#most of it was done without a lot of notes

[slvbum]

CHANGING SEASONS ♡ Rafe Cameron!

Content WARNING: Rafe × Bunny!Reader marriage, pregnancy, crying, emotional changes, mood swings.

It started subtly. Y/N began leaving half-weeded flowerbeds or unfinished batches of her healthy cookies on the counter. Her eyes, once bright with quiet joy, were often red-rimmed or distant. Rafe noticed her pulling away—flinching when he tried to kiss her forehead, shrugging off his hugs with a mumbled excuse about being busy. Even his cologne, a woodsy scent she used to love nuzzling into, now drew a wrinkled nose and a quick turn of her head.

“It’s too strong,” she’d mutter, her voice clipped, leaving Rafe to quietly switch to a milder soap, hoping it’d help.

So Rafe tried to bridge the gap.

He’d bring home her favorite lavender from the florist, leave notes on the counter saying, “You’re my everything,” or coax her with a playful grin to join him and Marie in the garden. But her responses were clipped. At night, when he’d slide closer, hoping to hold her like always, she’d push him away, leaving him staring at the ceiling, heart heavy.

One evening, the tension broke. Marie was asleep, her stuffed goose clutched tight. Y/N was in their bedroom, folding laundry, her lips pressed into a thin line. Rafe, fresh from a shower, his hair damp and a towel slung over his shoulder, couldn’t take the silence anymore. He stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, his lips brushing her neck.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “What’s going on with you?”

“Rafe, don’t,” Y/N snapped, jerking away as if his touch burned. “You’re all wet. Can you just… not right now?”

Rafe froze, his hand hovering mid-air, stung by the venom in her tone. His blue eyes searched her face, catching the flush of her cheeks, not her usual blush, but something frustrated.

“Bunny, I just—” he started, but she cut him off.

“Stop, okay? Just stop!” Her voice cracked, and just as quickly, her face crumpled. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she dropped the dress she’d been folding, her hands covering her face as sobs shook her. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, her words muffled. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I can’t… I can’t handle it. It’s all too much. The test… I took it last week. I’m pregnant, and I’m so scared.”

Rafe’s breath caught, his mind racing to process her words. Pregnant. Another baby. His heart swelled for a moment, there was nothing he wanted the most than a big family, but then he saw the fear in Y/N’s eyes, the way her hands trembled as she clutched her knees.

“Okay,” he said softly, scooting closer, his hand hovering over hers. “That’s… that’s amazing. But why are you scared? We’ve done this before. We’re good at this.”

Her laugh was shaky, more a sob than anything else.

“Marie’s still so small, Rafe. She needs me all the time. And this… this wasn’t planned. I didn’t think…” She trailed off, wiping her eyes. “I’m tired already, and the thought of another baby, of starting over… I don’t know if I can do it. What if I’m not enough? I can handle one kid but two...”

Rafe’s heart ached at her words.

He gently took her hands, this time not letting her pull away, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles.

“Hey, look at me,” he said. “You are more than enough. You’re the best mom—Marie’s proof of that. She’s smart and happy and loves you like crazy. And me? Hell, I’m nothing without you.”

She peeked at him, her eyes glassy with tears.

“But I’m so mean to you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to be. I love you, but everything feels… overwhelming.”

Rafe exhaled, nodding.

“I get it. Your body’s doing a lot right now.” He risked a small smile, testing the waters. “You’re not mean. You’re pregnant, and that’s gotta be a lot. But you don’t have to go through it alone. I’m here, even when you’re yelling at me for being too wet.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, wiping her eyes.

“I’m sorry about that,” she mumbled, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “It’s just… your skin was cold, and it felt wrong. Everything feels wrong.”

“Hey, no apologies,” Rafe said, finally daring to take her hand. She didn’t pull away this time, her fingers trembling in his. “We’ll figure out what works. No cologne, less touching if it’s too much. Whatever you need, I’ll do it. Just don’t shut me out, okay?”

She nodded, her tears slowing as she squeezed his hand.

“I’m scared it’ll be like this the whole time,” she admitted. “What if I keep pushing you away?”

Rafe leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers, careful not to overwhelm her.

“Then I’ll wait,” he said simply.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun — written with love.

[sreabhadh]

I finished! Hope you enjoy!

Prowl was…he was awake. Or, not awake, but aware. He wasn’t online, he couldn’t move, and there was nothing he could see or hear, no sensors, no control, nothing turned on but he wasn’t dead and he wasn’t offline. It was like spectator mode. Without the spectating. Why was he alive? Or maybe he wasn’t, and this was whatever happened after a human-turned robot was systematically terminated by the only person they cared about or trusted.

