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acid-ixx · 1 year ago

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ch.3: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

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

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: allusions to sexual assault, prostitution, and alcohol abuse.

"hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!"

please stop.

"i know that we haven't been talking for quite a long time—"

no, you have never once had a solid conversation with him.

and you wish it stays that way between the two of you.

"—so let's catch up over coffee, yeah? i'll be staying at the manor for a week!"

you don't want to, you don't want to see his face at all, his dismissive eyes. don't want to hear his voice, how it only sings praises for everyone but you.

"(name)??? it says you have seen the messages :( are you asleep? you shouldn't sleep with your phone on, baby bird, that's dangerous!"

he doesn't have the right to scold you, he's not your older brother anymore. and you're not asleep, fuck, you regret not dozing off this afternoon. hell, you're more than awake and aware of the messages he's sending you, eyes scanning over the train of spam that clutters what was once an empty one-sided conversation.

"baby bird? c'mon, i miss you!!!"

lies, lies, lies. all he ever says are lies and you wouldn't fall for it, not anymore.

yet you're simply frozen in shock, seated up in bed as you simply watch dick's messages stack upon each other.

you watch, and wait. it's like you have lost autonomy over your body's actions.

five minutes pass.

your phone rings.

it was the only sound that fills the room other than the wringing in your ears.

it continues ringing, reverberating throughout the room, but all you do is stare, stare until the it ends, for everything to end and for all of this to be a sick hallucination your brain played on you.

there's nothing else you could focus on, your heartbeats spike the longer the call sound continues. you didn't even have the strength to decline the call, let alone move as you fear you might end up pressing the accept button.

so you wait, you wait until it stops.

and once it does cease, your sweaty thumb immediately pressed the block button on dick's profile, even going as far to delete all the past chats you had sent him. then, without moments hesitation, hastily scrolled all the way to the bottom of the list, where their other contacts lay barren of messages.

you have only used enough effort to message dick. that's what probably triggered his sudden intent on spending time with you, no? or was this all for his sick pleasure?

fortunately, all your other contacts with your past family are empty.

it will remain empty.

so you immediately blocked them, all of them. the thumps in your heart are erratic, so much so that you had to remind yourself to breath. through your nose, and out your mouth.

that's it, right? he'll get the message, definitely. that you don't want him to talk to you, to get rid of the false pretenses between the two of you, you don't want to "catch up" over coffee, or over anything.

it's all over, you tell yourself.

'calm down, relax...' you're in the safety of your own apartment, you should feel safe right now, he wouldn't bother you anymore.

not anymore would you be led to believe that they care for you.

— so why is it that you can feel that familiar rise of bile? taste it, even? why is it that your body is shaking so uncontrollably?

what the fuck.

seriously, just what the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

you never take yourself as an overdramatic person, especially not now, at the age of eighteen where you had finally learned to live for yourself, to never yearn what you knew was unattainable. your past tantrums were no more, no more you say but you wish so badly to carve a knife into your very heart.

why is it that now— now that you were out of your comfort zone, out of their empty presences and their overwhelming absences; why is it now that he just suddenly decided to appear? why is it just now that you feel your skin scorching uncomfortably at just a single message.

shit, your heart hurts so much. you want to take the beating organ out of your chest, just to make the pain stop.

your momma always told you, she said it herself that you are a brave child, her pride and joy despite the hellish living conditions you both were subjected to.

why is it so hard to believe her now?

just, why are you so weak?

when your mother hid you inside that closet - one too small for even a malnourished child like you to fit - telling you to hush for her, and that it's just a game of hide and seek with the 'bad guys', to not make a single sound at all or even come out if you hear screaming— you did what you were told, obediently, covering your mouth, trying your hardest to ignore your sore joints and heavy breathing.

"woah, mommy! is this really me?! you always make me look so nice." a young voice squeals, the sound echoing throughout the hollow room.

"yes, it's you, baby. you who are so strong, unlike me. momma will always love you." scarred hand, littered with gashes and soiled bandages run brush through your messy hair as your small form sat on the dirty bathroom sink. your eyes are drifted towards a mirror, checking out the new shirt your mother had bought for you.

"i love you too..."

you never cried that loud when light suddenly hits the cramped interiors of the closet, when you were caught and shoved outside of your hiding space by strange men, your mother nowhere to be found. when you felt the same men ripping your clothes apart, knives branding your skin like a searing hot pan; you never fought back because that's what your mother taught you. even when they pinned you down and injected you with a strange substance, head suddenly numbing and vision darkening; you still woke up alive, no?

... you woke up alive and conscious in a police station, where you had questiomed to the kind officer about your mother's disappearance, where she had bared the news that you would be taken in to a new family; a new home where your father resides in. one way cleaner, way safer she says.

yet for the next 15 years you were neglectef of the love your mother had given you. you were only raised by a butler too busy to fully focus on you. you had compared yourself to your siblings, siblings who had achieved so much in so little time.

and you?

you are only a wayne by name, but a (last name) by heart.

but you are brave, you are strong— you came from the lowest of the low, yet you pushed through and through to be a better person, and look where you are now...!

... just look at yourself now.

your phone lays untouched on the bed sheets. it tempts you, mocks your panicked state, and you want to rip that rectangular piece of metal apart. yet all you do is stare at it, sitting upright as one hands supports your weight. your fingers clench the mattress, it does nothing as your vision darkens from your lack of breathing.

breathing.

oh, breath in, breath out. do what alfred has taught you years ago, the- the one he uses whenever you would run alone in the desolate halls of the manor to alfred's room, just because you were anxious of the monsters in the corner of your eyes, where he would help you return to your senses and play you a lullaby from an old music box right after. the one he uses after you two would watch horror movies and you were too scared of any sounds that engulf your surroundings.

your throat tightens, and you want to vomit out the contents of what you have eaten— but you have to try.

five things you can see.

your eyes, although frozen wide and stinging with tears, darts around the room. everything is darker now, it's cold and you feel so small. your apartment was small. unlike the place you had lived before, it lacks of furniture, of life, of personality. the only things in your tiny apartment were basic necessities, but even food was scarce for someone like you who had juggle working multiple jobs and college just to pay for rent.

you can see your phone, the candy wrappers you had forgotten to throw, the overflowing trash bin, an empty bottle of prescription pills, alfred's gifts on the shelves counts, right? you laugh sarcastically at yourself; even a trashcan has more contents in your shitty apartment.

fuck, your chest throbs, you remind yourself to breath a little deeper.

four things you can feel.

the mattress is too hot for you, sweat already running down your forehead as if you had ran a marathon. you can feel the tears well up your eyes, overflowing with bitterness that you thought you had already buried deep down, and your hands gripping the sheets so uncomfortably tight. the weather is too cold, winter's nearing but the blood pumping through your veins scorches your very being.

that's four, three more to go and you hope this would all be over. you hope that this would all be a dream, a hallucination, anything.

three things you can hear.

does your choked sounds count? or does it need to be anything else? fuck, why doesn't it work as well as when alfred helps you through? you told yourself that you could take on anything in life, but is it all just a lie—?

focus. focus on your surroundings. you can hear your sniffling, heavy intakes of air, and a repeat of the phone ringing with dick's name as the contact.

shit, shit, shit. don't remind yourself of that. move on, just get onto the next thing.

two things you can smell or... taste? you don't remember, why can't you remember? your thoughts keep running back in circles to the messages, that stupid '<3', the way his desperation could be felt through the phone.

it reminds you of yourself.

before you knew it, your fist brought itself to punch your chest.

thump, beat, thump.

every time your heart beats too loudly, you strike your chest as hard as you can, uncaring for the pain it inflicts you, uncaring for the way you beat the air out of yourself. as long as it distracts you from the bile rising up your throat and the unsated nausea from sitting in the same position— it'll be fine if you hurt yourself. you've already done so a million times, no?

... yet nothing works.

why doesn't anything work out in your favor?

please don't do this to me.

your fists eventually stops. everything hurts even worse.

just earlier ago, you were praising yourself for all the progress you had made. how you weren't in need of validation anymore. you try so desperately to erase any inch of evidence that you were a wayne.

it all crashes down, again and again, and again and again.

moments ago, you were laying on your bed, scrolling through social media, making plans to hangout with your small group of friends in college, trying to cling on to the good parts of your past— ignoring the empty chats of what was once family.

but even without them, even if they haven't knew that you pushed them away from your life— they're always seeping their way at the back of your mind.

you truly can not erase your past. no matter how much you shake your head to rid of the thoughts, no matter how much you try to erase any documentations, any

even talking to alfred reminds you of your stupid past. a past that eats you up every time you wake up from the nightmares, wishing that there would be someone, anyone, who would hold your body tight and tell you it's alright. your mother, your father, your brothers and your sisters— they just were never there for you for so many years. and you hate to admit it but; you still cling to the wish that one of them would...

would hug you and kiss all your wounds away. drive away the countless of dreams filled with terror and torture.

you're independent now, but at what cost? what good does it do when you still try your damn hardest to live? when you know it in your soul that you still desire for a semblence of familial love.

and now that you've pushed alfred away, you're truly alone.

alone and stuck in a loop of trying to run away from your past and failing miserably.

and all you can ever do is, well...

you cry.

the tears bursts out of your eyes like a broken faucet.

you cry because that's the only thing you know how to do. you let the waters loose, hands quickly tangling itself on your hair, ripping fragile strands apart. you cry because you've been living a such a life full of lies, of broken promises, a life where you have to constantly walk on eggshells. you cry because you want to turn back and throw away all your progress just to feel the embrace of a family who had never once held you in their arms. you let yourself heave, let your voice wail out to its deepest frustration, uncaring for the thin walls, or the sleeping neighbors next door, or the rumbling of your empty stomach.

you cry, for what seems like hours, unending like the memories of solitary isolation, like the wanting of a love that you could never quite catch. you let your eyes become all puffy and red; red like the gashes you have scratched upon your skin, like the crimson, beaded blood from your bitten lips.

you don't find any strength in yourself to stifle your sobs anymore.

not when you're so, so lonely in this world.

and when your voice dies down, when your hoarse shrieking becomes no more; you simply force yourself to stand, despite the spinning of your vision, the stumble in your steps and the lack of air in your lungs; you run to your bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting adrenaline take its course into your already tired body.

your knees, they buckle after its few wobbly steps. it's sore and lacks the circulation to be properly controlled, but you ignore it in favor of expelling the acidic bile that finally rushes itself up your tongue.

at least you find just one thing to be grateful for— that your knees slipped on the wet tiles and land coincidentally towards the toilet's rim, a loud thud vibrating through the room.

alfred says the best way to cope is to never jar your emotions.

it's painful, everything is so painful that you want to scream; you need to let it all out.

you don't care if your knees were to bruise because you couldn't help it anymore, spilling out the contents of your breakfast onto the toilet bowl. your throat constricts into itself, and all you could do is gag and force every bit of food out of your mouth.

and it tastes so bitter that you cry even more. there were some bits and chunks stuck on the sides of your tongue, you can taste the acid on the back of your throat. you feel the urge to vomit even more but there's no more to expel. all you can do is dry heave, shaking hands finding its way to cover your mouth from gagging anymore.

it's so pungent, so fucking disgusting— but all you do is force yourself to stand once more, to look away from the mess you had created and flush it away.

the tears just wouldn't stop, the throbbing in your heart could never be expelled just as easily as the contents of your stomach.

yet you chose this life, there's no more alfred to assist you on your own personal struggles. there's no more rubs on the pack, pats on the head or a warm meal that greets you every time you drown in your own emotions. it's only you who can solve your own problems. you can't depend on anyone but yourself...

if only life was as easy as it is to flush away unwanted contents from your stomach.

if only you weren't in gotham... if only dick wasn't in...

gotham.

he's in gotham right now.

shit.

shit, shit, shit.

dick is in gotham, and you know he just doesn't give up.

he can track you down, he'll find you, he might hurt you because you blocked him— you know of his temper, of his unadulterated anger; you're scared of that. just what have you done wrong? did you take something that was his? no, no, never.

you've never been in his room before. he knows yours because he had visited once, but you don't know his. you don't even know which hallway leads to it.

oh, fuck.

you stumble towards the bathroom sink, hastily twisting the faucet's valve. cold water immediately rushes down, you cup your two hands together to collect the running water.

you need to get to you bearings, prepare for the absolute worst because you know, you know the power he holds in his arms.

with the amount of times he had spammed you, called you even— there's something he wants from you, and you don't want to entertain whatever he has on his mind.

you splash your face - splotched with tears, snot and drool - clean multiple times, rub your swollen, red eyes, and wipe the bits of vomit on the sides of your mouth. you can still taste the vomit. god, it's disgusting.

so you hastily grabbed your toothbrush, pushing an insanely large amount of toothpaste on the bristles. you scrub your teeth aggressively, feeling the urge to rid of the pungent taste of stomach acid. then you gargle mouthwash, twice, and spit it all out.

your movements are too quick for your own self to catch up, but you have to do this. your brain tells you to follow through whatever it has to do.

follow through instincts, get him out of your mind.

distract yourself from dick and the cryptic messages he had sent, that you had thoroughly deleted but...

it dawns upon you that albeit all your failed attempts at bonding with him— you know nothing about dick beyond the circus incident that had killed his parents and his identity as gotham and bludhaven's vigilante, nightwing.

you know nothing about him...

and you fucking blocked him before you could ask for an explanation.

what does that message mean? what does he want to talk about all of a sudden? a person doesn't just fucking waltz in someone's life after 15 years of absence and exclaims himself as close as your friend, no?

it had been so long since you had last heard him call you baby bird, let alone even read your messages, so why spam you now?

your knuckles grip at the bathroom sink's tiles, it was the only thing that provides you balance, legs too wobbly to support the dizziness. you feel a huge lump on your throat again, but you can't just erase all the efforts you had done to get yourself together.

— but at the same time, it's too hard to ignore the panic that resurfaces on your very mind.

so what do you need exactly?

distraction, something to get your mind off of the current situation? before you run away from gotham—

you need a distraction, anything. even if it's stupid, you'll regret it later, just not now.

cigarettes? no, you don't smoke. alfred will kill you if he finds out and you can never lie to him.

drugs? you'll be shot in the head by nasty criminals scamming naive citizens for half the price before you could even purchase them.

... then what?

you look at yourself in the mirror, puffy eyes glazing with emotions you yourself couldn't comprehend.

'despite everything, it's still you, no?'

if you could describe yourself right now, you would call yourself a mess, a big loser who had let their emotions run free for too long, let themself go way too quickly, gave up too quickly, and believed too naively. you had lost so much yet gained so little. a wayne so stubborn that it was the only thing you could ever relate to your father who had estranged you without knowing it.

there was more negatives than positives, you're aware of it.

but if there's one trait that anyone could generalize off of you, it would be that you're always desperate for something.

anything.

and just one time, you tell yourself. one time and that's it, nothing more, nothing less.

once you done relaxing, you're packing your bags and making a run for it. you'll even cut alfred off of your life once and for all. no matter how much it pains you to do so, it's necessary so you could make a new identity from scratch.

it'll hurt you so deeply.

but that's why you're going to do what you wish you had done back when you were still so young—

you need a drink right now.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, is truly just an empty palace that houses buried memories.

with walls that cover the cries of one lonely child; a child who yearns for the unreciprocated love of their family. it was a cage for a child who stalks the frigid halls without any company, who sleeps in a room too small for their age, who cries for anybody to notice the pain that they had hidden with rose colored tints for so long, who yearns for a warmth that could never be provided in the spaces of harsh, black wallpaper and harsh winters.

it will always be innately lonely, and cold.

yet it's even more sullen now, an atmosphere so empty nobody could pinpoint.

no more was the voice that sings of the butler's splendid cooking. no more was the etching of ballpens on smooth paper on an intricately designed diary that stores all the rants of one's daily life. no more were the strokes on colorful canvases that paint dreams of a different life. no more was the humming of multiple tunes every morning. no more was the presence of the ghost who water the plants every afternoon. no more were the footsteps that thud in the kitchen and the hands that opens the fridge.

and most importantly—

no more were the hushed cries of the kid who resides in the smallest room of the wayne manor.

a house could be described as a building where a unit, moreover a family, lives in; but a home is what represents comfort, a place of belonging and safety.

it was a place encased with deep, historical roots.

but right now, encased in a field of damp grass - wet from heavy rain - and the overwhelming scent of petrichor— the manor is simply a house.

for it could never be complete without the presence of the very lonely child who cries for a love never to be attained.

the wayne manor, in all its worth, would never be the same without (name) wayne, a child who had always belonged, but at the same time, always wronged.

bruce wayne never considered himself the greatest father.

he could be gotham's best detective, the most feared vigilante, or the heavily beloved billionaire who donates millions on hospitals, hosts charity events, and so much more.

he could spend his entire life saving countless of other lives that do not deserve the turmoil of living on edge constantly, attend meetings, plan out his every moves, sit on cushioned seats as he broods over where the all the next criminal hideouts; he could do everything and he'll be damned great at it.

—but he will never be the greatest at being a father.

he had long accepted that fact, embraced it even, facing countless of criticism from both alfred and media alike, but it would never be an excuse to neglect or mistreat any one of his children, just like how it would never be right to just ignore a kid's cry for comfort in the barren halls of a manor.

bruce was never outright cruel towards anyone, every action of his baring significance to his moral code.

which was why bruce feels a pit of neverending regret now.

in all the years that he had spent trying to raise his children, children who, in a way, are trouble. who all differ from each other from ideals, to pasts, to habits, to preferences— he wouldn't lie and say that he never had difficulty helping each and every one of them grow to be who they are now.

living through his decisions are never easy, especially if the outcomes were unpredictable; raising a child, let alone children, could go so many ways.

the lives that he had to juggle, alongside his identity as bruce wayne and as batman, they were all an endeavor that he had chose to balance. he had come so far and stumbled so often. but at least by the end of it, he would be proud to say that he truly will never regret having them by his side when he was at the lowest points of his life.

he had his flaws and his mistakes, he had done irreversible actions that he wishes he could reverse, and most importantly, he had failed each and every one of his children indubitably.

but he really tried.

he tried his best to be there for every single one of them. he was there for dick when he had witnessed the death of his mom and dad, adopting the boy who was overflowing with rage towards the killer of his parents and utilizing his gymnastic skills for good. he was there to pick jason up when he had stolen the batmobile's tires, helping the child unlearn the past abuse he had fallen victim to (and although he had died, then resurrected, and turned cold-blooded towards criminals, murdering without hesitation— he still cares for jason deeply). he was there when tim had lost his parents. there for damian who had only been raised as an assassin since he was born. for cass, for duke, for everyone.

he really tried to be active in their lives, supporting them through their blood, sweat, and tears.

... but he had never tried to be there for you.

his forgotten third child, the biological firstborn, child of a well-known prostitute, (name) (last name), whose identity has long been erased off of the face of the internet; the scandal of a century that took the shared efforts of him and barbara to decimate whatever information the late (or missing?) (last name) has in the underground.

(name), his child he has never once bat an eye on, too preoccupied with tim, aversing his attention away from you to train the other kid; ultimately ignoring the immense trauma you must have dealt with from being raised by a mother targeted by most criminal organizations from extorting their cash. it was sickening for him to think of just how cruel were the conditions the two of you were forced to live through.

it was sickening for bruce to imagine the even lonelier years you had to suffer through after your mother's disappearance— years where your father's presence was elsewhere, years that a child has to suffer through alone without any figure to look up to.

it was your name that he had hesitated to even say, in fear of butchering the pronunciation and earning more of alfred's judgemental looks.

