#this is the last of the thoughts on the first four chapters

[peepshow321]

TaskRaccoon Premium: Chapter 7

Teaching a Dumb Jock New Tricks

First chapter

Previous chapter

Jason gazed down at the TaskRaccoon app, which was pointing him to a nearby faculty building for his new task - his task to tutor something in Ancient Greek and Classics. It was going to be a breeze he thought to himself and he looked around the familiar quad. The app has thrown him a few curveballs, but he had ended up in a body he could be happy with - handsome, hunky and clever to book.

He entered the faculty building, the TaskRaccoon app pointing him to a small study room on the seventh floor. Noting the queue outside the old rusty lift Jason decided to take the stairs - it was free leg exercise after all he figured. He bounded up the stairs, noting the fuller energy he now seemed to possess and building up a further layer of sweat.

He barrelled into the small study room, seeing that the other student was already there, sat down with textbooks and papers spread across the small desk. The other student was slight and fair, with wispy blonde hair and a thin face framed by rounded glasses. He was dressed in dark chinos, smart brogue shoes, and a crisp Oxford shirt. He was, Jason thought, a classic rich boy prep. Maybe Daddy had got him into college, he was struggling with his classes, and now he needed Jason's help to keep up. Pathetic.

The other student stood up, looking at Jason with a mix of bemusement and surprise, before sticking his thin hand out. "Hi, I'm Simon. Thanks for coming. And you are?" Jason took Simon's hand boisterously, shaking it firmly to show Simon who was boss. "Hey man, I'm Jason. Friends call me Jace though." A hint of displeasure flicked across Simon's face as he made contact with Jason's sweaty palm, but he recovered quickly.

"Well, Jason" Simon continued, notably refusing to call him Jace, "thanks for agreeing to this. I really need the extra credit." Jace sat down, his legs spread extra wide. Jace noted with a grin the bulge in his sweatpants. "I'll be honest", Simon continued, "I was quite surprised when you offered to help me out. I don't think I've ever seen you in our lectures." Jace laughed - he couldn't exactly tell Simon the truth, that he had in fact graduated last year, top of the class, when he had been Josh. "Yeh man, I guess not. I keep myself pretty busy." Jace caught Simon looking distastefully at his sweaty body and gym clothes, and heard Simon mutter "yeh, busy, I can imagine."

Jace started rocking casually in his chair. He was already, he could tell, really bored of this Simon guy. He was being a buzzkill, and was judging Jace for the way that he dressed and presented himself. Jace figured that Simon was just jealous. Jealous that while Jace was a hunk and smart enough to lead a tutor session, Simon was a bit dweeby and clearly flunking his classes! Jace figured he would keep this session quick, hit Simon with some of the basics, and then bail. We wanted to explore this new bod. "So Si", Jace started, noting Simon's nostrils flare breifly when Jace gave him a nickname. "Where do you want to start?"

Simon looked relieved to be starting. "How do you feel about starting with some language, maybe some Greek letters? I know that's where a lot of people struggle. Maybe being in a frat will give you an advantage" Simon added snidely, although the joke was over Jace's head. Jace was instead thinking about whether he should join a frat. Maybe this body was already in one. Fraternity life wasn't something he had ever been interested in as Josh - he had always thought of them as boorish and a waste of time - but Jace realised now that that was a stupid point of view. He could live and hang out with other guys who worked out and played sports whilst also studying to be top of the class. Also, better access to girls - it was mad that he had been in four hot bodies and still hadn't gotten off with anyone! Why had he been such a prude before? He nodded to Simon's suggestion, thinking it would be a cakewalk. He aced his language exams when he was a student and now he was pretty sure he was of Greek descent. Teaching this dweeb was gonna be the easiest money he ever made.

Simon pulled out a thin workbook and paused. "Did you.. did you bring any paper or pens?" Jace just laughed. "Sorry my man, came straight from the gym", Jace responded, flexing a bicep as he did so. Simon looked unimpressed, and his patience was wearing thin. He passed Jace the workbook, and said "Ok, well, look at these letters and their me their English equivalent."

Jace thought that was a pretty lazy way for Simon to learn, to have Jace basically do his homework for him, but at least it wasn't complicated. Confidently he took the workbook to look at the Greek letters and ... blank. Nothing came to mind. He tried to refocus - he must have been more tired than he thought - but he continued to draw a blank. "Eh, sorry", he laughed nervously. "I definitely know this stuff." He had studied these letters in freshman year and he knew he had aced the language exam, but when he tried to reach back into his memories, they were hazy and unfocused. Why the fuck couldn't he remember this, this was basic stuff.

After a few minutes, Simon said "don't worry, some people struggle with the basics. That's why the professor asked me to help tutor some of the... struggling students." Jace looked up at Simon with a confused look on his face. What had Simon said? That Simon was tutoring him? That wasn't right, was it? Jace blinked - it was like his brain was always still catching up with him. "Eh, no man. I agreed to tutor you."

Simon laughed, not unkindly, before realising that Jace wasn't joking. "Oh, you're being serious" Simon said awkwardly. "Erm, well, I'm about to graduate top of the class so I don't think I need tutoring. And, no offence, but are you sure you've got the grades to be a tutor?" It dawned on Jace that Simon had basically called him dumb. He wasn't dumb, he had come top of the class! But when he looked down again at the worksheets, his mind was completely blank - the Greek letters meant absolutely nothing to him. Had the app done something? And if it was going to make him a tutor, why would it make him forget his knowledge about Greek letters?

He thought about the task he had agreed to - "Looking for a student to tutor History and Classics asap!" - and, slowly, it dawned on him. The task wasn't for him to be a tutor, but for him to be a student receiving tutoring. "Oh fuck", he said out loud. The app wasn't going to turn him into some top of the class nerd like he should be, but into someone who needed tutoring, who needed help. Someone who was struggling with his classes. The app had created the perfect struggling student. It has made him dumb.

Jace now realised that that feeling in his head - that hazy feeling that caused his thoughts to feel thick - wasn't because he was tired. His difficulty working out his age when he looked at his new ID, his inability to remember his old classes, even some of the things he had been saying and ways he had been acting. He wasn't the academic student he had been once and had tried to get back to but some... dumb jock stereotype. The driver had said he didn't have time to study and Jace had said he had a scholarship - the app just made those facts real. He was a jock, a wrestler only at school because of his prowess on the mat and not for his smarts. He didn't have any smarts. And that persona trickled down to every facet of his new body - the muscles, the clothes, the hair, the smell, the nicknames.

Simon could tell that Jace was getting worked up. "Hey man, it's okay, everyone's gotta start somewhere. Even if you have left it pretty late... Look - let's start with something more basic ok?" Simon pulls out another workbook and Jace cringes as he sees the title - Greek for Beginners! It almost looked like a book for teens, not a college student. The book had English translations to help but, by this point, Jace just couldn't concentrate. He tried to follow the words with his finger to help him concentrate, but couldn't get over how thick and hairy it was. He tried to voice the words out loud, but kept being surprised by the deep timber that he spoke with. The room was getting hot, his hair was itching everywhere, and he couldn't stop thinking about how badly he smelt. Everything he said or did just sounded stupid. It was hopeless.

Jace had lost track of how of time had passed, and was startled when Simon's album went. "Oh crap", Simon went. "I'm really sorry - I've got a lecture I totally forgot about. Sorry, I know this is right in the middle of our session. How about you keep that worksheet and we'll pick up the second half soon? Sorry to have to bail like this!" Simon spoke in a whirlwind and Jace had a hard time keeping up. Was the session over? "I'll be in touch" Simon added as a parting comment before dashing away.

Jace sat back, a bit thunderstruck by what had happened. He felt muddled, but at least now the task was over. He was on campus, so there must be loads of people needing help with something. He just needed to pick something that kept him young but maybe got some of his smarts back as well - something that wouldn't leave him as some thicko jock stereotype.

He booted up the app, but it took him back to the task screen - it was greyed out, covered in "TASK ONGOING" in block capital letters. He tried to go back to the home screen or to the task list but all he got was a prompt saying "You cannot select a new task until the existing task is complete." It took Jace a while to work it out, but he realised that with Simon bailing halfway through their session, the tutoring he had signed up to wasn't over. He realised that until Simon finished the session, he was stuck like this.

He saw on the app that there was an option to cancel, but he noted with fear the warning in large letters - "Abandoning a task while ongoing will lead to penalties." What penalties? He had no idea what the app could do? Jace started descending the stairs of the faculty, emerging back to the campus quad. He didn't even have Simon's number, so unless Simon reached out... he was stuck. He looked around the campus. Did he try and follow Simon to his class and force him to finish the task? Did he find out wherever Jace lived and wait? Or did he bite the bullet, and abandon the task and accept the penalties. His head swam.

"What the fuck do I do now?"

To be continued

[matt-murdockk]

Gold Rush— Chapter 1

series masterlist | fluff, not exactly angst, but there's an emotional heart-to-heart

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

words: 3.1k

summary: Hotch has you and Spencer pose as college students for a particularly riveting case. Spencer confides in you about his own college experience. Morgan and Garcia debate meddling in your lives.

warnings: language, mentions of suicide, canon typical violence, bogus statistics that i made up for the sake of plot

a/n: new spencer series can i get a wahoo; This is the first chapter, it's going to be a slow burn, fluffy, angst, probably suggestive, friends-to-lovers thing, with a definite happy ending because Spencer Walter Reid deserves good things in life. no established timeline yet, but Gideon is still with the team right now.

In all your time at the BAU, one thing you noticed was how surprisingly often you had to take cases involving universities. Something about high-pressure environments like these kept pushing people over the edge. It made sense if college was still as brutal as you remembered; no wonder people kept losing it as frequently as they did.

"Did you know that over 1,100 college students in the U.S. die by suicide each year? And nearly one in four students meet the criteria for a diagnosable mental health condition, but only about 25% of them seek help. Also, campus crime rates have shown a 7% increase in violent offenses over the last decade— likely due to underfunded mental health services and increased academic stressors."

"That's an extremely depressing statistic, thank you for that, Spencer."

"Emily, I'm just trying to help."

The environment in the jet was tense, to say the least. On top of the fact that the latest victim had been found less than 200 feet from a freshman dorm, with signs of prolonged restraint, the most recent ME report confirmed what they’d all feared: this wasn’t rage. It was ritual. Deliberate. Calculated.

"Alright," Morgan said, flipping through the file, his brow furrowed. "We’ve got four students dead in six weeks. All of them high achievers, all part of the same hyper-competitive academic fellowship program. No signs of struggle. No known enemies. Ligature marks around the wrists and feet indicate that they may have been tortured. Slowly."

The jet was quiet for a beat— just the hum of engines and the occasional rustle of paper.

(Y/n) leaned forward, elbow on her knee, eyes scanning the victimology chart. “All four were juniors. That means they were eligible for summer internships. The kind that come with permanent placement options.”

JJ glanced up from the folder in her lap. “You think this could be connected to competition? Someone trying to eliminate the top contenders?”

“It’s possible,” (Y/n) said, thoughtful. “But if it were just about removing competition, the unsub wouldn’t need to do it this violently. This feels... personal.”

“Good insight,” Hotch said, nodding once. “Keep following that thread.”

From across the aisle, Reid spoke without looking up from the file in his lap. “It’s reminiscent of the 1998 Brecklin University case in Utah. Three students from a competitive honors cohort murdered by a rejected applicant. Same kind of precision. Same fixation on achievement.”

“That guy had a manifesto,” Gideon muttered, not looking up. “Swore the school was rigged against him.”

Emily sighed. “So we’re looking at a potential revenge motive. Someone who thinks they should’ve been in the program?”

“Or someone who was and got cut,” JJ added. “We’ll need to get the list of current fellows and anyone who didn’t make the last cut.”

(Y/n) reached for her tablet, already briefing Garcia. “On it.”

Next to her, Spencer nudged her foot lightly under the table. “Your theory tracks,” he said, voice lower now, just for her. “Most people overlook psychological escalation when there's a logical motive present. You didn’t.”

(Y/n) shrugged. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t spend their weekends with you explaining twelve different types of criminal obsession over lukewarm coffee.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “That was one time.”

She grinned. “It was three.”

Morgan noticed the moment and smirked slightly. “Alright, lovebirds. Focus.”

"That's not— we're not— I, uh," Spencer struggled.

"Wow," replied (Y/n), clutching her imaginary pearls. "And here I was, thinking our love was real. For shame, Dr. Reid. For shame."

Spencer huffed out a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to be visible. He turned slightly, catching her eye across the aisle.

She was already looking at him, one corner of her mouth lifted in that way that meant you’re fine.

He mouthed a quiet, thank you.

(Y/n) winked. Anytime.

——————————————————————————————————

The precinct they landed in was small, boxy, and smelled vaguely of burnt coffee and stale printer ink. A far cry from Quantico, but it would do. JJ and Gideon were already coordinating with local officers, setting up a profile board in the narrow back room that doubled as a break area.

Garcia was on speaker with Derek somewhere in the periphery, her voice tinny through the ancient phone system as she rattled off the initial background checks, with the occasional inappropriate comment that Derek doubled down on with much joy.

Hotch stood at the centre of the chaos, calm as ever. “I want (Y/n) and Reid to go undercover on campus,” he said, flipping through a preliminary security log. “The unsub is targeting students from within. We need eyes and ears close to the victim pool.”

Spencer blinked. “You want us to pose as… students?”

Emily smirked from across the room. “What’s the matter, Reid? Afraid someone’s gonna ask you to shotgun a beer?”

Spencer ignored her. “I just mean— my college experience was… atypical. I was fourteen. I didn’t live on campus. I didn’t attend parties or football games or join any clubs. Well, regular clubs. I— I don’t know how to blend in with normal students.”

“Well,” (Y/n) said, patting him on the back as she passed, “lucky for you, I was a deeply average college student with exactly zero social capital and a very unhealthy caffeine addiction. I’ve got this.”

Spencer gave her a wary look.

(Y/n) grinned. “Seriously. Relax, baby boy. I gotchu.”

Across the room, Morgan let out a low whistle. “You two are gonna blend in just fine.”

Spencer shot Morgan a look, then turned back to her. “I’m not entirely sure how pretending to be eighteen again is going to help us gather meaningful data. For all we know, Morgan would probably make a more convincing student. He can pass for a jock, right?”

She handed him a hoodie someone had fished out from the campus security lost-and-found. “Don’t worry. You’re not here to be meaningful. You’re here to be pretty and mysterious.”

Spencer adjusted his satchel. “I’m fairly certain I can manage mysterious.”

(Y/n) smiled, tilting her head. “Yeah, and the pretty part is, well, already taken care of. Come on, Doctor. Time to infiltrate the youth.”

——————————————————————————————————

The sun was beginning to dip behind the campus library, casting long, golden shadows across the quad as (Y/n) made her way toward the old stone fountain at the centre. It was a popular hangout spot, even now— students milling about with iced coffees, backpacks slung low, laughter bouncing off brick walls. She spotted Spencer instantly.

He stood awkwardly by the fountain, posture too straight, expression too polite, and looking deeply out of place in the zip-up hoodie they’d bullied him into wearing. A group of girls had just passed him— giggling, whispering, one of them very obviously handing him her number on a napkin from the student café.

She bit back a laugh as she walked up.

He looked over and exhaled like her presence alone was a relief.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

(Y/n) sipped her drink. “Made some friends, got a few names from the fellowship director. Cross-referenced their housing, spotted a pattern— he’s been circling the same three dorms. Garcia’s running the utilities and entry logs now.”

Spencer blinked. “You got all that in twenty minutes?”

“I multitask,” she said, handing him a folded notepad. “Also, the campus gossip train is terrifyingly effective. Everyone knows something. Especially if you bring a coffee and look appropriately tired.”

He flipped through the notes, nodding slowly.

"So, how'd it go on your end? You look like you had to sit through someone misquoting Nietzsche for 40 minutes straight."

"Well, let's see. It took me conversations with 4 different people to realise that I was being propositioned, got 6 phone numbers so far, yeah, apparently I give off a sullen, mysterious, lonely English literature professor energy that quote unquote chicks dig, at least 3 people thought I was someone called Scotty and would not listen when I very politely tried to explain to them that I had no idea who this Scotty was, I think someone tried to sell me weed? Yeah, and I stepped on something; I don't even want to find out what it was, I'm just going to burn my shoes when we get home, and I am deeply, utterly, painfully uncomfortable."

(Y/n) stared at him, wide-eyed, then promptly burst out laughing.

It wasn’t delicate. It was full-bodied and genuine— the kind that made her tip forward slightly, hand pressed to her stomach. Spencer looked at her with faux-offense, arms crossed, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway.

“You think this is funny?”

“Oh, hell yes. This is the best day of my life,” she wheezed. “You getting mistaken for Scotty is just hilarious, might I add.”