Jazz.. Prowl wished he could curl in on himself, for one of the rare moments in his life, wished he could cry. Jazz had killed him. He’d actually done it. The only person- the only- if he had a real body, if he could move, if he could breathe, he would have choked back a sob. The only person- well, he had been starting to almost trust some of Jazz’s friends, to an extent. Then that fragger Mirage had gone and broken the first thing he could get his grubby hands on. Jazz had stopped Prowl from killing the bastard, and it pissed Prowl off, having Mirage and the others crawling around his body, terrified him to have anyone willing or able to alter him alive and breathing, living where they could access his most inner workings- terrified him to let someone proven both willing and able to alter him against his consent- made him furious that he couldn’t just, couldn’t just remove the threat, couldn’t kill anyone willing to hurt him- but it was worth it if it kept Jazz around. Kept him safe, kept him well, kept him… well, kept him where Prowl could- where Prowl could be with him. Know he was alright. Actually see him. Jazz was the only- had been the only person- the only person Prowl could ever trust. That’s. That’s what he had thought. What he had calculated, what he believed. Jazz was safe, Jazz was kind, Jazz was funny, Jazz was sweet, Jazz was…well he had hoped once that Jazz might- that Jazz might be- be his, or maybe want to, or be okay with that-

But no. Prowl had miscalculated. He and Jazz- it was a mistake to think there was ever-

A door opened. He- Prowl felt it. He felt the door open, he had, yes, he could feel- and he could hear. He could hear the footfalls, one of them..one of them sounded like Jazz. Prowl shuddered internally, wondering if this was real or some odd dying hallucination.

“How am I going to- what am I supposed to- I don’t even- I don’t know what I’m supposed to do Blaster!”

That was Jazz. He sounded stressed. Panicked, scared. Beyond panicked. Frantic? Yes, frantic. On the edge of being hysterical.

“What do you mean? Minus all the technical jargon, we put the piece back and push the button. The notes are straightforward, Red said it wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Not that, I mean, yeah I’m worried about that, but Blaster what am I, what am I-” Prowl could almost see him in his mind’s eye, hands clenching and unclenching, tugging at his hair, pressing against his head, foot tapping anxiously.

“-what am I supposed to say to him when he wakes up?”

Blaster didn’t say anything. Who were they talking about? Who could make Jazz that anxious?

“He thinks I killed him, that I would, that I would ever, he thinks- what if he doesn’t wake up? What if I didn’t understand or I did something out of order, or, or, didn’t understand one of his notes or-”

“Whoa, whoa slow down Jazz.”

Yes please. Please slow down. Who are you talking about? Was he- is he talking about me?

“It’s okay, everything’s handled-”

“What if I actually killed him?” Jazz asked, voice hoarse, grieving, guilt-ridden, panicked.

If? If he actually killed him? Had Jazz.. not been trying to kill him? What was- what had he been doing then?

“He’ll be fine- those notes were written by Prowl, remember?”

What notes?

“He knows what he’s doing, he might be a bit, well a lot more trigger happy without a morality core, but that’s on the ‘Cons for hacking Mirage and breaking in- and Prowl wrote those notes before that happened. You trust him, yeah?”

The Decepticons had hacked Mirage? Was that why Mirage had broken Prowl’s morality core? It- it might not have been a choice. It might have been something he was programmed to do.

“Of course.”

Jazz trusts me.

“Yeah, so trust he knew what he was doing. You’ve said it yourself- ‘he’s smarter than all of us combined.’ Come on, you’ve been over that booklet like a hundred times. You didn’t mess anything up. He’ll be fine. He won’t even be trying to kill us behind your back anymore.” Blaster grunted. “I assume.”

“It’s just Mirage he wanted dead,” Jazz corrected. “And that’s only because he broke the core.”

Jazz trusts me.

“Yeah, whichever. Point is, he’s going to be fine.”

Jazz sighed, and Prowl could feel, could almost see Jazz, shoulders slumped, dejected.

“But what if. What if-”

“He’s going to be fine, Jazz, stop worrying.”

“What if he hates me?” Jazz whispered. “I mean, I killed him-”

“He went offline thinking you were killing him. You didn’t actually kill him.”

“He thinks I killed him, he was-” Jazz shuddered, and Prowl heard a sniffle. “He thought I was, that I would, that I, that that’s what I was doing, he was- he was so hurt, Blaster, how am I…how am I supposed to face him again knowing how much I hurt him?”

“Well seeing as he might want to kill everyone when he wakes up… I guess it couldn’t hurt to plan out what you’re going to say. Or we could just disable some things. Do some recoding, adjust his programming.”

“What?”

“He’s offline. It’s not like it’ll hurt, or that he’ll know.”

Dread hollowed out Prowl, filling him with inevitable, unavoidable, inescapable horror. It was happening. Again. Again, everything he had, everything he was- not only his body, but his mind, his personality, his being was going to be restructured to another person’s whims, no thought or care of what Prowl felt or desired. No thought or care to who he was, or who he would be after, how much it would hurt, how much it would tear at him, ripping out the last vestiges of his identity, his humanity, his existence, his choice. All he could do was spectate. Again. It would-

“NO.” Jazz was mad.

“We have to think about the safety of-”

“We are not changing anything.”

It would be logical to do so. As much as it pained Prowl, as much as he hated it, as much as it hurt- it was the smart thing to do- “fix” him while he was offline, change his code, make him more… hospitable. More trusting, less on guard. Change the controls and his programming so he didn’t hold their lives so wholly, so directly in his hands. Take control, remove him as a threat. It was. It was the smart thing to do.

“But what if he-”

“He took you in, took me in, took all of us in when he didn’t have to. He saved us and has been nothing but gracious and patient and he let us live here. It’s not just a building, or his building, it’s him Blaster, it’s Prowl. And he let us live here. He’s kept us safe. He’s kept us hidden. He has literally kept us fed, clothed, and sheltered, this whole time and you want to treat him like a, what, like a malfunctioning robot or something? A faulty weapons system? He’s a living person, Blaster, and nothing, nothing gets changed without him choosing it on his own. We fix the piece Mirage broke, we put it back where it goes, we wake Prowl up. That’s it.”

