#not tagging with the first five tags anymore

[acid-ixx]

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

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

read under the end for an author's note.

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

the world was still spinning when you had awoken.

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

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

what happened?

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

— lots of it.

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

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

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

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

jason.

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

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

these days?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'he can have it for all i care.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

those were never meant to clash, let alone part.

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

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

jason, meanwhile.

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

how it never quite changed, even until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you were wrong, you always were.

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

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

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

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

— and remember the even more painful present.

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

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

oh, my momma.

how you miss her and her angelic presence already.

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

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

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

rather than...

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

this unfamiliar room...

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

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

have you been out for an entire day?

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

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

but worse yet, the most dreaded of them all—

a room with your brother in it.

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

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

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

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

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

dark and heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he sounded so...

broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

no.

your breath hitches—

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

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

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

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

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

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

since when did he care?

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

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

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

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

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

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

one word: fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jason.

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

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

your life is so fucked.

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

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

just like now: anywhere but him.

you can't expend anymore hope—

"why, angel?"

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

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

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

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

"for-for wh— what?"

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

it's just so incomprehensible for you.

his worry is just too foreign.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

were you... crying?

"just answer me, please."

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

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

what changed?

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

"i don't know..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you're lying."

"h—huh?"

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

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

"wh—"

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

until all you could focus on were his questions.

why?

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

"when's my birthday, jason?"

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

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

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

"what...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eighteen is a quintessential part of someone's life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you did, didn't you?

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

"—i have to go, jason..."

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

god, fuck—!

it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.

your heart, your head, your entire body.

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

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

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

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

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

the tears still won't stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it hurts, doesn't he know that?

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

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

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

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

not when you never mattered to him, right?

and it feels like a part of you broke tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the lonely, scared child you still are?

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

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

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

until it bleeds, until it all bleeds.

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

'this isn't the jason i knew.'

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

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

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

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

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

"— what?"

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

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

"JUST FUCKING ANSWER MY QUESTION, GODDAMNIT!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

so why, why does he care so much now?

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

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

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

why do you still cry after all these years?

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

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

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

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

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

'jason, why do you still try?'

"angel, calm down you're—"

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

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

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

"just calm down, please—!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what...?

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

just that?

just a burden?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's just silent understanding, a painful acceptance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that painful reminder just makes past emotions stir within you.

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

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

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

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

he truly never knew you well at all, huh?

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

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

"jason... please listen to me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i just..."

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

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

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

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

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

how hard was it to understand that sentiment?

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

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

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

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

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

that hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you nearly worked yourself to death because of it.

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

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

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

it was you that's unlovable.

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

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

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

"is it so hard to love me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"please, jay!"

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

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

"—not there..."

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

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

"... not with you, please."

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

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

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

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

"i am your brother!"

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

it just hurts...

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

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

why, just why, is he calming down now?

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

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

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

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

"i'm— i'm so sorry, angel."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

made carefully, cleaned neatly for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and both of you were- were good...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

imperfect, sullen and easily broken, like you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and now?

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

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

you still had nothing to offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"all for you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you crack at the seams.

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

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

yet you continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'how dare you, jason...'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'be the bigger person, (name).'

'because you are not a wayne anymore—

you are your mother's child.'

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

but ultimately, you came from her.

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

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

"look, okay... promise me this—"

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

he nods, urging you to continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"can you do that for me, jason?"

"..."

"— alright..."

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

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

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

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

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

but him.

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

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

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

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

let the past be a dream.

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

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

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

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

a mere device for tactical missions.

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

its usefulness was only for practicality.

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

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

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

all that it is, all it ever was.

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

the same old, rickety intercoms.

just like old times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but with nobody to mourn you.

"we need to talk about (name)."

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

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

"tell me what happened."

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

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

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

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

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

no.

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

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

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

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

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

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

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

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

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

[apeachty]

₊ ˚ ⊹ ♡ . ⠀wild roses | chapter 1 ; the roots

⠀⠀⠀neighbour!yeonjun x fem!reader

♡ you're here ♡ | to chapter 2 →

genre ; soulmate au, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, humour, smut            wordcount ; 17.5k

warnings | tags ; unhealthy relationship with pain [mentions of self-inflicted pain]; yeonjun does some kinda questionable stuff; a bit of self-hate and self-pity.

smut warnings ; dom + soft sadist yeonjun x sub + soft masochist reader. wet dreams, heavily based on pain kink [choking, marking, spanking and so on]; male masturbation.

✉ notes ; oh wow... my first collaboration event ever and it was AWESOME. the idea was just incredible and i'm honoured to be a part of the event and write for the idea. i want to thank each one of beautiful talented moa who took part in the event, please-please-please, read other event fics, all of them are wonderful

i got a tiny bit carried away, so there are going to be two more parts. that just... happened. i was possesed

⠀⠀⠀[ event masterlist | my masterlist | wild roses masterlist ]

it felt like a cruel joke of fate, destiny, the universe or whatever force might be pulling the strings of your life. you were sure you could post an advertisement for your services—“spend a few days with me and find your soulmate. 100% guarantee”, because yet another one of your colleagues had returned from her vacation particularly glowing—she had met her, her soulmate, the one she had been waiting for her whole life. 

she couldn't keep quiet about it, and you couldn't blame her, despite the tiny, bitter part of your mind whispering that you were a lucky charm for everyone else, leaving yourself with nothing but emptiness and heartbreak. you'd only been working here for a year, and four of your colleagues had found their soulmates before your very eyes—five, including the one who had announced it today—and each time, the quiet whispers of pity behind your back only grew louder. of course, you heard the hushed “shh, don't be so loud” that meant to show care—you had stopped paying attention to it long ago. 

the bond you had once shared with your soulmate was a complicated one, tangled in endless conditions and rules, most of them uncertain, suspended between truth and myth. it had already felt impossible to navigate it, while you still had it, but now, when it was broken for years, finding them felt like a distant dream. you weren't even sure if they were still alive, if you were being honest, but thinking about it unsettled you to the point of near-physical pain, so you chose not to think about them at all.

your mind sometimes thought differently, though, keeping you awake until early morning and haunting you with visions of you staying alone until your last days. on those days you’d find yourself deleting your browser history in shame and embarrassment on your way to work—“would you know if your soulmate had died”, “is it possible to get another soulmate”, “is it possible to have more than one soulmate”, “wild rose bond”. you hated those nights and the days that followed, because your brain wouldn't stop overanalyzing everything you'd read, twisting every possibility into something even more unbearable—hope. 

but more than anything, you feared returning to the dark months after you had felt your soulmate for the last time. looking back, you wondered if their heartbreak had somehow resonated with your own—the one that had started just a few hours before. you had felt a faint sensation of nails dragging down your back from your shoulder blades, as if someone was scratching at your skin with their nails, but it wasn't your back, it was their back. you had thought you were devastated then, but a few hours later, when the real weight of it hit, you felt like you couldn't breathe anymore, and it wasn't your pain.

all of it plunged you into what was probably the darkest period of your life, making you realize how truly ugly your bond was, because it was either an endless cycle of intensifying pain—feeding off your soulmate’s suffering and giving it right back to them until it returned to you—or nothing at all. and when you woke up empty, feeling nothing foreign that had become an important part of you over the years, it was as if you had lost the constant touch of a lover. even if that touch had only ever caused pain, you still tried to get it back. 

you didn't know if you were trying to get your soulmate to respond to you, or if, in some twisted way, you were just to mimic the pain they had once caused you—desperate for anything that might keep you from feeling so utterly alone. but it never worked—they never replied and you never felt any relief. 

and now you felt yourself slowly sinking into that darkness again—the more happy stories told behind your back you heard, the stronger the itch in your fingers became. what if—just a tiny what if—they would reply to you if you pinched your arm just a little? what if they pinched back? what if you could finally do something you had wished for years you had done earlier—agree to meet somewhere through morse code? the sickening feeling of hope was so much worse than that mutual heartbreak had ever been. 

you shook your head—no. the “unbreakable bond” that was supposed to never fade—not by time, not even by death—was broken, and the was nothing you could do about it. maybe some people were simply meant to stay alone, and maybe you were one of them. so what? surely, you weren't the only unlucky one like that, there was no way everyone in this world had a person they were destined to live and die with. after all, you could be your own soulmate—at least that bond would never shatter.

the overly confident thoughts, which felt more like bravado than anything sincere even to you, took up all your attention, and you reached out for your coffee cup, completely forgetting it was still too hot. the burn on the pads of your fingers made you wince, a quiet "shit" slipping past your lips—all these existential crisis thoughts, that were creeping in more and more often recently, were making you a bit too careless, and that was a dangerous match to the way you were starting to perceive pain. again.

“you okay?”

you looked up at soobin—another one of your colleagues, but not annoying one— and pressed your lips into a thin line. “i’m fine. please don’t join them in looking at me like i need pity, i beg you.”

he smiled and shook his head. “wasn’t going to. you’re overthinking it, you know?” he glanced over your shoulder at the suddenly quiet, happy circle before returning his gaze to you. “well… you’re overthinking my behavior, i guess…”

you sighed—of course. “they’re looking, aren’t they?” he replied with a tiny nod, making you bury your face in your hands. “with pity?” you mumbled, your words muffled.

“yeah…” he admitted, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. he wasn’t one to enjoy much attention, but sitting across from you left him no choice when their conversations inevitably turned to soulmates. “hey,” he tried to get your attention, holding out his paper cup to you over both of your monitors. “it’s the same as yours, but not as hot anymore. haven’t drunk it either.”

the man was a savior sometimes. you took his cup, giving him yours. “thanks. what would i do without you?”

“drown in pity gazes and whispers?”

you laughed. “most probably.”

he smiled at you, glad that your face was no longer painted with ridiculously funny determination he knew you faked—trying to make yourself believe it—and got back to work, mirroring you.

but you had trouble focusing on your work anyway, and the worst part was your boss, who kept throwing worried glances at you whenever he passed by—it felt like a few more found soulmates in your branch, and he'd start asking if you wanted to take a day off or work from home for a few days whenever someone said. after all, whenever someone announced—because it was impossible to keep it inside—that they had found their soulmate, he always reacted the same way.

you already had the ick from the word—soulmates this, soulmates that. all those “don't worry, you're still young” reassurances coming from people you had met maybe three times in your life while making yourself a coffee in the office kitchen. it wasn't even about your age—though there were countless depressing myths about soulmates and age, especially when it came to wild roses—it was about the nature of the bond itself that made people pity you.

you had no idea why in the world they cared about their colleague—nothing more!—finding or not finding their soulmate. and worse, you'd never told anyone about your lack of one, nor about what kind of bond you had. yet, somehow, someone must have seen your mark—which wasn't too hard to notice, but the situation had to be very specific for anyone to actually see it—and now people knew about it before they had even met you, the rumours about you entering the room first. 

as if that wasn’t bad enough, at some point, they started matchmaking you with any soulmate-less new colleague. you were still sure those glances at you interacting with soobin meant something, just because he didn’t have a soulmate either. it was funny how they barely cared that he wasn't a wild rose—and you didn't even question how they never seemed to care about what the two of you actually thought of it, just being two introverts in an office full of extroverts. 

but soobin was nice enough not to care about it and was basically the only person here you talked to about something other than work, and you were thankful he was there for you without trying to assure you that you were still young and that your soulmate was still out there somewhere. he knew everything that had happened around your bond and understood that wild roses didn’t have it easy, so he never bothered you by feeding the hope you kept buried deep inside. 

“you know…” soobin started while you two were packing up to go home—you both started your workdays half an hour later than everyone else, meaning you stayed half an hour after everyone left, which was basically the reason for shifting your work hours in the first place. “i haven’t met my soulmate either, and…”

you shook your head, giving him that ‘are you serious?’ look. “soob, don’t start. you haven’t met them because you either work or play league.”

soobin laughed, nodding. “you’re right. but i just wanted to say that soulmate or no soulmate, it doesn’t define you—or anyone—as a person,” he smiled reassuringly, grabbing both of your jackets and handing you yours. “you’re perfectly complete without someone who was chosen for you by something unknown.”

you nodded, biting your lip and fidgeting with the pull on your jacket. he always knew what to say, and it was always sincere—probably, because he was in the same situation as you, but with a completely different perspective on it. soobin seemed much more mature than you could even hope to be. no—you pushed these thoughts away. you weren’t going to pity yourself. he was right—it made no sense. 

“thanks, soob. you always know the right words.”

he smiled. “i could say i’ve been there, but i think they bother me much less about not having a soulmate,” he scratched the back of his head in thought. “male advantage?” he assumed, and you both laughed—maybe it really was male advantage. “keep you company on your way home?”

you shook your head, checking the time. “you won’t be home by seven if you do,” you patted his shoulder, and he tilted his head in question. “it’s thursday. your league-i-promise-she-is-just-a-friend will be waiting for you,” you sing-songed, making him press his lips together in an attempt to hide his smile—a failing attempt—and you couldn’t help but mirror it.

soobin opened his mouth to tell you something, but it seemed like every thought he had about his “just friend” only made his smile grow bigger and harder to hide, so in the end he just shook his head with a shy but obviously happy smile. “okay. you sure you'll be fine?”

you nodded, giving him a quick goodbye hug. “completely. be safe too. and don't stay up too late!” you waved before turning around. soobin was a nice guy and deserved all the happiness in the world—you hoped things with his “just friend” would work out, whether she was his soulmate or not.

still, your head felt like a too-crowded beehive, a dozen thoughts overlapping each other, refusing to let you focus on any of them before stealing your attention away to another. you had a bond when you were younger. yes, now it was a distant memory that felt more like a dream—you weren’t even sure you would recall how it felt to experience someone else’s pain or discomfort, but you refused to believe you’d been imagining it for almost ten years of your life, ever since you first understood that some feelings weren’t caused by yourself.

and that connection… it was supposed to be unbreakable, because it was one of the strongest bonds between soulmates—it was based on pain. you could never stop experiencing it, even if it happened rarely, you would still burn your tongue on tea from time to time or hit your elbow in just that spot, and your soulmate would feel it, just as you would feel their pain—there was no way to break it. that’s what you thought, at least—before it was broken. 

these thoughts kept looping in your head, all the information you had read about the bond between wild roses throughout your life swirling in your mind, as if you hadn’t already gone over it hundreds of times, trying to find something you had overlooked—something that could solve the problem you had. but that kind of connection was surrounded by chaos of myths, assumptions, and lies from people pretending to be wild roses. you could never know what was true unless you experienced it yourself and, preferably, discussed it with the other end of the bond. 

and you weren’t even sure of what you had gone through yourself, because you had no idea what your soulmate had done for you to mirror their pain more intensely. it was believed that the strength of the pain you felt from your soulmate grew with distance, and you assumed that, a few years before the heartbreak and the breaking of your connection, they had moved far away from where you were—probably another side of the world. the faint touch of guitar strings on the tips of your fingers had become cruel, invisible marks and calluses, awakening a habit of scratching the pads of your fingers with your nails, trying to get rid of the sensation. the habit stayed—but because you missed the way it felt now. 

the quiet ding of the elevator pulled you out of your thoughts, even through your earbuds. you opened the case, carefully placing each one inside while waiting for the doors to open, and your soul almost left your body when they did, hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart—a man was sitting on the floor, headphones on his head, too immersed in something on his phone to notice you.

you knew the man—he was your neighbour, but you had never really talked to him, so you weren’t exactly sure how to get his attention, especially since he was wearing headphones. so you stood in front of him like a complete weirdo, looking down at him, your brain still not fully functioning after a busy workday that was made worse by your overthinking. 

but you didn’t have to do anything—he noticed you almost immediately, looking up and quickly standing, pushing his headphones down to his neck. “oh! hey. don’t be freaked out, please,” he said, holding out his hand for a handshake. you hesitantly took it, shaking uncertainly—his hand felt… nice. “i’m your neighbour from—”

“apartment 139, yeah…,” you finished for him slowly, your hand still in his, now just held. “just across the hall. i see you sometimes, but you never greet back, always wearing headphones,” you shrugged—it wasn’t a big deal. he never seemed rude, more like he was always in his head, his hands and head making little weird moves, so you assumed he was dancing to the music in his headphones, the outside world forgotten.  

“oh…” he pulled his hand away and ran his fingers through his hair. “i’m sorry. i tend to get too into my work sometimes, not noticing anything or anyone around.”

you shrugged again, pulling your keys from your pocket, the bunch of keychains jingling softly. “it’s fine. just be careful on the streets. sometimes drivers are…” you scrunched your nose, and he chuckled. “reckless? some make me wonder if anyone can just go and buy a driver’s license now, without even graduating from elementary school, where they give you basic knowledge on traffic rules.” 

he looked at you with an amused smile, and you mentally slapped yourself—it was your first conversation, and you were already burdening him with the grumpiness of a ninety-year-old lady no one liked. no wonder your soulmate had broken the bond even before meeting you, the thought made you smile mentally despite how bitter it actually was—it was a good joke. you made a note to repeat it to soobin tomorrow when telling him about encountering your neighbour. 

but he only laughed, nodding a few times. “i see where you’re coming from. you can never be too careful when it comes to traffic,” he adjusted his headphones, turning them to rest on his collarbones with the ear pads facing in, and your gaze fell to the bare skin of his upper chest for a brief moment, making you involuntarily touch the tight collar of your t-shirt. 

“so…” you fidgeted with the strap of your bag nervously—small talk was nice and, dare you to say, comfortable, especially considering you'd never talked to him before, but he couldn't be sitting here for no reason, could he? “what happened?.. i mean, why were you sitting here?”

“oh! right,” he cleared throat. “i lost my keys. i was going to call for locksmith services, but i don't want to lockpick the door to the corridor,” he paused, because it suddenly started sounding stupid, but shook his head—too late to rethink it now. “so i was waiting for someone to open it.”

you nodded a few times, and he let out a breath—at least you weren't looking at him like he was a complete idiot, and he certainly felt like one. you simply took the key and opened the door to the corridor, letting him in before locking it behind you—he thought that he probably should've been nicer to you instead of just giving a tiny nod as a greeting once every few weeks, which, as it turned out, you didn’t even notice. 

he dialed the locksmith service, throwing glances at you as you unlocked your door. he noticed you pause, your key still in the lock, fingers rubbing it nervously as you stared at it, seemingly lost in thought. he wanted to ask you if everything was okay, but the moment he opened his mouth, a man on the other end of the phone line introduced himself and asked how he could help. 

you glanced at your neighbour as he turned away, still on his phone, his hand rubbing the back of his head. eavesdropping wasn’t good, but you wondered—if the locksmith was going to take some time to arrive, maybe he’d need a place to wait? you could invite him in… he seemed like a nice person, so— you shook your head, he’d probably prefer to wait at the convenience store across the street. with that, you pulled the key out and opened the door. 

“at least half an hour?” he asked, checking the watch before chuckled. “of course. not like i have any other choice,” he listened to whatever the person on the other end was saying before nodding. “yes, five minutes is fine. thank you,” the ‘beep’ of the ended call was almost loud in the empty corridor as he turned to look at you, still standing by your ajar door. “thank you. really,” he smiled warmly. “i’m yeonjun, by the way. it was nice to meet you.”

“[ yn ]...” you replied quietly, still debating whether you should invite him in—half an hour seemed long, but then again, sometimes waiting for an elevator to arrive could take five whole minutes. if he was unlucky, he’d only have time to buy something at the convenience store before having to come right back. no, you thought. don’t be stupid. “it was nice to meet you too,” you almost shut your front door when you realized how much of an idiot you were—just a few minutes ago you basically locked him in the corridor. “wait.”

“huh?” yeonjun looked up from his phone, confused. ‘wait’ for what?.. not like he had anywhere to go right now.

you grabbed the spare key to the corridor door from the key rack and walked up to him, holding it out. “here. you lost yours, and i have a spare one, so you can take it,” you felt so stupid, but it was too late to back out now. “for now or til you get a new one or… or you can keep it,” you finished quietly, each word sounding worse than the last.

yeonjun smiled and shook his head. “i have another one at home, don’t worry. i won’t need it until then anyway, i was going to wait here.” 

you pressed your lips together, cheeks burning, before asking quietly. “how would a locksmith get inside here?..” 

yeonjun froze. he hadn’t thought about it at all. it was almost funny—how he, the one who had that confident, almost intimidating aura, had somehow managed to make himself look like a complete idiot in front of his nice neighbour. not only had he lost his keys, but he also couldn’t think thirty minutes ahead. usually, he didn’t care much about what people thought of him, but he still expected himself to feel ashamed now. but he wasn’t. somehow, it felt like you wouldn’t see him that way—probably because you were just as awkward. 

he took the key from your hand, the little rose keychain getting his attention, as its tiny silver thorns nestled against his skin. yeonjun looked up at you, puzzled—a rose keychain wasn’t strange on its own, he had seen countless of them, but most didn’t have a stem, let alone thorns. he felt his heart skip a beat—the small silver trinket reminded him of a part of himself that he tried to ignore. you only shook your head, though, clearly telling him to not pay any attention to it. but he still didn’t like coincidences like that one. 

you nodded goodbye to him one more time and had already turned away before pausing and biting your lip. “look,” you said before you could stop yourself, turning back to face him. the worst thing that could happen? he would decline, and things between you two would get awkward. but—if you were honest—what things? there were no ‘things’ between you two. you took a deep breath. “you can wait for the locksmith at my place, if you want. it’s warm, and you wouldn’t have to sit on the floor or stand for half an hour. if you want.”

it was inviting. it sounded really nice, actually. yeonjun already felt like his butt was as flat as the floor he’d been sitting on for an hour before you appeared and saved him from what he jokingly thought of as flat-butt disease. but you had just met—neighbours or not—and even though he knew he had no ill intentions, he wasn’t sure you felt the same way. making you feel uncomfortable or, worse, unsafe in your own home was the last thing he wanted. “are you sure it'd be fine? we just learned each other's names a few minutes ago.”

“well…” you frowned and tilted your head—what kind of things was he thinking about? “yes?.. i mean, do you have any… bad intentions?”

yeonjun was taken aback by your question. “um, no?” oh god, pull yourself together, yeonjun! why do you sound so unsure? he cleared his throat and repeated more firmly. “of course, not. but… is that it? you're just going to believe my ‘no’ and let me in?”

you took a few steps toward your door, glad to see him following you. “yep?.. do you really think maniacs would ask in the first place?” you asked him, opening the door and stepping aside to let him in.

yeonjun glanced at you, narrowing his eyes. “do you really think maniacs would just say ‘yeah, of course, i have all the bad intentions in the world’? it sounds…” he tapped his chin, pretending to think. “naïve?”

