed. After a few seconds of wrestling with his clothes, Wukong passed them off to the nearest clone and tugged on his clean pajamas. They’d probably be at the cleaning for a while and, as a general rule, most clones weren’t too good about doing tedious work, but Wukong trusted them to do this job without his supervision. No Wukong wanted to stare at the aftermath of Macaque’s injury for longer than they had to.

A yawn stretched his jaw until it cracked, which Wukong took as a sign that he should head to Macaque’s room. Between the fight and the injury, he’d had his fair share of excitement for the next month or so. He’d promised Macaque breakfast in the morning, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if they both ended up sleeping for the entire day.

He made his way to Macaque’s room, nudging the door open to find his first clone and a bed piled high with blankets. “Where-”

“Under here,” the pile of blankets muttered. “Your stupid clone already buried me.”

“You’re welcome,” the clone replied, looking rather pleased with itself.

Wukong couldn’t help but laugh at Macaque’s predicament. “Go help the others clean up,” he told the clone, “I’ll take it from here.” The clone gave a mock salute and left, closing the door gently behind it. “Boy, that guy sure knows how to pile on the blankets, huh.”

“I literally cannot move,” Macaque deadpanned. Wukong walked over to the bed and pulled off the top few layers of blankets. “That’s a little better,” he muttered, “at least I can breathe again.” Macaque’s expression twisted in pain for a moment as he shifted, then he sighed and settled into his pillow. “I think I could sleep for a week after tonight.”

Humming in agreement, Wukong slid under the blankets. “Good,” he replied, his eyelids already dragging shut the moment his head hit the pillows. “You could use the rest.” Wukong heard the blankets rustle and cracked his eyes open, met with the sight of Macaque worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “What’s up?”

Macaque shook his head. “Nothing. Just thinking.” He shifted again, struggling to get comfortable with his injury. “I’m probably gonna pop a stitch rolling over in my sleep or something. Not used to sleeping on my back.”

Wukong frowned. “Well, can’t have that.” He wriggled his way through the blankets so that he was closer to Macaque, sliding an arm over the shadow’s stomach and holding him as close as he could without disturbing the bandages. “Think this’ll help?”

“I… uh, yeah,” Macaque stammered, “probably.” It wasn’t unfamiliar territory for either of them, sleeping in the same bed, more often than not waking up with their limbs tangled together. But no matter how often Wukong showered Macaque with affection, he always seemed surprised that the king would willingly be so close to him. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Wukong nuzzled into the pillows and closed his eyes. “Now get to sleep. King’s orders.”

“Yes, sir, Your Majesty,” Macaque replied tiredly.

It didn’t take long for Macaque’s breathing to even out, falling asleep within minutes of laying down, but despite his own exhaustion, Wukong couldn’t help but feel restless.

He had never liked seeing Macaque hurt, and he didn’t like seeing the scars that these kinds of injuries could cause. Macaque, of course, never cared too much, having scars from even before Wukong knew him. It came with having flesh and blood instead of stone skin.

Wukong hoped that the mark would fade entirely as it healed, but he knew it was a long shot. At the very least, maybe Macaque’s fur would grow over most of it and leave only a small ‘X’-shaped remnant of the gaping wound. Just one more scar among the many that spanned Macaque’s body, a mere inconvenience to the Shadow of Flower Fruit Mountain, but a haunting reminder to the King.

Swallowing back the bitter hatred of his own incompetence, Wukong gently curled himself tighter around Macaque. He breathed the tension out of his body as Macaque’s tail thumped under the blankets, seeking out Wukong’s, and unconsciously winding them together. With his last fleeting moments of consciousness, Wukong vowed to absolutely cosset the bedridden warrior when the sun came back up.