Jazz was seething. No, livid.

“I didn’t mean it like- I didn’t mean-” Blaster let out a heavy breath. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry. Trying not to die’s… Prowl, the ‘Cons- it’s got me a bit on edge, but that doesn’t mean we have the right to- I was wrong, I’m sorry I said that. No one’s touching or changing anything, especially not while he’s offline. I’m sorry.”

“I need to take a walk,” Jazz said tersely.

“Right, sorry, I- I mean it Jazz, I was wrong.”

“I know. I need to take a walk.”

“I understand. But Jazz, what are we going to do if he wakes up and still wants to kill people? What if..he still tries to change you? Are you just going to let him?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Jazz said.

“And if you can’t change his mind? What if he’s too wound up to talk to? Do you have a plan for that?”

Jazz nodded, probably, or shook his head, or maybe he just stalked off wordlessly. Prowl couldn’t tell. He could tell Jazz was mad though, and upset- he moved and felt like an angry storm. A small angry storm that was careful not to stomp or be too loud or fume too aggressively lest he hit one of Prowl’s walls by accident or cause him any sort of discomfort despite being, as far as Jazz was aware, completely offline. Waiting for someone, for Jazz, to come wake him up.

He was coming. He was coming towards him- to where Prowl kept his body- what was left of his human body, and most of himself. He took a lot of twists and turns, muttering, shaking his head, was he crying? He- it sounded like he was crying. He was crying. For Prowl.

The angry storm cloud melted into a puddle, and so did Prowl’s feelings of betrayal. His shock, his horror, his pain. He was still afraid one of the other autobots might interfere, would overrule Jazz’s decision to leave Prowl’s choices and being to himself, was afraid that this might all be some sort of foolishly hopeful delusion, a lie some still-too human and helpless part of him had come up with, a lie he so desperately wanted to believe-

“I’m so sorry Prowl,” Jazz cried.

He could hear him- properly hear him, with his own ears. Jazz was next to him, huddled in his own guilt and grief.

“I’m so sorry. I never, I never should have- I wanted to see you, I wanted to see you so bad, I was so excited, I was so scared, I felt so bad for asking, I didn’t want you to have to deal with so many people I know you don’t like having so many- but we were hurting and we were hurting bad and I wasn’t sure if we were gonna live or not and I was scared and I thought- I thought maybe at least I could give it a chance. And if you said no, at least I would’ve seen you one last time before everything ended. At least- I never should have brought everyone here I’m so sorry, I’m such an idiot, I shouldn’t have, have dragged you into this mess I should’ve left you alone, should’ve let you be-”

No. That’s not what Prowl wanted, he didn’t want to be left alone, he didn’t want Jazz to leave, he didn’t-

“I’m sorry for killing-not-killing you, I’m sorry for shutting you off I’m sorry for everything I’m so sorry I let you get hurt, I’m so sorry Prowl, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry I hate this I hate this I’m so sorry please be okay-” he rambled on, words and apologies tumbling out of his mouth like boulders in a landslide. Prowl wanted, wanted to move, to hold him, to comfort him. Wanted to see him. Wanted to tell him- tell him everything. Everything he couldn’t say. Wanted to reach out-

He felt his arm, his hand, reaching out, heard Jazz gasp, felt it in his own hand as he bumped it against Jazz’s knee-

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry Prowl, are you okay, are you hurt, can you, are you okay? I’m so sorry I wasn’t trying to kill you I’m so sorry I didn’t want to hurt you I was trying to follow your notes I’m so sorry-” the words poured out in a torrent as Prowl groped the air with his hand. Jazz grabbed the hand, grounding him. Prowl pulled his hand out of his grasp and Jazz quickly let go as he apologized further, guilt and anxiety bubbling until finally- Prowl found Jazz’s mouth. It. Wasn’t the most elegant motion, or solution, but his hand was on Jazz’s mouth and Jazz did stop blathering apologies and self-incriminations. So it worked. Jazz didn’t even lick his hand this time, he just stared, silent, motionless and wide-eyed as Prowl blinked his own eyes open.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a robotic beep and some strained whirring. Jazz gave him an alarmed look of concern.

“Zz. Azz. Jazz,” he finally managed.

Jazz didn’t say anything, just sat there, hand on Prowl’s, cheeks moist with fresh tears and eyes bleary with old ones.

“Jazz,” Prowl repeated.

Jazz nodded, still holding Prowl’s hand over his mouth. Prowl twisted his wrist to grab his hand, hoping that wouldn’t make him start spouting apologies again. Hoping he would stop apologizing and listen. He held his hand, pulling it away from Jazz’s mouth and down towards his chest. Jazz opened his mouth-

“No. Sh. Quiet, shush,” Prowl grunted.

‘Sorry,’ Jazz mouthed silently.

“Stop. Apologizing. Please.”

“I-”

“Sh.” Prowl glared, pulling Jazz’s hand closer. Jazz shifted to accommodate him, allowing him to steal Jazz’s hand, his gaze, his undivided attention.

“I. Want. You.” Prowl frowned. That didn’t come out how he wanted it to.

“Prowl?”

“Shush. I want you,” he tried again. “I want you to stay, I want you, to be here, with me. I don’t want you to leave.”

“You…are you feeling okay? Is everything alright?”

Prowl snorted. “Fine. I’m fine. Peachy. Don’t leave. I…I won’t change you. I won’t make you like me so you don’t die and I don’t lose you, I won’t change you, and I won’t hurt your friends, they can stay, they can all stay, just don’t, leave, please. Please. Stay.”