(name) wayne.

not even a face can be associated with you, not your voice, your hobbies, nothing.

he couldn't recall a memory where he had taken you to a fancy gala, or one-on-one father-child dates, or any occasions that requires bonding with each other.

he wasn't the man who welcomed you through the doors of the manor, nor was he the father who should've picked you up at the police station.

bruce wayne knows nothing of his third child.

if alfred hadn't confronted him about your terrible living conditions as of now, living in debt whilst trying to push through college, then how long would he have ignored your presence inside the manor? how long would the years pass without him acknowledging any important milestones that you would reach?

until your untimely demise perhaps?

he couldn't even remember a time he had at least given you a gift during christmas or new year or any time of the day.

not even the name of your elementary and high school, or your college university. he doesn't know of your friends, your teachers or what subject you excel in.

you had already graduated highschool, and he wasn't even there for your ceremony. he wasn't there to walk you up the stage, wasn't there to shield you from the thousands of photographers who would've attended should they know that a wayne would attend, wasn't there to offer you a pat on the shoulders for a job well done.

then who had to walk you up the stage?

"alfred..." he stops walking, clearing his throat as alfred turns back at bruce, offering a raised eyebrow at the sudden pause and bruce's rigid pose.

"yes, master?"

"when... (name) graduated," he hesitated on saying your name again, catching on alfred's sudden squint of the eyes. "who walked them up the stage?"

he hopes you didn't have to go up there alone, that a teacher at least accompanied you or—

"i was the one who attended in your stead, master bruce." the butler replies without hesitation, as if it was a normal occurrence. he sighs again, too tired to scold bruce's surprise for absolutely dismissing all the important dates that include you and instead turns back to continue on his treck to guiding bruce to your room.

alfred's look of condescension makes him sink deeper into the void of regret. for being unable to

fuck, how many important events had bruce missed? from school plays, to parent-teacher conferences, to talent shows— was there ever a "bring your father to school" day?

oh... he really hopes there wasn't.

his hands find itself scratching his head, fingers tangling itself onto his hair in hopes of providing distraction— but his thoughts all circulate towards you, a faceless entity, an itch that he could never reach unless he sees you for himself.

the further he walks through frigid halls, the smaller the space seems to get.

how many birthdays had he missed?

when even is your birthday?

you are eighteen now, five when you were taken in which means... almost fourteen years of missed birthdays...

he didn't even give you a single gift card out of pity. not even money for allowance, or a birthday cake.

bruce was never there for you, and he has a feeling that that may have been one of the reasons of you moving out.

he needs to make up for it at least, once he contacts you he'll apologize for everything—

but first, he needs to see the state of your room. to at least have a first impression of you, of what your life was in the manor; any clues that pertains to just who his child is, as humiliating as that sounds for a father.

which was why he didn't hesitate to let alfred lead him straight to your room, albeit the shame he feels for not even knowing where his own child's room is located.

back when he had taken damian in, it was him who introduced the boy to his own room, whom had promptly thrown a tantrum and demanded someplace bigger before ultimately accepting his fate.

... how would you have reacted to your own? he wishes to at least picture your face, probably opposite to damian's, as you get to live in an entirely different space from what you're used to.

would you be pleased? would you look at him with sparkling eyes and thank him? or would you maintain a neutral stance? an overwhelmed one?

he really wants to see you, your expressions, just a sliver of your presence.

but nothing comes up in his mind. not the length or color of your hair, not your height, not anything. he could picture a vague imagery of your mother, but not you.

it makes him wonder; does any of your siblings know what you look like? were you at least any closer to them that you are to him?

he hates just how much desperately the darkness in the pit of his chest is crawling in need to hasten his steps towards wherever your room was.

the rain outside had already ceased, but a newer thunderstorm was brewing inside bruce's heart.

he needs to see you.

as he walks behind alfred through the halls of the manor, he had just noticed how barren the other side of the manor truly is.

cob webs and dust particles litter through the corners of the untouched furniture, the wallpaper peeling off itself and revealing untreated mold and even more cocoons of baby spiders that would soon crawl out, and even most of the ceramic vases they had passed by houses no flowers, instead being covered in a thin sheen of dust.

it was obvious just how neglected this corner of the house is.

just like you.

alfred was always meticulous in his duty as a butler, but bruce had advised the old man to leave unexplored parts of the manor be, seeing as how nobody would stroll by; and to only clean it whenever he would host an expensive gala in the manor with spare rooms as guest rooms.

it made bruce wonder if these halls are the path that leads directly to your room, which it actually does, and he feels even more guilty at just how... different your living condition is compared to your siblings.

it was no wonder why the butler would always excuse himself early, seemingly always making a treck towards a forgotten chamber that he rarely visited.

he'll make a note of relocating you to a room closer than his if you ever were to decide to come visit during holidays or vacations.

... alfred said it had been six or seven months since you had left, just how many occasions have he missed?

counting only fills the dread in his the growing hole of the pit of his heart.

yeah... he will get you a new room, one preferably closer to his; just so he could greet you every morning by knocking on your door and at least escorting you to the kitchen for breakfast. he'll try to make small talk, invite you over and... bond with you.

that'll be a good habit he could incorporate into his daily life.

a small part of him wishes you wouldn't look at him in disdain if he had to forcibly visit your apartment.

he swears it's in all the good of his heard; he just needs to check for himself if you were doing okay.

as him and alfred nearly arrives at your bedroom, the two had already noticed the light peaking from outside the doors and what seems to be two voices ensuing an argument.

even alfred, who had ceased his steps, looked surprised at the presence of the people who seemed to be there before them.

bruce doesn't even hesitate jogging towards the room, unaware of alfred's immediate shift to a calculating gaze, as bruce immediately opens polished, mahogany doors, inviting himself in.

... it smells of bleach and fabric refresher.

his heart clenches at the implication.

"father...? why are you here?" damian's voice cuts through the tension, bruce merely dismisses youngest child as his eyes takes in the space, ignoring how the other presence in the room - dick, with wide, feral eyes - quips about an ongoing "family" reunion.

bruce analyzes every detail, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

small... your room is way too small, and lacks of any design or life whatsoever. a tiny bed is shoved in the corner, the closet too miniscule to even contain clothes for someone your age (just where do you store them, then?), the windows barely welcome any ventilation nor sunlight, even your bedside table was too small to be considered one; the lampshade on top of it could be easily toppled over by a single sway of a hand.

everything is clean, too clean and orderly.

his eyebrows furrow at its state. even a model's walk-in closet is significantly bigger than the cramped space he calls your bedroom.

no proper ventilation, not even any space is provided for... your hobbies. hobbies that he wasn't even aware of.

is this how you had been living for almost eighteen years of your life?

how do you live like this?

just how much has he neglected you?

"bruce...?" it was dick's voice that he had now registered. it sounds out of breath, way too abnormally distraught and out of character.

he slowly looks at dick, equally befuddled at the presence of his eldest and youngest sons.

he seems disheveled, stressed even. the athlete's blue eyes were wide and dilated, seemingly unfocused as his stance was rigid. he was breathing too deep, hand clenching his phone too tight, veins popping through muscles, and he holds a... notebook in the other, this time like it was a delicate piece or artifact.

"... why are you here?" dick tries to cover his current state with an awkward laugh, but he could never hide the furrow of his brows, the flickering in his eyes, nor the anxious stomping of the his feet. sweat runs down dick's forehead; it looks like he's been inside the room the longest.

and dick refuses to get out of it. he won't, not until he finds out just why were you pushing him always all of a sudden.

he's afraid of forgetting his baby bird once more and neglecting your needs. if you were just as self-depracating as he is then... just how well would you be coping all by yourself?

does bruce share the same intentions as him? he doesn't know, his thoughts all leading to a path of thinking about, well, you.

you and your wide eyes looking at him like he was the world.

"i'm just here to visit... (name)'s room." bruce replies, a deep tremor in his parched throat, threading even further into the cramped space as his eyes seem to lock into the multitudes of messily stacked notebooks in the center of the bed.

they were all captioned '(name)'s diary', each having different fonts for every notebook and a date plastered on the very bottom.

"and you both are...?" he stares at them, demanding an answer as he sits on your too small bed (—it creaks, he hates that it does so he promises to get you a new one, a bigger one even, with enough space to fit in at least four people just as you deserve), picking up one of the diaries in his hand; it sports messy calligraphy and peeling stickers, reminiscent of just how old it was.

the hold he has on the diary is delicate as he flips through the first page the same way the eldest child had done. the papers were stained gray from the lead of the pencil, doodles littering every page, from flowers to animals and even faces that bruce couldn't recognize.

at least it provides the void in his heart food for thought, taking in every small detail about you and your hobbies.

you like documenting your life through diaries, that was the first thing he noted about you. the entries all date far from back when you were five or younger, the earlier pages highlighting, well, you and your mother's life. though the handwriting wasn't all that eligible, bruce finds himself becoming fond of the common topics you often rant about from "momma's burnt stack of pancakes" (paired with a drawing on the side, colored with dried markers and glitter gel pens), to the fairytales your mother loves to read you.

as much as it was entertaining for him to read through your mind, it's sad how aged the papers were and how some pages were crumpled to the point some contents were incomprehensible.

he'll get you even more high quality ones, rather than the cheap paper the one he's currently holding has. and he'll buy you designer pens, or do you prefer the more functional ones? would you like fountain pens or glass dip ones just to enjoy the experience?

bruce notices a pattern of the pen's strokes, an array of thinner lines were preferred in most of your entries compared to the thick pencils you sometimes force yourself to use, as there was an entry you had mentioned where if you use thicker lines then you'll run out of pages quicker, and "my mom doesn't have enough money to buy me one right now."

even the doodles in pencil had prefered line widths. finer quality for even finer details, thicker lines to emphasize and exaggerate your art on the side of the papers.

would you prefer mechanical or charcoal pencils? charcoal is messy and smudges, bruce knows as he sees small drawings of a tiny sprite that point towards a smeared sketch of a flower, a look of disdain on its furrowed brows.

he couldn't contain the upward quirk of his lips, blocking out dick's shadow that seems to get closer to bruce.

unfortunately, there were no ballpens of your preference on your bedside table for him to take for himself. he'll find out himself sooner enough though; what materials you like to utilize for your diaries and sketches. hell, it seems you like using a mix of normal and puffy stickers alongside a mix medium to obtain different colors.

journaling supplies, you'll find a lot of them in your arsenal soon.

he'll make sure of that once he finds out where you live.

he looks at damian flipping through what seems to be one of your sketchbooks.

art is, undoubtedly, one of your hobbies too— that's the second thing he notes, picking up what seems to be your second diary right after he flips through the first one, wasting no time to learn more about you.

this time, your second diary talks about your early life into the gotham manor. your anxious yet earger energy to meet your father, how the dick grayson (presumably your idol, with how you mention him as the) is now your brother, and how you almost got lost just wondering in the manor; they all highlight your innocence and curiousity about the world. you write so effortlessly, unafraid of writing down what you truly feel.

though you barely mention the incident regarding your mother, you have stated multiple times about how you miss her beautiful smile and her captivating laughter.

he's grateful that you're fond of writing diaries, exposing bruce to the deeper, more personal parts of your life. he doesn't need to pinpoint any lies or truth. all your secrets, your endeavors, your dreams and your passions are buried deep into the crevices of your diaries, etched in thousands of words and drawings that tell bruce just who you are.

and truly, you are his child.

bruce craves to know more about you in person the more he reads through your entries.

fortunately, it wasn't only him that feels an intense need to take you in, as the presence of his eldest cuts him off of the his train of thoughts.

"y'know, before you forget we're even here, bruce," dick quips with a fond smile as he looks at his bruce's unkempt state, taking a seat next to his father who seems to be in his own world just like damian. the bed creaks against their weight, both cringing at the sound before bruce returns to his own world of... analyzing you, just like he did hours ago.

but he knows that his father knows how to multitask, so he doesn't hesitate to answer.

"i'm also here for (name), i promised to take them out for dinner month's ago." that seems to actually catch bruce's attention, as he looks up from reading your second diary, gazing at dick as if to urge him to continue.

dick proceeds with a sigh, a smitten smile plastered on his face as he recalls the only memory he has of you.

"(name) really has a knack for writing and all, right? i love them for it. when i first met them, they were just so adorable. my baby bird tried to ask me for an autograph!" dick couldn't help himself from yapping, chuckling lightly as he remembers the deathly grip you had on alfred's cuffs, how you were hiding behind the butler's legs and looked at dick so enamored. he couldn't contain his unhinged smile, the goosebumps on his skin made shivers ripple throughout his entire body.

bruce (and even damian, who had all his attention on your sketches) had listened in on his monologue.

"i was the one who helped lead them to their room," he continued confidently, tapping his phone with his fingers, "they clung really close to me when we climbed up the steps, even tried to hide under my jacket..."

looking back, dick wishes he had carried you up the steps. thing was, you were incredibly small back then, and the manor's staircase is particularly hard to transverse through when ascending, so you must've felt exhausted and leaned onto him for support. your tiny legs must've been sore once you two had arrived by your room.

oh, he should've noticed. dick swears he won't make that mistake again once he gets you back in his arms, he promises to carry you the moment you even show the slightest bit of fatigue.

he swears he will, and he'll make sure to spoil you rotten with all the affection you deserve.

oh, dick really wants to see his baby bird again.

"yeah, that's, uh, the only time we had only ever talked." he admits shamefully, opening his phone for what seems like the thousandth time, looking at your profile over and over again, one that had him blocked.

he bites his lips, nibbling his skin in anticipation, in hopes that in the good of your heart that you just, unblock him.

it was just so unbelievable, despite you having all the reasons to push them away from your life, he just doesn't want to accept it. doesn't want to think of the worst outcome; of you hating him.

his baby bird blocked him and he just couldn't comprehend the amount of hurt he's feeling right now. what's wrong with checking up on his baby sibling? on someone he hasn't talked to for a long time already?

scrolling up through your previous messages fills him with both dread, and another emotion he doesn't want to admit— the slightest bit of pride he feels that you chose him over everybody else. you chose dick grayson as your idol, as someone to look up to and eagerly wanted as your older brother.

he was the favorite.

yet he feels terrible at the same time for taking it for granted, for forgetting your his own younger sibling. and bruce? bruce feels terrible just looking at how much your disappearance - an existence he didn't even know existed not until a few hours ago - impacted the atmosphere of the house.

is your absence the reason why the manor had felt too empty, then...?

even alfred seemed to sulk more often, always having his phone around and... talking to someone?

does alfred know where you are? or at least maintain communication with you?

it seems like the family was equally keen to find out just who you were.

whilst the two engross themselves in their own personal matters, damian continues to stand near the middle where the light hits the brightest, analyzing all the pages of your sketchbook. the youngest couldn't even afford to miss a single detail, green eyes mulling over the poses of your human sketches; the anatomy, the composition. all the progress, the mistakes, the erasures... his mind seems to eat up every drawing as if it was a piece of art hung in a museum.

which it should've been— but he wouldn't even let worthless critiques lay their eyes on any one of your sketches. they wouldn't understand you as much as he does.

it's his to look upon, nobody else could understand the meaning of your art, the meaning of his older sibling's art.

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day. he was unable to ignore the glare you sent him, how he felt a pang in his heart after — the older sibling who he ridiculed endlessly in front of his best friend, whose actions he criticized without end; who had started to avoid him like the plague after all of his incessant bullying.

his older sibling who he had used as a punching bag for all his negative emotions, who he was incredibly jealous of, who he felt the need to fight, to compete with, all for the sake of grabbing your attention without seeming frail in his intentions.

his weak and incapable older sibling, who he knew hated him with all their gut.

the unwanted and undeserved treatment he had subjected you to was gruesome.

it was just exactly like your drawings... gruesome and brutal, to say the least. as if it was a medium of releasing all your unparalleled anger. charcoal strokes violently covers the entirety of your pages, it was unpredictable where the lines meet and end, whenever there is color, they blotch each other without harmony, all the subjects of your art either human or anything else within your vicinity.

if someone else with inexperienced, undeserving eyes were to witness your sketches, they would not understand and dare say, criticize your art pieces for being too contemporary, for letting your emotions run free through cheap quality paper without any ounce of care for the rips and tears of the pages.

but damian likes it... he likes the rawness of your pieces, likes it when you incidentally find a way to express tragedy, grief, and all the antagonistic traits a human could bare. he likes just how all thr subjects you paint were muddled with dull colors, sometimes too vibrant, sometimes too neon, sometimes a mix of all— your hectic personality bleeds through the pages.

you should've... shared your talents with him. albeit the jealousy he feels towards you, the sense of competitiveness— a small part of him admits his desire to bond with his only blood sibling... he doesn't even know why he treated you like trash, yet felt so incredibly heartbroken whenever you would retaliate with a blank, soulless stare.

he doesn't know why he felt so compelled to melt into your embrace, despite never once being physically close to you. your warmth always emanates off of your body; he hates that he wanted your validation, your praise and your attention.

he'll apologize to you sooner, damian will drag you back even if he has to, he needs to, actually.

needs to get you to forgive him, to look at him fondly, and to love him without bounds. he's on his path to redemption, he acknowledges his wrongs, all the wrongs he had done to you, he couldn't list it all out but he knows just much it affected your views on him.

damian knows he should've dismissed your reactions— he was raised by assassins for gods sake! he should not be so perceptive of every micro expression of yours, but the connection he feels towards his blood sibling is stronger than any bond, a bond that he himself chose to sever and came to regret afterwards.

he remembers one specific expression of yours after he had criticized your anger issues when he had heard news of you being transferred into another school. it was a glare that lacked any fight or bite, you had long since given up on him and allowed him him harass you whenever he felt like so. but that day was the same day you had snapped, nearly choking on his

he told himself to ignore it, that you were merely throwing a tantrum (despite how hypocritical he seemed)

yet he didn't expect to be overcome with regret.

with hurt.

with empathy at the tears that welled on your eyes.

damian doesn't want to admit it but, that was one of the first times he had hesitated to retaliate with an even crueler comeback to your glare. he wanted to so badly run to you and bond with you and your unadulterated anger, to comfort you and provide you the affection you had so desperately needed— but in the bitterness and the jealousy of his heart, he had forced himself to leave you be; a decision even until now he regrets because... you had no longer seen him as a younger brother, let alone treat him as one, as he desired to.

after that incident, you tend to avoid him more and more, not even eating in the same room as him, let alone ditching whatever you were doing in favor of keeping to yourself.

he should've held himself back from hurting his older sibling, the one who, despite doning no skills or talent in combat whatsoever, who knew that he was more of a threat than a younger brother; was brave enough to approach him with a tray of alfred's baked cookies and a hesitant yet welcoming grin.

and yet he had replied with a sword to your neck and an insult to your origin, calling you a bastard child; the product of a whore and his father's terrible decisions.

he had simply watched as you had left the hallway with a knick on your neck and a wobble on your steps, nearly dropping the tray of untouched goods due to the inconsolable shivers you must've felt.

you hate him, no? he could see it in your eyes, no matter how defeated it may be, there was always a tinge of resentment towards him that he knows he couldn't undo.

you hate him, you must've hated him so much and he hates that. hates how he wants to throw a rampage over the fact that you would never consider him as a younger brother.

... if things were different, if he had never let his emotions and his past dictate his actions, would you love him?

for the first time in quite a while, he had felt tender longing and desire, his hands caressing the pages of your sketchbook as if it could bring you back to the manor.

for the first time in a while, damian allows himself to want, to dream about a fantasy where you would cherish him, allow him to melt on your chest whenever he feels the pressure of the world getting to him, let him sulk about his deepest darkest insecurities as you would run your fingers through his hair and tell him it's all alright.

for the first time in so long, he would openly admit the immense regret he feels, wishing for an opportunity to turn back time, to never unsheath his sword towards you and to never open his mouth to allow vile words to spew out of it.

time passes by oh-so quickly when you are left alone with only your thoughts to accompany you.

it had been quite awhile since the trio were left pondering about your very existence, alfred noted, watching the three scramble about through their minds. they had seemed to have forgotten the very butler who had been observing every single one of their actions.

alfred had waited so long for this moment to come, for them to realize just how crucial you are to the family, how you are the very final jigsaw puzzle the complete the picture perfect definition of a home, how much they need you if they wish to maintain even the slightest bit of sanity.

it was only right that he decides to place the final nail in the coffin.

after all, this was all to get you back to your safety, to where you rightfully belong.

