#that had him self-harming when he was a teenager

[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!

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[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

I was rewatching The Stone Forest and I really like to think that Hilda had to pass by the Bell Keeper’s outpost on her way out of the city limits. I like to think that idiot looked at what was happening, shrugged, and said ‘eh, she’s the scariest thing out there’

[fancyfeathers]

Hello Fancy! I'd like to request yandere Tim Drake/Red Robin with a nursing student darling who patches him up when she finds him injured. Maybe he's a little out of it and asks her out/proposes and she doesn't take him seriously but he means it (kinda like Orpheus and Eurydice's first meeting in Hadestown).

Darling doesn't want any involvement with any vigilantes so she just hands Tim over to the first vigilante who finds him and thinks thats the end of it while Tim is desperately trying to find darling, who he did not get the name of and whose face is very blurry in his memory.

Hope this request made sense, and is ok

Come Home With Me

(Yandere!Tim Drake/Red Robin x Reader)

Oh my god I adore Hadestown, I went to go see it earlier this year and it was amazing, I cried, I absolutely sobbed. It is a show I would recommend everyone to see if they get the chance or at least listen to it.

But I definitely get Orpheus vibes from my interpretation of Yandere!Tim Drake, a little delusional and very obsessed

Gotham was not always an awful place to live, rent was never high and no one really cared to bother you after all no criminal would really try to kidnap, harm, or blackmail a university student who lived off of the university campus in a studio apartment with no ties to anyone in the city. You were a nursing major at the university that bore the same name of the city it was located in, Gotham University. You had originally lived in Metropolis, born to adoring parents but with their own finances to worry about you had applied to Gotham University without their knowledge and got accepted, the school was good though the tuition was cheaper due to the extreme crime rate, plus a scholarship would cover the cost and getting an apartment was cheaper than living on campus. Your parents told you not to go and that they would cover everything but you wanted to be on your own and for them to not worry about you, but turns out that was not exactly a smart choice.

So here you found yourself about to head home from a night class, things near the university tend to be a bit calmer, you guessed the criminals of the city really do not have much motivation to go after teenagers and young adults who do not have a bone of self preservation in their bodies. Poison Ivy tends to leave the school alone because of the strict green policy on campus and the biology and botany majors taking care of the campus and grounds. Actually you had heard rumors about some of the more infamous names being graduates from the school, Harley Quinn, the Scarecrow, and you think Two Face attended there for his undergraduate, but you could be definitely misremembering that-

“God… fuck, that hurts…” A young masculine voice caught your attention as you walked out the nursing school building. You had decided to take the back entrance since you did not have a car like your friends and classmates and this was a short cut. You glanced toward where the voice came from, there was a little alcove where there were bike racks that were rarely used by the door and there you saw a young man resting against the brick building. You gasped as your mind recognized the man in his red and black suit, yellow gear, and that black domino mask you saw a lot of the vigilantes around here wearing.

This was Red Robin…

And judging by that gash on his leg, he was badly injured.

He was barely able to move from how much pain he was in. You thought about running to go get your professors, but they could leak his identity. After all, who wouldn’t want to know the face behind the mask? Besides he looked too messed up to wait for help and your professors were probably gone, then there was that one Nightingale Vow you had to remember for graduation.

Heal and do no harm.

You certainly would be breaking those vows if you left him here, and you have worked far too hard for that nursing license. You knelt down besides him, taking his left arm and looping it around your shoulders while your right arm wrapped around his back and under his right arm to support his weight as you tried to stand him up to get him inside. Your instincts from working on the floors of the hospital as a nurse appreciated kicked in as you pushed open the door with the shoulder that was not supporting his weight. As a nursing student in Gotham you had to deal with victims of all sorts and your mind went back to when you had to comfort a teenage boy who got caught in Scarecrow’s fear toxin. “You’re going to be alright, you’re safe now.”

“T-thank-“

“Save your strength, don’t strain yourself.” You cut him off as you turned the knob of one of the lab rooms, it was not a perfect hospital setting but it had what you would need. You helped lay him down on the table in the room, which was probably last used by a cadaver during an anatomy class. You went to rummage through the cabinets in the room, pulling out whatever you could use, latex gloves, syringe, bottles of liquid painkillers, bandages, and goss, they did have any equipment for stitches so this would have to be done. You opened the paper packaging the syringe was in, grabbed the needle to attach to it before opening the lid of the liquid painkiller and pushed the needle tip inside and watched as the needle filled up with the clear yellowish liquid. “Do you have a tracker or anyway to contact anyone, you will need stitches and X-rays for any broken bones-“

“Bats… he… he is on his way…” Your heart skipped a beat in worry at the mention of the Batman showing up in the nursing hall. You pushed down the growing fear and walked back over to him, pushing the needle into some exposed skin on his leg where the suit was ripped and pushed down on the syringe as he hissed in pain which was followed by a chuckle, probably half out if from blood loss. “You’re a lot… a lot gentler than-“

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to get dragged into anything.” You replied as you walked back to the counter to grab the rest of your supplies to at least try to patch him up. “Sorry… that was rude…”

“It’s alright…” He leaned his head back on the table, closing his eyes from the pure exhaustion he was feeling along with the pain medication starting to kick in and making him a bit more loopy than before. “…I think I would want to marry you one day.”

“W-what?” You were caught off guard for a moment, pausing as you began to lift up his injured leg in order to wrap it up. “I-I am sorry but, I d-don’t even know who you are.”

“The man who is going to marry you.”

The response was so quick and confident that you wondered if he was actually serious or just out of it, there is no possible way for him to be serious… right?

“I-I… Are you always like this?”

“Ignore him.” A voice from behind you, in the doorway, nearly made you scream and you would have jumped and bumped his wound if it was not for Red Robin grabbing your hand a little too tightly as if he was afraid to let go, if he were to let go then you would disappear. You turned your head around to see a man who definitely was not Batman, but with the blue bird-like symbol on the chest of his black suit he was just as recognizable, Nightwing. The new vigilante patted you on the shoulder and looked over at Red Robin on the table. “You just keep working, we’ll get him back safely.”

“We?”

“The Bat is keeping watch outside.”

Oh… oh god… that was not a terrifying thought at all.

“A-alright…” Your voice clearly cracked as you looked back at the other vigilante on your table, you grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and cloth from the counter and you wet the cloth with the strong scented liquid before you dabbed it against his wound which made him hiss in pain as the painkillers did not stop everything but you tuned it out and kept working. You glanced at Nightwing who was resting against the wall, watching you work. “Elevate his leg for me while I get the bandages over it, he will need stitches after this, but this will keep him from losing a substantial amount of blood and prevent infection until then.”

“Whatever you need.” The vigilante pushed himself off of the wall and towards the table that Red Robin laid on, he grabbed the young man’s leg by the upper calf and lifted up from the table, the other vigilante too high on painkillers at this point to even react. You began to wrap the gauze around his leg first, making sure it covered the area of the wound before moving towards the roll bandages, following the same steps as the gauze. You snipped the bandage off of the roll when you were finished and stepped away from the table and towards the sink, turning on the hot water and washing the blood from your hands under the faucet, and drying them off with one of the paper towels you ripped from the dispenser by the sink. “I know you all are vigilantes or heroes or something, but get him to an actual doctor, just tell them it was an accident when he was on his bike or skateboard or something. He should not be walking on that leg for one and a half to two weeks, at least.”

“Noted, and thank you.” You nodded in response to Nightwing as he expressed his gratitude and handed you your backpack from where you threw it on the ground. As you put it on, Nightwing helped Red Robin up from the table, throwing his arm around his shoulder and supporting his weight, carrying him just like how you did when you brought him in, though it looked easier for him than it was for you. “I would take the front entrance of the school out, the Scarecrow it out tonight and if I were you I would not want to get caught by us. Just get back to your place, lock the doors and turn off the lights and you’ll be fine.”

“I will, thank you Nightwing.”

_______________________________

It has been about a week and a half, almost two weeks since the incident with the vigilantes of Gotham, with Red Robin, and like always nothing changed, life went on. You sat on your bed in your apartment, everything you had was fairly simple, the budget of a university student. A simple metal bed frame and mattress that your old man picked out for you before you left home. You had your laptop on your lap and your lower back pressed against your pillows and your legs hidden under your weighted blanket. It was really late, probably one or two in the morning and you had made the mistake of being the designated driver for your friends when they wanted to go drinking, so now after they were done and you had to drive them all home which only made you get home even later than you wanted to be, but alas you had work to finish.

You drummed your fingers next to the mouse sensor on your keyboard, over the sticky notes that were filled with all sorts of reminders…

Call mom after classes…

Pick up groceries on Friday…

Go to the gym on Saturday….

All of them were slightly smudged, the ink having smeared when you pressed them down to stick them to your laptop. So much to do in so little time…

As if fate always hated you, your current computer page crashed, showing up with that little message to let you know that you had lost internet connection. You groaned and set your laptop down and pulled the blanket aside, getting out of bed and walking to the router on the other side of your small apartment, placed in a blind spot that you can’t see from your bed, the small black box being placed on the windowsill by your front door…

You paused in your tracks as you saw the vigilante you saved that night on the stairs of your apartment’s fire escape outside of your window, Red Robin. The black haired young man gave you a small smile, as if embarrassed at being spotted outside, before he waved his hand, as if gesturing you to come outside and talk to him. You rolled your eyes with a heavy sigh and walked towards the window, grabbing your shoes from right by your front door and you struggled to put them on as you unlocked the window and you let him take care of the rest, pushing up the stiff glass pane as if it was nothing. He held out his free hand to help you down as you crawled out of the window and your feet landed on the metal fire escape next to him.

“I needed to see you again-“

“I told you I didn’t want to get involved with-“

“That can’t be true because otherwise you would have never helped me that night.” He cut you off just like you cut him off before. “Why did you want to become a nurse?”

“Because I want to help people.”

“Then that is something we have in common-“

“So did you shut off my internet?”

“…I needed to talk to you.” He gave you a smile before revealing his other hand which he had kept hidden behind his back this entire time, he revealed a bouquet of red carnations. He reached them out to you for you to take even if you were quite shocked by the gesture. “I got you these, a peace offering if you want them.”

“Um… okay.” You took the bouquet from him, holding it in both hands to keep your hands occupied in this awkward situation. “…look if that’s all I have to go, it’s getting late and I have to pick up groceries tomorrow- oh my god!”

He interrupted you without words, quite literally getting on a knee and pulling out a gold and diamond ring which would probably cost more than everything you have owned, your parents have ever owned, sell all of your organs on top of that and you still would not be able to afford it.

“Come home with me.”

“I-I… I don’t even know you are!”

“The man who wants to marry you.” He stood up straight and you watched in horror as he took you by the shoulder, spinning you around so your back was against your window and his back was to the city of Gotham, he peeled back his black mask from his eyes and your lips fell agape at seeing the identity of the vigilante, you have seen the magazines, you knew who he was, Timothy Drake, a single child of a wealthy family who only got more rich when he was adopted by the richest man in Gotham, Bruce Wayne, when his own father and mother passed on. He seemed to catch onto your reaction or recognition and just smiled as he pressed the mask back onto his face. He looked back down at the ring, a fond smile on his lips. “This was my mother’s ring…”

“It’s beautiful but I am not… I can’t marry you, I don’t know you.” Your words trailed off as you head turned slightly to glance at the internet router in your window and a sudden realization came across you. “I never gave you my name… you have been stalking me, haven’t you?”

“I wanted to protect you, people cold come after you for helping me and I didn’t want you to get hurt.” His voice was starting to sound slightly annoyed but not annoyed enough to sound upset with you. “I was trying to make sure you were safe, please understand-“

“I don’t… I won’t understand.” You turned you to your open window, turning your back on him. “You stalked me, probably broke into my house while I was asleep, didn’t you? Actually I don’t want to hear it, it’s best if you leave and don’t come back.”

You stepped up onto the windowsill, your hands coming to grab the sides of the windows to pull yourself up and in process you dropped the flowers onto the metal ground up the firescape and the soft sound of the petals hitting the iron somehow covered the sound of him stepping towards you and his arms reaching out so his forearms pushed down on your windpipe, it was in a way that would not be painful or bruise unless you squirmed around and you certainly did.

It only took less than a second for him to yank you back, his arms putting pressure on your neck as he laid you down on the fire escape as you struggled against him and you tried to scream but nothing was able to come out as he only hushed you as if you were a colecy child.

“Shh, it’s okay, go to sleep.” You could see your vision darken at the corners of your eyes as you struggled for breath but none came into your lungs. “I’ve got you, you’re okay… you’re okay.”

Those were the last words you heard before you fell limp in his arms, out completely cold. The young vigilante made quick work of taking your phone from your pocket and setting it inside your apartment, in the windowsill before reaching up and closing it. He would be able to come back later for anything you would need, he just did not have time to grab it right now because it would not be long before someone could potentially spot him. He took the bouquet of flowers and slid their stems into a loop on his utility belt. Then he took the ring and took your limp hand, sliding the ring onto your finger.

A perfect fit.

He picked you up in his arms, holding your body on his hip with one arm, holding you like a child and leaving the other free to hold onto the grappling line. He did not have to go far, just needed to get a hold of Bruce and get you home, he would understand, he has to, after all he is doing this all to protect you and just to be with you…. Of course he’ll understand.

[kiwriteswords]

hear me out, hear me out... is it possible to get shy!reader x bearded!hotch?????????????

Shades of Stubble

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Shy Female Reader||Word Count: 3k

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical themes, shy reader, teasing team, teenage Jack, bearded Hotch, post-season 10/11 with no Mr. Scratch, reader has a crush

Sypnosis: When Aaron Hotchner returns to the BAU sporting a beard after a rare week off, it draws more attention than he expects—especially from you, the shy but perceptive team member whose lingering glances reveal more than you realize.

Aaron Hotchner didn’t often take full advantage of the rare breaks the team received, but this time, a solid week away from the BAU had given him time to unwind—if that’s what growing a beard counted as. Normally, his morning routine was methodical, almost meditative—a quick splash of cold water to wake himself up, followed by lathering shaving cream across his jaw and carefully dragging the razor along the angles of his face. It was a task he’d repeated every day without fail, a ritual that helped him maintain the sharp, controlled image he knew his role required.