Jazz laughed, one of those nervous, unsteady lots-of-emotion-I-can’t-handle-at-once laughs, short and stuttering. “You, sure? After I…”

“You did not kill me.”

“But I-”

“You were following my notes. My instructions.” Prowl didn’t remember writing the notes, but he was capable of erasing his own memories, and it made sense that he would have a backup plan for something like this.

“Well yeah, but-”

“You did well. You did fine. I’m not mad.”

“You-”

“We’ll put my morality core back together and back where it belongs.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I want it back. We’re putting it back where it goes.”

“I thought you-”

“I thought it was getting in the way of keeping myself safe. I thought it was getting in the way of protecting you. But I was wrong. I should have prioritized its repair, and I should have listened when you said I was being too violent, should have listened and seen how much I was scaring you, how much I was hurting you, I shouldn’t have-”

Jazz pulled him into a hug. “Sh, don’t even, it’s not your fault Prowl, you were just doing your best, it’s not your fault.”

Prowl embraced him, tears rolling freely from his not-so-human eyes. “I’m sorry,” Prowl repeated. “It wasn’t your fault, Jazz.”

Jazz held him tighter, and Prowl leaned into the embrace, being careful not to hug him too hard so his more-than-human strength wouldn’t leave any bruises or cause any pain.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for boo, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you better.”

“I love you,” Prowl whispered. He’d wanted to say it- wanted to say that, for so long, he’d been too afraid. Thinking you were dead, then waking up and realizing you weren’t dead or dying, well, mortality had a sobering effect. Not only might Jazz not live long enough, Prowl might not either. Whether it was Decepticons or someone else, Prowl might not live long enough to tell Jazz how he felt. To say all the things he’d been dying to share.

Jazz was frozen, body stock still and tingling with alertness. “You..” Jazz trailed off in shock.

Prowl began to pull back. Or maybe he’d miscalculated again. Maybe some things were better to take to the grave. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Wait, wait Prowl, I-” Jazz took Prowl’s hand. “I love you,” he smiled.

Oh. Oh. Or maybe Prowl had been a fool for not saying it sooner.

Prowl rearranged his fingers to intertwine more properly with Jazz’s. “I love you,” he whispered again.

Jazz nodded, smile growing. “I love you Prowl.”

Prowl smiled, leaning closer, body moving without him telling it to- though it did stop when he told it to, face a few inches away from Jazz’s, breath intermingling.

“May I?” Prowl asked hesitantly.

“May you?”

“May I kiss you?” Prowl finished.

“Yes please,” Jazz murmured, caressing Prowl’s pale white face with a warm hand and gentle touch.

Prowl let his body move, let his hand reach out to cradle Jazz as they- as he- as he leaned in close, brushing his lips against Jazz’s- he- he didn’t know what he was doing, did he? No, but for once he found he didn’t care. He pressed his lips against Jazz’s and found he could feel his pulse racing.

Jazz kissed him back, and they intertwined. It was- it was a rush. It was amazing. He was- Jazz was- Prowl kissed him again, and Jazz kissed him deeper, and, and so did Prowl.

“You love me,” Prowl said dumbly.

“I love you,” Jazz affirmed.

“I love you,” Prowl breathed.

“You love me.” Jazz grinned. “I must be the luckiest fragger to ever survive almost dying in a building full of traps and meet a talking potato.”

Prowl snorted. “And I’m the luckiest building to survive getting turned into a potato and lugged around by a giant wall rat.”

Jazz laughed. “Anytime babe, I’ll lug you around anywhere you want to go, just say the word.”

“Mm, what word?”

“How about…sweet potato?”

Prowl snorted. “No.”

“Prowltato?”

“Absolutely not,” he snickered.

“Hmm. Mashed potatoes?”

“No. No mashing potatoes.”

“No mashing potatoes. What about boiled?”

“That’s really not any better than mashed. You’re off your game.”

“Hey I’ll think of something eventually.”

“Wall rat.”

“Sweet potato.”

“You already said that one.”

“I like sweet potato.”

“I’ll allow it,” Prowl laughed, hugging Jazz again.

“No cold showers?”

“Just this once.”

OUGH. I wonder if it's more confusing than a relief when Prowl is woken up again. He was dying and then suddenly he's not and he's fine and Jazz is here (I hope)

I have a fun little idea hehe

Hear me out. They restore the morality core and fix Prowl while keeping him unconscious but for whatever reason Prowl “wakes up” a little bit earlier than he really should. Maybe he can sorta see and hear but can’t move? Something like that. No one knows he is online so everyone just keep talking as if he couldn’t hear them.

I just want him to overhear Jazz stressing out about “betraying” him you know👁 Like. He gets online and he is absolutely confused because WHAT is going on and the last thing he remembers is literally Jazz killing him but Jazz is right there and is actively trying to come up with a proper way to explain himself without knowing that he’s being listened hehe

Bonus points if someone briefly mentions that “heeey maybe it would be logical to do some tweaking in the code so we could have more control in case that situation happens again” and Jazz is immediately like “What the fuck NO! Did you forget that complex isn’t your property?? You don’t get to treat him like a smart house.”

[strwbyoons]

HALFWAY HOME

STARRING ... BEST FRIEND'S BROTHER!M. YOONGI X READER

WORD COUNT ... 11.2K

SUMMARY ... the ache doesn’t go away just because you pretend it isn’t there.

