#tw // abuse allusion

[funnel-webbed-au]

For There Is No Hell like Heaven

As Nezha shed his armor, he swallowed harshly. He knew what laid beneath his signature red sleeveless shirt, and he didn't want to see it, but he knew he needed to bathe, needed to clean those scars. He paused to breathe, for it was all he could do to prepare himself for the wounds that would almost undoubtedly reopen under the hot water and the weight of his own grief.

His shirt came off far more easily than it should have. The horrendous mark right over his sternum and the marks around his major joints made him flinch. He hadn't gotten a good look at them in a while, for he never let his glamors down. He remembered who had done this to him, but he wasn't mad about it anymore. It was just the way it was, it was just his fate. Even the people that loved him sometimes felt he needed to be contained, and then there were the chain whip marks on his back... and the burns that had never healed around his worst scars.

They might never heal.

Nezha knew he'd have to live with that, as much as he hated that fact. The lotus Deity sighed, then turned around so he could examine the lash scars on his back courtesy of the multiple mirrors in his bathroom.

The scars didn't look any better than they had the day they had finished healing as much as they would. The Deity flinched as the memory of the chain whip against his skin returned with the same hateful fury that only Li Jing could deliver. That man never had the right to be referred to as his father, and Nezha knew it.

He'd just been naive, once upon an illusion-filled time.

Nezha ran the shower water to his favorite temperature, which was just a little too hot for most to handle. Not him. He couldn't help but relax as the water pulled the stress out of his body. Hot water had always been as much of a blessing as sky water, and he never got enough of either of it... though alas, he rarely had the time to really enjoy it, especially before Erlang had struck Li Jing down from his status as one of the Lords of Heaven.

It wasn't too long before the Deity remembered his responsibilities, remembered what others expected of him, and as he scrubbed his scars clean, he winced. Sure, he had an incredible pain tolerance, but with his heart in such a vulnerable state, his scars seemed to hurt much more under the surface of the sponge he used.

Gritting his teeth, Nezha finished scrubbing the dirt off of his back. He'd been knocked around a lot in today's training session, a minor inconvenience normally, but today? It was annoying and painful. He'd have to get back at his mentor for that.

As he stepped out of the shower, the Deity released a deep sigh. The mirror really highlighted the dark circles of permanent exhaustion below his eyes, and the harsh LED light only made it worse. The intensity of the light finally got to him, as he figured it would, and he was forced to turn the light off. Once his eyes adjusted, he dried himself off the old fashioned way, taking his time to savor the soft towels his shifu had bought for him. Unlike most... the fabric these were coated with didn't rub against his scars much.

He'd have to thank Yang Jian for that later.

[castironnbitch]

Laurent wore Nicaise's earring in Nesson Elloy, right?

But jewelry and opulence and indulgence is thing for bestowing upon pets in Vere. So its reasonable that the nobility dont routinely have their ears pierced

so... as part of his perversion and an added layer of laurent's abuse... do we think the regent had Laurent's ears pierced?

[galaxyedging]

No outbreak Joel Miller x inexperienced f!reader

Dave York x inexperienced f!reader

WC:3.2k

Summary: Dave and Joel make your birthday party memorable.

Warnings: Dub con. Dark Joel. Dave being Dave. Unprotected P in V sex. Anal. Degradation. Dirty talk.

Trigger warning: implying women who dress a certain way are asking for men to use them. That is obviously bullshit. This is fiction.

Summer Schooled

Part 1 | Part 2

Masterlist

The party was going well. People were enjoying themselves. You were enjoying yourself, for the most part. The night would be a lot more comfortable for you if your panties weren't soaked through. Going up to your room to change them was too great a risk with Joel's words ringing in your ears "Just you wait until I find a way to get you alone."

Those words had been whispered in your ear when he'd greeted you with a hug to wish you a Happy Birthday. Since you had only lived here for the summer and you only had a handful of friends, your mom had decided to invite the neighbourhood. A little joint birthday/off to college/get to know the neighbours party. Unfortunately, you already knew a couple of neighbours particularly well. One was giving you daggers from the moment he saw the dress you were wearing. The other caught you in the kitchen grabbing a soda.

"I think I'd better renegotiate my terms with Joel. You are begging to be fucked in that dress. What do you say? I'll tell Carol I have to go into the office. Then I'll give you a birthday treat?"

Luckily, the hand Dave had been running up the back of your thigh moved to grab a snack when someone came in behind you.

Since then, you had been very careful not to be alone. You didn't trust either man not to follow you and fuck you with people around. More importantly you didn't trust yourself to say no.

The playlist you'd picked seemed to be a winner. People were dancing as well as mingling and talking. You got on the makeshift dance floor to take a spin round it. Thankfully neither Dave or Joel were there to watch at that point. Part of you hoped they had skulked off to jerk themselves off. Maybe then they'd calm down. The testosterone coming off them in waves every time a boy your age came near you was ruining your underwear. Thankfully, the two of them were out of sight. You took a moment to collect yourself, leaning on the wall just inside the kitchen and letting the tiled surface of it cool you. A smile was on your face as you watched your mom have a go at the latest Tiktok dance.

Suddenly, the room was plunged into near darkness. The music stopped. Confused voices took its place.

"The lights are on across the way. It must be the breaker." You heard your mom's voice.

Just as people started to switch on their phone flashlights, a large hand clamped over your mouth. A strong arm wrapped around your waist. In tandem, they pulled you back into the walk-in pantry. Those hands then moved to squeeze your breasts. A small gasp torn from your throat. They then skimmed down your curves until they found your thighs. Before moving up to cup your wet sex through the damp material there. You should have stopped him. People were only a few feet away. Then his finger dipped inside you, stretching you around them. His other hand found your clit. Making you work harder to keep in your moans. His lips found your bare shoulder. Plush, warm lips. A clean shaven cheek dragged across your skin as he moved to your neck.

"Dave?!" Panic flared in you. You tried to pull away but he spread his fingers and kept you speared there.

"Sshhh. Not so loud. You don't want people to find us. Especially not Joel, who I know did this to ruin your party and get you away from those boys." That was your thinking too. That's why you had assumed it was Joel who grabbed you. "What a naughty boy. We should teach him a lesson. Imagine how mad he'll be when he comes to play with this little cunt and it's already filled with my cum again? I bet he'd punish you real well."

You didn't have to tell Dave your view on that. Your pussy did it for you, leaking onto his hand. "Dirty fucking girl! I'm going to keep your mouth covered. You play with that clit nice and fast. I'm going to use your tight pussy to get this done quickly before he comes looking."

This was a bad choice and you knew it. The journey down that rabbit hole was well underway. Between last night and Joel teaching you how to sixty-nine this morning, you might as well be fucked in a pantry with your mom a few feet away. There was no redeeming you now.

Dave's cock was at your entrance before you knew it. He had the courtesy to pull your hips back slowly to push inside. Everything was still tender from last night. Even your jaw ached, which didn't seem to matter. Dave didn't seem like he was going to kiss you. This was more a functional fucking. He was going to fill you and send you to Joel. You had to admit when he was goal oriented, Dave got the job done. He'd pulled you up onto your tipple toes and squatted down a little so he could angle towards your g-spot. His thrusts were hard and fast but not without purpose. Your hand worked with them to get you off fast. Surprisingly so as you shuddered in his grip.

"Fuck. Yes. Dirty girl, soaking my cock. Fuck, bend over." Dave near bent you in two and started fucking you faster as you grabbed the wall above your head to steady you. "Shit. This tight little cunt takes my big, fat cock so well…I…." The quiet whine that left him made you flutter around him.

It was thrilling to make a big intimidating man weak for you. He continued to moan as he pumped more of his spend into you before dragging your underwear back up. You were just fixing your dress as the lights came back on. Turning to Dave you watched him tuck his cock back in and fix his outfit.