"You know him, too? Jesus, who's Scotty?"

"Dude, you should so meet Scotty, how do you not know him? He’s a campus legend. Sells weed, gives terrible relationship advice, runs an anonymous poetry zine, and once faked his own death for a sociology project.”

Spencer blinked. “What.”

She shrugged, sipping her drink like it was the most normal thing in the world. “It was performance art.”

“We’ve been here for—” he checked his watch, “—an hour and twelve minutes.”

“Exactly. And you’re already accidentally embodying the student body’s most chaotic icon. You’re killing it.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly reassessing his life choices.

They started walking, cutting through a patch of sun-drenched grass toward the dorms. The chatter of students buzzed around them like white noise— fragments of conversation, laughter, the occasional sound of a Frisbee being caught mid-air.

As they passed a cluster of students seated under a tree, one of them nudged another and nodded toward them.

“See?” the guy said, not even trying to whisper. “Cute couple like that exists, and I’m still getting ghosted by someone named ‘do not pick up.’ There’s no hope, I swear to God.”

Spencer nearly tripped over his own feet.

(Y/n) didn’t miss a beat. “He’s talking about us, by the way.”

Spencer flushed immediately, the tops of his ears turning pink.

“I—uh, should we—?”

She looked over at him with a sly smile. “Should we what? Set the record straight? Clarify to the emotionally devastated college population that we’re not dating?”

“I mean… maybe?”

(Y/n) nudged him with her shoulder. “Relax, Spence. I know you get weird when people tease you.”

“I do not get weird,” he said, entirely too quickly.

“You’re currently red from the neck up.”

“That’s due to sun exposure,” he deadpanned.

She snorted. “Sure. And I’m Miss America.”

They walked a few more paces in comfortable silence before she added, softer this time, “We’re better than any couple here, anyway.”

He turned to look at her, brow furrowing just slightly. “We are?”

She met his gaze without hesitation. “Of course we are. We’re best friends.”

And that— somehow— made his shoulders drop, just a little. The tension melted into something else. Something warm.

He smiled, quiet and real. “Yeah. We are.”

(Y/n) nodded, bumping her hand lightly against his. “Come on, pretty boy. Let’s go see if Scotty’s real or just a campus cryptid.”

Spencer followed, still smiling. And just like that, the blush didn’t feel like embarrassment anymore.

——————————————————————————————————

After a particularly long day on campus and a debriefing at the station, the team was done for the day, back at their hotel rooms, some fast asleep, and some wide awake.

The hotel vending machine made a mechanical whir before it spat out a slightly dented packet of peanut M&Ms. Spencer retrieved it with a sigh and didn’t even bother opening it. He just stood there in the dim hallway, bathed in the soft flicker of an overhead light, letting the quiet settle around him.

He hadn’t been able to sleep.

He rarely could, after days like this.

So when he heard soft footsteps padding across the carpet, he didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Can’t sleep?” (Y/n)’s voice was quiet, warm. Like she already knew the answer.

Spencer shook his head. “Didn’t even try.”

“Same.”

She joined him at the vending machine, arms crossing over her chest, hair pulled up and messy like she hadn’t really meant to be seen. It made him smile, faintly. They walked in unspoken agreement to the little lounge area in the corner of the lobby, two mismatched armchairs and a table that had definitely seen better days.

“You know, I used to dream about going to college,” he said suddenly. “Not the academic part. Knew that was always going to be easy or at least manageable for me. But the rest of it. The normal part. Living on campus. Making friends. Going to class. Meeting people who liked the same things I did.”

She turned to look at him, but didn’t interrupt.

“I thought it would be like starting over,” he said. “School was not a particularly pleasant time, so I thought maybe in college, I’d finally belong somewhere. That I’d find my people, you know?”

He gave a soft, humorless laugh.

“I was maybe fourteen when I started at Caltech,” he said. “I lived alone in a rented apartment two miles from campus. My mom called every night, sometimes crying. I didn’t know how to help her. I didn’t know how to help me. I used to walk through the dorms just to hear other people’s voices. I’d sit in the library until it closed so I wouldn’t have to go home to silence.”

Her heart cracked a little.

“I had classmates,” he said. “Brilliant ones. Talented. Older. But I didn’t have friends. Not really. No one ever invited me out or sat next to me unless it was for group work. Most of the time they just stared. Sometimes they laughed.”

He looked down at the packet in his hands.

“I stopped hoping for a normal life around that time. Just told myself that some people don’t get it. That I wasn’t… built for it. That I didn't deserve it, you know?”

She didn’t know what to say, not at first. Her throat was tight.

“But today,” he said softly, “walking around with you— pretending, laughing, just… being— I felt something I haven’t felt since I was a kid. I felt like I could’ve had that life. I could’ve belonged. And maybe the reason I didn’t wasn’t because I was broken or unworthy. Maybe I just hadn’t met you yet.”

Tears prickled at the backs of her eyes before she could stop them.

“Jesus, Spencer,” she whispered. “You absolute menace. You’re gonna make me cry in a Red Roof Inn lobby.”

He smiled, small and tired. “Sorry.”

She nudged his knee with hers. “Don’t be. I’m really glad I know you. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” he said quietly. “And I’m really glad I know you too.”

There was a soft sniff from behind a fake potted plant.

They both turned.

Morgan stood frozen mid-sip with a bag of Skittles in hand, blinking like he’d just stepped on an emotional landmine.

“I— yeah, I’m just gonna—” he gestured vaguely behind him. “No, no, I’m fine. Just… allergies. In my soul.”

He ducked away before either of them could call him out.

(Y/n) turned back to Spencer, her voice a whisper now.

“If we’d been in college together… I think we'd still have been best friends.”

His hand found hers under the table.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

——————————————————————————————————

The unsub didn’t wait.

By the time they pieced together the access logs and realized which dorm was next in the pattern, it was almost too late. A camera glitch on the east quad. A missing student not yet reported. A name on the fellowship list— circled twice in the unsub’s obsessively annotated journal.

Spencer and (Y/n) were the closest.

They ran.

It was a three-story building, older, with creaky stairs and fluorescent lights that flickered like they were as nervous as the students inside. Spencer took the west hallway, (Y/n) took the north. Backup was still five minutes out.

The door wasn’t locked.

(Y/n) burst in just as the unsub raised a knife— quick, practiced, like he’d done this before. There was no hesitation in her tackle, no falter in her grip. The scuffle was fast, messy, a blur of movement and panic and adrenaline. She got the blade away from him, but not before they both slammed into the desk and hit the floor hard.

By the time Spencer reached her, the unsub was cuffed, breathing hard through a busted lip, and (Y/n) was sitting on the carpet, checking her elbow for bruises.

“Are you—?!” he started, too breathless to finish the sentence.

She looked up at him, eyes wide.

“I’m fine,” she said, and winced. “Desk fought back, but I won.”

Spencer crouched immediately, hands hovering just above her shoulders, like he needed to touch her but wasn’t sure if he should.

“You sure?”

She smiled, even as she flexed her fingers. “Yeah. You?”

He let out a shaky breath. “I am now”

——————————————————————————————————

The case wrapped up within hours. Victim safe. Unsub in custody. Team debriefed. Statements given.

They flew home that night.

The jet was quiet, lit only by soft blue overheads and the glow of tablets left idle. Hotch was asleep with his arms crossed. Emily was out cold, head tilted back on the headrest. Gideon had claimed the recliner and a blanket. JJ was slumped sideways with a folder still open on her lap.

Derek sat near the back, phone pressed to his ear as he whispered to Garcia on the other end.

“I’m just saying,” she was saying, muffled but insistent, “if those two don’t get it together soon, I will start mailing them matching ‘just kiss already’ T-shirts. In their sizes. Color-coded.”

Derek snorted quietly.

“They’re asleep,” he murmured, watching them from across the cabin.

Spencer was curled slightly toward (Y/n), his head resting gently on her shoulder. Her cheek was pressed to his hair, one hand resting over his, where it sat on the seat between them. Neither stirred.

Derek smiled to himself, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of their breathing, synced without even trying.

“They’re gonna be okay,” he said softly into the phone. “Both of them.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then Garcia’s voice, hushed now, like she didn’t want to disturb the moment from a thousand miles away.

“They already are.”

Derek leaned back in his seat. “Still think we should’ve meddled?”

“Nah,” she said. “Not this time. They're doing okay, where they are. Writing their own story. We're just lucky enough to read it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re getting all poetic on me, Baby Girl.”

“Well, you’re getting all soft on me, Chocolate Thunder.”

“Only for you.”

“Oh, I know.”

[animasolaoriginal]

INFATUATED ♦️ TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER ONE ♦️ SERIES MASTERLIST ♦️ AO3

After tormenting her for three nights straight, he decides to give her a little break, but that doesn't mean he can't still give and receive some pleasure.

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dom/sub dynamic. Free use/power play. Collars. Cunnilingus. Overstimulation. Squirting. (Assisted) masturbation. Frottage. Fluff? (For even more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 4.7k

TWENTY-TWO 🟥 TWENTY-THREE 🟥 TWENTY-FOUR

Her outburst (slash panic attack) surprised him. He's seen her pleading eyes, sure, but hearing her sobs and whines as she's confessed to missing him, asking him to forgive her (him of all people), it came a little unexpected. She must have been in pain, sore from all those nights where he used her, spanked her, bruised her, nights she can't recall, but she's endured, leaned into it, too happy to finally be with him again to care about the ailments of her body.

The way she's taken his cock down her throat... There's been no struggle, no fight, just pure submission, complete obedience, as he kept her from breathing, chasing his own release. He's missed her cute little mouth, her tight little throat, and it's been a great reunion.

Initially, he's wanted to wait it out one more day, let her simmer in her dark thoughts, but when he saw her confused face on the camera feed, how she's stared at the leash he hasn't put on her this morning, as if wanting to wear it again, he knew she was ready, ready to be forgiven, to move on.

He's watched her during those last days, in his office or on the go, how she's tried to busy herself, but mostly she's been lying on her side, staring blankly ahead or out the window, just a frail little body, a barely moving shadow on the black and white feed on his phone. He's seen her attempts to touch herself, he knew she would try it, she had to after spending so many days with a sex-crazed guy like him who's forced her libido out of hiding, among forcing her to do other things, but he's also seen the fight, the struggle, to deny herself.

There's no need to punish her. She's done it. She's his perfect little girl again.

After drying off together, he dresses in some sweatpants and lets her stay in the nude, with just the collar adorning her beautiful body. She didn't fuss, and how she sits on the counter in the kitchen now, feet dangling off the edge, arms propped up on either side of her hips, squishing those bruised little breasts, wet hair falling over her slim shoulders, she looks downright comfortable, or just happy to be out of her room and with him again.

She watches him curiously as he starts cutting up vegetables, first onions and garlic, then carrots and potatoes, before he starts roasting the first, then adds the latter with a bit of broth he's prepared a while back and lets everything simmer for a bit. He's promised to cook for her, and what better time and occasion than as a little reward after her punishment is finally over. It's a simple vegetable stew, nothing too fancy, and it doesn't even matter, he could have opened a can of soup and they'd still have a nice time together in the kitchen.

Occasionally he'd come over to her and lean down, waiting for her to lean up, their kisses chaste and promising, other times he'd come by and brush his hands over her thighs, between them, a short little dip into her warmth, and she'd giggle softly, biting her lip, before he'd stop that motion with another kiss. It's domestic in a way he's never experienced before, comfortable, tender, so far from anything he's ever done in a kitchen, to be honest.

It's been a long while since he's cooked something here, he sometimes helps out in one of his restaurants, just to hone his skills again, but when he's home he'd rather order in. It's different now that he has a permanent house guest, if he could call her that.

While the stew is on the burner, bubbling softly, he cleans up the waste, then sees her perking up. “Can I help?” she asks quietly.

He shakes his head. “It's okay, already done,” he says while throwing out the last bit of carrot peel, then washes his hands. “But you can entertain me a little...”

She frowns at him, licking her lip nervously.

“Lie down on the island, baby,” he tells her, leaning against the opposite counter, watching her. “On your back.”

She nods and stretches out, visibly struggling when she has to shift her weight on her bruised ass. He'd figure it's easier than to squish her tender tits on the hard surface. Her arms lie stiff beside her, she's very stiff in general, and he suddenly sees her as a display piece in one of those sushi bars he's been to before, where the waitresses double as platters, and the idea of eating off her slim little body makes his cock twitch.

He pushes off the counter and walks towards her, lets his hand run from her foot up her leg to her stomach, then circles her left breast before he puts his hand on it, squeezing softly. She winces, blinking a tear away. He rubs gently along her bruises, then presses the pad of his thumb against her nipple.

“W-why did you... spank my b-boobs?” she then asks out of the blue, making him look at her with raised eyebrows.

Of course she knows, his clever little girl. “To show you one of the worst outcomes if you ever disobey me,” he tells her quietly, moving his hand to her right breast now, caressing it mindlessly. “Does it hurt?”

“Probably hurts more when I'm conscious while you do it, right?” she counters in a soft whisper.

He holds her gaze. “Yes, probably.” He slips his hand up her neck now, rubs it over her collar, then squeezes slightly. “But I will never have to do that to you, won't I?”

She swallows against his grip. “No, sir. I'll be good, I promise!”

“Don't promise,” he replies, hand curling around her head to grab it. He makes her sit up and she follows. “I know you will be good, but sometimes things happen, beyond our control...”

“But I'll try my best,” she insists quietly.

He smiles at her and leans closer, cradling her nape. “I know you will, darling,” he whispers, brushing his lips against her cheek. She turns her head and meets his lips fully now, and he indulges her with another soft, deep kiss.

As their tongues wrestle, he pulls her legs around so they hang off the edge, then spreads them wide and steps between them. He breaks the kiss, followed by a little whine from her, and leans over her until he catches a nipple between his lips. She arches her chest into his face, hands grabbing his shoulders, soft gasps rolling out of her throat.

He watches her intently, suckling on her swollen bud, his tongue flicking around it before he draws back a little and teases it with his teeth. She inhales sharply, but then relaxes again when he continues sucking, pulling more of her breast into his mouth. As he does so, he rubs his hand over the other mound, rolling her nipple between his fingers, pressing onto the soft flesh, coaxing more and more mewls out of her.

Eventually he switches sides, lets her wet tit go with a pop before latching on to the other. His hands slide along her body, curl around her shoulders, holding her as she starts squirming on the counter, her noises growing in volume and confidence. She's shivering, goosebumps pebbling her skin, her thighs twitching against his hips. She must be so sensitive, but she takes it like a champ.

“My... good... little... girl,” he mumbles against her skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses all around her bruised mounds, accentuating every word, before going back to her tender nipple, sucking it hard until she lets out a drawn-out moan and arches her back, her fingernails digging into his skin, her hips jerking against his chest.

He lets go abruptly and captures her mouth for a searing kiss, delving his tongue deep between her lips, tasting her, making her gasp against him before she meets his motions. He doesn't linger, though, and moves down her neck, teasing at the bruises above and below her collar, kisses a line down between her breasts to her fluttering stomach, his hands slowly pushing her down until she's lying flat on her back, legs dangling off.

He grabs her ankles and angles her legs, spreading her wide while he finally reaches her warm center. She mewls, squirming on the counter, her fingers digging into his hair, gripping tightly. He lets her and groans into her skin, lips dragging over heated skin until he dives right between her thighs, tongue lapping a line between her puffy pussy lips. Her knees are shaking as she tries to close her legs, but his hold is too strong, and they just press helplessly against his shoulders.

He inhales deeply, filling his nostrils with her sweet scent, the fragrance overwhelming as he brushes his nose against her clit and starts kissing her lower lips like he's kissed her mouth before. Her soft moans hum through the air, barely audible over the hammering heartbeat in his ears. She's driving him insane, the way she smells, tastes, sounds, moves... it's all an infuriating package he cannot get enough of.

He leans back a little when she threatens to rip his hair out with how strongly she's gripping it, and he pries her fingers off and grabs them between his, holding her hand while he finds her hooded gaze. Breathless gasps escape her, face flushed, lips quivering, and when he lowers his mouth again to tease against her clit, she throws her head back with a louder moan.

His lips close around the throbbing bundle of nerves, and as he sucks on it gently, nudging his shoulders against her legs to keep them open, his free hand finds her wet folds. One finger slips into her easily, the second too, and he feels her heat and the last load of cum he's pumped into her. A third finger is added, and he starts pumping slowly, pushing his seed deeper, the squelching sound loud in his ears as he continues assaulting her sensitive nub.

She's a writhing mess before him, her hand squeezing his tightly, the added hold a comfort for both of them as he savors the taste and smell of her sex while she fights the sensations crashing through her. His fingers push deeper, as far as his knuckles allow, and when he turns them inside her clenching cunt and curls them, she cries out loudly, her hips bucking against his face, legs spasming around him, her back arching off the counter.