NOTES/WARNINGS ... fluff and angst!! reader has a panic attack/breakdown in the min’s kitchen. one singular smut-ish scene but no p in v (fingering). things get worse before they can get better. but there’s a lot more reader and sister friendship this chapter!! i would also like to dedicate this to @glossdebut, i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i’ve enjoyed writing it! also shoutout to @benyhime for all of your support on this series <3 if i’ve missed any warnings, feel free to let me know. not 100% about the pacing BUT we persevere. enjoy!!

playlist : slow dancing in the dark (toji). clementine (halsey). motion sickness (phoebe bridgers). mirrorball (taylor swift). telephones (vacations). angels like you (miley cyrus). nights (frank ocean). still (daughter). bags (clairo). hide and seek (imogen heap).

you’re half-asleep when he parks. forehead pressed to the window, arms curled into your chest, too warm in his hoodie and not quite ready to leave him yet.

“we’re here,” he says softly. he doesn’t try to wake you. just lets the engine idle, tapping his fingers once against the wheel before stilling again.

you hum, blinking slow. the sky outside is still grey with morning, and the campus gate buzzes with students with their iced coffees and those weird wheely portfolios you keep forgetting to buy.

yoongi glances over. “can you walk, or should i carry you?”

“you’d drop me,” you mumble, rubbing your cheek where the glass left a mark.

“i wouldn’t.”

“you absolutely would.”

“not the point.”

you groan and sit up, reaching for your bag and then, out of habit, for his hand. he squeezes without thinking.

“text me when you’re done,” he murmurs. then, quieter: “don’t forget to eat.”

you lean towards him with a small smile, and he’s already looking at you. “kiss?”

he rolls his eyes like it’s a chore, but the corners of his mouth twitch. he leans in, quick and soft. not enough.

“greedy,” he mutters when you kiss him again, but his voice is warm.

you smile, back away, run before you can get too sentimental. he waits until you’re through the gate before pulling off. you don’t see it, but he checks the mirror twice and smiles.

it’s like this, most days. easy in the way new relationships are supposed to be. sweet in the way things with yoongi have always been. beneath the sarcasm and the snide remarks and the sideways glances. he still calls you brat. still groans when you try to sneak into his lap while he’s working. but he’s softer now.

or maybe he’s always been, and now you just see it better.

he texts when he’s up. sometimes sends you pictures of whatever disaster he’s calling breakfast that day. shows up outside your classes with coffee and an excuse to kiss you in public. he lets you play with his rings, even when he swears he hates it. you exist in the soft orbit of his affection, and you’re not quite sure what to do with all of it.

it’s not that you don’t care. you do. you want him. you have him.

but even now, you hesitate, because it still feels too good. too warm. too real. and you’re not used to real things lasting.

it’s late when yoongi’s sister calls. you’re already curled up in bed, yoongi’s hoodie drowning your frame, the sleeves pushed up over your palms like armor. your screen lights up with her name, familiar and warm, and you hesitate for a moment before answering.

“hey.”

“yo, why do you sound like you just got hit by a bus?” she squints at you through the screen, brushing her bangs back. she’s in her dorm—posters in the background, a mug in hand, fairy lights blinking above her head like the slow beat of a heart.

you force a smile. “just tired.”

she narrows her eyes. “you’ve been tired every time we’ve talked this week. are you sleeping at all? or are you still pulling all-nighters pretending to study and actually just procrastinating all of your work?”

you huff a soft laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “guilty.”

she hums, unconvinced. “okay, what’s actually going on?”

“nothing,” you say too quickly. “i swear, it’s nothing. i’m just… burnt out.”

“mhmm.” she takes a sip from her mug. “wanna try again with less bullshit?”

you bite your lip, eyes flicking down. “i just miss you.”

she softens. “i miss you too, dumbass.”

and for a minute, that’s enough. she tells you about her roommate’s horrible taste in music, how their hall flooded last week because someone dropped their lunch in the toilet (you don’t ask), how college isn’t all it’s cracked up to be but it’s still kinda fun.

and you laugh, because it’s her. because it always feels easy when it’s just you and her like this. like no time has passed at all.

but eventually she slows. squints again. says, “okay, but seriously. what’s up? for real this time.”

you hesitate.

you’re good at pretending. good at brushing things off with a smile, at shoving your guilt and your mess and your doubts into the back of your throat where no one has to see it. but she’s your best friend. and tonight, that ache behind your ribs is pressing too hard.

you shift and pull the blanket higher.

“can i ask you something?”

“always.”

“what would you do if someone kept a secret from you?” you pause, chewing your lip. “like—not a bad one. just… something important.”

she tilts her head, mug halfway to her lips. “i’d want to know. obviously.”

“even if they didn’t tell you because they didn’t want to hurt you?”

“especially then,” she says. “i don’t like being protected from the truth.”

your stomach twists.

she doesn’t know. not about the nights you’ve been sleeping in yoongi’s bed. not about the kisses. not about the forehead touches and the way he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. and it’s not that you’re ashamed. it’s just… it’s her brother. and she’s your person. and it feels like a betrayal even though you didn’t mean for it to. you don’t know when it stopped being harmless.

“you sure you’re okay?” she asks softly. “you look kind of sad.”

you blink quickly. smile again, smaller this time. “i’m fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

“i think…” your voice is small. “i think i’m just scared.”