“yeah? then why would you put these thoughts into my head? sounds like you’re giving me a lesson on how to spot a maniac,” you said, hanging your jacket on the coat rack and pointing at the free hook next to it. yeonjun immediately got the hint and hung his jacket there too, without letting either of you get distracted from the conversation. “so—” you glanced down at his shoes. “i can give you slippers, if you want. brand new. still unpacked even,” you added, waiting for his nod and little ‘thanks’ before continuing. “so. why would one of them do it? give me a lesson on it, i mean.”

yeonjun let out an exaggerated, dramatic sigh. “to lull your vigilance, of course. to make you ask yourself exactly that question and come up with an answer that it doesn't make any sense for a maniac to explain things like that, so it can only mean that this person isn't one,” he ‘explained’, waiting for you to take your shoes off and walk further into the apartment before crouching down to untie his sneakers—he didn’t want to risk making you feel uncomfortable, like he was looking up your skirt. 

“ah, really?” you held the slippers out to him. “why would you—or maniac—tell me that, then? why give further explanation?” you asked, waiting for him to put the slippers on and grab his bag before leading him toward the kitchen. you were enjoying this conversation a lot. maybe even a bit too much, but who cared? “no, no, no, let me answer it myself. to lull my vigilance?”

“exactly!” yeonjun sat down on the bar stool, his smile wide—not because you got something ‘right’ in that silly little banter, but because it felt so comfortable. he couldn't believe you two had never talked before, given how easy it seemed for both of you. “the same thing, but a bit more layered.”

“wow, you seem like a really thought-out maniac, yeonjun. just piling on layers to lull my vigilance,” you sighed in exaggerated awe, pressing a hand to your chest with a little bow of your head. “it's an honour.”

“well,” he shrugged nonchalantly, straightening his back in mock pride. “just doing my best at everything, you know?” 

you let out a laugh, covering your mouth with your hand. he was… cute. funny too, and so easy to talk to—it felt like you had known him your whole life but had just forgotten. it wasn't unusual for you to get loud or talkative, but you usually needed more time to get used to someone before feeling comfortable enough to do so—much more time. but it wasn't like that with yeonjun; he made you feel at ease around him almost immediately. you assumed it was his confident aura that didn't waver even when he was being playful or silly. that level of confidence, unspoiled by arrogance, was truly admirable.

you bit your lip, though—you weren't sure how to reply, but you gaze fell on the coffee machine. “do you want something to drink, by the way?..” you asked, washing your hands in the kitchen sink. “i don't actually have too many bottled drinks, but i have a coffee machine, ice and a bunch of syrups, or i can make you tea.”

it actually sounded tempting. yeonjun still had a bit of his coffee when he left the elevator on this floor and realized he had lost his keys, but that was long gone. he hadn’t risked leaving the spot to buy something to drink, afraid someone would come home while he was away, so now he was pretty much thirsty. but he wasn’t sure if he preferred burdening you over just waiting for half an hour, so he shook his head. 

“no, thank you. but… do you mind if i wash my hands?” yeonjun asked, getting up and rubbing his palms on his jeans. and then what? what was he going to do when he came back after washing his hands? he wasn't socially awkward, but staying with a barely-not-a-stranger in a small space with no one else around—and no alcohol to loosen the atmosphere? he should've just agreed to the coffee to make things a bit less awkward for both of you—he doubted you'd eat or drink something while he was just sitting there. was it too late to say he'd changed his mind?

“oh! kitchen sink or…” you walked out of the kitchen and he followed you, standing next to the kitchen door in the hall. you pointed at a door. “the bathroom is the only door to the right. a small gray towel on the towel rail is for hands, and…” you turned your head to look at him, still leaning on the door frame with the front of your shoulder. “i can bring you another towel if you want to rinse your face or anything. it was washed and dried that morning, so you can be sure it wasn't used.”

yeonjun blinked a few times, looking at you, his mind completely blank—he couldn't even find the words to describe how… adorably weird everything you were doing and saying was. why would you ask him if he wanted to wash his face? it was fine and clean—he had checked in the mirror by the door when he entered out of habit—but you were still unbelievably nice, offering another towel in case he wanted to do it. it felt like the thoughts in your head were completely random, yet it was interesting that you weren't afraid to say them out loud. 

“no, thanks. just hands,” yeonjun said, giving you a small smile before following the direction you had pointed to.

you watched him shut the door before turning back to the kitchen—it wasn't that you felt like you had to keep an eye on him, making sure he didn't wander somewhere he wasn’t supposed to, it was just somehow he already occupied your thoughts, and you only snapped out of it when he disappeared behind the door. but as you sat at the bar table, your overthinking started again. everything was… weird. good, but still weird. you’d never met someone you clicked with this quickly, and it felt almost… suspicious.

you threw a glance toward the bathroom as if you could see through walls, before shaking your head—you had been overthinking too much lately. if you were honest, you always did. maybe it was time to stop thinking and just… be? just accept that you had met someone you felt comfortable with immediately, without questioning it? making new friends—ever heard of it? you thought. yep. it was time to just live your life without looking back at any soulmate issues—past, present, or future.

yeonjun found you with a strangely determined expression on your face and chuckled to himself. he liked that you were like an ajar book—not fully open yet, but easy enough for him to read at least your basic emotion, and it also seemed like you weren’t trying too hard to hide them either. he thought that maybe he should be just as honest.

he cleared his throat, getting your attention. “i know i said no,” he started when you looked up at him, all your focus on him immediately, “but i think i’d actually like something to drink,” yeonjun admitted, watching you standing up immediately to start preparing something, but he was quick to reassure you. “water would be fine, though.”

you paused, hand on the cupboard, looking at him. “water would be ‘fine’ or ‘preferred’?..” you asked, unsure if it sounded too blunt—you didn’t want to sound pushy or impolite, but you could make him something specific, if he wanted. it wasn’t a problem. 

yeonjun hesitated, but admitted nevertheless. “to be honest, i wouldn't say no to some tea. i guess it's a bit too late for an americano,” he smiled warmly, sitting back where he was sitting before, his eyes following your movements. 

he was surprised to see how excited you got, reaching for a box on the top shelf, standing on your tiptoes, the tips of your fingers trying to grab it. he had to almost force himself to stay where he was, resisting the urge to rush over and help you—the scene inside his head immediately played out in slow motion, filmed in third-person with a random lyrical song and that weird corner-whitening effect they always used in dramas for moments like this. he cringed at the thought.

yeonjun still kept an eye on you in case you asked for help or needed it if everything started tumbling down, but you successfully won that round against heights and gravity, placing the now-open box in front of him. it was filled with different colourful foil bags—he was sure anyone would find something they liked here.

“you can choose any you want,” you said, grabbing the kettle to fill it with water the moment he nodded and started going through the box. you turned the kettle on and were about to sit back down when you suddenly realized you were still wearing your office clothes. “do you mind if i go change?..” you asked hesitantly, but yeonjun only nodded.

“of course. i promise to behave,” he lifted his hands in mock surrender, smiling—and making you smile back—before you disappeared around the corner, and he returned to choosing tea, wondering which one both of you would like. 

you tried to change quickly, not wanting to make yeonjun wait, but you froze the moment your gaze fell on your reflection—the t-shirt you were about to put on still in your hands. a huge mark, resembling a thorned rose stem, stretched from your left collarbone down to your right ribs, crossing your chest in a jagged line, and stood out even in the dim light of your bedroom. 

involuntarily, you pressed your fingers to the top thorn, right under your collarbone, as if expecting to feel it pierce the skin of your fingertips. it didn't, though—of course, it didn't—the skin felt the same as the rest, smooth and unbroken. if you didn't look at it, you wouldn't even realize it was there—you wished it was that way. ut no, you knew every detail of it. you knew the exact placement of each thorn, each uneven ridge in the stem. you knew where it started and where it ended. you could draw it with your eyes closed and get every millimeter right. 

the way you tugged the t-shirt on was almost harsh, the tight collar scratching your nose slightly on its way down—you just wanted to hide that reminder as soon as possible, even though you knew you couldn't keep running from it forever. one day, you would have to accept it as part of you—which it was—and stop seeing it as a reminder of your broken future, misfortune, and a cruel fate. but not today. maybe, one day, your view on it would change naturally, when the way you saw soulmates did?..

but for now, you would opt for t-shirts with tight collars and turtlenecks, whenever someone else might see you. alone? crop tops and tank tops were fine—if you tried to avoid looking at the mark—but not in public, and not in front of someone you barely knew. for many other reasons too, of course. 

when you entered the kitchen again, yeonjun was almost done choosing the last kind of tea—he grabbed the foil package from the box and placed it on the table next to six others. he turned to you, a bit surprised at your precise timing, and gestured toward the table. “i chose the ones i’d like to try. the final choice is yours,” he said with a smile, leaning his back on the wall and watching you. 

his choices were great. at first, you thought about suggesting that each of you make tea in your own cup to avoid drinking something you didn’t like, but all seven options were good, so you could actually brew tea in the teapot for both of you. 

you took two packages and placed it closer to him. “one of these. i can't choose,” you said, turning to the kitchen counter to grab the teapot and pour hot water into it, bringing it to the table along with two cups. yeonjun handed you the tea bag that he had chosen, and you dropped it into the teapot, waiting for the tea to brew.

as yeonjun busied himself putting the packages back into the box, the kitchen fell into silence. it wasn't the tense, uncomfortable kind of silence you might expect—it was a soft one, where both of you seemed to be lost in thoughts without worrying about getting silently judged for not supporting some awkward small talk. it felt like either of you could start or continue a conversation easily whenever you wanted, so there was no need in trying to fill the air with meaningless, forced words.

you were already sipping your tea, when yeonjun's voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “there’s a lot of handmade stuff,” he noted, looking at the wall to the side of you. you followed his gaze and nodded, waiting for him to continue. “a great variety too. sewing, collages, patchwork, crocheting, pressed flowers, diamond mosaic… have you done all of that?”

you nodded, taking another tiny sip—your tea was still too hot. “yep. all of these were done by me,” you said, glancing over the countless little handmade things scattered all over the wall, and it felt like you lwere looking at them from a completely different perspective than before. “but i do none of these seriously. it was… some kind of attempt to find myself,” you admitted. a failed one, you added mentally. none of these felt completely you. 

“successful?” yeonjun asked, his gaze fixed on a small patchwork of a rose, the only rose work out of a dozen—it would’ve been almost cute with the pale pink flower, some parts not sewn to the canvas, giving it some volume, but, just like the keychain, this one had thorns, carefully stitched onto the dark green stem. he lifted his hand to touch them almost unintentionally, but stopped, glancing at you.

“you can touch,” you said, and he gently pressed his finger to the top thorn of the rose, making your heart skip a beat. the stem was a smaller version of the mark you had on your chest—you made it in hope it would help with accepting your hopeless soulmate situation—and it felt strange, seeing how gently and cautiously yeonjun's fingers caressed it exactly where your own fingers had been not so long ago. you shook these thoughts away, though—close stitches were just nice to touch. “but no. not successful, as you can see in variety,” you chuckled.

yeonjun hummed—your works looked neat, at least in the eyes of someone who only knew the names of some of them, so if these were some of your first works of every kind… you were impressive. “do you like roses?” he blurted out and immediately realized the question made no sense—your apartment wasn’t full of roses, he had focused on only two things just because of his own issues.

but you simply shook your head and let out a tiny, sincere laugh. “i don’t. hate them, actually,” you admitted, making him nod in acknowledgement. “i know it makes no sense that i made that one—” you threw a glance at the patchwork he had been paying so much attention to. 

“no, it’s fine,” yeonjun interrupted. “i can see why you’d want to make it despite disliking roses. the picture itself is beautiful,” he said. he used to hate roses too, but he’d learned to only hate one. he caressed the length of the stem one last time, not noticing the way you swallowed thickly at his words and movements, eyes glued to his finger. he turned to you with a smile. “i have a silly question, but i assume you cross-stitched too, and i’ve always been curious about something.”

the speed with which yeonjun switched topics almost gave you whiplash, but you tried to compose yourself. “uh, yes. yes, when i was a child. not a too enjoyable activity for me, but i did.” 

he tapped the pad of his finger with his nail as if imitating a needle. “do people often pierce themselves while cross-stitching?” 

you tilted your head—the question wasn’t exactly weird, but it was unexpected. “i don’t think so?..” you weren’t completely sure, since you’d never really discussed it with anyone—you’d only had your own experience. “i mean, you might when you only start, but you learn to avoid it pretty quickly, and pierce your skin on accident to the point where it hurts, maybe… a few times in a few projects?” 

yeonjun hummed, his thumb rubbing the pad of his pointer finger on his left hand. maybe they were just careless?.. or it wasn’t cross-stitching at all? what else could it be, then? just sewing? 

you thought for a second before continuing. “but… i guess some people use their finger pad to feel the needle while piercing the fabric or canvas?..” you said, uncertain if that’s what he wanted to know or if it made any sense in general. “you know… instead of turning the canvas back and forth, you just control the needle with one finger on the back and another one in the front,” you tried to mimic the moves but it looked ridiculous. “it doesn’t really pierce the skin, but it’s technically poking your finger with a needle constantly…”

yeonjun frowned, trying to recall the feeling. “does it hurt? or is it just uncomfortable?” 

but before you could reply, his phone buzzed, breaking the conversation. he threw a quick glance at the number and grabbed the phone, accepting the call hurriedly, mouthing ‘locksmith’ to you. you nodded, watching his back as he rushed to the front door, quickly tugging his sneakers on, phone pressed to his ear with his shoulder, the rose keychain attached to the corridor key dangling out of his back pocket.

you felt… weird. it was a long-forgotten feeling, so you didn’t recognize it at first, but you felt like a child whose best friend's parents had come to pick them up from kindergarten, so not only you were left without your best friend, but alone in general, because the other children had already left, and you were left to wait for your own parents. longing and disappointment were a bit too strong of words for that, but it felt like them, in that childish way. 

yeonjun stopped in the middle of tying his shoe, though, listening to what the person on the other side had to say, before slowly untying his shoes and taking them off. he ended the call and turned to you, making you look at him in question. 

“something happened, and they had to move me further in order…” he mumbled, sitting back, embarrassed now at the way he’d hurried to leave the table. he only wanted to deal with the locksmith as quickly as possible so he could get back and continue talking to you, but by the way you looked at him—a tiny bit like a beaten-up puppy—he realized that it looked completely opposite of that. “they said i have to wait for an hour or two. they’ll call ten minutes before arrival.”

you nodded, rubbing the edge of the cup nervously. was he going to leave, as he now had much more time to go back home from some cafe and didn’t have to stay at your place? you didn’t want him to, but at the same time… you wouldn’t be surprised. 

yeonjun, on the other hand, was unsure how to show that he wanted to stay without making you feel like you had to let him stay if you didn't want to. but… food was always an option, wasn’t it? “it’s around time for dinner. are you hungry?” 

“oh!” you didn’t even realize that you were hungry, too consumed by the conversation. you stood up and went to the fridge. “i can cook somethi—” you paused, your shoulders falling—it was almost empty. just some snacks, milk and an egg. you were going to go to the convenience store after changing into something more comfortable, but that lost keys situation messed it up.

yeonjun looked over your shoulder at the fridge, holding back a chuckle—a typical fridge of a bachelorette (he assumed you were one based on the way your apartment looked), his own looked exactly the same. but it actually made the situation much better. “i can order something if you want? or we can go somewhere,” he proposed. “a friendly dinner as a thank you for giving me a place to wait.”

you froze for a second—he wanted to stay? you cleared your throat. “ordering something sounds great,” you admitted, shutting the fridge and sitting back. “i’m craving pizza, to be honest.” 

he smiled widely. you didn’t want him to leave—it was great. “pizza it is!” he unlocked his phone, laying it on the table between you two. “choose anything you want.”

you started scrolling through the app. “i’m the host, i’m paying…” you mumbled, adding a pizza and a drink to the order. yeonjun replied with a little ‘mhm’, turning the phone to himself. you wish, baby, he thought, choosing food for himself. 

of course, you didn’t pay. yeonjun had sworn he chose the “pay on delivery” option and even took your card when the doorbell rang. his face had been so trustworthy, you didn’t think twice. but it turned out his skill at lulling your vigilance was far better than you could expected. when he walked into the kitchen carrying the pizza boxes and a plastic bag of drinks, his expression was one of absolute shock. he announced that something had gone wrong—the order was already paid for. and, of course—how could you doubt him?—he had absolutely nothing to do with it. perhaps, he suggested, some kind soul (most likely a very handsome one, he added) had paid for it instead.

yeonjun had a way to make the atmosphere around him lighter and people around him more comfortable, you didn’t have to spend too much time figuring it out. but he also seemed to be stubborn—if he wanted to do something and thought it was right, he would do it, or find a way to do it if he was told not to. and he didn’t feel any remorse for that. but at the same time it was… fine? you didn’t want to confront him about paying for pizza, because you could easily find a way to return the favour some time later. ‘later’. the word made you feel warm inside, and you pushed all the questioning thoughts aside. yes. later.

“so,” you got yeonjun’s attention and he looked up at you, his mouth full of pizza—as if he tried to push the whole slice into his mouth without biting, which was almost cute—so you continued. “pineapple on pizza. yes or no?” 

he made a face, which was ten times funnier with his stuffed cheeks. “absolutely no,” yeonjun announced as he finally managed to swallow. “like, absolutely. you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. you just shrugged, your face sly, and he made an expression of pure horror. “don’t tell me—i can’t believe i’m living next door to a psychopath! were you lulling my vigilance for the past hours just to hit me with this news?” 

you couldn’t help but laugh your heart out at his endless drama skills, and he obviously had troubles keeping up the act and not laughing too. “it’s not that bad, yeonjun. don’t be so judgy! did you know,” you pointed at him with a pizza crust before biting into it, “that sweet and sour sauce is heavily based on pineapple juice?” 

yeonjun rolled his eyes dramatically. “everyone knows it, girl. but it’s different,” he made a huge accent on the last word. “okay. my turn. mint choco ice cream.”

you scrunched your nose. “nope. but don’t tell me it’s a yes from you,” you warned jokingly and he smirked in response. “and you dared to call me a psychopath?! you? a mint chocolate ice cream lover?” it was getting harder and harder to keep your laugh inside, especially as he kept on laughing himself, but you tried to do your best. “i’ll be much more careful while leaving home now.” 

“actually,” yeonjun tried to say it through laughter, but was completely failing. “it makes you a psychopath one more time, because mint choco is awesome! so you’re a double psychopath while i,” he pointed into his chest, “a poor victim of someone with questionable taste.” 

you shook your head—you felt so full, content and comfortable now, it was almost unbelievable, but you loved it. “okay, expect a few tones of mint choco ice cream at your door as revenge for your shameless lie about paying for pizza.”

yeonjun laughed. “you don’t really understand the concept of revenge or punishment, do you?” 

“invite me when you’re trying to find a way to store it, and ask me that one more time,” you stuck your tongue out at him, your cheeks already sore from laughing and smiling. “you’ll be watching it slowly melt while not being able to do anything about it, because you don’t have enough cold space.”

yeonjun pressed his hand to his chest, absolute terror all over his face. “a psychopath, no doubt… will you tie me down and feed me pineapple pizza next?” he asked, doing his best to keep his face straight.

“well, if that’s what gets you going…” you winked at him, but the ridiculousness of the exchange made you crack into a grin and laughter. 

he moved a bit closer to you over the table and whispered. “really wanna know?” he winked back at you, but he was so bad at it, basically just blinking with both of his eyes, making your smile only bigger.

“okay-okay, keep it to yourself, perv,” you replied through laughter, and yeonjun moved back with a grin of a winner, grabbing another pizza slice. 

talking with him was easy—he knew so much, able to continue basically any conversation, but most of them still were silly and ridiculous. you talked about everything and nothing at the same time, getting to know each other better all the while. yeonjun was a choreographer and a dance teacher. he used to be a dancer in his late teenage years, but eventually started giving lessons, making his own choreography and, well, giving lessons on his own choreography. he joked about missing the sore muscles after endless dance practices some days but always reminded himself he wasn’t that young anymore.

at some point you both somehow stumbled into a soulmate topic. it was a pure accident—you wouldn’t be able to recall how it happened or what led to it even if you tried, but you quickly changed the subject to friends, and you could swear he looked relieved for a second before composing himself. but even just a few words were enough for you two to realize that you both had some issues in that area and wandered around soulmate-less. 

you barely even noticed how another hour passed, and yeonjun’s phone buzzed with a call from the locksmith. he didn’t rush to take the call that time, though, knowing it’d only mean that this tiny two-people party was over, as if the longer he would take to answer, the more time he’d get with you. but he knew it didn’t work that way, so he accepted the call and listened to the locksmith, who was saying he’d be there in ten minutes.

yeonjun ended the call, and stayed still for a second, looking at his phone screen before tapping a few times and holding it out for you. “save your number, please. or kakao id. whichever you prefer more.” 

you hesitated, but he shook the phone softly to hurry you a bit, and you obeyed, taking it and typing your kakaotalk id in the “add friend” section. you paused, thinking of a way to save yourself, throwing a quick glance at yeonjun. he wasn’t so smiley and warm anymore, clearly dissatisfied—you were surprised how strongly his mood affected the atmosphere around him. or was it affecting just you?.. you typed in the safest option you could come up with—‘[ yn ], apt. 138’ —and tapped “add” before handing his phone back.

yeonjun looked at his screen, noticing the ridiculous name, small smile appearing on his face, as he quickly opened the editor and changed it to ‘little psycho’. he made sure you could see it just to witness your reaction, and he didn’t regret it a second, because you looked at him with one of the cutest angry expressions he had ever seen—your lips in a small pout and brows frowned.

“i’ll save you as ‘mr. maniac’ then,” you stated, but it only made him smile. you realized you were happy to make him smile and be the reason why he stopped being a thundercloud with tiny lightnings all around him—even if it was just for a second. 