For a moment from the way he looked at you, you thought he might kiss you instead he grabbed your pussy. "Keep these on until Joel peels them off." Then he was gone. Giving it what you thought was enough time. You slipped out of the pantry only to run into your mom.

"There you are, Sweetie. Are you okay?" She cradled your cheek for a second. "Yeah, I was just getting more sauces when the lights went out."

"Oh. Well, it's fixed now. Joel took care of it. He's such a good neighbour. Oh, Sweetie, it looks like you spilled something on your dress. What is that? Ranch?" Before she looked closer. One of her friends came to grab her attention.

When she moved away you could see Joel standing behind her, seething at the fact that you were definitely not covered in ranch.

"My friend invited me to a bar. I might go after I tidy up. If that's okay with you? Your friends can stay over. Dave and the Morgans are going to be home if you need anything."

Just before you moved here, your mom got out of a crappy marriage to your step dad. She still made you her number one priority but you could see she was lonely. "Go now, Mom. We'll clean up." A couple of the people milling around agreed."

Dr and Mrs Morgan helped to clean up quickly with their son who was a little younger than you. When you finished you made sure to thank them all. Joel helped too. In fact he insisted on staying to help as he waved the Morgans off. "It's fine Melissa. You get your boy home. Sarah went back off to her spa weekend with the York girls. I got time."

Thankfully most of the tidying was done when Joel stalked back into the kitchen. Stopping short of you he pulled up a chair. "Now, Honey, are there some things you'd like to tell me?"

"Like what?" You didn't meet his gaze.

"How about you wearing this dress around those boys? And having one stay to help you?"

A laugh bubbled out of you. "Josh? His mom's aren't the only ones that are gay."

"The kids still young, he might be looking to experiment, and there you are in that slutty little outfit, parading around in front of him with a cum stain on it."

"I…" your cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"Now, why don't you tell me about Dave? Did I not suck that pussy hard enough this morning that you had to throw it on his dick?" His tone was eerily calm despite his words. "Take it off."

"What?"

"Take it off." There was a bite there now. "Take all of it off. The slutty fucking dress. The cum filled panties. Take. It. Off."

A tremor developed in your hands as you complied. Once you were naked in front of him. He leaned back in his chair.

"Now, what am I going to do with you?" He fished your panties from on top of your discarded dress. He held them in one hand as he spoke. "Did you enjoy taking Dave's cock again?"

When you didn't answer he slammed his fist onto the table. He didn't scare you but the shock of it forced out an answer. "Yes!"

"He told me he made you touch yourself until you came. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Sit your ass on the edge of this table. Spread your legs and show me how you touched yourself for him."

Once you were situated he pulled his chair up between your legs. "Go on."

Hesitantly you began to touch your clit. "Joel, the door isn't locked. The windows."

The blinds were still open in the kitchen. Anyone could see.

Joel laughed bitterly. "You've paraded that barely covered ass around. Your tits were almost spilling out and a married man fucked you in the kitchen with people a few feet away. It's a bit late to be modest. This is what I was talking about. You need to whore fucked out of you before you end up on your knees in some college circle jerk having a bunch of boys blow their loads over you."

Nodding you carried on working your clit. Thanks to earlier it did take long for you to come again. Shrinking under Joel intense gaze you barely made a sound. A little whimper came out as you quivered.

"Look at that." Joel's face was inches away from your pussy now. "Those little twitches are pumping all of Dave's cum out. It'd be a shame to waste it." With that he stood, pushing you back onto the table. The motion parted your legs and he slipped in between them. One of his hands pushed your thighs apart while the other gathered yours and Dave combined cum. You moaned at the intrusion when he started to slather it over your asshole, pressing his fingertips in ever so slightly with each pass.

"Maybe the problem is that I haven't claimed all your holes yet. I've painted your cunt. You've swallowed my cum. Now.." he pushed his finger in more, causing you to hiss. "Hush now, Darlin'. I'll admit I was mad before but now I'm just taking care of you. You don't want to go off to college and settle for some kid awkwardly jack rabbiting until he squirts into a condom just because you're horny. Let me satisfy you good and proper. Let me fuck some of those hormones out. Relax, just take it."

The finger at your hole pushed in more as he thumbed your clit. "Oh, good girl. There you go." His knuckle popped past your tight ring. "Gonna fuck your hole with my finger for a little while. Gotta get you good and ready for my cock." He felt you tense around him at the thought of taking his cock if just one finger was this tight. "Welcome to the adult world, Sweetheart. Your choices have consequences. You let another man come in my pussy. Now I have to fuck your hole whether you like it or not. See how I'm being kind, getting you all wet and prepared. What do you say?"

When you didn't instantly answer he pushed another finger in. "Oh. Fuck. Thank you, Joel."

"Good girl. You deserve a treat. Nothing but the best for my girl." His thumb was replaced by his lips as he sucked hard on your clit. The pleasure was so intense he managed to start on finger number three. Once you came again he used that to coat his cock, dipping it inside you and thrusting languidly until he was covered.

"Here, hold your knees up for me, Sweet Girl. Good." With you spread open he pushed in slowly. The burn was laced with ecstasy. It took a moment for the burn to fade then you moaned at the fullness stimulating all your delicate nerves.

"Fuck every hole on you is perfect." Joel wasn't in a hurry to finish. He pumped himself inside you leisurely. "You know. I think I've decided that I don't want you fucking any boys. I saw the way you were dancing with the girls out there. How you giggle and flushed when they accidently touched you. I think you'd be happy to get off with them." The thought made your throat dry. You couldn't deny it so you just lay there taking what he was giving you his cock, his proclamations. "When you go back east to college I'm gonna get lonely. I might need some material to keep me going. You could send me some pictures of that pretty face buried in a pussy. Maybe at the holidays you can bring a friend over? I'm a good host. I'd make you comfortable. One of you could sit on my cock and the other on my face." His thrusts stayed slow and shallow as he continued. "Or I could fill you while you make her come. Hell, maybe I'd even forgive Dave enough to let him join. We could see who could fuck you senseless first. I do sort of owe him." The chuckle he let out caused his cock to jump inside you. "We were going to share you at first but then I tasted that pussy on your fingers. I knew you had to be mine. Dave gets enough pussy anyway. When I wouldn't let him come over earlier he sent me a photo an hour later of some woman's face covered in his cum. He's pissed that you get him so worked up."

The thought of the two of them wanting you added to the tingle Joel's cock was nudging against through the thin wall of your pussy. Just as you finally started to fully relax around him and Joel bottomed out with a sigh, your phone rang. It was still on the table from where you had been cleaning earlier.

"Shit. It's my mom!" Joel barely reacted. He picked up the phone, answered it and put it on speaker. "Hi, mom. What's up?" It was a strain to keep your voice level as Joel pushed as deep in as he could and held himself there.

"The bar was super busy. We decided to come back. We'll be about five to ten minutes. I hope you don't mind. I heard none of your friends stayed."

"No. I was tired so I sent them home. I'm going to bed now."

"Oh, okay. We'll be quiet."

"Thanks. Bye, Mom."

As she said bye Joel hung up for you. "I guess we better be quick."

"Quick? No, Joel, she said five minutes. I need to get up to bed. You need to leave." You tried to sit up.

"No." Rough grabbed your tit to push you down. "You need to learn your lesson. Trust me." When you tried to argue he stuff you panties that he'd left balled up on the table into your mouth.

"Joel, please." You sobbed around them. It turned into a muffled scream as he started to thrust in aid of his release.

"This is what you need to learn, Baby. Look at how you've got me and Dave. He couldn't nut on your pretty face so he got some bored waitress to blow him. You've got me rambling about fantasies while balls deep in you. This is what you do to men.You momma could walk in right now and she couldn't blame me. This is all you. It's all your fault."