But when the break started, the razor stayed on the sink. The first morning, he told himself he’d get to it later. By the second, he rationalized that there was no harm in skipping a day or two. By the third, a faint shadow of stubble had appeared, and he caught himself in the mirror, running a hand along his jawline, curious. It wasn’t like the full beard he’d grown out during his time in Pakistan—this was something new, something... untethered. For once, he wasn’t adhering to his usual strict standards, and there was a quiet freedom in that.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d chosen to let it stay. Maybe it was exhaustion—seven days free of the ever-present weight of the BAU felt like both a luxury and an anomaly. Or maybe it was a small rebellion against the routine that so often defined his life. This was about as rebellious as he got these days, maybe a silent nod to his pre-boarding school days, but nonetheless. He didn’t have to answer to anyone for a week, and he didn’t have to fit into the box of Aaron Hotchner, Supervisory Special Agent. He could just exist.

By the time the week ended, the beard had grown in enough to draw attention, though he hadn’t considered how it might be received by the team—or anyone else, for that matter. It wasn’t a decision he put much thought into, at least not until he walked into the bullpen on Monday morning.

The reaction was immediate, though not unwelcome. JJ’s playful quip cut through the usual hum of activity, and heads turned in his direction. He caught Rossi’s amused smirk, Morgan’s raised brow, and—most notably—your wide-eyed, stunned expression. For the first time in years, Aaron Hotchner felt a little... self-conscious. But it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

JJ’s voice rang out across the room with playful familiarity. "It's baaaack!"

Heads turned, but Hotch’s gaze landed on you. You were seated at your desk, a pen in your hand paused mid-air, as if frozen in the act of jotting something down. Your eyes widened when they met his, and though you tried to look back at your work, Hotch caught the way your cheeks flushed, betraying your reaction.

It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed you looking at him like that—soft glances quickly averted, the occasional stammer when he addressed you directly. He’d always assumed you were shy by nature, but there was something about the way you reacted to him in particular that stirred a feeling he hadn’t wanted to examine too closely. Not until now.

He crossed the bullpen, nodding a silent acknowledgment to JJ, who grinned knowingly and sipped her coffee. As he passed your desk, he noticed your gaze dart up to him again, only to quickly drop back to your notes. Your pen moved, but the faint smile tugging at your lips told him you weren’t really focused.

“Good morning,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet bubble you seemed to have surrounded yourself with.

Your head shot up, your eyes meeting his again before flickering to the beard and back. “G-Good morning, Hotch.”

There it was—that hesitation, that barely there crack in your voice. You managed a small smile, but your hands fidgeted with the pen, betraying your nerves.

He nodded, letting the moment linger just a second longer than usual. “I hope you had a good week.”

“I did,” you replied quickly, almost too quickly, before glancing away. “Did you?”

“I did.” His lips twitched in a barely-there smile. “It’s rare to have so much time off. I’ll see you in the meeting room.”

With that, he moved on, climbing the stairs to his office, though he couldn’t resist glancing back once. You were still sitting there, staring blankly at your notebook, one hand pressed against your cheek as though trying to will away the blush.

The day moved forward with its usual rhythm—briefings, paperwork, follow-ups on ongoing cases. But throughout it all, Hotch found himself hyper-aware of your presence. The way your gaze flickered toward him whenever you thought he wasn’t looking. The way your voice softened when you addressed him. And, of course, the way your blush deepened whenever someone—namely Morgan—commented on the beard.

“Looking rugged, Hotch,” Morgan said during lunch, his grin teasing as always. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Hotch replied simply, though he couldn’t help noticing you sneaking a glance at him from across the table. He decided not to meet your eyes this time, sensing you’d only shrink further into yourself if he did.

By the end of the day, Hotch found himself in the bullpen again, finishing a conversation with Rossi. As the older man walked away, he turned to see you standing by your desk, gathering your things for the evening. You glanced up and froze when you realized he was watching you.

“Heading out?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” you replied, clutching your bag tightly. “I, uh... just finishing up.”

“Good.” He paused, then added, “I’ve noticed you’ve been very focused today. I appreciate that.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he thought you might not respond. Then you nodded quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

He didn’t miss the way your gaze lingered on his face—on the beard—before you ducked your head again, clearly embarrassed by your own boldness. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of amusement—and something else, something warmer, deeper—at your reaction.

“Have a good night,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“You too,” you replied, finally looking at him again. And this time, there was a tiny smile on your lips—shy, but genuine.

As you walked away, Hotch stood there for a moment, watching you go. He didn’t usually dwell on personal matters, but for the first time in a long time, he found himself thinking about something—or rather, someone—other than the job.

Hotch lingered in the bullpen after you left, his gaze fixed on the space you had occupied only moments before. The quiet hum of the office around him faded into the background as his thoughts drifted. You had always been reserved—soft-spoken, diligent, and almost painfully shy in his presence—but tonight had felt different. The way your cheeks had flushed when you glanced at him, the way your voice trembled ever so slightly when you said, “Good night,” lingered in his mind like a melody he couldn’t shake.

He wasn’t oblivious to the way you avoided his gaze during meetings or the nervous energy that seemed to bubble to the surface whenever he was near. At first, he chalked it up to his position, assuming you were simply wary of interacting with your boss. But over time, he began to notice the subtler details—the way your focus seemed to falter when he entered the room, the way your lips pressed together in a shy smile whenever he acknowledged you. He couldn’t deny that your reactions had begun to stir something within him.

With a sigh, Hotch headed up to his office, closing the door behind him. The mirror by his coat rack caught his eye, and he approached it, scrutinizing his reflection. The beard, now fully grown, had transformed his appearance in ways he hadn’t anticipated. It softened the sharpness of his jawline, gave him an edge that felt rugged and unpolished. It reminded him of a different time—a different man—but also felt like a small reclamation of his identity beyond the suit and title.

He ran a hand over the coarse hair, considering whether it was time to shave it off. His routine had always been a source of stability in his chaotic life, and the beard felt like an indulgence he wasn’t sure he could afford to keep. Yet, as he stood there, the image of your wide-eyed gaze flashed through his mind. The way your blush deepened when JJ’s comment drew attention to him. The tiny, shy smile you offered as you said goodnight.

A warmth spread through him, surprising in its intensity. He’d seen countless reactions to his decisions over the years—respect, defiance, admiration—but the unfiltered awe in your eyes when you looked at him tonight was something else entirely. It wasn’t about the beard, he realized, not really. It was about you, and the thought that he might have been the reason for that smile, fleeting as it was.

Hotch turned away from the mirror and sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair. The thought of shaving the beard felt distant now, almost trivial. He knew he would eventually, but for now, he decided to keep it—if only to see if he could coax another smile from you.

And maybe, just maybe, to hear your voice tremble in that sweet, shy way one more time.

Aaron Hotchner stood in his bathroom, razor in hand, staring at his reflection. The beard was staying—for now—but it was time to bring it under control. He wasn’t the type to let his appearance slip too far, and even if the beard was uncharacteristic for him, it didn’t have to be unruly. With steady hands, he trimmed the edges, shaping it neatly to suit his features. The coarse sound of the trimmer filled the quiet bathroom as he worked methodically, the precision calming in a way that reminded him of his usual shaving routine.

When he was satisfied, he stepped back to examine the results. The beard was tidier now, the lines clean and deliberate. It still felt like a small rebellion against the rigidity of his usual image, but it was a rebellion on his terms.

Jack’s voice cut through his thoughts from the hallway. “You’re keeping it?”

Hotch turned to see his son leaning against the doorframe, a teasing grin on his teenage face. Jack had grown so much, taller now, his voice deeper, but the playful light in his eyes hadn’t changed.

“For now,” Hotch replied, setting the trimmer down. “Why? You don’t like it?”

Jack shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I mean, it’s fine. Just... you look like you’re trying to be cool or something.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, amused. “Trying to be cool?”

“Yeah,” Jack teased, crossing his arms. “Like, what’s next? Leather jackets?”

Hotch chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ll stick to suits, thanks.”

“Good call,” Jack said, grinning as he walked away. “But don’t blame me if people start calling you ‘Hotch the hipster.’”

Hotch rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips as he grabbed a towel and cleaned up.

The next morning at the BAU, the beard caught its usual share of attention. You were the first to notice when Hotch walked into the bullpen, your eyes flickering up from your desk. As usual, you tried to hide your reaction, but Hotch caught the way your gaze lingered on him before you quickly looked back at your screen. He felt a small, unfamiliar pang of satisfaction.

Throughout the day, it became a pattern. Your eyes would drift toward him when you thought he wasn’t looking, and Hotch found himself hyper-aware of your presence. You seemed more flustered than usual, fumbling over your words when he asked you a question during a meeting and avoiding his gaze entirely when Morgan teased him about the beard.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Rossi made his move. The two of them were standing by the coffee machine when the older man gave Hotch a knowing look.

“So,” Rossi began, casually stirring his coffee. “You’re keeping the beard.”

“For now,” Hotch replied, taking a sip from his own mug.

Rossi smirked, his tone light but unmistakably teasing. “I think someone likes it.”

Hotch frowned slightly. “Jack? He’s made his opinion very clear.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jack.” Rossi’s smirk widened as he nodded toward the bullpen, where you were seated at your desk, your gaze darting toward Hotch once again before you quickly turned your attention back to your papers.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral, but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. “I think you’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Rossi chuckled, leaning back against the counter. “You might want to pay attention, Aaron. She’s not as subtle as she thinks.”

Hotch glanced toward you once more. You were chewing on the end of your pen, deep in concentration, oblivious to the conversation happening just feet away.

He turned back to Rossi, shaking his head. “Let it go, Dave.”

“Sure, sure,” Rossi said, his tone dripping with false innocence as he pushed off the counter. “But for what it’s worth, I think the beard suits you. Clearly, I’m not the only one.”

Hotch didn’t reply, but as Rossi walked away, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but part of him was glad he’d decided to keep the beard. If nothing else, it gave him one more reason to notice the way your cheeks flushed and your gaze lingered just a little too long.

Hotch was used to reading people—it was part of his job. He could pick apart the smallest details in someone's behavior, uncovering motives and intentions hidden beneath the surface. But when it came to you, he had learned to tread carefully. You were quiet, meticulous, and hardworking, but there was a guardedness about you that he respected, even if he didn’t entirely understand it.

The subtle glances, the flushed cheeks, the way your voice softened when speaking to him—it had all been easy to dismiss as shyness. But lately, he’d begun to wonder if there was more to it. Rossi’s teasing hadn’t helped, planting a seed of curiosity that grew every time your gaze lingered on him just a second too long.

The revelation, however, came unexpectedly, in the middle of a case briefing.

The team was gathered in the conference room, the case details spread across the table. Hotch was at the head of the room, presenting the profile, when he asked a question about the unsub’s potential targets. You were the one who answered, your voice steady but quiet, offering an insight that made the rest of the team nod in agreement.

“Good observation,” Hotch said, his tone even but sincere. “That could narrow down the list.”

Your eyes darted to him, and for a moment, there it was again—that slight hesitation, the way your gaze lingered on his face before you quickly looked down. It was subtle, but it wasn’t lost on him.

What followed, however, wasn’t subtle at all.

“Careful, Hotch,” Morgan said with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “Keep praising her like that, and she’s gonna think she’s your favorite.”

The comment drew a few chuckles, but your reaction was what caught Hotch’s attention. You froze, your cheeks turning a deep shade of red as you fumbled with the pen in your hand.

“I—uh—I didn’t...” you stammered, your words trailing off as you avoided everyone’s gaze, especially his.

JJ, ever the empathetic one, tried to steer the conversation back to the case, but Morgan wasn’t done. “I’m just saying,” he added, his grin widening, “you don’t see him handing out compliments like that to the rest of us.”

“Enough,” Hotch said, his tone firm but not harsh, cutting off the teasing. He could see how uncomfortable you were, your shoulders tense as you kept your eyes glued to the table.

The meeting wrapped up shortly after, and as the team dispersed, Hotch stayed behind, watching as you gathered your things with hurried precision. He could see the embarrassment still etched on your face, the way you avoided looking at him as you moved toward the door.

“Wait,” he said, his voice stopping you in your tracks. You froze, gripping the edge of the file folder in your hands as he stepped closer.

“Sir?” you asked, your voice quiet but steady.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said, his tone softer now. “Morgan’s comments—”

“They were just jokes,” you interrupted, though your cheeks were still flushed. “It’s fine.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your grip on the folder tightened. And then, as if unable to hold it in any longer, you blurted out, “It’s not his fault. It’s mine.”

That caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to the door as if debating whether to make a run for it. But then you took a deep breath, your voice trembling slightly as you said, “I—it’s nothing. I just... I know I’m not subtle. I’ve been trying, but...”

You trailed off, your words hanging in the air between you. Hotch felt his chest tighten, the weight of what you weren’t saying suddenly very clear.

“I see,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “You don’t need to apologize.”

You looked up at him then, your eyes wide and uncertain. “I’m not making this weird, am I? I don’t want to... I mean, I know you’re my boss, and I shouldn’t—”

“Stop,” Hotch interrupted gently, his tone firm but kind. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension in the room thick but not unpleasant. Hotch could see the vulnerability in your expression, the way you seemed torn between fleeing and staying rooted in place.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch nodded, stepping back to give you space. “Take the rest of the day if you need it.”

You shook your head quickly, a small, shy smile appearing despite your obvious embarrassment. “I’m okay. I just... I’ll try to be more professional.”

“There’s nothing unprofessional about being yourself,” Hotch replied, his voice calm and measured. “Let me know if you need anything.”

With that, you nodded, clutching your folder tightly as you slipped out of the room. Hotch watched you go, his thoughts swirling as the door clicked shut behind you.

For a man who prided himself on being able to read people, the realization of your feelings hit him like a revelation he hadn’t seen coming. And yet, as he stood there in the empty conference room, he couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through him at the thought.

Aaron Hotchner lingered in the empty conference room after you left, the soft click of the door echoing in the silence. He was rarely caught off guard, but your words—and the vulnerability behind them—had shaken something loose within him. You hadn’t outright said the words, but the implication was clear. And now that it was out in the open, he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed the signs before.

He sat down, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table as he let himself think about it—about you. The way you’d look up at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your cheeks flushed whenever he praised your work, the way you stumbled over your words in meetings but always managed to recover with a thoughtful, intelligent point.

And then there was his reaction to it all. How his gaze would linger on you longer than it should. How your shy smile had a way of softening the edges of his day. How, against his better judgment, he found himself looking forward to the moments you shared, no matter how brief or inconsequential they might have seemed.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair. He’d spent so long guarding himself, compartmentalizing his emotions to stay focused on the job. But with you, those walls had started to crack, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Your presence had a way of grounding him, reminding him that there was still room for warmth and connection in his life.

Later that evening, Hotch was in his office, going over the case files, when a knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called, expecting one of the team.