He keeps bullying that special spot inside her while staying focused on her clit, his tongue lapping around it, his lips sucking it into his mouth, as it throbs and twitches against him, and then she comes with a high-pitched squeal, and as soon as he feels her release spraying against his chin, he leans back and watches her come undone completely. He pumps his fingers through her orgasm, witnesses how her overwhelmed pussy squirts out load after load of clear liquid that squelches between his fingers, hitting the floor beneath him.

“Good girl,” he praises as she squirms and whines, her free hand covering her face while the other has a death grip on his fingers.

Slowly he eases the motions of the fingers assaulting her clenching cunt, rubs gently along her tensing walls before he pulls them out, and she squirts again, hips bucking, body convulsing uncontrollably. So sensitive, so responsive. He watches her wail, probably in shame and embarrassment, but he doesn't care, he leans in and laps his tongue along her wet skin, savoring the tangy taste, her sweet essence, licks her clean until she convulses all over again.

Now she's sobbing, little hiccups shaking her body, stomach fluttering, legs trembling, and he lets up eventually, giving her puffy cunt another deep kiss before leaning back, rubbing his wet hand over her mound. Straightening up, he eases his fingers out of her grip and wipes at his chin, then leans over her.

“Look at me,” he whispers, waiting for her to lower her hand. Her face is bright red, eyes glistening, a little bit of snot mixing with the tears streaming down her face. “No need to be ashamed. That was wonderful,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to her warm cheek. She sniffles, averting her eyes. He clicks his tongue, and she looks back, frowning but holding his gaze. “Good girl. Be proud of yourself. Not everyone can do that...”

She huffs in shame, squirming slightly. His hand finds her jaw, and he grips it tightly as he leans even closer and captures her trembling lips, moving his tongue into her mouth, letting her taste herself. She writhes beneath him, but then kisses him back, her eyes fluttering close. He pulls his arms around her and scoops her up, still tangling his tongue with hers.

She clings to him, arms and legs wrapping around him needily, quiet little mewls vibrating between them, and he adds a few groans of his own as he presses her against his chest and rolls his shoulders before he carries her out of the kitchen, throwing a side glance at the large pot simmering on the burner. He's almost forgotten about lunch, too preoccupied with dessert. He could even skip his midday training, dealing with her and his undying libido seems like enough of a workout for today.

His cock certainly wouldn't mind the release with how it tents his sweatpants just beneath where she presses her wet cunt to his stomach. His mind is reeling on the way to the bathroom, fantasizing about how he should take her, but when he sees the fucked-out look on her face, the happy little tilt to her lips, the glazed over eyes, he decides to give the girl a break.

Setting her down on the vanity, he puts a wet washcloth into her hands, telling her to clean herself in a gruff grunt that makes her frown a little, then pushes his pants down and goes back into the shower, hand already fisting his angrily throbbing erection. He's barely gotten any pumps in when he feels her hands sliding around his sides, finding his wrist, before she presses her body against his back, trying to assist him.

She's peeking past him, a curious glint in her eyes, but he shakes his head, and she purses her lips, her hand hovering on his arm, unwilling to step away. He turns slightly, gently grabbing her hand to pull her fully to his side. Holding her gaze while still moving his fist up and down his shaft and around his tip, he guides her hand to his groin, and without prompt, she curls it around his balls, her tongue sticking out between her lips as she concentrates on massaging him with nimble fingers.

Watching her as he handles his cock roughly (while she is so delicate to the rest of him), he can feel his stomach tensing up, his breaths becoming labored, a shudder rushing down his spine. She looks up at him, with those big curious eyes, and he groans, gritting his teeth, her soft gasps in his ear when he shoots his load into the spray of the shower. His pumping balls remain in her small hand until the aftershocks of his orgasm subside, then he inhales deeply and lets his deflating cock bounce against his thigh before he grabs the girl beside him and lifts her up by grabbing her waist.

She squeals softly, arms flailing, legs kicking, but he only presses her against him, savoring her warmth, her soft skin, then moves them under the water to rinse off the remnants of yet another exercise. He wraps one arm around her legs, feeling the soft slope of her rear against his forearm, and carries her out, not caring about leaving wet footprints as he exits the bathroom. She's gripped his shoulders, leaning onto them, by now stock-still in his embrace while he walks back into the kitchen, pulls the pot off the burner and turns it off, then moves on, taking her to the large doors leading onto the balcony wrapping around his apartment.

The sun is high in the sky, warm and bright, the chaotic hum of the city wafting up to them. The fresh air tickles his skin, and he feels her shivering against him. His feet tap loudly over the cool stone floor, the girl's soft breaths warm against his temple. He looks up at her, meeting her curious gaze, giving her a smile and a wink, watching her blush deeply – before the smile turns into a grin and he hurls her off his arm and right into the pool.

Her shrill shriek is swallowed by the loud splash of water, her body contorting in the air, arms flailing, legs kicking, and then she sinks, hair billowing around her head. He waits for her to come back up, spluttering, throwing him dark stares, but then she doesn't, and something he's not felt much in his life bubbles up low in his stomach: concern.

He stares at her form, distorted under the surface, the rippling waves of her struggle, arms thrashing through the water, one rapid heartbeat, two, three, then he dives in after her, his hands finding her squirming body, arms snaking around her waist, his feet meet the bottom and kick, and they both emerge again, water splashing. He holds her tight against him, head tilted back, and it takes her a moment before she starts gasping and coughing and spluttering.

“It's okay, I got you,” he murmurs as he treads water to get them back to the shallower part of the pool, where he leans his elbow on the edge, pressing her to his chest, waiting for her to calm down again. After the initial shock, she slowly relaxes against him, her hands gripping his forearms, nails sinking into his skin, a desperate hold as she tries to stay afloat and as far away from the treacherous water as possible.

Eventually he pushes her up, so she can sit on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the glistening water. He stays inside, a solid stance on the ground, soft waves crashing against his chest and biceps. His hands find her thighs as he gently pries her legs apart and steps between them, looking up at her. She is still breathless, cheeks bright red, wet hair caked to the side of her face. Her eyelashes flutter as she blinks away water and tears.

“So you can't swim, huh?” he muses, and she nods, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. His thumbs rub along her inner thighs, and he feels her relax a bit more under his ministrations. “Well, that's good to know.”

She frowns a little, averting her eyes. “Sorry...”

He shakes his head, reaching one hand up to brush his fingertips against her jaw. She looks at him, still a little troubled. “No, I'm sorry, I didn't know. I didn't mean to scare you,” he says softly, watching her as she leans into the palm of his hand, her own moving up to hold onto his wrist.

Something warm flashes in her eyes, a timid smile grazing her trembling lips. She shifts on the edge, scooting a little closer to him, her hands moving to rest on his shoulders. He watches her curiously, trying to read her flushed face. When he grabs her waist and lifts her up, taking a step back into the pool, she stiffens, but holds onto him, her eyes never leaving his, before he gently lowers her into the water.

Her chest stays above the surface, his arms tight around her rear, holding her up. “This okay?” he whispers, and she nods shyly, her fingers kneading his shoulders, an unconscious little massage that makes him inhale sharply. He slowly lowers his arms, shifts them, presses them into the hollow of her back as she slips a little further down, allowing her to wrap her arms around his neck instead.

He moves them back to the edge, caging her in between his body and the wall of the pool. She relaxes against him, focused on him and him alone, her legs floating up around him before they wrap around his waist, little pointy feet digging into his lower back while her warm crotch grinds into his, his cock already hardening again. This fucking girl.

Tilting his head, he leans into her and she meets the motion, meets his lips when he captures hers, the kiss slow and gentle, a sensual gliding and pressing, and it's her tongue who seeks access into his mouth first, the warm tip licking along the seam of his lips. He parts them and pushes his tongue against hers, a hungry grunt escaping him as he tastes the inside of her mouth. She hums into him, clinging to him, arms hooked around his neck, hands sliding up and down his back and shoulder blades, nails scratching softly.

Her pelvis is still grinding into him. He tightens one arm around her, holding her, while slipping the other under her rear, adjusting his cock so the length of it is pressed right into her warm slit. A moan slips into his mouth as she stills against him. His hands find her thighs under the water, a tight grip as he starts pushing her up and down, pressing her into him. He's tempted to slide fully inside her, really fuck her against the wall of the pool, but his decision stands, he wants to give her a break, which doesn't mean he can't find pleasure in just rubbing against her.

She adjusts her hold, leaning back to place her hands on his shoulders, her hips undulating into him, meeting his grinding motions. He can feel the head of his cock catching on her clit, each downward motion making her mewl, her lips parted, eyes hooded, cheeks burning, panting breaths that fan over his face. He watches her, witnesses how she melts into the steady up and down, into every stroke and glide and slide and press, the friction hot between them, the water splashing more and more around them.

He's achingly hard, the wet slip of her cunt setting his nerves on fire, the blood pumping furiously. He feels his balls tightening, that tension in his lower stomach bordering on painful. His hands dig into her soft thighs, holding her, their joined grinding becoming faster, more uncoordinated, desperate. She's moaning, mewling, gasping, her nails sinking into his skin, her whole body shaking against his, and he feels the same tremors, his legs cramping from how tense he is, holding her, standing upright in the pool, grinding her against him.

He tilts his head up, his throat working when he swallows. “Come for me, baby,” he rasps, increasing the up and down frenzy, his cock throbbing against her cunt. “Come on my fucking cock!”

She's waited, he can tell, holding back, waiting for his permission, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, she throws her arms around his neck and presses into him, her hips stuttering as she gasps, almost whines, when her body convulses against his. He keeps sliding against her, prolonging her orgasm, until his own crashes over him, making him stumble into the wall, almost losing his balance.

One hand finds the edge of the pool, steadying himself, while the other splays around her rear, holding her up, savoring the throbbing of their sexes pressed together, his balls drawing up as he shoots his spend into the water and against her body. A long groan slips out of his throat as he leans into her, resting his chin on her shoulder, breathing harder. She clings to him, one of her hands rubbing soothing circles over his broad back.

They relax in each other's embrace, his cock giving the occasional twitch before he calms down again. Turning his head, he kisses the soft slope of her neck, nuzzles into her collar, her pulse that erratic flutter against his lips. He can feel her hand sliding into his wet hair, the scrape of her fingertips over his scalp sending shivers down his spine. Inhaling deeply, filling his nostrils with her sweet scent, he straightens up slowly, rolling his neck as he looks at her.

She's biting her lip, and he brings his hand to her face, his thumb pushing between her lips before she starts sucking on it softly, her eyes glazing over slightly. He smiles at her, watching her blush an even deeper shade of red. His fingers curl under her chin, nudging her to lean closer. When she does, he pulls his thumb away and replaces it with his tongue, kissing her slow and deep, and she mirrors his motions, her eyes fluttering shut, her fingers digging into his hair.

He pushes them away from the wall, gently sliding into the water until he's on his back and she's perched on top of him, halfway submerged, but still glued to his mouth. Extending an arm, he holds onto the edge of the pool, keeping them afloat, while the other wraps around the girl clinging to him. She's almost straddling him, back arched, pelvis still pressed to his groin.

“Relax, baby,” he breathes against her lips, and she tries, shifting her body onto his wider frame, her legs floating between his. He lazily treads water, watching her adjusting her position, her hands in his hair, her elbows pressing into his pecs, her chest hovering above him. “I won't let you drown,” he whispers, pulling her attention by nibbling on her bottom lip. “Relax your arms...”

She does, tentatively, fingers still slipping along his head as she lowers herself, neck arched, but her chest is now flush to his, and he could swear he can hear her rapid heartbeat thundering against his own. Water splashes occasionally when she shifts and almost slips, but he holds her, his arm tight around her back, pressing her into him. His cock is trapped between them, but he ignores it for now.

Above them the sun is bright and warm, the city still echoing around them. But here, atop the noises, it's just them, alone in the blue sky, a tender moment after everything they've been through. It feels surprisingly nice, another instance of domesticity, a pause in his busy lifestyle, a change he's still fighting but accepting more and more. His arm eases around her, fingers brushing up the curve of her spine, tangling in her wet tresses before he slips them under her tight collar.

She gasps, blinking at him. For a moment he rests his hand there, heavy on her nape, the collar pressing into her throat, and he watches her, a sliver of panic settling in her big eyes as she struggles to breathe, but then he presses his thumb to the lock, and with another soft gasp and a little clicking sound, the collar opens and releases her. He peels it off her, raising it up for a moment before tossing it onto the stone floor next to the pool.

“You're still mine,” he whispers, brushing his nose against her cheek. “But you're allowed breaks too, aren't you, darling?”

She swallows, a shy and surprised smile playing around her lips. “Thank you,” she breathes against him, before she rests her head on his shoulder, face turned to his neck, her warm breath tickling his pulse. Her arms relax around him, slipping under his as she wraps them around his torso, holding onto him, no longer afraid to drown as they float about, just focused on him.

He finds himself smiling into the sky, his arm back around her body, hand splayed out over her warm skin. He's gone soft, for sure, but he's accepted it, knowing he can allow her these tender moments because in the back of his mind he is already planning out other things, darker things, more depraved, things that'll push her limits, but he knows she can handle it, she's proven it to him so many times. And when her bruises finally fade, she'll get another chance (and another chance) to show him just how much she can take now.

TWENTY-TWO 🟥 TWENTY-THREE 🟥 TWENTY-FOUR

End notes: Was this fluff?? What's happening? Don't worry, Sir hasn't lost his edge (or has he?), he was just giving Darling a well-deserved break.

By the way, if you like moodboards to your stories, I have a few Pinterest boards you can check out.

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Saturday!

TAG LIST: @untamedheart81 @cyan1decandy @bimbos-are-angels @voiceactivated @reader-1290

CHAPTER / / / ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE

SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN

ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

[dulcecherub]

Igual Que Un Angel

Epilogue

Synopsis: Sofia is pregnant, and the last thing she needs is for Rafe to find out. It’s her dirty secret, it’s not like he’s barging down her door to speak to her. He looks as if he’s done with her for good. Will outside forces, force Sofia to confront the situation at hand. Or will she be able to keep this secret up? Not like, her belly isn’t growing everyday or anything.

Author’s note: the main plot of the series is finished. Just wanted to show you how Sofia and Rafe are like as parents and as a married couple. Sorry for how short it is! It took me so long to brain storm these ideas.

MASTERLIST

Chapter 14 | Epilogue

Four Years Later

“Rory! Please, no running around in the house. You’re going to hurt yourself!” Sofia says in a sing song voice. Aurora lets out an audible grunt. She crosses her arms angrily.

“But mommy I’m having fun.” She pouts. She throws her head back.

“I know, but there’s other ways to have fun.” Sofia picks up her daughter, twirling her around. As Aurora lets out a giggle, she grins up at Sofia.

“You’re so silly mommy.”

Rafe’s not home, so it’s just them too.

“Vamos a bailar…” Sofia continues to spin Rory around, erupting more giggles from her four year old daughter. Sofia laughs along with her. As they sway to the sounds of Sofia’s voice.

“Can we play music, mommy? Please?” Sofia adjusts her better, turning to walk towards the record player Rafe had purchased for her. The vinyl’s next to it, tucked on a shelf.

“Which one?”

“That one! That one!” Aurora points to one of the vinyls. One Sofia constantly played when she wanted to clean around the house. Sofia smiled, reaching to remove it from the row of vinyls.

“This one?”

“Yes momma.” Sofia places the vinyl onto the record player, the music cracking to life. Sofia begins to sway Aurora around the room. Singing along to the lyrics.

She turns her once more, to be faced with Rafe. Sofia jumps.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Rafe has a hand in his pocket and a smirk on his lips. “Not long, can I join you guys?”

“Yes! Yes! Join us dad!”

Sofia laughs as Rafe approaches, twirling them both around the room.

Rafe was alone with Aurora for the first time in a while. Usually so busy with work and finally he found a way to be with his family. Sofia, unfortunately for him, had work to do. She was now a preschool teacher.

“Ugh, dad! You’re doing it wrong!” Aurora chastises her own dad, Rafe tries to hide his laughter. But her outburst makes him chuckle outloud. She glares at him.

“Sparkly pink princess gets the red cup. Dr. Gloss gets the pink one.”

Rafe pulls his hands up in surrender. “My bad Rory. I thought since she’s called sparkly pink princess she’ll want the pink cup.”

“No, she doesn’t like everything pink. She likes colors that compliment her, duh.”

Rafe brows furrow. “Since when did you learn the world compliment? You’re four.”

“I heard mommy saying it to you.”

“So I’m dad and she’s mommy.” Rafe purses his lips comically. Aurora only giggles, pretending to make Dr.Gloss sip his tea.