“of what?”

you hesitate. then, quietly, “of getting something good and still not being good enough to keep it.”

her face shifts. softens in that way she always gets when you say something she doesn’t agree with about yourself.

“hey,” she says. “you are good enough. you’ve always been good enough.”

you swallow hard, nodding.

“and whatever this is about,” she continues, eyes sharp now, “whoever made you feel like you have to shrink yourself to be wanted, fuck them.”

you smile, but there’s guilt lodged in your throat like a splinter.

because it wasn’t anyone else. it’s not yoongi making you feel that way. it’s you. your own doubts. your own insecurities. your own tangled mess of feelings you haven’t figured out how to put into words.

she watches you carefully. “you gonna tell me what this is really about?”

you want to. you want to say, it’s your brother. you want to say, he kissed me and i kissed him back and now i don’t know how to look you in the eye. but instead, you say, “someday.”

and she sighs, like she knows better than to push.

“someday soon, right?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure.

and across the screen, she smiles. real and warm and the kind of forgiving you don’t feel like you deserve.

“whatever it is, i’ll still love you.”

your throat tightens. you don’t say it, but you think it. i hope so. you end the call ten minutes later, with the ghost of that guilt still heavy in your chest. and yoongi’s hoodie doesn’t feel quite as warm.

yoongi comes home about an hour later, swinging open his bedroom door and tossing his jacket on his desk chair. he looks tired, in that quiet way he always does after a long day. shoulders loose but heavy, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, rings clinking softly when he rubs a hand over his face. there’s grease under his nails, faint paint smudges along the hem of his jeans, and the distinct scent of sawdust, sweat, and cologne trailing behind him.

he’s dancing between gigs at the moment—split between shifts at the local mechanic, taking commissions for custom skateboard designs, and producing tracks in a cluttered corner of jungkook and namjoon’s basement. it’s a mess, but it’s his mess, and it makes him happy.

you’re curled up in bed when he walks in, blanket pulled to your chin, your phone resting on your chest with the screen still dimly lit from the last call. you blink up at him, slow.

he doesn’t speak right away. just glances around the room and then lets the door click shut behind him. “you sleep?” he asks softly, kicking off his shoes.

“no,” you say, your voice quiet, small. “just resting.”

he hums, tugging off his shirt. it lands on the end of the bed, right next to your foot. “rough day?”

you nod.

he doesn’t push for details. he never does.

instead, he moves around the room with quiet efficiency—removing his rings, stacking them in their little dish, cracking open the window just a bit to let in the night air. he disappears into the bathroom for a moment, and when he returns, he crawls onto the bed without a word.

his hand finds your hip beneath the blanket like a magnet, gentle. grounding.

you feel the bed dip as he stretches out beside you, one arm tucking under the pillow, the other draped across your waist.

“wanna talk about it?” he murmurs, mouth brushing the edge of your hair.

you think about it. think about the way guilt still sticks to your skin, the way his sister’s voice is still echoing in the corners of your brain. but the words knot up in your throat before they ever reach your mouth.

“not yet,” you whisper.

yoongi’s hand slides up your side, resting over your ribs. “okay.”

just that. no hesitation, no pressure.

he presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “but when you’re ready, i’ll listen.”

your breath stutters and your eyes prick hot again. but you just bury your face into his chest, arms curling around him for warmth. he holds you tighter.

and for the first time that day, the ache in your chest eases, just a little. just enough.

you’re not sure how long you stay like that—tucked into his chest, breathing in the faint scent of coffee and cigarette smoke clinging to his shirt—but at some point, yoongi speaks again. his voice is soft, low and close to your ear.

“so,” he murmurs, thumb brushing slow over the curve of your waist, “is the course everything you chalked it up to be?”

you don’t answer right away, and he waits, patient, his hand never still.

you shift, pressing your cheek closer to his collarbone. “i don’t know yet,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

yoongi hums. “you still like it?”

“i do,” you say. pause. “i think i do. it’s just… a lot.”

“yeah?”

you nod against him. “everyone there’s so talented. like, scary talented. they make it look easy and i feel like i’m playing catch up with no idea where the finish line is.”

yoongi exhales through his nose. not quite a laugh. “sounds familiar.”

you frown. “what do you mean?”

“i mean,” he says, fingers giving your side a gentle squeeze, “every room has someone like that. doesn’t mean they’re better than you. just means they got there first.”

you don’t respond. not right away.

yoongi leans back a little, just enough to look down at you. “you’ve been drawing since you were, what—six? seven? still got that ugly fish you made in kindergarten taped to the fridge at your place.”

“it’s a koi fish.”

“it’s a nightmare.”

you huff a smile, barely.

yoongi brushes your hair back with his knuckles, his eyes soft in the dim light. “you love this shit. always have. that counts for something.”

you chew your lip, quiet. “what if that’s not enough?”

he tilts his head. “what if it is?”

you blink. “what?”