Instead, it was you. You stepped inside hesitantly, your file folder clutched to your chest like a shield. “I just wanted to apologize,” you said softly, not meeting his eyes. “Again. For earlier.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Hotch said, his tone gentle as he set the file aside. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to his before darting away again. “I just—I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for you.”

Hotch stood and rounded the desk, leaning against the edge of it as he regarded you carefully. “You haven’t made me uncomfortable. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

That made you look up, confusion flickering across your face. “What? Why?”

“Because I’ve noticed,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I’ve noticed the way you look at me. The way you try to hide it. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make you feel self-conscious. But I also didn’t want to admit to myself that I’ve been doing the same thing.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his words sank in. “You... what?”

Hotch offered a small, almost hesitant smile. “I’ve been trying to ignore it. To convince myself that it’s unprofessional or impractical. But the truth is, I feel it too.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of his confession hanging in the air between you. He could see the disbelief in your expression, the way you seemed to be processing his words in real time.

“I don’t know where this goes,” Hotch continued, his tone careful but sincere. “But I do know that I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel something when I do.”

You stared at him, your grip on the file loosening slightly. “I didn’t think... I mean, I never thought you’d...”

“I know,” he said gently. “I haven’t exactly made it easy to tell.”

A small, tentative smile broke across your face, and Hotch felt a warmth spread through him at the sight. It was as if some unspoken weight had lifted, leaving room for something lighter, something brighter.

“I guess we’re both bad at this,” you said softly, your voice carrying a hint of shy humor.

Hotch chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Maybe. But we can figure it out.”

You nodded, the tension in your shoulders easing as your smile grew. “Okay.”

For the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner allowed himself to feel the full weight of hope, the possibility of something beyond the job, beyond the walls he’d built around himself. And as he watched you leave his office, your steps lighter than before, he couldn’t help but think that this—whatever it was—might just be worth the risk.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

[butchpeace]

My older brother is an autogynephilic TIM.

After a long time of trying to hide my real feelings and convince myself to be supportive, I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t do that anymore.

I believe that a main motivation for his transition was jealousy towards me growing up. It’s become increasingly clear that he genuinely just wishes he were me.

He was misogynistic, controlling, talked down to me and treated me like I was stupid during our childhood. As a teenager, he got interested in pedophilic anime. The kind with the characters who look like little girls but are supposed to be high schoolers. He likely became interested in yuri manga at this time - pedophilic anime lesbian porn.

The way he treated me had a very negative effect on my self esteem and mental health as a young woman, and that was part of what led to my trans identification and eventual transition. I hated him. But he had also been part of what shaped my negative self image, and I had internalized it. The idea that I was stupid, not worth the same as he was, that my feelings didn’t matter, that I was a burden on the family. It wasn’t just him, but my childhood in general shaped me into a self-hating young woman who felt like she needed to escape and become something else.

A few years after I began transition, he “came out”. We were living under the same roof at the time, and I was truthfully very uncomfortable. I was on edge all the time, and didn’t feel at home in my own apartment. And I kept trying to push that feeling down because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought I was being judgmental, that my instincts were wrong and I shouldn’t listen to them. That’s when I started peaking and started to consider detransition. I found a roommate and moved out. And even then I felt guilty, because he whined about not having anyone else to live with.

When he changed his name, he was pissed off that he hadn’t been born female, because he wanted my name. He said this in front of the whole family. That he doesn’t know what name he wants to go by, his only idea was what he would have been named if he were female, which is my name. He ended up choosing one of the most cliche TIM names you can choose. Another time, someone asked him his favorite colors. He told them his favorite colors were the ones I always said were my favorite as a kid. This isn’t a coincidence - It’s a specific list of colors.

These sound like just little things, and most people would brush it off, but they instantly made my brain go into red alert mode. Since then he’s become very outspoken about being a “lesbian”. He talks about wishing he could find a girlfriend, being a “lonely lesbian”, a “useless lesbian”, being “soooo gay”, whatever. He has the flags, he suddenly likes cats despite being allergic and never liking animals at all before. He watches anime and tv shows with lesbian characters and thirsts after characters like Vi from Arcane while talking about his “gender envy”.

He makes objectifying comments about women’s bodies, calls himself and my female family members “bitch”. Infantilizes himself and loves to talk about how “weak” he is. (At 5’11 with a clearly male frame) There are too many things to list honestly. All the ways in which it’s obvious that he has no idea what being a woman actually is. It’s just some concept he made up in his head, a male fantasy of what womanhood entails.

We’ve only seen each other a few times a year at most in the years since then, and I’ve just tried to avoid and ignore and not engage in conversations with him. All the while he acts nice, like he never treated me like shit growing up, as if being trans was his problem and “becoming a woman” fixed him. As if I’m the one being unreasonable for being distant and not having a close relationship.

I’m seeing more and more clearly how hollow it all is. How fake it all is. How probably perverted it all is. He was a harmful influence on my life. And now he acts like he’s a woman, and it’s hollow, and somehow he thinks that means it’s all erased and forgiven.

We’re both grown adults now, and he only physically hurt me once as a kid, but growing up seeing him fly into a rage every time I didn’t agree with him still makes me afraid of the threat of violence from him. That’s part of why it’s hard to speak up and why it’s still uncomfortable to be around him.

The crazy thing is that I know multiple detrans women who have TIM older brothers. I’ve heard from other women that there seems to be a trend of lesbians in general with TIM older brothers. There’s a pattern here, and it’s not a good one.

We need to be talking about this. Stop the silence 📣

[metranart]

Acting like a bird in heat, Hawks ends up fulfilling his mating cycles with you… but now that his mind isn’t a pool of hormones… why does he keep looking for you?

Hawks x Student! Reader (Part 1)

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Warning tag: obsessed! Hawks, possessive! Hawks, naive! student reader, violation of trust, dubious consent, mating cycles, rut response, obsessive behavior, uncontrollable thirst for reader, manipulation, forced, thigh riding, hormonal minds out of control, sexual content, first time, cock riding, teenage fuck, Dabi's toxically interested in you, Bakugo bestie yet secretly inlove wit you, love confessions, cock-drunk, Hawks trying to be good but failing miserably, gaslighting, HEAVY plot, lots of smut.

-

The last time you saw him, your fingers dripped in his milky and creamy essence, his cheeks were bright red, and foggy as the feather adorning his back, and his voice held an elusive pant as if trying to catch his breath, along with his actions. Self-consciousness, the new mask for him to wear as he disentangled your hand from his now flaccid cock, almost caringly, half-lidded golden orbs shinning in its post-delirium bliss yet hiding a regretful truth. How the fuck did this happened? And why the hell did he allowed it? What was that new confusing feeling inside his chest?Takami Keigo knew what it was, but had never had such a close encounter with it in his whole life. 

Shame. 

No man, no citizen, no hero... –shall call himself trustworthy, after what he did. After the kind of thoughts that now circled his brain...agh! and he called himself the Number two hero. What a farse.

A steady hand passed through his golden locks, disheveled strands restricting the smooth motion, as he heavily sighed. 

I need a bath, thought mildly annoyed. Maybe that would serve him to clear his mind and untangle the treacherous feeling threatening to drive him insane, a cold shower would serve the purpose of cooling the deep mortification, he was experiencing. Fresh summer wind ruffled the papers scattered on top of his desk and at the same time, refreshed his blushing skin. The memory of his recent untactful sin, raving his brain like a horde of savages attacking a peaceful village. Damn his luck. Damn his choice of actions and must of all, damned the day, he saved you. Hawks could still remember so many details, little yet so endearing details about you. When arrived at the scene never thought for a minute, would become involved in such colorful acts.

Everything went peachy during the rescue; Endeavor handled the Villain with upmost care while incinerating his head right away from his body. Tactful, the winged hero recalled to think quite amused, it would have been a scarring scene, if not were for the villain being a Nomus. Yet, he couldn’t avoid but to think, there still were so many more options to reach the same end. His job in this particular scene was easy, to say the least. Save the hostage. A sweet, scared and highly ordinary young girl who found herself trapped in the crossed fire. UA uniform hugging your figure, as the Nomus paraded itself around you like a bee setting his sting to hurt. There was little time to act, and the moment the flames exploded from the Number one hero, Hawks saw his window open to save the deceptive young girl. Flying through hell fire landed with a soft thud in front of you, displaying his wings to envelop you in a cocoon of feathers, the red flames licking his crimson wings while shielding you from harm.

His gloved hands went straight to your waist in a studied motion, at the same time his gaze fixed in yours asking for permission to touch you, you almost threw yourself at him like a trembling leaf who seek shelter from the chaotic winds. The winged hero was quick enough to pull you into his welcome arms and fly up, taking you both from the ground just in time. The scorching heat caressed his flying form before both were out of reach. The crowd around the sinister cheered the incineration of the villain, and a swift smirk kidnapped the blonde’s lips in a sassy gest.

He knew he have it in him, Endeavor just needed a few notches in the right direction. All those musings were curtly interrupted as his eyes focused on the civilian resting in his arms, your round eyes caught him off guard, nevertheless, was quick to smile and reassure your questioning stare. You seemed in shock, probable still were. These nasty things never left a sweet taste behind. Flying you to the safety of the ground, landed near the scene, but far away to gift you with some privacy to compose. Hawks gently unwrapped you from his chest and placed a comforting hand over your hunched shoulders, reassuring smile always present in his welcome expression. "It´s ok, you are safe now." His palm gently squeezed your shoulder, thumb doing comforting circle motions over the fabric of the uniform. "Breath, in and out, you'll see how you feel better in matter of seconds–" You managed to quirk the edge of your lip up, and your frame stopped shaking, the tremors slowly disappearing the more oxygen you gulped. "Atta girl" The hero cheered, lowly. "In and out, you’re almost a pro." His good-hearted joke reaped the fruits as a melodic giggle escaped out of you, and your tense frame seemed to relax. "T-thank you, Hawks" you timidly stammered, eyes glued to your fidgeting fingers interlacing each other, nervously.

Looking up from your hands met his gleeful stare, and your cheeks gained a dust of pink. Your lips opened and closed as if wanted to say something but didn’t dare to. Hawks pretended no to notice, to save you the embarrassment. 

He was used to have this effect over the female population, every woman in town was one smirk away from his warm bed, but the young hero had grown tired of those kinds of relationships. When you can have all, you can eat, eventually the buffet seemed less attractive, almost boring.

He liked sex, holly shit, he fucking did! as much as the next guy would. But he needed a challenge –   actually wasn’t sure what he needed, but something inside him was unsatisfied and restless, continuingly poking at the back of his mind.

“Don’t mention it, cutie.” The hero said simply and looking around, realized that your home shouldn't be far away.

“If you want, I can take you to your house" he suggested, in a carefree and friendly tone, "flying everything is closer." Cheerfully, added.

Taking a moment to think, nibble your lower lip a bit but you ended up accepting. His amber glasses shone under the rays of the sun and without preamble, he offered you his arms which you nervously climb for him to leave the safety of the ground and surf the sky, again.

"Are you comfortable?” Keigo asked, feeling your body a little tense among his arms, being carried bride style across the sky would definitely woo any girl, nevertheless, you seem more uncomfortable than anything else. 

“M´Ok.” you said, curtly, and hawks, merely nodded. “By the way, are we heading in the right direction?"

A blush swept across your cheeks at the realization of what he just stated, and timidly squeezing his arm to feel more secure, you glanced down and before you could tell him exactly where your house was, you noticed something coating your fingers.

“You are hurt!” You half-yelled worried, looking at your blood covered hand, and then, at his wounds. You had not noticed it because he had not said anything, nor had he complained, but his arm was burned and one of his wings was semi-scorched. To which the young hero, just shrugged his shoulders, not giving it much importance.

"Comes with the territory." He openly joked, but your eyebrows continued to frown. "It's not serious, a few of Endevour´s flames got me... nothing that won't heal in a few days." He encouraged you, but you weren't able to shake the feeling of guilt.

You had been training hard to become a hero, and just when it was time to prove yourself, you froze.

It was so, so embarrassing that Todoroki's father had to save you, that you refused to go back to the dormitory you shared with your class A classmates. Surely, they would be worried, not to mention, you had already ghosted, a few text messages from Professor Aizawa asking if you were okay. But you just kept feeling like you let everyone down. That was why you preferred to go home and cry your eyes out in the solitude of your bedroom, or among your mom’s arms. 

Now, you felt even worse, since Hawks, the number two hero, was injured because of you. Maybe he didn't show it since he was too professional, but that wound was serious and would take more than a few days to heal, not to mention it could get infected.

Ugh! you had to help him, was the least you could do… It was what a true hero would do.

Setting your mind, you decided to use your quirk on him, despite Recovery Girl several warnings. Without a doubt, you could heal him... now the only setback was, not losing control while doing it.

An idea suddenly lights your brain, and catching a glimpse of a well-known hidden alleyway, near your house, you signaled to him that you had arrived.

Hawks landed softly, and let you down, looking around the place. "I'll take you to the door, which one is yours?" The young hero, offered.

“...Is the one on the other side of the alley.” You indicated, signaling a house, close by.

“Oh, fine.” Keigo said, not really understanding why you choose to walk instead of fly straight to your house, but he let it pass. “Lead the way, then.”

Both entered the alley which was being embraced by thin shadows and before you reached the other side, you turned around and looking at Hawks with embarrassment, you fidgeted with your fingers for a moment. Surprise morphed Keigo´s features comically when out of all the requests in the world, you suddenly asked. 

“May-may I give you a kiss?” You asked, timidly and noticing his bemused expression, corrected. “...As a way of thanking you.... for saving me....”

Your timid request took him by surprise momentarily, but soon his features regain his cool, and was quick to nod to then leant down. A kiss on the cheek, Keigo thought it to be innocent enough, not a usual request, nevertheless, a simple one. If this put you to rest, he'll humor you. Keigo was cocking his head for you to place your sweet lips.... it's now or never, you breathed deeply.... if you were going to use your quirk, now was the moment.

Two slender hands perched in each side of the Hero´s face and in a firm, straight movement, you cocked his face in your direction, surprise registered in his face, and his golden orbs popped open at the feeling of your lips locking with his.    

COMING SOON PART 2....

⭕️ In my PATREON you will find NSFW art of this chapter and more spicy MHA NSFW art and exclusive smut fanfiction.... Plus 'Spicy Foreplay tier reward' like: voting poll privilege for the exclusively Patreon one-shot stories where you can choose the couple pairing and kinky mood for the story and NSFW art, along with some naughty animation like THIS ONE ....and my eternal and vast gratitude for your support!!!