“You’re so silly, dad.”

The front door opens then closes. He hears a shuffle of steps heading in their direction. Before long, Sofia’s head peers through the door.

She feigns a gasp. “You’re letting daddy playing tea part with you?”

“It’s dad, Sofia. Apparently you’re mommy and I’m just dad.”

Sofia smirks, “Not her fault she has her priorities straight.”

Rafe shakes his head, smiling at her. His eyes roaming her body, she moves closer, placing a kiss on his head before moving to do the same on Aurora.

“Hey mommy, can you join us please?” Aurora says, smiling up at her.

“Of course I will.” Sofia plops down on one of the seats. As Aurora prepares her “tea.”

“I got Dr. Gloss to finally get the one you like. The chamomile.”

“Okay, she needs to hang out less with you. Before you know it, we’ll have our very own like—boss baby.” Rafe says, eyeing Aurora.

“You’ve been watching boss baby?”

Rafe merely shrugs, “I was too lazy to change the movie.” Sofia laughs, it sounds like music to his ears. Aurora smiles at them both, pretending she isn’t listening.

“Our smart little girl.” Sofia coos at Aurora, kissing her cheek. Aurora giggles.

John B and Aurora glare at each other. Their uno cards pressed tightly to their chest.

“What do you know about uno?” John B says in a whisper.

“Everything.” Aurora whispers back, Sarah is trying to suppress her giggle. Little Jay shaking his head, rolling his eyes at his dad and his cousin.

John B dramatically drops his uno card, showing a draw 2 card. He smirks at Aurora but it instantly falls. A smile pressed onto Aurora’s face as well. She drops her card, showing a draw 2.

“No… no.” John B says, almost in horror. He picks up the four cards.

Sofia and Rafe are watching from the kitchen island. They’d lost already, much to Rafe’s dismay.

“I can’t believe she beat me.” Rafe murmurs, Sofia kisses his cheek.

“Sorry sore loser.”

His eyes widen, turning to her. “You lost too!”

“Yeah but not as bad as you.” Rafe rolls his eyes as he continues to watch.

“Uno.” Aurora says, John B’s mouth opens. “Sorry uncle Johnny.”

“It’s John B.”

“Well, I just beat you at uno. So it’s Johnny now.”

Sarah laughs as John B continues to be dumbfounded.

“I can’t believe I just got beat by a four year old.”

“Believe it buddy.”

Sofia turns to Rafe, “Yeah, she gets that from you.” Rafe only smirks, seeming proud of Aurora.

“So… you ready to tell them you’re pregnant again?”

Sofia cheeks flush, her elbow knocking on Rafe’s stomach.

“Not yet.”

Aurora turns to her parents, smiling at them with a big grin. They smile back. Sofia rests her head on Rafe’s shoulder.

“Not yet.”

[moonkissedmagic]

lavender & honey (chapter 2)

pairings: agatha x reader, wanda x reader

synopsis: we slowly learn more about reader’s past with agatha.

a/n: i’m doing my best to not have one of them seem like the overwhelmingly better choice, but agatha’s redemption & development is gonna take a little while, so bear with me!

word count: 6.5k

— — — — — —

Before the flower shop, before Wanda, before everything—you were just a college student running on fumes and borrowed time, working the early shift at a half-dead café near campus.

5 years ago -

Early winter sunlight poured through the smudged windows of the shop, warming the scratched tile floors and bouncing off dulled espresso machines.

You had been on your feet since six, and your body already ached in that way only minimum wage could bring. The smell of burnt beans and steamed milk had embedded itself into your clothes, your hair, your pores. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills, and that was all you were really asking for those days.

You were halfway through your last semester of school, barely balancing evening classes, thesis deadlines, and your increasingly demanding manager. The tips were decent, the regulars were tolerable, and the playlist was almost always something you could work with—until that day.

That day, it was jazz. Not the smooth, sultry kind, but the screechy, chaotic sort—saxophones wailing like sirens, each note clawing over the last in an endless, jittery loop.

It made your temples throb and your patience fray at the edges. You were wiping down the counter when a new customer walked in.

Middle-aged, entitled, the kind of guy who probably listened to alpha male podcasts on his lunch break—but he was already grumbling before you could even finish a sentence.

“Large coffee. Black,” he said without looking up, thumb still swiping lazily on his phone.

You entered the order, forcing cheer into your voice. “Sure thing. That’ll be $3.85.”

He glanced up for the first time, his eyes skimming your name tag, then drifting lower with a look that made your skin crawl. The smirk that followed was sharp and practiced.

“Damn,” he muttered, loud enough for you to hear but quiet enough to pretend you didn’t. “Didn’t expect a body like that in a dump like this.”

Your stomach tightened. You kept your tone even. “$3.85.”

He scoffed, finally hearing what you’d said. “Four bucks for plain coffee? Jesus Christ, what is this place?”

You stayed quiet. You’d learned the hard way that arguing never ended well. But of course, he wasn’t done.

“You know,” he said, leaning in, his breath hot, “If you smiled more, showed off what you’ve clearly got, you could probably do a lot better than this.” He chuckled like he’d shared some piece of wisdom with you. “Hell, you could find a man, let him take care of you. That way, you wouldn’t be stuck in this shithole playing fake nice for tips.”

You smiled tightly, attempting to get the interaction over with. “The gas station down the street has cheaper prices, if that’s easier for you, sir.”

His mood shifted instantly. His jaw clenched. “Do I look like the kind of man who drinks gas station coffee?”

You said nothing. You couldn’t afford to say anything.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, swiping his card like it was a personal insult. “Back in my day, employees had a little respect. Some fucking gratitude.”

You blinked, stunned, then glanced down to make sure your name tag didn’t somehow say Punching Bag instead of Y/N.

“Excuse me?” you asked, tone clipped but steady.

He waved a dismissive hand, looking you up and down. “Just saying. Girls like you used to know their place.”

Your throat burned. Not from shame, but from exhaustion. From holding in every reply you wanted to give to men like him. Men who thought you were lucky to be spoken to at all.

It was too early for this. You hadn’t even had your own coffee yet. Still, you opened your mouth, something sharp and unprofessional already curling on your tongue—

—and then she appeared.

“Wow,” a voice drawled from behind him, all cool velvet and sharp edges. “That’s a bold take for someone who looks like he peaked in high school and never emotionally recovered.”

You both turned.

She was standing just a few feet away, arms folded, one eyebrow arched with the kind of practiced condescension that was somehow both elegant and deadly. Her lips were painted a shade too rich for morning, and yet somehow, it worked. Her black coat hung open to reveal a dark sweater and fitted pants that didn’t belong in a place that sold scones for three dollars a pop.

She stood there like the room belonged to her—like the world did, actually—and for a moment, even the machines seemed to fall silent.

“I’m sorry, were you under the impression this was a drive-thru for misogyny?” she continued, voice lilting and dangerous. “Because if so, might I suggest a hard left into traffic?”

He gawked. “And who the hell are you?”

She smirked—slow, razor-sharp. “Someone with eyes. And a brain. And the ability to order coffee without being a jackass.”

Agatha Harkness.

You didn’t know her name yet. But you would.

The man made a sound like he was gearing up for another round, but the weight of her stare was enough to pin him in place. She tilted her head just slightly, like she was calculating exactly how many layers of his self-esteem she could peel away with a single sentence.

“Oh,” she continued, eyes gleaming with mock sympathy. “You thought your opinion mattered? That’s adorable.”

He faltered. Said something about “entitled women” and “bad reviews” before storming off in a cloud of cheap cologne and wounded pride. The bell over the door jingled behind him, followed by blissful silence.

And then—

“Hello.”

You blinked at her. She was smiling now. Soft. Amused. Like the whole performance had been no big deal.

“You okay?” she asked, voice lowering. You nodded, a bit too quickly.

“Yeah, wow. I mean, yeah! I’m... fine,” you finished lamely.

She grinned, like she knew exactly what effect she was having on you. “Good. I’d hate to be upstaged by some asshole.”

You let out a breath—half-laugh, half-exhale of disbelief.

Then she looked at you. Really looked at you.

And you weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline or the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, but your brain completely short-circuited.

“Thank you, seriously,” you said, twisting your hands and trying not to feel completely undone under the weight of her gaze. “Most people just pretend not to hear.”

“Well, lucky for you, I never pretend,” she said, with a wink that made your face heat instantly.

You were suddenly very aware of how you looked—your messy hair, your faded t-shirt under the apron, the faint coffee stain on your uniform. You looked like underpaid chaos. She, on the other hand, looked like temptation in heels.

“Can I get you anything?” you asked, fumbling slightly for professionalism. “On the house, for the whole knight-in-shining-sarcasm thing.”

She leaned on the counter, resting her chin on her hand. “Tempting. But how about this—you give me your number instead, and I’ll consider it payment enough.”

Your heart skipped. “W-What?”

She grinned, eyes dancing. “I mean, I came in for coffee, but now I’ve found something far more interesting.”

You blinked. “That’s… bold.”

“So I’ve been told,” she said with a lazy shrug. “But I’ve never been one for subtlety.” She traced a finger along the rim of her cup, thoughtful. “In my defense, I don’t make a habit of flirting with strangers in mediocre cafés. You’re... compelling.”

“I—wow. That’s not a word people usually use to describe me before noon.”

She tilted her head, watching you. “Well, maybe you need to spend more mornings with people who have better taste.”

You felt yourself blush—really blush. Heat climbed up your neck and you racked your brain for how to respond.

Her eyes flicked to your lips, then back up, and it was like gravity had changed direction. “Agatha,” she introduced, offering her hand across the counter.

You took it, her palm warm against yours. “Y/N.”

“Y/N.” She repeated it, slowly, like she was trying it out on her tongue. “It suits you.”

You managed a smile. “So... are you always this forward?”

“Only when I know I’m right.” She released her grip, but not before her thumb brushed gently against your knuckles. “And I am right. About you.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shy. She watched you like she could see straight through your skin, and maybe she could.

Finally, she said, “Dinner. Tonight?”

Your eyes widened. “Tonight? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “Or are you going to make me fake a sudden interest in soy lattes just to see you again?”

You swallowed, then beamed, helpless against the pull of her. “Okay,” you murmured. “Dinner.”

And just like that—you were hers.

— — — — —

You blink hard, heart thudding against your ribcage like it’s trying to find a way out. Nat hasn’t moved, her hand still hovering near the doorknob like she’s just waiting to follow your signal.

The silence stretches.

Then Agatha’s voice slips through—soft, careful, as if afraid to touch something fragile. “How you doing in there, hon?”

It’s pathetic how much calmer it makes you feel. You hate that it works. Still knows how to cut through the noise, the ache, the panic, and find you where you’re hiding. You don’t say anything. Not out loud. Not with Nat right here, watching you too closely, knowing too much already.

But Wanda hears it too, and she reacts fast.

“Isn’t this your fault?” Her voice is sharp, words cutting through with cold precision. “You’re only going to make things worse.”

Nat sighs—long and steady, like she’s been holding her breath since before the night began. Her posture eases just slightly, tension draining from her frame as she crouches beside you again. Her touch is warm as she brushes a damp strand of hair away from your clammy face.

“You okay?” she asks, voice low.

You nod slowly, as if contemplating the question as you answer.

The corner of her mouth lifts. It’s not a smile, not really, but it’s familiar. Grounding. “What do you want to do, utka?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname. It happened once—you got chased by a duck one time and your best friend will never let you live it down.

She continues. “I can send her away. Or kick her ass. You know I’ve been waiting to do that.”

You huff out a laugh, the image of Nat decking Agatha absurd enough to momentarily distract from the emotional vertigo still spiraling through you.

Nat’s face softens. “I could tell Wanda to come in. Or tell them both to leave you alone. Whatever you need, just say the word.”

You take a deep breath, letting out a long exhale as you consider your options.

You could ask her to take you home. She would—no questions, no hesitation. You could burrow under your covers and pretend none of this ever happened.

But you can’t.

You think of Wanda—soft, kind Wanda—waiting just outside. She deserves a conversation, an explanation. She deserves more than your silence. Tonight spiraled faster than you were ready for, alcohol softening your edges until you unraveled in her hands. It was too much, too fast. And just before that truth began to settle, the unthinkable had walked through the door.

Agatha. Of all people. At the same club, on the same night, like the universe had been lying in wait.

You know how complicated things are with her—how much she hurt you, how much of yourself you had to rebuild after it all fell apart. But the longer you sit on the cold bathroom floor, the more you think about how she probably deserves something too.

You look up at Nat, and she sees it before you even say a word. She sighs, a quiet huff of disbelief, and rolls her eyes. As you get up to rinse out your mouth, she stomps to the door and dramatically flings it open.

“If I so much as see a tear streak down her face I’m ending you, Harkness.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply. Just looks back at you once more, her expression something like reluctant acceptance. “Call if you need me.”

“Thanks, Nat,” you whisper gratefully.

Then she’s gone, and you’re left with the two women standing in the too-narrow hallway, far too close together.

Concern is written all over Wanda’s face, and you’re starting to worry her eyebrows might never relax. Her posture is still, like she’s holding something back.

Agatha is uncharacteristically quiet. Her expression flickers like an old film reel—worry, regret, something tender—and none of it settles long enough to hold.

Wanda moves first, stepping forward, her eyes never leaving yours. “Are you okay?”

You offer a small smile and imperceptible nod, “Yeah, just had too much to drink. It’s been awhile since I’ve been out and I guess it hit me harder than I expected.”

They both seem to relax a bit at that, concern softening into relief. Wanda gives your arm a gentle squeeze. “You scared us, milaya. For a second I was worried Jen might actually faint.”

A snort comes from behind her, and you both glance over to see Agatha standing there, lips curled in faux amusement. She radiates thinly veiled disdain as her eyes settle on Wanda, like she’s assessing someone who’s taken up space that never belonged to them.

The Sokovian ignores her and turns back to you. “Are you headed out?”

You shake your head and take a breath. “Not yet. I should probably stay and talk to her. I’ll find you after, okay?” Your fingers brush her wrist, wordlessly letting her know you’ll be fine.

She nods, eyes flicking to Agatha like a silent warning before stepping away. You steel yourself, then tilt your chin toward the hallway.

Agatha doesn’t need more than that. She walks beside you like no time has passed. But time has passed, and it’s a fact you keep having to remind yourself of.

You reach the side exit and she pushes the door open for you, letting the warm night air rush in. The alley behind the club is dim and quiet, the buzz of music muffled by thick brick walls. You step outside and instantly, the space feels too big and too small at the same time.

You stop walking, your body still faintly trembling as the last waves of nausea ebb away. Agatha turns toward you, slow and careful.

“Baby,” she sighs.

“Agatha,” you reply, her name carrying a weight that settles between you.

Her face flickers, just slightly. “How are you? You look good. Healthy.”

“I’m okay,” you say. “Better.”

It feels like half of the truth.

Agatha steps forward, careful, like you might vanish if she moves too fast. “I know I’ve said it, but—I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’ll say it a thousand more times if that’s what it takes.”

“Please don’t—”

“Come home.”

Your breath catches, heart snagged in your throat.

“I’ll be better. I am better,” she continues, desperate to show you. “Things will be different.”

When you don’t immediately respond, she pushes on.

“It never should’ve gotten to the point it did,” she insists, the words tumbling out faster now. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice, I’m so sorry I didn’t stop it.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick with old ghosts.

“I swear it’s not what it looks like with her—Rio.” Her eyes plead. “I would never do that to you.”

“Agatha,” you sigh. You know why seeing Rio upset you, and you know your reaction wasn’t without reason. You never doubted Agatha’s loyalty—but Rio was a different story. The unease she stirred always lingered, like sour smoke that clung to your clothes. She never really let Agatha go, and deep down, you could never entirely blame her for that.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up,” you say, voice even, careful. “You’re allowed to be with whoever you want. It’s not my place anymore.”

The words leave your mouth quietly—but they burn coming out, tasting like ash. You do your best not to let it show.

“Don’t say that.” She steps closer again. “I don’t want anyone else. Just you. Always you.”

The words light you up inside, just as they always have. It’s a kind of magic—how Agatha can make you feel like the center of the universe one minute, and a whisper the next.

She keeps talking, not willing to waste a second of the time she’s finally gotten with you. Curiosity, tinged with something sharper—something envious—slips through.

“Your… friend. She seems… nice.”

You can’t help but huff out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. You’ve always found it amusing—how Agatha adored softness on you, but seemed to scoff at it in anyone else. With others, she found it artificial. A performance. But on you? It was proof. Evidence of her theory that you were something rare. Otherworldly.

“Behave,” you warn, though your tone is fond.

She arches a brow, lips twitching into something mischievous. “Or what, hm?”

You meet her look with one of your own, a smile tugging at your lips before you even realize it’s there. As soon as you do, the corners are slipping and you’re looking away.