#mylo's lmk stories #cross posted on ao3 #lego monkie kid #lmk #lmk macaque #lmk sun wukong #lego monkie kid macaque #lego monkie kid sun wukong #shadowpeach #lmk fanfiction

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acid-ixx · 5 months ago

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ch.1: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

if there was one thing you hated more than the crime-filled streets of gotham, it would be empty promises.

when was the last time they attended your birthday? or your school ceremonies? or any special event that meant for you to be the center of attention?

plot twist, there was no last time, or a time before that or any day that they were there for you.

not your eldest brother, dick, not your dead brother, jason, of course tim wouldn't be there for you, damian's absence is a given, not even your sisters would come, and most especially not your father, bruce wayne.

you never wrote wayne as your last name. in every test, it would always be your mother's last name. in every document that you had to fill, you would violently scratch in the name of your father, wishing it wasn't required at all so you wouldn't have to hang your head in shame everytime someone looks at you incredulously for having the bruce wayne as your father but never once appearing to be with you.

you can't recall a time you had called him your dad, or even considered him as one.

if you could count the times you have seen him in person, it wouldn't even fill ten fingers. even interviewers and paparazzi have more luck in coming across him than you would, his child.

it sucks, really, how despite having nearly sharing the same age as tim, you never once saw him outside of his room. you thought you would've been the closest to him, but the most you have seen him was when you were watching the news with the "new" robin popping up, or worse; when bruce would be seen guiding tim through the paparazzi and not you. alfred had to drag you away from the tv that day because you were already suffering through a panic attack just seeing those two act so close; ripping your hair out just from watching the news wasn't a good way to cope.

you remember being so jealous of him, of how bruce would always spend time with him and not you. it made you wonder, were you special enough? tim is so brilliant, you could admit. and you were, too, having enough comprehensibility as a child to find out they were vigilantes a year or two after living in the manor— but you weren't good enough like tim. you weren't cut out to be like a detective or a fighter.

it was no wonder why bruce chose them over you.

it came to you in the form of talking to tim that had you discovering that no one ever mentions your name inside the house, proving it to be true when tim had hesitated calling your name and even stuttered through pronouncing it. and then he left after finding you were of no use to help him. alfred had to stifle your sobbing after tim left the room, allowing you to cry on his chest whilst you sat beside him.

(name) wayne was so, so lonely.

you would've accepted their absence long ago, but you were a stupid child who needed care and reassurance because your mother left you for good at the age of five. you were too naive into thinking you would receive the same love from your family just like the other kids in elementary would. you were a child who expected too highly of your father, thinking that he would pick you up from school with that picture perfect photographed smile of his and kiss your forehead and tell you that you did a great job at school today.

it was your teachers who would be the one having to walk you up the stage whenever you achieved an award. alfred would be too busy sometimes to attend your school ceremonies because he had to assist bruce with missions. of course, you understood his priorities. after all, he tried his hardest to make you feel less lonely inside the mansion, it wasn't enough but he was there at least.

it was long ago that you stopped praying for your family to attend at least one of your birthdays.

it's ironic, really, for a child to prep and plan for their own celebration just to hope that a single member of their family to even walk by the kitchen and join them in on their already lonesome celebration.

too bad everybody only goes to the kitchen when alfred cooks for them. who would want to taste sadness in a sloppily made birthday cake, right? nobody, not even you would have the appetite to eat your cake with the knowledge that it was you who had to put all the effort to bake it because you didn't want alfred to feel obligated to. knowing nobody would celebrate birthdays with you, save for alfred, it was expected that you started to prefer cupcakes.

because then you wouldn't be scolded for making such a mess.

you never cooked family meals after the incident where nobody came and to not waste food, you had to bring in large containers to bring to school so you could celebrate your birthday there.

it was there that you find more solace in your small group of friends compared to the desolate rooms of the mansion. your family celebrates holidays together as a whole, but you never once attended after that one time where everybody had forgotten to get you a gift for christmas, save for alfred who gave you a bracelet (one that you cherished deeply). you only smiled weakly and hopelessly, sneaking into your room before the family dinner.

it was alfred again who bought you leftovers and sat on your bed for an hour to encourage you that there's still more christmas's to go.

you never believed what he said. not anymore.

there was a period of time where you hated them more than anything, blamed them for everything and became more rebellious, purposely failing tests, fighting your classmates and disrespecting teachers in hopes that for once your father would bat an eye on you. that only resulted in you being taken out of the school and being transferred into another, for a behavioral reform is what alfred stated to you when you annoyed him for answers.