“please, do. i like the way ‘mr. maniac’ and ‘little psycho’ sound,” yeonjun said, checking the watch—he had to go soon. “i’ll even put red velvet’s ‘psycho’ as your ringtone, hm?” he proposed it like it was the best idea in the world, smug about coming up with it. the lyrics flew quickly in your mind, making you press your lips together, and he noticed it immediately. “no, nevermind, sorry—”

but you composed yourself quickly. “but only if you’re getting stray kids’ ‘maniac’ as yours. fair and square,” you said, trying to keep the most serious face you could manage, holding out your hand to “seal the agreement”. yeonjun took it just as seriously, shaking it a few times, but not letting go when it was clearly time to do so. you tilted your head in question, and that was the moment you realized you should never expect anything good from that man.

yeonjun stood up from the bar stool, placing his other hand behind his back and bowing slightly as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of it. “deal, milady,” he said, a foxy smile playing on his face—you were sure he wasn’t even trying to hide it, no attempt to pretend not to do it on purpose just to play with you! 

you narrowed your eyes at him, turning your hand a bit to pinch the skin between his thumb and index finger, making him tsk at you, but it quickly turned into a chuckle when he noticed the way you hissed as his ring scratched exactly the same spot on your hand. 

yeonjun's grin grew bigger at that. of course, he didn't do it on purpose, but it was funny nevertheless—the way your intent to “hurt him” turned against yourself. “the revenge was quick that time, wasn't it?” he asked mockingly, with no actual bite to his words, and somehow he was sure you knew it. his phone buzzed, though, and he realized he’d lost track of time again. “i’ll text you, okay? ‘mr. maniac’. don't forget,” he warned jokingly, trying to make you smile as he saw your face slowly falling. 

you nodded and followed him to the front door, watching him open the corridor door for the locksmith and let him in. they both came closer to you, the man asking for yeonjun's id to confirm he was living there. you almost retreated to your own apartment, not wanting to create a crowd when it obviously wasn't needed, when your eyes fell on yeonjun's wallet that he had taken out to get his id. inside, in a small window people usually used for photos, was a tiny pink pressed rose bud, the little flower made your heart skip a beat. why would he have something like that?.. even the locksmith's question didn't tear your attention away from it; it was yeonjun's soft, almost concerned ‘[ yn ]?’ that pulled you out of your head.

it was impossible to describe how embarrassed you were, trying to quickly recall what the question had been. “uh, yes, that man is my neighbour. of a few years,” you said quickly, and the locksmith nodded, giving yeonjun his id back and saying something about two confirmations being better than one, to which you only nodded absentmindedly, image of the flower still in front of your eyes. 

you waved yeonjun goodbye and mumbled something about having a good day to the locksmith before disappearing behind your door—completely unaware of yeonjun’s worried look.

the moment the door was locked, the last ‘click’ going through the heavy air, you realized how stupid you were for overthinking it—it was probably a little nothing from someone important. a girlfriend, perhaps. yes, he didn't have a soulmate, but that didn’t mean people who hadn’t met their soulmate couldn’t date anyone else—after all, your own soulmate did the same thing so many years ago. and you wouldtoo, you admitted to yourself, given the opportunity—that endless chase for someone who was god knows where, if they even were, was exhausting.

you didn’t even turn away from the door yet when your watch buzzed and you saw ‘be a cute psycho, not a sad psycho ;)’ on the screen. you looked into the peephole, and there he was—sending his failing wink at you and making you smile. you unlocked your phone and sent a quick ‘okay, mr. maniac’, accepting his friend request and changing ‘choi yeonjun’ to the nickname he wanted. you thought for a second before taking a screenshot of his name and sending it to him, getting a reply almost immediately—’good girl’. you paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure how to reply, when another message came in: ‘tell me when i’m too much, okay? don’t put up with my behaviour if it makes you uncomfortable’. it was nice—really nice, warmth spilling inside, as you sent ‘okay. but it’s fine so far, don’t worry’.

the conversation didn’t stop there—just like you two were talking about everything and nothing when yeonjun was sitting in your kitchen, you continued talking through texts, completely losing track of time—friends, families, funny stories from work. turned out he was three handshakes away from you—one of the guys who took yeonjun’s dance lessons about a year ago and became his good friend was regularly playing league with soobin. the guy he moved to japan a few months ago and kept complaining to yeonjun that his playing buddy chose a girl over him until three of them started playing together. 

it was past midnight when yeonjun said that it was time for you two to sleep, and you couldn’t even fight him on it—you tried to, but he kept correcting your sleepy typos instead of answering, and you quickly realized once again it was useless to go against him, because he would find a way to get everything done his way. so you wished him sweet dreams and locked your phone, putting it on the bedside table, your sleepy gaze still glued to it. you hoped yeonjun wasn’t finding you annoying—you liked talking to him. 

just like your head was full of him for the previous few hours, your last thoughts before finally falling asleep were the same.

the pain caused by him was delicious. it reminded you of caramel—his touches were drawn-out, hot and so, so sweet. no pleasure had ever come close to the sweetness of the pain he was inflicting upon you—he took his time, making you savour everything he was giving you and crave more. 

it felt like he was everywhere, coating every inch of your body; pain, just like honey, glazing every nerve—you could feel him tugging your hair, fist firm against the back of your head, could feel his fingertips sinking into the flesh of your thighs, craving to leave marks on you—you prayed they did—and his nails digging into your skin as he ran his hand down, leaving trails along your legs—just as burning and sweet as melted chocolate. 

his fingers around your neck felt like the only necklace you would ever want to wear from now on—hand firm, warm and sweet too. if only he tightened his hand—he did so immediately, making you roll your eyes and part your lips, and he didn't let the opportunity go to waste, sliding his index and middle finger into your mouth, the other ones and thumb digging into the gentle skin of your cheeks. 

but the most delicious pain was brought by his teeth, sinking into the skin of your neck and chest, holding it as he sucked the soft surface in, making the lonely thorny stem on your chest bloom, as he held you pressed into him. it was as if he wanted to merge you together, never letting you leave him, and you would beg him to even sew you two together just to never stop feeling that pain. would beg for more of it. 

you felt him part your legs, one hand still on your neck, another one digging fingers into the inside of your thigh as he opened you for him, sinking his teeth into the flesh of the other thigh. he leaned in, and the feeling of his warm breath between your legs made you lose the last shred of sanity you still had after all the sweet torture he put you through. at least, you thought so until his wet, warm tongue pressed against your aching clit. 

you arched your back, clenching the bed sheet in your hands. “yeonjun—” you choked out, eyes flying open, heart pounding in your chest. the ceiling of your bedroom felt pressing and heavy, trying to bury you under its weight, as if the guilt and disgust at your own dreams weren't heavy enough. 

everywhere his hands had been just mere moments ago felt dirty, as if every inch of you was covered in filth instead of the sweet honey his touches had coated you in. you wanted nothing more than to go shower and scratch away the remnants of the disgusting dream you’d had, but even the thought of touching yourself—not sexually, just touching yourself anywhere—made you want to throw up.

yeonjun was nothing but kind to you, making you feel warm and comfortable, asking if you were fine with his behaviour almost on the clock, and you paid him with having a fucking wet dream. not even a soft vanilla one—though, that one wouldn't have made the situation much better—but a dirty one, where you craved him to hurt you, and absolutely nothing was fine about it. it was that stupid masochism again, the one you tried so hard to ignore.

you sat up slowly, wincing at the uncomfortable feeling between your legs—you touched the fabric and it was basically soaked, feeling under the pads of your fingers adding to the guilt, because you weren't sure when was the last time you'd been that wet. you had to pull your panties off just not to feel your wetness against your skin—cool night air making you hiss.

the floor was cold under your bare feet, but you didn't care, finding a clean pair and pulling it on almost violently. you needed some water—your throat and lips were dry, and you prayed to all the gods that you had been just as quiet while having a wet dream as you were while touching yourself. if you remembered correctly, your and yeonjun's apartments were mirroring each other, meaning his bedroom was just behind the wall from yours. 

you stood by the counter, your fingers clutching the glass—you two were sitting just a few hours ago behind your back, and you wondered how you'd be able to look him in the eyes now, if you couldn't even look at yourself. 

just a wall away from where you were only a few minutes ago, yeonjun stirred awake with a soft groan on his lips, head thrown back. his heart was beating like crazy, and his entire body was covered in a thin layer of sweat, as he struggled to catch his breath and grasp at least one coherent thought amidst the dozen flying through his mind. but most importantly, he wanted to focus on anything but the images that stayed in his head even after he woke up.

yeonjun couldn't believe these thoughts, these fantasies were back. they weren't too hardcore, but he still had been pushing them down and ignoring their existence for years. no matter how he tried to phrase it, none sounded good—‘i’m a sadist’? he was, but he was a softcore one—that wasn't what anyone would think when hearing the word, though. ‘i enjoy causing pain’? it was even worse. and even knowing the truth himself, he couldn't accept it, too afraid of being labeled a psychopath. again. 

but they were back, and in the worst way possible—dreams. something yeonjun couldn't control. and what dreams they were—about the sweet neighbour he had only started getting to know better, and never wanted to make her feel uncomfortable. but his brain thought differently. too differently, throwing in images of the way your skin felt between his lips and teeth, of the way his fingers fit perfectly around your neck, as if it was made for him to hold it, of the way you trembled and clenched at every little glimpse of pain he was giving you.

yeonjun felt himself twitch in his boxers—pictures too vivid in his head. he ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the damp bangs away from his sweaty forehead and tugging at the roots. he didn't want to do it, truly didn't, but it was almost hurting, and his free hand—almost on its own accord—drifted down to jerk his tank top higher and then palm his hard cock through his boxers. he groaned at the feeling that was releasing at least a bit of pressure—pressure so unbearable, it almost shadowed the guilt he felt over thinking about you in such way.

the fabric was soaked through with precum, and yeonjun pushed it down with a quiet, low moan, freeing himself, his pulsing cock slapping against his stomach and leaving a smear of precum on his skin. he wrapped his hand around the shaft, stroking it slowly, images from the dream finding its way back into his mind—he tried his best to keep his fantasies to the needed minimum, not letting anything else in. he was doing it only to get rid of a boner.

but you felt so good beneath him there, your expressions, your sounds, the little trembles of your body and the way you clung to him, begging for more—all of it was sweeter than honey. yeonjun couldn’t stop his thoughts from wandering. was it possible to make you even sweeter? of course, he thought, cock twitching in his hand even before he finished the thought. because he could want anything, crave anything and you would give it to him, because you craved the same thing. like his lost puzzle piece. 

yeonjun stroked himself faster, his grip tightening around his throbbing cock as he started losing himself in the fantasy, much more dangerous than the one he had dreamed about, but he was in too deep to stop, because you—the one from the dream—was her. the one he had craved so much but had buried deep inside, down to the last thought. the one who wanted everything he wanted to give and could give—in exact same amounts. just perfect for him down to the smallest whimpers of pleasure found in the pain he gave you.

the thought made yeonjun groan, his hips bucking up into his fist as he felt his release building fast. he could almost hear your mewls and sobs of begging to never stop, feel your hands on his body, holding him and accepting him and his every dark part. he came, biting into his lip hard to muffle his moan of your name, as thick ropes of cum painted his stomach and hand. 

yeonjun tried to catch his breath, guilt slowly creeping in—much stronger than before—but there was something worse. the word was still bright, almost blinding in his mind, and he couldn’t believe a mere wet dream and just jerking off had awakened in him something that he had been hiding from himself for nearly a decade.

he looked at his hand, covered in cum, in disgust and grabbed the pack of facial tissues, pulling them out harshly to get rid of the reminders of everything that had happened. yeonjun wasn’t disgusted by his cum—he was a grown up, after all—but he hated everything that was somehow connected to it this time, and tissues weren’t enough. he threw the box somewhere on the bed and got up to go to the bathroom to at least wash his hands properly. 

yeonjun didn’t even bother to wipe them dry, just pausing in the doorway on his way out and shaking the drops off, as his gaze fell on the key you had given him, the silver rose keychain dangling down from the shelf, reflecting a light that went through the window from somewhere outside in the night. it was too dark to see the thorns, but he knew they were there, mocking him with the cruel coincidence. 

the way yeonjun tugged his tank top off on his way to the large mirror was almost cruel—he couldn’t care less if he tore it, he needed to look at it. he turned his back to the mirror, looking at the reflection over his shoulder, and there it was—mark of a wild rose, a thorned rose stem crossing his back. looking at it was almost foreign, feeling like a distant memory of someone who he had been years ago. 

yeonjun had always thought he was lucky to have it somewhere he just couldn’t see it—wild roses didn’t always find their soulmates, and their marks were a constant reminder of that, so he felt sorry for those who had to look at it regularly. he had the privilege of only seeing his own when he wanted to, and he never did—he hadn’t seen it for years. but had it helped him now? 

had his dismissal towards it helped him, when his tired and stressed brain clung to the nicest and most relaxing thing that had happened to him in weeks and distorted it into something dirty and disgusting, which had awakened a craving for something that he had given up on getting long ago, because his soulmate was nowhere to be found? 

had his pretending helped him, when he came with the thought of just being accepted? 

everything melted under the morning light, though—just like how it could turn the monster in the dark corner into a coat carelessly hung on the coat rack, when you were a child, in the same way, it transformed all the thoughts, fears and, most importantly, guilt into indifference for both of you. 

in the darkness of the night, you weren't sure how you could even think of yeonjun, but now, as you were applying healing lip balm to you sore lower lip—that you, perhaps, had bitten too hard last night—while trying to type with your other hand, you didn’t see any problem—you couldn’t control your dreams. your brain had probably been so overloaded with yeonjun for hours before you went to sleep, that it just continued thinking of him even subconsciously. god, you even had a wet dream about soobin once, after you two stayed in the office until almost midnight and you were just too tired. 

yeonjun would never know about it anyway—unless you told him, and you surely weren’t going to. you were going to just go with the flow and let stuff happen the way they were supposed to, without ruining everything for yourself by feeling ‘guilt’ and ‘disgust’ toward your subconscious. you would just deal with the consequences later—if there would be any, of course. you sure there wouldn’t be.  

and it was the same for yeonjun, who was almost embarrassed with how dramatic he had been in the dark shadows of his apartment and thoughts, longing for a soulmate who would ‘accept’ him. yes, his soulmate would—just as he would do the same for them—because his darkness aligned and blended perfectly with theirs. that was the point of soulmates. but who said his soulmate was the only one who could do it? his friends accepted him—yes, it was different, but it was still acceptance. who said there was only one person in the world that could accept him as a lover? bullshit.

and when it came to the filthiness of thoughts yeonjun had about you… he wasn’t so sure it was truly you, if he was being honest. in the chill morning air, it felt more like a phantom of his soulmate—one he secretly craved so badly to hold—had shaped itself into your form just because he spent so much time with you yesterday. it probably had to do a little with you as… you. too little. almost nothing.

so yeonjun had almost no remorse sending you a good morning text in the form of ‘so, are you having pineapple pizza for breakfast? or are you going to add pineapples to kimchi maybe?’. before he could even wonder if it sounded a bit too rude or aggressive, you hit him back with ‘okay, jokes aside, serious question now. do you put choco mint ice cream on your fried chicken or do you prefer to dip it?’, making him smile—you matched his sass, and he loved it.

yeonjun asked you if you wanted him to keep you company on your way to the ground floor, so you wouldn’t get bored waiting for the elevator and in it—a kind man he was—and you hesitantly agreed, not wanting to burden him, but keeping in mind that he was the one who offered. he didn’t have to, but he still did, so it was safe to assume he at least had no problems with it—and at most, wanted to. so you chose not to think for him and just be honest. 

it was awkward, leaving the apartment and seeing him by your door, waiting for you, but you brushed it off—it reminded you of a friend waiting for you to walk to school together, and it wasn’t a big deal. what was a big deal was the way your heart skipped a beat when you saw him, images from the dream still haunting you, a weird feeling blooming in your lower stomach. seeing him after the way you had felt him in the dream was unsettling, but you tried to push the images away—of course, they were still there, barely any time had passed.

it was the same for yeonjun, his breath hitching when he saw you—so composed and neat compared to how messy and ruffled you had looked in his dream and his fantasies. he quickly corrected himself—not you. his soulmate. with your appearance, but still not you. but he didn’t realize that it took him a bit too long until your question pulled him from his thoughts.

yeonjun was looking at you so intently that you felt an almost overpowering need to make yourself seem smaller. he couldn’t read your mind, could he?.. “is there something on my face?” you asked uncertainly, your hand shooting up to touch your lips. you didn’t have a coffee mustache, did you? that’d be so embarrassing!

“huh?” yeonjun quickly ran his eyes over your face. “no, nothing,” he shook his head, but almost immediately narrowed his eyes, leaning in just a bit closer, making your eyes widen. but then he shook his head and straightened back. “nope, nothing.” 

that man was something else, you thought. “what did you think you saw?” you asked curiously, as you both headed to the elevator hall.

“hm?” yeonjun threw a quick glance at you. “it seemed like you had a whole pineapple slice in the corner of your lip,” he shrugged nonchalantly, but the tiny smirk tugging at his lips gave away his intentions to tease you. he continued, “probably imagined it.” 

you quirked an eyebrow at him, keeping the play up as you stepped into the elevator. “really? just a few hours with me, and you are already imagining pineapples everywhere?” you leaned your back against the mirror, watching as he stood a bit to the side to adjust his hair. “what’s next? ordering pineapple pizza in the middle of the night so no one sees it?” 

gosh, yeonjun thought, throwing a quick glance at your reflection. you fit right into the circle of people he enjoyed spending time with. and what was even better, he knew he’d always have the last word with you. “mhm,” he turned to you. “wait til you look at mint choco ice cream in a convenience store, and the next second, you find yourself eating it with a tablespoon in the middle of the night, thinking of me,” he smirked.

you rolled your eyes playfully, covering up the weird way your insides reacted to ‘thinking of him in the middle of the night’. “you wish,” you stuck your tongue out at him, knowing he’d take it as your defeat. yeonjun seemed to like making you flustered and having the upper hand, and you could get flustered easily sometimes and had never been too sharp-tongued, sometimes struggling to come up with extremely clever and sassy responses—but he didn't seem to mind.

but ‘keeping company to the ground floor’ became ‘keeping company to the nearest bakery’ to get morning coffee for both of you—yeonjun said that he since was already outside, he might as well use the opportunity to get americano for now and some baked goods for later. you weren't sure who was the first to joke when he handed you your cup, but his question about whether there was a pineapple slice in your coffee blended with your question about him deciding against adding chocolate-ed toothpaste to his coffee this time, and neither of you had even finished—your shared laughter filled the little bakery instead. 

when you parted your ways, though, yeonjun realized that while talking to you made his exhausting thoughts disappear and he could just stop worrying about basically anything—which was only weird because you had met a little over twelve hours ago, as his friends were able to do the same—whenever you two weren’t talking, his mood became even worse than before, thoughts about not meeting his soulmate yet coming back to haunt him. he thought he had stopped caring a few years ago. 

it wasn’t easy to keep himself from turning around to look at you, but he managed to, gripping the cup in his hand tighter, the ice cubes clicking together and cooling his skin even through plastic. was the temporary happiness worth the dark thoughts that crept in the moment he hadn't heard from you for a minute? he wasn't sure. it still wasn't too late to go back to being just neighbours—you still had nothing between you two except one and a half inner jokes. it'd be easy to pretend things just didn't work out. 

yeonjun unlocked his phone, the chat with you still open on the screen. his eyes ran over the lines of the morning conversation, a soft smile appearing on his face. he wasn't sure he could do it—to pretend it just didn't work out—because it did, and your messages were perfect proof of it. he wasn't a weak man; he knew how to fight bad habits and addictions, and he could fight this one too, but… did he want to?

you, on the other hand, felt like you were shining from the inside. it seemed like the universe, destiny, fate, or whatever else was up there had heard your intentions of letting the soulmate situation go and sent yeonjun to support you along the way. maybe yeonjun was a sign, hitting you right over the head, telling you it was time to move on and focus on something else. for example, building a good friendship with someone nice and kind? it probably was. what else could it be? 

it became a regular habit—not a daily one, but yeonjun kept you company on your way to your work until the bakery at least two or three times a week, when his schedule allowed him—sometimes, his lessons started early in the morning, and he left while you were still sound asleep. he usually told you about it the morning of the previous day, adding something like “just don't miss me too much” or “i hope you won't cry on your way to work”.

yeonjun developed a habit of visiting the bakery and paying for your regular order beforehand these days, but of course, when you asked him about it, he had sworn it wasn't him—just some other kind and extremely handsome soul. perhaps the same one that paid for the pizza the first day. but you weren't going to let it slide, so whenever you both visited the bakery, it turned into a competition who could pay for both orders faster, and eventually two orders became one—to make it impossible to have a tie and to minimize the playful wrestling your competition was turning into.

what surprised you the most, though—because yeonjun's desire to pay for you didn't—was that he and soobin somehow got into contact, probably through beomgyu, and almost made a schedule. whenever soobin couldn't walk you home after working extra hours—either because he had his own plans or because you were the only one who stayed behind—yeonjun was right there, waiting for you. you knew you could tell soobin you wanted to go home alone that day, and he'd text yeonjun, telling him not to worry, but somehow, you were sure yeonjun would still come, not wanting you to walk alone when it was getting dark even before you left work. and you liked spending extra time with him, so you never fought him on it.

every time yeonjun saw you and your bright smile directed at him, he thanked his past self for deciding against pretending things between you and him didn't work out. he realized it wasn't you who was a problem despite triggering these dark thoughts, he was one—he had never really worked them through, choosing to just ignore them until they disappeared. and he thought they had, but of course they hadn't. yet somehow, it felt like just your presence was slowly healing him, motivating him to work his issues out, and it was getting better, even though he never shared his burdens with you. 

unexpectedly enough, you hadn't visited yeonjun's apartment in these two months, and he had only visited yours on the day you two talked for the first time. your schedules just didn't seem to match well enough—your nine-to-five job barely aligned with his packed weekday evenings (some days he had to rush back to the dance studio after walking you home) and almost full weekends, where he could have up to twelve hours of lessons each day. 