Agatha sees it—of course she does.

She closes the last few steps between you, and her hand comes up to your cheek, gentle but sure. She tilts your chin, coaxing your eyes back to hers.

“Hey,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Stay with me, angel.”

Your forehead finds hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world—easier than breathing. And for a moment, you just exist there. Together.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to know, sweetheart,” she says gently, her voice tight with emotion. “It was never anything we couldn’t fix. Just let me fix it.” She begs.

“It’s been two years, Agatha.”

“And it shouldn’t have been.” Her hands find the back of your neck, like she needs to touch you to make sure you’re really there. “I know you were hurt—I get that. But, baby… you just left.”

Her devastation is unmistakable. It breaks your heart and knots something deep in your chest, forcing you to confront the truth you’ve tried so hard to bury.

“I thought I had to.” The words split at the seams, fractured and hollow. Even to your own ears, they don’t sound like enough.

“You could’ve talked to me,” she insists, quiet but desperate. “Everything happened so fast and then before I knew it you were just gone.”

Agatha’s eyes are glassy, matching your own. She’s still just a breath away, and the air of her words graze your skin.

You can feel yourself crumbling from the inside out.

For years now, you’ve tried to convince yourself you made the right decision. Repeating it in your head like a prayer, a survival tactic—if you said it enough, maybe it would start to feel true. But the wound never fully closed. Not because time didn’t try, but because you kept yourself away from the one thing that might’ve actually healed it.

“I forgot how to see past you,” you admit, voice soft, raw. “You were my everything, and suddenly, you weren’t around and I didn’t know who I was. Or what I was for.” You look down.

Agatha’s eyes are pained, but she stays silent. Listening.

You swallow hard, the next words tangled on your tongue. “Nat said that I—”

But you don’t get the rest out.

Agatha’s expression shifts in an instant, a flash of irritation slicing through the vulnerability. “Of course she did.”

You sigh. “Agatha—”

“I know she’s protective of you,” she interrupts, tightly. “And I tolerate her, barely, because of it. But if she’s been the one planting seeds in your head—”

“She wasn’t wrong.”

That stops her.

“I lost myself,” you say, more gently now. “And Nat wasn’t wrong about that.”

Agatha’s shoulders drop a little, the fire in her eyes dimming to something more wounded.

You pause, grounding yourself in everything you’ve had time to reflect on. “But I think maybe… you’d lost a part of yourself too.”

She blinks, caught off guard by the sincerity in your voice. You don’t say it with blame, only truth.

You exhale slowly, the weight of everything between you pressing heavy on your ribs.

“I shouldn’t have just walked away like that. I know that now.” You swallow hard. “But you hurt me. You didn’t show up when it mattered the most.”

She flinches, like the truth is a slap. But she takes it.

"I didn’t know how to stay without losing more of myself." Your breath trembles as you admit the truth. "I was ready to, if that’s what it took. That’s how much I loved you."

Agatha falters, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“And that’s not your fault—my bad habits, or the things I was willing to give up just to keep the peace. I know I should’ve talked to you, really talked to you. But back then... I thought I was. When I brought up you working less, when I asked you to come home earlier—I thought that was me trying to say something without having to say it.”

You pause, the memories settling in your chest.

“I didn’t make it easy to see, I know that. I kept pretending it wasn’t as big of a deal as it was—maybe because I needed to believe that too.” Your eyes flicker to hers, searching, gauging. “But I guess, somewhere in me, I thought if you really saw me—if you were really paying attention—you would’ve noticed.”

Another breath, softer now. Less accusation, more ache.

“But I don’t know, maybe that’s not fair. We were both drowning in our own ways. I just... I wish we hadn’t let it get that far.”

Agatha’s gaze softens, glassy again, and she looks like she might speak. You hold up a hand—gentle, not rejecting.

“I’m not saying this because I can rewrite the past,” you say. “Or because I think we should just try and fall back into what we were.”

You hesitate, fingers curling slightly at your sides.

“I’m saying it because it’s still here. All of it. Whether we like it or not.”

There’s no venom, no resentment—just the echo of something that never got its ending.

And then, quieter—slipping in like a confession. “I feel something for Wanda. I won’t lie to you about that.”

She closes her eyes like it physically hurts her. When she opens them again, there’s a war in her expression, but she doesn’t move.

“You need to know that, and really hear it, before I can think about bringing you back into my life in any way.”

The silence hangs heavy, thick with a thousand unspoken thoughts. After what feels like an eternity, she finally breaks it with a single question.

“She’s good to you?” she asks.

The question sinks into your ribs and stays there. Not because you don’t know the answer, but because it’s layered in everything she isn’t asking.

Is she good for you? Better than I am? Does she love you the way I do?

You don’t answer that part.

Instead, you nod. “She is.”

Agatha swallows hard. Her voice is fragile when she says, “I want you to be happy. Even if it kills me to think it could be with someone who isn’t me.”

For a moment, you almost believe that’s it—that she’s just letting you go.

It doesn’t bring you the relief it probably should.

Except then, she straightens, and a resolve settles in her spine. She meets your gaze, unwaveringly steady as she declares, “But I’m not done fighting for you. I won’t stop until you tell me to. You need to know that.”

You stare at her for a long moment. Long enough that you feel the weight of what she’s said. Long enough to see that she means it.

You know you could tell her to stop right now—ask her to leave the past in the past. Maybe that’s what you should do. Call this the closure you both never got and finally close the door for good. You weren’t lying when you said you couldn’t just jump back into things—especially not while you’re still trying to make sense of what’s happening with Wanda.

But it’s Agatha.

There’s a lot you’ve missed about being with her, but even more than that, you’ve just missed her. When you finally opened the shop, she was the person you wanted to celebrate with. Not because she had been your girlfriend, but because she had been your number one supporter from the very beginning. Even when it was all just a dream whispered in the dark, she never doubted you.

You miss her at group hangouts like this—the way she used to trade jabs with Jen, the quiet comfort she found sitting beside Lilia. They were her friends before they were yours. You’ve always known she was woven into the life you built here, but sometimes you forget that it was once her life too.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to let her step back into it.

You open up the back of your phone case, pulling out one of your business cards. Wordlessly, you hold it out.

She takes it slowly, reading the delicate script etched in soft purple ink. Her mouth twitches with something unreadable—half smile, half sorrow.

“Lavender & Honey?” The words feel familiar on her lips.

“It’s mine.”

The confirmation has her fingers tightening on the card like she’s afraid it’ll vanish, eyes darting up to yours in a flash.

“You did it,” she breathes, the weight of everything she missed heavy in her tone. “When?”

“A year ago.”

She looks from the card, to you, back to the card—like it’s too much information for her brain to process. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. So happy for you.”

Though they shouldn’t, her words still catch you off guard, sending warmth to your cheeks. You bite your lip, offering a grateful smile as you throw out your next words.

“We’re closed on Mondays, but open at seven every other day of the week.”

And then… you start to walk away.

“Y/N,” she calls after you, not ready for you to go.

You don’t stop.

You don’t look back.

But your voice is clear when you say, “Don’t be late this time, Agatha.”

— — — — — — — —

When you get back in the club, you beeline to the table, not giving yourself time to process all of what just happened. Maria notices you first and nudges Nat to get her attention. Before she can get up, Wanda intercepts and reaches you first.

“Hey, sólnyshka. Everything okay?” Her voice is gentle, but her eyes search yours like they’re chasing answers you haven’t given yet.

Rather than immediately respond to the question, you latch onto the first part of what she said.

“That’s a new one.” You offer her a jesting smirk, trying to steady yourself through the haze. “What’s it mean?”

She smiles, warm and adoring. “Sunshine,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

Half of you wants to melt into her touch, to let her be your calm in the storm. But the other half is still stuck outside, with Agatha's voice echoing in your head. Wanda must notice the conflict dancing across your face, because she tilts her head slightly, silently offering you a space to talk.

You turn and give Nat a look that reassures her you’ll be back in a little, and once she gives you a nod in return, you’re tugging Wanda along to the quietest corner you can find.

As you settle, you stare at her for a beat too long, hoping the silence will string your thoughts together.

“Hi,” you blurt out, immediately regretting how lame it sounds.

“Hi,” she echoes, amused, her eyes sparkling.

You don’t even realize your nails are digging into your palms until she reaches forward, wordlessly soothing the tension there and stopping you from further hurting yourself.

“Milaya,” she says softly, “if you’re not ready to talk, that’s okay. I know you’re overwhelmed, but you don’t need to find the perfect thing to say.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a deep breath, and manage, “I’m sorry.”

Wanda frowns in confusion. “Sorry for what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You sigh, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. The green there is calm and grounding.

“I’m a mess, Wanda. I’ve been a mess for a while. I have so much I’m still figuring out, and the last thing I want is to drag you into it. You don’t deserve that.”

Pausing, you gather your thoughts, then add, “I want to be honest because the last thing I want is for you to feel like I’m keeping secrets or sneaking around. I care about you. You were my friend before anything else, and that means everything to me.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t know if I’m ready for something serious. And I don’t know how often Agatha’s going to be randomly showing up now. It’s just… it’s a lot and I would never want to drop all of that on you.”

The brunette watches you quietly for a long moment, and you feel like you’re holding your breath with every second she doesn’t speak.

Finally, she says, “I can handle it.”

Your head snaps up so fast she almost flinches. “W-what? What do you mean you can ‘handle it’?”

There’s a gentle curve to her lips, something between amusement and affection. “I’m a big girl, Y/N. I can decide what is and isn’t too much for me.”

Her tone is kind, but sure. Once again, you find yourself in awe of her—of her quiet steadiness in the face of your chaos. Though some small, stubborn part of you almost wants to laugh at how certain she sounds. As if she knows what she’s signing up for.

“Wanda…”

“Do you have feelings for me?” she asks, not pushing, just asking. “Even if they’re small. Even if you’re unsure. Is there some part of you that wants to explore this?”

“I mean, yeah. Of course I-” You stutter.

“Then that’s all that matters,” she says easily.

“I’m not expecting us to start dating tomorrow.” Her voice takes on a teasing lilt. “I’m fine with how things have been and I like the pace we’re going. I’m more than happy to let things happen naturally, just like we’ve already been doing.”

She pauses, brushing her thumb over the back of your hand.

“I know your ex is going to be lingering around, trying to make sense of what she broke. And no, I don’t love the idea. But I do hope the two of you get the peace you’re looking for.”

Her eyes meet yours again—open, patient, unafraid.

You blink at her like she’s just spoken in riddles, trying to fully absorb the meaning of her words. “You’re like… kinda perfect.”

A subtle flush rises to her cheeks, but she laughs it off with a warm, knowing look. “I’m far from perfect, dorogoy, but thank you.”

After a moment, she glances out toward the crowd, thoughtful. “So that was her, huh? Agatha.” There’s no judgment in her voice, just curiosity. “She’s… intense. Not quite the kind of person I pictured you with.”

With a small chuckle, you shrug, knowing from experience that you and Agatha didn’t always make sense to other people.

A yawn slips out of you, and you both decide it’s time to head back and start wrapping up the night. When you make your way back to the group, it seems everyone else is in a similar position—paying tabs, grabbing bags, and stifling yawns of their own. You all walk out together and say your goodnights, with you apologizing for how everything turned out and promising to reschedule sometime soon.

Wanda squeezes your hand in farewell as she heads to her car, and you’re about to do the same when Nat grabs you and turns you in the opposite direction.

“And where do you think you’re going, huh? You were throwing up barely an hour ago. I’m driving you home. No arguments.”

You don’t have the energy to argue even if you wanted to. You just lean into her side and let her lead you to the passenger’s door. Once you’re buckled in and she’s pulling out of the parking lot, a comfortable but charged silence takes over the space.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Y/N.” It’s not harsh, just careful.

“I’m doing the best that I can, Nat.” It might not be much, but it’s all you have right now.

“I know,” she says, quietly. “But you need to be careful. Wanda’s sweet. I like her. But she’s not the one I’m worried about.”

You sigh, already tired of this conversation before it fully begins. It’s one that feels all too familiar coming from her.

“No, Y/N.” Her voice tightens, her grip on the wheel just slightly firmer. “I was the one who was there when it all fell apart, remember? I was the one who picked you up when she couldn’t even be bothered to answer her damn phone. I saw what it did to you.”

You get where she’s coming from, you do. And yet it’s so much more complicated than that, and she knows it.

You nod slowly, eyes heavy. “I know you’re coming from a good place. I love you for it, I really do. But it’s not as simple as you make it out to be.”

“Y/N—”

“No.” You turn toward her, cutting her off, your voice trembling but resolute. “Let me finish.”

She quiets.

“I know all you see when you look at Agatha is someone who let me down. And yeah, she did. But you’ve always been a little biased, Nat.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but you keep going.

“You never liked her. You didn’t even give her a chance, you just decided from day one that I could do better.” There’s a pause, something in the air shifting, before you continue. “And maybe you were right, I don’t even know at this point. But you can’t pretend that we weren’t good together before everything. That I wasn’t… happy.”

She frowns, eyes flicking to the road ahead, jaw tight.

“You thought she was arrogant and difficult, and yeah—she was. But she also knew how to make me smile when no one else could. She believed in me when I didn’t. Whether you admit it or not, I think some part of you respected that.”

There’s a pause, the weight of old wounds settling thick between you.

“She was careless,” you continue, softer now. “But Agatha never would have hurt me on purpose. Not ever. We both know that. She loved me more than I ever thought was possible. And we both know that’s what’s made all of this so much harder.”

Natasha’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

“She wasn’t there,” she whispers.

“She didn’t know,” you argue, your voice cracking.

And you believe it. You really do.

The memories wrap around you. “Everything just spiraled. What happened that day—it never should’ve gone down like that. I’ve thought about it more times than I can count. She messed up, yeah, I’m not denying that. She hurt me, and I’m not pretending she didn’t. But I think maybe… maybe I forgave her a long time ago. Or maybe I realized I hurt her just as much when I walked away.”

Nat’s face softens, but her eyes are distant, caught in the past.

“I remember that day. Going to get your stuff,” she says, and there’s something rough in her voice. “There was a second when she opened the door and thought it was you. The look on her face when she realized it wasn’t...” She trails off, searching for the right words, but comes up empty. “I was so pissed at her. But that was the only time I actually felt kind of bad for her.”

You try not to picture it, but it’s too late.

“I shouldn’t have done that to her.” You’re speaking to yourself as much as you’re speaking to Nat. “No matter how alone I felt, I shouldn’t have just left with no conversation.“

The air in the car feels thick, like everything unsaid is pressing against the windows. Nat’s silent for a moment before finally—

“I think I let my anger steer the ship,” she admits. “I was so mad. At her, at you, at the whole situation. I think I just wanted it to be over. Clean break. I didn’t care if you two ever figured things out. I just wanted you safe and maybe I made things worse.” She swallows, hard. “I’m sorry.”

The car rolls to a stop outside your apartment. You look over and offer her a small, tired smile.

“It’s not your fault. I should have been able to think for myself—I just didn’t know how back then. And before I knew it, I had completely upended my life.” You shrug, as if it doesn’t still weigh on your chest.

She mirrors your expression, tenderly assessing you as she considers her final words.

“Just be careful, okay?” She makes sure you meet her eyes. “This time around if there’s a problem, say something. With either of them.” She gives you a knowing look and a hint of amusement dances behind her eyes.

You playfully roll yours in response, “Yeah, yeah. I got it, Mom.”

The redhead scoffs, a smirk tugging at her lips. “God forbid a girl look out for someone.”

You grab your bag and lean over to squeeze her arm—your silent thank you—before stepping out of the car. “Goodnight, Nat,” you murmur, voice softer now.

She nods, but doesn’t leave right away. Her eyes follow you all the way to the door of your building, only pulling off once she sees you safely inside.

Upstairs, you move on autopilot—shoes kicked off at the door, jacket shrugged onto the back of a chair, bathroom light flicked on with a sigh. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and change into whatever's closest and comfortable.

Eventually, you crawl under the covers, the quiet of your room deafening after the emotional noise of the night. You stare up at the ceiling, trying to piece it all together.

You don’t know what just happened.

And you have no fucking idea what happens next.

[midala-of-the-valley]

Your Heart Pulling Against Mine - Pt 25

David 8 x Reader Words: 1,3k Crossposted on Ao3 Chapter 24 is here

From David's throat and collarbone, countless polymer fibers protruded, curling and tangling - and it was deeply strange, uncanny even, to see the insides of someone while they were still looking at you. “This sight must disturb you,” he said, his voice distorted and fragile, the cords still fractured from the damage.

You sat cross-legged on the billiard table beside his legs, idly playing with his fingers. It felt like you were craving the contact, unwilling to part from him for long, still scared you might suddenly lose him. His head had to remain free for the pilots to work, but thankfully the table was broad enough for you to stay close.