[finnbbl]

Hold onto me

Bang Chan Written

Prompt: With your stressful life, it wasn’t easy to find a healthy way to cope. When Chan finds you at your worst, he makes sure to let you know that you’ve always got him to hold onto.

Genre: Angst/Comfort

Gender Neutral Reader

- Warnings: Panic attacks, mention caffeine OD implied (if you squint) mentions of self harm, using excessive caffeine to cope, suicidal thoughts, i don’t think there’s any swearing?

- A/N: This was kind of a self comfort thing I wrote, but I know other people struggle with these types of things as well. I hope this can help someone out

- Requests: OPEN

Masterlist

Please read disclaimer in masterlist

*click*

The sound of yet another can being opened. Your fourth, fifth, sixth energy drink today. It was easy to lose count when your mind was in a constant haze of self-deprecation, insecurity, and loneliness. Why should you be feeling any of this? You had a loving and amazing boyfriend who would compliment and reassure you daily. There should be no reason or excuse for you to live this way.

However, you let your mind get the best of you.

You continued to down your next energy drink within 5 minutes, rubbing your forehead as you continued typing your essay for college. Life stressed you out. Once you graduated, you moved on. Moving on to adulthood, college, work, you name it. Along with all these struggles, something a little more positive wiggled into your life. Your boyfriend, Chan. He was the sweetest guy you could ask for. Nice, caring, handsome, selfless, you wouldn’t trade him for the world. Your first four years weren’t bad, a little bump here and there but nothing like high school had been. Chan had found out how hard it was for you as a teenager. He’d walked in on a close relapse but was able to stop and comfort you. Help you recover, and you did.

Well, sort of.

That’s what Chan thinks anyway. It wasn’t a total lie, it had been a clean recovery for the most part. But as college got harder, the workload got larger, your social life got worse, and all that work to get better quickly dissipated. Of course, you couldn’t let him know that. Remembering the look on his face when you had explained what you used to deal with, and what it caused you to do to yourself. It was something you couldn’t bear to see again. So, you kept it hidden.

You kept it hidden by coping with it differently. Once you realized your previous method of relapsing wouldn’t work anymore, you turned to caffeine. Your previous method involved physically scarring yourself, and you couldn’t hide it. Any caffeine you could find. Soda, coffee, tea, energy drinks. Anything that could take your mind away from the horrible thoughts that clouded your mind. So there you found yourself, sipping on your seventh one of the day. Then your eighth, your ninth, the numbers continue to increase. Proceeding to drink them like they were water, unaware of the severe health problems it could lead to. Or maybe you were aware, and just couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Bang Chan had no idea about it. It was something you could easily keep hidden by destroying the evidence. The empty cans and bottles weren’t hard to get rid of. And with your boyfriend having to stay later than usual to prepare for new comebacks, it was even easier.

You rubbed your eyes with your fingertips and yawned. The clock read 1:30 a.m. It was well after midnight, a time when most would be asleep, resting, and preparing to start their day tomorrow. However, it was a different story for you. Of course for Chan as well, although he had a different situation. Your fingers went away at the keys on your keyboard. You were determined to finish this essay, knowing you’d probably be assigned another one in a few days. Suddenly, your phone dinged. You groaned as annoyance began to flow through you. All you wanted to do was get this stupid schoolwork done and go to bed. As you were about to turn your phone on silent, something caught your eye. A notification from your friend group chat. All you could do was stare at the unopened message, watching as the amount of notifications suddenly began to get larger and larger. Some of your friends were interesting, definitely toxic but there were only a few you had left. In your eyes, it was better to have someone who treats you horribly, rather than having no one. You knew you shouldn’t, but your dying curiosity got the better of you. Next thing you knew, you were reading through several degrading comments.

All about you.

One of your friends had completely snapped at you. Half of your mutual friends had turned against you because of her twisted words. Suddenly, it was like you were frozen. Nothing felt real, and you weren’t a hundred percent sure of what was happening anymore. They were throwing insults at you left and right, and you were too exhausted to defend yourself. It wasn’t long before you zoned out, completely forgetting about the work in front of you. Letting all the negative and self-degrading insults cloud your mind. You began to bathe in self-doubt thanks to the toxicity. It had been like this for years, that one specific friend turning everyone in your life against you. It’d cause you to have an episode, she’d apologize and guilt trip you. And you somehow fell for it. Despite all this, you had a couple of friends who stuck by your side no matter what. Aware of how manipulative she could be, they understood and sympathized with you. This was how it always was. Constantly being drowned in school work and stress, your suffering continues to grow with the emotional abuse. Those thoughts were quickly interrupted as you saw headlights shine through the windows of the living room. Chan had arrived home.

The headlights soon flashed off. Only moments later did Chan slowly and cautiously open the front door. He attempted to keep the noise level down, expecting you to be asleep. Much to his surprise, you were at the dining table in front of your computer. “Baby, what are you still doing up?” He asked sweetly as he shut the front door, locking it back. “Oh, hey Chan. How was your day?” You asked him, completely ignoring his question. Taking another sip of your newly opened energy drink, your eyes didn't leave the screen. You wanted to get this over with and do your best to push out all the self-hatred that your friends dispersed into you.

His eyes briefly darted to the drink that sat on the table next to you, a tinge of worry shooting through him. It wasn’t unusual to find you up late, but it was currently almost 2 am. Doing his best to brush it off, he walked over and sat his things on the kitchen counter. “Not sure how well you’ll sleep with that caffeine in your system.” He said in a joking manner, but also in hopes of bringing you to your senses. Nothing else was said, silence painted the room with only the sound of your typing. He glanced over at the screen, seeing the endless pages of words, that’s when Chris began to wonder…

“How long have you been working on that? Maybe I can help you so you can get to bed soon.” Chan said as he walked over next to you. He put one hand on the back of your chair and his other on the table, leaning down to get a better view of the computer. It was clear he was concerned. “It’s fine, Channie. I’ll get it done within the next uhhh.. couple hours?” He was in disbelief at what he was hearing. Although you stayed up late, you never slept after 12:30. The fact that you said you’d be done when it was nearing sunrise? It shocked him. “Maybe you should just finish this tomorrow, it’s getting late y/n-“

“I know it’s late, but I need this done tonight.” Cutting him off with a sharp tone and briefly looking up at him. He took a small step back at your sudden change. “Just go to bed, i’ll be there soon.” You turned back to your laptop, running your fingers through your hair. Chan could only stand there as he tried to process what had just happened. Sure you weren’t harsh, but you’d never talked to him like that before. After a few minutes, he decided he would clean up around the house a bit. With him being at work all the time, and you busy with college and your job, the house had collected more than dust. Chris already couldn’t sleep well, and knowing you were acting like this would have made resting impossible. He thought that keeping himself occupied until you were done would help. One by one, he went through every dirty dish, every dirty piece of laundry, and every dog toy scattered around from Berry who he now kept with you two. Over an hour had passed, and you still weren’t done. He wasn’t even sure that you realized he was still in the room.

Mutually, he hadn’t even noticed you had opened up two more energy drinks since he’d been here until he saw the cans on the table. He furrowed his eyebrows. One this late was one thing, but the two large-sized energy drinks afterward were another. Something about that irked him, he was big on health. However, he figured you’d had a long day, so he kept his mouth shut as he finished cleaning the house.

Then, his eye caught something.

The trash can. His mouth practically fell open when he saw it, shocked by the amount of empty bottles and cans. Just how much caffeine have you consumed today? Chan had many discussions with you about your health, it was one of the most important factors in life to him. And it was unusual for you not to take care of yourself, he wasn’t sure what to think.

“Y/N..“ he started and caught your attention. You hummed lowly in response, with only silence to follow. He was still in shock, he’d never expect someone like you to care so little about your health. His tongue dragged along the inside of his cheek, doing his best to keep calm. “Just how much caffeine have you had today..?” Chris asked you in a lecturing tone. You rubbed your forehead and sighed before briefly turning your swivel chair around to meet his eyes. “What?” Asking him as if you hadn’t heard. Your words were laced with annoyance, unaware of the events that were about to follow.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer you, only countering with another question of his own. “How many talks have we had about how important your health is?” Your boyfriend crossed his arms as you sighed once again. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.” He figured your head must have been too jumbled to pick up what he was putting down. Chan exhaled deeply as he pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted his eyes. Frustration nipped at him as he bit his tongue so he didn’t say something he’d regret. You were slowly pushing him over the edge.

“You know what, how about we put this away for the night so you can sleep.” The male had realized he was going to have to do more than just talk to get through to you. He thought that resorting to calmer words and taking more action would work. But before he could walk over and shut your laptop, you protested. “What? No, I need to get this done. I’m not finished.”

Chris bit the inside of his cheek and sighed heavily. “Again, go to bed and I’ll be there in a bit.” You continued before muttering something inaudible under your breath. It wasn’t long before your body was facing the computer once again. Anger and frustration began to course through him. What the hell had happened to you? Usually, you were calm and thought carefully about what you put in your body, but now you refused to even acknowledge that your health was declining. Not to mention, you’d gotten snappy with him. “Y/N, it is after 3 in the morning. I’m tired, I know you’re tired. Let’s go to bed and talk about this in the morning-“

“God Chan I do not need you lecturing me right now. I have shit to get done!” Cutting him off and whipping back around in your chair, you left him standing there dumbfounded. “For once, worry about yourself. I don’t need you standing over my shoulder telling me what to do.” The two of you locked eyes briefly. You don’t know what it was and what made you speak to him like that. Was it the stress? The caffeine? The self-hatred? Maybe it was a mix of it all that finally sent you over the edge. Your boyfriend clenched his fist as tears started to gloss over his eyes. A glint of hurt flashed over them before he finally snapped back.

“You know what? I don’t care anymore Y/N. Obviously, you don’t care about your health so don’t expect me to be there when fall to the ground of a heart attack!” His words shot right through your heart. Reality hit you. Immediately, your body shot up out of the chair, “Chan-“ Before you could apologize, you heard the bedroom door slam. You jumped at the loud noise. You could feel yourself start to disassociate, and it wasn’t long before you found your head buried in your hands. Silent sobs escaped through your lips. You weren’t even sure when your body gave out as you collapsed to the ground. The weight of the past month’s struggles all came crashing down on your shoulders at once. How could you be so stupid? The one person you knew you could count on to take care of you and keep you safe, you had pushed away. Realization hit as you glanced over to see the amount of caffeine you’d ingested in only 24 hours. As if on cue, your body finally started to react to it. Your heart felt as if it was beating out of your chest, your body got jittery and you’d only just noticed how much your anxiety had spiked.

A curse seeped through your lips as your cries got unnoticeably louder. At this point, your body and mind refused to forgive you. You started breathing heavier and faster as you found yourself hyperventilating, going back and forth between wanting to get better and wanting it to end. Your mind only brought back horrible memories as intense anxiety ran through your veins. The only sounds that filled the room were your cries, and the refrigerator humming in the background. It added such an eerie and unsettling feeling.

Meanwhile in the bedroom was Chan who had now changed into his sleep clothes. The events of the past few hours raced through his mind on loop. Beginning to replay your actions of the past month in his head, he searched for an answer on why you would be acting like this. You had hurt him, but it wasn’t deniable that you were most likely hurting too.

Hurt people, hurt people. He wasn’t angry, he was just worried sick. It was obvious you had been acting off, but he never knew you turned to caffeine to cope. And as if the male needed any more confirmation, the sound of your suffering slipped right through the walls to his ears. His body moved before he could think, immediately jumping up and making his way to the door.

As he opened it, he realized just how miserable you must’ve been the past month. Usually, he was one to check up on you. Doing small household tasks together and letting you rant about your day, then listen to his. But recently, that had not been the case. Something must’ve been going on that you refused to tell him. You were unaware that you’d caught his attention until you felt two strong arms wrap you in a warm embrace from behind. Your body immediately acted as you threw yourself up and into his arms. “Shh shh, it’s okay sweetheart.” Chan rubbed soothing circles over your back as he noticed how worked up you were. “Baby you’re shaking,” He briefly pulled back to meet your eyes. His fingers found their way under your eyes as he wiped away the tears that poured down your face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

You dug your head into the crook of his neck, continuing to mutter out apologies to him. “Please don’t leave me, please..” You begged him in between sniffles, which caught him a bit off guard. His lips poured into a frown. “I’m not going to leave you, why would I do that?” Chan’s tone was soft and comforting. However, the question flew through one ear and right out the other.

“I don’t want to hurt anymore Chan, please..” Confusion glossed over his eyes, you don’t want to hurt anymore? What were you talking about? His hands lifted your chin as he pulled his body back slightly to face you. “Slow down, what do you mean?” Worry made its way through his body, it was only then that he noticed just how much you were shaking. “I don’t want to do it anymore Chan, I can’t take it..” Unintentionally, pleas slipped right past your teeth. His eyes looked into yours with sympathy. “Oh, honey..” This was always something you did your best to keep hidden from him, your poor mental health. Chan was a very sweet person. Whenever he noticed that someone he loved was hurting, he made them his priority. Oftentimes, letting his health decline in the process. You had refused to let that happen. Not to mention, you weren’t sure how long he’d want to stay after seeing how weak and vulnerable you could be. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe he loved you, but your mind told you otherwise.

“What’s going on, what’s making you think like this hm?” His hand stroked through your hair, doing every single action of reassurance that he could. God how he hoped it was working. “I.. Everyone hates me and.. and I didn’t even do anything!” You suddenly broke. However, he didn’t scream, insult, or push you away. Quietly and patiently, he waited for you to continue. Making sure to keep you in a warm embrace, he did his best to soothe you. “And I’m drowning in school work and I’m just..”

"Is this about…" Chris suddenly asked you. This wasn't the first time you had come to him with a problem like this, but it was the worst by far. Your glossy eyes glanced up at his, your lips quivering as you held back tears. As if on cue, a ding was heard from the table. Followed by a few more and you immediately knew what was happening. More tears spilled down your face as you avoided eye contact. Curious, Chan looked between you and your phone. Hesitantly, he grabbed it. Anger started to run through his veins as he scrolled through all the chats. He only read a few before he decided to put it down. If he didn’t stop now, he wasn’t sure that everyone would make it out alive. The male turned back towards you, as he gently motioned for you to sit down on the floor. You began to sway, which worried him. Gently, his hands found yours. “Baby, I love you so much you know that?”

“And I want to respect whatever decisions you make because after all, it’s your life but..” He glanced back and forth between your two eyes as you waited for him to continue. This was something to be gone about carefully, the phrasing couldn’t be too harsh. “You have got to cut them off, they’re not good for your mental health and it’s starting to worry me.” You glanced up at him and then at the floor. He was right, there was no denying that. Healthily dealing with things like this was hard for you. “But.. I’m scared.”