“as i spent two hours at your place the first day,” yeonjun once stated while walking you home, your fingers wrapped around his arm, as he held an umbrella over you both, “it'll be only fair if you spend just as much time at mine,” he threw his regular glance at you to check if you were fully shielded from rain.

it pulled you out of your head and you looked at yeonjun with a little ‘hm?’ but your brain caught up before he could repeat himself. “two hours? don't tell me you're going to set a countdown and push me out the moment it runs out,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

“nah, don't worry,” yeonjun assured you, poking your shoulder. “i’ll set a countdown and won't let you out until it goes out,” he paused for a second, wondering if he should say that, but jokes like that had become more or less regular between you two pretty quickly. he just hoped you'd tell him if he ever made you feel uncomfortable. “might even tie you up, hm?” 

you looked at him with ‘are you serious?’ expression, trying to contain your smile. “you're such a perv, jun,” you said, shaking your head, but you weren't serious about it, and he knew it—you often were the one to start these jokes. “how did we get from jokes about tying you up to jokes about tying me up, though?” 

yeonjun shrugged. “got to know each other better?” he was only half joking—he had enough experience to be almost completely sure where exactly you leaned on that… coordinate line. and considering you were keeping up with that direction of jokes, he assumed he was right. 

you narrowed your eyes at him—were you that obvious? “what does that mean, choi yeonjun?” you asked with mock pressure, but he only laughed, shaking his head. “are you free to hang out today?” you asked quietly, hoping he was. why would he mention it in the first place if he wasn't?

but yeonjun only shook his head, sighing. “no, sorry, mouse,” he squeezed your hand on his arm with his in an attempt to comfort you at least a bit. “i have classes in twenty minutes and almost til midnight,” he said. he hated to upset you—you never said it outright, but he could hear it in your voice. and he knew he’d hear that little hint of disappointment now too. 

of course, he did… you nodded, eyes glued to the tips of your shoes. “okay…”, you mumbled, looking at the reflection of you both in the puddles. it was his job, and he already somehow managed to find time between classes to walk you home when soobin couldn't and woke up early some days to keep you company on your way to work. you wished you could hide your emotions better, but it was difficult to pretend with him. you wanted to be sincere. “sorry. don’t think about it, okay?”

yeonjun pressed his lips together—you both still hadn't passed that stage. you could show your emotions to each other, but never really shared deep feelings, quickly pushing them away and covering them with a smile. and he couldn't ask you to open up, because he wasn't sure he would be able to do the same. “okay,” he smiled warmly at you. “i’ll record myself dancing between classes and send it to you, okay?”

you nodded, already happier—you loved watching him dance because you could see how much he enjoyed doing it, basically shining from the inside when he was doing it, his happiness almost contagious. and yeonjun enjoyed showing his skills to you too—he had only showed you his dancing in person a few times, but each time you looked at him with such awe, as if he were performing miracles rather than just moving his limbs. it fed his ego to no end, if he had to admit.

a few weeks later, though, yeonjun managed to free up his schedule a little and finally invited you to his place, swearing he didn't have any mint choco ice cream there, and you promised your pockets were free of pineapple pizzas. he had admitted he had nothing against pineapples on pizza less than a week after joking about it for the first time, and you said you were only joking about mint chocolate too, but the joke still stuck—it was your first inside joke (or the second one, after the one about yeonjun being a maniac one).

you found out he played guitar—the tips of your fingers itched at the memory, but you pushed it away—but he hadn’t played much recently, barely having time to practice anymore, so he figured he had probably lost all his skills. but yeonjun tried to remember a melody, playing it for you as you sat in his living room, watching him try to recall finger placements. and he was actually good, making you wonder why he gave himself so little credit sometimes. he was a great singer too—another skill from his middle school years—and while the highest notes weren’t his strongest suit, his soft, breathy singing was one of the nicest voices you had ever heard.

since then, yeonjun managed to free up even more time to spend it with you and his other friends—he was glad you motivated him to do it, because he realized he had been overworking himself like crazy for the past two years, taking on more classes than he could realistically handle while still enjoying his job. he could finally sleep properly too, minimizing the number of classes that started too early or ended too late, which also gave him opportunity to meet his old friends more often and spend time with you at his or your place almost on daily basis. 

it made you both slowly start opening up to each other about your current problems—work, friends, families—as you sat on the couch late at night,the room dimly lit by a paused movie or tv series on the screen, a slightly open window letting in cool air and making you wrap your blankets tighter around yourselves. all of it made the atmosphere too comfortable, almost intimate, making each of you think about the things that were burdening you and stealing the desire to keep them to yourselves when getting asked about them. 

often, you were the one who shared your burdens, and yeonjun listened, giving advice or, more often, sharing his point of view on the things you were worried about. you never expected him to be so emotionally mature, if you had to admit—he was extremely stubborn and even short-tempered some days, occasionally seemed to have issues when his authority was questioned, and you had noticed some light possessive tendencies, but his advice was always great, and most of the time, he was able to help you decipher your own feelings and emotions when you were completely confused.

yeonjun preferred to keep his burdens to himself—not just from you, but from almost everyone. he was the oldest in his friend group, and didn’t want to burden others in general, especially the ones who were younger. and, he once admitted, he also felt even more protective over you. he never said why, but you knew—he saw you weak. not in a bad way, just as someone who needed protection, and he wanted to take that role, which meant he wasn’t allowed to make you feel worse in any way, even if it was worrying about him. 

but at the same time, yeonjun tried his best to open up about things he was sure wouldn’t worry you too much—an annoying person in his class, spoiled milk because he forgot to put it back in the fridge, or a takeout order that was delivered wrong. things that made him annoyed or angry, not upset or hurt, because he was afraid you’d mirror his feelings, and being annoyed was much better than being upset. but even so, it still helped him open up more and more to you.

the only thing neither of you ever mentioned in these months was soulmates—the first slip into that topic had drawn a line you both didn’t want to cross, realizing how difficult it was even without knowing the details. mostly because it was the same for both of you. but at the same time, neither yeonjun nor you worried too much about it recently, too focused on maintaining a newly found friendship. of course, some dark thoughts still haunted you in the dead of night, but it happened much less frequently. 

wet dreams started happening more frequently, though. so often, you didn’t even bother anymore, simply going right back to sleep after waking up from another one in the middle of the night. all of them were based on the same thing—pain, which was more or less understandable, given your type of soulmate bond affected your relationship with it a lot. but you couldn’t wrap your head around yeonjun being the one in your dreams. he seemed so gentle with whatever he touched, so soft, a complete opposite of how he was in your dreams, and despite him being an extremely handsome man and everything anyone could want in a partner, you weren’t sure you were sexually attracted to him. at least, not until yet another wet dream that made you look at him differently for a few days.

for yeonjun, it was even worse—the fantasies he had been suppressing for years started creeping closer to the surface, which didn’t match well with his already naturally high libido, more free time from work, and not wanting to look for a friend with benefits or even a one-night stand. some nights he even managed to jerk off and clean up while being half-asleep, waking up in the morning with only a fleeting memory of what had happened. he felt more annoyed by it than guilty, but refused to admit it even to himself—the thought felt extremely selfish and wrong. he wasn't sure why you were the one who pushed his pain kink to the surface, unable to find an answer no matter how much time he spent thinking about it.

it became such a regular thing for both of you, that you just went about your days like nothing had changed, neither of you trying to put any distance between you. you kept getting closer, and at some point, yeonjun gave you a spare key to his apartment—he wasn't sure why, but said it felt ‘natural’. you joked that at least he wouldn’t have to worry about losing his keys anymore, before giving him a spare key to yours—it felt ‘natural' too. 

while you barely used yeonjun's, he used yours almost regularly—his uneven working schedule was giving him an opportunity to go grocery shopping in the middle of the day sometimes, so he started buying groceries for both of you, so you wouldn’t have to bother with it after work, leaving them at your place. of course, he always asked beforehand if he could come into your apartment or if you'd prefer him to keep them at his place until you could take them later, but you had no problem with him visiting your place, so you always gave the green light.

yeonjun never took it as a “permanent green light” though, and kept asking for your permission. so when one friday evening you texted him about not feeling too well and probably having a cold—just to explain why you couldn't hang out with him—he asked if he could check on you in the morning and maybe cook something for you. you agreed hesitantly, under the condition of him not getting too close to you so he wouldn't catch a cold too. you both knew perfectly well that he'd do whatever he wanted anyway, but it was obvious he wouldn't visit you without your permission. still, he'd worry his ass out if he didn’t, so you just agreed—you’d take care of him if he got sick. 

in the middle of the night, your fever got much worse, your temperature rising significantly and you were so cold, that you could do nothing except pull thick warm pajamas over the skimpy top and shorts you usually slept in and add another blanket, wrapping yourself in two of them like a hot, feverish burrito. and that was exactly how yeonjun found you in the early morning.

it was still dark, but yeonjun decided he could check your temperature in the dim glow of the city lights filtering through your window—he didn't want to wake you by turning on the bright lights, so he stepped to your bed, already feeling uneasy at the sight of how little of your face was visible between the uneven layers of blankets.  and it only got worse when he crouched down next to the bed and touched your cheek with the back of his hand—you were practically burning.

yeonjun almost jumped up, quickly slapping the nightlight lamp you had on your bedside table, the room filling with a soft yellow glow as he started unwrapping you from the layers of blankets. “come on, mouse, don't be stubborn,” he mumbled, when you tried to cling to the fabric, but he was stronger in general and you were weakened by the cold, so he had no problem uncovering you. “shit… are you trying to burn yourself alive?” he cursed, when he saw how thick your pajamas were. 

but that's when yeonjun froze, towering over you, his knee on the bed as you tried to keep warm, curling into a ball, your back facing him. he wasn't sure you were wearing anything underneath—panties, most probably, but a top…? cautiously, he slid the pajama top up your back, revealing the thin fabric of a crop top, damp with sweat and clinging to your skin. your skin felt like fire under his fingers. shit, he thought. please, don't hate me. 

he turned you on your back, trying to tug your pajama top off, but you clung to his arms with quiet sniffles. yeonjun thought his heart was breaking at the way you kept softly sobbing his name, saying how cold you were—he wasn’t even sure how you recognized him in that state, but you did. 

“baby,” he whispered, trying to lift your arms, but you only tried to wrap them around him, desperate for even a bit of his warmth. “we need to lower your temperature. please, let me take this off.”

you only whimpered his name again, your nails digging into his forearm. “jjun-ie… it’s so cold,” you sobbed quietly, and yeonjun’s heart skipped a beat—you had never called him that way before, and the way you did now made him want to protect you from everything. or give in. but he knew better. “you’re so warm…”

yeonjun hushed you, quickly throwing a glance at the medicine and glass of water on your bedside table beside the thermometer—you prepared it before going to bed. good girl. “i’ll warm you, i promise,” he murmured, pressing his palm to your side—your temperature was only getting higher. “just let me take this off, okay?” he said, tugging the pajama top up slightly. 

you nodded with a quiet ‘okay’, and yeonjun, finally getting permission even though a questionable one, pulled the over your head—at least you cooperated now—and froze with it in his hands, his eyes locked on your skin that wasn’t covered with the short top. he almost forgot how to breath. 

when he realized he had to undress you, he had told himself this was nothing, that he had seen enough women naked before, that there wouldn’t be anything new. and there wasn’t anything new. but there was something he had never expected to see—the mark. the one that resembled the one on his back. the same mark he had seen on the bodies of other wild roses he knew. half of the stem hidden beneath your top.

you were a wild rose. yeonjun felt like a complete idiot—everything had hinted at that. all the wild roses he knew disliked or even hated roses before meeting their soulmate, yet they always had something connected to roses on them. some wore jewelry, some had keychains or little paintings of one in their phone case. he had a pressed rosebud in his wallet, and you never took off a velvet bracelet that—he now realized—would look like a thorny rose stem if you laid it down. 

you had some issues with connection or your soulmate—yeonjun didn’t know the details, but he had never met a wild rose who had it easy. that type of bond being probably the least stable and the most unpredictable one. and you also tried your best to be extremely carefulб even in your clumsiest moments—that was something wild roses learned early on. and, well, you hadn’t met your soulmate, which wasn’t too strange before, but made sense now—many wild roses wandered alone for a really long time. 

yeonjun almost touched the thorn under your collarbone as if hypnotized when your sob of his name pulled him out of the haze. you sat up, reaching for him, and he was actually glad you did, because he needed you to take your medicine. he sat on the bed next to you, and you clung to him almost instantly, one of your hands slipping under his hoodie to press against his back, as you tried to warm yourself. he froze—his own mark was there, and even though you couldn’t feel it, it still made him feel weird. 

but yeonjun only adjusted your position slightly, settling you between his legs, your side pressed to his chest. he suddenly felt weak, wondering if the discovered information was already taking its toll on him. but he shook his head—not the right time to think about it. he popped the pill out and grabbed the glass, placing the medicine in your palm and guiding the glass to your hand, his own holding it over yours in case you were too weak. 

you stopped sobbing about being cold, though you still shivered and trembled slightly in his arms. maybe, the fresh air in your room had cooled you down a bit, clearing your mind, but either way, yeonjun was glad you had calmed down a bit—it made you much more cooperative. you took the medicine almost without needing his words, earning a quiet  ‘good girl’ from him, which you probably paid no attention to.

your arms were around yeonjun’s waist the moment he took the glass away from you, holding him tightly as you pressed your chest against his as much as you could in that position. he quietly asked you if he could take off your too-thick pajama pants as well, and you nodded with a quiet ‘yes’, your head resting on his shoulder, breath warm against his neck. you even lifted your hips slightly to help him pull your pants down, getting another ‘good girl' in response.

yeonjun put the thermometer into your mouth and rested his palm on your bare knee, as you pulled your legs closer to your chest, cold now as your pajamas were gone. he tried to warm you at least a little, but mostly, he let you warm yourself against him the way you wanted to, like your own personal human heater—it was the first time you two had been this close, and it was extremely close compared to the simple hello and goodbye hugs, which had been the closest you’d ever gotten. and he was too lost in thoughts anyway to think about how to warm you actively without crossing any boundaries. 

somehow, the discovery was horrifying, and mostly because yeonjun had no idea why it scared him so much. was it because it made him feel so much more protective over you, knowing perfectly how painful that type of bond could be? or because of how close it would naturally bring you together in search of comfort whenever it came to anything about soulmates? or maybe because he knew he would have to open up now and tell you who he was—because he knew who you were, and it would only be fair. because he was afraid to open that pandora’s box he called his soul. afraid to do it again, and realize, too late, that he had chosen the wrong person. one more time.

but as you finally fell asleep on his shoulder, your breathing even, your hold loosening and your skin no longer burning—the second temperature check confirming it—yeonjun knew he would never tell you how much you clung to him or how helpless you had sounded, unless you remembered it yourself. he didn't want you to feel embarrassed, especially when there was nothing to be embarrassed about in the first place. he caressed your cheek without thinking, surprising himself both with the action and with the way you instinctively leaned into his cool hand.

carefully, yeonjun laid you back down on your bed and covered you with a thin blanket, holding himself back from pressing lips to your forehead the way his mom always did to him, even when he had grown up. he got up slowly—he still felt weak, but he had to cook something for you, so you’d have something to eat when you woke up. he slapped the nightlight one more time to turn it off, and threw one last quick glance at you before leaving the bedroom. 

you were much more surprising than he could ever expect, and he had no idea what to do with these surprises. 

♡ you're here ♡ | to chapter 2 →

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part one - two - three - four -five

i saw you in a dream (bucky barnes x reader)

tags/warnings: plot with porn, fluff, a little angst, there is some mild amnesia, major plot twist, first person (bucky's) pov, inspired by this song

blurb: In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear.

These are the words inscribed on Bucky's wedding ring. A wedding ring that he doesn't remember ever having. It's not a vow he made-- not that he remembers, anyway-- but it might just be one that he decides to keep anyway.

ao3 here

The sunlight is warm on my skin. It’s morning— late morning, by the angle of the sunlight, but still morning— and I feel my lover’s hand brush the hair from my face. My eyes are not yet open, but I can feel her gaze, her breath, even her smile behind the darkness of my closed eyelids. The mattress dips with her heated weight next to me, a familiar feeling that warms me from the inside out.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she lilts softly, her smile dancing in the sound of her words. “It’s time for breakfast. If you’d like to be up sometime before noon, now’s your chance.”

There’s only one thing that bothers me.

It shouldn’t be morning. It should be afternoon at the earliest. Last I remember, I was fighting— what’s new? I’m always fighting— and it was important this time. It was a fight for not only our lives but every life, an earth-shattering, world-ending battle for the future of humanity. I should be there fighting still. 

And besides, I have no lover. I don’t even know what gave me the idea that I did. 

I know enough of espionage to know when something is too good to be true. So, instead of revealing my wakefulness, I lie very still. I mimic the deep breathing of sleep and wait for her next move. 

“Bucky,” she beckons, her hand on my chest. “Bucky, I know you’re awake. Those breathing tricks don’t work on me anymore, you know that.”

Panic flares in my chest, but I force myself to stay still. How? I think. How does she know?

Her hand is warm against my chest, right over my heart. My overactive imagination envisions that warm hand burrowing, boring a hole through my chest plate and into my heart, crushing it in her grip—

“Oh well,” she sighs, her voice full of Loki’s own mischief. “I guess I’ll have to persuade you that waking is better than dreaming.”

Her hand moves. It travels down the center of my chest— my bare chest, I notice— her fingers lightly caressing through the hair at my stomach, travelling lower and lower until—

I snatch her hand away just before she reaches the waistband of my boxers. My eyes snap open, and with the silence of an assassin, I roll on top of her, capturing both of her hands at the wrist and pinning her legs with my own. She giggles— giggles!— the whole while, right up until the moment she sees my face. Trapped beneath me with nowhere to go, she stares up at me, smiling at first, then wide-eyed and sober. 

“Bucky? Honey?”

There is fear in her voice. It lands sourly on my ears, and I foolishly want to see her smiling again. I shake my head, trying to clear it. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and I’m shocked to note that the fear I’d heard is gone, replaced by a soft concern that’s echoed in the softening of her eyes. 

“Who are you?” I demand. 

“What? What do you mean, who am I?”

I tighten my grip on her wrists and force them to the bed.

“Answer the question.”

“Bucky, you’re scaring me,” she says, and her hands begin to tremble. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you don’t tell me who the hell you are.”

Her expression hardens. 

“I,” she says with surprising indignation, “am your wife. And I’m starting to get real goddamn offended that my husband is threatening me in our marriage bed. I suggest you get a grip, James Buchanan Barnes, before I start to take it personal.”

I blink owlishly at her.

Wife?

Her hands are still shaking, but I can tell she’s getting angrier by the second. Intellectually, I know that I have her pinned and that there’s no way she can hurt me. Emotionally? I feel about thirty seconds away from experiencing a category four storm of righteous wifely fury that I know I shouldn’t fear, but fear anyway. 

 “Well?” she demands. “Are you going to let me up so we can talk this through like adults or are you going to continue trying to assault me?”

I don’t release her immediately, but I do take a look around me. The bedroom is neatly organized and done up in shades of slate blue and wheat gold. The big window to my right is open, allowing the breeze to tango with the sheer white and gold curtains that hand from a sturdy gold rod. On the walls are photos of my friends— Steve, Shuri, T’challa, and others— and on the nightstand next to the bed, there is a photo of a bride and a groom holding hands in front of a place I recognize. It is a secluded place along a Wakandan lakeside, with grass so green it looks like shattered emeralds and water so blue that it seems only melted, watery sky.

That place— it is my favorite place in all the wide world. If I were ever to be married anywhere, that would be the place I would choose to be married at. 

The woman beneath me— my wife— follows my gaze, and I can feel her muscles relax, softening in my grip.

“Wakanda,” she murmurs. “Do you remember that, our wedding day? The grass stains on my dress, the way Steve cried and T’challa got so drunk that he tripped over his own feet at the reception while trying to Cupid Shuffle? Surely you do— Tony Stark laughed so hard he threw up.”

“No,” I tell her truthfully before I can think to stop myself. “What’s a Cupid Shuffle?”

I look back down at her, and her expression goes all pinched.

“I think we might better call Steve,” she says gently, brows creased in concern. “You love the Cupid Shuffle.”

***

According to Steve, I do not love the Cupid shuffle. Quite the opposite, in fact. I detest the song so much that my wife— who I still don’t remember— had apparently been trying to shock me out of my state of amnesia by claiming I did. When that didn’t work, she brought me here, to S.W.O.R.D.’s headquarters— whatever the fuck that is. 

Out of curiosity, I ask Steve to show me this Cupid Shuffle, and he’s absolutely right. I hate the song, and the dance looks stupid. The idea of T’challa falling over trying to do it is so cringe that my bones feel nauseous just thinking about it. 

“He did, though,” Steve reiterates, the shit-eating grin on his face no less bright for the ugly blue fluorescent lighting of the infirmary. He just loves it when he knows a reference before I do. “The night you were married, we were all so happy that nothing was embarrassing. Maybe I’m a sap, but… it felt a little like magic.”

Married. So even Steve seems to think I am, but I don’t feel very married. Even as I look around at the stoic, sterile infirmary around me, I feel like there is a battlefield I should be on, a war I should be fighting.

My inner turmoil must be apparent on my face, because Steve moves closer, speaks softer.

“Believe me,” Steve says, putting a big hand on my shoulder. “You love her, Buck. No matter how many years you’ve lost, you’ll remember it in your bones if you give her a chance.”

The crazy thing is, I believe him. 

She’s sitting on the other side of the glass window that separates us, chatting with Pepper Potts. Miss Potts, Steve told me, is now Mrs. Stark, and when I’d asked him why she felt okay associating with us after all that happened, he’d told me that they’d all made up a long time ago. Even now, I’m relieved for that; as grateful as I am that Steve chose me over his Avenger friends, I have always questioned whether or not I was worth the trade. To know that all is set to right between the two sides is comforting.

My wife laughs at something Pepper says, grasps her hand with a smile. As I study her, I come to an obvious realization.

“She’s beautiful,” I tell Steve. “That’s got to count for something, I guess.”

If I’m being honest, it counts for a lot, but I don’t want to seem shallow. Even at this distance, her smile is charming; I remember being up close and personal with that smile this morning, and I know that her eyes have that shine to them that says she’s as sweet as she is mischievous. Her nose is a graceful outward slope against her profile, and her lips, while predisposed to pouting, seem soft, well-shaped, and supple. And as for the rest of her… 

I try hard not to think about the way she’d pulled off the oversized— the me sized— t-shirt that she was wearing to change into something decent to wear. At the sight of her bare skin, I had been possessed of a strange and terrible urge to lick her from head to fucking toe before she managed to put real clothes on and show me where my clothes were. I shudder at the memory.

“I told you,” Steve says, “You love her. Only love can make a man look so green about the gills. You had the same look on your wedding day.”

I really, really can’t think about that right now. 

“So… we really beat Thanos?”

“Yep. Five years ago. We all did the whole Avengers thing and, you know, assembled.” Steve shrugged. “It was a close call, but between all of us we managed to cut off Thanos’s hand before he could use the glove and his head before he could do any more damage. The old one-two, as it were.”

I don’t remember that at all. I tell him what I last recall— fighting Thanos in the Wakandan jungle, a mad melee for our lives. 

“That’s about how it happened,” Steve nods, “except Tony was there, fighting with us. Don’t you remember him?”

I shake my head. I don’t remember, but battles are like that sometimes. Things get confused, chaotic— I might have been so busy fighting for my life that I just didn’t notice him swooping in to assist. I relate this to Steve, and he nods thoughtfully. 

“It may be. In any case, I think I know why your memory is spotty. Who knows what’s gonna come back on the scans they took, but, I’ve gotta be honest”— Steve’s ears turn pink, so I know he’s really embarrassed— “You and I were training yesterday, testing out the new battle simulator here at S.W.O.R.D., and uh… I hit you in the head pretty hard with the shield.”

He looks away, shamefaced.

“I’m sorry, Buck.”

It is a terrible and unnatural thing to see Captain fucking America wilt like an overwatered magnolia. I take my oldest and dearest friend by the arm and tell him exactly what he needs to hear.