—"it seems like the family has finally taken notice of young master (name)'s disappearance...?" alfred buts in by the door, a single eyebrow raised, crossed arms, an all-knowing look that just screams 'i told you so'.

he continues once he had their complete attention, "i would like to say that i am heavily disappointed in how it took more than a decade and a half for all of you to find out about their existence. if it wasn't for the long months of their absence and even a personal sermon towards master bruce about their financial struggles, they would've long been gone. well... they would be gone soon if they are unable to pay this month's rent for their apartment."

his tone was sullen as he nitpicks every single one of their reactions, a mixture of confusion, shame and regret a commonality between the three.

"(name) is in financial debt?" it was damian who asked first with furrowed brows and wide eyes, unbelieving of what alfred had just stated. "but father wires money to all of his children, right?

the youngest turns back to his father's seated form, expecting a nod of some sorts, but all bruce had was a tense jaw and a solid stare. it speaks of volumes, all damian could do was shut his mouth, looking back at alfred with a pout.

alfred expected this reaction. it was truly unfortunate how the family would never know just how important you were in their life.

yet all he could do was press on, further their guilt and desperation.

"young master damian, i am aware of bruce's willingness towards providing for his children, but (name), like you, had adopted your father's stubbornness to accept any financial aid on their part..."

the silence was defeaning now, tension so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. fortunately, the people alfred were with are trained combatants, formidle not only through fights but with words.

it was a shame they had never used their brains to connect the dots with just how sullen the manor was the moment you were gone.

"how do we...?" this time it was dick who talked, albeit hesitantly. "bruce could at least send a few thousands to them, then? or i could do it, you could just give us their location and—"

"unfortunately, there is nothing i could do about it, master dick," alfred interrupts dick's sudden onslaught, "for even i do not have master (name)'s address. they refuse even the slightest bit of a clue, hence why i have confronted master bruce about it."

it was like a needle had dropped on the floor, an intense, numbing feeling everyone present was subjected to feel.

... what?

it was dick who had reacted first, springing up from his seated position as he stared at alfred's defeated eyes incredulously.

"are you serious, alfred? (name) could be anywhere in gotham right now? unprotected, unsafe, and in debt?"

a long, defeated sigh was what he had merely received from the alfred.

"yes, master dick, you hear exactly what i say."

"but the world outside is too dangerous for (name)! we can't just let them loose in a street filled with criminals who can take advantage of their innocence!"

"they're eighteen, dick." all of a sudden, it was damian who cuts back with a roll of his eyes, "i'm sure they can survive on their own."

"yeah right, and have you even read their latest diary, or are you just gonna pretend like you aren't going to keep their sketchbooks all for yourself, huh?" dick retaliates with clenched teeth, letting himself be swayed by his own emotions. "or... you're planning to track their location without us so you can get a reservation to visit them first?"

"calm down, dick—" bruce stands, immediately holding dick back, gripping the athlete's tense shoulders.

"why should i, bruce?! (name) can be anywhere, we— i can't afford to bide time on anything but them!" he glared back at his father, slammimg his fist onto your bedroom walls without hesitation. cracks immediately formed on the chipped wallpaper, a testament to dick's strength; you'll be relocated to another room, a better one anyways and they'll... they'll turn this one into a bigger atelier for you.

dick just needs to let his anger out, yeah... unfortunately, his father seems to think otherwise.

bruce retaliates with a snarl, "we need a solid plan, dick. we can't just randomly search where they are—"

"look, if none of you are willing to help, then fine, i'll track (name) all by myself—"

"— i've never mentioned not coming, grayson." damian cuts him off with a glare, possessively holding all your sketchbook in one hand. "i'll be the one spending time with them first."

"yeah, right... and you, bruce? you coming with or no?"

defeated, bruce replies, "... you already know the answer, dick."

"of course, dad. glad to know we're on the same team after all," dick lets out an airy laugh, returning to his old demeanor. but bruce could easily pinpoint the sharp edge to his giggles, how calculated it is and how it's all merely a cover up to hide the unbearable itch to get you into his arms.

not like bruce could help it too, feeling the same way dick does— all he wants to do is see you for himself after all.

"then call the others into the batcave, now. tell them it's a priority mission, don't let them say otherwise, and don't settle on any excuses."

bruce is so grateful that he had his hands on your diaries, that he was given the grace to read through your entries and embrace even the slightest clue about you.

although there was no face to associate with your name, no photograph nor portrait— he at least has an idea of your personality, of what you like and prefer; something that bruce would hold dear, something that feeds the growing urge to find you.

find you to not only correct his mistakes, to make up for all the lost time, but to also get closer to you. to bond with his child, the one he should've focused on all those years ago. the one who, despite showing disinterest to vigilantism, chose to not fall deep into the pits of resentment, of committing heinous acts— you had chosen to run away from them without any intentions of badmouthing your own family even after the years of neglect.

his child, (name) wayne.

you were a symbol of what he had strived to cherish, to protect. it was your innocence through these pages, your eagerness to the world despite its cruelty, that relays the message to bruce that he should've centered his attention on both you and tim instead of just tim.

maybe then the dispair he had felt after jason's death would've been less devastating, maybe then you'd act as his source of light in the darkness he had choose to brood in. maybe then he wouldn't have acted so rash, so impulsive and tense.

after all, you had lost your mother too early, and your father was just somebody you can watch through the television and read through the newspaper.

and you? you were forced to take the short end of the stick, without any familial attention nor emotional support whatsoever— a substantial failure on bruce's part. you didn't deserve anything you were subjected to, didn't deserve to know what pain and despair felt like.

bruce should've been the father who had to shoulder all your burden. he should've been there for you as he was there for all your other siblings.

he should've been the man who would kiss your wounds away whenever you go out to the park with him to play. he should've been the man who would sit on the crowded bleachers to watch you perform on a talent show. he was supposed to be the father who would hold you close to your chest as you cry about your first heartbreak, about your overdue projects, about the bullies in the school.

but he wasn't that father for you. and now, you seek love and attention from people who weren't even family. because they had failed you, he had failed you.

there was so much things about you that he doesn't know of, so much he had missed out on. his absence was a constant in your life; what would you have felt if he suddenly barged in on it then? especially now that you've moved out on the presumption of neglect?

but could he help it if he does?

could bruce help it if he was already concocting a way to bring you back? alfred had explicitly told him that you were living off of debt

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,100+ words. no beta we just die. undertale reference. this is my least favorite chapter LMAO, despite it's length i had to waste blood sweat and tears for this and i hate it so much. anways guys pls comment or send as ask if u like this and what's good abt it bec this chapter literally made me question my ability as a write 😭 erm im gonna take a break after this and mostly answer asks bec istg my energy is so drained. also is it jst me or does everyone default the reader as female ^^' it's jst weird for me bec i always write them as gn/male. oh and if anyone is wondering, yes i am gonna add the batgirls too bec they r family !! the entire family (universe) is obsessed with u !! also yall i cant add anymore to the taglist, tumblr won't allow me.

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

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earthyaries · 1 year ago

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WAYS U CAN PLEASE SATURN ACCORDING TO UR SATURN PLACEMENT ♄

1H/ARIES SATURN: RESPECT URSELF. DO NOT ALTER UR BOUNDARIES TO BE LIKED. SELF IMPROVEMENT. PUT EFFORT INTO UR BODY/APPEARANCE. WORKOUT / BE ACTIVE. HEALTHY COMPETITION. PRACTICE OFTEN. BE CONFIDENT BUT NOT ABOVE OTHERS. SLOW DOWN. SELF GROWTH. DELIBERATE ACTIONS.

2H/TAURUS SATURN: DEVELOP STRONG VALUES. DO NOT UNDERMINE URSELF. QUALITY OVER QUANTITY. INTENTIONAL SPENDING. HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP WITH FOOD. TRY NOT TO OVERINDULGE ; TRY NOT TO WASTE. STOP SELF SABOTAGING. NO SELF DEPRECATING. APPRECIATE WHAT U HAVE. EXPRESS GRATITUDE. DONATE WHAT U CAN.

3H/GEMINI SATURN: THINK BEFORE U SPEAK ; SPEAK LESS THAN U DESIRE. STOP OVERSHARING. FOCUS ON UR CRAFT ; GET RID OF THE DISTRACTIONS. POWER IN THE TONGUE. PERSONAL MOTTOS. STAND FOR WHAT IS MORAL ; BE WELL INFORMED. HAVE HARD CONVOS WHEN NECESSARY. BE A SUPPORTIVE FRIEND. STOP COMPLAINING. FIND SOLUTIONS. ADAPT & OVERCOME.

4H/CANCER SATURN: CREATE BOUNDARIES & STICK TO THEM. BE OF SERVICE TO OTHERS WITHOUT SELF SACRIFICE. DO NOT BE OVERLY SELFISH. EXPRESS UR NEEDS. TAKE CARE OF UR MENTAL HEALTH. EMOTIONAL REGULATION. SELF CARE. BE SELECTIVE OF UR INNER CIRCLE. POUR INTO UR LOVED ONES. TREAT OTHERS WITH KINDNESS. KEEP UR LIVING SPACE CLEAN.

5H/LEO SATURN: LET GO OF SELF DOUBT. BRING UR VISION TO LIFE. MASTER UR CRAFT. BELIEVE IN URSELF & WORK TOWARDS UR GOALS. GET RID OF UR NEED FOR OUTSIDE APPROVAL. LOOK OUT FOR THE CHILDREN ; BE THE PERSON U NEEDED GROWING UP. WORK HARD, PLAY HARD. DELAYED GRATIFICATION.

6H/VIRGO SATURN: FOLLOW A ROUTINE. HEALTHY HABITS. STRUCTURE. KEEP UR SPACES ORGANIZED ; DE-CLUTTER. BE A FRIEND TO ANIMALS. TAKE GOOD CARE OF UR PET/S. PUT IN THE WORK EVERY DAY. OFFER A HELPING HAND. HONOR UR OWN TIME & ENERGY ; DO NOT ENGAGE IN ONE-SIDED RELATIONS.

7H/LIBRA SATURN: MAKE UR OWN DECISIONS. TAKE ACCOUNTABILITY. CRACK DOWN ON CO-DEPENDENCY ; AVOID SELF ISOLATION. LONGTERM RELATIONS. BE THE BIGGER PERSON. FORGIVE BUT DON’T FORGET. APPLY LESSONS FROM THE PAST. TREAD LIGHTLY. RESPECT THOSE WHO CAME BEFORE YOU. FORM LASTING ALLIANCES.

8H/SCORPIO SATURN: KEEP THINGS TO URSELF. STAY PRIVATE. PRACTICE SELF CONTROL. RESILIENCE IN THE FACE OF HARDSHIP. HOPE FOR THE BEST, PREPARE FOR THE WORST. SAVINGS/RAINY DAY RESOURCES. EMBRACE CHANGE. LEARN TO LET GO. RADICAL ACCEPTANCE. SEXUAL DISCIPLINE. XTRA EMPHASIS ON SAFE SEX!

9H/SAGITTARIUS SATURN: PRACTICE UR BELIEFS. WALK THE TALK. MANTRAS. LEARN FROM OTHERS ; COME TO UR OWN CONCLUSIONS. STUDY. BE AN ETERNAL STUDENT. ALLOW URSELF TO BE OUT OF UR ELEMENT. RESPECT OTHER CULTURES. MAKE UR OWN TRADITIONS. STAY HUMBLE. ACCEPT MULTIPLE TRUTHS. APPLY WHAT WORKS.

10H/CAPRICORN SATURN: KEEP UR EYES ON THE PRIZE. TRUST THAT ALL THINGS COME IN DUE TIME. KEEP URSELF MOTIVATED. WORK FOR WHAT U WANT. STAY CONSISTENT. PERSONAL LEGACY ; THINGS THAT LAST. BECOME UR OWN ROLE MODEL. DO IT URSELF / DO IT RIGHT. LIVE WITH KARMA IN MIND.

11H/AQUARIUS SATURN: LEAD THE WAY ; FURTHER THE CAUSE. BETTER THE COMMUNITY— CREATE UR OWN. BE CONSCIOUS OF WHOM U ASSOCIATE URSELF WITH. BEFRIEND PPL OLDER THAN URSELF. LONGTERM FRIENDSHIPS. LONGTERM RESULTS. ADVANCEMENT. NETWORKING. ONLINE INFLUENCE. SET THE STANDARD.

12/PISCES SATURN: ALL IN MODERATION. HEALTHY COPING METHODS & LIFESTYLE PRACTICES. CONSIDERATION. REFLECTION ; SELF AWARENESS. THERAPY. STANDARDS. LEAVE ONCE DISRESPECTED. NO FAKE FRIENDS. MIND OVER MATTER. MANIFESTATION. BE REAL WITH URSELF. SELF TRUST.

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meatsaint · 7 months ago

Text

The Genius, Michael Gavey.

Michael Gavey x Reader.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, masturbation, foul language, loss of virginity, cum control.

English is not my first language, so I hope you will forgive me if there are any mistakes.

oneshot.

Michael’s good at a lot of things, and he knows it. Brilliant, really. Genius, if we're being honest. Maths? Please—he’s never even touched a calculator. Numbers are his domain, his sanctuary, the one place where he feels entirely at ease. Books too—though never fantasy; he’d rather lose himself in something real, something concrete. But everything else? Social skills? A complete disaster, really. Painful to watch.

It’s not as if anyone’s queuing up to see what’s behind those smudged glasses or that same red sweater he pulls on every Monday. And that's fine. Honestly, it is. He's made peace with it. It’s their loss, isn’t it? That's the mantra he clings to, the thread keeping his fragile ego intact: They're the ones missing out. And God, doesn’t he need to believe it.

When you arrived in Oxford, it hit him hard. Why? Because even when he was buried in the silence of the library, there you were, watching him. Always watching. Maybe intending to read a book—upside down, no less—or lounging with your legs thrown over a table, headphones blaring as if you couldn't care less about the world around you.

Michael Gavey isn't used to being seen. For fuck’s sake, he’s Michael Gavey. Nobody. Invisible, as he’s always preferred. But then you came along, and suddenly, invisibility wasn't an option. You became something else entirely: a problem, a distraction, a bloody nuisance he couldn’t seem to get rid of. And maybe, deep down, that’s what scared him most.

So, naturally, his response was to start staring back. Maybe if he leaned into being a proper weirdo, you’d back off. But no, of course not. You didn't flinch. You just stared right back, unwavering, unbothered. It didn't take long for one of the teachers to step in, warning him, of all people, to knock it off. And you? You just smiled. Smiled like you'd won some secret, twisted game, baring all your teeth like a predator who'd just cornered its prey.

When he squinted at you, furrowing his eyebrows in some attempt to decode whatever the hell was going on, you simply glanced at the table, still grinning like you had a secret you were dying to keep.

What was your problem? Were you planning something? Was there a game being played here, something sinister he couldn’t quite see? The questions clawed at him, gnawed at his focus, and yet, no answers came. Only that smile. God, he hated it.

Things weren't improving, no, they were deteriorating rather quickly. And it all took a turn for the bizarre when, in the dead of night, he awoke still half hard, with his shorts drenched in cum and his mind? Cluttered with vivid memories of a particular dream from the previous night. Never had he scrubbed a piece of clothing with such fury in his life; this treacherous body was doing him in. And the most egregious part? His cock was a bloody jest, because even after such mortification, he had to wank off once more just to make the torment subside.

That day, the Oxford corridors felt like they were smoldering beneath him, each step fueling the inferno inside his chest. His sneakers might as well have been on fire for how much he burned with rage. And then he saw you, loitering by your locker, looking infuriatingly calm as always. It was like you wanted to drive him insane.

He stormed over, slamming your locker shut with a single hand, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to tear you apart—not literally, of course. Well, maybe a little. He was unraveled, utterly tormented, and you? You were only making it worse.

“Stop.” The word came out flat, almost pitiful, his voice cracking under the weight of his irritation. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded and bloodshot, as if they’d been scorched by his fury.

“With what?” you asked, tilting an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk tugging at your lips. Carefree. Effortless. It made his teeth grind in pure frustration. He didn’t even understand why he felt so unhinged—just that he did.

“What the hell do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the corridor. Heads turned, a few people pausing to glance at the scene, but you didn't so much as flinch. No fear, no embarrassment. You just leaned lazily against your locker, staring at him down like you had all the time in the world.

“Your number, to start with, would be great.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His pupils dilated so fast it felt like the world had tilted. If darkness swallowed everything right then and there, he was convinced he’d still see you.

And that’s when everything shifted. You weren’t messing with him—not in the way he’d thought. No, you were interested in him. The realisation hit Michael like a slap, and even then, his perpetually self-loathing brain struggled to piece it all together. For once, his stupid mind was just that: stupid.

But then the messages started, tentative at first, and something clicked. You actually got on—really got on. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much you seemed to have in common. You liked some of the same nerdy things as him, and he found himself listening to bands he’d previously written off because you mentioned them. Slowly, the conversations moved out of his phone and into the library, where you started sitting at the same table.

People noticed, of course. Curious glances trailed after the two of you, some even daring to linger when Michael—Michael Gavey, of all people—was caught smiling. Not a smirk or a grimace, but an actual smile, albeit half-hidden behind his hand. But it was there, and for once, he didn’t mind. Not entirely.

And then, on a Friday night when everything seemed eerily serene, the text message arrived. 'Do you want to come to my dorm?' Panic ensued. Perhaps it's a tad presumptuous to assume you want to fuck him, isn't it? Yet, he was presuming precisely that. But the truth is, Michael has only kissed one girl in his entire life; otherwise, his knowledge comes from pornography, books about the human anatomy, and the hushed conversations in the men's locker room. And it's not that he didn't want to; in fact, he wanted to, desperately so, but the truth was that no one seemed sufficiently captivated to offer him the chance. But you, you were offering. Maybe. What does one do with that?

He took a shower, donned his usual jeans and a white shirt, slipped on his sneakers, and even spent time before the mirror wrestling with his blond hair, to little avail, of course. He decided he wouldn't be a coward; he had this chance, maybe, and he wouldn't squander it with timidity. He made his way to the girls' dorm on campus, garnering more than a few disdainful looks from the passing girls. It was just because it was him; if it were Felix sneaking in, they'd be all smiles. But who cares? There was only one person he hoped would truly appreciate his presence. He reached your door, his breath caught in his throat, and knocked so feebly that perhaps he thought you wouldn't even hear. Pathetic, honestly.

But you heard him, and when you opened the door, he froze for a moment. You'd just taken a shower; your skin was still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing an oversized shirt, once black but now faded to grey, and some pajama shorts that honestly looked more like his underwear than actual shorts. He swallowed hard, managing a crooked smile. You leaned against the doorframe, your smile much more genuine.

"You came." The words slipped from your lips with such ease, rolling off your tongue with a genuine satisfaction that straightened his crooked smile.

"Yeah, well. It's not like I have anything better to do, of course." His reply lacked the sharpness he'd rehearsed in his mind, accompanied by a glance at the floor and a stupid, silly smile.

"Yeah, of course." You laughed, rolling your eyes, and turned your body to give him space to enter, if he wanted to, though he looked as if he might bolt at any second.

But he didn't run away; no, he actually stepped inside. The room was like most others, yet he was struck by how orderly it was. Like any typical dorm, there was the TV, the two single beds, a small table, and in the corner of an adjacent smaller room, the bathroom. The scent of cleaning products lingered, indicating you'd taken the time to tidy up before inviting him over. This shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, but it did.