“I know, I understand but… I’m concerned with the amount of caffeine you’re putting in your body.” Chan rubbed his thumb over your knuckle as your hand began to shake. “I thought.. I thought it would help distract me. I just wanted everything to end.” Your bottled-up feeling poured out like an ocean. Although Chan was thankful you were finally talking to him, he didn’t know what to do besides getting you help. That was going to be a challenge. “I just want you to be happy again, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you eat a whole meal. Much less anything other than caffeine.”

He sighed, “Look I know it may not be what you want to hear, but you need help Y/N.” Unexpectedly, you didn’t protest. “You need to go to a professional, can you do that for me? I’ll even go with you.” You inhaled and exhaled deeply. Doctors terrified you, which is probably why you never went willingly before. The last time you needed help, you had to be dragged there by someone. And most of the time it was Chan. Your eyes met his before slowly nodding, causing a smile to tug on your boyfriend’s lips. His hand went up to the side of your head, fixing your hair a bit. “Can you smile for me, please?”

You didn’t budge and he let out a playful sigh. “Come onnnn, pleaseeeee.” He stuck his bottom lip out to form a pout, one glance is all it took for you to fold, your lips curving upwards into a soft smile. A small giggle from him sounded as he continued to stroke your hair. “There you go… come here.” You glanced at his arms which were now open and welcoming you into them as you crawled into his lap. He rocked you back and forth muttering small positive affirmations to you. Chan was someone you would be forever grateful for. He always knew how to help and cheer you up. The mutual love you guys had for each other was unmatched. So there you two were, in each other's arms as a comforting silence began to take over. With all the caffeine in your system, you both knew it was going to be nearly impossible for you to sleep tonight. There was a long road of recovery waiting for you ahead. However, with Chan, you knew everything was going to be okay.

[astralis-ortus]

game for two

✱ husband!bc × gn!reader

— guess who just got his old yearbook in the mail?

w.count → 0.8k genre → fluff, married life!au, non-idol!chan warnings → minor cussing (light hearted context), chan referred to as chris ⋆ see masterlist

coming home from work, you’re usually greeted with one of the following­—an empty house, a soft reverberating beat from the small, cozy studio located at one end of your home, or a soft snore while some romance movie thickens its plot on the screen of your neatly mounted tv.

a view of your husband with a stack of books on his lap, however, was not exactly something you would ever have in your bingo card.

“whatcha up to?” became your follow up question after chris’ quick how-was-your-day debrief. it didn’t take you long before promptly securing the spot next to your husband, where he—judging from the way your ivory-colored couch emanates heat—had been hanging around on for quite some time now. “i don’t think i’ve seen those books before.”

“mm, just got them in the mail today,” chris hummed, an arm swiftly encaged your figure as he attempts wrap you in his warmth, “mum and dad found these in the attic while they were clearing out the house. thought would be better to keep these here than to fill up space in their new home.”

it only took you a second to realize what kind of book your husband has been flipping through when a familiar-yet-way-younger-looking dimpled smile came into view, eternally captured in the printed sheet. “oh! baby chris!”

“good lord,” a chuckle ignited from the depth of his chest, ones that always pair with the soft crinkles near his eyes and sometimes a nuzzle to your hair when he couldn’t stand the adoration bubbling in his heart, “i was an angsty, moody teenager there, not a baby.”

“sure, whatever you say, baby,” you teased, emphasizing the word as you stole the perfectly conditioned yearbook from his hands. you’ve seen countless of chris’ teenager years' pictures, sure, but what harm could it bring to have a peek at more?

chris comically let out a sigh as he rolled his eyes—a signature telltale of his attempt to ‘look’ annoyed. “you’d really be in a huge trouble if you call an angsty teenager a baby, you know.”

“i don’t, actually,” eyeing the faint playful glint in chris’ eyes, you decided to lure him into a game. after all, what’s a more fun way to spend your evening than to bicker with your husband? “what would this-” you pointed at his half-heartedly grinning self of the past, “-angsty teenager do if teenager me called him a baby?”

another set of chuckles escapes him—ones louder, which, more often than not, indicates his approval of the arena you’ve built.

he’s in the game.

“well, for starters,” chris tilted his head, quite obviously setting himself to get a full view of your reaction just by gauging the godawfully attractive smirk he got etched on his lips, “i’d probably…”

“…probably?”

his way of building suspense will one day definitely be the death of you. really. if you were honest to yourself, you would actually rather kiss that damned smirk off his face right now—but the game has just started, and you’d hate to lose to your husband on your own little trick.

only… would he even let you win?

“well…” shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly, chris continued,

”i’d probably tell you to fuck off.”

the way your grin transformed into a face of utter disbelief was enough of a trigger to fill the room with echoes of chris’ laugh, filling the space with the kind of warmth you’ve only known after you met him. for now, however, you feel like you’ve been betrayed.

“that’s rude!” you huffed, incredulous. though arms are now completely folded in front of your chest, chris knew you’d still let him push more of your buttons; otherwise, why would you still melt into him?

“i’m your future wife! how could you tell me to fuck off?”

“in his defense, he didn’t know that!” he countered, wiping a stray tear which had involuntarily escaped while he was celebrating his first strike. "he was just a kid who thought the world in general was a mean ol' crone, so he just, you know, returned the energy."

"meeting you, however," setting his yearbooks aside, chris then took the chance to entrap you in his arms, "has changed my view about the world—for the better—and i owe you my life for that."

you've been speculating that there's something going on about chris' voice—is he a siren? or is he actually a highly skilled mage? how is it that his voice alone has never failed to untangle every single jumbled up knots under your skin?

or maybe, just maybe, the problem is you—because unknowingly, somewhere along the way, chris had long become your achilles heels.

"...shut up, christopher."

"aw- look at your ear! they're burning!"

"shut up!"

"heh- i love you too, baby."

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Hey, idk if you're taking requests in more "dark" topics. But i was wondering if you could do this one.

A year ago i attempted su!c!de, a few weeks later i started self-harming. And even before all that, i had developed an eating disorder.

I never told anyone about the sh and the ed, my parents found out my theirselves. When i attempted tho, i asked for help, cause as a teenage girl, i was scared. A week after my attempted i had already gotten a therapist and a lot of support, but i still hid parts of my struggle (ed and sh).

I was wondering if you could do a WandaNat x reader daughter, based on my "experience".

It doesn't have to be exactly like it, but "based" on it.

I'm starting to struggle again and i just needed some kind words.

Tyy x

Fly, birdie, Fly

Note: This story will feature heavy topics based on the ask above. If you find any of these triggering please do not read this. However, I am so proud of you for being here today. You are so important. Like Natasha and Peter say in this story, the whole you leave will be impossible to fill.

Warnings: mention of past abuse, poor mental health, eating disorder, self harm, suicide ideation, reader was with HYDRA and needs a hug, good parents Wanda and Natasha, Peter is a great friend.

Word count: 3.3k

There was something about the night sky that you found freeing. The vast darkness combined with the twinkle of stars created a stillness. It was quiet. Peaceful. You sat on the roof of a random New York City apartment. You weren’t sure who lived here as your feet dangled above the city street. The coldness pricked at your skin. You liked to run your fingers over the goosebumps that formed. “There you are,” you followed the voice and saw Peter. He took off his mask and walked over to you. “Your moms are almost home. You need to get back to the tower.”

Peter was a good friend. He deserved better than you, but you gave him upgrades to his suit. On nights when the noise in your head got too loud and you needed to escape the tower, he made sure you were back before anyone found out.

Slowly, you stood up and walked to the edge of the roof. Your arms outstretched to keep your balance. “Birdie, this isn’t funny. Get down. We need to go.”

Birdie. It was the nickname the Avengers called you. When they found you, you were being experimented on by HYDRA scientists. They implanted wings into your back - white like an angel. Ironically, they gave you wings to the girl who wanted to fall. Sighing, you jumped off and onto the roof. Your ankles tingled from the impact. “Did FRIDAY report any injuries?” You asked as Peter slipped his mask back on, and you both climbed down the fire escape.

“None,” Peter answered. They were able to save the hostages.” That was good. You knew the mission was going to be difficult, but like always, they saved the day.

“Thanks for the save, Spiderman,” you smiled. You tried to give him a genuine smile, but it was hard these days. See you later.”

“Bye, birdie,” he took off, and you were alone. With a sigh, you pulled up your hoodie and started the walk back to the tower.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You managed to beat them back to the tower and start cooking. Your moms always liked to eat when they got back from a mission. Most of the time, they were too tired or hurt to cook. Cooking for them was the least you could do. Your attention got pulled away from the stovetop to the elevator. “It smells good, angel,” Natasha said.

“It should be ready soon,” you drained the pasta water and saved a little of it for the sauce. Wanda walked over to you and kissed the side of your head. “How was the mission?” It was the longest you’ve been separated from them since they adopted you. They always tried to have one of them stay behind. This mission was extensive, and the team couldn’t afford to leave one of them at the tower. They were gone for a week, and you hated how much you missed them.

“Good,” Natasha kissed the opposite side. “Tiring. I could sleep for 12 years,” you chuckled and looked over your shoulder. Natasha leaned heavily on Wanda’s back, her chin resting on her girlfriend’s shoulder. They tried to mask it, but you saw the signs of fatigue.

“Why don’t you go shower, and we can eat this in our rooms?” It was a way for you to make an easy escape, but Wanda shot that idea down with a quick shake of her head.

“We always have dinner together,” she gently patted Natasha, and the Black Widow grumbled but let go of Wanda. I’ll set up for a movie night,” there was no changing her mind when it was set to something. So you filled your bowl with as little as possible that wouldn’t draw their suspicion. By the end of the movie, your bowl was still full.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

It felt like a gift and a curse with the wings you were given. They allowed you to fly above the clouds and see the world uniquely. Then there was the cruse. The pain was unbearable when you kept your wings hidden for to long. But it was the nightmares that were the worst. Some nights, you woke up covered in sweat with a scream barely leaving your lips.

Tonight was not a nightmare that woke you up but the pain in your back. You buried your face in the pillow and bite your lip to stop the pained scream. The last thing you wanted was to wake up Natasha and Wanda. They were so tired, but the pain was awful. Silent tears raced down your cheeks as a pained whimper left your lips.

Suddenly, a gentle hand was placed in the middle of your back. You flinched away from the contact. “Sh, sweetheart. It’s okay,” Wanda’s soothing voice pierced through the pain. “You’re safe. We are right here,” you whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut.

“When was the last time you let them out?” You heard the sound of scissors cutting your shirt. Luckily, it was one of Natasha’s old SHIELD shirts. But the Black Widow asked you a question. You squeezed the blanket in your hand.

“Long,” you managed to squeak out. You could feel blood in your mouth from the wound you created on your lip. Natasha let out a disappointing sigh. You hated the sound. You hated that you were such a disappointment. “Not safe. Not safe,” you repeated. The process left you disorientated. Vulnerable. Even though you felt release from your wings being free, letting them free was almost worse. It was why you hadn’t joined the team on missions until Tony could figure out a way to lessen the pain.

“You are safe,” Wanda managed to sit you up, but the fabric of your shirt fell. She sat in front of you, and her forehead rested against yours. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“It’s gonna hurt,” you cried. This time, it was Natasha’s hand on your back. Hers were colder and rougher than Wanda’s.

“Yes,” the Black Widow kissed the side of your head. “But it will only be for a moment then it will feel better.” You gritted your teeth, the searing heat building between your shoulder blades. After so many times, you learned to block out the noise that came with this.

The first sharp crack was followed by the pain. It felt as if your spine was being torn apart. Then, another crack. You felt the warmth of your blood from the new wounds on your back. In your pain-hazed mind, you were afraid that you were going to hurt Wanda for how hard you were squeezing her.

When it was done, your body slumped against Wanda as she whispered gently reassurances in your ear. Then you heard it—the gentle flap of your wings. Natasha touched the feathers, and you felt them twitch. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I forgot how sensitive they are, but I’ll never forget how beautiful they are.”

You never found them beautiful. They were a constant reminder of the pain you endured and the choices made of you. “How are you feeling?” Wanda asked. You felt the bed shift as Natasha stood up and headed for the bathroom. You rubbed your forehead against her shoulder.

“Tired,” you mumbled. “Sore but better.” There was a weight lifted off your shoulders. It felt easier to breathe.

“You can go back to sleep once your mom cleans you up,” you nodded, and the bed shifted again, signaling Natasha’s return.

“I’ll be gentle,” she whispered, and the warm cloth was pressed against your back. It was instant relief. Your muscles relax more. “I think keeping them out for a few days is a good idea. Allow your body some relief.” Natasha scrubbed the dried blood off your skin.

“Okay,” you mumbled, too tired to protest.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Since that night, the couple were watching you closely. They ensured you ate full meals and your wings were out for an appropriate amount of time. In some ways, you were the healthiest you’ve ever been and hated every moment of it.

The voices in your head were getting too loud. Pain was the only way to quiet them and push away the darkness. It seemed logical to spend your time in the bathroom after you ate, throwing up the food you just ate. Or drag a blade against your skin in places they wouldn’t see.

You felt dirty, weak, and guilty. Wanda and Natasha were giving you a second chance, and you were throwing it back in their faces. It was so hard to deliver that you were deserving of their love and the safety they gave you. There was a sadness in their eyes when they looked at you that they tried to hide. But you saw it. Maybe it was better if you left, saving them the pain of watching you slip away.

Once again, you found yourself atop a New York City apartment. This one was tall. Tall enough that if you kept your wings enclosed, death would be insistent. You took one step forward and-

“Woah, woah,” Peter said behind you, and you pulled your foot back. “I need you to get off the ledge, birdie.”

“Go away, Peter,” you told him without looking away from the sidewalk below you. “Go back to the tower and forget about me.”

“I can’t do that because your moms are losing their minds because they don’t know where you are. Someone disabled FRIDAY so as not to track you,” it was easy to hack into Tony’s AI system. You left a note in the mess of a lab on how you did it so he could fix the problem. “I promised them I’d find you and bring you home.”

“Why?” You asked. He was silent as you heard his footsteps walking over to you.