“Steve. Do not ever be sorry for anything that happens to me because of you. No, no, no, don’t look at me like that— every day that I’m alive and in my right mind is a day I borrowed from you. You should have killed me when I came off the ice with a mission to kill you.”

“I would never,” he protests.

“My point exactly. I don’t deserve you, Steve.”

“But you do.” His expression is pained. “You do, and you deserve this life you’ve made for yourself too, and I’m the reason you don’t remember it.”

Oh, boy. Thick as ever, that skull of his.

“The only reason I have this life is because you risked yours to give it to me, so cut the shit.” I think for a moment, then add, “Besides, we don’t actually know if you hitting me caused any memory loss. My skull is pretty thick, I’m sure it’s been through worse. It could be that so much time on ice, all the deprogramming, and stuff… it could just be that my brain has been through too much.”

It’s a sobering thought. We sit together in silence for a moment, letting that one sink in.

“In any case,” Steve says, “the scans won’t be back for a few days. What do you plan to do in the meantime?”

I don’t know. I’m a stranger in a strange land.

“Would it be bad to just… pretend nothing happened? If I already have a house, I could just… stay there with…”

It occurs to me that I don’t know my wife’s name.

“With (Y/N)?”

I nod.

“Yeah. With her. I mean, if she doesn’t mind.”

I feel myself flush. She might mind after this morning… I seem to remember pissing her off. Hurting her. Scaring her. I wouldn’t want me in my house if I was in her shoes.

“I’m sure she won’t. It might be… upsetting to her because you don’t remember, but she’s tough. More than that, Buck, you should know she takes her vows very seriously. When she said for better or for worse, she meant it. This is nowhere near the ‘worse’ she would endure for you. She loves you.”

“I’m starting to get that,” I say as I make awkward eye contact with her through the glass. “I could get used to it, I think. Being loved by somebody like her.”

“Take it from me,” Steve grins, “you’ll never get used to her.”

I’ve known Steve for many, many years, but I still can’t parse the meaning of that mischievous look in his eyes. 

I am so, so out of my depth here— but that has ever and always been so. I was out of my depth as a kid in a war, then again as a man trapped inside an assassin, and again as a human soldier in a war of heroes, aliens, and other magical freaks of nature. I can navigate my way out of this one just as well as the others, I tell myself. It’s only a matter of compartmentalization. 

“Ready to get going?”

My old friend holds a hand out to me. With a bravery I do not feel, I take his hand and let him help me down from the exam table.

“Ready as I’m gonna be.”

“You got this, soldier.”

“Sure, Steve. Whatever you say.”

We walk together to rejoin my wife and Pepper Potts— Stark, I remind myself. My wife stands, and by the way her brows forcibly smooth and a smile thinly blankets her former worried frown, it’s clear that she’s troubled. Pepper stands next to her and squeezes her shoulder in a silent gesture of support. 

“Well, I don’t know about everyone else,” says (Y/N), “but I’m starving. Anyone down for brunch?”

Steve shrugs. 

“I could eat. Pep?”

“I’m famished. I skipped breakfast to get Morgan to school on time, and it’s nearly lunch now.”

All eyes turn to me. I’ve never thought of myself as bashful, but being the center of attention at this present moment feels very similar to having my bare ass cheeks sitting on hot asphalt.

“Brunch is good. Where to?”

“Bagels on 32nd?” (Y/N) suggests.

“Fine by me.”

“Nothing better.”

Jesus fuck— they’re all looking at me again. If I could melt into a puddle, I would.

A small, soft hand reaches out to mine. My wife looks at me with a fondness that makes my chest ache. I hadn’t thought my discomfort to be so transparent, but it’s clear that she’s trying to comfort me. My heart lurches in my chest, but my body relaxes ever-so-slightly as she squeezes my hand. 

“Bagels it is,” I manage, and then we all set off to walk together for a couple blocks. 

On the brief walk, Steve and Pepper walk ahead of us, chatting about Morgan— who I surmise is Stark’s daughter— and (Y/N) and I hang back. She’s quiet, reserved, and perhaps a bit nervous, but half a block into our walk, she turns to me and says,

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier.” She looks up at me sheepishly. “You just seemed a bit frazzled, and I wanted— well, what I mean is, I just did what I would normally do, but I realize that things with us— well, things in general, but also with us— are not exactly normal right now, so in hindsight I could have just made it all worse instead of helping you feel, uh, less frazzled, so I’m really sorry if—”

I stop her there. The rambling is cute, but I’m starting to get the feeling that she’s going to work herself into hysterics if I let her keep going.

“I didn’t mind. Your normal— our normal— is good, I think.” 

She shuts up then. I can feel her eyes burning holes into my face, but I dare not look down to meet her gaze. 

We walk a ways further, and I ask her about the bagel place, what she usually gets, what the options are. She tells me her order, then hesitates. Sensing this hesitation, I make a guess at what she’s thinking and ask what my usual order is. She relaxes a bit, then tells me, and it seems right— both the order and the conversation.

“Now, there is some lore about this bagel place that I should probably mention.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Her tone is light, but she seems terribly interested in the brick wall of the building next to us. “Mrs. Dolores Finch is a regular there. I don’t suppose you remember Dolores?”

“Nope.”

“Ah. Well, she’s taken quite a shine to you— well, to both of us, really. She was quite taken with you when you rescued her cat out of a tree next to the cafe— the cat had slipped its harness, though how that fat furball managed to do that is beyond me— and once she got over her phase of trying to split us up and pair you with her granddaughter, she became… tolerable.”

She finally risks a sideways glance at me, gauging my reaction, then refocuses her eyes ahead of us.

“She will try to pinch your bum, though. I’ll do my best to run interference, but she’s surprisingly agile for someone her age.”

I try to imagine such a scene— a game of keep-away with my ass as the prize— and fail spectacularly.

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be on guard for bum pinches.”

The rest of the way to the bagel place, we walk in silence, and I worry quietly about being ass-ambushed. I know there’s no reason to get so worked up, but the thing about being a soldier and an assassin is that a high-functioning anxiety disorder will keep a fella alive more often than it kills him. And sometimes, like it or not, the thing your brain deems anxiety-worthy is an old lady and her cat. 

Can’t win ‘em all, I suppose.

We stop in front of an old brick building. It’s rustic and charming on the outside, and on the inside it’s full of soft golden light and old— like, really old, like me old— jazz music playing out of a Bluetooth speaker on a nearby shelf.

My wife elbows me gently as we approach a table, and her mouth molds itself into a smile.

“Good morning, Dolores,” she says with more fondness than I had anticipated. “How are you today?”

Dolores is a short old woman with gray hair covering what once was all auburn tresses. I can tell this because unruly bits of it peek out from beneath her frankly outrageous hat. The hat is giant, roughly the size of a large serving dish, and features what I can only assume is not one, not two, but three taxidermied cardinals on it. At her feet, the biggest, orange-ist cat I’ve ever seen is sprawled out in a patch of sunlight streaming in from the window, trying his damndest to wriggle out of his neon green reflective cat harness. 

“Oh, my bones ache, but what else is new,” says Dolores with a put-upon sigh. When she looks past (Y/N) and and makes eye contact with me, her eyes light up with a nefarious grin that I’ve only ever seen on evil megalomaniacs right before pressing a big, red button. “Oh, and you’ve brought my darling boy to me! How wonderful! Oh my days, you won’t believe all the things that have fallen into disrepair around the house, why only this morning the garden hose—”

“Dolores,” (Y/N) smoothly interjects, placing a hand on Dolores’s shoulder. “Bucky isn’t feeling well these days. We just came to grab a quick bite and go home. I hope that’s alright.”

Dolores frowns. Her brown eyes go impossibly sad, and she leans closer to my wife to murmur,

“Is it… y’know… the war?”

It doesn’t take much to imagine which war she means— certainly not the war I was actually in. But still, given my metal arm and general disposition, it’s a valid assumption for her to have made. Despite my age, I haven’t gone very far from that army boy, lost, alone, and scared as hell.

(Y/N) looks back at me, then murmurs,

“Something like that.”

Dolores nods to herself.

“Well. Nothing to do for it but weather it, dearie. My own husband George, God rest his soul, was in the Air Force in 1939 when the war started, and honey when he came back, it was rough going, I tell you, really rough.”

With a start, I realize that Dolores is probably not too far in age from myself. 

“But you’re a strong girl,” she continued, “and he’s a good man.”

Her eyes move to me, and then she says,

“And Bucky, my dear— let this sweet woman take care of you. Oh, I know it’s hard, but you’ll get through it. Lean on her when you can’t stand on your own, and if she can’t hold you up anymore, just sit down and ride it out together.”

She holds out a hand to me, and I take it. Her skin is old and frail, but softly textured to the touch. 

“There you are, dear. I do wish you well. I really do. I’ll let you go.”

I nod. My wife gives our goodbyes, and just as I turn to follow her in the direction of our friends, I feel a pinch on my left ass cheek to rival the very wrath of God.

I whirl around, but Dolores is sipping her coffee, as innocent as a rattlesnake in a rose bush.

“Sorry,” (Y/N) says once we’re out of earshot, clearly embarrassed. “I really thought she was gonna let you have that one.”

“You were right,” I tell her with a wry grin. “She really is agile for her age.”

We rejoin Steve and Pepper, who rib me about Dolores’s antics before we all tuck into our food. The bagel I ordered— a recommendation from my wife— is spectacular, and it’s gone before anyone else’s is even halfway eaten. We sit and chat for a rather long while, and I find it surprisingly easy to be genuine with these people. They seem to understand me as well as they understand each other. It’s such a pleasant experience that I’m almost sad when we all have to leave.

“Will you all come over for dinner soon?” Pepper asks us, tucking her chair back under the table. “Tony’s been rotting in the garage for too long and could use the company.”

“We’ll be there,” Steve says with his signature boy-scout smile, and I nod in agreement.

“I’ll text you later and schedule, then. We all good to go?”

We all agree and say our goodbyes, and then we head out into the late afternoon sunshine. Pepper and Steve turn back to the direction of S.W.O.R.D. headquarters. (Y/N) and I set off in a different direction. She takes us through a path that is unfamiliar to me, but clearly well-trodden by her; within a few minutes, we arrive at the same place I’d started this Freaky Friday-esque day. 

Our home.

It’s smaller on the outside than it seemed on the inside. The exterior is a creamy white stucco, and the roofing is the color of freshly-turned clay. The lawn is small but well-manicured, and a small rock structure bubbles with water— a fountain, I realize.

It’s like something out of a dream. Even when my hand touches the handle of our door, the whole place just doesn’t feel real.

Once inside, I begin to take notice of the layout, the design of the home. The hardwood floors are a gorgeous cherry shade; as we move to the living room, though, most of that hardwood is covered and protected by a Turkish rug that I know must have cost thousands of dollars.

So, I think, not only are we a happy couple, my wife and I, but we’re also well-off.

Looking around at all the photos, artwork, and knickknacks makes my head spin with the sheer amount of information that my mind is trying to absorb. In the living room, there is a photo of me with Tony Stark, standing in his garage and holding something with my metal hand that would obviously be too hot to hold otherwise; an eyeball that I can only hope is glass sits on a shelf next to a picture of a raccoon— Rocket, I recall— and a note that reads, just in case. There are dozens of these things in my immediate line of sight. I can hardly breathe for taking in every detail.

As I observe my surroundings, it becomes painfully clear that I have happened upon a world where I am not used, not tolerated, but cherished

In this world, it seems that I am very rich indeed.

But I cannot fathom this world, not right now. It is all too much at once. I feel awkward once more— ashamed, almost, and most certainly out of place. 

“I need to go for a walk.”

The words are out of my mouth before I’ve thought them through, but the truth of the statement I have made is not mitigated by its impulsivity. I know myself enough to know when I need space— and right now, when my old, brainwashed life seems preferable to having to face my own reality not as a voyeur, but as an active participant, I know it’s time to gain some fucking perspective.

I look at my wife, who has, in the meantime, curled up on the couch and begun to read. She looks back at me and says with utmost gentleness,

“I know. Take as long as you need. Don’t forget your phone in case you want to crash at Steve’s or— or something.”

There’s no confusion or concern in her voice— so I surmise that this has happened before. I had wondered why she hadn’t spoken at all or invited me to sit. In retrospect, it seems that she had expected this eventuality. Like she knows me well enough to know that I would need space to process this. 

It is a terrible thing to be known so intimately by someone that you don’t know at all. With just this one exchange, my wife has managed to make me feel both an aching fondness and a terrible inadequacy. 

I don’t know her the way that she knows me. I certainly don’t know what she needs right now. But, judging by the sadness in her eyes, it’s not me deciding to fuck off for a while. A sacrifice, then— her comfort for mine.

I won’t forget it, and I am grateful for it… but I just can’t look at her any longer.

“Thanks.”

I do take my phone— which I barely know how to operate, dammit— and set out for a brisk walk around the neighborhood. The activity does wonders for my building headache. Despite my wife’s warning, I don’t anticipate being out more than half an hour. In the end, though, she’s right. I don’t even think to turn back until the sun is setting and I’m still miles from where I started. By the time I return, the stars are up and the moon is out, but as I open the front door to my home, I find that I’m much more centered.

Sure, I’m out of my depth— but I’ve always been out of my depth. Sure, I’ve lost some memories— but how much different is that really from having lost so many years to the ice? The end result is the same: I have to move forward with the time that I do have. 

And as for my wife…

Some version of me loved this woman enough to promise my life to her; some version of me loves her so much that Steve insists that I always will love her. I trust my own judgement, and I trust Steve’s. To see the evidence of that good judgement, all I have to do is look around at photographs on the walls, in my phone, and around the house. In nearly every photo, I am smiling. It is so clear that in this life that I have forgotten, I have been loved and treasured and accepted beyond anything I could have imagined for myself. It would be an injustice for me to turn away from it. It would be an act of such unimaginable ingratitude that the thought of leaving disgusts me.

The living room is dark except for a single lamp. My wife is stretched out beneath the light of that lamp, a hardback book nudging into her sternum as she holds it tightly in her sleep. She is so beautiful like this that I imagine her to be an angel, glowing and golden. The only thing that mars the illusion is the presence of tear-tracks, little stains that cut jagged lines down either of her cherubic cheeks. 

I pry the book gently from her hands. There is a mark against her chest where the corner had dug into her soft flesh, and I wish that there was something I could do to soothe that skin, to make it as if nothing had marred it. Instead, I find pillows and a blanket and cover her, adjusting her body so that she won’t have a crick in her neck from sleeping awkwardly. That done, I step back and admire my handiwork.

Oh yes. Much better.

Now, she looks much more human— but also much more comfortable. I’ll take that over otherworldly beauty any day of the week.

I turn towards the bedroom I woke up in this morning. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. Food can wait. I’m exhausted.

I strip down to my boxers, face-plant, and sleep, dreamless, for nine solid, delightful hours.

[is-the-sky-blue]

NEW LIFE: GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU

Synopsis: When you are thrust into a new life of motherhood you find yourself overwhelmed.

Warnings: Angst (with a happy ending), fluff, satosugu x reader, creepy old man, mention of teen pregnancy (reader is not pregnant)

Being a teen mom is scary and strange to say the least

You never planned for this to happen but then again you guess no one plans to become a teen parent. But at least with pregnancies they are an expecting parent, they have time to prepare, ready themselves to adjust to their new life, but you were pushed into a life of children without any forewarning. Suddenly a care taker of three five year olds and a six year old despite being almost a hundred percent sure that you didn't even have your period six years ago.

It's an inexplicable feeling to comprehend the idea of being a mother of four despite never having sex. A strange thought for children to manifest in your life without any time to prepare. You didn't have the scare of not having your period for a month, never needing to buy a pregnancy test to try it out while praying for only one line as the thought of lugging around a swollen belly throughout campus sent anxious beads of sweat down your spine. Never giving birth but even if adoption encompassed the same criteria at least these parents could plan, filling out paperwork as they searched online for beds and toys in the mean time.

Even with foster parents they are expecting a child to enter their home to some extent, ready to open their doors yet you never undid the lock, it was kicked down with a battering ram as you didn't only face the responsibility of caring for one life like most expecting parents, but four. 

It's a bizarre emotion to come to terms with as you sit at your laptop in the dead of night, trying to scroll quietly as you read forums, and scoured through mommy blogs, finding parenting books only to half relate to each confessing adult. 

No one is ever ready to be a parent, a line that struck close to home yet as they continue so did your disconnect, reading words that contained foreign experiences as they try to console the masses but not you. Sharing how motherhood is a struggle yet as you watch your child grow you slowly get accustomed to it, figuring out your child's unique quirks, their likes, dislikes and what works for your family. That after birth and you hold your child for the first time a sense of maternal love washes over you. How changing your baby's diaper for the first time and feeding them are moments where your connection only grows and you find a way to handle your conflicting emotions. They continue to go on, stating that it's fine to make mistakes, confessing how they accidentally burned their baby's hand with a curling iron but they'd forget soon enough anyways, brains not able to retain memories from so young yet you couldn't afford making such mistakes. Your children will most definitely remember any accidental pain or misstep you make, after all even in your high school years you could still recall stories of your elementary youth. 

You couldn't afford to inflict anymore trauma whether it be purposeful or not, especially since these children you huddled in your home carried a dark past with them that you struggled to light up, your bulb barely dim, struggling to even create a spark to brighten their situation. 

Your experiences with children limited, even in your youth you never hung around kids your own age much, living with only your grandmother facilitating an environment where you spent a lot of free time listening to gossip about other townsfolk in your village and how your neighbours, cousins, mailman apparently had an affair. You spent more time learning how to cut fruit into fun shapes like dragons, knowing how to traditionally make matcha and play shogi with your elders instead of playing tag in the back parking lot of your school after class. 

Your living room often filled with elderly grandmas as they huddled around your tv, peeling apples as the latest episode of their favourite soap opera graced the screen, yelling about the stupidity of the male lead as you walked inside through the genkan rather than having peers over where you inevitably talked more than studying for your upcoming test. However instead of it being peers or elders on your couch it was now children, four children that you had to pay attention to. You couldn't let your inexperience keep you from caring for them.

You couldn't let your habits of letting your boyfriends handle it continue on. No longer able to just push off the responsibility of letting, usually, Suguru coax a crying kid out from where they hid in an abandoned warehouse while on a mission whereas you focused more on smashing cursed spirits through walls.  

You couldn't do that now, no monster in your living room to divert your attention towards while a child sobbed. Suguru couldn't handle it every single time, you had to uplift their mood, had to make conversation even if you could only nod your head at their incoherent ramblings, often puzzled as you sat silently but attempting to appear attentive, but you knew you were bad at it. It was obvious, especially when Satoru popped next to you, sparking a delight into the children as he gasped and laughed, their big grins never targeted towards you.

You were unable to find a way to form a sense of connection, it was as though a growing ravine separated you from the rest of your mushed , abruptly pieced together family. You were a household unit, a family but it felt instead of being a caretaker you were some sort of second cousin twice removed who crashed on the couch in the basement, an invisible presence that no one acknowledged as you ignored any and all responsibilities.

Opting to hide in the kitchen instead of tying pigtails on little girls while they got ready for school. Trying to keep a sense of distance as you watched Suguru weave intricate styles, a job you'd traditionally have, knowing full well you were better at braiding than the long haired man as it was often your hands doing his hair and yet you busied yourself with flipping pancakes, pretending not to see him struggle with the small thin hair tie, not acknowledging how he snapped a third one while trying to secure one of the twins' ponytails. 

Part of you just refused to acknowledge these children as your own, unsure on how to become their parent when you yourself were still a child. It slightly felt as though if you didn't interact with them then maybe this wouldn't be your reality, this wouldn't be your life. 

It's not that you didn't want to be apart of this new family, it's just that you didn't know how, any exchange between you and one of the kids that inhabited your home feeling awkward at best as you stumbled through your minimal knowledge collected on children, ideas you've read yet struggled to implement. 

You weren't sure if any of them even quite knew who you were despite it almost nearing a month of them being in your care, a relatively short period of time in the grand scheme of things but a long one when considering you've been with them 24/7. 

You were useless, a straggler in this house who offered nothing other than a salary. Suguru and Satoru had fallen into their roles almost seamlessly. Geto you could expect  this from with his already caring nature but even the arrogant Gojo was doing better than you. 

You were an unneeded presence, every passing moment left you thinking what would happen if you packed your bags and disappeared, would it matter, would anyone in this house care. It's not like the family dynamics would shift, not like you'd abandon any responsibilities as you carried none in the first place. 

The only thing you'd leave in your presence was a salary that wouldn't even create much an impact with Satoru carrying the Gojo name and wealth, the disappearance of your cheque merely seeming like a couple of cents to this household.

You found yourself wondering what your life would currently be like if you had taken Satoru and Suguru up on their initial offer.

It was like a domino effect, the three of you separating to go on individual missions. You could still remember the day as you sat on the stairs leading to Jujutsu Tech, Satoru's messages letting you know he was on his way back, with a surprise at that

You were rubbing your arms for warmth as you pondered exactly what surprise he'd be bringing, maybe a souvenir or new snack he'd wanted you to try. "(Y/N)!!!!" he called and you sprung to your feet with a grin, spotting his head of white hair skipping down the sidewalk, his empty hands sparking confusion before your eyes landed on two short bodies trailing after him.

His surprise was two children he had kidnapped.

"I missed you" and his arms wrapped around you instantly, a puckered kiss landing on your cheek as you tried to squirm out of his grip, peering over his shoulder at the two kids who still stood a few meters away, Satoru's sudden burst of speed not reciprocated by the children. 

"Who" you furrowed your brows with a whisper "are they?" you tried to keep your voice low, not wanting them to hear but it seems as though the man didn't get the memo 

"This is Megumi and Tsumiki Fushiguro!" he grinned, patting the tops of their head, or at least trying to, Tsumiki compliant while Megumi tried to swat him away. "They're Toji's kids," he stated as though it was no big deal, "and well you know about the Zenin clan," he yammers off and to be honest you were tuning him out after that moment, staring at the two children who met your gaze. "And you know how I kinda kille-"

"Yeah yeah I get it," you cut him off, knowing full well that this wasn't an appropriate conversation topic to have with the children, of said dead man, around. "So what are they doing here," you tried to say in an unoffensive tone, not wanting them to think they were an undesired presence.

"Well I was thinking of keeping them safe so the Zenin clan doesn't get their mangy little hands on them," he whistles, trotting up the steps as he wandered towards the school "let's get inside first, it's kinda cold," he hummed.

The Fushiguro children had quickly taken residence in your bedroom and you left them in Satoru's care, spending a few more hours in the main school building under the pretense of training to give the kids a bit more space, or at least that's what you rationalized to yourself, not wanting to confront your true feelings of discomfort and shock as you let Satoru entertain them, his lack of comments on your missing presence further solidifying your attempts to distance yourself to figure out your new situation. Suddenly a care taker to two children you had never met before but were reminiscent of a man you had disdained. 