damian started to bully you a bit more harder after that incident, calling you immature and childish, a weakling, an attention seeker. how someone at your age should've known better. you were convinced that he was relishing in the heartbroken glare you gave him, ignoring the way his eyes widened momentarily at your reaction before sneering and walking away.

alfred gently scolded you, but you were too choked up and instead you almost tripped running inside your bedroom, locking yourself in for what seems like hours.

you don't want to remember the immense breakdown you had that evening too, screaming on your blankets and destroying your things and hurting yourself because... because you had lost your old friends for nothing! your caring teachers, your academic progress, everything! every single thing for an ounce of attention! because he didn't have enough energy to come with you to the guidance counselor and he only had you transfer out so you wouldn't ruin the wayne's reputation!

you hate him, you hate bruce fucking wayne so much and you hate clinging onto their empty promises and sorry's to make it up for you. you hate how their promises were never even said directly to you, you hate how alfred was your only source of hope for a medium of communication.

you hate them all.

and worst of all, you hate yourself for drowning in hope. for wishing you were physically stronger so you could at least bond with them through training. for dreaming about a day where they could surprise you and told you they were just testing you and that you actually had worth inside this manor. for praying nightly that they'll smile at you like the heroes you see in tv rather than that of pity.

you wished there was a universe where gotham was safer, more protected with no criminals littering the streets. maybe then they would have more time to notice you crying every night, writing self destructive entries in your diary, sketching what would've been a happy family. they wouldn't have to wear their silly costumes to fight crime and instead would save you from your own demons.

if...

if you were brutally tortured and killed by the joker, or forced to choke on the fear toxin by the scarecrow— hell, even beaten to near death by some random goons; would they have given you a sliver of their love? would they finally look at you and save you from yourself?

because despite your resentment, you would never lie and say you didn't feel blessed that you were thrown to a family of talented individuals.

your drawings of a complete and happy family holding hands together and a diary filled with rants and fantasies of spending time with them proved just that.

you were blessed with them yet cursed at the same time to never reach the same level to be even considered part of their lives.

you were hopeless. you never amounted to anything. you were just, you.

thirteen years have passed by then, and in those years you were proud to say your development as a person, albeit slow, transformed you from a child that succumbed to neglect to an independent person who managed to maintain a comfortable circle of friends, a scholarship for a college far away from gotham, and an apartment of your own (you were a bit in debt due to having to pay for your own because no way in hell would you ask for your father for financial support).

allowance was scarce, your food supplies weren't infinite compared to back when you were living at the wayne manor, and you weren't greeted to michelin star restaurant meals cooked by alfred— but you were content, and that was enough.

though content translated to nightly breakdowns whilst finishing projects or writing essays, the point still stands! at least you had celebrated your eighteenth birthday with drunk smiles and your friends spoiling you to death when you had opened up about your first lonely years of life. everything was going well for you, truly.

you were so, so happy for the nice turn of events. and you wouldn't have made it so far if you hadn't slapped yourself out of the delusion that they actually cared for you.

look at you now! independent and with a life of your own! you'd give yourself a pat in the back.

you hadn't blocked them at all, but their contacts were empty (save for a few desperate messages that date back years ago) and you were fine with that. it's not like tim or bruce or barbara considered you important enough to be stalked. hah, as if!

alfred communicates with you time to time, reminding you to eat a complete meal rather than those one dollar priced noodles that tasted like pure salt. he told you he misses you a lot, you and your annoying, daily rants about life and school. he misses your awkward smile and when you would help him cook whenever the others aren't around. he misses it when you imitate his posh accent when you taste test his food and give commentary about it.

you miss him, too. growing up, you realized just how much effort alfred would exert just to spend a lot of his time on you.

now, he told you that you are still welcome to the manor whenever, and how he cleans your room weekly in case you'll visit him.

whenever you audio call with him, you'd tear up just a bit at the realization that alfred was more of a father figure than your own biological father. because he at least attended your graduation to make up for the other times he was unable to join you.