Whether it was his words or the pain of the new pace and depth, tears spilled from your eyes. "Stop. Joel. Stop, please." You couldn't have your mom see this.

"You don't mean that. Here." His fingers aggressively rubbed your clit. Your body reacted in spite of you. An orgams built quickly as Joel continued to use your ass.

"I didn't mean to make you cry, Baby. I'm just looking out for you. You need to know the truth. Men are going to be feral for you. You need to keep yourself safe without me. This is what could happen. They could be in you and not be able to stop themselves. You can take it though, my strong girl." His thrusts were still deep and strong but now they were erratic. "Take it just a little more. I'm almost there. Come on, come for me. Come while I fill you. Oh, fuck. Oh shit, Princess." The sight of Joel arching between your legs as he helplessly shot load after load inside you made you come. It was fucked up. He used you, degraded you. Ignored your pleas to stop, even if you didn't mean it. It was wrong. So fucking wrong. Still with what little strength was left in your rung out body you flung yourself at him, taking all the kisses he had denied you in anger.

"Oh, Sweetness. I'm glad you're not angry. I took it a little far. You know it's because I care right?" You nodded against his neck as you rested there a minute. "Speaking of which, you go get a shower. I'll clean up here." You looked at the once tidy table now covered in something that definitely wasn't ranch.

Over the sound of the spray of the water against your most intimate area, you heard your mom arrive home and a muffled conversation. When you got into bed, there was a text from Joel waiting for you.

I told your mom I sent you to bed while I tidied. Poor you, you were so tired. If you're sore in the morning. Come over and I'll eat your ass until you feel better.

It made your clean skin feel dirty. You wanted to go over there now and let him do whatever he wanted to do to your body. Deciding not to reply to him for fear of asking if you could come over and arousing your mom's suspicions, you set your phone down. After a moment it pinged. It was a message tone that was completely unfamiliar to you.

You naughty girl. You got me in trouble with Joel. He's not happy that I used your pussy.

The message disappeared a few seconds after you read it. Another one appeared.

He thinks that it's his. You and I know better. Don't we, Babygirl?

[my-lovely-writing]

(Note: as always, please check the tw tags before clicking read more. Also, if formatting isn't the same for every post, I'm experimenting, but it should be relatively the same.)

"I've always held fast to the belief that we're reborn. That we live in the world we created." The hero circled the villain, dragging their nails across the dining table with a sharp screech. "You better pray I'm not right, [villain], because the only thing you've ever created is massacre."

The villain paused, fork and knife hovering over their steak as they chanced a glance at a nearby booth of curious onlookers. They turned back to the hero. "Sit down. You're drawing attention to yourself, to us."

"And why should I?"

"I just said, you idiot. Are you going to eat that or what?" The villain sat down their fork and reached for the hero's salad, who smacked away the villain's hand, glaring.

"It's mine."

"Then sit," the villain growled, careful to keep their voice quiet.

The hero rose taller. "Not with you."

At the commotion, a few hushed murmurs rippled through the room. The villain exhaled through their nose. Their voice was a whisper, but it dripped anger: "I swear to whatever almighty being you believe in—are you here only to make a fool of me?" They shoved the knife into their steak. Possibly a threat.

"No," the hero said, a bit more quietly. Their jaw clenched.

The villain narrowed their eyes and stared at them for a long, silent moment. Their next bite felt hard to swallow. "Then why, [hero]?"

The hero shook their head, as if that was an answer. Why would they, of all people, accept the invitation, much less show up? The question left them reeling just as much as the villain.

Perhaps it was the idiocy of the moment. Of spitting out blood and shaking on their knees, their body so wracked with pain that the pouring rain felt like a thousand shards of glass embedding into their skin and hearing the villain ask, not unkindly, "How does dinner on Monday sound? Olive Garden at midnight?" Or maybe it was the comfort of somehow waking up the next morning, safe in their bed, a bottle of painkillers tucked beneath their pillow.

The hero frowned. Maybe it was the creepiness of the villain knowing where they live. At least there was nobody else they could hurt with that, but still.

"What's that look?" the villain asked.

The hero blinked and snapped back to reality. "You know my house, and that's creepy."

"Your house—that's what I was going to discuss, if you would ever sit down." The villain pointed a sharp finger at the chair.

Their house? That was worth all this? The hero crinkled their nose. For a moment, they gauged the villain—they looked sincere enough, slightly less ready to murder. And they did pay for the food. But on the other hand, the villain had caused so much pain and suffering, all for a reason the hero couldn't name. They struggled with themselves. The villain waited patiently for a few moments, before shooting them another scathing look. The hero sat down.

"I know what you're thinking," said the villain. "Why is this evil man/lady inviting me out to dinner? Why do they want to talk about my house?" They nodded towards the salad. "Eat that—I know you're starving. And the truth is, I don't really want to talk about your house, that was an error of phrasing on my part. I want to talk about your home life."

The hero's frown deepened. They were starving, but how did the villain know that? The villain seemed to pause and wait for the hero to follow the command, and curiosity got the better of them, so they did. An acidic taste filled their mouth—tomatoes. The hero would have spit it out if they weren't so hungry.

"I've noticed that you always show up to stop me, no matter when I decide to blow up the next building." The villain arched an eyebrow. "Getting enough sleep? You're getting weaker."

"I don't see how any of that is your business."

"I'm not much of a villain if my arch-nemesis can't take a hit, now am I?"

So that's why they asked: villainous pride. The hero snorted. Of course.

"Something funny, [hero]?"

"Hilarious, actually."

The villain's lips quirked into something like a smirk but not quite, at that, deep green eyes slowly roaming up their face. The hero felt, distinctly, like the villain could see every microscopic muscle and twitch like a one-way mirror to the heart beneath their skin, all with the poise of a cat. No need to bloody their claws ripping out their ribcage, for that.

"You're adorably misguided, [hero]. I mean, veganism? Really?" The villain chuckled. How terribly casual they were, signaling the waitress over in the midst of this. "Starving your body of nutrients and being a hero don't go together well."

"What do you want?" the hero demanded. They were getting sick of this one-sided game. They were so infuriated they barely noticed the clacking of the waitress's heels as they suddenly appeared beside them—if they had, the hero would have wondered why they were so quick, if the waitress knew the villain was [villain]—but they didn't.

The villain took their sweet time in answering the hero, first telling the waitress to bring [hero] crackers for their salad—crackers, of all things to interrupt them for!—and then went even further in annoying the hero by taking long, slow bite of their steak before responding with a lithe smile, "For you to eat your dinner."

"Bullshit. You want something more than that."

The smile never left the villain's face even as they turned their attention to the returning waitress, going so far as to take the crackers and crush them into [hero's] salad themself. [Hero] never said they wanted them, but they politely thanked the waitress anyway, even as they seethed at the fact the waitress hadn't double checked with the hero themself. Children are usually provided that courtesy.

"So, what's your favorite color?" the villain asked.

The hero was caught off-guard. "Excuse me?"

"Your favorite color. What is it?"

And, perhaps in defiance of such inanity, the hero jammed a bite of their salad into their mouth. And then another and then another and then another until the conversation had long since died. They kept expecting [villain] to reiterate their question or order them to answer, but the villain didn't seem to mind at all, and instead merely turned back to their steak.

When their bowl was finished, the hero took the liberty of gritting out an insult at the villain who, despite everything logical and sane that would contend otherwise if there was anything logical and sane about them, seemed to be expectantly awaiting their answer still. "You have no taste. You said this restaurant is the best in town, but the crackers here taste fucking stale."

"Huh." The villain's hand slid underneath their chin, elbow resting on the table. "I've always wondered what it tastes like."