“Because I’ve been silent for too long. I’ve seen you hurt, and I’ve said nothing,” you closed your eyes, wobbling slightly as you lost your balance. There was so much guilt in his voice, and you hated it. You were the cause of it. It would be easier for everyone if you were gone. “You are my friend. You are one of my best friends. I know you think leaving us would cause less pain, but that’s not true. The whole you would leave would be impossible to fill.” Slowly, you turned around. He wasn’t wearing his suit, which meant he rushed over here in a hurry and put himself at risk of someone’s knowing the true identity of Spiderman. He put himself at risk for you.

Next, you noticed that his hand was outstretched as he waited for you to take it. “Please,” Peter pleaded. We all care about you. We can’t lose you.”

It seemed cliche as if he read it in one of those mental health pamphlets in the health office. But you wanted to believe him. “Peter, I-” Then it happened. It was an accident; you swore by it. Your foot slipped. The world tilted violently as your arms failed to reach for anything. A scream ripped from your throat as gravity claimed you, but Peter grabbed onto your wrist.

“I got you,” he said as he pulled you back onto the roof. Your entire body was shaking as the adrenaline ran through your veins. “I got you,” he repeated and pulled you into a hug. His heart was pounding in his ribs. “I got her,” You weren’t sure when he pulled out his phone, but he told whoever he was speaking with where you were, but it all turned fuzzy. Peter saved you, but you wished he hadn’t.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The ride back to the tower was silent. Natasha drove, Peter was in the passenger seat, and Wanda sat next to you in the back. She brought a blanket with her, and it was tightly around your shoulders. You hadn’t stopped shaking, no matter how hard you tried to stop it. Wanda held your hand tightly in hers, afraid you’d slip out of her grasp.

The contact left your skin burning. You wanted to rip your hand from her, open the car door, and run. But you stayed. They deserved that much.

Natasha parked the car in the tower garage. “Thank you, Peter,” the Black Widow said. “I’ll come and talk to you later.” Your friend nodded and said his goodbyes, but his eyes locked with yours. They pleaded with you to be honest, stay, and fight. You had no energy to smile back.

Now, the car was suffocating. It was claustrophobic, as if the car doors were closing on you, and all the air was ripped from your lungs. “Sometimes,” you found your voice. “I wish I died on the operating table you found me on,” you admitted. “Death seems easier than living.”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Wanda whispered. You kept your eyes trained on the center console. You couldn’t stomach it if you looked at them.

“I know you both love me. I know the team cares about me. I have a place here in all this, but I’m just-”

“Tired,” Natasha finished your sentence when your voice failed you. Finally, you looked at the redhead. Her green eyes were glossy, and a sad smile was on her face. You hated that you were the cause of the pain. She reached for your face and placed a gentle hand on your cheek. Even when you flinched, her smile never faded. “Our words won’t reach you with those negative thoughts racing through your read, but your mother and I are going to fight for you and remind you every day how much you are needed here.”

Peter said something similar. The hole you would leave would be impossible to fill. How blind were you to the impact you had on their lives? “Mama,” you whimpered.

“It’s okay, dorogoy,” Wanda whispered. Your face turned into the crock of her neck and your tears stained the fabric of her shirt. Your quiet cries turned to heartbreaking sobs that shook your body. But Wanda held you strong, steady. Her heart remained constant even when you felt the slight hitch of her breathing.

“I’m - I’m scared,” you cried. “I wanna die.” With your confession, Wanda held you tighter.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Natasha wasn’t sure if the emotional outburst or the usage of her girlfriend’s powers helped you fall asleep. But you were out against Wanda, your hands twisted in the fabric of her shirt. “Let’s get her to our room,” the Black Widow spoke softly. Wanda only nodded. Her eyes were unable to look away from you. By the grace of a higher power, Natasha managed to lift you out of the back seat. You were lighter in her arms. She knew you were limiting your potions, and now she was kicking herself for not saying something sooner. The Black Widow was so scared to push you away. Now, she feared she was too late.

Thankfully, she made it to their room without alerting the rest of the team. She gently laid you down on the bed. “Should we change her out of these clothes?” Natasha asked as she looked at Wanda. Her girlfriend was quiet and gently sat on the bed’s edge to avoid disturbing you. “Hey,” she squeezed her shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“I feel like if I take my eyes off of her, she’s going to disappear,” Wanda huffed. “I’m a mind reader. How did I not see this?” Natasha sighed and moved to stand behind her. Wanda’s back was flushed against her front.

“Maybe we did see it, and we didn’t want to accept it.” Again, Wanda was quiet. There wasn’t a good way to respond to this. “Stay with her,” Natasha kissed the top of her head. “I’m going to go check on Peter.”

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Wanda sighed deeply when Natasha left. A crushing weight lay across her chest. Every breath she took hurt. It felt similar to when she first arrived at the tower while grieving for her brother and country. Grief was suffocating her—grief for a little girl that she loved so much and was hurting.

She stood up and walked into her bathroom. When the water from the sink warmed up, she splashed it on her face. All she wanted to do was scream and cry, but she needed to push all that down to be there for you.

Wanda was the one to find you. During her time at HYDRA, she heard whispers of other facilities that were experimenting on other kids. The Avengers were working on stopping them. A lot of them were abandoned. Until they arrived at the facility when you were held captive. The security put up a fight, but they were able to secure the building. Wanda found you strapped down to a table. Bloody and bruised and barely conscious. You flat-lined a few times on the way back to the tower, but Bruce was able to bring you back. All Wanda wanted to do was protect you.

When Ross discovered what you could do, he threatened to send you to the RAFT. Everyone was scared of the wings, but not her or Natasha. The couple saw you as a scared girl, and adopting and protecting you made sense.

Once her face was dried, she returned to the room. “Oh,” she jumped when she saw you were awake and staring at her. “You scared me. I didn’t expect you to be up.” She hoped her magic would keep you asleep until the morning.

“Nightmare,” your voice was raw and rough. “Why am I here?”

“Your mom and I wanted to keep you close,” she said, closing the distance and sitting on the bed next to you. Do you want to go back to your room?” The idea of being away from you terrified her, but it was your choice. So much of your autonomy was taken; she never wanted to force you.

“Wanna stay,” Wanda smiled, and you took her hand. Sometimes, Wanda forgets how young you are. You acted so much older, hardened by the horrible circumstances you had to endure. Now, you looked smaller, younger than only 17.

There was so much she wanted to say to you to convince you to stay and fight. But Wanda understood that pain as well. Living seemed so hard; death seemed easier. With death, you would never see how much your life meant to them. “I get it,” Wanda spoke softly. You looked away from her hands to look into her eyes. “The feeling of dread that just follows you. Like a blanket. It can be suffocating,” you nodded. “I’ve learned to let others help hold the weight. It makes it easier to breathe.” You frown and bite your lip. You habitually pitted your lip so hard it would draw blood. Wanda gently used her thumb and touched your chin to get you to stop.

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “What if I’m broken and I can’t be fixed?”

“You are not broken, sweetheart,” Wanda squeezed your hand. “You are healing, and healing isn’t always linear. There will be ups and downs, and sometimes you will fall. But your mom and I will always catch you. When tears fell down your cheeks, Wanda pushed them away, and she expected you to flinch. Instead, you leaned into her touch. Progress was good. “However, you need to want to be helped. All your choices have been made for you; you must make this one.”

Your eyebrows scrunched together as you thought it over in your head. It felt like an eternity until you sighed. “Help me,” you pleaded. “Save me like you saved me from those monsters.”

“Always.”

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Again, you sat on a roof. This time, it was on top of the Avenger tower, and you weren’t alone. There was music, laughter, and a warmth that filled your chest. Peter sat next to you and handed you a root beer bottle. “Alright, birdie?”

“Yeah,” you clicked the bottle against his. “Alright.”

You weren’t afraid of falling anymore because there would be someone to catch you.

[wandering-winchesters]

The Weight of Words

Summary: When you reveal a deeply personal truth, Dean's unwavering support proves that no burden is too heavy for him to share. Trigger Warnings: self-harm, mental health struggles, intense emotional conversations, and protective behavior. Requested: Yes, by anon --

Dean hadn’t expected the day to take this kind of turn. One moment, you were sitting side by side on the worn couch in the bunker’s library, sharing stories about your teenage years. Then, you let it slip—a quiet confession you hadn’t intended to share.

“I used to self-harm,” you said, the words barely above a whisper, as though saying them too loudly might bring the memories back to life.

For a moment, Dean froze. The magazine he’d been flipping through slid from his hands and landed on the coffee table with a soft thud. He turned to you, his brows knitting together in that familiar way, his face a mixture of confusion, hurt, and worry.

“Wait… what?” His voice was cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right—or maybe he didn’t want to believe that he had.

You took a deep breath, your gaze fixed firmly on your hands in your lap. “It was a long time ago. Before I met you. I was going through some… stuff, and that’s how I dealt with it.”

Dean was quiet for a beat too long, and it made you glance up at him nervously. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. It was the kind of look you’d seen on him before—when he was barely holding himself together.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked finally, his voice low but tinged with an urgency that made your chest tighten.

You shrugged, unable to meet his gaze. “Because it’s not something I like to talk about. And I’m fine now, Dean. Really. It’s in the past.”

His scoff surprised you, a sharp exhale of disbelief. “Fine now? Come on, Y/N, you don’t just… just drop something like that and then tell me you’re fine now.”

“I am fine,” you insisted, your voice firmer this time. “I don’t do it anymore. I haven’t in years.”

“But you did,” he shot back, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and softened his tone. “You did, and I didn’t know. You went through that alone, and I… I didn’t—dammit.” He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he began to pace.

You watched him, unsure if you should say something or just let him process. This was why you hadn’t wanted to tell him—because you knew he’d take it harder than you did. Dean had a way of carrying other people’s pain like it was his own, even when you didn’t ask him to.

“I didn’t want to burden anyone,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

Dean stopped pacing and turned to you, his expression somewhere between disbelief and anger—not at you, but at the situation. “Y/N, you could never be a burden. Do you hear me? Not to me, not to Sam, not to anyone who gives a damn about you.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you felt the sting of tears threatening to fall. You blinked quickly, shaking your head. “It didn’t feel that way back then. I didn’t think anyone would understand.”

Dean’s face softened, and he came back to sit beside you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and you could feel the weight of his emotions hanging in the air. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but no less intense.

“I’ve been through some dark stuff too,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. “Hell, there were times I didn’t think I’d make it out. And yeah, I’ve got my ways of coping—most of ’em aren’t healthy, I’ll admit. But I had people. I had Sam. I had Bobby. You didn’t have anyone, did you?”

You shook your head, a lump forming in your throat. “Not really. I didn’t let anyone in.”

He looked at you then, his green eyes filled with a sadness that made your chest ache. “Well, you’ve got me now. And you’ve got Sam, and Cas, and everyone else in this crazy life we’ve built. You don’t ever have to go through that crap alone again. You hear me?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I hear you.”

But Dean wasn’t done. He reached out and gently took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’m serious, Y/N. You don’t ever let yourself get to that place again without coming to me first. I don’t care what time it is, what’s going on—you come to me, okay? Promise me.”

You hesitated for a moment, the intensity in his eyes almost overwhelming. But you could see how much this meant to him, how much he cared. “I promise.”

“Good.” He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Now, do me a favor and don’t keep stuff like this from me anymore. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” you said, managing a small smile. “I’ll try.”

He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You better do more than try. You think I don’t notice when something’s off with you? I notice, Y/N. I just don’t always know how to ask.”

For the rest of the day, Dean didn’t leave you alone for long. He insisted on making dinner—though his idea of “making dinner” was ordering takeout—and suggested a movie marathon to take your mind off things.

As you sat together on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and watching one of his favorite cheesy action flicks, you felt the tension in your chest start to ease. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he were checking to make sure you were still there, still okay.

It wasn’t just the words he’d said earlier that comforted you—it was everything he did afterward. The way he made you laugh with his over-the-top commentary on the movie. The way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, as if to remind you he was there. The way he didn’t push you to talk about anything you weren’t ready to share but made it clear he was there if you needed him.

By the time the credits rolled, you felt lighter than you had in a long time. You leaned your head against his shoulder, and he didn’t move away—just shifted slightly so you’d be more comfortable.

“Thanks, Dean,” you said softly.

“For what?” he asked, his tone casual but his expression anything but.

“For being you.”

He smirked, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Damn right.”

But as you drifted off to sleep beside him, you knew he’d take those words to heart—and that he’d do whatever it took to keep you safe, both from the world and from yourself. Tag List: @roseblue373 @hobby27 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers

[fatkish]

Could you do a platonic, teenager (15-17) ! reader + father figure Aizawa where reader’s mother keeps nagging and making really snarky comments about their self harm scars, and reader goes to Aizawa when they feel like they’re going to relapse for a distraction?

if you do specifics, reader is non-binary with masc terms. Reader also knows Aizawa from him being their teacher, but they knew him from childhood as a family friend. Reader’s dad is unavailable—you can take that however you want.

sorry if this is too gruesome or too detailed, feel free to delete/tweak this if it’s a bad request — thank you for reading!

Platonic Aizawa x Teenage Reader

Aizawa had known you for most of your life. Not that he had been present for most of it. Aizawa had been close to your father as they were both underground Pro Heroes. Your father had taken Aizawa under his wing and basically became his mentor and showed him the ropes. They worked together often and became friends. Your father was super friendly with people and would invite Aizawa over to his house to ensure that he was eating properly and etc. Aizawa met your mother and was over often.

Your mother was kind to Aizawa but you could tell it was strained kindness. One day, your father and Aizawa were going after a drug smuggling operation and it went south. The drug smugglers were operating out of an old chemical processing plant. There were leftover containers and equipment from the plant. Your father ended up comatose in the hospital after an explosion caused by a fire quirk hitting nearby containers filled with chemicals.

After that day, Aizawa rarely came over. Your mother grew very hostile and rude. She consistently ignored you and you grew up trying to please a woman who hated everyone. When you did get your mother’s attention, it was never good. She’d constantly berate you and make snide comments about you. Nothing you ever did was good enough for her. Eventually she pulled the plug on your father and she inherited the money he made. She barely spent a dime on you.

Most of your clothes were old and had been repaired several times over. You got the best grades in your class at school despite the bullying. You were bullied because your clothes and everything were old and worn, you hardly socialized and you had barely any self confidence. In middle school you began to cut. It started out as a means to punish yourself so failing to live up to your mother’s standards. Every time you disappointed her or she chastised you, you cut yourself. Later it became a habit and a means to punish yourself due to your self hatred.

You knew your dad was an underground hero and you wanted to be like him. You wanted to become a hero and make enough money to create a home/facility for children whose parents didn’t want them or whose parents died. You didn’t want other children to have to suffer like you did. You began training for the entrance exam for UA. Your quirk allows you to look into your opponent’s eyes or make sounds that cause hallucinations and vertigo. However it only works on organic beings so the robots in the entry exam were difficult for you to fight.