what's even better was that he gifted you something you had always wanted for your birthday. despite it being delivered to your door rather than him giving it to you face to face (since you had refused to give him your location and him respecting that decision at least), the heartfelt letter he left you was more than enough to let you cling onto pieces of your past. after all, it was him who greeted you by the door when you were first introduced into the family, bruce being too busy with paperwork that day when you were a measly five year old.

you had started to teasingly call him 'alfie' and a few more nickname after that, which results with a chuckle over the phone every time you had come up with a cheesy name for him whenever you get a wee bit irritated at his own way of making fun of you.

if only this was your life years ago, then maybe you wouldn't have been jealous of all your other friends and pushed them away that day, maybe you would learn that sometimes, family comes in the form of the people outside of your house rather than inside.

that reminds you, maybe you should reconnect with your old friends back in elementary and apologized for your sudden explosive behavior.

you were laying on your bed, phone in hand and opened your inst*gram app to stalk through the names you could remember. well... that was what you should've done, if not for the fact that a notification popped up the very moment you pressed on the search bar and you had accidentally opened a chat with your oldest brother, dick.

you would've ignored the desperate messages you have sent him from the past which all varied from inviting him to eat dinner with you or to at least join you to play in an arcade or anything to convince him to talk to you, all of which were unseen, if not for the fact that it was him who sent you a sudden "hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!" message, alongside a few more replies that spammed through your phone...

oh!

... that was enough to make you sit up and want to hurl.

dick grayson was a man of many talents. the mature eldest child, the ideal good leader despite his anger issues from time to time, and the same guy who set the standards high for the future robins. he is bruce's greatest achievement.

it was safe to say that if not for the support of many, then he would've suffered so many falls and would've never been strong enough to stand up despite the pain and continue his fights. nightwing was what many superheroes strive to be, an image of light in a grove of darkness such as gotham.

so why was it that he felt like he has failed so deeply right now?

inside your room, dick stands with furrowed brows. it felt too clean to look used. your furniture was polished and look untouched, the lights were too bright and the windows were bolted shut. there were no signs of life other than the notebooks and sketchbooks that were neatly tucked on the middle of the bed and the trinkets that scatter through your desk.

dick stalks through the room, careful to not make a noise as he walks over to the closet, opening it and finding nothing.

he bites his lips at the implication that this was probably the second time he visited your room and how it was also the longest time he remained here. compared to his other siblings, you were the one he noticed the least and... now he feels bad for dismissing you.

didn't he promise to take you out for dinner months ago?

damn it, he was way too focused on his mission that night and ended up ditching and forgetting you! oh god, dick facepalmed and clenched his teeth, seething in some air because no fucking way did he actually remember to feed damian's dog, titus, the same day but forgot to take you out for an important event...

it occurred to him that that was the same day you scored a perfect on "the hardest test of my life!" you had bragged to him awkwardly when he wasn't listening nor looking and you, wanting to celebrate what was a small achievement for dick, chose him to spend time with you!

dick had to carefully breath through his mouth then gulp down the shame he feels right now. he- he has no time to focus on the past but rather the present. he has to find out why the hell is your room so lifeless, yeah... then he'll make it up to you today, definitely.

huh?

is it just him, but why does the room seem so small? it looked like it was meant to be for a kid. clearly, there wasn't enough space for a growing individual like you... did bruce not provide you with a bigger bedroom? ah, dick would definitely tell bruce to relocate you to a bigger room, the current one is too small for even a dog in a manor to sleep in.

dick doesn't want to admit it at all, but... he hasn't seen you for the past few months, or not all, really. sure, he had only recently visited the manor since he's bludhaven's vigilante now, but even through his time in gotham he had never seen you other than the times you pulled his sleeves from back when you were a child.

back when you were a child.

how old are you now? you were so small back then, innocent too. he can recall your curious eyes, your chubby cheeks and the way you stutter through your words as you try to talk to him.