"Just take off your sneakers before you lay on the bed," you said with that nonchalant tone of yours, picking up the TV remote from the table.

He glanced at the paused movie on the screen before turning his attention to the bed. His mind wasn't exactly racing as he sat down, beginning to untie his sneakers, but his focus soon shifted to the side of your face. He was transfixed by how your hair framed your features, how your lips were so perfectly shaped, and how your eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. He had to run a hand over his face, nearly knocking off his glasses, to bring himself back to reality, blinking several times to refocus on removing his sneakers.

"I chose 'Evil Dead,' but they didn't have the classics." Your voice drew his gaze upward again. You casually made your way to the bed beside him, practically throwing yourself down, causing the mattress to bounce. "Is that a problem for you?" you asked, turning to look at him, your eyes locking with his.

His throat visibly tightened as he swallowed, while you didn't even blink. For a moment, he found it a rather amusing jest. What could a girl like you, with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, with lips that curved into the brightest smile he could imagine, possibly want with him? He was either the luckiest bastard in the world or the biggest delusional of the year. But that was fine, at least for now.

"No, it's not a problem at all," Michael mumbled, unsure if he was referring to the movie choice or something else entirely. But it would suffice either way.

He saw you smile widely, and you felt you should, noticing his blue eyes dilate behind his glasses. Looking down where you had crossed your legs beneath you, you tried to focus and simply pressed play on the movie. The low noise from the TV soon filled the room, the colors of the film painting your faces and reflecting in Michael's glasses. The silence was comfortable, as always. The sounds of calm breathing filled the space, but well, his eyes weren't really on the TV; they were on you. To the point where he had to rest his hand on his face, just to appreciate it, perhaps.

"You know, watching a movie works better when you're looking at the screen," you commented, your eyes still fixed on the screen, though you felt the heat from his gaze on your cheek.

"I prefer to watch you." His words were barely above a whisper, but they reached you, making your smile widen even more.

Your eyes flicked to him, while his remained steady, though he felt his palms sweating against his cheek. He was nervous, and his attempt at an impassive expression wasn't fooling you. The words that left his lips were just truths, and seeing you smile, it was good to see you smile, it brought a subtle curve to his own lips. Sighing, you drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, unsure of what to make of his words or of him. Just as he was unsure of what to make of you or how much you unsettled him.

"I hate almost everyone here except you." Your words mirrored his in tone, quiet, perhaps too intimate to slip out.

They made him pause, just looking at you, wondering. Time seemed to stand still, the screams from the movie not reaching your ears; things were quiet, almost silent. And that's when his hand rose, wrapping around the back of your neck, perhaps with the most courage he'd ever mustered in his life. Your lips parted slightly when you noticed him shifting on the bed to get closer, and you responded in kind, leaning towards him, your hand hesitating before also reaching up to the back of his neck, slipping between the golden strands to hold him firmly. Bringing your faces close, your breaths began to mingle, and soon all that was reflected in his glasses were your lips, all his attention focused solely on them.

"You're trouble, and you want to know why?" Michael whispered, your gaze falling to his lips as they formed the words. They were thrown at your face, raw and direct. "Because it seems like after I met you, there's been something wrong with my brain." He lifted his thumb to trace your bottom lip, as if to commit it to memory.

"Yeah?" Your response lacked strength, not truly. "That's good, because it seems like after you I'll never be the same." Whispering another confession, now it seemed more than fitting, even with your breathing too rapid to say much more, or what you truly wanted to.

A faint smile touched Michael's lips, perhaps an attempt at composure before he leaned in closer. Tilting your heads in opposite directions, your noses brushed against each other, the taste of each other's breath mingling on your lips, shared. His lips were the first to part, capturing your lower one slowly, almost tentatively, until yours responded, capturing his upper lip. The kiss started slowly, your lips moving together with an unhurried grace, despite your quickening breaths at the contact. His free hand found your waist, attempting to pull you closer, while your hand tangled in his hair, gripping it almost in a fist.

But it wasn't enough, far from it. Leaning forward, Michael guided you both down onto the bed, supporting himself with each hand on either side of your head, positioning his body between your legs, which parted to welcome him. One of his hands slid down to your thigh, lifting it and pressing it against his side, your hips naturally seeking each other, and his already hardened cock brushed against your increasingly aroused intimacy. Sounds escaped between kisses, your hands sliding to grip his back, when Michael pressed your bodies together again, rolling his hips and drawing out a sly moan from his own lips, making it difficult to continue kissing you.

Your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, but his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head, fingers intertwining there, as he pulled back just enough to look you squarely in the eye. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall, sweat causing his glasses to slide down his nose.

"I..." the words seemed reluctant to escape as he gazed down at you, your lips flushed and your chest heaving. He didn't want to dissuade you, but he had to say it. "I've never done that."

Your only response was to lift your head from the bed, seeking his lips and succeeding in a gentle capture, with him lowering himself to return the kiss. Though not deep, your teeth nipped at his lower lip, tugging gently, perhaps trying to draw him closer. Your fingers pressed against his above your head, yearning to be free, you just wanted to touch him, feel him, it didn't matter if he was inexperienced, if you had to guide him step by step, or if this was all you would have, feeling him like this above you.

"Just touch me, I don't care," you murmured against his lip, without the strength for more words, which in response prompted him to roll his hips against yours again, closing his eyes with a moan, just as your head tilted back, lifting your hips to meet his movement.

His hands released yours, and you quickly grabbed his shirt, pulling it up and off him, and he reciprocated, lifting yours inch by inch until he could pull it over your head. Without a bra, your breasts were bared to him, making him pause. His lips went dry as he took in the sight of your hardened nipples, ready for attention, despite his momentary hesitation. You saw it in his eyes, in how they flickered to meet yours, and your hand reached to caress his cheek before grabbing the back of his neck, gently guiding him toward your chest, arching off the bed to ensure he understood your consent.

And he understood more than clearly, leaning down to kiss the space between your breasts before moving to one, enveloping it with his mouth entirely, using his hand to squeeze it firmly. The sensation of your skin against his mouth elicited a low sound from him that vibrated through your body, prompting you to grind your hips against his already hard cock. His tongue followed, swirling around your nipple, sucking as if his life depended on it. His mouth salivated, saliva running down your chest, glistening your skin with his essence. His free hand went to your other breast, squeezing it tightly, his lips trailing kisses to the other side, his tongue sliding along until it reached your other nipple, circling it with fervent enthusiasm.

"Fuck," you murmured, your intimacy throbbing, squeezing as you leaned on the bed to create friction against his erection, making him to bite the nipple in his mouth to stifle a loud moan.

His lips left your chest, observing the glistening, swollen flesh from his attentions. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight, going straight to his core. He looked down to where his hardness met your shorts, stopping himself from climaxing right there, taking deep breaths.

"Tell me..." his words trailed off, his lips struggling to draw in breaths. "Tell me how to be good for you." His whisper was broken, he was too far gone to really care about it.

You smiled, even in the throes of your overwhelming need for him. One of your hands took one of his, slowly guiding it to your core, and he watched intently as you slipped it inside your shorts and soaked panties, biting his lip as his expression contorted with pleasure. Slowly, you positioned his fingers perfectly over your clit, starting to move them in circles, making your breathing quicken further. Fortunately, Michael was a quick learner, or perhaps just desperate enough. Your fingers left his as he took over, moving them faster, circling over your soaked clit. You tried to reach for his hardness in his pants, but with his free hand, he caught yours and pinned it to the bed.

"Don't." The words came out swiftly, a desperate command because he knew well that if you touched him, he would cum right then and there.

You accepted it, not attempting to touch him again. Feeling his fingers slide over and over your most sensitive spot, the sounds began to fill the room, the wetness so intense it seeped through your pajama shorts, and he could hardly believe his incredible luck. His eyes moved to your face, noticing your parted lips, your cheeks flushed red, and your breasts, still glistening from his saliva, seeming to beckon him. One of your hands gripped his wrist, and he could see from your expression how close you were. The hand that had been holding yours to the bed released it, moving to the back of your neck, lifting your head to make you look down.

"Watch," he murmured, sliding his thumb perfectly over your clit, and you felt like stars were bursting behind your eyes even as you complied and stared.

You saw his hand moving inside your shorts, the veins in his forearm pulsing with the effort, the muscles there flexing. His hand held you tightly, almost encompassing your neck. And when his fingers started moving side to side, you knew you were finished. Your lips parted completely, a groan trapped in your throat escaped, you tried to throw your head back but his grip prevented it, and then, your walls clenched, he could feel the pulsing around his fingers, your belly flexing as you reached your climax, clamping your legs around his forearm.

Your body goes limp on the bed, your thighs still trembling as his hands slide from your neck down to your thighs, smearing his taste there. He grips the hem of your shorts, pulling them down along with your panties. When his eyes meet your pulsing, glistening pussy, a sigh escapes him, eyes closing momentarily to regain control. You hear the sound of his pants being unzipped, him kicking them off along with his underwear. Your eyes open just in time to see him grip the base of his cock, bringing the head to your sensitive clit, eliciting a tight, desperate moan from you.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, dragging the precum-slick tip of his cock across your clit, making your walls clench as he watches. His free hand runs down the inside of your thighs, ensuring they're coated in your own wetness.

He squeezes his eyes shut in pure ecstasy, rubbing his cock from your clit to your entrance, gripping the base tightly to stave off his climax. Your thighs tremble, your hands gripping the sheets, but nothing seems to alleviate the intensity, there's no escape. You're consumed, completely. Your hips start to move desperately for contact, even as your body protests, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart. He rubs once more, the almost sinful sounds echoing off the walls, mingling with his low moans and the contractions of his stomach. You can tell he's doing everything in his power not to cum.

"Can I?" He opens his eyes to whisper, looking directly into yours, and with no strength left to speak, you simply nod.

He sighs deeply before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing inside, feeling your walls resist yet yield as he presses in until fully seated, your groins meeting. A drawn-out moan escapes your lips as his head falls back, a soft groan leaving his throat followed by a sequence of breaths that made his entire body tremble. Michael pauses, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the overwhelming sensation of your hot, tight insides. Leaning forward, he rests one hand on the bed while the other removes his glasses, setting them aside. Your hands rise to the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to yours, holding it there as he makes the first thrust. Both of your lips part, your moans and breaths mingling.

His thrusts were deep, yet slow. He would withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, each time making your eyes squeeze shut tighter and your head press against his. The sweat on your foreheads seemed to meld you together, turning you into one entity. His eyes opened, burning into your face, and you met his gaze, your eyes filling with tears of pure pleasure as he thrust even deeper.

"I like you," he murmurs, cupping your cheek as his other hand grips the headboard, making the wood creak. A smile graces your lips, almost cut off by his cock sliding in deeper.

"I like you too," you manage to reply between ragged breaths, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck as if it's your lifeline.

He brings his lips to your forehead, giving you a long, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he brings his hand to your mouth, and with that signal, he starts thrusting with all he has, making you scream into his hand, which hopefully muffles the sound. He rests his own mouth there to also muffle his moans, feeling sweat run down every part of his body, mixing with yours. The bed bangs against the wall, your eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside you, your hands lifting to dig your nails into his back. As your walls clench around him, he feels your climax spill out, soaking the sheets and his lower abdomen. With a louder moan, he quickly pulls out, his cock spilling his cum over your belly.

He releases your mouth and the headboard, letting his full weight rest on you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck. Your arms encircle his neck, keeping him close as your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Both of you are exhausted, both satisfied. Michael's thoughts drift back to the early weeks of knowing you, how he wished you would vanish, and now, how he dreads the thought of you leaving, like everyone else. The irony might have drawn a bitter laugh from him if he weren't so physically spent.

"I wasn't bluffing," you hear him murmur into your neck, capturing your attention amidst the sensations still coursing through your body. You slowly turn your head towards him.

"What?" you whisper, perhaps fearful that even a slight increase in volume might make this moment slip away, just as much as he is. His eyes, those blues that most people overlook, capture your senses.

"I really like you." Hearing those words again, this time not in the heat of the moment, did something different to you stomach, perhaps quickened your heart more than the entire act itself, burned your skin more than anything else.

Drawing him closer with your hand, you adjust his position so he lies on your chest, where he places a gentle kiss. Your fingers delve into his hair, and you cast a brief glance to the side where his glasses still rest. A smile graces your lips because the truth is, you are utterly and hopelessly in love with the genius Michael Gavey. The irony is that he doesn't seem genius enough to realize it.

#smut #michael gavey #ewan mitchell #ewan nation #aemond targaryen #aemond #house of the dragon #oneshot #saltburn #fanfic #x reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond

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ferigrievous · 4 months ago

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AKAASHI KEIJI HCS ⋆˚࿔

has had terrible vision since middle school but could never be bothered to get glasses until after graduation

keeps an umbrella in his bag all the time even if it literally never rains

hates clutter but also hates getting rid of stuff

because of this he has boxes and drawers filled with things like old ticket stubs and letters

everyone thinks he has a good sleep schedule, but he actually just goes to sleep late and wakes up early

diagnosed with anxiety, but is also 86% sure its actually OCD but never got tested because he doesnt want to confront that problem right now

appreciates quiet moments over grand gestures, watching the sunset, taking a walk, cooking together

has to match his socks to his outfits and is sure if he doesnt something terrible will happen to him

loves old movies. if he didn’t major in english, he probably would have been a film student

tried being a writer in junior year but got so stressed out and quit before he even graduated. he still has the manuscripts and drafts in his bottom drawer

gets cold unbelievably easily but never wears more than like two layers because he hates being immobile

unfortunately not a green thumb despite everyone somehow thinking he is. killed a pothos in under a week and never tried again after that

not great with kids, but he tolerates them because he doesn’t want to be like the teenagers and adults who have an age complex

dogears his pages.

had a period where he hated the taste of water and wouldnt drink it without flavouring but literally just woke up one day and got over it

tried taking a late night walk once during finals week but got so unbelievably lost he had to download uber and call one

has a dream journal by his bed, but none of it is decipherable, and if it is, it doesn’t make any sense

such a fucking chismosa but no one ever includes him so he knows everything but has nothing to talk to

wears earbuds/headphones all the time not because he’s listening to music but because if he even gets a notion of gossip he’ll turn off the music and start listening

tried penpaling once but got overwhelmed and sent one letter and then blocked everyone else

has a bad habit of rubbing the back of his neck when he’s overwhelmed, and sometimes develops rashes because of how often he does it

even though he’s frugal and barely ever buys anything at all, he prefers cash over card, and even then, only uses a debit card, unless it’s absolutely necessary to use a credit card

never corrects people when they mispronounce his name. there’s still people going around calling him keishi

doesn’t get the hype over poetry as much as he wants to. feels like a fake bibliphile and lowkey has imposter syndrome over it considering his major and job

falls in love really slowly, like ink bleeding onto paper

is neutral about physical touch, but whenever someone leans their head on his shoulder he feels like he’s holding the weight of the world and forgets to breath to the point where he sees spot

his guilty pleasure are stupid ass fifteen season thirty episode shows

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importantstudentbusinessspy-blog · 1 month ago

Text

Back When You Left Me

Jason Todd one-shot

Pairing: Jason x Reader

Rating: Explicit / NSFW/

Tags: mutual pining, slowburn, childhood crush, age difference, mentions of abuse, class differences, glow ups, sexual tension, emotional smut, reunions, sex, thigh riding, first kisses, first time, virginity,

Episode 1 - Your Apartment

The malfunctioning fan at the corner of your living room rotated from side to side, occasionally providing a faint breeze in the heat.

Spring swept by in a blink, and June came in with full steam. Baby hairs that have fallen out of your braids were sticking to the sweat of your forhead. In your lap was your graduation gown, in your lips, a pair of pins. Needle held carefully in your fingers, you threaded the design of a flower onto the blue gown that once belonged to your older brother. There was no point in buying a new one. Almost everyone in your eighth grade class had an older sibling whose graduation gown was passed down to them. It was cheaper that way.

Every once in a while, you glanced at the tv screen, watching the pretty reporter sitting in an air-conditioned studio and announcing the latest updates.

Another building had been demolished. Third time this month. Purchased by a millionaire and destroyed to be rebuilt into his own luxurious complex. Its tenants displaced and sent to social services.

You recognized the building. One of your classmates, Rose, had lived there with her family. You wondered what was going to happen to her now. Would her parents find another place to stay? Should you offer yours? Doubtful. Rose had four siblings, and you barely had enough room with your mother and brother in the two-bed you shared.

Shawn dropped out of school to get a part-time job and help your mother with rent. When you offered to do the same, you were met with screams of "over my dead body" from both of them. So you did your best to keep your grades up. For their sacrifice.

A clutter came from the your ceiling, drawing your attention from the TV. There was screaming followed by a door slamming and footsteps heading down.

Your upstairs neighbour, Mrs. Todd must have been in another one of her moods. Either that or her boyfriend was on another drinking binge. Those two gems did all they could to rid the entire complex of any peace and quiet.

Sure enough, a moment later, your door opened and in walked mrs. Todd's son.

Tall, broad, and brooding as always, Jason gave you an acknowledging look as he headed straight for the fridge.

Your heart spiked the way it always did whenever he was around, but you schooled your features with a tight-lipped smile.

Jay was a junior like your brother. Short and messy black hair fell onto his forehead just so, above blue eyes you could see from across the room. His beautiful face was usually always cut or bruised, and he wore a piercing on his left ear.

Unlike Shawn, Jason didn't drop out. He had received a scholarship in his freshmen year and kept the grades to maintain it throughout. But that didn't mean he attended every day.

Like Shawn, Jason worked to help pay rent.

Standing by the fridge, he leaned down to inspect the contents.

"Ah," he said when he found what he was looking for, pulling out all bags of frozen chicken and plopping down at your kitchen table, holding it to his eye.

Grease stains clung to his rolled-up sleeves, the fabric stretched tight across arms you tried not to stare at. Tried and failed.

Your friends and classmates had already begun dating. And despite everyone at school knowing your brother's reputation and protectiveness, some had even asked you out. To no avail. You politely declined invites to dates, saying you weren't interested.

But really, they never stood a chance.

Since the first time you saw Jason stumbling into your apartment, all scraped up elbows and torn jeans, it was over for you. He got in a fight that Shawn pulled him out from and brought him to you to get stitched up so that he wouldn't have to go to the hospital.

Your hands had shaken too much. You were used to sewing clothing, not bleeding skin. Ironically, Jason was the one to calm you down.

There were two many people in the room, too much noise, he asked the to leave because they were distracting you. When it was just you two left, he spoke to you in a calm town, even though it must have been hard with his torn shoulder.

"You're okay, kiddo." He'd whispered to you, sitting up on the couch. "This is just like one of your designs. Same technique."

You'd sniffled. "I-i don't know, Jason. We should call the hospital. What if I mess up? You could get hurt–"

"You won't mess up. I've seen that bird you sowed onto that ugly French thing you like to pretend is a hat."

"The beret?" You blinked. "It is a hat."

"It can't be."

"Jason!" You giggled. "Don't make me laugh right now."

"You're right. You're right. Im sorry. Im nervous." He said, wincing as the wound on his shoulder pulsed with blood. "What I'm saying is I trust you. You can save me, darling, I know you can. Please try..."

You swallowed, staring at the wound. "Okay," you said, keeping his words in mind. "Okay,"

You did what you were used to, cleaning the wound and slowly, carefully stitched him up. By the time you were finished, Jay was pale, but his breathing had calmed. The bleeding stopped.

He took a painkiller as you wrapped gauze around his shoulder, and he eventually fell asleep from exhaustion.

Since that day, you developed a crush that held you in a vice like grip.