"What wh—" And then it hit them, and the hero's head was swimming with tired and dizzy and the world was a spinning blur of the villain's signature black and blue—and how horrifically funny to notice now that the restaurant was a black and blue thing. A heartbeat and [Hero] was up, stumbling away. They fell like a newborn doe.

The villain watched from their seat as the waitress caught them—no need to bloody their claws.

The hero awoke, alive, on something soft. Their body was coiled like a boom of thunder, fast and furious and inconsequential, but the hero was wise. They waited, eyes closed, for the sound of breathing, but none met their ears. They slowly peeked an eye open—no one that they could see, and they didn't feel anything around their wrists or ankles. Only after their eyes were adjusted and they were absolutely certain no one was with them did they slip out of the unfamiliar bed, testing the cold wooden floorboards beneath them before surrendering their weight. They didn't creak.

The hero's hand twitched at their side. They wanted to test if the door was locked, but they didn't put it past [villain] to wait in the hallway for that tell-tale half twist of the knob and really, they already knew the answer to that question, didn't they?

So instead they decided to search the room on the off-chance that the villain had accidentally left anything useful—and froze as they spotted a neatly folded up note on the nightstand, a small circular mirror beside it. They—the hero—was dressed in a stunning dress/tuxedo of black and blue. Faint taste of bile of their tongue and hands trembling, the hero unfolded the note.

"Good morning, [hero]. Since you didn't tell me your favorite color, I thought about it for a while and I decided that you'd look amazing in mine. I'll be home at five, okay? :D"

[mad-hunts]

okay, so i know this is a million years late, BUT we're just going to act like i just posted that post about how i believe barton would actually come to peace with death rather quickly in the event that he was dying okok / j [ahahhh, i'm just messing around with you all (': but anyways, allow me to get back into talking about it; like i'm sure you all are reading this for LOL]

nahhh, but i honestly was working on this for a little bit longer than i thought because i wanted time to really try to explain my thought process the best i could, you know? because that is not the kind of thing that people would probably expect from a villain character... though, with good reason, of course. and the fact that barton is actually afraid of dying does make it a little more unexpected, in my humble opinion. however, i promise that everything about this will make sense by the time i'm done explaining it.

so, no matter the scenario, i've always seen barton as a character who's very stubborn and who's resolve and/or goal to 'fix' as many people as he can is the right one most if not all the time. this is, of course, due to a variety of factors: one being that this sort of ideology was introduced to barton at a young age, and he never learned how to 'break out of it' so-to-speak (though he knew it was harmful). another one is that he's been exposed to a lot of terrible sights over the years and believes that humanity isn't inherently good, like batman, for example.

no. i'd say that barton is much more pessimistic and tends to expect the worst out of people automatically. as a result, this has kind of implemented the delusion upon him that 'well, if everyone's already bad anyways, then who's to say that these people don't in some way maybe deserve it?' so yeah. that second thing is a lot to unpack there on its own, i believe, but that is the general basis of what kind of character he is.

but here comes the double-layered part of it: barton had never wanted for his life to turn out this way, with him self-sabotaging and hurting people all throughout it. he sees 'normal' people after all, especially those who are happy and often becomes jealous of what they have, in fact. barton had fallen into the unfortunate trap of growing up in a household that praised him for hurting people... and when he was introduced to winslow, it felt like he'd gotten whiplash because he was nothing like wesley.

he couldn't break out of that terrible way of thinking, but of course, one can't blame everything on their past and must take responsibility for what they're doing. barton in this scenario of dying chose to go down a path of becoming a god damn serial killer just like his father; effectively becoming similar to him in some ways even though he didn't want to. and at his time of dying, i think that barton would have this moment of clarity that is a bit complex, but that i'll try to explain the best i can here.

this would be that he hasn't done any 'good' in his life much, if at all, but in the event that barton had time to spend before he died and was aware he would... he could do one good thing, and that would be to — although this wouldn't even begin to make up for everything he put them through, barton wouldn't be expecting that or their forgiveness — make his kids promise to break that cycle of violence in their family because they could still make something good of themselves.

they'd still have their whole life ahead of themselves, after all. barton wouldn't be claiming that it'd be easy or anything like that, but he'd want for them to be able to live a simple life like he secretly wanted to. and it'd be alright if they only thought of barton once in a while, or even never again because he knows that what he's done to them can't be undone. but the thing about death is that it makes you realize stuff like what you put out into the world is what you'll get back; and you have to do this life right, because you only get to live it once.

so, yeah, he wouldn't have any unreasonable expectations that he'd be making up with them or act like he's a saint now because he's doing this. but he could at least do this one thing for them after an adjustment period because facing your own mortality is probably scary, as i can imagine.

and it'd make anyone really think about what they want their legacy to be. and does barton want his to be his kids continuing the family business by killing people + thus condemning themselves to a life of staying awake late at night, just like him, thinking about what could've been? no, though it might take him some time to realize that, too.

now, if barton was dying suddenly and didn't have much time to do anything, then things would be very different. if any of his kids were present for it, then he'd tell them not to cry and that they'll be okay without him. probably better, actually, because barton believes he's never been the 'nurturing' type. but he'd ask them to grant a request for him and that would be to live the rest of their life/lives in a way that they could be proud of. with anyone else, i think that barton would come to peace with it by saying that he's done a lot of things he regrets (again, a moment of clarity) but one of the best things he ever did was have his kids.

so, telling them to pass on a message for him that he loves them and accepting it because he's just caused suffering + as well felt like he'd been suffering for a good portion of his life, so maybe it was just... time for him to move on? that'd be the way he'd react to that. which is... yeahhh, it's got a little bit of a kick to it, but once again; complexity is basically barton's middle name and he's not going to expect anyone to treat him any differently for doing this.

even in death, i don't think barton would want pity and would likely laugh at himself for thinking this would 'never happen to him,' as a matter of fact. but he would be genuinely calm and sentimental in a way that's very rare for him. so, yeah.

this was one long ass analysis, but if you made it to the bottom, i want to say that i appreciate you and love you to the bottom of my heart MUAHHH!! y'all are amazing and i just want to say RPing with my moots on here is always a blast for me 🩷 plus, i'm so honored that you're interested in my probably overcomplicated (LOL i kiddd, but IDK. he might be) OC that i made based off of a comic book batman villain that's appeared in like... two batman comics, haha. it really makes my heart happy.

[smolmakerel]

It was silent. Silence was never a good thing. Tara learned that lesson years ago.

Silence was the short calm before the storm, before the hurricane would mix with the tornado would mix with the earthquake. Footsteps would thunder downstairs, and the liquor cabinets would crack as they slammed shut.

These were delicate moments where she had to treat them with care. All she had to do was bite her tongue, listen for the loud noises downstairs to stop, and breathe a sigh of relief.

Things never went her way, usually.

It took one error - a tiny mistake that any normal person would miss - for shit to hit the fan. It was always her own fault she could never shut herself up.

The storm raced up the stairs with threatening stomps and would slam her door open. The wind would howl at her. The hand that clutched the neck of the bottle would jerk towards her and spill alcohol onto her freshly made bed. The storm had no mercy on Tara when it crashed into her room.

Tara was always caught in the storm. It was ongoing, never stopping even when it wasn't home. Tara was isolated in the eye while the whipping wind threatened to beat her.

She never liked storms. They scared her. Now she couldn't bear to hear a forecast about the upcoming weather.

She knew all she needed to know about weather. Outside was always gray. It was always raining. The storm had rain.

Ice cold rain was for when Tara was bad. It was a shock across her nervous system. The rain pelted like bullets to her back. The wind spat curses at her while she laid in a heap on the floor to protect herself. Cold rain brought cold wind which threw rocks shaped like fists into her body. If only the rain chilled the blooming red under her clothes.

Lukewarm rain was when Tara was left alone. She would be in her room, palm over her mouth, rocking back and forth, as she waited for the storm to die down. She forced herself to bite the inside of her cheeks bloody when the stomps neared her door only to pass and continue to the room down the hall.