you were significantly younger than jason, and was adopted a week before tim was introduced to the family. he remembers you peeking through alfred's back, gleaming with curiousity and whispering to the butler if it was really the dick grayson. he smiled fondly at your dumbfounded expression, the way your mouth shaped into an "ohh," when he was the one who answered that, yes, it was him. then you whispered again if you can take have an autograph from him, to which he chuckled and told alfred that he'll help accompany you to your room.

when your five year old body tried to waddle closer to his body for an ounce of warmth when he had been guiding you up the stairs, that was also the first time he called you baby bird, with the way you coddled him so closely. his hands find itself patting your head, ruffling your hair and grinning as you both make your path through the halls.

he comes to immediately regret leaving you alone after he had introduced you to your room, remembering his duties as a vigilante than that of a brother.

but despite his early memories of you, he wants to see his baby sibling all grown up now.

had it really been years?

when was the last time you ever had a full-on conversation with him?

was there even a time that he had approached you by himself?

he had always called you baby bird after the first time you meet because of the age gap you two shared. the rare times he acknowledges you, you gave him that look filled with such adoration, like you were proud of him for being your older brother. why did he not notice you?

oh, his baby bird...

dick gulped, trying to ease his shivering by sitting on your neatly folded blankets and taking a worn diary in his hand, one at the bottom stack of books. well, if it was a personal diary then maybe you would've hidden it better, right? he figures since it was all placed on the center of the bed like a piece of treasure that... it would be alright to take just a glimpse.

to confirm if you still see him as your favorite brother.

dick's heartbeat spiked, hoping your entries would be filled with, he doesn't know, anything that didn't implicate some sort of hatred for the family, for him. hoping that despite his lack of attention towards you, that there would still be a spark of love for him. if what he thinks was actually true then... he doesn't know what to do with himself.

he flips through the first page, noting how it was bulkier than the others. the paper was filled with glittery decorations, sequence beads and cheap stickers sparkling at every angle the light hits. it was meant to be a design for the 'front cover' of the notebook, colors blended in a cacophony of rainbows and butterflies and flowers beyond the messy calligraphy that merely states "(name)'s diary!"

dick stifles a grin just from skimming through at the amount of mistakes and erasures, clearly written by the the younger version of you; naive to the world and its cruelty. he commends your creativity, his eyes softening at the few doodles that were written on the corners of the pages.

you're just too adorable for your own good, so much so that the thumping in dick's heart beats louder and louder, ears wringing uncomfortable inside your unventilated bedroom. but he just couldn't rip his eyes away from the diary, daydreaming about how proud you must've been when designing your own diary. he could picture your wide eyes, shy and harmless, and your feet kicking back and forth whilst you decorate your stuff.

everything was what he expected it to be on the first few pages of the diary. all your little rants about your daily life, your eargerness to meet your entire family from your father's side, and the hurt you experienced from your mother's sudden abandonment.

he would've skipped through another diary, one that lacked design and color, save for the name plastered on the front, if not for the grim undertones at every end of your entries despite the child-like manner it was written in.

it all started with "i wish to see my father soon and my big brother dick again!", "alfred told me my father can't come to the parent-teacher conference, he says he's in a veryyy important meeting :( but alfred would come!", "dick told me he can't help me with my science project but he promise he'll help me with something else later!" which halfway through the diary, your style fluctuates and lesser effort was exhausted on the writing.

one entry in particular, written on the last page of your diary, shattered a sliver of hope within dick, his breathing momentarily ceased from reading through your sentences; uncharacteristic of you, too mature for someone at the age of ten to write.

"XX/XX/XXXX.

dear diary, it's my tenth birthday today. i celebrated with my friends at school. they told me i always look down whenever it's my birthday. they think that bruce would throw a fancy celebration for me. i tried to hide my laughter from them. it's a really funny joke. i haven't seen him for months. i told dick that he was invited but i don't think he remembers it's my birthday today. alfred told me to come out of my room, he said he cooked my favorite dinner, that he's sorry he got my present late, but i don't want get out of my room. i heard dick is gonna watch a movie with tim later. i don't feel so good, my chest hurts, but i don't want to get out right now.

i'll eat the cupcake tomorrow."

it had been nearly two hours since dick had sat on your bed, eyes dilating whilst reading through your first diary. the cold season had already pricked his skin, but his entire body felt so unnaturally warm, a warmth that scorches him, searing deep into flesh. a lump had form in his throat, accompanying the hellish throbbing of his heart.