It wasn't until you returned back to your room that night, exactly two days after Satoru's arrival, that you realized Suguru had returned. You expected to merely see two children in your room, not four. You weren't ready, not prepared for a surprise of any sort and your shock was evidence, your feelings far more evident than with Satoru as you froze in the entrance, almost immediately catching sight of two little girls standing on your desk chair in front of the bathroom mirror clinging to Suguru as he stood, comb in hand. 

"Oh" was the only thing you could say, the two girls appearing disheveled, bruises loitering their sunken faces, and you noted the slightly bloody towel on the floor, the neat bandages wrapped around their bodies and plastered on their face.

"You just missed Shoko," Satoru commented but you couldn't take you attention away from the other set of children that infiltrated your space. You caught Suguru's eyes instead, a cursory glance thrown over his shoulder as he offered a shaky smile, facade far more pale, a sense of fear loitering in his gaze.

"I-Is that so," you try to divert again, replying back to Satoru as you slipped off your shoes, trying to regain a sense of composure. "Well," you paused your bag slumping against the floor with a heavy thump and you watched as the girls grabbed for Suguru, paranoid glances being shot your way as he pat their heads, trying to soothe them. "You should probably dampen the ends of their hair, it'd help," you offer, watching as he struggled to get through the tight knots in their locks, "but it also might be best to cut off the ends," you murmur, averting your gaze as you unpacked your bag, putting your textbook back onto your bookshelf, sending a small nod to the Fushiguro siblings who perched on your bed, peering at you over the manga you let them borrow, "because they are so dry."  

"You think so," he hummed and you felt a sudden rush of anxiety overwhelm you, your ability to suppress your flooding feelings slowly dwindling after only a few seconds. They doubled from two to four. You hadn't even adjusted to the thought of two new presences in your life, but now it felt all too real. You couldn't ignore it, your feeling of helplessness as you stared at what you quickly realized would become your family. Four children you weren't consulted about, four children who now only had you and your boyfriends to rely on.

"I just realized," you purse your lips, trying to push back the bitter bile that suddenly rose in your throat, these sudden changes looming over you as your small dormitory grew tighter with each second, as though the walls were closing in. "I forgot my water bottle at the track," you attempted to persuade, keeping tears at bay as you clenched your fists, still not ready to confront reality, not ready to enter this type of life. "I'm just gonna go and-" you were hastily slipping your shoes on, feeling your fingers shake, "g-get it real quick," and you couldn't hide the shaky crack in your voice, your ill concealed suffocation known.

You had left that day, you probably could've never returned, but you did, taking four hours too long to supposedly grab your water bottle. It was dark when you re-entered, quiet, the only light from a dim computer screen on your desk and the warm glow from your lamp on your side table. You could make out four children sprawled about your room, the twins asleep beneath the covers of your bed, the Fushiguros each taking up a bean bag chair. Small snores filling the air along with whispered mumbles

"(Y/N)," they had called softly upon hearing the creak of the door, eyes suddenly on you. Bodies quick to rise to greet you.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," Suguru approached first, his hand resting on your cheek and you stared up at him, refusing to let the pit in your stomach grow and let your bottom lip wobble. "I texted you but I should've called you."

"It's fine," you nod, "It's my fault for not checking my messages" you sighed, remembering the list of texts between Suguru and Satoru that you had finally read after leaving, messages sent before Suguru had arrived home loitering on your phone, mentions of the dark haired man's discovery and how he'd be bringing the girls back that your silenced phone didn't let you privy to. No notifications of his warning jumping to your home screen. "What are you two doing" you hummed, trying to shift the conversation, unable to take his pitiful glance any longer, slipping from his grip, not believing in yourself to stay composed in his grasp but part of you wished you hadn't, the screen holding images of houses for sale.

"We were looking for somewhere new to move into," Satoru explained, "we need more space," he gestured throughout your room and you paused, the situation suddenly growing even more real.

"Move," you paused, eyes downcast as you tried to steady your breaths but jolted when Suguru tried to hug you from behind, escaping from his comforting hold, not ready, not willing to fall apart right now. 

"Yeah..." Suguru trailed off, slowly retreating his hands to his pockets, your refusal clearly hurting but even with the look on his face that had been there since he retrieved the two girls you couldn't find any more of yourself to spare, not able to emotionally handle the grief apparent in his features along with your whirlpool of flustering feelings. 

"If you don't want to move you don't have to," Satoru says suddenly, catching your attention.

"What do you mean, you just said we couldn't stay here because the kids need more space," you snapped at him with a hushed tone, unsure on why there was an anger rising within you.

"Yes they do, but you don't have to go with them."

"So you want to buy a house and let them live alone," you quirked a furrowed brow and you felt a thick tension rise in the air.

"No," Suguru hesitated, "we were considering moving out with them and letting you stay... here."

"What-" you frown turning to him, feeling those tears sting, unable to keep them away, "are you trying to abandon me."

"It's not that!" Satoru is quick to reassure, voice reaching an octave too high, the sudden groan coming from your bed sending the three of you into quick silence before the shuffling ceased and one of the twins, you didn't know who, still unsure on either of their names, returned to sleep. 

"You didn't sign up to take care of them," Suguru said in a hushed tone, "we don't want to force you into a parent position when you don't have to be, after all it was Satoru and I who brought them here, you don't have to take responsibility for them." 

You stared at the ground in front of you, letting water blur your vision as you bit your lip. "You are clearly uncomfortable and we just don't want you to feel like you have no choice but to go along with us."

"What do you mean I have a choice, of course I don't have a choice," you snap, feeling a rivulet cascade down your cheek.

"Baby you don't have to come with us."

"What do you mean, of course I do. We are dating aren't we, what would happen to our relationship if I just stayed here, huh," you began to spout incredulously, feeling a sob quietly wrack out form, trying your best not to make too much sound, not wanting more onlookers as you fell apart, "do you want to break up with me, is that it, is this just your way of trying to break up with me," you shudder.

"O-of course not," Satoru stuttered clearly taken aback by your sudden crumbling, aware of your slowly slipping sanity but not expecting the breaking point to be when they were trying to offer you an out.

"We love you so much, you know that don't you," and Suguru is staring at you with a pleading look, fist clenching, unsure on whether he should make a move forward. 

"Then you wouldn't be trying to leave me like this" you pursed your lips, staring at them with anger as you balled your hands. 

It was dropped after that, you followed them, the escape you thought you needed, the door you thought was locked was opened by them, mournful glances as they clearly did not want you missing but allowed you a chance anyways, shut by your own hands, sealed with your own will.

You had stayed on your own accord, demanded that you wanted to stay which only further fueled the guilt you carried as you stumbled about clumsily, clearly not fit for the lifestyle you somewhat voluntarily signed up for. 

This is a choice you made, you just had to work harder to be able to fulfil the role you wanted to claim and today was a great opportunity to make some sort of progress in that mission.

"I specifically demanded that a parent or guardian is present not a sibling!" the man in front of you rumbled, his brows furrowed as he stared you and the little boy next to you down, his cheek covered with a band-aid that accompanied the matching ones on his palm and knee. His lips pulled into a pout as he sent a resentful glare to the older that lectured you both.

"I'm sorry," you could only bow, hyperaware of how young you truly are to be Megumi's caretaker but you couldn't dwell on the thought, not right now. The heavy hearted sigh that released afore you had you stiffening.

"Regardless you and you family need to take better care of that brat, problem children aren't allowed in my school, learn to discipline him," and the gruff words had you gripping the arm rests of your chair to keep your anger in check.

"I would prefer it if you didn't call him such names," you attempted politely

"And I would prefer it if he didn't hit his fellow classmates," he spat, gesturing to the boy and his family who sat in the seat across from you, the black eye having boy clinging to his mother's shirt, eyes rimmed with red as he stuck his tongue out at Megumi. "Especially classmates who are children of esteemed benefactors that help keep our schools programs running" he tacked on and you had to bite your lip from spewing that no money was being donated to the school but his greedy pockets, knowing full well that art programs were still fully reliant on parents to provide materials to their children, after all it was you who visited the craft store more than once, but then again he probably assumed you were just an ignorant elder sister who didn't know much. 

"That's right! Do you know how much it'd cost if we decided to press charges," yet another pompous man chimed, twiddling with the end of his mustache "we are clients to one of the best law firms of the country, in fact we are one of their biggest investors," and you had to keep yourself from tsking at his flaunt of wealth knowing there was a black card in a certain blue eyed boy's pocket that'd be able to buy all their assets and not make a dent into the never ending digits of his bank account.

"I am truly sorry that Megumi hurt your child but I'm sure he had a reason for acting out, he's a sweet kid I swear," you explain, knowing full well of his kindness, despite being merely an onlooker the way he watched out for his elder sister and the twins as well was evidence of his caring personality. 

"Are you saying my kid deserved to get punched by that brute," the mother finally huffed, still holding onto her child.

"That's not what I sai-"

"Then what are you saying, I mean look at my son, our heir, do you think he received these bruises because they were merely roughhousing." 

"I'm just trying to state that your son might've done something to trigger Megumi is all, I mean he's hurt too."

"For gods sake kid," the principal tsked, "you just don't get it, it doesn't matter whether or not that boy is hurt the Sato heir has been harmed by his filthy little han-"

"I don't appreciate you badmouthing my son in front of me! Megumi's wellness is also important!" you snapped, furrowing your brows, "as an educator you should treat these boys equally despite how much money his dad gives you."

"Ha!" the so called prestigious father snickered, "son," he whistled and you could feel a sudden sense of dread shadow over you, "looks like I see where that runt gets it from now, how old are you anyway," and his eyes seemed to rake slowly up and down, his leering gaze causing you to cringe in your seat. "When'd you get knocked up, huh," he chuckled and you clutched the arm rest, trying your best just to grit your teeth are bare it.

"I don't think that's an appropriate thing to say in front of children."

"Well you are far from appropriate it seems," he chuckled once more, "if you are so willing to spread your legs I'll make sure to give a well disciplined kid," he smirked, a grotesque face that had a wave of nausea churn in your gut and you could feel the wood splinter beneath your hands, your expression of disgust mirrored on his wife's face but she was quick to recompose herself.

It wouldn't be hard to make it look like a cursed spirit attacked and left some deceased in their wake. "Calm down sweetheart don't get your panties in a bunc- AHH" he jolted, toppling from his chair with a heavy thud. "What's wrong with you!" he screamed, fingers reaching up to touch his face, horrified to find a slit of blood leaking from his cheek.

"Calm down old man, wouldn't want you having a heart attack now," you growled, fully standing as you retracted your arm, tsking at the splinter of wood sticking out the far wall, piercing the hung portrait of the principal, he once sat in front of, right in the heart. 

"I- are you crazy!" the principal fumed, stumbling to his feet as suddenly the Sato boy burst into a fright of tears, clinging to his mother, "what kind of psychopath bitc-"

"Let's go Megumi," you cut him off, keeping him from saying such words to the little boy as you tap his shoulder, hauling his backpack off the floor as you ushered him out the room, double doors slamming open as other administrators rushed in, startled by the sudden commotion but you walked through the crowd, bodies parting as you led Megumi out of the office, a silence washing over you two as you exited out the main doors, quietly walking down the steps, the click of metal ringing as you slung the backpack over one of your shoulders, little keychains hitting one another as you approached the crosswalk, staring at the big red hand that faced the two of you as the little automated beeps echoed the movements of your prodding fingers.

"Hold my hand..." you break the silence, extending a palm out to the boy but his sudden blank stare had you slightly recoiling. 

"Why?" he just furrowed his brows looking up at you.

"Uh," you pause, you didn't quite have an answer you just knew that children were supposed to hold the hands of someone older while crossing the street, "for safety," you offer and he shakes his head.

"How is you holding my hand gonna keep me safe," he huffed, "we'll just both get hit by a car instead."

"Oh, well..." you think, "if there is a car, I'll be able to get you out of the way quicker by throwing you to the other sidewalk if I'm holding your hand," you try and his unnerved gaze had you questioning your every word before a heavy sigh left his lips, his hand meeting yours just as the crosswalk switched.

"I probably got suspended or expelled," he suddenly piped, seemingly unbothered as the two of you stepped across the street.

"Yeah sorry 'bout that," you apologize with a scratch of your head.

"It's not your fault," he murmured, "I would've got suspended even if you didn't throw a chair at that jerk's dad."

"I didn't throw the whole chair, just part of it."

"Does it really matter, you still threw a chair at him," and you didn't have anything to say back to that as he soon pulled out of your grasp as your feet met pavement again.  "And you broke the principal's painting."

"Okay I get it," you mumble, suddenly feeling like a scolded child as you readjusted the backpack slung across your shoulder before you caught sight of the blooming bruise on his cheek, a red scab of slowly drying blood crusted on his lip and you looked up to glance at the sky before he could catch you staring. "Well uhm, it's kinda hot today," you pitch, the barely peeking sun creeping out from behind the clouds, the gloomy sky, clearly going against your comment, "do you want to go get ice cream..?" 

Suddenly his feet halted from where he stomped in front of you, the pebble he was kicking running sideways into the road as he spun around, "ice cream.." he paused, skeptical, "why?"

"J-Just because," you stammer, "it's hot, aren't you warm," you try to play it off, "we can go to the corner store just down there," and you point down street, the floor sign advertising a new product a couple meters away indicating where the shop was located.

"I got into a fight today," he huffed, "why are you giving me a treat."

"Man aren't you just supposed to say okay and book it until I change my mind," you raise an accusing brow.

"Well you're being weird, you aren't really good at this whole parenting thing."

"Sorry for not being a professional," you scoff half heartedly, sparing a lopsided smile as you lead him towards the store. "So let's just go yeah?" and you speed up your pace.

It didn't take long for you to reach the door, the boy obviously more excited than he was letting on with the way he rushed alongside you, the ringing of the bell above the door singing as you pushed open the glass, letting him walk in first before you travelled through the store you knew all too well, the place a spot you used to frequent in your first year, Satoru loving the strawberry swirl twin pops that he'd eat all on his own, the artificial flavour a bit too much for even your palate and something Suguru would rather jump off a bridge than eat, Shoko not even option to share with but it's not like he minded, far too excited to eat both on his own. 

The big brand covered blue floor freezers greeted you and you stared through the glass top, the colourful packaging catching your eye before a mop of spiky hair planted next to you, tippy toes trying to push themselves to their full height, unable to glance inside. "Do you want some hel-"

"No," he was adamant, bouncing up and down as he scanned, "I want that one" he slammed the clear lid, little hand smacking absentmindedly, obviously unaware of his options as he chose at random.

"Okay," you grin, spotting the strawberry twin pops but you ignored where he pointed, knowing full well the little kid wouldn't enjoy it, your observations over the past few weeks leading you to believe he enjoyed chocolate more based on the snacks he'd specifically choose from the stash Satoru would bring home almost everyday. "Here," and you yank out a chocolate covered vanilla ice cream, handing the packet to him before grabbing one of your own, "I like these ones too," you muse.

You were quick to head to the register, coin pouch at the ready, "but still, why would you buy me something for getting into a fight," he said again, his demeanor more worried, eyes a bit wider and you hum, trying to formulate an answer.

"Well you're a sweet kid, I know that much."

"But I beat up another kid."

"For a good reason."

"How would you know that."

"Because that boy was picking on Mimiko," you state, placing down both your items onto the counter, flashing a smile to the cashier as you pay. "Thank you," you wave to the worker, pushing open the door to let Megumi out. 

"How do you know that," he finally asks, his peering eyes curious.

"That kid had her hair tie on his wrist," you note, unwrapping his dessert, pulling the wrapper down around the stick, words of mommy blog past telling you how to avoid sticky hands before handing it to him. "And it's certainly no coincidence that Mimiko and Nanako are on a field trip today," you continue, watching as he breaks through the outer chocolate layer, the cream cooling his slightly swollen lip. 

"You are weird," he huffs and you can only reach down to ruffle his hair.

"Back at ya!"

You were quick to patch him up once you got home, little lessons you learned from Shoko and your line of work making first aid second nature as you applied ointments to his lips and ice to his bruises before letting him rest in his room, quietly taking respite in your own bed, the sound of children voices entering your home not stirring you to stand as you lay, lingering words itching at your skin.

 'When'd you get knocked up, huh.' You aren't even an actual teen mom and yet these comments sent a disgust shiver around your bones, a gnawing discomfort sucking at your marrow as you curl tighter, it felt shameful, scary, your situation was misinterpreted and you felt so sick, you couldn't believe how others your age who actually went through the fearful process felt.

Squeezing your eyes shut you let a singular stray tear fall down onto your pillow before wiping it away, not letting sadness linger before slowly letting the heavy blankets fall off your body, pushing yourself to sit at the end of the mattress. They were home you should greet them.

But you couldn't bare to move. 

The clock ticked closer to dinner and yet Megumi hadn't seen you leave your room. The door sealed shut, neither the blue eyed freak or Suguru had gone to check in on you so he just assumed it was fine. They had returned a few hours ago and yet you hadn't gone out to greet them, but he didn't bother to pry, not when he was tasked with setting up the table, carrying bowls of steaming rice from where his sister stood at the counter, spooning it into bowls at the rice cooker, to the oval wooden table a few meters away. 

He found it strange, taking notice of your lack of presence when everyone sat down to eat, no one called for you, but then again you often missed dinner. The few weeks they had all gathered in this new home missing your presence at the dining table during all meals, your presence only ever loitering in the kitchen either prepping or serving foods, never taking a moment to sit down with them, always in some type of rush. 

He knew this and yet it felt weird not to have you around, the singular chair that remained empty suddenly feeling like an eyesore as he picked at his broccoli. 

"So Megumi do you wanna tell me what happened to your face yet," Suguru finally asked, turning away from little Mimiko who finished her story.

"Nothing," it was dismissive, shoving the chunk of broccoli into his mouth, trying to avoid conversation under the pretense of having his mouth full, even if he wasn't fond of the flavour.

"So you got those bruises from nothing," the gremlin man asked him and Megumi scrunched his face, waving his hand at the giant to try and shoo him away. "Megum-"

"Satoru leave it for now," Suguru hummed, taking notice of the little ears listening in from all around the table, "he's not too hurt right Megs," he grinnned, trying to ease the worried look on Tsumiki's face.

"Mhm," he grumbled.

The food filling their plates came and went and soon enough after a few episodes of cartoons the two men were hauling him and his sisters off to bed, and unfortunately the glasses weirdo was in charge of tucking him in.

"So you want to tell me what happened at school," he prodded again, crouching down right next to the side of his bed and Megumi just stared up at this ceiling, ignoring his alien eyes. 

"No."

"Well can you just tell me anyways."

"No."

"Jeez tough crowd," he sighed, slumping his head onto the mattress as he flopped to his butt, the low toddler bed easy for him to lean on from the ground. "Seriously you don't want to tell me anything."

"Yup."

"Well then, anything notable that happened at school that doesn't have to do with the bruises on your face," he asked, trying to get something out of the boy.

"Mmm," he just groaned, flipping over to his side, back to the man as he faced the wall "well," and Satoru could pick up on the lingering question weighing on the boy's mind.

"What is it," he quietly spoke, as though if speaking loudly would spook the query away.

"What does being knocked up mean?" he finally spoke.

"Huh!" the man all but shouted, startled by the words and Megumi flipped around to face the perturbed adult, glasses on the tip of his nose as he stared at the kid, mouth agape.

"Never mind," he grumbled.

"Wait, wait, wait," the man rambled, suddenly springing to his knees, lurching forward to try and keep Megumi from dismissing him, "where'd you hear that?" yeah maybe knocked up as in knocking on a door, right, he tried to reason, hoping context would help his situation.

"At school,"

"Who said that, and why,"

"Why are you asking so many questions," the boy grimaced, suddenly feeling interrogated, "just go, let me go to bed." 

"Megumi can't you just tell m- OW," and the boy started thrashing, kicking at the tall white haired man, trying to force him out of his room.

"Just leave you old man!" he yelled, suddenly feeling his kicks no longer connect as the sorcerer reactivated his infinity. 

"Okay, okay," and he pushed to his feet, rubbing at his arm, pretending to be harmed more than he was while the child only stuck his tongue out, clearly feeling no remorse as he got out of bed to try and push him away faster, door being slammed the moment his feet left the threshold of his door, nearly being slammed between the wood as the sound resonated throughout the hall.

"What was that about?" Suguru asked, quietly shutting the door to the twins' room, brow raised in confusion.

"Megumi just asked me what being knocked up means," he murmured, still quite shocked.

"What?" Suguru jolted, shoulders straightening as his eyes narrow in confusion, "wait why."

"I don't know, I tried to ask but he kicked me out," and he gestured to the door. 

"Should I go try and as-"

"What's going on," it was a quiet voice, the small peek of warm light pouring into the dim hall, and they spotted your head around the door frame, hair messy as you whispered.

"It's just about Megumi," Satoru sighed, walking over to you before snaking his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder as you perch on your tippy toes, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"Did something happen," you mumble, head resting on his chest as he swayed slightly, the only sound you caught was Satoru's surprised yelp before Megumi called him old and threw him out, the sound quite amusing and you were eager to catch the expression on his face, however his warm touch was still welcomed even if you missed the perturbed look you wanted to see and giggle at.

"Megumi asked me what being knocked up meant," and you felt a wash of dread strike you.

"O-oh is that so," you tried to laugh it off, "is this what kids talk about in school," you attempt but Satoru felt you stiffen in his grip the moment the words left his lips and it seemed Suguru caught the flash of a certain emotion cross your face.

"You picked Megumi up from school today right," Suguru approached, soft smile on his lips as he took ahold of your hand that rested on Satoru's back.

"Yeah," you breathed, suddenly feeling a strange sense of guilt.

"Was there anything specific that happened, I noticed that he had some bruises on his face,"  he continued, his tone was gentle, yet you still felt unsettled.

"Oh, well he got into a fight with one of his classmates."

"Hm," and Satoru pulled away, hands planted on your shoulders as he stared at you, "did he win."

"Toru that can't be your first question," Suguru sighs and he pulls the two of you into your shared room, worried that not asleep children would listen in on your conversation.

"But it's important," the man groaned, flopping back first onto the bed.

"You're such a weirdo," Suguru mumbled, taking a spot next to him before opening his arms for you to rest in, but you merely opted to sit next to the laying bodies, interlacing your hand with his, your actions clearly unexpected.

"And you like that," Satoru wiggled his brows before Suguru let a heavy hand fall onto his gut, laughing at his groan. 

"Anyways do you know why he got into a fight," Suguru raised a brow and you reach to play with his hair, toying with the ends.