Scalding rain was the storm's way of embracing her, soothing her by assuring her it wouldn't happen again. She should know by now that the hot rain was a front, but Tara couldn't help but lean into the heat as she waited for her body to accept the warmth.

She was never warm in the end.

Silence was trouble. Silence was a pair of hands around her neck, deciding whether or not to tighten and watch her struggle for mercy.

She couldn't lock her door to keep the storm out; the storm ripped the knob from her door and kept it in a box under its bed. Tara hadn't gotten anything back from that box in years.

There was no way she could be safe. Taking shelter somewhere else wasn't an option no matter how loudly Amber argued with her.

Tara would much rather deal with the storm than Amber's silence. At least then she knew how to disappear and beg for forgiveness.

Amber's silence was... unsettling. Tara had known the girl for all her life, but sometimes it felt like she knew nothing about her at all.

Amber puzzled her most times. The things she says don't match up to what Tara knows, but Amber was quick to turn the tables. She fired shot after shot, cracking Tara's confidence into smaller pieces. Then she would scoop her up and gently chastise her for not believing Amber.

"We all go through things, Tara, you're not special. Why should I believe a word you say when you barely make enough sense on a good day?"

Amber's love was too different from the storm's love. Where the storm eventually apologized, bathing her with rain that blistered and bruised her skin, Amber gave her love constantly. It felt good, but it was too much all the time. Amber never took no for an answer.

She loved it. She did. She knew what love was. She knew what Amber's love did.

Amber's love was physical. Her love was insistent hugging and kissing that had Tara clamming up in unnecessary discomfort. Her love was a gun she consistently fired into Tara's head. Her love was holding her hand as they walked out of the hospital together. Her love was promising to never love her so hard that Tara had to go to the hospital in the first place, but she deserved it. Tara had to deserve it, right?

The storm's love was usually emotional. Sometimes physical. It was calmer than the explosion from Amber.

Calmness was all Tara ever wanted. She wanted her... She didn't want the silence anymore.

Silence was never a good thing.

[eviexwatson]

[ciswoman and she/her/hers] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [EVELYN “EVIE” WATSON]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [MAYA HAWKE]. You must be the [TWENTY-SEVEN] year old [ATTENDANT at SWEET NOTHINGS BAKERY]. Word is you’re [EASY-GOING] but can also be a bit [SELF-DESTRUCTIVE] and your favorite song is [POISON by ALICE COOPER]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [FISHER’S COVE]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

𐌕𐋅𐌄 𐌁𐌀𐌔𐌉𐌂𐌔

Name: Evelyn Renae Watson Nickname: Evie Birthday: August 5th Zodiac: Leo Age: 26 Face Claim: Maya Hawke Occupation: Attendant Gender: Ciswoman Pronouns: She/Her Sexual Orientation: Bisexual  Romantic Orientation: Biromantic

𐌃𐌄𐌄𐌐𐌄𐌓 𐌃𐌉ᕓ𐌄

Myers-Briggs: ISTP-T Positive Traits: Adaptable, Alert, Creative, Easy-Going, independent, Uninhibited, Private, Observant, Witty  Negative Traits: Abrasive, Addictive, Insecure, Rebellious, Hot-Headed, Self-Destructive, Temperamental, Withdrawn Hobbies: Graffiti art, Smoking, Poetry, Make-up, Nail art, Skateboarding, Rock Collecting, Thrifting

𐌉𐌌𐌐Ꝋ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌍𐌕 𐌔𐌕𐌵𐌅𐌅

TW: Parental death, car accident, mention of abuse, drug/substance abuse, overdose allusion

There are a great many things that Evie would much rather do than discuss her childhood or her parents. Like walking over heated, rusted nails, swimming in shark-infested waters with a heavily bleeding wound, or touching the hot eye of a stove without submerging her hand in water beforehand. All of these would be considerably less painful than drudging through old memories she tries her best to repress to this day.

Where do I even begin? I suppose the beginning would be best. Evelyn Renae Watson was born in mid-July, her parents were Everett and Mary-Ann Watson. Her mother was a waitress at a local diner. Her father was a well-respected officer of the ABPD, who performed his duties well and was known to be a stickler to the rules. And for the most part, when at home, he was decent enough. Sure, there may have been times when he got a little loud and would yell, especially if he had been drinking.

It wasn’t until Evie was around six that it changed. Her and her mother had gone to visit some relatives, and Evie ended up chasing after a ball one of her cousins threw at her, running out into the road, right in the way of a speeding truck, the driver neither slowing down nor paying attention. Mary-Ann rushed out to push Evie out of the way. And while Evie made it out mostly unscathed, save for a few scrapes from being shoved onto the concrete, her mother was fatally wounded. It was quite the story for a few weeks. A mother giving her life to save her child in a heroic display. Most of the family and family friends knew it was just a freak accident and never once blamed Evie for it. One person did: her father, vehemently so.

His drinking had become more frequent, and when he drank, he liked to remind her that if it weren’t for her, her mother would still be there, how it should have been her instead and many other horrible things that should have never been said to a child or to another person. Unfortunately, it didn’t stay verbal for long… As you could imagine, this had quite a negative effect on Evie. In her self-esteem as she got older. In her ability to make genuine connections with her peers. Even her grades began to suffer once she realized that doing well in school wasn’t going to help.

At some point, though she doesn’t exactly remember specifically when, as her childhood is just a blur at this point, she found an old luggage case full of old stuff tucked away in the attic. She was bored, her father wasn’t home, and TV wasn’t allowed in the house. Inside the case, she found a bunch of… Mostly stupid stuff. A bunch of old band tees with the pictures faded or crackled. What stood out the most to her was a Walkman, as well as a couple of mix tapes filled with her favorite classical rock songs, the words ‘Mary’s tunes’ and ‘Mary’s tunes #2’ written in faded ink. These were her mother’s. It still worked after putting in some batteries she found, and she never parted with it since.

While it was difficult for her to make friends and get close to people, it wasn’t impossible. She had a few shallow friendships, and only a few she would consider close friends.  It was safe to say that a few of her friends' parents didn’t approve of her. She was, after all, the angry, troubled child who never applied herself (unless it was something that she found to be interesting), got in trouble smoking cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom, skipped class, and occasionally got into fights.

Despite this, Evie found her people. Together, the group got into all sorts of mischief. Sneaking out, drinking, smoking. 

However, that wasn’t enough to help her cope with the pain of her trauma. So, the first time she was offered weed, she took it and never looked back. It helped tremendously, until eventually, it didn’t as well.

Evie slowly began to dabble into harder drugs. Up until she was eighteen, that was her norm. Carefully navigating her father’s temper, and sneaking out to hang out with her friends, Evie secretly got a job so that she could move out as soon as possible. After graduation, and once she was eighteen, she worked up the nerve to finally move out. She just.. Kinda left one day when he was at work.

After that, things seemed to get better, though there were several times when she spiraled. Evie got into trouble with the law often, either late at night when she would get caught tagging a place and would lose all of her spray paint, or whenever she’d be caught with drug paraphernalia.

There were times Evie found herself wanting to get clean, but doing so on your own without any support was more than impossible. She’d be clean for a few weeks to even months before a relapse until she eventually relapsed. Her last relapse led her straight into a hospital, which saved her life, then rehab.

She’s back in Aurora Bay with her twelve-month recovery token always tucked away in her pocket to remind herself of how far she’s come.