All three men had gathered around David’s separated shoulders and head: Janek hunched over the edge, carefully soldering colorful wires that pulsed with tiny lights, working to reconnect his systems. Ravel stood beside him, illuminating the area with a small flashlight. You paused, your gaze drifting across the globs of white substance splattered over David’s exposed neck and chest. His suit had been peeled back to his chest, the flaps of synthetic skin folded back so everything could be accessed without trouble.

“Unusual, for sure,” you muttered, “but after the last day? This is a walk in the garden. I mean - I saw two literal aliens, helped deliver one of them, a bunch of corpses, four whole deaths..” You started counting them off on his fingers, curling each one down, until your gaze wandered to Chance, the only one who wasn’t actively working, aside from holding David’s head in place.

“Oh, by the way, what happened to the squid baby? You took care of it?”

Janek scoffed without looking up, and Chance answered. “It was still trapped in the medpod. Let’s just say it’s no more. But the medpod’s melted and done for, too.”

Ah. The trusty flamethrower had worked its magic again. Not that big of a loss, considering the pod had been completely covered in blood, slime and other fluids... “That thing was almost bursting out of there,” Chance added. “Opening it would've been suicide. Can’t believe it was still inside someone just thirty minutes ago.”

You hummed softly in aknowledgement, your focus returning to David’s hand. Gently, you traced the lines of his palm with your index finger. First the heart line, then the head line, quietly impressed that he even had them. They really had thought of everything when creating him.

“Yeah,” you murmured, “compared to all that shit, seeing you like this really isn’t so bad. At least you’re still alive and talking, that's a huge bonus compared to most of us."

You realized your humor had gotten quite dark, but how else were you supposed to cope with any of this? Still, your expression soured as your eyes caught on the tiny Weyland Industries logo printed into the skin of his fingertip.

You were just beginning to spiral into the familiar rise of anger again, the fury towards Weyland for what he’d done to David, to all of you, when David’s hand suddenly closed around yours. Startled, you blinked up at him. “It seems I can move my body again,” he said, the hint of a smile on his face. “Another bonus?” You laughed, relief bubbling up inside you, ripping you out of your negative thoughts. “Yes, definitely another bonus.”

A relieved exhale from Janek drew your attention back to him, and you tilted your head with a questioning hum. “We weren’t trained to repair androids, I only got my basic training in the military… and some skill from fixing my daughters’ bikes. So it’s good that David’s able to move, imagine if we reattached him the wrong way around.”

Chance nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got motorcycle tuning experience, that’s about it.” “Better than me,” Ravel chimed in. “Once got shocked trying to fix a vintage lamp that still used halogen bulbs.”

You could swear David’s eyes actually widened at that. Oh. Oh, that expression was priceless. He slowly lifted his gaze to the ceiling with a theatrically long-suffering look, lips pressed into a tight line. “I am very thankful,” he said, “that it’s just green to green and red to red - and that no one in this room is color blind.”

That made all of you burst into loud laughter. And finally being able to laugh with your whole heart felt like the most salvific thing in the world. David

The staples that helped his skin to remerge made you flinch as they punched through his neck, and he was quietly relieved that you still seemed to hold him close to your heart, even after these circumstances had shown him for what he feared he truly was. A machine trying to be a man. Unreal. A tool, just as his sister had once put it. But you stayed by his side without hesitation, ignoring your own aching bones and fatigue. Even using your last energy to once again get angry on his behalf. It stirred something deep within him. Without even realizing it, you had bound him to you - and he would be whatever you needed. Soft and gentle beneath your touch, unbreakable against anything that tried to take you away. He wished to be everything you needed, everything you craved - your friend, your lover, your family. 

This wasn’t something he could ever outright tell you, but seeing you marked with his blood, his very life, in a sense? And how proudly you wore it, instead of wiping it off in disgust? It felt like a quiet claim of his own.

He was grateful as the silicone plasters were placed over his skin, sealing the gaps. It meant he would soon be able to rise again. Soon, he would be able to hold you properly, to pull you into his arms, to lift you and carry you away, showing you how much you meant to him.

The way you had reacted with the stun gun, so quick, so fierce - he was truly impressed. And even though you had proven that you could navigate such dangers on your own, he still vowed to himself that he would never allow you to face such a situation again, especially because of your habit of protecting others instead of yourself.

Not now that he was free. Not now that he no longer had to obey anyone else.

Though he was still unsure what to do next. It was a small miracle that the Prometheus hadn’t already taken off. Likely because the Captain had been too occupied putting him back together. That didn’t explain why Meredith hadn’t forced the flight to proceed regardless of his condition.

Perhaps the little girl who had once cried into his lap while grieving over her mother now had no choice but to grieve for her father, alone.

But those thoughts didn’t matter now. He had to talk to you. Had to ask the unthinkable, and hope that you would listen. He might be free from Weyland, but he had created this directive himself: To protect you. To preserve you at all costs.

And he couldn’t do that back on Earth. Not when Meredith or the Company would reclaim him, repurpose him, maybe even destroy him. Going back was no option.

And from the dreams he’d seen... you had nothing left to return to, either. No family. No close friends. Everything you once had, lost over time.

Perhaps he already was your only truth, perhaps he could convince you.

As everyone but you left the recreation room to give you two some space, he slowly and carefully sat up, supporting his head so the fresh staples wouldn’t strain. Once he felt steady enough, he reached out and gently took your hands in his.

“We have to get off this ship.”

You both blinked in surprise, having spoken the same words at the same time. “Agreed,” came a third voice.

Startled, the both of you turned to find Elizabeth just entering the room, one brow arched at the sight of you and David holding hands while sitting on the billiard table.

That... He had not expected that.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Taglist: @sadslasher13 @blxuqueenie

[fictionadventurer]

Jane Eyre's really going all in on denouncing pretty privilege, huh?

The first on-screen instance of abuse is Mrs. Reed telling her, "You're being punished until you completely revamp your personality to become an extrovert." Multiple people straight-up say, "She'd be lovable if she were pretty." Telling her the family would accept her if she were pretty and sanguine, but because she's plain and melancholic, even perfect behavior isn't good enough.

It's interesting, but also seems like major overkill. I can believe it would be an issue, but not that everyone in her life would phrase it this way to her face. It's reaching Very Special Episode levels of hitting you over the head with the message.

Was this critiquing an actual problem in Victorian society? Or just the literary conventions of what a heroine should be like? Or is it Charlotte protesting too much on behalf of all "not like other girls"? I'm not sure what I think of it yet.

[lunavagans]

Brain feels like a scraped out ice cream container and I‘m procrastinating on writing both what I need and want to write. Have a snippet from a WIP.

[nico-di-angelfish]

i just finished reading the world according to garp and oh my god. what a book! so now i immediately have to read everything else john irving has ever written

[wormwonder]

playing with circles O●°○•°o.

[soloavengers]

red rising would be as good as people say it is if it wasn’t written by a guy who writes like an edgy teenage boy with a heart

[rubeerambles]

What an opening chapter! I, myself, feel quite (re)enlightened to the arduous nature of the capitalist life that I, like the animals, am subjected to and I share their strong desire to rebel. It is really such a powerful speech from Old Major and while I know the novel is a critique of communism more broadly, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the way impassioned preachers speak about Christ’s second coming.

Specifically, phrases like “it might be in a week, or in a hundred years” echo biblical language about the unknown timing of Christ’s return. Similarly, Old Major urges the animals to “fix their eyes” on justice, just as Christians are told to fix their eyes on the promise of eternal life. And perhaps rebellion, for the animals, represents their version of salvation, a vision of eternal peace and deliverance from suffering.

What’s fascinating is how Old Major’s speech doesn’t just inspire; it also foreshadows. His final warnings to the animals about the dangers of becoming like their oppressors essentially summarise the arc of the entire story. But even beyond the speech, there are already subtle signs that the animals (especially the pigs) will eventually fall to human nature. One moment that stood out to me in this regard was Orwell’s description of Clover as “never having quite got her figure back.” It’s such a human way of speaking about someone that it felt like early, almost humorous foreshadowing of the animals’ slide into human-like behaviours.

[acid-ixx]

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

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

read under the end for an author's note.

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

the world was still spinning when you had awoken.

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

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

what happened?

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

— lots of it.

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

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

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

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

jason.

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

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

these days?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'he can have it for all i care.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

those were never meant to clash, let alone part.

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

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

jason, meanwhile.

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

how it never quite changed, even until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you were wrong, you always were.

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

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

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

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

— and remember the even more painful present.

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

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

oh, my momma.

how you miss her and her angelic presence already.

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

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

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

rather than...

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

this unfamiliar room...

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

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

have you been out for an entire day?

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

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

but worse yet, the most dreaded of them all—

a room with your brother in it.

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

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

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

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

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

dark and heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he sounded so...

broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

no.

your breath hitches—

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

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

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

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

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

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

since when did he care?

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

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

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

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

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

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

one word: fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jason.

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

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

your life is so fucked.

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

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

just like now: anywhere but him.

you can't expend anymore hope—

"why, angel?"

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

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

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

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

"for-for wh— what?"

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

it's just so incomprehensible for you.

his worry is just too foreign.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

were you... crying?

"just answer me, please."

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

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

what changed?

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

"i don't know..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you're lying."

"h—huh?"

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

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

"wh—"

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

until all you could focus on were his questions.

why?

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

"when's my birthday, jason?"

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

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

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

"what...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eighteen is a quintessential part of someone's life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you did, didn't you?

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

"—i have to go, jason..."

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

god, fuck—!

it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.

your heart, your head, your entire body.

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

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

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

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

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

the tears still won't stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it hurts, doesn't he know that?

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

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

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

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

not when you never mattered to him, right?

and it feels like a part of you broke tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the lonely, scared child you still are?

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

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

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

until it bleeds, until it all bleeds.

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

'this isn't the jason i knew.'

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

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

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

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

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

"— what?"

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

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

"JUST FUCKING ANSWER MY QUESTION, GODDAMNIT!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

so why, why does he care so much now?

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

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

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

why do you still cry after all these years?

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

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

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

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

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

'jason, why do you still try?'

"angel, calm down you're—"

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

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

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

"just calm down, please—!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what...?

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

just that?

just a burden?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's just silent understanding, a painful acceptance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that painful reminder just makes past emotions stir within you.

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

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

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

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

he truly never knew you well at all, huh?

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

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

"jason... please listen to me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i just..."

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

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

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

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

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

how hard was it to understand that sentiment?

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

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

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

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

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

that hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you nearly worked yourself to death because of it.

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

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

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

it was you that's unlovable.

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

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

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

"is it so hard to love me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"please, jay!"

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

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

"—not there..."

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

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

"... not with you, please."

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

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

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

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

"i am your brother!"

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

it just hurts...

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

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

why, just why, is he calming down now?

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

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

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

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

"i'm— i'm so sorry, angel."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

made carefully, cleaned neatly for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and both of you were- were good...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

imperfect, sullen and easily broken, like you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and now?

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

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

you still had nothing to offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"all for you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you crack at the seams.

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

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

yet you continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'how dare you, jason...'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'be the bigger person, (name).'

'because you are not a wayne anymore—

you are your mother's child.'

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

but ultimately, you came from her.

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

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

"look, okay... promise me this—"

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

he nods, urging you to continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"can you do that for me, jason?"

"..."

"— alright..."

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

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

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

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

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

but him.

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

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

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

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

let the past be a dream.

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

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

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

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

a mere device for tactical missions.

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

its usefulness was only for practicality.

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

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

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

all that it is, all it ever was.

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

the same old, rickety intercoms.

just like old times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but with nobody to mourn you.

"we need to talk about (name)."

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

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

"tell me what happened."

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

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

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

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

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

no.

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

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

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

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

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

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

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

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

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

[jasontoddiefor]

Yeah sure we’ve all binged a long fic, but have you ever read a WIP and followed someone’s life?

Tidbits of information - (“I graduated today!”) - and small joys (“It’s my birthday!”) and you get to be there to say “This chapter made me cry, happy birthday, thank you for gifting us this”.

I remember reading this fic of someone at the end of high school, older than me then. They seemed infinitely wise, spoke of their future career and getting into the college they wanted. I remember them posting on days they felt like nothing could bring them down - and on days the whole world did and it’s the aftermath of a hospital visit. Cancer, I think it was, their father. I got to the end of the story, I know their father was fine, but also they got to finish their WIP. I graduated three years later than them, still dutifully wrote thank you notes in every comment. I wonder if they remember me, or just the collective of people reading the story as it updates.

Four years ago I was into my first year of university, my first year of figuring out being out in public spaces. I made excuses as to why my name didn’t match my paperwork and read a fic on the train, the same five chapters over and over again for the next years as I thought the story abandoned. It updated this week after such a long hiatus, I left another thank you comment.

There’s an author I love, they update their stories like a clockwork. When they don’t, I check their blog, just to see if their doing alright, not because I feel like they owe me, just to ensure whether I better get out my laptop to write that really detailed university level essay chapter analysis to get them smiling when their day sucked.

And then, once, when I was 17, I read a fic that hadn’t updated in over a decade. I wasn’t even in primary school when it started posting. On the last chapter, I left a comment that, in retrospect, was horribly rambly and most likely full of grammar mistakes. The author replied and though I couldn’t see their face, I thought of them crying. They were married now, had children, and hadn’t thought about this fic in years. They went through their files again, found another half written chapter and an outline. I got two new chapters to read that year.

And then, recently, someone told me they got back into writing original fiction because of my comments. I get to read nearly weekly chapters.

I love binge reading a finished fic, but nothing is ever going to top the feeling of anticipation of waiting for a chapter, the pure joy when someone tells you I was done with this, but you made me think of it again, so this is for you.

Anyway, I think we should romanticize reading WIPs more, growing up alongside the authors writing the stories we love.

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FOUR

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy; abortion; health risks; insecurities. chapter one┆chapter two┆ chapter three

You were curled up next to Rafe, head on his shirtless chest, listening to the rise and fall of his breath.

You could hear the crash of the waves. His fingers were tangled in your hair, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

“Do you ever think about the future?” You asked, not even sure why you said it. 

Maybe it was the mood, the quiet.

He laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your cheek.

“Future? Baby, we’re in the future right now.” He tilted his head to look down at you, his blue eyes catching the last bits of sunlight, making them almost glow. “What more do we need?”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him with your elbow. “I’m serious. What’s next for us?”

He was quiet for a second, and you held your breath, waiting. Sometimes Rafe had this way of avoiding real talk. He’d joke, or deflect, or turn the conversation back to something easy.

“You,” he said, his voice low like he was confiding you a secret. “You’re what’s next. What’s always next.” His arm tightened around you, pulling you into his lap. 

You smiled, that stupid, giddy smile that probably made you look ridiculous, but you didn’t care. His breath tickled your forehead as he kissed you there slowly.

He was so sure in that moment, like nothing could touch you two.

You lifted your head, just enough to look at him.

His face was so clear, each detail spot on, you could reach out and touch it. His messy beach hair, the way it fell into his eyes, his crooked smile, that scar on his chin from when he’d wiped out on his bike in high school.

All of him was yours.

“Promise?” You asked, like a part of you needed to hear it again, needed the reassurance.

Rafe leaned in, his lips grazing yours before he whispered against them, “Promise.”

He had this way of making all feel so simple, like the future wasn’t some big, scary thing.

“I’m never letting you go,” it sounded more like a prayer coming from his lips, fingers tracing small circles on your arm, sending these tiny electric shocks through you. “You’re stuck with me, Thornton.”

“Good.”

But then something changed.

His grip loosened. His warmth started to fade, and you blinked, confused. You lifted your head, trying to find his eyes, but his face was different.

Blurred. Distant.

“Rafe?” You whispered, reaching for him, but he wasn’t there.

The warmth was completely gone, replaced with cold, empty air. You turned, searching for him, but all you saw were shadows where he used to be.

The waves crashed louder, and you realized you were alone. Just like that, everything was gone, everything he promised, was gone.

You sat up in bed, gasping, hands instinctively going to your stomach in the darkness of your bedroom.

He wasn’t here. He was with her. You were alone. 

Pregnant.

You tried to stabilize your breathing, wiping away the tears that had slipped out during your sleep. The bed felt too big, empty without him. And the memory of his touch, his words, felt cruel now. 

You stared up at the ceiling wondering how a memory could feel so real, so vivid, but that was all it was. Just a memory. Just another piece of the past you kept chasing.

You looked down at your stomach, your hand still resting on the bump, if you could call it that. You weren’t showing at all, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. You knew it was.

Your very first appointment was in a few hours, and the thought of it made you want to throw up.

You needed to know how far along you were. It would be easier to stay in bed and let the what ifs spiral in your head than to face them, but you didn’t hold that privilege anymore.