“what if loving it is enough?” he says, calm like it’s obvious. “what if you don’t have to be the best or the most impressive or whatever the hell your brain’s telling you you need to be? what if it’s just… about doing the thing you love?”

your chest tightens.

yoongi taps his finger against your temple. “this thing’s loud. i get it. mine is too. but you’re not doing this for them, remember?”

you stare at him. his brows are knit slightly, mouth soft. there’s paint beneath his thumbnail and a faint smear of graphite near his wrist, and you wonder if he even notices how much he lives the same advice he gives you.

you press your forehead to his, barely a breath between you. “how’d you get so smart, huh?”

yoongi smirks. “watched a lot of cartoons as a kid.”

you laugh, soft and hoarse.

his thumb brushes beneath your chin. “seriously, doll. you’re doing okay. even if you don’t feel like it yet.”

you nod, slow. not entirely convinced, but close. closer than you were.

yoongi settles back against the pillow, tugging you with him, until your face is tucked into his neck and his arms are warm around you again. you stay like that for a long time. until your breathing slows, and the guilt knots in your stomach ease, and the weight behind your eyes softens.

and then, quietly, almost to himself, he mutters, “you know i’m proud of you, right?”

your throat goes tight again. you don’t say anything. not for a long moment, yoongi’s thumb still brushing slow circles against your side. then you shift, just slightly. lift your head from his chest.

he blinks up at you, eyes soft in the half-dark, one brow twitching like he’s about to ask if he said something wrong.

you don’t let him. you kiss him instead.

you lean in and press your mouth to his like it’s the only answer you have. it’s not rushed, not like the way you kissed him in the bathroom, or the way you kiss him when your body aches for his. this is slower, fuller. steadier.

yoongi doesn’t move at first. just lets you kiss him, his breath catching. then his hand cups the back of your neck, warm and certain, his fingers threading into your hair as he kisses you back.

it’s easy. it always is with him.

you pull away after a beat, barely, just enough to rest your forehead against his as his thumb strokes behind your ear.

you swallow hard. “i’m trying.”

yoongi exhales. something in his shoulders loosens. “i know.”

“i’m scared.”

“i know that too.”

you nod. he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“but i’m still here,” he says, voice steady. “and i’m not going anywhere.”

your eyes sting, but you manage a smile. “you say that now.”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite to it. “please. you think you’re the only one freaking out?”

you blink.

“you think i’m not lying in bed some nights wondering when you’re gonna wake up and decide i’m not worth it?”

yoongi sighs, tugging you closer, until you’re back against his chest, your ear over his heart. “it’s not just you, doll. this shit’s scary for me too.” his voice is softer now. “but we’re doing it anyway. yeah?”

you nod, small and sure.

yeah.

you are.

the morning is soft and warm.

sunlight slips in through the kitchen window, golden and sleepy, casting stripes across the counter and the floor and the bare skin of your thighs where yoongi’s shirt falls too big on you, nearly swallowing your frame. you’re barefoot, hair still a mess from sleep, but neither of you make any comment on it.

yoongi stands at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping eggs with the same level of concentration he uses for almost everything he does. you’re perched on the counter beside him, swinging your legs and peeling clementines, the segments gathering in a little pile on a paper towel.

“these better not be for the eggs,” you say, popping one into your mouth.

“i’m not a monster,” he mutters.

“you say that, but i’ve seen you eat ramen simultaneously with mango.”

“that was one time.”

you grin and toss a clementine segment at him. it bounces off his shoulder and hits the pan.

he turns. “did you just—?”

you shrug. “missed your face.”

yoongi narrows his eyes and slowly sets the spatula down before reaching for an egg.

your eyes widen. “yoongi, no.”

“you started this.”

“you’re not seriously—”

he winds his arm back.

“yoongi!”

you shriek and bolt from the counter, laughing so hard your legs almost give out. he doesn’t throw it, thank god, but he does chase you halfway around the kitchen, egg in one hand, the most evil grin on his face.

you duck behind the dining table, panting, hair in your eyes. “truce!”

he raises a brow. “say you were wrong.”

“never.”

“say i’m the most handsome guy you’ve ever dated.”

“not happening.”

(although internally, you do admit that it’s true.)

yoongi lunges and you yelp, darting toward the sink, barely escaping his reach. he laughs, and it’s full-bodied and boyish and something about the sound makes your chest go all soft. you grab a handful of flour from the bag on the counter and toss it at him. it hits his shoulder, puffs up in a little cloud, and his jaw drops.

you gasp. “oh my god.”

yoongi looks down at the mess. then up at you. “that was your mistake.”

“we don’t have any more eggs!”

“i don’t need eggs.”

“yoongi—”

he grabs the bag of flour and you scream.

somehow, flour ends up everywhere. your cheeks, his hair, the counter, the floor. you slip at least once and nearly take him down with you. he ends up catching you around the waist, laughing into your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

“you’re a menace,” he mutters.

“you love it.”

“i really do.”

you both look like powdered donuts by the end of it, wheezing as you collapse into the kitchen chairs, faces covered, mouths aching from grinning too hard.

“we didn’t finish breakfast,” you say eventually.

yoongi swipes flour off your cheek with his thumb. “we could order something.”

you nod leaning into his touch. it’s warm, familiar. golden in the morning light.

he smiles. “you’re cute when you’re chaotic.”

you snort. “you’re cute when you’re losing.”

“wasn’t losing,” he says, brushing his lips over yours, soft and smug. “just… letting you have the win.”

“mm.” you hum. “good. you’ll do that again later, right?”

yoongi laughs against your mouth. “no promises, brat.”

but he’s still smiling when he kisses you again, flour and all. this one’s slower, deeper, the teasing fading into something heavier. his hand slides up your thigh, fingers splayed, warm and firm. your breath hitches, mouth parting beneath his, and yoongi hums low, pleased.

you make a soft noise—half whine, half something needier—and he groans into your mouth, shifting closer, both hands on your legs now, thumbs stroking along bare skin to pull you in.