@aurorabayaesthetic

[claymoresofinfamy23]

TW ALLUSIONS TO ABUSE

OK, this is random. But when Citizen Soldier’s Hallelujah (I’m Not Dead) played on my Apple radio a couple months ago. I did not expect to love this band nearly as much as I love Skillet. Which we all know is my favorite band of all time. Like holy shit. I really like this band. And that makes me laugh because I used to get irritated when anyone would even mention, Branching out and listening to something other than Skillet. I guess after you get out of a abusive situation, and heal past the rebellion phase, you end up finding things you really like other than that one band you’ve always really loved. And you end up realizing that you like rock music not just Skillet. Just some 3 AM thoughts

[reverse-moon]

Tw for thread: Mental Abuse. Straight up, talk of suicide allusions and belittling of the topic, long post.

TL;DR: We need to just stop talking about Mafuyu's mom being a good mom.

How Mafuyu's mom is horrible ((and why if you defend her mom, you need reevaluation)).

Spoilers for the new event in JP (Immiscible Discord).

[[{{ EDIT: I can't make the read more line, I'm sorry 😔 }}]]

Okay, let's get chapters 1-3 out of the way.

The biggest issue is she completely ignores Mafuyu's privacy, goes through her computer and other things, then openly admits she did.

That. That is how you lose your child's trust. You can SEE Mafuyu lose trust in her mom.

((Note, I've been made aware that she also PROMISED to stop doing that. Bitch???))

Even BEFORE Immiscible Discord, Mafuyu's mom shows signs of trying to live through Mafuyu.

This is, in fact, mentally abusive. Hands fucking down.

Living through your kid makes them push away ((which Mafuyu is starting to try and do)).

Most of the rest is from her interactions with Kanade.

When she found Nightcord, she went through enough messages to learn about Enanan, Amia and K.

We can assume she also figured out out of all the other Niigo members, K was the most soft spoken and most likely a weak link.

This is why she messaged Kanade, rather than Ena or Mizuki.

Upon meeting Kanade in person, she picked a place that was rather fancy, even noting her own (supposed) overwhelmed feeling when first being there.

My literal first words when hearing her explanation were "Damn, she's trying to flex and scare".

((Small side note, my buddy Tyz later on said in regards to the messaging part "she knew kanade was a wet cat", to which I said "Jokes on her, that wet cat has clawss". This was AFTER the hotel commentary.))

Mafuyu's mom hoped to instill a sense of power over Kanade by bringing her someplace she wouldn't be comfortable in. And it worked too, though Kanade didn't let that stop her ((bless-ed be Yoisaki-chan))

When being told that music is important to her daughter ((and after her own daughter saying so)), she tells Kanade that "Mafuyu's" dream of becoming a doctor is still more important, and so music should just be a hobby that she does in her spare time.

Proceeding to tell Kanade Mafuyu should quite Niigo due to contrasting deadlines being in the way of things.

She constantly subtly berates Kanade though all of this, by the way.

She pretends Mafuyu hasn't for TWO YEARS managed to balance things with no major issues. As well as assumes Mafuyu doesn't want to be in Niigo.

I forgot to mention earlier that Mafuyu hid all her music stuff in a folder on her computer btw. And that she hoped her mom wouldn't snoop that much.

Asahina mom 100% tells Kanade that Nightcord at 25:00 AND music aren't necessary — we can assume this is due to her thinking archery is enough extracurricular for Mafuyu.

She attempts to pressure Kanade to do as she wishes, verses listening to Kanade or her daughter.

⚠️⚠️TW for section: Allusions of suicide and belittling of the topic⚠️⚠️

Kanade, in a DESPERATE ATTEMPT TO HELP, reveals that Mafuyu has said she wants to disappear. This game is essentially rated E10+, meaning even if they cover these extremely important yet dark topics, they have to change or adjust the language.

What does this mean?

Disappear = Die/Stop Existing

Mafuyu has ((as outright as she can)) said she wants to end her existence.

Kanade, a trusted confidant, hoped this would help her understand.

And Mafuyu's mother's response?

As word for word in English as we can get currently, it was:

"Maybe she had a bad day at school, or didn't get a good grade in a test, so she's been feeling down."

... Does this lady really think that wanting to die over a test grade is NOT EXTREMELY CONCERNING?

Later on, Mafuyu's mom says the equivalent of "I'll let Mafuyu know the correct way to respond to a bad grade", which is so demeaning to say.

((EDIT: Demeaning and THE PHRASING OF THAT RESPONSE IS CONCERNING AS WELL.))

As a person who's HAD these thoughts of wanting to disappear, I can guarantee that if my mom or dad did that, there would be blood. Most likely mine.

Kanade's response is so very god damn accurate to how someone who cares about a suicidal person would if they heard the person's "adoring parent" say this.

Utter. Shock.

She even goes on to think to herself, saying that she does not see

Mafuyu's mom caring for Mafuyu.

The fact that Kanade could even continue being a respectful teen* while telling Mafuyu's mom that she's horrible is astounding.

((*As respectful as she can be while attempting to call an abuser out.))

Hell, Kanade even subtly tells Mafuyu's mom that if she listens to Mafuyu, she'll notice the problem is her.

After hearing the reply, Kanade comes to terms with the fact that Mafuyu's mom doesn't care about Mafuyu.

"(...... She just assumes that she cares. Because——)"

After a sad but heartwarming, flashback, Kanade remembers how even as her own mother was dying, she put Kanade first when it came to Kanade's life.

Mafuyu's mom insists she does.

"Because after all, I'm her parent."

Which is where I would like to say:

"The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb."

You probably know it as the misquote people use more often, myself included — Blood is thicker than water.

The saying ((the FULL saying)) means your chosen bonds will always be more important than familial ones. Now, you can choose family to part of those chosen bonds, but then it is still BY CHOICE.

I think Nightcord at 25:00 is actually a very perfect representation of that saying. Almost all of them have FOUND a family in the others. Even if it took a while.

It's crazy.

Kanade even says she thought she could find some kind of warmth from her mother, but can't. How if this continues, Mafuyu will be tortured. How if it continues, Mafuyu will kill all traces of herself and become a marionette for her mom.

...And how she won't dare stand by and let that happen.

I'd like to note here, that Ena and Mizuki wanted to be there for this whole thing. And how Kanade was smart to go alone.

The whole event ends with Kanade standing outside the hotel cafe, trying to figure out what to do. We don't get to see Mafuyu, Ena or Mizuki.

Thank you if you read all this, feel free to add on with notes from other JP Nightcord events I haven't read ((I've seen the HonaEnaEmu one, Immiscible Discord, and parts of the Shiba Fest one, otherwise my knowledge is EN server events only))

And remember kids. It's okay to hate your parents! 😃

[arsenicflame]

'im doing great!!!' <- had to read through old messages from their [????] to remind themselves that was a legitimate thing that happened and not just a delusion

[galaxyedging]

I did a thing.

Based on the video for Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia.

TW:domestic abuse.

Cleansing Fire

It's not the bruises that hurt the most. Or the jagged cuts. Or the burst split of your skin. It's the wounds inside. The self-inflicted one's from the shame. For somehow believing you deserve this. For somehow thinking this is the price paid for love. You hid those wounds better than the cuts and scars, and no one has ever seen those. No one looks close enough at you. Until him.

Those burnt coffee eyes tell you as much. He truly sees you when he looks at you. It was striking the first time you saw him. The perfectly carved profile of his face. That strong chin and soft full lips. A face that was a luxury to behold in contrast to the dirty, cheap overalls he wore.

He was hiding just as well as you. A diamond in the rough. A smart, eloquent, beautiful soul sent down a bad path long ago. The way you gravitated towards each other each other was like something from the heavens. The pull of it stronger than any of the heavenly bodies. Except it wasn't a steady orbit. It was a consuming, decaying one. It pulled you crashing together. Lips, bodies, hearts. It crushed you together into one destructive force.

A forced that crashed through your ideas of love and split the ground below your feet open. From the crack a new, stronger ideal grew. It gave your feet purchase to stand strong and steadfast on the earth.