You dragged yourself out of queen-sized bed, avoiding the mirror as you moved around the room.

You didn’t want to see your reflection right now, you dreaded facing the girl who had let herself get into this mess.

You threw on a pair of loose, old sweats and a hoodie, one that swallowed you whole, hiding everything.

The kind of outfit that made you feel invisible, and right now, that’s exactly what you wanted. It’s not like anyone around here cared much anyway, rich girl or not, kooks were experts at pretending. 

You grabbed your keys, your phone, and the one thing you couldn’t forget today —courage.

One foot in front of the other. One breath at a time.

The appointment was soon, and you needed to get there. You kept reminding yourself that you’d figure it out once you knew how far along you were, everything would make sense after that.

The drive there was a mess, the anxiety and anger, you didn’t want to acknowledge today were taking turns messing with your head.

You didn’t want to think about how you’d once imagined a future with Rafe, how he’d promised you a lifetime under the sun.

You could never feel guilty about keeping this from him. He’d made his choices, and now you had to make yours.

You rolled up in your car and had to park in the visitor lot, trying to sneak in like you weren’t a whole mess of nerves behind the wheel of a brand-new Range Rover.

It was practically empty, which was fine by you, less people to run into, less eyes on you, since every second you spent there was a second someone could recognize you.

Someone could see, that was the last thing you needed — for this to become some juicy little rumor for the Kildare gossip mill to chew up and spit out. 

You pulled your oversized sunglasses lower on your face, hoping they’d hide the fact that you were shaking.

You hated the fact that you were even in this position as you sat there, tapping your foot impatiently, checking the clock every five minutes like it was some kind of countdown to freedom.

Every noise from the hallway made you flinch, like any second someone familiar would burst through the door, see you there.

You winced in horror when your name was called out, following the nurse leading you down a sterile hallway that smelled of antiseptic. You tried to keep your mind off the fact that this was the first step toward the most life-altering decision you’d ever have to make. 

"The doctor will be in soon."

Times like these you wished you’d chosen a private clinic, but you had to avoid as many kooks as possible, even if it meant slumming it in this hospital. 

This was real.

Sitting down on the exam table, the paper crinkled under you, the sound making you cringe. You felt so small in that room, so alone. You’d always had someone—Rafe, even Topper. But right now, it was just you.

Your legs dangled off the edge of the table as you waited.

It felt like forever before there was a knock on the door, and the doctor entered.

"Hi, I’m Dr. Madison," she greeted you, offering you a smile as she sat down on the stool beside you. "How are you feeling today?"

What the fuck were you supposed to say? That your life was falling apart? That you didn’t know what to do? 

So you settled for a, “"I’ve been better," looking anywhere but at her.

She nodded like she understood, she’d most likely heard it all before. 

"Alrigh’, we’re just going to take a look and see how far along you are, okay? I’ll need you to lay back."

You did as she said, leaning back against the stiff pillow, trying to relax. 

"This is going to be a little cold," she warned as she reached for the ultrasound gel.

A little? You nearly jumped off the table as the gel hit your stomach, cold and slimy, like ice against your skin. You winced but tried to keep still as she spread it over your lower abdomen.

The machine whirred to life, and she placed the probe on your stomach. You sucked in a breath, trying not to cry as the screen lit up with grainy images.

She moved the probe slowly, methodically, her eyes glued to the monitor, and you couldn’t breathe. 

You forced your eyes to the ceiling, refusing to look at the monito, refusing to see. You couldn’t let yourself get attached, not like that.

If you saw what was on that screen—if you saw the shape of something, anything—it would kill you. Your breaths were shallow, and your fingers clenched the sides of the exam table, gripping the paper until it tore under your hands.

Dr. Madison was quiet as she moved the probe over your skin, you knew she was seeing something. You could hear the beeping of the machine, the faint hum of the monitor.

"Okay. Looks like you’re about thirteen weeks along."

"How long is that?"

"Almost 3 months, give or take."

No, that couldn’t be right, you’d barely felt any different.

You were at thirteen weeks. Just over the line.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry.

 "Thirteen?" you repeated, like maybe if you said it out loud, it would make more sense. But it didn’t.

"Alright," you told her, voice even, like that number wasn’t echoing in your head, smashing through the calm you’d been faking this whole time. 

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Madison eyes scanned your face, probably trying to gauge how much of this you were even absorbing. “I know this is a lot to take in.”

A lot? That didn’t even begin to cover it.

The doctor cleared her throat gently. “In North Carolina, after twelve weeks, the options for termination become much more limited unless it falls under specific conditions like rape, incest, or a fetal anomaly. I know this might be overwhelming, but I’m here to walk you through what’s possible.”

You nodded, but it was a lie. You weren’t hearing any of it, you were already listing other possibilities, another place.

Your mind was a step ahead, planning out the details, flights, or maybe driving. Somewhere where no one would ask questions, where you could walk in and get this over with.

Just slip away for a couple days.

She kept talking, saying something about other options, but you weren’t hearing it. It sent your heart into a stampede.

"Thanks, Doctor," you said when you realized she was done speaking, your voice perfectly polite, perfectly controlled. 

It felt like you were watching someone else speak.

You were nodding like you understood like you had a plan. Inside? You were screaming. Your thoughts were a mess, colliding into each other—Oh my God, what now, what the fuck are you going to do? So much more work just because you were stupid enough to wait.

Dr. Madison gave you this list—appointments to schedule, things you should and shouldn’t do, prenatal vitamins to pick up. She might as well have been speaking a different language for all you heard. 

You mumbled something that sounded like “thanks” as she handed you the prescription, barely glancing at the paper. 

“Is there really nothing I can do?”

You couldn't confide your plans to her, for obvious reasons.

“I can’t advocate for any illegal options, but I understand your concern. If you were just a week earlier, we could have discussed a simple outpatient procedure. However, now you’re facing a more complex situation.”

You never felt so frustrated in your life, “But I’m—I can get you anything. You don’t understand, I can pay—”

“Miss Thornton,” she interrupted, her voice firm yet sympathetic, “I know you’re not trying to bribe me right now. I need you to understand that legality and ethics come into play here. What you’re suggesting isn’t something I can support or even discuss further. We have to work within the framework of the law.”

You bit your tongue, resisting the temptation to lash out at her.

“So that’s it, then? I’m just supposed to accept that I’m stuck with this?”

“There are still options we can explore together. We can discuss what’s next in terms of prenatal care, adoption, or even resources that might help you if you choose to carry the pregnancy to term. But I can’t ignore the fact that you’re beyond the legal limit for a straightforward abortion.”

You blinked rapidly, “Adoption?”

The idea of keeping the baby made your stomach bend into a different shape, but that alternative felt just as wrong.

She looked at you with genuine empathy.

“I understand that this is overwhelming. The decision is ultimately yours, but I need to emphasize that time is of the essence, and the choices you make today will have lasting implications.”

Then she was gone, leaving you alone in that sterile room with your head spinning.

You couldn’t even fucking remember the last time you felt normal. Now, you were staring down the barrel of a pregnancy you didn’t even know was this far along. The doctor’s speech about vitamins, checkups, and avoiding alcohol bounced off around in your head.

You swallowed down the nausea that had nothing to do with morning sickness, grabbed your purse, and walked out like nothing had just changed. 

You shoved the papers into your purse without a second thought, your mind already screaming to get out, to run, to go somewhere.

Anywhere but here.

As you walked out into the waiting area, you spotted a mother with her toddler, the kid giggling and playing with his toys. Would your baby be that happy? Would they giggle like that?

No, no, you couldn’t go there.

Your fingers were numb as they fumbled for your keys, and you somehow managed to get into the Rover.

The second the door slammed shut, the tears you’d been restraining started to fall.

All you could think about was getting far, far away from here, somewhere no one would recognize you, where people didn’t know your last name or expect you to show up to some debutante ball with a well-behaved husband, a kid on each arm, perfectly polished.

"Fuck..." you whispered through clenched teeth, squeezing your eyes shut like maybe that could make it stop. But it didn’t. Your whole body was trembling, hands shaking so hard you couldn't hold the wheel right.

You leaned your forehead against the steering wheel, trying to catch your breath.

Thirteen weeks.

You couldn’t stay here, in this parking lot. You needed to go somewhere safe, somewhere that made sense. You needed them.

Without really thinking, you turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the lot. 

You didn’t even know where you were going at first, your body knew, the same familiar route you’d taken too many times. You didn’t realize where you were going at first, but once you passed the last stoplight before the cemetery, it hit you.

You parked haphazardly, not caring if your car was straight or if anyone saw. This was the only place you could think of. The only place that wasn’t ruined by all the mess in your life. 

Your parents. Your sister.

Their graves were tucked away in the back corner, under the big oak tree that had been there for as long as you could remember. You parked the car and got out, the ground crunching under your feet as you made your way to them. 

You sank to your knees in front of their headstones, your fingers brushing against the cool marble as if touching them could somehow make them feel closer. They’d been gone for five years, and no matter how many times you came here, that fact never got easier to swallow.

“I don’t know what to do,” you choked out, stopping to bite down on your bottom lip hard to keep from completely breaking down. “I’m so... I’m so fucking lost.”

The wind rustled the leaves above you, and for a second, you wished it would just take you away too. Make everything disappear.

“I’m pregnant.” You spit the words out, voice cracking, like admitting it was burning your throat. “Thirteen weeks,” you added, saying it out loud for the first time. Your hands curled into fists, fingers digging into the grass.

The tears came back, harder this time, and you bent forward, clutching your stomach, forehead pressing into the ground as if you could just bury yourself there. 

“I can’t—I can’t do this alone. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Your voice broke completely, turning into a sob that you couldn’t stop. You were crying so hard you couldn’t even breathe, gasping, like you were drowning in it. 

“Why aren’t you here?” you cried, “Why did you leave me? Why did you—” but the words caught in your throat, turning into another round of weeping.

You stayed for a long time, curled up on the ground, crying so hard it hurt, until the tears finally slowed, until you felt empty, drained.

Afterwards, you sat back, wiping at your swollen eyes with the back of your hand.

“I’m pregnant,” you repeated, this time softer, “And I can’t... I can’t tell him. He’s with her, and I—I just can’t.”

You sniffed, cleaning your nose with your sleeve, feeling ridiculous and broken all at once.

Your breath hitched again as you forced yourself to stand up, even though every part of you wanted to collapse back onto the ground. 

They were gone, it was just you. Alone. You think that’s why there was this tiny persistent voice in the back of your brain whispering things you weren’t ready to hear.

This was a chance, wasn’t it? To finally have someone again, someone you didn’t have to say goodbye to.

The second the thought crossed your mind, you felt a gush of panic, a nauseating conviction that you were nowhere near capable of raising a child. You barely remembered to take care of yourself, so how could you possibly take care of a baby?

It felt so fucked up to you, to think this could be a “fresh start” or something like it—no, you weren’t naïve enough to believe that. Not when you’d barely coped to get through the last five years.

You remembered the doctor’s voice, factual, mentioning adoption.

Carrying this baby only to hand it over to someone else—someone who might be better equipped—Could you do that? Carry a piece of your family’s future, only to give it away? It felt wrong.

You were halfway to your car, still wiping the tears from your face, when you heard someone call your name.

“Hey... Is that you?”

You froze. The last thing you wanted was to run into someone, especially now. Not here, not like this.

Turning slowly, you saw her — Sarah Cameron, Rafe’s sister — standing by her mom’s grave.

She was holding a bouquet of wildflowers, brown eyes narrowing as she took you in. She looked like she'd been here a while, but the moment she saw your state, she dropped what she came here to do.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" she asked, her voice rising with worry.

Her eyes, so different from Rafe’s, scanned over you, taking in your bloodshot eyes, the messy hair, the way your clothes were dirty from sitting on the ground too long. 

You hadn’t taken sides when her and Topper split up; you’d just known, deep down, that they weren’t right for each other. He had this stubborn, idealized version of her that she could never live up to, and that had been the beginning of the end.

You opened your mouth to say something, to tell her you were fine, that you didn’t need her sympathy right now. Instead, you just stood there like a fucking idiot, eyes wide, as Sarah dropped the flowers and rushed to your side.

“Hey, hey,” she panicked, as if she was talking to a wounded animal. “What happened? What’s going on?”

Sarah touched your arm gently, and that’s when it hit you, the fear, the panic, the loneliness — it overwhelmed you.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around her, holding on tight.

You didn’t even care how desperate it looked, how messed up you were right now. You just needed someone.

She froze for a split second, caught off guard, but then she softened, her arms wrapping around you tightly. She was warm, solid, and so there, and the moment she hugged you back, the floodgates opened for the millionth time that week.

You started crying again, silent but hard, your face buried in her shoulder as your whole body shook.

Sarah didn’t say anything; didn’t ask questions, just focused on holding you tighter, her hand smoothing over your back like she was trying to calm you down. The kindness of it, the warmth,you hadn’t grasped how much you needed it until right now.

“Shh, it’s okay,” her voice was soothing. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You hadn’t seen her in months — not since everything went down with her and Rafe after Ward died.

The whole family had fallen apart after that.

Sarah had cut ties again, another fallout with Rafe. Things between them were always like a ticking time bomb, and Ward’s death had blown everything wide open. You knew they hadn’t been on speaking terms since.

It made this moment even weirder, seeing her here, of all places. She looked different, too, she was carrying her grief, her pain, that wild spark in her eyes a little more dim than you remembered.

As you pulled away from the hug, you blinked through the tears, and her face came back into focus. She was still looking at you, her brows knitted with worry, the wildflowers she’d brought for her mom now forgotten on the ground behind her. 

She looked like she was about to ask a million questions, but she was waiting for you to speak first.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you finally said something, trying to wipe your face with the sleeve of your hoodie. It was a lame thing to say, but you couldn’t find any better words.

Sarah gave a small, sad smile, shrugging a little. 

“Yeah, I just… I come here sometimes. To see my mom.” Her voice was quieter than usual, and you could hear the strain behind it, “I guess I needed it today.”

You understood the feeling all too well.

You both stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and you could tell she was dying to ask why you were here. Why you looked like you’d just been rolling around in the dirt. 

Instead, she said, “You okay? I mean, really?”

In some weird way, you’d always thought you’d be able to keep this part of yourself locked away, hidden and safe where no one could see it

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, the lie slipping out too easily. “Just… rough day, you know?” Your voice was hoarse, still shaky from the crying.

Sarah frowned, not convinced. She stepped closer, her hand hovering near your arm like she wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if you’d let her.

"You sure? You don’t look fine."

You forced a smile, “Yeah, I’m good. Just needed some air. It’s been a lot.” You didn’t want to get into it, didn’t want to unload everything. 

She sighed, her shoulders slumping just a little. 

“Okay. But… you know if you ever need to talk to someone, I’m here, right?”

You blinked, not really sure how to answer to that, nodding away, hoping she’d drop it.

“I know I was just Rafe’s little sister,” she continued with pursed lips, “but you’ve always been like a big sister to me. Okay? Him being an asshole to both of us doesn’t change that. Ever.”

You could see she meant it. This wasn’t just some passing offer out of pity, Sarah was genuinely worried, wanting to be there for you.

You just nodded dumbly.

Sarah smiled softly with that same old Cameron determination. “Seriously. Whatever’s going on, I’m here.”

You stepped back, breaking the small bubble of comfort, you didn’t even realize you’d let her create.

“I should probably go,” you awkwardly muttered, brushing your hair out of your face and trying to straighten out your hoodie like that could somehow make you seem more put together. “But thanks, Sarah. Really.”

She just watched you with that worried look still across her face, but then she nodded. “Anytime.”

You turned to leave, feeling her eyes on your back as you walked away, your steps slow on the grass.

The loneliness had been suffocating, and even though you didn’t tell her anything, just hearing Sarah say she was there, that she still saw you as family—it meant more than you wanted to admit.

It wasn’t like anything was magically better.

You used to think this island would keep you safe forever, that it was big enough to hold your problems. 

Now, it felt like it was shrinking around you.

You were curled up on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees.

You’d googled “abortion options United States,” expecting answers, but all you found were long lists of restrictions, rules, states drawing hard lines.

You already knew that in North Carolina, you were already past the point of no return. So you kept digging, checking every single state until you found one, a random thread on some forum, that talked about New Mexico.

No restrictions on timing.

You scrolled, following link after link, getting deep into some Reddit threads, reading accounts from women who’d done it, who’d had to pack up their whole lives, fly out, handle everything on their own.

No one to tell, just a flight, a few days’ stay in a place that looked nothing like home, just to try and get back to normal. The whole time you were reading, this weird sense of relief and fear entwined in your gut. 

So you can get out of this.

By the time you shut your laptop, your head was pounding but at least you had something that felt like a plan.