Jason played dumb, but it was a defense. You’d seen the glint behind his eyes when he solved problems. And he was kind. He tutored the neighbourhood kids and brought groceries to your elderly neighbours. He took care of his mom, even though she didn't deserve it. He worked hard. He cared about his friends. Enough to join a brawl for them, no questions asked.

Sure, he only saw you as his friend's little sister, and sure, each time he brought a girl home, it hurt like a punch in the chest, but some part of you hoped that one day...

"Ah!" He hissed, drawing you from your thoughts. You looked to where he'd placed the frozen chicken on the table, shaking his hand as if it he burnt it.

"Here," you stood up from the couch, setting your sewing kit on the coffee table and made your way to him, bare feet against the hardwood flood.

You wrapped the chicken in a paper towel and held it gently to his eye.

Even seated, Jason towered over you. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes, leaning into your hand. This close, he smelled like a mixture of sweat and cheap cologne. He smelled like home.

You lifted the pack off his face and studied the damage. The skin around his eye was beginning to bruise. You pressed the cold towel softly to it.

"Jay," you spoke softly. "Did your mom–"

"Is Shawn around?" He cut you off. His voice raw, like he was holding back a growl. One look at his clenched hand confirmed he was trying to calm himself down. Before you could stop yourself, your other hand rose to brush his hair away from his eyes.

He stilled. But his hand unclenched, and he took a calm breath.

"He went out to the store earlier." You said. "He'll be back soon."

He hummed.

Your phone buzzed, the screen flashing with a message from your classmate.

Parlour tn?

You quickly grabbed your phone and shoved it in the pocket of your shorts. Maybe he didn't see it?

"So, you're going to the parlour." Jason asked.

"Yep." You muttered.

"You know people go there to drink and hook up."

You snorted. "Oh my god, what?" Then rolled your eyes. "Are you gonna tell my brother?"

"Of course I am."

You shook your head, grinning. "Whatever. You guys were my age when you started going there."

Jason was quiet. "Just be careful. All men are dogs."

"Not all," you grinned, your eyes catching a hole in his shirt. Right at the seam above his left shoulder. Was that new?

"Do you want me to fix this?" You asked, fingers brushing the ripped material.

"Nah, don't waste your threads." He gave you a smile, despite his voice sounding tired. He must have taken extra shifts at the shop. "I'll ruin it the next day anyway."

Your heart clenched from the exhaustion in his tone.

Of all the people who you knew at the slums, if anyone deserved out. It was Jay.

Episode 2 - The Parlour

The parlour was in full swing. The skate park was covered in neon graffiti. Discarded bottles and solo cups lay around as skatebords, bikes, and Rollerblades glided across concrete to rock music blasting from the speakers.

You sat on a ledge overlooking the river, enjoying the brush of summer wind against your skin.

Swinging your legs in the air beneath you, you hoped your jean skirt and t-shirt combo was enough to keep you warm.

You eyed the construction site a block away. A new condo was being developed. A month ago, it was another old apartment building.

"I wonder what the view would be from the top of that crane." You mumbled.

"Okay, that's enough of that." Your friend Emma giggled while taking away the bottle of... something wrapped in a paper bag you'd been holding. "I know you like climbing, but it's not exactly the tree in our school yard."

You chuckled.

As the night went on, you went from drink to drink, from person to person. You weren't sure how you ended up in the construction site, wandering your way to the crane.

You heard low voice behind you. "What the hell are you doing?"

You froze, turning around to see him. The bruise around his eye had lightened.

You closed your eyes, lifting your hand to your heart. "Jay, you scared me."

"You scared me." He folded his arms in front of his chest. "What are you doing at a construction site?"

"Don't know... ," Your gaze veered to your surroundings. "What do you think they're building here?"

He shrugged. "Who cares?"

You turned around. "I do."

He kicked a piece of debris, leaning against the side of the crane.

"And you do too." You informed.

His lip quirked up in amusement. "You know me that well, hmm?"

You took a step towards him. "I know you like to act like you don't give a shit."

His jaw ticked as you got closer.

When you reached him nervously and slowly, you lifted your gaze up at him.

Jason gazed down at you. His expression unreadable.

"I know you don't like the people that are kicking our friends out of their homes." You said. "I know you're a good guy. You punched Billy Vincent for saying his shoes cost more than our house."

He blinked. Blue eyes narrowing at you. "How do–"

"Shawn told me." You raised a brow, risking a step closer to him. Your hand lifted to his cheek–

He backed up. "Don't. Don't do this–"

"Why?" You asked. "Would it be so bad?"

"Yes!" He looked at you in disbelief. "You're your Shawn's little sister!"

"Who cares?" You argued. "I know what I want."

"You want me, then. Yeah?" Suddenly, he turned an interrogating gaze to you. "With all my baggage?"

"I do." You lifted your chin. You loved everything about him, why couldn't he see that?

Jason shook his head. "Trust me, you'd be better off with guys like Freddie Fletcher."

You were taken aback. What did this have to do with your classmate?

"Dont bother." Jason shook his head. "He told everyone the two of you slept together. Shawn almost killed him."

"He's lying!" Anger rose in your chest. "Nothing happened! I never even had my first kiss!"

"... you haven't?"

His smirk made your skin burn.

Folding your arms, you looked away from him and at a pebble on the ground.

"I mean, I could have." You kicked the rock. "Several guys at school have tried..."

You risked a glance at him, seeing the faint amusement on his smirking lips.

"But...?" he prompted.

"... But they weren't you." You admitted.

Ocean blue eyes wavered. Then he began walking towards you.

Your pulse spiked, breath catching as he got closer and closer.

For some reason, the silence felt suffocating, and before you could stop them, the words spilled out of your mouth. "I dont care what Shawn or anyone else thinks. I'd choose you over any of them–"

Then his mouth was on yours. Dry lips, soft breath, years of memories collapsing into a single exchange. You made a sound like a half gasp, half sigh — as your fingers threaded through his thick hair, tugging just slightly.

He tasted like cigarettes and gum.

When he pulled away, his breath hitched. Like he hadn’t meant to go that far.

His gaze was locked on yours, black pupils blown wide. You had to look away, afraid you’d say something too weird. You bit your lip to keep it from trembling.

"You are... not a good kisser." He chuckled behind you.

Seriously?

He was laughing at you?

After your first kiss...

You spun around, heat rising in your face.

"That's not what Freddie Fletcher said." You snapped.

His expression shifted. One brow lifted — not in surprise, but calculation. Like he didn’t like hearing that name in your mouth.

"You're right." He drawled, ocean blue eyes teasing. "Fletcher said you rocked his world. And now I know he lied."

Before you could tell him to go fuck himself, his lips covered yours again.

Episode 3 - The Batman

You were standing over the kitchen stove, stirring the contents of the chicken soup for your mother. She came home from work sick a few days ago, and since then, things haven't improved.

Your phone flashed with a text from Shawn.

Not gonna make it for dinner. Hitting up town with the boys.

You replied "Be safe."

While the food cooked, you cleaned up around the house, gave your mother medicine, watched some TV, and flipped the channels until you found a romcom to watch.

A few hours later, your front door opened, your brother and his friends stumbling in, sweaty, and breathless.

Jason wasn't with them, likely he went straight to his mom's.

You looked at them, confused by their disheveled states. "What the hell–"

Your brother turned to you, bewildered. "We saw him. The fuckin' Batman!"

Your mouth dropped.

You were little when rumors began. A masked vigilante man doing the work the police were too powerless to do. It made the people in your neighbourhood happy. Finally, someone was punishing Gothams criminals and gangsters. Maybe their children will have bright futures.

At the same time, though, you found him terrifying. You heard stories. Gang members beaten to a pulp and tied up for the police to find like presents, scarred and broken beyond repaid and too petrified to move.

"We were at the shop when we heard a crash. Went to see what happened, and it was him. Cape, bat ears, all that shit." He chuckled. "He made the whole gimick look badass. Oh! And he was in this huge, fucking tank of a car– holy shit you should have seen it!" Shawn shook his head.

"Anyway, he ran into Montana's convenience store– Apparently they're hiding guns for the Hell hounds–"

"What?!" You blinked. Aubrey Montana was one grade above you. Her dad always seemed so nice...

"Listen, listen!" Shawn urged. "The batman, he's busy fighting those guys, right? We all look at his car, then at each other. And we have the tools. So we get to work."

They what?!

Your hands shot to the top of your head. "Are you insane?"

"Okay, maybe we had a little too much beer." He laughed.

Not finding it funny, you urge him to tell you what happened.

"Jay figured out how the car worked — magnets or something. We tried to strip it, but Batman caught us mid-heist. He was pissed. I've never run so fast in my life."

"Oh god," your hands covered your mouth.

"But he shot us with some stun gun or something. Kept us there and interrogated us until someone confessed to figuring out the whole magnet thing in his car. We kept our mouths shut but then Connor, damned pussy, breaks out and cries that it was Jay."

You swallowed, listening with anxiety as he went on. You couldn't wait for this dumb story to end.

"Anyway, batman's threatening to keep us there til the cops show up and arrest us. But then Jay stands up and tells him he'll fix his car if he lets us go."

"... and?" You whispered, fearing the inevitable.

"He gave him this whole speech. ‘we’re not criminals, just poor’ blah blah. Batman looked like he might puke."

You don’t laugh. "So?"

"He let us go. Kept Jay."

That landed like a gunshot.

You urged. "Shawn. The atman kills people!"

"He does not."

"Okay, he doesn't. But he hurts them! Badly! We have to go after Jay!"

Something about Shawn's expression shifted.

"Relax," he sneered. "Your boyfriend's gonna be fine."

You stilled. "He's... not my‐"

"He told me you two kissed," Shawn muttered, bitter. "Guess I was wrong about you being smart."

You froze. "Excuse me?"

"Jay doesn’t stick around, you know. Not for anyone."

You considered his words, knowing they were cruel and that you shouldn't believe them. So wiping your nose, you ran into your room and closed the door behind you, not caring that you were acting like a child.

You weren't sure what kept you awake that night more. Your brother's words or your worry for Jason's safety.

Episode 4 - His Absence

Jason didn't come home that night. Or any night after. Everyone assumed the batman did arrest him. But no one actually knew what happened to him until months later, when he made his first appearance on TV as Bruce Wayne's new ward.

The rumor going around was that Jason went to Juvie and got out. Worked odd jobs until eventually scoring a gig at WayneTech.

It was really impressive, considering he only had a high school education.

You were partly relieved. When he didn't come back, you'd assumed the worst. So seeing him healthy and happy on TV, surrounded by heiresses and models, was... bittersweet.

You remained in the slums with your sickly mother and your brother, who was falling deeper into a life of crime.

It was clear Shawn resented Jason. Accused him of abandoning his best friend for the privileged life.

"You abandoned him first." You once reminded him, annoyed by his 40th rant of the week.

Shawn didn't like that.

"Or maybe he had nothing worth coming back to." He spat at you.

Your eyes swam with tears, and you stormed out of your apartment.

Years went by, and you got accepted into a good fashion program, worked to help provide for your family. But you soon realized that the pay wouldn't keep up with constantly rising rent.

Your friend helped you get a second job at a high-end bar uptown. The usual crowd were Wall Street types or rich college kids, so you earned more than your fashion internship from tips alone.

That's where you met Selina.

She was a beautiful woman, confident, elegant, and resourceful. She never paid for herself.

Grateful the bathroom walls muffled the deafening music, you washed your hands when silky voice spoke up behind you. "You should act more interested in what they have to say. It'll get you bigger tips."

You looked up at the mirror to see her standing next to you. Tall, athletic, and lithe, she filled out her dark blue dress perfectly. Instinctively, you straightened your back to tred to stand tall, but you were still quite scrawny next to her in your cheap black tank top and skirt.

"Is that what you do?" You asked.

Her lips widened into a grin, and slowly, she walked up to the mirror, reapplying her lipstick.

Your eyes were glued to her. Every movement was precise, almost artistic.

"The shade is called Royal Red. Dior." She said, puckering her lips. "And before you ask, no, I didn't pay for it."

You frowned at the comment.

The way it was phrased made you think she stole the product. But she most likely meant that it was a gift from one of her admirers.

Then she turned to you, raising the lipstick to your face. Caught off guard, you gasped, then stood still and let her brush the red across your lips.

When she was done, you turned to look in the mirror, your eyes widening. The deep crimson on your lips was enticing.

"Red looks good on you." She was smirking.

It did. You looked... kissable.

"It's about the fantasy," she was smiling behind you. "You dont have to do much. Just make them think you're interested. Attainable. And let them pay for the rest. Also, clothing goes a long way. The tighter, the better." She winked.

You nodded, marking her words.

The following day, you used your tip money on that months rent. And whatever was left you took to the fabric store.

If Shawn had a problem when the shopping bags you'd brought home, he didn't say anything about it. That evening, you pulled out your sewing kit and some old clothes and got to work.

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror and experimented with different makeup and hairstyles.

The following night, you showed up to work in a tight leather skirt, knee-high boots with five inch heels, and a silk red top that clung to you like a second skin.

You felt ridiculous at first, but then the makeup and clothing almost acted like armor and a mask. The looks you got boosted your ego, and your movements and behavior came naturally with it.

You batted your eyelashes, bending over extra slowly when putting down drinks at a table with a bunch of businessmen.

Your tips tripled.

"Love the choker." Selina sat at the bar in front of you, sipping a martini.

Your hands rose to your neck, fingers brushing the velvety material of the collar-like necklace that had a single charm dangling in the front. It was shaped like a gun.

You smiled to yourself, and lowered to whisper to her. "I got it at hot topic."

She laughed, a rich, genuine sound. "As long as it's their money, you're spending."

You developed a new routine, working, spending time with friends, talking to Selina, taking care of your mother, avoiding your brother, and soon enough, Jason left your mind completely.

Episode 5 - Back When You Left

Strobe lights distorted your vision as speakers blasted techno from all sides. The effect was made to make everything seem like it was in slo-mo.

Used to it by now, you easily maneuvered your way through the crowd with your tray.

You suddenly clashed with a tall man in what looked like a brand new Armani suit. "Oh, im so sorry!" Your hands brushed his arms. "Are you okay?"

He blinks down at you, pupils dilated as they devour your dark red sleeveless top and matching colored skirt. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You made sure your voice was extra breathy. "I can be such a kluts when they turn on the strobes."

His eyes were soft when they landed on you. "Y-you're alright, sweetheart."

You offered him a smile before brushing past him, his expensive cufflinks safely hidden in your left palm. He was left none the wiser.

It was a game you and Selina invented when days were particularly uneventful. You competed to see who can get pickpocket the most expensive object. She usually won. But she was the master. It took you a few weeks to be able to tell high fashion from cheap knock-offs. And a few more weeks to learn slight-of-hand.

"You're not bad with your fingers," she once said. "It's good you know how to sow."

It took you some time to grow comfortable with the entire idea of stealing. But Selina said something that changed your mind.

"You think these guys care that their gold came with money they got from kicking people out on the treet?"

You thought of your friends back home. Your mother, brother. How they worked tirelessly to be abke to afford living in squalor. Suddenly, you lost all sympathy for Gotham's one percent.

The key was to move your fingers quickly while distracting them. Selina had taught you moves in her flat. Demonstrating on the clasp of a bracelet, she swiftly removed it from your wrist before placing it on her own for you to try. It took a lot of practice, but eventually, you got the hang of it.

You weren't sure what she liked about you, but you were happy she did. She was like the big sister you never had.

You quickly stashed away the cufflinks in a makeup bag of you keep behind the bar before you're called to table 5.

"It's a bunch of trust fund kids." The host, Felix, grinned at you before making a gesture with his hands like he was making it rain dollar bills.

You laughed and made your way over the booth, planting your hand on your hip. "Good evening, boys. What can I get you–"

You faltered when a pair of ocean blue eyes met you gaze.

The last time you saw those eyes was the night you got your first kiss.

He sat surrounded by friends, huddled over a game of cards.

He wore a white button-up with a gucci pattern. The top few buttons were undone, offering a view to the expensive silver chain hanging off his neck and down his pronounced collarbone. His breaches, Hugo Boss. Sleeves drawn up to his elbows, tanned skin contoured in muscle and scar tissue. The Rolex resting around his left wrist was the last accessory you registered before your eyes shot up to his face.

Sharper now. Angular. Almost aristocratic features. The black stud he used to wear in his ear was replaced with a small golden hoop.

He was bigger now. Not overly so, but definitely bulkier. Like he'd been regularly working out. Like he had a healthy diet.

You wanted to hate him. You should hate him. For stealing your first kiss, making you fall for him, and then abandoning you. No goodbyes, no explanations, nothing.

But you couldn't bring yourself to feel anything other than heartache.

He looked good. Happy and healthy. There were no bruises around his eyes or cuts on his lips.

Of all the people who you knew at the slums, if anyone deserved out. It was him.

Jason’s own gaze was wide with shock. Then, slowly, his eyes traveled from yours down your body.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks – hopeful it was hidden by your make-up.

It was ridiculous. You flirted with billionaires, playboys, and bachelors like it was a game. And yet, one look from him undid you completely.

Someone's hand was circling your waist drew your attention to your side. Jason followed the movement on your hip with a gaze that could burn his buddy's hand.

"Hey gorgeous," the trust fund brat holding you said. "I know my boy's quite the looker–" he tilted his head in Jason's direction, "–but I told you my order twice now."

You blinked. He did? When?

Trust-fund-brat put his free hand on his heart. "You're gonna break a poor man's heart like that, baby."

Oh, god.

You masked your grimace with a shy giggle.

Trust-fund-brat looked at your mouth.

"Sorry, I thought I recognized him from somewhere." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Glancing at Jason, you saw his dark brows drawn together in confusion. He was wondering why you had just lied.

"Please repeat that, handsome?" You asked the trust-fund-brat, and he repeated his order with a triumphant grin, then they all went one by one.

When it was Jason’s turn, he almost looked nervous. And he masked it by looking unhappy.

Hand rubbing the back of his neck, he cleared his throat. "Uh... Macallan 18."

Your heart ached once more a how he had changed. The Jason you once knew would beat up anyone with a pretencious drink order like that.

Nodding, you wrote down his order, meeting his eyes one last time before turning to the next guy.

He looked unhappy still.

Sweetly pulling out of the trust-fund-brat's hold, you promised you'll be back soon before heading to the bar.

"What the was that?" Selina asked, wide-eyed when you returned to mix drinks.

"What?" You mumbled.

"Don't play dumb. That boy with the Rolex had you practically drooling."

"It was a really nice Rolex." You lied.

Selina lifted her brow. "You know him, don't you?"

"No."

"So you wouldn't care if I went over there and introduced myself?" She raised a brow.

The thought of her going anywhere near Jason made your teeth vrind together.

You loved Selina like a sister, but Jason wasn't like one of those men she took advantage of.

Was he?

Something about your reaction made Selina laugh.

"Come on, who is he?" She asked, eager. "Your ex?"

"I have to work." You said, balancing the tray in your hands.

She popped a cherry in her mouth. "It's okay, I'll wait until your shift is over. I'm guessing he will, too."

Ignoring her, you headed to the booth and handed the drinks out without any more "drooling." It was quite easy, actually. All you had to do was avoid Jason.

The rest of the night, you were on high alert, feeling a weird vibration in your side, coming from that booth.

Eventually, your shift had ended, and you headed to the staff room to pack up. As you were getting your bag, you heard the door open and closed behind you.

Turning around, you froze in place. "What are you–"

"You," he rasped, voice gravel and heat, "What the hell are you wearing?"

You blinked, pulse thudding in your throat. "You’re one to talk." Your voice came out shakey. "I almost didn’t recognize you without the grease."

Jason’s gaze dropped, dragging along your body like it hurt him to look. "You’ve changed."