Despite gaining a few dozen points from helping others and managing to take down a few robots, you didn’t make the cut for the hero course. You ended up in general studies but continued to train on your own. You eventually roped your classmate Shinso into your training routine to help him and have a training partner. When the sports festival came around, you managed to do pretty well. You even managed to make it into the semifinals of the third round. You lost to Todoroki due to his ice.

Shinso was the only person who knew about your cutting and he helped you break the habit. After your fight, he came to check on you to make sure you weren’t going to hurt yourself. After consoling each other, you both returned to the stands. After the festival, you had packed your bag and were about to leave when Aizawa got in your way. The moment he saw you during the entrance exam, he knew who you were. He still felt an immense amount of guilt for not saving your father. After the festival he asked to sit down and talk to you.

During that time, he introduced himself and told you about his past and what kind of person your father was. He told you about how your father helped him and that he felt it was only right for him to help you. You both talked and Aizawa was surprised to find out that your mother had taken your father off of hospice. He wasn’t made aware that your father died. After your talk, you and Shinso began to train with Aizawa and he eventually found out about your self harm scars and your intent to quit. He got you a therapist and you began to work on healing.

After the attack at the summer camp, UA decided to move the students into the dorms. Despite it not being necessary, Aizawa decided to visit your house to ask your mother to let you go to UA. You had been so hopeful about the dorms. This was your chance to finally get out of the toxic environment that was your home. Your mother had become even more toxic and borderline abusive since you enrolled at UA. During the conversation between Aizawa and your mother, you snapped at her after she blamed Aizawa for your father’s death. You yelled at her telling her that it wasn’t his fault. You shouted saying that living with her was miserable and if your father felt even the slightest bit as miserable as you do then he would probably choose death over having to be near her.

Your mother was stunned. But she quickly recovered and told you that you shouldn’t put words in other people’s mouths. Just because you like to hurt yourself and make yourself ugly with scars doesn’t mean anyone else does. You should be grateful she’s put up with you for so long. Hearing that your mother knew you were cutting and never tried to help you broke something in you. You ran out of the room and that was when Aizawa decided that your mother was unfit to care for you and he became your temporary guardian. After you packed what little you had, you left with Aizawa. As he drove, he kept looking back at you in the mirror and saw just how broken that whole situation had left you.

He saw how little you had and decided to drive to the mall to help you get some decorations for your dorm. Despite your constant pleas and reassurances that you were fine, your body language said otherwise. Despite your reluctance to let Aizawa buy you anything, you left the mall with a couple posters, some new clothes, string lights, glow in the dark stars, new stationary, snacks and few other things. When you got to UA, Aizawa helped you bring everything to your dorm and left. After you and Shinso helped set up each other’s dorm rooms, you left to go find Aizawa.

That night, you found Aizawa and gave him a hug. You buried your face in his chest as you tried not to cry. You told him how you don’t blame him for what happened and he shouldn’t either. And that wether or not he likes it, you view him as a father figure. You thanked him profusely for helping you out even if he only did it out of guilt. He changed your life and you’ll always be grateful to him for that. He wrapped his arms around you and told you you were welcome. He let you cry on him until you were done. He walked you back to your dorm and told you that he still wasn’t going to go easy on you during training. You smiled and bid him goodnight before heading inside. Aizawa smiled to himself as he looked up at the night sky, promising his old mentor that he would guide you until you were ready to do things yourself. Just as his mentor did for him, he would do for you and more.

[vigilante24ish]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1328

Chapter 44:

The vine around your neck kept pulling you away, the struggle to fight it without your magic proving worthless, and yet you kept trying.

Hearing Agatha's screams of pain as she also tried to fight off Rio was driving you mad, but as the sun covered the moon fully, you were left powerless to act.

Eventually, the vine came to a halt, your head pressed against the wooden fence separating Agatha's House from the house right next to it.

Suddenly, more vines spread from the ground; wrapping around your wrists and your ankles, keeping you in an almost crucified position.

You tried to pull them again, and you had to bite your lip, feeling the pain coming from the thorns protruding from the green plants. They were never meant to kill you, just harm you enough when you tried to fight them.

The position alone did not help. A position you had once found excitement now only brought fear. That fear was not for you, though.

It was for Agatha.

It was the fear that you would once again fail to help her. The fear that Rio would harm her until Agatha gave in... the fear that you would be a spectator to this sadistic show of power between the two former lovers.

As if your desperation and need for help had been manifested by the universe, you felt a tingling sensation of magic approaching; for a moment, you wondered if the newcomer was an ally or a foe

You looked up, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of Billy in full costume, crown, and power; flying towards you.

All questions about how he got control over them or how he found you got thrown out of the window, hope flattering within your chest; a proof that you could somehow still win this.

"Billy!" You called him out, a tired smile forming.

"Y/N," he exclaimed as he stopped levitating, noticing you trapped by the vines.

Before he could question why you were trapped and not fighting, you interrupted him.

"Help, Agatha!" You shouted at him above the winds. He tried to argue, hesitating, but once again, you did not leave him. "I will be fine! Help her!"

With hesitation, he nodded and flew towards Agatha; readying his powers to blast Rio away from the magicless witch.

The fact that he was now present was a good thing, but it did little to ease worry growing inside of you. No matter how powerful he truly was, he was still a child; untrained.

And Rio... she was an undefeated force, one that could never truly die.

You wanted to help, and so you tried to fight the vines holding you hostage once again. The thorns dug deep into your skin, drawing blood, and yet you used that pain to fuel your attempts.

Defeat was slowly crawling in, and you were so close to giving up, feeling helpless. As you did that you barely noticed, the eclipse was over, and slowly, the first rate of moonlight had started to appear.

'Please,' you begged into your mind. 'Please help me save them'.

You continued mentally praying, hoping whatever ethereal power was out there would feel pity for you.

In that moment of helplessness, you could help but think back to all those years... to en era when you never felt that way.

The first time was back in Salem. You were a child no older than six years old, and yet your powers could surpass the powers of most witches. When you were a child , you never fet helpless, and you always took pride in what you could do.

Then they started criticising you, warning you that you were out of control. They started putting fear in your mind, telling you that without some self awareness, you would harm someone.

And when you actually did harm someone, when you actually started to hold back; you started to forget just how powerful truly were.

Only one person, back then, had tried to change that... Agatha.

You were both teenagers, sitting under a weeping willow. Side by side, you rested your head on her shoulder; fingers interlocked.

In your free hand, you held a flower you had plucked on your way to meet her, and you spun it around between your thumb and index finger.

That day was her birthday, and you had chosen to meet, only for you to confess to Agatha how you felt lately; that growing fear that you would truly harm someone with your powers.

Evanora's pressure on you, to harm and end Agatha,had definitely not helped ease your worries or feel better bout yourself... and your powers.

"You shouldn't listen to them,"she commented as her thumb caressed your skin."You shouldn't hold back for anyone."

"And what if i harm someone?" You looked at her. "What if I harm you?"

Agatha pecked your nose. The now 18 year old always chose to peck you there when younger and you were nervous. Even though, now, you were almost 16, she bever stopped.

"I trust you. I know you never would, no matter how powerful you become."

How many times did Agatha support you? Did she keep telling you to stop holding back? To stop being afraid?

How many times did Rio hold a similar stance?

"You shouldn't be afraid of your powers," she had commented one day after sering you hesitating casting a spel.

"I am not afraid, I am self-aware. There is a difference," you had argued, even though you did not believe it yourself.

"Right, and I don't show up where corpses are." She sat behind you, her longer legs trapping you within them as they spread on each side of you. "You are different than the rest, so why deny yourself that?" Her hands were placed above yours, magic subconsciously reacting; causing an exciting sense of thrill and faint pain. "Why hold back?"

A new memory flashed into your minds, the voice of a woman you did not expect to bring up in such a dire situation.

"Stop holding back. Face your fear."

Lilia had told you those words just before she left you go into the iron maiden. She could have told you anything else, knowing you would never mert again and yet... she chose those words because she knew something more, she had seen it.

The sound of fighting was faintly reaching your ears, reminding you that while you were laying there; contemplating about your life... Agatha and Billy were fighting for theirs.

You should have been there, helping them. You should be by Agatha's side as you promised, do something different compared to all those times you didn't.

And then it hit you.

This was a trial, and it was your trial.

All those times you have chosen to step back, to hold back your power... you potential , your love for Agatha.

There was only one way to end this, to truly honour your promise and be by her side...

And so you took a deep breath, concentrating as you felt the weak rays of moonlight upon your skin. You concentrate harder than ever, digging deep into your magic core. You tried to remember the power you always had, but you were always afraid of it.

Eyes close tightly during your attempt, a tear escaping and rolling on your cheek as you went deeper... and deeper.

The right hand, the very same one branded with the moonmark, wrapped around the vine holding it trapped and with one last effort you've started to summon on your magic in your hand; using it to burn the very same vine holding you hostage.

As you felt your power spreading across your body, burning your restraints... you didn't celebrate in triumph or clapped in joy.

Instead, you fought harder and harder to release it, barely registering the white light engulfing your body, giving you a boost you had never felt before as you finally.

Stopped. Holding. Back.

Chapter 45

[acesw]

Disabled Characters in Reverse: 1999 - Part 2

Welcome to part 2 of this list of disabled characters in Reverse: 1999, and I do want to say that this list is quite interesting because there's few characters mentioned here. This post will cover the characters with psychological disabilities.

Yet, there's so much complexities to them, and their stories that reflect their mental states are so well-done. I incredibly appreciate these characters for how their characters are written.

Additionally, some of the characters here were not listed on twitter, but I decided to put them here because I realized that there are more insanely traumatized characters than I thought. Let's get started.

C-PTSD and related conditions: Mesmer Jr., Mondlicht, Pavia, Isolde, Kakania, Lopera

Mesmer Jr.’s character has heavily implied throughout the main story and her own to have OCD as a result of the traumatic experiences she had gone through from her field of work and her family’s history in it. She identifies that she has “incurable” anxiety, which causes her to think differently about arcanists and act a little irrationally from our own perspective. This anxiety results in double checking everything and having a slightly intensive routine.

This routine is created as a means to maintain herself and her own sanity, but an imbalance or interruption can greatly upset her. As a result, she has conflicting ideals, experiences hallucinations and panic attacks, has suicidal thoughts, and actively inflicts self harm as a means to cope with her anxiety. However, she’s calmer and at peace with herself when she’s left alone in a quieter and clean space, away from others, and where nature is heard more than constant buzzing.

Mondlicht particularly experiences secondhand trauma because of her grandmother’s stories about the bloody war between the huntresses and the wolves. She eventually dons the cape and goes out to hunt for wolves on her own. She then experiences her own traumas from it, eventually becoming an incredibly hypervigilant child. She’s often incredibly paranoid of the presence of wolves that she will immediately shoot at the sight of one, whether or not they’re real.

Pavia grew up isolated and alone to the point of his arcane skill awakening through it, and his wolves became a manifest of his own personal comfort from the trauma he experienced. He was isolated until possibly his teenage years, and breaking out placed him on a path of mainly bloodshed. Pavia has very little trust in the people around him and is insistent in working independently from others. He often also pushes everyone away from him as he struggles to form proper emotional connections to others.

Isolde is an incredibly complex character and I personally think that the story’s display of her mental well-being has been shown so well that I firmly believe that it’s better to see it for yourself. However, I’ll try to explain as much as possible anyway.

We find that Isolde’s arcane skill places a great amount of psychological strain among the women of the Dittersdorfs, and Isolde in particular had gone through a lot of traumatic events since childhood and is still being affected by her arcane skill even up to today. She experiences heavy hallucinations and neurological episodes, and has a tendency to dissociate due to her trauma.

Doctors in her era linked her and her family’s struggles with the “wandering womb” and described them as an incurable “hysteria,” but these have modern equivalents today. From @sleeplesssmoll’s analysis here, (which I highly recommend reading to further understand) the modern terms to describe parts of Isolde’s “hysteria” are: Somatic Symptom Disorder, Dissociative Disorder, and Conversion disorder.

Kakania suffered from C-PTSD after the events of Chapters 6-7 as shown in her character story. The overall experience shattered her in entirety, leaving her emotionally numb and lost. She’s been found to subconsciously self-harm and dissociate, and she has frequent flashbacks and hallucinations. Luckily, though, she underwent proper therapy provided by the Foundation, which at the very least allowed her to recover over the course of months. Yet, there’s still this mix of ache and numbness that simply describes how deeply affected she was by what happened.

Much like the Kakania, Lopera showcases very clear signs of C-PTSD and clinical depression after everything she had gone through during her childhood and the events after Chapter 8. This is greatly expressed in her vendetta against betrayal and dishonesty, and she has had frequent mental breakdowns after the events of Tristes Tropiques. Unlike Kakania, though, she feels this more deeply and has no support system to rely on.

She expresses such a profound numbness and attachment to her trauma and fears of betrayal, and it's heartbreaking considering that she is only still a child. We may see more in her character story, which I look forward to in the latter half of 2.2.

Non PTSD-Related characters

Baby Blue - Alice in Wonderland syndrome (Dysmetropsia)

It’s no secret that Baby Blue has Alice in Wonderland syndrome, or in other words dysmetropsia. This affects her perception of reality and her ability to recall, but this in turn makes her arcane abilities all the more powerful.

As a result, she doesn’t realize that she’s growing up, yet it seems she doesn’t mind that much. This doesn’t seem to affect her physically either; In fact, it has a heavy influence on how she displays her arcane skills.

Poltergeist - Social Anxiety

Poltergeist has been known to be anxious in social settings which conflicts with her people-pleasing tendencies. She’s also insecure about herself which adds up to her not wanting to be directly perceived. At the same time, she doesn’t like being left alone as a result of having been ignored and forgotten post mortem. Poltergeist is also elaborate (i.e. not wanting to be looked at for too long) yet awkward at the same time when communicating with them.

However, I’m not sure how to describe Poltergeist’s case quite well, but the idea of her having social anxiety resonates greatly in my mind, so it can be treated as a partial headcanon.

Lorelei - Unnamed psychosis-related disorder

Lorelei suffers from strong visual and auditory hallucinations that seems to have worsened over the course of her life. This “madness” had led her to often hurting herself and others, which greatly stressed her parents.

She also suffered trauma from people committing suicide on the Rhine, but it was repressed by her religiousness and her parents’ intervention. To avoid hurting herself and others again, her parents suited her in a straitjacket; she often insisted on securing the straps in them to maintain the straitjacket’s purpose.