No. That wasn't love. Love doesn't have to hurt like that. Like you hurt me.

The new love took root. It grew towards the sun but remained in the shadows. The two of you twisted and intertwined together. Sharing, thriving, supporting. Until it reached for the sun too much and blossomed for all to see.

For him to see.

Its petals fell with each hit. The vines tore with each split of skin. It wilted and wavered under the storm of his temper. A storm that once electrified you. That made you feel alive in its wake with the petrichor in the air. Before it turned on you. To batter you with its ferocity. To slowly wear you down with each furious blow. The storm came to eclipse your sun to stop you reaching for it.

The eye of the storm gave you a reprieve. Little did you know it wasn't just the eye. It was the end of the storm. The vines around you had grown stronger. They'd risen up to protect you. To allow you to flourish in the sun.

The wildfire spread, destructive but necessary. It cleared the old and rotten. It made the air thick with it. You breathed it in, used it. With the earth clear, you were free to not only survive but to bloom. To provide protection of your own. To enrich the world that had passed you by.

[shivering-isles-cryptid]

Aurelia Leaves Home

The door creaks quietly as she opens it, Aurelia holding her breath quietly as she stepped through it. The form of her father sleeping at the dinning table didn’t shock her but still she sighed in disappointment. “Father, I know you miss mother. All of us do.” She spoke softly, staring at the man.

“I understand how you feel, I know why you drink so much. I feel the same heartache you do. I lost my mother for Lorkhans sake!” She whisper yelled before taking a deep breath. “But no matter who we lost, no matter how we feel, that’s is not an excuse for how you act. How you treat us.”

She took a shaky breath and fidgeted with her bags strap before huffing and standing straight. “I’m leaving dad. The world out there may be cruel, but I’d soon face a wolf than you. The twins don’t know I’m leaving, and maybe this will make things better for Julius and Janus, maybe it’ll make things worse. But I can’t stay here. I have a weeks worth of food, and enough gold for at least a weeks stay at an inn. I’ve taken your sword, but you’d probably trade it for ale in a few days anyway.

I am not angry with you father. I feel sorry for you. I’m going to live, free from your rage, your sorrow, and your guilt. But you will die, sad, cold, and alone, filled with guilt and despair because you refuse to deal with mothers death. So this is goodbye. Forever. You might get better, you might let go and move on, but I won’t be there to see it. Be kind to the twins, you’re all they have now.”

And with that, she walked outside the house, making her way onto the road. “Windhelm, here I come.”

Back at the house she had left, her father sat in the dining room, head in his hands as he cried to himself, before grabbing every bottle in the house and tossing them into the lake

[mad-hunts]

so, tonight, i will talking about barton's mental health once more because i was thinking about dexter (as in the show) and how one of the characters in it who's name is doakes + this is because for a while... he was the ONLY person in the show who was able to recognize there was something a bit 'off' for lack of better words with dexter himself. and i'm bringing this up in particular because i like how the show itself points out how, because doakes's character was a killer himself, that he was able to kind of see past the facade that dexter put on. and/or sense that they were similar in that they both had this sense of darkness inside themselves.

which brings me to talking about how, as i have done some research on it (though this still doesn't make me an expert on it OFC! i'm just trying to do my due diligence to get everything as accurate as i could while using the internet as a resource), it kind of depends on other's having similar traits to him for barton to be able to recognize when other people are 'like him' - and also for him to get to know them at some capacity, especially because some people's way of 'masking' is very different from barton's. BUT barton is not particularly in the business of labeling anyone as a sociopath because he doesn't think of himself in those kind of terms either, really.

though anyhow, like i was saying, barton can see when someone is like him through them possessing traits like a lack of morals, callousness, 'predatory' behavior (or the act of trying to exploit other's for their own gain to put it simply), etcetera. and when someone acts this way towards his friends, family, or dare i say his partner then barton absolutely has the tendency to become protective over these people in his 'inner circle.' like, he will make his dislike towards them known one way or another because hey...

barton's logic here is that someone can mess with him all they want, but whenever it comes to the people he cares about in his own... barton-like way (LOL) then he will not put up with that at all. barton will be glaring at them hard-core during any interaction they have, distinctly when they're clearly trying to prey on a member of his 'inner circle' in one way or another. he will also threaten them through not-so-subtle ways. and if it comes down to it, let me just say that barton has a history of violence + a rap sheet a mile long so that may or may not have something to do with what his next cours eof action would be if they don't back off.

so, basically, what i'm trying to say is that people with NPD (narcissistic personality disorder) or ASPD like barton or just possess these traits definitely do not get off scott-free just BC they may be alike. and i thought this was kind of interesting because i know that i have talked about how barton doesn't even know how his mind works himself half-the-time before, BUT. him displaying this behaviors while he's still all those other things does say something to me; and that is that its quite possible that barton really does mean it when he says things like he doesn't want to be like his father, wesley.

because do you know what his bio father would've done in a situation where someone with the same kind of behaviors as him was threatening their family? stopping them from continuing would've been more of a matter of keeping up this 'image' for himself that he cares about barton. but barton actually does this because he genuinely doesn't want these people he's built relationships with to get hurt, and yeah, that doesn't make him automatically a good person. because he isn't one. though in some ways, i'd like to say he's put a halt to the generational trauma in the mathis family.

[wolf-innsheepsclothing]

4 Years, 364 Days - Self Para

Amsterdam, January 23rd, 2018 Max was staring up at the sky, but his eyes didn’t see. Were they stars, that danced overhead, or was he just seeing lights in his vision again? Maybe it was just satellites, hollow and man-made. 

Swynlake, July 23rd, 2019  The stars were out again, but Wolfgang turned his face from them, staring instead down the barrel of a bottle. What use did he have for stars? The park bench felt cold and hard beneath him, despite the fact that the night had been a warm one.

Next Town Over, July 23rd, 2024 The lights in the community room always buzzed, much to his annoyance. Wolf stared up at them as one of the other group members was talking. He didn’t want to be rude, this time, but they were talking a lot and saying very little.

On the eve of a major landmark, Wolfgang revisits some key moments in his past.

Content Warnings: Alcohol Abuse, Drug Abuse, Addiction Issues, Suicidal Thinking

Amsterdam, January 23rd, 2018

Max was staring up at the sky, but his eyes didn’t see. Were they stars, that danced overhead, or was he just seeing lights in his vision again? Maybe it was just satellites, hollow and man-made. 

He’d seen them before, stretched out on park benches in Amsterdam in the cold, grinning in his drug-induced delirium and thinking they were stars. He’d wanted to reach out and touch them, but his grasp was never long enough. He’d thought maybe, just a little further and he could- but each time his hand came back empty. And then he’d wrapped his hand back to his chest, where his heart beat so hard and so loud and so insistently and he just wished it would stop and fall silent. 

The satellite seemed to swim out of sight and he was left staring up at dark sky.

Oblivion would be nice. Then he could just let go, just slip back into it as if he was dropping into a warm bath and forget. He could forget all about home, about Munich, about the fear pumping through his veins as they’d ran and the rattle of bullets, about the reek of burned flesh and smoke that still clung to him no matter how hard he tried to wash it out. He could forget about that steady beat of the heart monitor and the soft whimper of Felix’s voice as every movement brought him agony that the medication couldn’t take away. 

It would be so much easier. His eyes had drifted closed, the cold sinking in at his extremities like an old friend he hadn’t known he was missing. Then, perhaps, for a moment he wouldn’t feel the guilt that wracked every one of his moments, that haunted his waking steps only to find him again in sleep and wreak its revenge on him. 

He could sleep here, perhaps, he could close his eyes and drift away and just let go. Nobody would miss him. Just another lost cause. 

What did he care for those distant voices? They wouldn’t care for him, either. 