The next morning, you woke up before the sun, tossing on yesterday’s clothes and brushing your hair as best you could with one hand. You scrolled through the numbers you’d scribbled down last night and dialed the first one.

You had to it straight away, without a chance of backing out. So you closed your eyes with all your might and hit call.

A woman’s voice picked up on the fourth ring.

“Women’s Health Center, this is Amanda. How can I help you?”

You cleared your throat, trying to sound normal. Like you weren’t shaking like a leaf.

“Hi. Um, I’m calling to see about scheduling… an appointment. I’m about thirteen weeks.”

“We do have availability. Our next spot is ten days from now.”

Ten days. Shit. Could you wait that long, or was that too soon? Shouldn't you think about it some more?

Maybe you needed more time.

Or maybe you shouldn’t be doing this at all.

You were already running through a hundred different what-ifs, a panicked mental list of everything you hadn’t thought through.

“Is that… is that the soonest?” You surprised yourself by asking.

There was a pause on the other end, and you could hear the kindness in Amanda’s voice.

“Yes, it’s our first available spot for a procedure beyond twelve weeks,” she informed you, “We’d also want to complete a few assessments with you, along with some necessary paperwork and counseling. I can walk you through everything if that helps.”

You nodded automatically, realizing a second too late she couldn’t see you. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

“I’ll go over a few things with you, so you’re prepared. Do you have a pen handy?”

You grabbed a random envelope and pen from the countertop, jotting down every detail.

“You’ll need a form of ID, proof of residency—we’re required to check for that. Some basic insurance information if you have it. You’ll also have some health assessments here when you arrive, mostly standard but including a psychological evaluation just to ensure everything’s covered from a health perspective.”

It was all just words, logistics. You weren't exactly processing the information, just robotically writing it down.

“There’s also a mandatory counseling session we’ll need to go through. In case you have questions, or concerns. This will all be confidential, but it’s for your safety, both physically and emotionally.”

“Right,” you said, just to say something. You didn’t know if you even wanted to talk about it, not with her or anyone. You just wanted this to be over with.

“The procedure itself is straightforward, but it’s still a surgery. It’ll last anywhere from 10 to 20 minutes, with a little more time afterward for recovery. We’ll go over any complications with you once you’re here—risk of infection, bleeding, discomfort. We make sure you’re clear on what to expect before anything happens.”

You forced yourself to nod, then remembered she couldn’t see you. “Got it. I’ll—yeah, I’ll get the paperwork together.”

"Just one last thing," Amanda added, "Given the nature of the procedure, we ask that you bring a companion along, someone to stay with you. They don’t have to be in the room, of course, but they’ll need to be present to help you get back safely after."

Your hand stopped. A companion?

"What?"

The small sense of peace was gone in a heartbeat.

You wanted to tell her that it would be fine, you’d figure it out, because, rationally speaking, who could you ask or who would you even trust with this?

"It's a requirement,” Amanda clarified, “For your safety. You’ll need someone there with you. It’s non-negotiable.”

“Right. So, like… a friend? Or…” You trailed off, trying to hide the fear overcoming your senses.

“Exactly,” she said. “A friend, a family member—just someone you’re comfortable with. It’s standard procedure for anything this involved.”

A friend. Family. Someone who could sit in that waiting room and just… know everything. You didn’t even have anyone who could know you were pregnant, let alone be with you for this. 

“The total will be around $3,500, which we typically split into a down payment and a final balance due at the time of the procedure. We can take payment in cash, card, or even a wire transfer if you need that flexibility. We’ll also require a 20% deposit to hold your spot, which you can pay over the phone now or through our secure online portal.”

You glanced at the envelope where you’d jotted down notes, biting your lip as you stared at the numbers. “Right, um, yeah, I can do the deposit now.”

“That’s perfect. One moment, please.” There was a click as she transferred you, and while you waited, you blinked down at the deposit amount. 

Seven hundred, you thought. Seven hundred dollars just to hold a place. It was nothing to you and yet it felt monumental.

A robotic voice greeted you, and you keyed in the card information, watching the screen as it processed. The payment cleared, and you felt the strangest sense of finality.

It was real, stamped and sealed.

Amanda returned to the line, “Thank you for taking care of that. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

“No, that's all. Thank you."

“Of course. We’ll see you in ten days.”

Now you were at this god for saken country club brunch. Why you even came, you had no idea.

Maybe it was a pathetic attempt to feel normal. 

You were trying so hard to look casual, like you hadn’t just been on the phone with a stranger, scheduling the most personal appointment of your life.

Thankfully, Ruthie had canceled last minute — some emergency with your cousin, no doubt. Small miracles. The last thing you needed was her crazy ass analyzing everything you did.

The spread of food on the table looked like a minefield of smells.

Just the sight of the eggs benedict made you want to hurl on your seat, and the fruity smell of the mimosas wafting through the air was…torture.

You’d kill for a sip, maybe even two. 

You were watching the sunlight catch on the bubbles, sparkling like they were tauting you. The craving was there, whispering thoughts that felt equal parts impossible and unavoidable. The idea hovered, tempting you with a cruel promise.

A few mimosas could maybe make this go away, couldn't it? Maybe you’d get lucky and this nightmare would just end on its own.

But the thought made you sick.

You could almost feel it, this new life clinging to you, sticking around no matter how much you wished it’d leave. There was some echo of a moral sense—some annoying, reasonable, voice within your head that wouldn’t let you grab the damn mimosa even though your fingers were twitching for it.

What was the problem if you were getting rid of it anyway?

You forced yourself to look away from the mimosas, knowing that just one glass might make you feel something—anything—other than this sick dread.

With an effort, you forced yourself to say, “Water, please.”

Of course, the universe just had to have its laugh, because the one bringing it wasn’t just any waiter.

It was Sofia. 

How come everyone got a break from shitty things happening to them, and you didn’t?

You must’ve been really awful in your past life.

Perhaps you were one of those medieval villains who ordered people to be drawn and quartered, or some spoiled empress tossing servants into dungeons for looking at you wrong.

How else could you explain it? Life kept pilling more shit on top of you. Or maybe it was less about karma and more about some fucked up endurance test. You were still here.

Rafe’s latest… girlfriend? Hookup? Whatever the hell they were, she had that title, and now she was in front of you, all fresh-faced, her apron hugging her like she’d just walked out of some pinterest brunch board.

Her hair was pulled back in this cute little bun, and her face held that perfectly innocent smile that made you want to scream.

She was practically glowing. 

Her skin had that effortless, sun-kissed warmth like she’d just gotten back from the Maldives or something. Not a shadow under her eyes, not a single stray hair — just this easy, perfect beauty that looked even more surreal under the soft morning sunlight.

It was ridiculous.

Meanwhile, you felt like a mess. Dark circles, a slight breakout on your chin, and an overall look of someone who hadn’t slept in… weeks? or was it months?

The last good night before nausea became a part of your daily life, and the constant anxiety kept you up at all hours, staring at the ceiling and wishing it’d all just disappear.

And here she was, gliding around like she was untouched by anything so messy, so…human.

You glanced down at your outfit, the pristine, tailored Miu Miu set from the new collection —the cropped blazer was light and airy, perfectly cinched at the waist, with sleeves just long enough to make it feel sophisticated but breezy, paired with a sleek, high-waisted mini skirt, the whole ensemble skimmed your frame effortlessly, made just for you.

You knew you looked expensive, the kind of look people envied, even if they’d never admit it. 

Every stitch, every button on this outfit screamed privilege and class, and yet here you were feeling like some tragic, half-dead version of the old you.

Why the fuck were you even comparing yourself to her? She was still a pogue, for god’s sake.

Rafe’s latest toy or project or whatever, you had no business even wasting brain cells on her. So what if she looked a little too chipper, too perfect? 

She wasn’t worth the mental energy.

Just as you forced yourself to refocus, Sofia reappeared, setting a glass of water in front of you with that same innocent, syrupy smile.

“Here’s your water,” she chirped.

You hated that sound. 

She didn't look or sound in-your-face or territorial, more salt on an open wound.

Just hours ago, you were piecing together plans to get rid of the very thing that tied you to Rafe, and now here she was. 

You gave the glass a pointed look and then raised your eyes to meet hers. “I asked with ice.”

No, you didn’t.

You were supposed to be above this kind of petty bullshit, weren’t you? But the bitterness rooted in your gut like the mimosas you wanted so desperately.

“Oh?” Her face froze, that little smile twitching just a bit. “You did? I must’ve heard wrong. I’ll be right back with it.” She looked genuinely flustered as she turned to head back to the bar, her apron fluttering behind her. 

You caught yourself feeling the tiniest bit pathetic.

An unspoken vendetta against the girl serving water? Really? You almost felt a little ridiculous… almost.

“Oh, beautiful girl!”

It was Mrs. Aldridge, an old friend of your mother’s, all pearls and Chanel, her wrinkled hands wrapped around her mimosa.

“How’s your darling Rafe? I haven’t seen you two in ages!”

Instead of thinking better about it, your eyes slid over to Sofia.

She was setting the glass down, her face draining of color, frozen mid-action like a deer caught in headlights. It was almost too perfect.

You were gonna have fun with this, putting on your best sympathetic casually as if you’d had this conversation a hundred times. 

“Oh, we’re not together anymore,” you said, tone dripping with faux sweetness as you nodded in Sofia’s direction. “She is.”

Mrs. Aldridge’s eyes widened, almost bulging out of her head as she followed your gaze, putting two and two together with the slow, scandalized horror that only old-money kooks could manage.

You could hear her brain struggling to comprehend the fact that Rafe Cameron was now involved with the server.

The other women at the table leaned in, whispering behind manicured hands and designer sunglasses, eyebrows shooting up as they stole obvious glances at Sofia.

She was still standing there, stunned, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something. You half-expected her to look annoyed, maybe give you the scathing glare you’d be giving her all morning.

Instead she looked like she wanted to disappear into the woodwork.

“Oh dear…” Mrs. Aldridge’s voice trailed off, her eyes scanning her from head to toe with the kind of judgmental precision only years of country club experience could bring.

She cleared her throat as if she could somehow undo the fact that the help had captured Rafe Cameron’s attention.

“I suppose he’s… rebelling, then?” Another old lady muttered, eyebrows raised in suspicion, already delighted by the gossip forming on her tongue.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Who knows? That’s Rafe for you.” 

You took a sip of your water, feeling satisfied as murmurs spread across the table, surprise and judgment all directed squarely at Rafe and Sofia, who looked like she might faint on the spot.

You couldn’t lie — it was the most fun you’d had in weeks.

“Such a sweet girl,” Mrs. Aldridge mused, her gaze fixed on Sofia, who was now engaging another table with her bubbly personality. “But bless her heart, she doesn’t quite belong here.”

“Definitely not,” you clicked your tongue, allowing the disdain to seep into your voice, even as a small part of you felt like a spineless bitch for feeding her to the sharks.

“New money, if you ask me. I can’t take them seriously. Remember when Ward was just a pogue with big dreams, trying to make a name for himself.”

You saw her again, just a gimplse of her still taking orders with that big grin, still doing her job.

This was exactly what you’d wanted, right?

To see her squirm in her hand-me-down shoes, to show her the world she’d trespassed on wasn’t as welcoming as she might have believed.

But your conscience decided to make an apperance, one more time, slipping in with a knowing sigh. You wanted to hurt Rafe, not her.

This was cruelty, plain and simple, the girl was only trying to survive.

She was dealing with these judgmental eyes and assumptions, probably used to being reminded that she didn’t belong, that she didn’t measure up, and you were sinking to that same level of entitlement and superiority.

The satisfaction wasn’t as sweet as you’d thought it would be. Dragging her into it was cheap, easy, like pushing someone off balance simply because they happened to be standing there.

You forced a giggle to match the others, playing the charade, but inside, something started to feel uncomfortable. You knew what it was like to be scrutinized, to have them pick you apart, to whisper behind your back.

You remembered how much it hurt.

To these people, you were only steps away from that same old judgment. If they knew about the appointment...their conservatives asses would ruin your reputation.

They’d tear into you in the same way, a scandal spread in manicured lawns and private golf courses.

Mrs. Aldridge leaned in conspiratorially, her aged perfume filling the air. “If he truly cared for her, he wouldn’t be making a fool of himself like this.” She sighed, looking at you like she expected you to agree.

You took a breath, one that felt painful, because were you really about to do this shit?

“It’s Rafe’s life,” you replied, shrugging. “Maybe she makes him happy. Who knows?”

The table quieted, a few eyebrows raised, flabbergasted that you hadn’t indulged in more snide remarks. At the end of the day, the life you wanted — it wasn’t this.

Maybe it was time to let some of it go.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige @rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron @serrendiipty @sunny1616

@yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog @psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[kyri45]

A final letter

Hello Everyone!

The queue is paused and everything is scheduled, which means we are ready for the finale!

I know that, in the end, this was just a silly side project for me, with everything else going on in my life. But for this occasion, I wanted to drop some words here and hope they make sense.

I started watching LMK only because a friend told me there was a "Sonadow-coded" ship. I ended up consuming the entire thing in one sitting on July 10th, 2024. At the time, I was still recovering from a bike accident that had left me with a broken right forearm—unable to draw for a little over a month. (I did try drawing with my left finger, but it wasn't exactly fun.)

Not only that, but it was summer, and I couldn’t enjoy the season or practice my main sport, windsurfing. To say I was feeling the blues is an understatement. I remember being in physical pain just from not being able to draw my sillies. But then, watching LMK did something to my brain chemistry that my little undiagnosed autistic self had never experienced before. It hit so hard that I’ve been physically unable to rewatch the show SINCE that very first day. (And y’all still call me the CEO of this fandom. Bro, I just work here.)

A lot of you have asked what inspired me to start this comic or to draw LMK fan art in the first place. While my usual answer is, "I saw Shadowpeach and thought MK could be their lovechild, given his appearance," the moment that actually started it all was THIS ONE—

(I HAD TO REWATCH THIS SCENE TO MAKE THE GIF AND IT HURT ME ON A MOLECOLAR LEVEL)

I have… a thing for characters who discover their entire identity was something else all along. It consumes my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment. I live for identity crises, for characters who thought they knew who they were, only to be forced to rediscover themselves, their existence, and their place in the world. If you give me a story where a character has to go through that, I will like it—regardless of how bad the rest of the story is.

Pair that with loads of trauma, daddy issues, the pressure of a legacy, and world-ending stakes, and congrats! Now I’m obsessed, and I will not stop thinking about it for the rest of my days!

At first, my brain just wanted to release some of that energy with a small, four-panel post about the monkeys discovering that MK was technically their kid.

That was supposed to be it.

But since I never seem to learn my lesson, it didn’t stay like that. Because once I started drawing, I just... continued.

And

I

never

stopped.

A lot of you have also asked how I found the motivation to draw so much, to never take a break. Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it one last time: I am my number one fan. No matter how much you laughed, cried, screamed, or went feral over this story, I did all of that and more. Because I got to think about the chapters months before they released. I got to daydream about them. I got to watch them come to life—first through sketches, then line art, then dialogue. And finally, I got to witness your reactions and see the incredible creations you made, inspired by my story.

So yeah, in a way, it was almost an addiction. A good addiction. Because, for the first time in my life, I actually understood what loving art means.

I’ve been drawing for ten years, working professionally for five, but I never loved art before. I just liked it because I happened to be good at it. But creating this comic made me understand why artists say, "Oh, I’ve loved drawing since I was a child!" This was the first time I allowed myself to create purely for my own enjoyment. Something I hadn’t had the privilege to do for a long time.

Other than making me feel even more single than I already was, this story somehow also helped me a little with my own family relationships. So yeah. Crazy how the gay monkeys changed my life.

Of course, I never could have predicted how much traction my AU would gain. Man, y’all were really starving to latch onto something this silly. /j

But yeah—thank you. Thank you for sticking around until the end, for having the patience and trust to follow the story even when I made you rage with angst and cliffhangers. (The statement in my bio still stands: I am not responsible for any physical or emotional damage my art has caused.)

I’m absolutely shit at thanking people, or at writing, or at talking in general, honestly. I’m the furthest thing from being good with words, so I hope the final chapter will be enough to show you my gratitude.

Through this story, I met so many wonderful, talented people. I watched as fans across different platforms found each other through memes and fanart of the AU. I saw artists start their own AUs inspired by mine, growing their own communities. I witnessed an explosion of creativity and collaboration through our takeovers. And I laughed along with you all.

And yeah—at its core, this story has always been about love. Whether it’s platonic, sibling, parental, romantic, or whatever the hell Mac and Wukong had going on for millennia.

At its heart, it’s a story about family.

And maybe, in the end… the real family wasn’t just the one in the comic, but the one we’ve found together along the way. 💛

See you all at the finale.

Love you all, freaks /affectionate

Jade