Honorable Mentions

PTSD - Click, Lilya

*I just want to clarify that PTSD is insanely common among the characters in this game, so I only added those who very prominently appear in their character.

Being a victim of war, Click has symptoms that indicate amnesia and PTSD from WWII, as he’s still reminded of things such as landmines and air raids. He also struggles to recollect some memories such as how he died and his fear of those landmines.

As a child soldier, Lilya has been constantly exposed to war and bloodshed, especially in her firsthand experiences in the Juhalerat mission.  She has been found mostly drinking, reminiscent of how soldiers tend to drink to forget. (credited from: @/cherilaydi on twt)

Tuesday - ASPD (credited from: @sachisei here on tumblr)

Tuesday is interesting in that she lacks a sense of morals and empathy, and is incredibly desensitized to the social environment around her. (i.e. the motel) While she's not aggressive and even seems relatively gentle, she feels little to no guilt in harming and manipulating others, gaining satisfaction and pleasure from fear. She's incredibly fascinated as to how others approach it too, and would do anything to see its demonstration.

It's likely that these stem from the trauma of her childhood and adolescent years, but she has acted this way for a while now. (given one of her voicelines + her character story) She particularly stands out among other characters as someone who actively harms for her own pleasure. While ASPD is not typically considered a disability, it does hinder Tuesday's daily life and ability to empathize with others, so I think it deserves to be mentioned here.

Notes

I found it insane that there are a lot more heavily traumatized characters than I anticipated, and they all need hugs. For now though, you will find the other two lists down here.

Physically Disabled Characters

Neurodivergent Characters

Thank you!

[m3vl0vesu]

ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪs ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇsᴏᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜɴɢᴇʀ sɪsᴛᴇʀ.

A/N: Hiii!! I wil make a masterlist soon I just have some stuff rn, the fanfic writer curse is real chat...anyways! Hope you enjoy, constructive criticism is always welcome (just be nice) :D. This is a WIP, think of it as a blurb, the TW is for what you might see, this is very light. Tw: underage drinking, self harm, SA, you've been warned <3

ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪs ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇsᴏᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜɴɢᴇʀ sɪsᴛᴇʀ.

That's what newest headline read, it was no longer up anymore of course. Alfred just about managed to get all the newspapers wiped, with the help of Bruce of course.

In all honesty it was true, the youngest Wayne was troublesome. Before Brucei Wayne there was you, a teenage drunken mess. Not that anyone caught on the drunken part. In Gotham, drinking at fifteen really wasn't a big deal. The police had better things to worry about, it's what you loved and hated about this place. Plus, a bit of money and maybe some grade A bimbo acting you get off scratch free, and not a word of it catches wind to your brother.

Bruce on the other hand, sure he may not know exactly what's happening to his younger sister but he knows it's not just a 'rebellious phase' as the media puts it. Sure it could be teenage hormones, or it could be something much worse. In his eyes you started pulling away from him, even from Alfred. And sure Bruce could be more active in his sisters life but as he puts it, he's busy. In his eyes you’d spend time after school hanging out with kids he had had never seen you speak to, you'd never even mention these 'friends'. He felt like his innocent sister was slipping through his fingers, the threads between you two fraying and thinning as time passes. He wanted it to stop.

He's seen the way the media was portraying his baby sister, it didn't sit right with him. But not a word of complaint was uttered, it didn't seem to be affecting you. Little did he know that you were trapped in prisons the system, the media had created, and when he knows it'll be too late. That's when he appears, the push he needed to become the dark knight, Gotham's very own hero. Based of the youngest Wayne's favourite animal, the bat.

[skulldetergent]

ghost scar headcanons (CW for his backstory)

no tattoo/no text version & explanation under the cut

CW⚠️ discussion of child abuse, torture, self harm & sa

since i headcanon ghost to have quite a few scars, i decided to make a "character sheet" or "scar map" to keep my art more consistent.

in the drawing, the scars are already labeled and i think pretty self-explanatory, but i will go into some more detail and elaborate on my headcanons. again, please read the content warning. i did my best at trying to discuss the following in a sensitive way, but it may be upsetting to read nonetheless.

let's begin with the ones that say "mission". i imagined they are just random scars he sustained during his service over the years, like gunshot scars or knife slashes from close combat.

but others like "roba's hook", the autopsy scar, tally marks, the whip scars and his glasgow smile are from during the time where he was captured and tortured. i headcanon reboot ghost to have pretty much the same backstory as OG ghost, with some slight differences and additions of my own.

things like the glasgow smile or tally marks are made up by me, and others like the being hanged from his ribs actually happened (comics). ghost was also canonically sexually assaulted multiple times, which gave me the idea of said tally marks to emphasise how cruel his captors were.

correct me if i'm wrong, but in the comics ghost doesn't have any scars after being tortured, any cuts shown on his body just cease to exist a few panels later. but considering what he was put through, i do think that there would be permanent scarring.

now, it's also canon that ghost was abused by his father in ways like him bringing large animals such as snakes in his room to scare him, or having him watch a woman die from OD, which made me consider what the full extent of his terrible father's "parenting" must've looked like.

ghost has a small, almost faded scar under his eye, he was too young to remember how he got it, only finding out when his mother told him. his father was being neglectful when he was supposed to watch him, and simon injured himself while wandering around.

now, it is unclear in the comics if mr. riley's abuse was purely psychological, or if it extended to physical as well (again, correct me if i'm wrong). but i didn't find it unrealistic to have the latter be the case, which is why simon has cigarette burn scars on his neck and legs. his father found it amusing under the guise of "making him a man" and seeing how long little simon could take it before he would start crying. nowadays the burns are barely visible.

and lastly, the self harm scars covered up by the tattoo sleeve on his left arm. considering what simon had to go through at an early age, it is not unlikely that he might have resorted to SH as a teenager. and later, he got the tattoo as a reminder to himself that those days are his past and not his present.

i really read the comics and said:

[marsdql]

Skating on thin ice

♡ 𝒥 — [ 양정원 ] ⊹₊⟡⋆ jungwon ── .✦ f!reader ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ . . . 𝒲𝒸 2.1𝒦

──── eyes full of 𝓆𝓊ℯ𝓈𝓉𝒾ℴ𝓃𝓈, we walk past eachother, pretending there’s no 𝒸ℴ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝒸𝓉𝒾ℴ𝓃 . . . { a lot of teasing, frenemies to lovers, fluff, crack, low self esteem, highschool drama, romance, bullying, self doubt, light angst? }

────୨ৎ────

“Y/n, I swear if I have to ask you to finish your homework once more, your phone will be on the side of the road!” Your mother yelled from across the kitchen.

Highschool has been on your back this year, everything becoming more and more difficult as the days fly by. You were never a math girl—science, sure. But math? Never. Definitely your worst subject. Nothing really ever made sense, well sometimes it did, but only in budget related stuff—of course you were only good in budgeting, shopping addict.

To make things better—Yang Jungwon, a boy who transferred just a year ago, would always pick on you for your math grades each time he’d see your note from the corner of his nosey eye. If you knew better, you’d make fun of him too—his science grade was trashy, while yours were always colourful.

He never meant any harm from it, he only does it because of the time you humiliated him in PE class when you got higher than him in the beep test, infront of all of his friends who were watching from outside your gym class. Although, your sensitive self cannot handle any insults towards your grades—especially when you’re trying all you’ve got—and still getting so low.

“Another 5? Comon now y/nnie, we’re IB students! You shouldn’t be getting this low now… didn’t you want to become a doctor?” Jungwon whispered in your ear from behind. You quickly yanked his head from your shoulder, making him jump back into place onto his seat behind you. ‘Do you ever get tired of making fun of me? Go focus on your own things.’ ‘I can’t focus on my own things when you have too many flaws…’ he said as he gave you a wink and plopped a lolly into his mouth.

As you were walking to the bus to go home, you were stopped again—by jungwon. “What do you want now, jungwon?” You said in an annoyed tone. “Hey, what’s with the attitude… I’m not here to say anything mean, unfortunately. My friend Sunghoon told me to ask you if you did ice skating, he said he saw your instagram profile and you had something about it in your bio” You were obsessed with figure skating, you claimed that you knew how to skate—when in reality, you fell the last time you tried it and now too scared to try it again. Yet, you still had it in your bio and made it seem as if you were a skater…

As a child, you didn’t do much sports like most people. You wanted to do taekwondo—too boyish for your parents. You wanted to do basketball—lost passion for it after 4th grade. You did gymnastics/dance—wasn’t as flexible as your other friends and got discouraged, slowly growing out of it. Now as a teenager, you felt the need to know a sport, but you knew that it’s only good to be actually amazing at a sport if you started it when you were young.

You went to a sports school and you were one of the only ones who never tried out for anything, too scared of people being better than you because of them doing the sports from a young age. —— “Y/n? Hello? Are you even listening to me? You loser… why are you zoning out at this time? Don’t make me scare you out of it!” Yelped the boy right next to you. “No! Okay? Get out of my face jungwon! I don’t know what you’re saying but whatever it is, no!” You forgot what he even said—too lost in thought to care. It was your stop so you had to hop off anyway.

Days pass by, it’s depressing during winter, nothing to do, especially on Christmas break. Suddenly, a loud, aggressive knock on your door catches your attention. Coming from behind it, “y/n! Y/n! Comon! I know you’re there, I can hear your grumpy sighs from here!”

As you opened the door, you were welcomed by his huge smile—jungwon’s. “Now, what on Earth are you doing here? Is it to tell my mom that-“ as you were about to finish your sentence, you spot your mom and another woman—who seems to be jungwon’s mother—walk from the driveway to your front door.

“Y/n, please welcome our guests with respect and go get the kettle ready. Now miss Yang, what do you prefer? Tea or coffee?” Said your mother before you were even able to process what was happening.

Jungwon stared at you with the biggest grin on his face—as if he planned this from the start. He stayed behind you in your house as you walked towards your kitchen, being the good daughter you are and doing what your mother telling you to do.

“Okay, so, care to tell me what you’re doing here? Did you convince your mother to become friends with mine so that you could annoy me in my own house aswell?” You asked him, avoiding eye contact at all costs—because the last thing you needed, was to add something on his list of “things to hate on y/n”.

As you turned on the kettle, filling it up with water, he responded with a more serious tone than usual “no seriously this time, they saw eachother at the supermarket near our school and recognized eachother from social media.. I didn’t believe it either when I saw my mom pull into your drive way.” How did he even know it was your house.. “and don’t ask me how I know it’s your house, you practically run off the bus and make it to your door before it can even driving.”

As Jungwon sat at the kitchen table, his usual smirk returned. “Anyway, back to the real question. Do you ice skate or not? Sunghoon won’t stop bugging me about it.”

You sighed, suddenly regretting every choice that led to you putting “figure skater enthusiast” in your Instagram bio. Avoiding his gaze, you muttered, “No, I don’t actually ice skate.”

Jungwon’s eyebrows shot up, his teasing grin reappearing. “Wait—what? But your bio—”

“I know, okay?” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively. “I just… I like watching figure skating, and I wanted to seem interesting, okay? People who are good at sports always seem so… cool. And I’m not good at anything.”

His grin faded, replaced by an unusually soft expression. “Hey, don’t say that. You’re good at plenty of things.”

You scoffed. “Name one.”

He leaned back, pretending to think. “Well, for starters, you’re great at making me laugh. Even when you’re mad. And you crushed me in that beep test, remember?”

“That doesn’t count,” you muttered, though your lips twitched upward. “I’m still not good at sports. Or anything else, really.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes. “Stop putting yourself down, y/n. You’re good at science, better than I’ll ever be. And honestly? Half the school’s scared of your sarcastic comebacks. That’s a skill.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Right. Sarcasm queen—what a talent.”

“Hey, it’s better than lying in your Instagram bio,” he shot back, smirking again. “But seriously, if you want to learn to ice skate, I can ask Sunghoon to help. He’s a pro.”

Your face flushed. “No way. That’s way too embarrassing.”

Jungwon leaned closer, a teasing glint in his eye. “What, afraid he’ll fall for you when he sees how graceful you are on the ice?”

“Shut up, Jungwon!” you said, shoving his shoulder, though you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face.

“Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But for the record, you don’t have to be good at sports to be cool. And you definitely don’t need a fake bio to impress anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sincerity. “Thanks, Jungwon.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, popping another lolly into his mouth. “Just don’t expect me to stop teasing you anytime soon. That’s what friends are for.”

Friends? The word lingered in your mind, leaving a strange warmth in its wake. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t so bad after all.

As the days went on, Jungwon started acting… differently. It wasn’t immediate, but you noticed. The sharp teasing comments he usually threw your way softened, replaced by subtle jokes that didn’t sting as much. He even started helping you with your math homework after class, though he made it clear it was only because he “couldn’t stand watching you struggle so much.”

You weren’t sure what to make of it. Was this some elaborate scheme to catch you off guard? Or had he genuinely decided to be nice? Either way, you couldn’t help but feel a little flustered by how much time he suddenly spent around you.

It was late on a snowy Thursday afternoon when it happened. You were sitting on a bench outside the school, waiting for the bus. The air was crisp, your breath visible as you tucked your hands into your coat pockets. Jungwon appeared out of nowhere, plopping down next to you, his usual lolly in his mouth.

“Waiting for the bus again? You know, one day you’re going to freeze to death out here,” he said, nudging you with his elbow.

“Thanks for the concern,” you replied dryly, though you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment. “You look tired.”

“Wow, such a compliment,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Long day, that’s all.”

“Bet you’re overthinking something again,” he said casually, leaning back on the bench.

You hesitated. “Maybe. You’re being weirdly nice lately, and I don’t know why. It’s kind of throwing me off.”

Jungwon glanced at you, his expression unreadable for once. “Weirdly nice? Wow, thanks. I didn’t realize I was such a villain before.”

“You kind of were,” you teased, though your voice was quieter this time. “But seriously. Why are you being… like this? Did you get bored of making fun of me or something?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re so dense sometimes, y/n.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, frowning.

He turned to face you fully, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something softer—something you couldn’t quite place. “It means… maybe I just like spending time with you. Maybe I like seeing that little smile you try to hide when you think I’m being funny. And maybe I realized I didn’t want you to think I only know how to annoy you.”

Your heart stuttered. For a second, you forgot how to breathe. “Jungwon… what are you saying?”

He sighed, his breath fogging up in the cold air. “I’m saying.. just, never mind—see you later y/n!” were the last thing he said before he left—your bus arriving at the same time.

t . . . b . . . c . . .