"Some boy was picking on Mimiko at school," and this seemed to catch their attention as both of their gazes snap towards yours, "Megumi gave him a good beating though," you snickered.

"If he didn't I would, maybe I still will," the blue eyed boy mumbled and you couldn't restrain your laugh, feeling that guilt wash away.

"You can't beat up a little kid."

"Who says."

"The law." 

"But regardless does that mean you got called in to the office."

"Yeah," you hum, you small ministrations of toying with his hair halting as your tried to suppress the bubbling memories, "I think he might've gotten expelled."

"For beating up one kid? What about that boy, he was picking on Mimiko," Satoru jolted to sit, face full of rage.

"No I think it might also be my fault," you sigh and decide to lay on your back grabbing one of the pillows to hold close to your chest .

"Your fault... what'd you do," and Satoru is grinning, prying eyes prodding at you and you couldn't help but turn away.

"I kinda threw part of a chair at the boy's dad."

"You threw a chair," Suguru laughed incredulously.

"Only part of it!" you whined.

"But you threw a chair," and Satoru joined in on the laughter as Suguru pulled you close, his chuckles vibrating in his chest, the feeling tickling your cheek.

"Yeah and I think he was a big deal too."

"Can't be a bigger deal than a Gojo," the man snarkily remarked.

"Wellllll," you drag out, "apparently they are esteemed benefactors that are clients of one of the best law firms in the country," you mocked.

"and I don't need law firms to handle my work, I can deal with it on my own," Satoru hummed and Suguru snickered at his confidence.

"But still what happened that made you need to throw a chair," the long haired man chuckled, already imaging the sight and Satoru eagerly nodded, clearly ready for a juicy tidbit of drama.

"Oh well," you pause, "you know," and you trail off, prying yourself away from Suguru's arms, suddenly sitting as a new wave of dread swirled in your stomach, you should've diverted the conversation better, or thought of an excuse before hand, "um," you pause brain running blank.

"Hey..." and Suguru sits up, concerned, "did something happen," he continued, hand reaching for your back but he pauses when you tense, the pillow in your arms crumpling in your tight grasp.

"No nothing it's fine," you laugh, but the wet look in your eyes told him otherwise as your chest tightened with each breath.

"This doesn't have anything to do with Megumi asking what knocked up means...right?" Satoru furrows his brows, clearly concerned, words moving slowly from his mouth but the moment the question fell the tightening of your shoulders told him everything he needed to know. "Baby," he cautiously starts but you push yourself to your feet.

"Oh would you look at that, I completely forgot Yaga gave me a mission for tonight," avoid, avoid, avoid, your brain repeated, trying to slip out of your discomfort.

"(Y/N)," Suguru's voice was stern but you could only shake your head, cupping your ears with your palms as you tried to ignore his voice, you wouldn't let him stop you, you couldn't stop, you couldn't confront this, you couldn't tell them, not now, you weren't ready, the fear in your body wouldn't let you.

"I b-better get going," you choke out in response, your flooding waterline only the start to the progression of your deterioration, lip already beginning to quiver as your compressing lungs began to burn.

You were quick to try and walk away, quick to grab the door handle and start to pry it open, but he was quicker, Satoru's hand slammed the door shut, the small sliver of your escape locked in an instant.

You were trapped.

Oh no, oh no, you couldn't do this, not now, not with them, you couldn't let them see you like this and your hand was frantically trying to yank open the door but he was just far too strong, your shaking fingers not helping in your endeavour.

"(Y/N) don't try and run away from us again," he breathed, body leering over you as his hand slammed above you, keeping it tightly shut.

"Why won't you tell us what happened," Suguru cooed, the crease in his brow revealing his worry, "did they say something to you."

"No," you were too quick with your answer, they knew, they both knew, you were screwed, you were so so so screwed, "I- uh," and your eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, the bathroom, could you get to the bathroom, if you did you could lock the door and maybe buy yourself some time.

"Don't even think about it," Satoru stopped your train of thought, and Suguru was quick to block the view of your only hope.

You were trapped, trapped, trapped and suddenly you felt the walls closing in on you, they were surrounding you, the ceiling was falling, the floor of dashing up quick.

"Woah there," and it wasn't the room but you, you were falling, back slumped against the door as you fell to the floor, big hands that only thing slowing your descent of keeping you from crashing down.

"(Y/N)," it was blurry sounding, that didn't make sense it couldn't sound blurry, but it did, it did why did it sound blurry, nothing made sense, what, where were you, why were you, and there was a pain in your chest, your chest it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

"Breathe baby please," and your hand was raised to his chest, they were crouched, one hand was rested at the back of you head, keeping it from lolling to the side as you could feel your palm raise and fall along with his own lungs, "can you just copy me please," and it was pleading, Satoru, Suguru you couldn't tell, couldn't tell whose limbs was whose, where your hand stopped and his body began, the murky colours fading in and out.

Why were you freaking out again, it doesn't make sense, why were you falling apart, it wasn't your fault, you did nothing wrong but why were you choking on air, why was their pain clawing at your organs, why did you feel nauseous. 

"Ohhh," you breathed out, eyes widening as you tried to process, your brain spiraling, why were you feeling so gross, so ashamed, you didn't do anything and your chest flooded with oxygen before you let it out with a huff, breaths following your hand, following his chest.

"There you go, thank you, thank you so much," and he still sounded blurry.

"They said," you sobbed, the words sending a shudder through your body, "t-that I was, they said I wasn't appropriate."

"appropriate?" one voice whispered and you could feel your chest heave.

"S-Said I should s-spr" and the word felt foul coming out of your mouth, "spread my l-legs," you hiccupped, "that he, he would give me a well disciplined kid, and, and, and I," you stumbled over your words, brain rambling as your mouth followed, unsure if you were even stringing together real sentences.

"I'm sorry," he whispered and your hand gripped his shirt, pulling him closer, "I'm sorry that jerk said that to you," he continued and you wrapped your arms around him, head burrowing in the crook of his neck as another sob wracked your body, a somberful scream echoing onto his skin.

"I-I didn't like it, I didn't like it, I didn't," you cried, feeling hysterical, panicked, overwhelmed.

"I know, I'm sorry that happened to you, he's gross," and a hand was patting the back of your head. "But he's not here, you are safe, you'll be okay he can't touch you."

"I didn't like it."

Your cries continued, repetition spilling over and over again as you were held, brain mush as settings changed, feelings changed until you were wrapped in blankets tucked onto a mattress until silence broke into your cries.

Your eyes shut, you didn't quite know when, but it happened, must've happened because here you were opening them, cradled in tight grips holding you close. Your eyes hurt, they were sore when they fluttered open.

"Are you awake," soft, gentle and you knew this voice, it wasn't blurry it made sense.

"Yeah," you whispered and Suguru grinned.

"m'sorry," you murmured.

"What d'ya mean sorry, what'd you do wrong," Satoru was quick to grumble, chin resting on your shoulder as he scolded you.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," Suguru answered for you, reassuring any thoughts in your brain, "that must've been tough, being told such disgusting things," he comforted, validating your feelings.

"It was weird," you confess, "to be told things like that."

"It's not just weird, that guy's a creepy asshole." Satoru insulted and you couldn't help but laugh at his anger fueled insults and you pat the hand he had around your waist, turning your head to catch sight of his furrowed glare.

"He's right," Suguru nodded, "but when things like that happen don't try and keep it from us, we're a team, let us help you."

"But I felt bad."

"For what."

"Well, it's just, he spoke as though Megumi was my kid but," you pause "I mean I get that we adopted him, adopted all of them but I'm just not used to the idea of being," and you sigh the weighted word feeling heavy on your tongue and the connotated meaning sent a discomfort through you, "a mom," you spoke.

"That's alright," Suguru assured, "it's hard to get used to our new life."

"Yeah but," you sigh, brows creasing and suddenly your eyes stung, "I just feel so awkward around them, I don't know what to do, I've never taken care of a child before let alone 4 of them and I haven't even got to learn because- because other parents they, they," and you started stumbling again, bringing your hands up to roughly wipe at your eyes, "they get to at least learn as their children grow, but they are all already in school and everywhere I look they say you are able to learn as they grow but I can't do that, I don't know what to do it's just," and you let out a frustrated groan, legs slightly kicking in anger. "I just don't think I can be the mom, the mom they need,"

"Sweetheart," Suguru trails off.

"They went through so much and I just can't be the person they need me to be, I can't be like all those mom's who are able to comfort their kids and know what they need, I can't be a mom," you confess, "I mean they are just so good at it, they are able to handle it so effortlessly. Even today that Sato boy's mom was able to comfort her kid, she was able to hug him and he turned to her for comfort, I can never be that for these children, I'll never be able to provide that support they need and I, I," you were running out of breath, your ramblings long as weeks of insecurity finally verbalized.

"You," Satoru stops you, "won't be able to be that type of mom, the type of parent who does everything so effortlessly," and his words seemed to bite but he continued, "because that type of parent doesn't exist, what you see online is manufactured, all those things you read are written in a specific way, no one talks about meltdowns or tantrums or their insecurities, but even if they don't mention it,  that doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

"Parenting is different for everyone, and it'll be especially different for our family, after all we have a learning curve to get over," Suguru cracked a smile, "but you are the smartest person I know," and his hand grabbed yours and your palm was on his lips, "you'll be able to find a lifestyle that works for you, you'll be able to learn how to talk to them, I know you will, I mean just think about today with Megumi, you picked him up from school, you were able to spend time with him alone and that was fine wasn't it."

"I probably got him expelled."

"And I would've instead if you hadn't," Satoru snapped, "now that he's already expelled there is nothing to lose when I crush that old perv's head." 

"Satoru," you whined, "you can't do that." 

"Well you threw a chair."

"I only threw a part of it," you huffed before resting your head backwards onto his shoulder, "I don't think I'll be able to do this," you sigh, "these kids deserve a mom who is good at their job, a mom who wants to be doing all of this and is able to do it with ease."

"But you do want this (Y/N), you stayed even when you had a chance to leave."

"Yeah but maybe I was wrong, maybe I was making a mistake. I was scared of losing you, I didn't want to break up, I was being greedy, I was looking at these kids and I could only think I could put up with anything if I could be with you. I was romanticizing this whole situation, I was dumbing it down, I haven't even done much and yet the little bit of parenting I actually do is far more difficult than I imagined. I just always feel exhausted, and scared that I'm gonna mess up and make them hate me, I just feel like some big burden in our family, you guys are able to handle it all, and I just hover around and-"

"What do you mean burden," Satoru scoffed.

"The only reason we are able to take care of them is because we know we can rely on each other, and you. Today didn't overwhelm us because I knew I could go on the field trip with the twins and Satoru could take Tsumiki to her art class after school, because we knew you'd be able to take care of Megumi, we knew you'd be able to take care of the loose ends." 

"(Y/N) we can only do this because you are here, the only reason I'm able to adjust is because I have you and Suguru as my 2 constants, you are a pillar that I can rely on and I want to be a pillar you can rely on too."

"I'm pretty sure it's a rock, not pillar." you correct but he only presses a ticklish kiss to the crook of your neck causing you to laugh.

"That's besides the point," and another kiss.

"Just remember," Suguru mused, leaning in to press his own kiss to your forehead, "take your time, you don't need to rush and try and become a person you aren't." 

"Okay, okay," and suddenly you couldn't stop laughing, Satoru pecking your skin over and over again, his hair tickling your neck.

"We can get through this together alright, remember you aren't alone," he mumbled against your flesh and the vibrations only further the sensation as you giggled, pushing his head away from your skin.

"Thank you," you could only smile, and it felt as though all your worries were crushed, in between their arms you knew you weren't alone, you'd be okay, you didn't have to be a mom, you could take your time with your learning. You were fine, you'd be fine.

"My face hurts," his little voice echoed and you raised your head, catching sight his mop of dark hair peeking in through the door frame and you sat up.

"Still?" you questioned, already to your feet, as you walked over to him, the once crusted over scab ripped away, beads of blood blotting his lips as the black eye only purpled even more from the last time you saw him, the bruises swelling stronger. "Did neither of you give him an ice pack" you turn around, staring at the two men who stiffen, Satoru's guilty look all you needed before you were ushering Megumi into the kitchen. You shuffled over to the freezer as the boy climbed onto the dining room chair, watching as you shook the frosted condensation off one of the ice packs before wrapping it with a clean towel.

You crouched down next to him, staring up at his bruised face, placing a gentle hand to poke at the swollen skin, grimacing as he winced, it really did get worse and you reached up to place the ice onto his cheek, patting his hand when he flinched. "Sorry I know it hurts, just hold that here okay" you tell him and he nods before you go and reach for the cabinet above the fridge, pulling down the plastic bucket of medicine, yanking out a bottle of ointment you had used earlier in the day, quickly moving to reapply it to his lip.

As you screwed the cap back on he only looked down, hands fidgeting as he opened and closed his mouth, hesitant to speak.

"Is something wrong," you tilt your head, trying to duck down to catch his eye.

"I'm sorry," he suddenly blurts out.

"Huh, what do you mean?" you smile "what are you sorry for."

"At school, they said mean things to you."

"That's not your fault," you shake your head, "and I'm fine see," you grin but he only turns away, voice lowering as he whispered.

"But you were crying."

"Oh," you hadn't realized he had heard you.

"You were sad," he mumbled, "because they said mean things to you, b-but they wouldn't have said anything if I didn't punch him."

"Hey Megs," and the nickname fell out effortlessly, "none of that is your fault, they are just mean people, I'm all better now, okay, so you don't have to feel bad, you didn't do anything wrong," you tried to reassure and you watched as his lower lip wobbled.

"Today must've been scary for you too huh," you ask, finally catching onto his flooding emotions, he was like you, trying to hold himself together until he couldn't anymore, and you watched as the first tear drop fall. He was crying, you froze, what were you supposed to do, and you could feel the hand you cupped on his cheek slowly dampen as you wiped his tear away.

He looked like you, so small, so helpless and completely overwhelmed and you couldn't help but think back to how Suguru and Satoru helped you, how they comforted you, now it was time for you to do the same. "C'mere," you whisper, opening your arms wide and he practically falls into embrace, his head resting on your shoulder and you sigh, listening as his sobs grew louder. He was scared, his fingers tightened around your shirt, holding onto you for dear life and you patted his back, trying to soothe him as you pulled him onto your hip, standing as you rocked him back and forth

"You'll be okay Megumi, I promise no one is going to get mad at you, you're safe now," and he hiccupped and you found yourself instinctively pressing a kiss to his temple as you bounced him in your grip, cradling him and as you lifted your head, you caught sight of two figures in the hall, watching you, smiling and you realized you could do this, you were doing it, parenting, the bonds you were worried about making were formed.

You didn't rush it, you took it at your own pace and you realized time will help you, aid you in your effort, and you hugged the boy tighter, you could do it, were were doing it, you weren't trapped, you weren't suffocated you were here, mimicking the love you felt, no not mimicking reciprocating it, you were sharing your own love with him as you comforted him, expressing your emotions as you patted his back, rubbing soothing circles as he cried.

"It's okay Megs, you'll be okay" you coo, you could share your love, you could parent at your own pace, you were able to do it. You were fine.

"We'll be okay" 

[remuswriting]

THE ESSENCE OF LIFE; BAKUGOU KATSUKI

Bakugou chuckles. “Yeah, ‘cause no one fucking cared about us.” You shake your head a little. “I don’t think that’s true.” He’s no longer making eye contact with you. “I think they were just scared.” He looks at you, eyes scanning your face. “And you weren’t?”

WORD COUNT: 2,211 words

TAGS: Canon Divergent; Psychiatric Hospitals; Angst with Hopeful Ending; Discussion of Vomit; Platonic; Second Person POV; Not Beta Reader; M! Reader

NOTES: This is very much a self-indulgent thing as I deal with some stuff. Some of this is inspired based off of my experiences, but not all of it. Although nothing is explicitly said, please be careful if you think this could be triggering for you.

Bakugou Katsuki is a strong hero. He and everyone else in the world knew that, even if they feared he could potentially become a villain in the future. It was unlikely, but people liked to fear things. People know of his nature, how he’s abrasive, but care lies underneath. He may not be the kind who gently reassures civilians with his words, but he makes sure he sees them get to safety either in the ambulance or in their loved ones’ arms.

Something people don’t know is how much he cares about Midoriya Izuku. Back in high school, you saw a strange rivalry between them that you couldn’t depict if it was friendship or lingering hatred. You never thought too hard about it, though. It was none of your concern since you were in two different classes. Despite that, you thought Bakugou tolerated Midoriya at best back then. The current sight in front of you disputed that.

Bakugou’s hair is unwashed and messy. His clothes are disheveled and stained as if he put on whatever he first saw in his hamper. The dark circles beneath his eyes are dark and sunken in—he hasn’t slept properly in days, most likely. You don’t blame him, because if you were in his shoes, you’d be the same.

“Midoriya-san can’t have visitors currently,” you say, and Bakugou stares at you. His crossed arms squeeze against his chest slightly, as if holding himself back. “I can answer some questions, but he’s not ready to see anyone yet.”

 Bakugou nods slightly, and you think he’s going to leave. “I asked for you,” he says instead. Because of the nature of the ward you work in, none of the staff’s information is online. So, you don’t know how he knows you work here.

“I know,” you say. “Why?”

Bakugou furrows his brows, and he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve. Or at least you’ve always believed so. Ever since high school, it’s been easy to read him. However, you’re a nurse at a psychiatric hospital now. Maybe that’s why it’s always been so easy.

“What do you fucking mean?” he asks, and his aggressiveness means he’s being honest. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I didn’t know you even knew who I was up until five minutes ago,” you say, and he slowly nods as if it’s connecting in his head. “So, excuse me for being a little confused.”

“I saw you when we were in high school,” he says, and your brows furrow slightly. Never had you two spoken in high school. Both of you stayed in your designated areas. “In the beginning of our second year, there was a villain attack. You were the only non-hero course student that didn’t fucking run away. You actually ran to us and tried to help.”

You nod a little. “I remember,” you say, because you do remember. You remember never hearing thanks and learning that heroes never thank those who haven’t made saving people their profession. It was what led you to no longer be impressed by heroes anymore. “I’ve never been one to run away, especially when the ones trying to save us needed saving, too.”

Bakugou chuckles. “Yeah, ‘cause no one fucking cared about us.”

You shake your head a little. “I don’t think that’s true.” He’s no longer making eye contact with you. “I think they were just scared.”

He looks at you, eyes scanning your face. “And you weren’t?”

You’re silent for a moment as you look behind him at the koi pond. The eating disorder unit is currently out for activities and surrounds the koi pond. They’re the ones who steal cereal the most to feed the fish, because it brings them so much joy. It’s always hard to tell them no, and most nurses don’t.

“Sometimes, fear makes you do stupid shit.” You pause as you look at him. “Every patient here was scared before they got here—before they got better.”

Bakugou is smart, and you hope he understands. You hope he understands that Midoriya fear made him end up here. The fear of what is something for them to talk about, not for you. The crease between Bakugou’s eyebrows softens slightly. He understands just a little.

“You should’ve fucking replaced one of those extras,” Bakugou says, and his arms aren’t squeezing his chest as much. “You weren’t scared.”

“None of you were ever extras,” you scold as you cross your arms. “I never thought that. I always thought that we were all children. You guys were forced to fight a war that heroes weren’t even willing to fight.” You look at his shoes. The laces aren’t even tied correctly. When you make eye contact, it’s overly intense. “It showed that heroes are just people no matter how much we idolize them.”

“Don’t tell Izuku that,” Bakugou says with a chuckle. Although he doesn’t sound serious, you both know he is. That’s something Midoriya refuses to hear—to acknowledge, even if it’s what he needs to survive. He deeply sighs. “We all wanted to fight.”

You nod. “I know, Bakugou-sama.”

“You can call me Bakugou-san.”

You pause as you watch him. He’s finally relaxed, and his honesty is loud. “Okay, Bakugou-san. How can I help you today?”

“Can you tell me how he is?” he asks, and there’s a slight hint of desperation in his voice. He won’t let it come out completely, but you still heard it.

“He… There’s no correct time frame for grief,” you say, and he slowly nods. “I can’t tell you the things you want to know—what he’s saying—but I can tell you that Midoriya-san isn’t the first person to be like this over grief. Nor will he be the last. He just needs time.”

“Are you putting him on more meds?” Bakugou asks. “Cause they had him on a shit load on meds in the hospital, and it was fucking him up. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“That medication was pain medication, and you told them he needs heavier dosing so his quirk doesn’t burn through it,” you say, and there’s a line you’re walking on. Midoriya hasn’t been conscious enough to sign anything saying Bakugou can know everything. “They may have gone too heavy with the dosing. I don’t know, but he’s been dealing with that the last couple of days as well.”

“How long until he’s not sick?” Bakugou asks, and you open your mouth. “Everyone keeps asking me when he’s gonna fucking be okay, and I don’t know.” He pauses, and his voice is softer when he speaks next. “I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Once the medication is out of his system, he’ll be able to have visitors,” you say, and his posture slouches slightly in relief. “Tell everyone that he’s safe. I’ll call you when he can have visitors, and it’ll be an appointment only because of who we have in our unit.”

Bakugou nods as he lets out a deep breath. “Thank you, L/N-san.”

It’s still strange that he knows your name, and it’s even stranger to actually hear him say it. “How do you know my name?”

“I looked you up after the villain attack and tried to get into 2-A.” Bakugou chuckles. “Thought I imagined you for a while, but Dunce Face remembered you. So I went to Aizawa, and he said he’d look into you, but nothing ever happened.”

You froze before letting out a light laugh. “You.” Your smile grew. “You’re the reason I got to work with Recovery Girl.”

Bakugou’s grin resembled the one he had when he was named Number One Pro-Hero last year. It was strange for him to look this happy without that award in front of him. “That sneaky bastard.”

“Thank you,” you say as emotion swells in your chest. You know what it’s like to never get thanks, and it’s so relieving to give it. “Without you, I would’ve never gotten here. Thank you.”

Bakugou’s smile turns into a smirk. “Wasn’t all me. You’re the one with a badass quirk.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t even know my quirk.”

“Don’t need to know it to know you have hero potential.” He pauses as he looks around you two. There are trees and the koi pond, along with the entrance to the lobby. There’s not much to look at. Then he looks at you. “Before Izuku got his quirk, he ran into danger for me once. What you did back then reminds me of him.”

Your smile is small and soft. “From what I’ve learned about Midoriya-san, that’s a genuine compliment.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Bakugou says, as if to make sure you understand. You do understand, though. There are more people similar to him than he realizes, and they’re not as difficult to handle as most people make them out to be. Misunderstood isn’t the right word for them, because it’s easy to understand them if you try. Maybe looked over emotionally is a better way to put it. “Can you… Can you tell him I stopped by?”