But the voices grew nearer and nearer and peaceful oblivion slipped from his fingers like sand through an hourglass. Did he hate them for that? Maybe he hated them for it. 

They only sounded like children, to his ears, but when the voices came they were loud and raucous and drunk, maybe. 

“Meneer!” One of the voices called. “Meneer, wake up! You can’t sleep there!”

Max grumbled as someone slapped his leg, wanting nothing more than to roll over and be left alone. 

“You’ll freeze out here! Go home!” A second voice chimed in, and a hand that felt warm (too warm, did hands always feel so warm? Why on earth was this person so warm?) slapped against his face. He opened his hazy eyes once more, and tried to glare at the young woman he saw there. Her eyes were kind, but she shifted backwards from his swimming vision. 

“You need to go home,” the voice came again, still kind, as a hand gripped his leg. Her friends were calling her to carry on and get going. 

He didn’t have a home, but he lifted a hand to rub it over his face. The satellite had come back out from behind a cloud. 

Swynlake, July 23rd, 2019. 

The stars were out again, but Wolfgang turned his face from them, staring instead down the barrel of a bottle. What use did he have for stars? The park bench felt cold and hard beneath him, despite the fact that the night had been a warm one. Maybe it was the leftover rainwater that reflected those stars, that seeped into his clothes and clung to his skin. It whispered to him. Come into the cold, join us. Join us. 

It was all he was good for. 

He didn’t want to go home, not to that draughty house with its guests coming and going and the stench of vampire that never quite got out of his pores no matter how hard he scrubbed. They wouldn’t want him back anyway. The Hauntleys had made it very clear, he had to stay sober to keep the job. They would throw him out anyway, and who would miss him? The revenant who looked at him with such nervous fear in his eyes? The gardener who wanted none of him? The chef? 

No, nobody would miss him. 

Nobody missed him but the drink, the drugs, the constant voice that called out to him and promised that they could dull the pain for a little while. He knew it was only temporary, but when his head was splitting with it all, what choice did he have? 

Still, he had fallen again, and in that moment he just wanted to keep on falling, to let himself fall down, down, down until he finally hit the bottom and knew no more. But his drink was empty. 

His head bowed, as he heard the distant sounds of the bars and the music thudding from Pixies. He had hoped one of them might feel the miserable, cavernous hole in his heart, but there was nothing. There would be nothing. On days like this he wondered why he had ever taken that hand up from the gutter, and not just lain there and let go. It would have been so much easier to let go. Nobody would have known. His phone lit up on the bench next to him, but he ignored it. He wanted it to go away, he wanted everything to just go away, he couldn’t take this any longer. 

But all he could do was sit there, staring at the last defiant drop in the bottle and wishing he could drink that too. 

He didn’t notice, at first, the crunch of gravel as footsteps came towards him; not until the battered old biker boots were standing in front of him. 

“I’ll take that, buddy,” came the gruff voice, before a shape crouched down in front of him. Through bleary eyes, it took Wolfgang a moment to understand the shapes in front of him, and the shock of blonde hair that came on top of all that leather. 

“Sounds like you’ve had a rough night, yeah?” Dave spoke, still sounding as if he wasn’t concerned, as he pried Wolfgang’s resistant fingers from the bottle, and set it out of reach. Wolfgang swallowed around a thick tongue that had nothing to say. He had failed Dave, too. Again. He didn’t know why the other man kept coming back, or kept trying, when it was so painfully obvious that he couldn’t do this. He just wasn’t cut out for walking the straight and narrow path that he had been set on. 

And yet, the man shifted himself, and took a spot on the bench next to Wolfgang. Wolf kept his eyes fixed on the ground, as the two of them sat there in silence. 

“Good sky tonight,” Dave acknowledged after a long while. 

Wolfgang looked up. Sure. The stars were twinkling. Or were they? They seemed to be swimming to him, as the blood rushed to his head and he blinked, hearing the roar in his veins and feeling unsteady. 

“Come on, big guy,” Dave laid a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t stay here all night! You come back with me, we’ll get you a nice warm bed and the Missus will fix you up a good breakfast for the morning, yeah?”

Wolf slurred some vague protest, but there was an arm being looped around his back, and his was draped over Dave’s shoulder and he was being pulled to his feet before he could find any of the words to say why he shouldn’t. 

“I’m glad you texted me, ok Wolfie?” Dave added, patting his arm, before he began half-carrying him home. 

He didn’t remember when he’d texted, but as his feet struggled to find themselves under him on the gravel, he didn’t have time to think about it. 

Next Town Over, July 23rd, 2024

The lights in the community room always buzzed, much to his annoyance. Wolf stared up at them as one of the other group members was talking. He didn’t want to be rude, this time, but they were talking a lot and saying very little. He was just tired. He felt it, right down into his bones. He felt it when he tried to clear up at the Inn and do his small part to get the space ready to be repaired properly, where even the rhythmic sweep of a brush, or the satisfaction of small improvements could not help him rest. He felt it when he sat down in his room, and stared at the plain white walls, since he had no project left he could work on. He felt it in the shower when he let the water wash over him and try to wash away his failings, and his whole body ached. He felt it when he closed his eyes and laid down to rest only to find no rest would come. 

He was so tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t felt it. Had it been some brief glimpse over a bowl of pasta, or sat on a sofa as some tv show he’d never heard of played in the background, just listening as a now-familiar voice talked? Had it been some time before all this began? Or before the John Cunningham affair? Had it been some time long before that, or had he always had this ache in his bones?

“And, uh-” Wolf dragged his eyes back down from the ceiling, back to the ring of uncomfortable folding chairs that had huddled once more on a scuffed and scratched wooden floor. “Well, if nobody else has anything to say this week-” The group leader looked around the room expectantly, giving each of them time to consider if they wanted to but being met only in shades of silence, before he clasped his hands together and continued. 

“Well, as always, thank you to everyone who did speak. I just wanted to highlight, we’ve actually got something of a landmark coming up this week!” He was smiling warmly, and Wolf felt his heart sink. 

“I just want to say a big congratulations to Wolfgang.” Wolf’s body stiffened as he felt eyes shifting onto him. “Who, this week will be marking five years sober!” It sounded like a triumph when he said it, and a few people smiled encouragingly, feeling awkwardly as though some sort of round of applause had been expected. None came. Wolf thanked god for that. 

“Listen,” the leader dropped his voice, into a more serious tone. “You might not be our chattiest member-” (that actually raised a few chuckles around the room) “- but you show up, every week, and you put the work in. Each and every single one of us knows how hard that is. We’re really proud of you, and we’re really glad you’re here.”

A murmur of agreement went around the room. Wolf looked down at his shoes, and nodded his acknowledgement. He wasn’t about to stand up and make some speech. It only made him feel more tired, more exhausted. He felt like he was an imposter (he didn’t know why), like he didn’t belong there (because what, he still found it hard some days?). 

Wolfgang looked up again, and gave a few more nods around the room. When his eyes met Dave’s, he was not surprised to see they were searching him, as if looking into his heart and questioning him. The big blond man had his arms folded across his chest, but he gave Wolfgang a nod, and a smile. 

Maybe some other day they would talk about it, but not tonight. 

[musemuseum]

Declan Nichols

trigger warnings; allusion to physical abuse

The absolute silence was more of a deafening roar in their ears. The quiet before the storm; and this would be the biggest one to date. Nothing could prepare them for what was coming. Nothing.

Something made of glass shattered against the wall. They didn't know what, just that it had shattered. They looked down at their younger sibling, the over-sized headphones looking heavy on their small head. The music clearly doing its job of drowning out the chaos on the other side of the locked door.

They smiled down at their sibling as they looked up. Their smile was sad, but they tried not to make it so obvious. There was no telling what would happen afterward, but they had made a promise - to never leave the younger alone.

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

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

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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