"So have you," you snapped, finding your confidence at last. And then, because you couldn't help yourself, you added. "I guess all those yacht parties with supermodels–"

He backed you toward the wall of lockers. Two fingers lifted your chin up before his lips claimed yours. You let them. You hated that you let him.

He pressed you back. His thigh slid between yours as he crowded into your space, making you forget the rest of your sentence.

Feeling an unbearable rush of need, you let your hands rise to his face, your fingers threading into his hair.

Jason let out a strangled breath, like he’d just been punched.

You understood the feeling.

His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the bench behind you. You parted your legs automatically to keep him close.

His thigh pressed up again, and you gasped. That felt good. You wanted to feel it again.

Pulling him back into a kiss, you leaned back on your hands, rocking your hips against him the way Selina once described.

But it wasn't perfect. It was clumsy. A little awkward.

Jason didn't tease you.

What he did surprised you even more. He cupped your face gently. "Slow down," his voice was quiet. "Let me show you."

Then he pulled you closer and guided your rhythm, hands firm on your waist, breath in your ear.

The friction was delicious. Maming your breathing uneven.

Is this how you take charge? You could almost hear Selina's voice chastising in your mind.

He was leading the whole thing.

And you liked it.

And that's when you understood. None of it mattered. All this time spent working, studying, enjoying life, and not thinking about him. It wasn't real. You had always missed him. He was entrenched in your skin.

The door pushing open had you two drawing apart.

With impressive speed, Jason maneuvered you to stand behind him, blocking you from the person who had entered the room.

"Oh! Sorry." You recognized the gasp of one of your coworkers, Stephanie.

"No, it's my bad," Jason let out a charming chuckle, hand coming to scratch his head in a shy gesture. "Thought my girl would find this type of thing romantic."

He tightened his hold on your wrist, leading you out the door behind him. You cast your gaze down, hiding behind the fallen locks of your hair until you two were in the safety of the dance floor.

Your heart beat louder in your ears than the beat of the music.

You tried to slide your hand out of his hold and escape but he wouldn't let you. Instead, he pulled you to his side, sliding his hand possessively around your waist, leading you around the room towards his booth.

Before you could ask what he was doing, Jason called out to his friend. "Montgomery, can you pass me my jacket?"

Your old friend, the trust-fund-brad, turned in Jason's direction, his mouth dropping oce he took in the view of you in Jason's arms.

You were in quite a shock yourself.

You risked scanning the room until a pair of Cheshire eyes locked with yours. Again, you attempted to twist out of Jason's hold, only to be pressed further against him.

Help-me you mouthed to Selina.

Dont-be-so-dramatic she mouthed back.

You turned back just as Jasons grabbed his jacket from a slack mouthed Montgomery, threw a bill on the table, and flashed his friends a wink. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

He didn't wait for their reactions, pulling you to the exit. But you didn't miss their laughter and cheer, and Montgomery's silence.

The next few minutes were a blur. You registered sitting in the passenger seat of a fancy red convertible. Jason drove. There was no conversation.

You remembered the entrance of a fancy high rise in a part of town you've only seen on pictures. Taking the elevator. Somewhere around this time, you seemed to regain some of your self-awareness.

This was Jason's fancy new apartment.

Smooth hardwood floors, leather furniture, floor to ceiling windows with a view of the harbourfront and walls with paint that didn't chip. Slack jawed, you stood at the entrance, taking it all in.

"Nice place," you finally found your voice.

His thumb brushed against your jaw like he was scared you’d disappear.

"I used to dream about you," he murmured, like it embarrassed him. "Every night. I’d see you in that pink dress. The one you made..."

"With the black stitching on the hem?" you asked, voice caught in your throat.

He gave a quiet laugh. "Yeah. That one. You’d wear it and… it was over for me."

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Even after everything, that tiny confession broke you in the best way.

"Jason what happened?" You asked him. "Did he arrest you? The batman?"

His gaze softened. "You could say that... but he also bailed me out."

"So then why didn't you come back?" Your voice broke.

"I couldn't, sweetheart." The admission looked like it hurt him to say, like he was reliving a bad memory. "She'd kick me out for getting in trouble... or hit me or I don't know. I couldn't go back ther–"

Unable to take the pain in his words, you rose up on your tip toes, claiming his lips.

It was slow. A little shaky.

Memories. Regrets. Longing. His hands were held your waist like it was a lifeline.

His lips were warm on your skin when he murmured. "You must hate me."

You shook your head. "I don’t. I can’t. I’ve tried."

Jason’s lips claimed yours again, lifting you in his arms like you weighed nothing. This kiss was more intense, deeper, with the intention to go further.

"God, I've missed you." He breathed. "You're the only thing that felt good back then. Still are"

You didn’t realize you were trembling until he pulled back and looked at you.

"Whats wrong?" he asked, brushing his nose against yours.

"Nothing."

A beat passed.

"Wait, Jason…" You felt your cheeks flush. "I’ve never…"

He froze. Just for a second. Then his brows softened. His voice went quiet.

"We don’t have to," he said.

"I want to," you whispered. "I just… thought you should know."

He smiled softly, looking at you like you were something precious. "I’ll go slow."

He kissed your forehead first, then your cheek, then the edge of your mouth. His hands moved to your back, warm and wide.

Clothes came off one by one. Not rushed. Slow. Just fingers finding zippers, mouths, and meeting skin. You were certain your heartbeat could be heard through your skin.

He pulled you onto his bed.

He looked like a boy sculpted into a man. Same messy blacm hair, same sharp jaw, same challenging gaze. But everything else is bigger. Broader. His chest was smooth planes and definition, trim waist, dark happy trail below the waistband of his jeans. You used to daydream about what was under his shirt. Now you were seeing it. And it was better than a dream.

When his mouth moved down your neck, your hands tangled in his hair.

"Tell me if you need me to stop," he whispered, lips against your collarbone.

You nodded, and he kissed your chest, wide shoulders flexing as he lowered to kiss your nipples, your stomach, your thighs. His actions were seductive but calming at the same time. Worshipful in a way. Like tasting your was a privilege.

Everything he did had your thighs rubbing together, moisture slowly building up in between.

He rose to hover over you, lining himself up, his eyes locked with yours.

"This okay?" he asked.

You nodded, heart in your throat.

But the moment he pushed in, your breath hitched. Your hands grasped at his sheets. The pain flared hot and bright.

You bit your lip from the pain. "Jason–"

"I know, I know," he whispered, kissing your temple. "I’m right here. Try to relax around me. Just breathe."

You whimpered, trying to follow his instructions.

His hand slipped down between you, moving in slow, practiced circles over your clit. You had become so sensitive, and the feeling his hands was... unbelievable! The distraction served you well. Slowly, your body adjusted to his size. Your hands came to clutch his biceps, grounding your in his warmth, his presence, his whispered reassurances in your ear.

"You’re doing so good, sweetheart," he murmured. "God, you feel so fucking good."

The ache gradually softened. Pleasure started to curl around your body like a rush.

You moved your hips experimentally, and Jason groaned low, his restraint weakening.

"Fuck," he rasped, "you sure you’ve never done this?"

"Actually," you said, breathless. "Now that I think about it, Freddie Fletcher–"

He laughed, forehead against yours, rolling his hips deeper.

You gasped. Not from pain this time.

That friction of his fingers on your clit. That stretch. That feeling of being filled and wanted and with him.

Your crimson painted nails clawed at his back, pulling him closer.

You just wanted him. Like you always did. Always would.

"Jason!" You cried as your body shook from your orgasm.

Jason’s fingers wrapped in your hair, tugged on it with a hint of desperation as his hips met yours, each movement had his hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars.

As exhaustion invaded your senses, you felt yourself held steady in his arms.

Episode 6 - Crimson

"So he disappeared just like that?" Selina interrupted you mid story. "No goodbyes, no nothing?"

You sighed, sipping your coffee. "Pretty much. He always wanted out of there. So when he saw his chance he took it."

"Leaving you behind."

"It's not that simple." Even now, the need to defend Jason was something like a second nature. "I was safe with a loving family."

"And Shawn." She added.

"Again, not comparable." Your head was shaking before she even finished speaking. "Shawn may be annoying and mean but never raised a finger against me."

Silena had a contemplative expression on her face. Studying you again.

"I'm extremely lucky." You added, feeling the need to fill the silence.

"Poverty can make people mature way before their time." She mused before raising her own coffee to her lips. "Anyway, I hope you gave him a tongue lashing back at his place..."

"Wel..." The back of your head felt suddenly itchy, the contents of your cup fascinating. Anything involved not meeting her gaze and admitting you let Jason take your virginity. And then make sure it was gone one more time that morning.

Selina was rolling her eyes when you risked a glance at her.

"Was it at least good?" She drawled, but there was a smirk.

You nodded eagerly, conjuring up images of last night. Grasping hands, sliding hips, lips on your skin, smoldering blue eyes.

"Oh my god, pull yourself together!" She threw a sugar cube at you, grinning.

"I can't!" You whined, your face dropping to the palm of your hand. "I've tried... it's him!"

Selina was quiet for a long moment. Peaking between your fingers revealed her looking out the window, reminiscing with a longing expression.

You cleared your throat. "You said you wanted me to repair something?"

That drew her out of her thoughts. "Correct." She pulled a black garment out of her bag and let it fall on your kitchen table. It looked like a bodysuit.

You inspected the material, taking in wear and tear. The material was strong... There were rips, dirt, ashes?

"What is this for?"

"Dont ask questions, darling." There was a glint in her eye. "Just name your price and do whatever you can to mend it."

That got a chuckle out of you. "Yes, boss."

As you got to work, Selina watched you carefully. The gears in her mind are already turning with ideas and plans.

One thing was for sure, if her color was black. Yours would be crimson.

#batman #batboys #smut #fluff #angst #nsft fic #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd fluff #protective jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd fanfiction #friends to lovers #age difference #emotional smut #batboys x reader #slow burn #mutual pining

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accidentcache · 5 months ago

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spring cleaning was therapeutic. cleaning dust and clutter from the winter, getting rid of things that should've been tossed last spring. the penthouse windows were open to bring in fresh air as you got down to business, music was playing loudly from the soundbar and speakers as you flit from location to location.

keigo often compared you to a little hummingbird during this time. you moved fast, but you got things done. that's all that mattered, really.

he was working at the office today, so the apartment was clear of him potentially getting in your way. in the back of your head you wondered if he timed that on purpose-- keigo hated spring cleaning days-- but you didn't mind all that much. he gave you free reign of his home office since he wasn't going to be here for you to make him clean it anyway-- and jesus did it need cleaned bad.

you had gotten his filing cabinets sorted through and settled before deciding to take a break and sit at his desk. his desk chair-- slightly worn due to just how much he now uses it now that he works both from home and at the office as the HPSC president-- warms underneath you as you settle.

you open each drawer casually, without shame. neither of you have any secrets to hide, and keigo's not that stupid to hide something from you in a spot as easy accessible as his desk drawer.

you file each paper you find into the respective piles you have until you come across a folded up, slightly yellowed piece of notebook paper. it's clear that keigo's held onto this for a while, due to age of it. you almost feel guilty holding it.

was this something from before you met him as hawks? was this some love letter he had written to a girlfriend before you? was this back during his commission days? was this from his childhood?

against better judgement, you decide to unfold it and find a list.

visit italy.

try camping.

learn to cook.

go fishing??

heat floods your cheeks once you realize what you're reading. keigo made a bucket list of sorts. back when it was wishful thinking and torn away from him.

this list feels intimate. not for you, in a way. does keigo even remember making this?

you debate on putting it back into the drawer, deep back in the spot where it was. but a split decision causes you to stuff it into your pocket, burning a guilt shaped hole into your shorts.

it continues to burn even when keigo walks through the door hours later. the routine noises of him tossing his keys into the bowl in the entryway, his shoes getting kicked off and his katanas being set by the door are heard before you even see him.

like every year when you choose a day to spring clean, keigo does what he always does. a deep whiff of whatever candle you chose to burn once you finished cleaning, followed by a tender kiss to your temple. "looks and smells great in here, angel."

you accept the kiss and praise like always, but this time; something settles in your stomach. a feeling you don't like. keigo's already rambling on about something entirely different, making his way towards the kitchen as you're pulling the paper you found earlier out of your pocket.

you're so distracted by your own action that you don't realize he's asked you something. he repeats your name, waving a hand in front of your face. "babe? i asked you something."

your head snaps up, wide eyes and hot cheeks. "sorry, kei-- i wasn't listening. what's up?"

keigo can read you almost unfairly well sometimes. by now it's been almost six years together, you can read him just as good. but it seems he can pull the words from your mouth with just a single look.

his eyes shift downwards, and when you don't even try to hide the paper in your hand his expression softens. he leans onto the kitchen island and reaches a hand out towards you. "what did you find?" his voice is quiet, gentle.

you don't say anything, but you hand him the paper. your stomach tightens as you watch him unfold it, his eyes narrowing then crinkling into a laugh as he reads what's written. nothing is said, but keigo's chuckling.

your eyebrows furrow. you've been sitting with knots all day and here he is giggling over it?

as if sensing you're thoughts, noticing your expression, keigo only chuckles more. "oh dove, you always have a habit of overthinking things."

a soft scowl forms over your features and keigo coos at you and reaches over to pinch your cheek between his fingers. when you swat at his hand, it only causes him to chortle, his form making its way around the kitchen island to your side where he wraps an arm around your waist and firmly tugs you into his side.

"it's just a list, babe. no secrets, remember?"

your eyes roll minutely as a small sigh leaves your lips. "i know it's just a list, babe but--"

"but nothing, dove. just a silly list i made when i was younger."

your heart falls just a little bit. your eyebrows knit together and your tongue traces the seam of your mouth before you respond. "you don't want to do any of those things anymore?"

keigo scoffs good naturedly. "not like i can anyways now. besides, i've done everything i wanted to do in life, which was marry you first off."

"keigo," your tone oozes exasperation. you reach for the paper and he lets you take it from his hands, reading over your shoulder. "camping?" you list off, your finger tracing over his juvenile writing. "visit italy? you're telling me you don't want to do this stuff anymore?"

the blonde sighs, his hands molding against your hips as he moves behind you. his chin rests on your shoulder, but he doesn't answer for a couple beats. your head tilts back to look at him, taking in his profile. "i mean… maybe not the italy one anymore," he murmurs finally.

you take a measured breath. "the other ones?"

"babe, it's been ages since i made that. and that was before i took this position as president."

"exactly," you counter. "you're running the whole place differently now, kei. you can afford to take breaks." your hands drop from the paper to clasp overtop of his on top of your hips, following as they rest along your waist. keigo grumbles in some sort of protest and you continue speaking. "plus you don't have your wings anymore. it opens up a lot of options."

keigo huffs behind you, amused. his hands wander your waist and sides in silence before his lips find the shell of your ear. "think i can learn how to swim now?"

BUCKET LIST <- masterlist

#𖦹 bucket list #cache money!#bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #bnha x reader #keigo takami #keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks bnha #hawks mha #hawks x reader

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supernatural-bias · 1 year ago

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𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐛 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ notes: lars content yay! as far as i can tell, i'm one of the few to do anything on him, so i hope there's more than ten people out there interested in him

↳ warnings: none

↳ song: she blinded me with science—thomas dolby

masterlist | commissions | carrd

• This guy is a snacker

• Take one look at him. You can't tell me that he doesn't constantly skip out on meals in favor of research, usually just pulling a granola bar or stained tupperware from his desk drawer to eat while he works

• Don't get me wrong, Lars can still devour a good bit of food. Sometimes you like to make fun of him for how much good he'll get on his face in the process

• "You're looking at me weird." He frowned at you one day from behind the rims of his glasses

• "Uh, yeah. Wonder why." You grin with mild surprise, watching as leftover rice and beans from the burrito in his hands stuck to the corners of his mouth like glue. He was quick to wipe it all off, ignoring you as you laughed at him

• Aside from that, Lars usually keeps his workplace pretty clean. It's cluttered, sure, but you don't think you've ever seen him wonder where something went. He just always knew where things were. It was like he had a system in his head, and the more you thought about it, the more you decided he definitely did

• The one time someone had even tried to clean his place up, you watched as he immediately jumped in, convincing them that they were needed elsewhere and sending them off before they could mess with his set-up

• Often times, when it's just the two of you alone in the offsight lab, you'll bounce a tennis ball off the wall while Lars types away, only ever looking up to squint at you when the ball gets to close to his head

• "You should really give that to the possesor. I'm sure it'd appreciate it." He hums to you at one point while spinning around in his chair to reach something. Behind you, you hear the unmistakable sound of a metal chair tapping excitedly on glass, and you make a tsking noise

• "Pretty sure you just want me to stop distracting you with my awesome skills." You boast, attempting to do a trickshot only to smack Lars in the back. He glares at you, and you inch backward with a nervous chuckle

• "You know what, I think I'll give it to the possesor."

• "What a brilliant idea." Lars says monotonely. You were quick to get rid of the ball

• He hums while he works!

• It's not anything discernable. In fact, most of the time he isn't even singing real songs. Just little tunes he'll make up on the spot for himself; often as a way to pass the time and make minute tasks fly by

• You notice it quite a lot, but don't really say anything. It's quite entertaining, if you're being truthful

• "Sittin' and waitin' for food. Sittin' and waitin' for food.." He'd improvised once while waiting yet again for a t.v dinner of his to finish its cycle in the labs shared microwave

• "Wow Lars. Voice of an angel, you have."

• "Stuff it."

• Lars doesn't often need help with his work, there's a reason he landed the job after all, but when he does, you're always the first person he goes to. It's a side effect of having spent so much time with you at work, and even outside of it—if you counted lunch breaks and independent experiments as a non-work environment

• He likes being able to get a fresh set of eyes on whatever's stumping him, and it usually doesn't take long for the two of you to work around whatever was holding him up

• Overall, you couldn't think of a better friend/co-worker to have, and the same applies for Lars. Your relationship will only strengthen as time goes on, even withstanding the bizzar experiences that Garraka eventually brings later that year

• But that's for much later. Right now, the two of you are content to sit in the aquarium-turned-headquarters, watching as the hours ticked by without a care in the world

#ghostbusters #ghostbusters frozen empire #ghostbusters x reader #ghostbusters x you #ghostbusters x y/n #lars pinfield #lars pinfield x reader #lars pinfield x you #lars pinfield x y/n #james acaster #headcanons

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furiousgoldfish · 1 year ago

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Survival skills: Cleaning, Laundry, Living space maintenance

(there's a separate post about cooking, here's a LINK)

So I will assume you're too tired and sick to clean, and in this case we're just trying to prevent actual incidents happening: do not leave food, especially food containing meat or animal products, laying around, because it will cause bacteria and maggots to occur, you don't want that in your home, dispose of them (you can flush bad food in the toilet to get rid, if you don't take out the trash every other day).

In the same vein, sadly dishes sometimes need to get done, if you don't want very odd smells of decomposing food in your kitchen, but it's like, do it once a week in winter, twice a week in summer, and you'll be okay. (High temperature decomposes food quicker). Dishes usually are the most time-consuming cleaning activity because it's something that needs to be done pretty often and it's annoying. You can do it with gloves if you don't like the sensory feeling of it. The absolute easiest way to get it done is to rinse everything as soon as you're done using it, before It gets gross, but do I do that? No. I would never. But it is recommended.

If cleaning is overwhelming, exhausting and just triggering for you, I encourage you to only do whatever is easiest, or even just doing one little area and having that clean and easy to use, without looking at the rest; we're just trying to survive here, not be perfect. No cleaning needs to be perfect, it just has to be done.