“If he’s up to hearing that, then I will,” you say, and he nods. “The beginning of being here is always the hardest, and I want to make sure he’s comfortable before we talk about anything that may be… triggering.”

“I understand,” Bakugou says, and his entire posture is relaxed. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so relaxed. He’s either always standing up as straight as possible or has his arms tightly crossed against his chest. This is a good look on him, though. “I just don’t want him to think I gave up on him—you know, because of what happened.”

“Can I be completely honest with you, Bakugou-san?” you ask, and he reluctantly nods. “I may not fully know what your relationship with Midoriya-san is, but I do know he has full faith in you. After all the years you’ve spent fixing whatever problems you once had, he knows you’re still here. I have full faith in that.”

He slowly nods, trying to wrap his head around it. “Okay,” he says before taking another deep breath. “Thank you, L/N-san. You still have my phone number in case anything changes?”

The wind brushes both of your hair as it pushes by. “Yes, and you’ll be the first person we call.” You pause. “I’ll make sure to call you myself.”

Bakugou’s leaving is simple. There’s someone waiting at the lobby door for him to unlock it. He doesn’t look over his shoulder at you as he walks away, but you watch him the entire time. There’s a pull in your chest as you think about someone caring so much about you that they seek you out, even when they’re told no to seeing you yet. You know what love is—you see it every visitation and between the patients who grow close to each other—but what Bakugou and Midoriya have is something far greater than you understand.

Once he’s completely out of sight, you turn around and head toward the unit. You know several of them are going to ask where you went, and you’ll need a story that doesn’t reveal anything. They can’t know that Bakugou came here, especially when so many of them know him personally.

The door opens, and Hamasaki, one of the youngest patients, is waiting there for you. “L/N!” he says, and his eyes are bright. “You were gone forever.”

You look up at the clock. “15 minutes is not forever.”

“It is to me,” he says, and you give him a look. “I need my medication, and you’re my nurse.”

You chuckle. “Alright, give me a second.” Midoriya is sitting at the table across from the nurses’ station. “Midoriya-san, are you needing something too?”

He looks at you, and he’s looking better than he has, but exhaustion weighs him down. He’s not been sleeping well here, but from what you understand, he’s not been sleeping well for a long time. “Can I get a boost?” he asks, and you nod before looking over at Aiko, one of the techs.

“Can you grab him a boost while I get Hamasaki’s medication?”

Aiko nods as you two pass by each other at the nurses’ station entrance. She looks at Midoriya with a soft smile, one he slightly returns. “Do you want vanilla or chocolate?”

He pauses, looking ready to throw up again, but there’s nothing in his system to throw up. He’s not been eating because he’s been sick, and they’d give him one of each if he wanted to try them both. You know how difficult it can be for patients in the beginning, because this place is not their home and it resembles a form of control being taken away. However, it gets easier the more comfortable you let yourself be.

“Vanilla, please,” Midoriya says, and you smile as you log into the computer.

“Of course,” Aiko says as she goes into the kitchen.

You look at Hamasaki, who stares at Midoriya with a proud expression. He’d been similar in the beginning, so he knows how it is. “Alright, Hamasaki,” you say, and he looks at you. “What are we needing to get?”

[lonewolflupe]

Happy Valentine's Day from Fives! Read messages below the cut

To: @queen-of-mandalore

Thank you so much for being my friend and someone to bounce fic ideas off of. You’re such a great writer and I can’t wait to see how your fic progresses. Happy Valentine’s Day, my friend!

From: Misty 💙 ( @tealmisthams )

To: @snarkyfina

I just wanted to say thank you so much for your support of my writing and for joining me in my love of Five-soka. 💙🧡 Happy Valentine’s Day, my friend!

From: Misty 💙 ( @tealmisthams )

(Note from Lupe: I'm sorry for adding the '-' in 'Five-soka', but I didn't want to get this post filtered!)

To: @tealmisthams

Misty!

Please accept some Fives as a token of my gratitude for your lovely friendship <3 I'm at a bit of a loss for words (ironic, given my messages are usually paragraphs long) to express how truly thankful I am for our wonderful chats, character analyses, Fives and Ahsoka fangirling, Severance theories, and for all the writing support. You are an incredibly talented writer and truly have a gift for balancing angst with really sweet/tender moments. You always manage to do it just right and I am always inspired by what you create and how dedicated you are to working on your writing while balancing everything else in your life. TEACH ME YOUR WAYS!

Thank you for all the wonderful works you've created for the fandom and for your friendship. I'm always excited to get a notification from you.

Sending you much love (and to Sable/Mabel),

Mimi (and Fives, who inserts a few winking emojis here)

From: @aknightreaderr

…

To: @tealmisthams

I don't know you very well but you made the mistake of being nice to me (tagging me in a tag game) and you ain't getting rid of me. You're my beloved mutual now.

From: Kote ( @kotemf )

To: @aknightreaderr

To my dearest editor,

First of all, I know you might be disappointed in receiving a Valentine's message from me instead of from a certain sensitive (sensible? sensory? sensational? serious?) sergeant, but he was unavailable. Believe me, I tried, but a certain.. biting child got in the way, so I couldn't reach him. So I get an A for effort and you get a F for Fives!

Jokes aside (although I know Hunter is no joke to you), I'd like to thank you for your service and your friendship (and your patience). I know I can be a real handful, and so do Echo and Rex and Fox and probably a few (million) more. But after everything I put you through (fame included, of course), you're still sticking with me. And I really admire that about you.

Just know you are loved and appreciated around here. Rex just said how lucky I am with you as my editor, so I called him Captain Obvious.

Wishing you lots of love (Echo just added: wish her lots of love 😏)!

From: Fives

…

To: @aknightreaderr

Hi! I really love your blog. Your writing is incredible and it always makes me laugh. Also Ask Fives is a brilliant idea and you write it so, so well! I really admire your ability to write crack.

You were also the first person on Tumblr to tag me for a writing challenge or a tag game, I don't really remember what it was anymore but thanks. It meant a lot. It's an honor to be able to call you a mutual.

From: Kote ( @kotemf )

To: @lonewolflupe

Lupe, bestie!

It’s ya boy Fives. You really thought that you could hide behind this event and share the love and not receive any back? YOU ARE WRONG!

How do I love LoneWolfLupe? Let me count the ways. Actually, I won’t count the ways because that would take all of eternity and it’s not that I don’t have time for that, but I think I might lose my voice (RIP).

Lupe, there is no one quite like you - equal parts kindness, chaotic (which makes me shed a tear bc you get the Domino Twin vibes), creative (a writer AND an artist? The galaxy is shaking in its boots), and encouraging. Your selfless nature could melt the coldest heart (maybe I should get you to talk to Rex when he won’t let us go to 79s because we’re ‘a handful.’ I know you could sweet talk him out of it. And also because if you don’t come with us, then where is the party?)

Always keep your head raised high and take life a day at a time. You are more than capable of achieving anything you can dream on the timeline that suits YOU (Echo said that was cringe life advice but please know I speak from the heart).

But truly Lupe, I’ve never met anyone so generous and supportive as you. Thanks for all you do for us clones (and the earthlings). We always have your back! *insert lots of winks here and a hug and also Tup says hi*

Happy Valentines Day 💙

LIVE LAUGH LONEWOLFLUPE,

Fives

p.s. I wrote you a poem which is from me and Echo but he didn't write it

From: Fives

Roses are red

The 501st is blue

LoneWolfLupe

Oh how I love you!

(Note from Lupe: shedding a tear again as I re-read this whilst preparing this post. I appreciate you so much, thank you for this message <3)

...

To: @lonewolflupe

your positivity and passion is radiant! you uplift and spread love to so many. for you to make events (like this one) is so sweet

every interaction i've had with you has been nothing short of lovely and i hope so many more can feel it too <3

From: @littletroggo

(Note from Lupe: Thank you so much for your kind message, I appreciate it so much! <3)

Heart divider by @/saradika-graphics

[theotherbuckley]

Cancer sucks. Ravi’s pretty sure that if you asked anyone, they’d agree.

He doesn’t want to be the guy who says his cancer is worse than any other cancer or anything, but, well, childhood cancer is a special kind of bad.

He was diagnosed with juvenile chronic myelogenous leukaemia when he was five years old. Apparently, he’s lucky he didn’t get it sooner, but he’s not sure anything about this situation is lucky. His parents took him to the hospital after his fifth nosebleed in one week, and when he’d stopped gobbling down their prawn curry and instead would only eat one or two bites before refusing.

He doesn’t know what’s happening at first, the doctors take him to several different rooms for different tests. He’s not afraid of needles, but he wonders if he should be.

He ends up in a room with a bed, which he thinks is pretty cool. It looks over a park with trees that he wants to climb. The doctors take his parents aside, but they quickly return to him. The doctor looks upset, but he walks over to him anyway and sits down beside him.

“Ravi,” he says, coughing before continuing. “Do you know what cancer is?” the doctor asks, and he shakes his head.

The doctor sighs but forces a smile on his face. “I need you to tell your parents that you’re sick. That your blood is sick. Can you do that?”

Ravi doesn’t really understand, but he tells his parents anyway. Watches in real time as his parents' faces crumple. He doesn’t really want to be here anymore, but the doctors say he’s not allowed to go home.

The first time, he’s in and out of the hospital for six months. It feels like forever.

The treatment is not fun. He already didn’t feel like eating, but now he keeps wanting to throw up. He cries when he does. His mother rubs his back when he throws up into the toilet, whispers sweet words into his ear. She tells him how brave he is, how strong he is. He doesn’t feel strong at all. He just wants to go to sleep.

One of the nurses brings him a teddy bear during one of his treatments, the bear has a bandage on his arm where a plastic wire is attached, leading to a bag on a stand, just like the one in Ravi’s own arm.

He names the bear Violet.

When the nurse isn’t looking, he unwraps the bandage from the bear and pulls off the wire before throwing it in the bin. Violet doesn’t need to go through what he is.

Violet gets to be normal.

He hopes maybe one day he will be too.

It’s winter when his doctor tells him that he’s in remission. He doesn’t know what that word is, but he tells his parents that he’s not sick anymore.

He doesn’t tell them that he might get sick again.

His mother hugs him, cries and shakes, but she’s smiling. His father doesn’t, but he gives him a tight-lipped smile and a pat on the back.

He goes home, and he’s allowed to stay home. He puts Violet in the bottom drawer, underneath his shorts. He doesn’t need her anymore.

The doctor calls their home a week after he’s left, his mother passes him the phone. They tell him that he has to pay lots of money. He pretends he doesn’t notice the worry etched across his parents’ faces when he relays the information.

But he gets to go to school now, so he focuses on that instead. The rest of the kids have already started school, they’re all friends already, and Ravi didn’t think he could feel anymore like an outsider. When he introduces himself, the teacher tells him to tell the class something special about himself. He says that he had cancer.

The class doesn’t know what that is. Ravi thinks that they’re lucky.

Tagging some people who were interested: @whatwouldeddiedo @thelovewehad @bidisasterevankinard @084thoughts @bipitybopitydoo @laundryandtaxesworld @that-bi-fan @fangirlthreepointoh @little-boats-on-a-lake @dailyravi I’m really enjoying writing this actually I’m giving him so much trauma help 🥹😭 let me know if you wanna be tagged in future updates 🫶🏽

If I wrote a fic about Ravi and childhood cancer and how he’s always struggled to make friends/family outside of his immediate one because as a kid he was in the hospital and not at school and now he’s always the one who’s slightly on the outside never quite in a group would anyone wanna read that?

[licorishh]

no way she's alive ?? yea those mental health breaks because social media makes people suck are wild huh

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

What if Christos Lawton is the one responsible for putting I Say A Little Prayer For You on the official George Hodgson playlist. What then. On the one hand I would have to set myself on fire but on the other hand it would be FANTASTIC news for whoever authored my all time favorite post on the Cold Boys Kink Meme

[the-way-astray]

hey, was wondering why your censored version of "kotlc" so that it doesn't end up in the main tag is "cawtulk"?

ah, that. that's because that's how i pronounce "kotlc" out loud. i say it "cawtulk". so that's why i chose that lmfao

[romanitas]

look at me go, it hasn't even been a month! we're back with (i think) the penultimate part of the spy au !! thanks to @perseannabeth who helped me figure out some plot points literally irl for the final stretch. there's always been a vague plan for the end, hopefully it lives up! also again available on ao3 if tumblr formatting screws up.

-

Annabeth hasn’t seen Percy for four and a half weeks. She’s been off the Jupiter Industries case for just as long, what with Luke Castellan’s involvement; they’re currently restructuring the plan forward. She’s not used to boredom, but she’s not sure she could consider it full boredom when her brain will not stop churning. She’s aware it’s usually a stomach churning, but no, in this case, her mind is on the go in a thousand different directions. She doesn’t feel nauseous or sick - just overwhelmed mentally, which as far as she’s concerned is one of the worst kinds. She’d rather be vomiting.

She’s back at her apartment - her real one. It’s nearly as empty as the fake one. She doesn’t keep a lot of things around, not wanting too many distractions on top of the fact that she feels like she spends very little time actually in it. The most personalization is an owl throw pillow with a matching blanket on the couch and a few architectural prints across her walls. It feels emptier than it ever has, and she cruelly imagines what it might be like if Percy came here. She really, really needs to stop thinking about him, but it feels impossible, because if she’s not thinking about him, she starts to think about Luke. And that’s worse.

She faceplants directly into the owl blanket with a groan and lays there, ignoring the wafting smell of her Korean BBQ takeout sitting on the countertop. This has been her life each day for the last week: different dishes but a very familiar static and face full of fluff, followed by dejectedly eating lukewarm food. And then she just gets mad at herself for being such a sad sack. She’s Annabeth fucking Chase. What the hell did Percy Jackson do to her?

Reyna checks in periodically. She sends minute updates, but not enough for Annabeth to start doing her own poking and prodding. Frank stops by a few times to make sure she’s eating, and she does welcome his company in an absent way. He brings some of the best takeout, but he knows all her favorites. He carries the conversation in directions that serve the best distractions.

“You should use this time to get out,” he says one day, dragging some naan through the rest of his curry. When Annabeth stares at him, he clarifies. “I mean, maybe think of it like a vacation? You never take a vacation. Do things you’ve always wanted to.”

She grumpily shoves her own naan into her mouth to avoid answering him. But maybe he has a point. Maybe she does need to leave the house more often, if only to refresh herself. To get back on her feet. It’s only a matter of time before they give her a new assignment, and she refuses to fall into distractions again next time.

She takes herself out. She ventures further than a ten block radius and tries a new Pho place she’s been wanting to check out. She looks up a current run of temporary exhibitions around the city, buys tickets for three of them. She makes a reservation for herself at one of the museum restaurants, uncaring that it’s definitely overpriced and she can get a burger down the block for half the cost. She is utterly determined to give herself a good, clean, solid break from her time with Percy, so she’s prepared for the next chapter. Whatever it brings.

Naturally, it’s at one of the exhibitions that she runs into Sally Jackson.

Annabeth isn’t sure she could have been caught more off guard by Luke. She turns the corner and nearly runs into the woman, but her instincts make her sidestep at the last second. She’s not fast enough to avoid eye contact, because Sally moves at the same time, an apology on her lips.

“I’m so sorry - Annabeth?”

Why is this her life? Annabeth freezes, and she can feel the guilt rain down on her like a tsunami. She’s very rarely caught off guard like this, but this warm, wonderful woman unnerves her in an unexpected way. She just assumed she would never see her again, another casualty of her break with Percy.

Despite it all, Sally offers her a small, tentative smile. “Hi,” she says, tone infused with that very same warmth Annabeth knows she doesn’t deserve.

She swallows. “Hi,” she replies, weakly.

Sally reaches out to give her arm a gentle squeeze, and Annabeth nearly combusts on the spot. But the older woman can sense her discomfort, because she pulls her hand away just as quickly and sighs. “Will you get a coffee with me?”

Every single part of her is telling her to say no; every rational, logical piece of her being knows this is a bad idea, but there’s a quiet desperation that wins out against her better judgment, and Annabeth nods mutely. Sally smiles again, then walks them both towards the museum cafe. She orders Annabeth’s coffee exactly the way she likes it and orders herself a chai latte. By the time they sit down at the table, Annabeth’s nerves are shot, so she just wraps her hands around the cup and takes a sip, burning her tongue immediately. She winces, and Sally offers her a napkin.

“Percy told me you broke up.”

Annabeth almost laughs, hollowly. There’s no way he would have told her anything - Percy might have been royally pissed at her, but he’s also not cruel, and she knows he wouldn’t jeopardize her by spilling all the beans to his mother. He also wouldn’t want to put his mom in danger. Instead, her shoulders sink, and all she can do is nod once.

“He didn’t really tell me why,” Sally continues, wringing her hands around her own cup. She gets a thoughtful wrinkle in her forehead that looks so much like her son Annabeth almost flinches. “He said it wasn’t his place to share your history, but he did tell me you lied about a lot.”

She doesn’t know if hearing that from Sally is worse than her whole exchange with Percy a month ago. She doesn’t say anything, but her lack of answer is its own confirmation.

“My son is everything to me,” she says, and Annabeth prepares to be reamed out. Why wouldn’t she be? She just broke this woman’s son’s heart, and they’re two of the kindest, best people she’s ever met. “And I have never seen him so miserable.”

It’s not yelling, but it might be worse for real this time. Which is why the next thing Sally says is the most surprising part of all.

“I think he misses you.”

Annabeth’s head whips up so fast, and she says the first thing since her awkward greeting, which isn’t much more articulate. “What?”

It’s Sally’s turn to be quiet, again looking thoughtful as she finally takes a sip of her own drink. “I’m only telling you this because I know he was happy with you. Happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. And I know what he’s like now. I’m not going to ask you what happened. I know you hurt him, deeply, and I know maybe it’s not my place to sit here with you and tell you all of this. I know maybe things have been damaged too greatly. I know it’s his life, not mine. But what I want to ask you anyway is if you want to fix it, and if you still love my son.”

Annabeth’s eyes well up. She can’t answer this one with a nod. It’s everything she’s been trying to push away, the impossibilities of Percy chasing her down more harshly than Luke in the alleyway. “I love him,” she admits, and saying it aloud to someone else nearly knocks the wind out of her. “But I don’t know if I can fix it. I really, really hurt him, and there are parts of it that feel too broken.”

She shouldn’t be sharing this with Percy Jackson’s mother, but there isn’t another person who’s spoken to her about Percy specifically like this. A person who prioritizes Percy the way he should be, no matter what her own stupid heart and head are doing. Frank worries about her, but she’s the one who needs to grovel, and Sally will always, always put her son first.

Sally takes another sip, watching her carefully over the brim. She’s never felt more scrutinized in her life, and she’s a goddamn spy. Annabeth’s been alone for a very long time, and those months with Percy and his friends and his family were the closest she felt like a real, normal person in a long time. But she isn’t normal. She can’t just slip into a real architect’s life and become a new Annabeth Chase.

“Are you willing to try?”

She’s taken aback by the question and the way it connects to her thoughts, and she’s sure the surprise is on her face. “I don’t think he wants me to. It should be his choice, not mine.”

Sally hums. “Will you give me your address?”

“He’s not going to come to my house.”

“It’s for me. Not him. I won’t give it to him.”

She hesitates. She’s unlisted for a reason, her residence deeply under wraps. She still gets mail, of course, and it’s not like she lives there most of the year. But then she stubbornly takes the receipt from the drinks, scribbles the P.O. box on the back before she can second guess herself, and slides it back over. “Can you memorize it and burn it?” she says teasingly, trying not to feel ashamed of joking about it.

Sally slides it into her pocket. “I’m giving you a chance now, because I love my son and I want his happiness more than anything else, but I can see you're in just as terrible a state as he is. I wanted to see for myself, after I realized it was you.” She lifts her drink again, and Annabeth’s not sure if the pause for dramatic effect is intentional or not. “This is not forgiveness. It’s not my place to give it. This is me having a conversation with you, because you’re a very smart, put together woman who has spent a significant amount of time with Percy.”

Annabeth doesn’t feel very put together at the moment, but she’s hardly going to interject.

“And above everything, Percy is my son.”

It’s not a threat, but it almost feels like one. In lieu of another response, Annabeth takes a cowardly sip of her coffee.

“Thank you, for having coffee with me,” Sally says, and it sounds like a goodbye. Like this might be the last thing they ever say to each other. They sit in silence for a few more minutes, finishing their drinks, and it’s Sally who leaves first. She climbs to her feet in a cool movement and adjusts her bag before giving Annabeth a nod, then walks away from the table.

Annabeth sits there for another thirty minutes, though what she spends it thinking about, she doesn’t really remember.

-

Three days later Annabeth receives a package in the mail, with Sally’s return address. She holds the box in her hands and doesn’t really know how to process it. She sets it on the kitchen island and stares at it, afraid of opening it for stupid reasons. Watching it out of the corner of her eye, she heats up a box of frozen mac and cheese, then reaches for a steak knife to slice open the packing tape as the microwave beeps.

Inside she finds a dozen chocolate chip cookies, wrapped up neatly in a transparent blue bag. Underneath them is an envelope, which she nervously lifts and carefully opens. There’s a note inside, and what looks like two tickets to - to an aquarium. Not just any aquarium, the one where she met Percy - or rather, where she orchestrated her meeting of Percy. Puzzled and sad all at once, she reads the note in Sally’s loopy writing.

Annabeth,

I bought these for you both a month ago. I’m giving them to you alone now as a final gift from me to you, and I hope you use them. Use the time to think about everything. Don’t try to return them.

Perhaps one day we’ll see each other again. Take care.

Sally

[glamrockmike]

think i’ve been underappreciative of william afton as a character i haven’t dedicated a lot of thought to how objectively cool his character is as a concept. i should change that

[radarsteddybear]

I'm not going to lie, I'm not a fan of the phenomenon of people indiscriminately copy/pasting the original poster's tags in their reblog. Not the "prev tags" thing (which is a separate issue that I have fewer problems with), but just straight-up lifting the OP's tags and slapping them onto the reblog so they end up tagging someone else's post with things like "my art" or "original post" or someone's personal art/thoughts/life stuff/whatever tag. Because like...no? That's not your art, it's my art. That's not your original post, it's my original post. Come up with your own tags for those things or just leave OP's tags out.

I see this a lot more on Pillowfort than I do here (and I don't see it all that frequently on either), but I find it jarring every time.

[jasvi-art]

raven & lloyd in l.c. leyendecker's "couple descending a staircase". why not!

[the-officially-kat]

...so, I just finished season four of the umbrella academy, and usually I try to stick with the positives with my fave shows, but... Damn is that hard to do with this

[moongothic]

Get excited to post OP fanart in the middle of the night and then it doesn't even appear in the tags...