"fuck..." he brought his fingers to his head, carefully massaging his forehead but it relieves nothing. he wants to see you right now— he needs to talk to you. god, he has to apologize, he needs to see what you look like right now, needs to know if you're alright.

you're clearly not.

he has to oppress the urge to punch the walls, reminding himself that it's your room he's in and if he damages your already delicate property, then he's proving himself worse than he already is.

he rushes to grab another diary, the one at the top of the pile, skipping to the end of the page.

nothing. all the entries were months ago, all written in vague detail like you were starting to hide secrets. his teeth grinds against each other, frustration seeping through his veins.

he needs to— shit, he needs to find you right now. he needs to find his baby bird and make up for the all bullshit him and his family had done. if you were gone for months, even years; he doesn't even want to think about it.

but how?!

there were no signs of you. anything written your diary, your drawings, the trinkets on your bedside table— they signal no clues whatsoever, all dating back to months, even years. it's not possible at all, for nobody to notice your disappearance. dick would've noticed sooner. he should've noticed sooner. oh, he doesn't even want to think about the dangers that await you outside the mansion. with how naive you were about the outside world, you wouldn't last at all.

his baby bird wouldn't survive gotham's streets, especially not when winter was nearing.

think, grayson, think...

his phone!

he immediately reaches into his pockets to grab his phone, clammy fingers swifly encoding his password and opening his contacts.

your number was the quickest to find, it was the only one without an icon of you and an endearing nickname. he makes a mental note to change that soon and replaced your default name to your nickname.

then, without hesitation, he typed, "hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!" sending the message without rereading, foot tapping impatiently against the floor as he scrolls through all your previous messages.

messages that he should've replied to with the same level of enthusiasm as you. skimming through the past, unseen texts as your motivation began to dwindle the further he refused to reply back. he promises he'll never make you feel invisible again.

seconds feel like hours for him, as he blows raspberries to pass the time, too concentrated an ounce of a reply to even notice the entirely new presence inside the room.

it's alright to call you, yes? after all, dick just wanted to check in with his baby bird and see if you're doing swell and dandy and... safe without him...!

his thumbs pressed on the call button before he could think through his actions, his other hand runs through his hair, sweat running down his forehead as if he had ran a marathon.

he waited, and waited, and waited until the call beeped and provided its automated response. he calls you again but the line immediately cuts off, he tries to spam you with more messages but they weren't delivered.

you blocked him.

fuck, he messed up big time. he needs to get to the batcave. he needs to find your fucking location before it's too late. dick needs to see you again before he loses it.

but before he could carefully place your sketchbooks back to its rightful place, he sees a silhouette at the corner of his eyes; short figure, arms crossed, and a sneer on his eyes already tells him who it was.

damian wayne.

he forgot to train with damian today.

but it doesn't matter, damian has to see it for himself— what made dick so disheveled, so delirious. damian has to finally see just how much of a wonderful sibling you are.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: this was 4,600+ words and it drained the energy out of me. it was supposed to be posted tomorrow but i was too motivated !! i'm also quite proud of this chapter. it was a pain characterizing dick grayson and the reader. i really hope this is as good as the prequel because it's 3am right now and writing dick's part was a pain in the ass ^^' as always, please do comment or send asks if you like it for quicker updates!!!

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @alishii, @ruiroku, @okaybutfullhomo, @trasshy-artist, @obsessedwithromance, @deadinside-09, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa (shoutout to her specifically because i got motivated from their comment!)

#🌷... yael's works #🧁... yael's misc.#series: again & again #yandere dc #yandere batfam #yandere dick grayson #yandere dick grayson x reader #yandere batboys #yandere robin #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x gn reader #yandere x male reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #platonic yandere #i hope for this to blow up again like the other one #is it obvious that i like writing angst

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