Okay, but if you want to have the actual knowledge of how to clean things easily, here's what I do:

Kitchen: I will go against rules and start with sweeping the floors, because I hate walking on messy floor, and having the floor clean already makes the room looks way better, so I don't mind sweeping it once again later. If I have cluttered all the surfaces (which does happen a lot), I will grab all of the things and put them in one spot, like on the table, or the floor, or anywhere just to have all surfaces clean. If there's something dried, grimy or awful happening on the surfaces, the best way to deal with it is to grab a sponge with some soapy detergent, run over the grime, and then leave that to soak 10-20 minutes. Once the dirty part is softened, you can run a wet sponge over it again and it comes out no problem, generally anything you need to clean and it's difficult, leaving it to soak will resolve your issue easily.

So once I've removed all of the things, soaked all the surfaces in soapy water, rinsed them with a sponge, I'll run a dry cloth over it to remove the last of the water, and the surfaces are super clean then. At this point I'll put a cloth on one surface, slowly pick up dish by dish and bring it to the sink and wash it. If the sink is full when I'm starting to wash, it's overwhelming. If I'm bringing in things in one by one, it feels easy, I'm just washing one thing. Once I've washed a dish, I put it on the cloth to dry. Once I'm done with all of the dishes, the pile of stuff I've compiled is usually almost empty, if there's something left like ingredients, decorations, or whatever else, I'll put it back where it belongs. I'll wash the sink and the stove top, when they're also completely free of stuff, and at the end sweep the floor again and wash it. And the kitchen is done!

Bathrooms usually need something acidic for cleaning, you either need a specific bathroom cleaner, or some vinegar (optionally with baking soda). This is because water leaves a lot of calcification on the surfaces, and acidic stuff melts calcium! It takes a while, so like before, it's best to put away all of the things that are stuck in the bathroom, use a sponge to cover everything in bathroom cleaner mixed with water, or just vinegar, leave it for 20 minutes to soak. After that, you should be able to rinse it off, or maybe scrub a little in some places where calcium is a bit heavy, and you should have a clean bathroom.

If you're cleaning a wooden floor, the best way to go about it, is to have a bucket of water, with some floor-cleaning product, few spoons of it mixed with water, and a cloth you can drop in it. Wooden floors can easily get water damage, so you do not want to have them wet for more than few minutes! You squeeze the water out of that cloth as good as you can, and then you can attach it to some squeegee or a broom or whatever you have, (if you don't have a floor cleaning tool) and slide it over the floor to clean it. It should take a few minutes to dry and then you have a clean floor!

If you have a very dirty floor, and it's not wood, but like tiles or something that doesn't get damaged with water, the easiest way to get it cleaned is to put very wet cloth over it, and to soak it a lot. I will not squeeze the water out at all if I'm deep-cleaning tiles, I'll let it all get super wet. Then, you rinse your cloth, squeeze it maximally so it's near dry, and start collecting the dirty water with it. This way, all of the dirt will get melted in water, the floor will be covered with dirty water, and you're collecting that dirty water and taking it away! It's better than just sliding, because sliding in a very dirty area will just mix the dirt, not remove it. You keep rinsing and squeezing your cloth to near-dryness, until you've collected all of the water in it, and then it should be clean or nearly-clean, you can still slide over it in a normal way with a cloth if you want perfect.

Cleaning in general, has no clear rules, you can do it your own way, however you want, with whatever you want. It's recommended to start at the top, clean top shells first and go down from there, do the floor last, but you don't have to listen, clean how it fits you. If you want more tips and really useful information on how to clean hard-to-clean surfaces, go see 'auriikatarina' on youtube, she's a professional cleaner and will make cleaning look both easy and satisfying.

Organizing: When you're organizing your stuff, the easiest way to make everything look neat is to stack things upright, and do it so everything in one category is put together (your books in one place, pencils in another, clothing is in the third spot, your sanitary products in another spot), and line it up so the tallest stuff is in the back, and shortest stuff at the front. In this way you can look at your stuff and immediately see everything, nothing is hidden from view. If you can find cool places in your home to store things from specific category, it will be the easiest to find each time. You want to be able to see everything without rummaging trough it, or attempting to remember where things are, it should be logical. If you can't categorize your stuff, or can't figure out how to organize it, think about how it would be organized in a store, and where would they put it – this helps figure out the logical category and way to store it.

Maintaining your living space

Things break sometimes, or get clogged, and if you watch out periodically for these things, you can prevent a lot of it! If you make sure never to let food get inside of your sink, and have the little plastic things in your bathtub that stops the big pieces from getting in your drain, you can prevent a lot of clogging. Kitchen and bathroom sink have a part underneath that can be dismantled (unscrewed) and you can see if there's any dirt or hair in it, and clear it out, to prevent potential clogging. If you can tell the water is draining very slowly in your sinks or your bathhub, there are drain unclogging products that you can buy, and just pour down your drain in order to clean it, before it gets actually clogged! I do this every time when I feel it's draining slow, and it prevented actual clogging for years now.

It's customary to clean all of the windows in your house, and wash the curtains in your washing machine, at least once a year, twice if you want to be super attentive to it, and this will actually improve the quality of air in your space. Yearly deep cleaning, when you move all the furniture and get to all of the dust, grime and spiderwebs stuck in there, will also improve the air quality, because all of that dust is constantly circulating in the air you breathe and it makes a noticeable difference to clean it.

Airing out the rooms should happen daily, even when it's winter it's good to air the space even for a few minutes, it will improve the amount of oxygen you have in your living space and prevent bad smells from happening. Sometimes you should take a clean broom or cloth and wipe the grime from your ceiling and walls, I rarely do this, but like if you see unattended spiderwebs in there, it will make a difference if you remove those (live spiders can stay, they take care of the flies).

Walls of your living space should be repainted, I think every 5-10 years? I think people have different preferences, I'm okay with walls getting slightly dirty. Usually the kitchen will be the worst because the walls absorb all the fumes from cooking. And, any place you have heating, radiators and such, it will darken the walls. This is normal and happens to everyone.

If you have mold anywhere, that needs to be tended to immediately, there's products for destroying the mold, you should not let that linger on the walls, and it means that either your place is not well protected from the outside wetness, or that you need better air circulation in that space. Do not just repaint it either, mold is poisonous and it grows, wetness and dampness helps it spread, dryness, fire, good dry air circulation kills it. If you have mold in your bathroom, like at the edges of your bathtub, you can destroy it by soaking patches of toilet paper with bleach, covering the mold with that toilet paper, and leaving it like that overnight. Some people say it works with vinegar too, but I haven't tried that. Don't spend time in bleach-soaked bathroom though! Get out of there, bleach fumes are not good for you. And don't mix any, ANY cleaning products together, especially not with bleach, you can create poisonous fumes, and they can gas you.

Carpets should be cleaned once a year, usually they're scrubbed with water and some carpet-cleaning product, in the old times we used just plain soap! There's now dry carpet cleaners too so you can try that as well if you don't feel like washing the entire thing by hand.

Laundry

So every washing machine works differently, but the basics are the same: you can pick a program and temperature, and click start. I have one dial with numbers of different programs, and it's like 'cotton, polyester, whites, quick wash, eco wash, colored' and I don't know what the difference is, I think whatever program you choose, the stuff will get washed, it's a washing machine, it will just take a different amount of time.

The basics of using it are: you put the clothing in, you close it. You open the little compartment by the top, which offers you a place to put detergent, and fabric softener. You can be okay without fabric softener. You figure out where to put the detergent, and put whatever amount you feel is necessary. You close that compartment. You click start. The washing machine starts working and tumbling your clothing around with water and detergent. It takes an hour, sometimes more. After it's done, you can easily open the door to your clothing. The clothing is wet and clean, you take it out, you put it up to dry.

What is important to know, is that if you put colored clothing in a high-temperature wash, it's likely to bleed color, and sometimes this color can attach to your other clothing, so if you accidentally put one red sock with your white stuff, and put it to wash oh a high temperature, you might color all your white stuff into pale red or pink. Which is fun and nothing to feel bad about, except if you really need all that stuff to stay white.

Colored stuff is usually washed on lower temperatures, it can even be washed cold, so from 0-60 is okay. It's recommended to wash winter stuff with other winter stuff, and light summer fabrics with other light fabrics, just because heavy fabrics will usually pull in more water and detergent, so your light fabrics might get neglected. There's different detergents for colored and white stuff, and I usually ignore that too because both can wash both stuff.

White stuff needs to be washed on higher temperatures sometimes, especially your undergarments because they take in a lot of sweat and stuff, and can get less white if you never put them in boiling temperatures. It's normal to put them on 90 degrees. However! Don't ever put super stretchy fabric on high temperatures, because if it has a lot of elastine in it, which is plastic, it can melt! I accidentally destroyed a white hat by putting it in with whites, it was no longer stretchy because all of the stretchy stuff got completely melted in hot water.

I don't have a dryer, so I cannot help you there, usually after the clothes is washed I'll put it on a clothing line, it dries the best in the sun, but will dry anywhere (except exposed to rain, you need to not put it in rain).

If your washing machine starts smelling odd, it's possible that some mold or bacteria is happening in there, and you can disinfect it and clean it by putting a lot of baking soda inside, and then pouring vinegar into the detergent slot. You put the washing machine to a quick wash, with hot water, and this should resolve the issue. Also if you leave wet clothing in there without taking it out and drying it, for more than 24 hours, it is going to develop mold for sure, and this can actually ruin your clothing (I had it happen to a few garments, they got black stains, it's not nice).

If you don't have a washing machine, you can still hand-wash your stuff. Putting it into a bucket with some warm water and detergent, rubbing it together, rinsing and squeezing the water out a few times, and then rinsing in clean water until only clean water is getting out of it – that can work just fine. Sometimes if you need just one garment clean and don't want to use the machine, it's best to just hand-wash it. If your clothes are basically clean but just a little sweaty, rinsing it a few times in water and detergent will make them nice again. If you have some hardcore stains that cannot be washed out even with a washing machine, there's products likes spot-cleaner, and bleach, to help you with that. However you can never use bleach on colored clothing, because it will make very ugly stains on it, bleach is only for pure whites!

Alright this is all I can immediately think of, I probably left some things out, and if anyone wants to add to this, or correct me or anything feel free! I hope this helped you feel less overwhelmed, and more informed about how to successfully live independently. Also if there's questions you want to ask go ahead! This knowledge can be hard to get by if nobody had ever taught you.

Also, this is not something you learn all at once, just from reading one post. You don't need to immediately absorb all of this knowledge, or know how to do it all at once. This is stuff that is learned over months and years or living alone and figuring it out, and none of it is difficult or impossible to do. There's no punishments for doing it wrong, maybe some annoying dealing with some stuff. Nobody should shame you if you don't know all of this, I knew none of it when I started living on my own. I learned it a bit of here and there, and I'm compiling it so it would be more accessible, but none of it needs to be followed directly or done perfectly, and you can ignore some of it completely.

#cleaning #living space maintenance #laundry #basic life skills #survival skills #independence skills #how to take care of your living space #organizing

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nameless-ken · 5 months ago

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Bucky Barnes x Reader - part five

The Stranger That Knows Me Best is a heartfelt story about connection, vulnerability, and taking chances on the unexpected. Two introverts discover that sometimes, the person who understands you best is the one who you've never met.

part one | part two | part three | part four

Word count: 6.3k

Warnings: again, mostly angst! finally some therapy lol

Masterlist

A few weeks later

“Alright, enough of this shit,” Sam announces, stepping into the apartment and letting the door swing shut behind him. He takes in the space—dark, cluttered, a reflection of the lonely man sitting on the couch with purple circles under his eyes.

Bucky barely acknowledges him.

Sam sighs heavily and walks to the kitchen, grabbing a beer then joins Bucky on the couch. He cracks open the glass bottle, taking a sip and side eyes Bucky.

“You know, you’re acting exactly like you did after your mom passed.”

Bucky stiffens but doesn’t argue with Sam.

Sam leans forward on his knees. “I’m not letting you go back there again, man.” His voice softens slightly, but with an edge of authority beneath it. “You need help.”

Bucky exhales sharply, staring at the floor. “I don’t need—”

“Yeah, you do.” Sam doesn’t let him finish. “Look, I get it. You lost your mom, and it wrecked you. Then Natalie made you feel like shit for grieving. And now you pushed away the one person who saw you—all of you—and didn’t run.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches and swallows hard. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Sam tells him firmly. “And now, you gotta figure out why. Because I swear to God, I’m not letting you waste away in here. Again.”

Bucky stays silent for a long pause. He knows Sam’s right. He knows he messed up big time with you. He gets in these ruts and never knows how to fix it or himself and just ends up damaging his chances more.

After a while, he exhales. “Fine.”

Sam blinks. “Fine?”

Bucky nods, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’ll do it. Therapy, whatever.” His voice is hoarse, reluctant. But he means it.

Sam nods, satisfied with finally getting through to his best friend. “Good.” He’s seen this version of him before—the one who shuts down, who retreats so deep into himself that pulling him back feels impossible. But this time, there’s something different.

This time, there’s a crack in the wall Bucky’s built around himself.

“Alright,” Sam finally says, leaning back against the couch. “First session’s tomorrow. I already set it up.”

Bucky’s head snaps up. “You—what?”

Sam shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “Figured you’d get here eventually, so I saved you the trouble. And before you start bitching, yeah, you’re actually going.”

Bucky shakes his head, letting out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Sam smirks. “Yeah, but I’m a pain in the ass that cares.” His expression sobers. “You don’t gotta do this alone, Buck.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, the weight of everything settles deep in his chest. He’s been carrying this for so long—his mom’s death, Natalie leaving, the way he let you slip through his fingers. He’s spent so much time convincing himself he was fine, that he didn’t need help.

But sitting here, in the quietness of his apartment, with the ghost of you still lingering in every corner—he knows he can’t keep living like this.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Sam. “Okay.”

Sam nods, finishing off his beer. He doesn’t push any further. He doesn’t need to. The decision has already been made.

For the first time in weeks, Bucky feels like maybe—just maybe—he’s taken a step toward figuring out what’s for the better and getting rid of what’s worse.

The office is quiet, the walls painted in soft neutral tones. Bucky sits stiffly on the couch across from his newly appointed therapist, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He doesn’t know where to start.

But once he does, he realizes he can’t stop the words spilling out.

He talks about his mom. The way losing her shattered him. The way Natalie left when he needed her the most. The way he started shutting people out because it was easier than being left again.

And then, he talks about you.

The letters. The phone calls. The quiet way you slipped into his life and made him feel like he wasn’t alone. The way you looked at him like he was worth something, even when he didn’t believe it himself.

The therapist listens patiently, nodding occasionally but letting Bucky take his time. The silence in the office isn’t heavy like he expected—it’s open, waiting, giving him space.

He exhales sharply, rubbing his hands over his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he admits. “But I did. And the worst part is—I don’t even know why.”

The therapist tilts her head. “You don’t?”

Bucky lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I thought I did. Thought I was protecting myself, I guess. I pushed her away before she could leave first. Like I always do.”

There’s a long pause before the therapist speaks again. “You said you started shutting people out because it was easier than being left again. Why do you think you do that?”

Bucky stares down at his hands, his fingers flexing like he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach. His throat feels tight. “Because it’s safer. Because if I don’t let people in, they can’t hurt me.”

The therapist nods in understanding, “And yet, you’re sitting here, telling me that pushing her away hurt anyway.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t want to say it, but the truth is already there, lodged in his chest “Yeah,” he mutters. “It did. It does.”

“Maybe keeping people at arm’s length isn’t as safe as you thought.”

Bucky huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “Doesn’t feel like it.” He drags a hand through his hair, fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. “It’s just... I didn’t expect her. I didn’t expect any of it.”

The therapist leans forward slightly, her voice staying gentle but curious. “What did she mean to you?”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, memories flashing around—your laughter over the phone, your letters tucked safely in his drawer, the way your fingers curled into his without hesitation, like you belonged there.

“She made me feel—” His voice catches. He swallows hard, forcing the words out. “Like I wasn’t alone.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head at the realization. “Like I wasn’t broken beyond repair.”

The therapist studies him carefully. “And yet, when she needed you to show her the same, you pulled away.”

His stomach twists. “Yeah.��

“Why?”

Bucky opens his mouth, but no words come out. He doesn’t have an easy answer. All he knows is the fear that gripped him so tightly that night at the bar—the fear of losing something before he could even call it his.

“I don’t know,” he voices roughly. “I just—I saw Natalie, and it was like being dragged backward. And instead of proving I’d moved on, I let myself sink back into it. And she saw that. And I saw it on her face—how much I hurt her.”

The therapist doesn’t press, letting the weight of his own words settle over them.

Bucky shakes his head, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t really try to fight for her.”

The room is silent for a long moment, Bucky sitting in his new found truth. Then, the therapist speaks again. “Do you want to?”

His chest tightens. Want isn’t even the right word. It’s a need, a gnawing ache that hasn’t left since you walked away at the airport.

“Yeah but I don’t think she wants the same thing anymore.”

The therapist tilts her head. “Have you given her a reason to believe you’ve changed?”

“I’m here to do that. To try.”

The therapist gives him a small, knowing look. “People make mistakes. People let fear control them. And sometimes, people push away the things they want most because they don’t believe they deserve them.” She pauses. “You’ve been doing that for a long time, Bucky.”

His breath shudders. He runs a hand over his face, feeling raw, stripped bare.

The therapist’s voice grounds Bucky. “But the thing is… change isn’t about what you say—it’s about what you do. If you want her to see that, you have to show her.”

The room falls into silence again, but it doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels like the start of something. A step forward instead of back.

The therapist checks the clock before meeting his gaze. “That’s a good place to end for today.”

Bucky exhales heavily and pushes himself up from the couch, feeling lighter but no less uncertain.

Before he reaches the door, the therapist speaks again. “Bucky?”

He turns back, hand on the doorknob.

“You say you don’t think she wants the same thing anymore.” She gives him a thoughtful look. “But have you asked her?”

The question lodges itself in his chest as he steps into the hallway. The answer is simple.

No. He hasn’t.

And maybe it’s time he tries.

The rain pelts harshly against your bedroom window. The weather matches the storm you feel inside. You should be sleeping, but instead, you’re at your desk, staring at the blank page in front of you.

You’ve tried to pretend that leaving Brooklyn didn’t leave a hollow space inside you. You go to class, you read, you write—but none of it fills the ache that lingers.

So you do the only thing you can think of. You pick up a pen.

Bucky,

The first word alone makes your throat tighten. You hesitate, fingers trembling slightly as the words start to flow out onto the blanket piece of paper.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe because I couldn’t say everything I wanted to before I left. Maybe because I need to let it out, even if you never read it.

Brooklyn still feels like a dream I haven’t quite woken up from. I think about the places you showed me, the way the city felt quieter like it was just us walking around. I think about the coffee shop, the park, the record store—places that felt like yours but became ours, in some small way.

I catch myself looking for you in crowds, as if you might somehow be here, too. It’s stupid, I know. But some part of me keeps expecting to turn a corner and see you standing there, hands in your pockets, looking at me with that subtle grin.

I wanted you to fight for this. For me. But you didn’t, and I don’t know if that means you didn’t want to, or if you just didn’t know how.

I miss you. And I hate that I do. Because missing you means holding onto something I’m not sure was ever really mine.

You exhale, a quiet, shaky breath. The weight in your chest doesn’t lessen, but it shifts, just a little.

Folding the letter carefully, you tuck it into the back of your journal, between pages filled with words you might never share. Some things are meant to be spoken. Others are better left in ink, hidden away.

But that doesn’t stop you from writing another.

And another.

Weeks pass, and the stack of unsent letters grows. Each night, when the loneliness settles in, you find yourself reaching for your pen, spilling the words you can’t say out loud. They range from sharp-edged frustrations for what Bucky did and how hurt it made you feel to quiet confessions of feeling an empty void in your life ever since you left Brooklyn.

I don’t know if I’m angry at you, or if I just wish you would’ve made me understand what was going through your head instead of pushing me away.

Do you think about me? Do you regret it? Or is this just another thing you’ve taught yourself to bury?

I wish you’d call.

That one hurts the most. Because no matter how much you try to convince yourself that this distance is for the best, a part of you still listens for your phone to ring and to see Bucky’s name flash across the screen. A part of you still hopes.

One night, you almost send one of your letters.

You hold the letter in your hands, staring at the envelope, his name written in your careful script. Your thumb brushes over the paper, your heart pounding.

Something stops you.

Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s fear. Or maybe it’s the realization that if Bucky wanted to reach out to you and explain, he would have by now.

With a quiet sigh, you tuck the letter back into the journal.

You won’t stop writing. But you’re done waiting.

The letters are spread out across his bed, some edges frayed from the number of times he’s unfolded them, read them, smoothed them out again like that might somehow soften the ache in his chest. Your words are here, inked across the pages, but you aren’t. And that’s the part that kills him.

He runs a hand through his hair, breathing out slowly. He’s looking for something—some kind of sign in your words, a way to make sense of how he let this slip through his fingers. But all he finds is the weight of what he lost.

So he does the only thing he knows how. He writes to you.

He tells you about his therapy sessions, the way he’s trying to untangle years of grief and anger. He tells you he got into his internship for the spring semester, how he’s looking at jobs for after graduation, even though none of it feels as exciting without you.

He mentions the cold creeping into Brooklyn, how the city feels different now, emptier. He apologizes for not reaching out, for not calling. He wants to but it doesn’t feel right. Not until he gets better.

He writes about Thanksgiving, how Sam invited him over, how he almost went but couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting at a table full of warmth when all he could think about was how you should’ve been there too. He got a call from his sister, Rebecca. She is traveling in Europe now, she sends him postcards from every stop she passes through. He told her about you and what happened and of course she called him the biggest, stupidest idiot in the world. She said once her trip is over, she will do anything she can to convince you to give him a chance again.

He writes to you for your birthday, tells you he still remembers the way your face lit up when you talked about your favorite cake—soft and gooey chocolate with chocolate buttercream frosting and raspberry topping. He hopes for your next year to be the best one yet, wanting nothing more than to see you be happy and achieve all your dreams. He hopes you’ve started the book you told him you’ve tried to write for years. Maybe this year will be it.

Christmas comes and goes. He spends it alone. He doesn’t tell you that part. Instead, he tells you about the lights strung up along the streets, the way the city glows under fresh snow. He tells you he hopes you're surrounded by people who love and care for you. New Year’s Eve comes around, he doesn’t go out. Just sits by his window, watching fireworks burst in the distance, thinking about the way you once told him new beginnings weren’t about the time and day but about the choice you make to start again.

He wishes he could tell you that’s what he’s trying to do.

But instead, he just writes, seals the envelope, and sends it off, knowing it might never be enough.

And miles away, you receive every single one. The stack of unopened letters grows, each one carefully placed on your desk but never touched. You know his words are beautiful, but you learned the hard way—words mean nothing when actions never match them.

And that’s the part that kills you.

The apartment is warm, the scent of popcorn and hot cocoa filling the air as you sit cross-legged on the couch, a soft throw blanket draped over your lap. The TV flickers with some old rom-com Wanda insisted on watching, but you haven’t really been paying attention. Your fingers toy with the rim of your mug, the distant sound of fireworks cracking through the city already starting.

Wanda shifts beside you, tucking her feet beneath her. "So… are we gonna talk about it?"

You blink, turning your head toward her. "Talk about what?"

She gives you a knowing look, and before you can try and change the subject, she reaches over to the coffee table, grabbing the small but growing stack of envelopes you’ve carefully set aside. The ones with Bucky’s handwriting scrawled across the front, the ones you can’t bring yourself to open.

"These," she says, flipping through them. "I think it’s time."

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "Wanda—"

"He’s been writing to you for months," she presses, voice gentle but firm. "You don’t even have to read them if you don’t want to. But don’t you think it’s time to at least say something? Even if it’s just to tell him to stop."

You swallow hard, staring at the letters in her hands. You’ve thought about it—more times than you can count. Every time a new one arrives, your hands hover over the paper, itching to tear it open, to let his words in. But then you remember how it felt to walk away, how it felt knowing that words weren’t enough before.

"I have written to him." you admit, voice quiet. “I just haven’t sent them.”

Wanda tilts her head, considering. "Maybe it’s time. If it’s closure you need to finally let go or if you want to try again with him. Just do something because this sulking around the apartment every day and night has to stop. It’s not healthy for you.”

You let out a slow breath, fingers curling around the soft fabric of your blanket. The thought of opening even one letter feels terrifying. But so does the thought of keeping them sealed forever.

Wanda nudges your shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Just think about it, okay? It’s a new year. Maybe it’s time to stop letting the past sit in a pile of unopened letters."

You don’t respond right away. But later, when the clock strikes midnight and the city erupts in celebration, you find yourself reaching for the top envelope, fingers tracing over your name in his handwriting.

You still need more time.

Your apartment is quiet except for the low volume of the tv in the living room, fading into the background as you sit at the kitchen table, textbooks sprawled out and Bucky’s letters stacked neatly, almost taunting you. The weight of them feels heavier than paper should.

You exhale slowly, pressing your palms flat against the table, steeling yourself before you finally pick up the first envelope.

His handwriting is familiar, the way he loops his letters, the way your name looks in ink under his fingertips. You tear it open carefully, the paper trembling slightly between your fingers as you unfold it.

Hi…

I don’t know if you’ll even open this. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. But I guess I’m writing anyway because not talking to you feels worse than talking to a version of you that might never answer.

Your breath catches as your eyes scan over his words, the ache in your chest deepening with each line. He writes about his therapy, how he’s trying to make sense of things, untangling the years of grief and anger.

It’s hard. I don’t know if it’s making me better or just making me more aware of how much I need to fix. But I think you’d tell me that’s a good thing.

The next letter talks about his internship—how he got into the one he wanted for the spring semester, how he should be excited but isn’t, because he can’t tell you about it.

I keep picking up my phone to text you. I still type out your name sometimes before I remember I don’t get to do that anymore.

Tears sting at your eyes as you unfold another letter, his words feeling like a hand reaching through time, pulling you back into something you’ve been trying to outrun.

He tells you about Thanksgiving, how it felt empty without you. Then Christmas—how he almost bought you something out of habit before remembering you weren’t there to give it to.

Happy birthday, by the way. I thought about calling. I didn’t. I should’ve, shouldn’t I? I hope you had a good day. I hope you were surrounded by people who love you. I hope you know that I still—

The sentence cuts off, a strike-through line dragging across the paper like he couldn’t bring himself to say the rest.

You press a hand to your mouth, eyes squeezing shut as a sob rises in your throat. You shouldn’t be crying over him. You shouldn’t still feel this way. But the love and kindness in his words, the weight of his regrets—it’s all there, and it crashes into you in waves.

When you finally unfold the last letter, your hands are trembling.

New Year’s Eve is tomorrow. I wonder if you’ll watch the fireworks. I wonder if you’ll think about me when the clock hits midnight. I’ll think about you.

You don’t realize how much time has passed until the lamp beside you flickers slightly, the room dim and quiet, the only sound is your own uneven breaths.

You reach for a pen. You try to write back.

But every time you start, the words feel wrong, too small, too fragile for everything you feel.

So you put the pen down. You fold your arms on the table, resting your head against them, the letters spread out in front of you like ghosts of what could have been.

You’ll write back.

Just… not yet.

The next few months blur together—lectures, assignments, late nights spent hunched over your laptop with a half-empty coffee cup by your side. The final stretch before graduation is relentless, consuming, and yet, through all the chaos, one thing remains constant.

The letters.

Every week, without fail, another one arrives. Bucky’s handwriting on the envelope, your name carefully written like he still thinks of you as something worth holding onto. They pile up on your desk, neatly stacked. You think about them too often, your fingers hovering over the edges, guilt pressing into your ribs because you can’t write back.

Not yet.

Maybe it’s because some nights, when the world is quiet, you think you still hear his voice in your head, and it makes your chest hurt.

Maybe it’s because you’re scared.

So instead, you throw yourself into everything else—classes, studying, work. And therapy.

At first, you weren’t sure. The thought of unpacking everything, of digging into the parts of yourself you’d rather ignore, felt overwhelming. But sitting across from someone who listens, who helps you make sense of why you pull away when people get too close, why the idea of forgiveness feels so complicated—it’s been… good. Hard, but good.

And you understand now why it mattered so much that Bucky did this for himself. You can’t help but feel proud of him, even if you haven’t told him that yet.

Some nights, you sit at your desk and trace the edges of the envelopes, the weight of his words sealed inside, waiting. You wonder what his next letter will say. If he’ll tell you about the little things—how his classes are going, what new coffee shop he’s tried, if he’s still taking those long runs when he can’t sleep.

The guilt never really leaves. It lingers like a shadow, creeping in at the most unexpected moments—when you’re studying late into the night, when you’re folding laundry, when you hear a song that reminds you of Brooklyn, of him.

You know it isn’t fair. He’s trying. He’s putting himself out there, week after week, offering you pieces of his life, his thoughts, his regrets. And you? You just let the letters pile up, like unopened doors you’re too afraid to walk through.

But it’s not that simple.

Because every time you think about writing back, about opening that door even a little, a flood of emotions rushes in. The hurt, the longing, the weight of everything that went wrong. And it’s too much. It’s easier to keep things as they are—distant, unresolved, safer.

Therapy is helping. Slowly, you’re starting to untangle the knots inside you, starting to understand why you react the way you do. You’re learning that healing isn’t linear, that some wounds take longer to mend than others.

And you know that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, you’ll respond to one of his letters.

You’ll let his words in.

But not yet.

“I’m just saying,” Wanda starts, flipping through a rack of dresses, “you don’t have to get a response ready or figure everything out right this second. But, maybe you could just… I don’t know, acknowledge that he still exists?”

You sigh, running your fingers over the fabric of a navy blue dress before shaking your head and moving to the next one. “I don’t know what to say, Wanda.”

She gives you a pointed look. “It’s been months.”

“I know.”

“He still writes to you.”

“I know.”

She lets out an exasperated breath, pulling a dress off the hanger and holding it up against herself. “Okay, but do you even want to talk to him again?”

You hesitate. The truth sits heavy in your chest, unwilling to be spoken aloud. Instead, you deflect. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You glance at her then, and Wanda’s expression softens. She knows you too well.

“Listen,” she says gently, placing the dress back and turning to face you fully. “I get it. You’re scared. You’re working through a lot, and I’m really proud of you for that. But at some point, you have to ask yourself if you’re shutting him out because you’re still hurt or because it’s easier than opening up again.”

You swallow, looking away. The thing is, you have thought about it. Too much.

Wanda nudges your shoulder. “Not just him, either. Anyone.”

You blink at her, caught off guard.

She tilts her head knowingly. “You put up walls. We both know that. And yeah, maybe Bucky is the one you’re avoiding right now, but eventually, it’s going to be someone else. And someone else after that. Until you’re completely alone.”

Her words land with more weight than you expect.

Wanda doesn’t push any further. She just gives you a small, understanding smile before turning back to the dresses. “Anyway,” she says lightly, “I’m thinking something red. Thoughts?”

You force a breath out, shaking your head with a soft laugh. “You would.”

But even as you return to browsing, Wanda’s words stay with you. The regret gnawing harder than before.

The day is a blur of nerves, excitement, and bittersweet goodbyes.

You and Wanda get ready together in the apartment, laughing through the nerves as you zip up your graduation gowns and fix each other’s caps. The weight of the moment settles in as you stand side by side, taking in the fact that this is it—the end of one chapter, the start of something new.

“Can’t believe we made it,” Wanda says, smoothing out her gown. “Remember when we thought this day would never come?”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Feels surreal.”

“Excited?” she asks, nudging your shoulder.

“Terrified,” you admit, but there’s excitement underneath it all. The job hunt is still in full swing, the future uncertain, but for the first time in a while, it doesn’t feel as daunting.

The ceremony is a whirlwind. Speeches, cheers, the sound of your name being called as you walk across the stage, clutching your diploma with slightly trembling hands. You scan the crowd instinctively, your heart clenching at the thought of Bucky. If he were here, he’d be cheering you on—loudly, but in his own way. Maybe a proud smirk, a nod, something quiet but deeply felt.

After the ceremony, you spend time with your family, sharing hugs and snapping photos, letting their pride and love wash over you. The weight of the day settles in as you say your goodbyes, thanking them for coming before heading back to your apartment with Wanda.

But the moment you step onto the sidewalk, something shifts.

There’s a figure leaning against a tree just outside your building, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly bowed. But even from a distance, you know.

The breath is knocked clean from your lungs.

Bucky.

Your feet hesitate on the pavement as the world seems to tilt for a second. He looks the same, but different. His hair’s a little shorter, his stance a little less guarded, but those eyes—they hold something unreadable, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

Wanda catches the look on your face and follows your gaze. Her lips twitch into something knowing, something amused, and she doesn’t say a word as she gives your hand a squeeze before stepping away with a wink.

Leaving you and Bucky alone.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The air feels too thick, too heavy with months of silence and unspoken words. It’s awkward, the weight of everything hanging between you.

And then Bucky shifts on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck before exhaling sharply. “Had to come out and make sure my letters were actually getting delivered,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “Figured maybe the mail system was just screwing me over.”

Your stomach twists. Guilt. Longing. Everything in between.

Because he’s here.

And after all this time, you’re speechless.

Your fingers tighten around the edges of your graduation gown, kind of wishing the sidewalk will swallow you up right now.

Bucky watches you, his expression unreadable, but with something in his eyes—cautious and hesitant, something that makes your chest ache.

You shift your feet back and forth, unsure how to stand at the moment. “They got delivered.” Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, almost like an apology. “I got every single one.”

Bucky nods, like he figured as much, like he already knew but needed to hear you say it. He glances down, toeing at the pavement with his boot before looking back up. “Did you read them?”

You read them, over and over, let his words sink into you, let them keep you company on nights when the world felt too quiet. But you never wrote back.

“I did,” you admit. “I read them all.”

Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe, or something close to it. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a careful caution again. “Just never got one back.” His tone isn’t accusatory, or bitter.

Your stomach twists from the discomfort on your end. “I wanted to,” you state, the words heavy, weighted with everything you’ve felt these past few months. “I just… I wasn’t ready.”

Bucky’s lips press together, staring longingly at something behind you but nods in understanding the absence of your words over the last 6 months.

The silence stretches between you, thick with the things you haven’t said, with all the letters he sent and all the ones you never did. You admire the way his eyebrows furrowed together and the drum of his fingers against his thigh before he shoves them in his pockets and meets your eyes again.

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You look good,” he says, almost like an afterthought, his eyes flickering over your gown. “Congratulations by the way.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head and take the cap off shyly. “Thanks.” You hesitate, then add, “I, uh… I was thinking about you today.”

Bucky tilts his head, curiosity flashing in his gaze.

“Just—” you sigh, searching for the right words. “I probably shouldn’t have said that or this but you have been on your mind these months, it was just hard to process it all after what happened. I needed time.”

Bucky nods slowly with his hands still buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders tense like he’s bracing himself. But his eyes hold softness now which makes your stomach flip.

“I get it,” he murmurs. “I probably would’ve done the same.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The weight of his words settles deep, pressing against the part of you that’s spent so long convincing yourself you didn’t need him. That maybe it was too late.

But Bucky—Bucky is standing here in front of you, unwavering as he steps closer to you.

The wind picks up around you, playing at the loose strands of your hair. Bucky reaches up instinctively, hesitating for a split second before tucking a piece behind your ear. His fingers barely graze your skin, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You force out a small, shaky laugh. “That’s kind of unfair, you know?”

His lips twitch, barely there, but you catch it. “What is?”

“That you’re still you,” you say, exhaling, “and I’m still me, and somehow, after all this time, I still—” You cut yourself off before you say too much, before you let your heart spill out right here on the sidewalk.

Bucky’s gaze darkens, almost unreadable behind those storm-blue eyes. “You still what?”

Your fingers tighten around the cap in your hands. “I still miss you,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

Bucky releases a slow, shaky breath, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like maybe he thought he’d lost you for good. Then, suddenly, he takes a small step forward, close enough that you can smell the faint traces of his cologne, warm and familiar that you’ve missed so much.

“I missed you too,” he whispers. “Every single day.”

You don’t realize you’re shaking until Bucky reaches for your hand, his touch tentative, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. But you don’t.

His fingers curl around yours, warm and steady, grounding you more than you let yourself feel in months. And when he finally speaks again, it’s lighter, like a secret meant just for you.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” he admits. “I don’t know what you need from me. But if there’s still a chance—any chance—you want me in your life, I’m here.”

The weight of his words settles deep. The uncertainty. The fear. The part of you that convinced yourself it was easier to walk away and not communicate than get hurt again.

But then there’s Bucky. Standing right here, looking at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars just for him. That he’s willing to take whatever piece of you you’re ready to give, no matter how small.

You exhale, your fingers tightening around his for just a second before you intertwine them fully.

“I don’t know where we go from here either,” you voice, barely above a whisper. “But I do know I don’t want to keep running from it.”

Bucky watches you carefully, for any hesitation. “Really?”

You nod, a small smile ghosting over your lips. “Yeah.”

His shoulders drop, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time, waiting for you to tell him to go. But you don’t. Instead, you take a step closer, until there’s hardly any space left between you, until you can see the way his lips part ever so slightly.

A nervous laugh bubbles up in your chest, soft and hesitant. “This is weird, right?”

Bucky huffs out a breath, shaking his head with a small smirk. “Yeah. But maybe a little less weird now.”

You glance down at your intertwined hands before looking back up at him. “So… what now?”

Bucky tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face that he's missed more than anything. “Well,” he muses, “if you’re willing to let me, I was thinking maybe I could take you out for celebratory waffles and coffee.”

A surprised laugh escapes you, bright and unrestrained, remembering your second favorite breakfast he introduced you to in Brooklyn. “Blueberry and Hazelnut?”

Bucky chuckles, his smirk widening into something more genuine, more playful. “Blueberry and Hazelnut.”

Bucky’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, his touch light, hesitant, but still there. “We can take it slow,” he murmurs. “No pressure.”

You nod, but your heart hammers in your chest, because Bucky is looking at you like he’s about to do something reckless. Something you’ve both been dancing around since your arrival in Brooklyn months ago.

Before you can overthink it even further, before you can let doubt creep in, you step forward and tilt your chin up ever so slightly.

You hear Bucky’s breath catch in his throat quietly before he closes the space between you, his free hand lifting to cradle your jaw as he presses his lips to yours.

It’s soft—uncertain, testing—but the moment you melt into it, the moment your fingers tighten around him, the air shifts. The hesitation dissolves, replaced by passion and forgiveness. He kisses you like he’s making up for all the lost time.

When you finally pull away, your foreheads stay close, breaths mingling together. The world feels softer somehow, the weight of the past months shifting, making room for something new.

The city moves around you, distant and unbothered, but at this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you who exist. The past still lingers, unspoken words and wounds that haven’t fully healed, but also something ready for a new start.

Bucky tugs you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, to remind you he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere unless you tell him to.

You exhale slowly, letting yourself lean into him just a little more, just enough to feel the warmth of his embrace seep into your bones.

With his fingers still tangled with yours, Bucky leads you down the quiet street, away from the heaviness of the past and toward whatever comes next. And for the first time in these long, sad months, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—this is a new beginning to something that will last forever.

Taglist (please lmk if you don't want to be apart of my taglist or comment below to be added!): @mutifandomkid @civilbucky @ozwriterchick @buckyb-stan @lomlbuckybarnes @kjah97 @danzer8705 @laprofesoratinacita

Thank you so much for reading <3 lmk if I should do another part or an epilogue or something!

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