“mm,” you mumble against his lips, “you’re being handsy.”

“can’t help it,” he mutters back, lips dragging down to your jaw, breath warm against your skin. “you’re all messy and pretty and in my shirt.”

your fingers curl into the front of his tee, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself. his mouth brushes under your ear, teeth barely grazing, and you squirm in his lap, pulse pounding.

he smirks, hands slipping higher, under the hem of the shirt, palms splayed over your waist now. “bet you wore this just to distract me—”

“when i come out of the shower,” his mom’s voice rings out from down the hall, sharp and unimpressed, “that kitchen better be spotless!”

you both freeze.

yoongi’s head thunks against your shoulder, a long, defeated groan dragging from his throat. “god.”

you snort, breathless, tugging your shirt down where it’s ridden up. “we are so bad at being subtle.”

he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like worth it, then sighs and pulls back, brushing your hair behind your ear. “we’ll clean it.”

“you’ll clean it.”

“you threw the flour.”

“you chased me with an egg.”

he grins. “team effort.”

you roll your eyes and slide off his lap, your knees still a little wobbly. yoongi’s hands linger at your hips for just a second longer before he lets go, groaning like this is the greatest tragedy to ever befall him.

“you’re lucky she didn’t come out during.”

he leans back in his chair, lazy and smug. “then we’d both be dead.”

you toss a dish towel at him. “move.”

he catches it one-handed, eyes glinting.

“you still owe me breakfast,” you say.

yoongi stands, slapping a bit of flour off his shirt. “baby, after we clean this mess? i’ll make anything you want.”

you’re elbow-deep in soapy water when the bedroom door creaks open down the hall. yoongi’s at the stove scrubbing out the egg pan, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in a way that says he’s pretending this is harder than it is so you’ll pity him.

you flick a bit of soap suds at him. he ignores it—barely.

you’ve just stacked the last clean plate when his mom rounds the corner, fully dressed and drying her hair with a towel. she stops in the doorway, one brow raised.

the worst of it is gone. the flour’s off the counters, the stove’s wiped down, and the floor only holds a few lingering streaks from the dish towel yoongi used like a mop.

she surveys the scene like she’s looking for evidence of a crime.

you turn from the sink and smile, sweet. “hi.”

“mm,” she says, slow. “i see the war zone has been downgraded to a minor kitchen disaster.”

yoongi doesn’t even turn around. “you’re welcome.”

“should i ask what happened or would that just make things worse?”

“probably best not to ask,” you mumble, drying your hands on a clean towel.

“uh-huh.” she leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “just so we’re clear, if i ever catch either of you throwing food again, you’re cooking dinner for the whole week.”

yoongi straightens. “but she started it.”

you gasp. “i did not!”

“she threw a clementine at my face.”

“you chased me with an egg!”

his mom raises both hands. “enough. i don’t care if she hurled a grapefruit and you retaliated with the toaster—no more food fights. and no more fooling around in my kitchen.”

your face goes hot. yoongi finally turns from the stove, utterly unbothered.

“we were cleaning.”

“mm. is that what the flour all over your ass was doing? cleaning?”

yoongi blinks. then slowly looks over his shoulder like he’s just realized the extent of the damage.

you dissolve into a fit of laughter.

his mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “i’m too old for this.”

yoongi grins. “but you love us.”

“i love her. you’re on thin ice.”

he pouts. “that’s just favoritism.”

“it’s earned,” she says, patting your shoulder on the way to the kettle. “she didn’t turn my kitchen into a bakery brawl.”

you mouth loser at yoongi behind her back. he scowls, then flips you off under the table with all the subtlety of a teenage boy caught red-handed. you grin as he rolls his eyes.

his mom just sighs again, pouring herself tea. “i’m gonna pretend i didn’t see anything else. but if i step in flour barefoot later, you’re both dead.”

yoongi salutes. “yes, ma’am.”

and with that, she heads down the hall, muttering something about “young people and no sense of boundaries.”

you glance over at him. “we’re not getting away with that next time.”

he shrugs, rinsing out the rag. “worth it.”

you roll your eyes. but when he reaches for your hand again, warm and wet and still soapy—you don’t pull away.

you’re lying sideways on yoongi’s bed, phone pressed between your shoulder and your ear, legs kicked up lazily behind you. the knot in your chest is still there, but it’s lighter now. less like it’s choking you and more like it’s just there, folded up and waiting.

yoongi’s at his desk, back to you, headphones on, clicking through something on his laptop. a soft instrumental track hums from the speakers—one of his in-progress beats, probably. it fills the quiet spaces between your voice and hers.

"he’s still using that chair?" her voice crackles through the line, amused. "god, I can hear it squeaking from here."

you smile. glance over at yoongi. he shifts slightly, elbow braced against the desk, the chair giving a telltale creak in protest.

"some things never change."

"please. he’s like a cartoon character. same clothes, same chair, same face."

you huff a laugh. "you say that like it’s a bad thing."

she snorts. "it’s not. i kind of miss it."

you twist the phone cord absently between your fingers. “i miss it too.”

"miss you most though," she says, voice softer now. "it’s weird not having you around. i keep waking up thinking you’re on the floor next to me in a sleeping bag, hogging all the blankets."

“that was you, actually.”

“mm, revisionist history.”

you smile again, slower this time. your eyes drift to yoongi. still quiet, still focused, a pen tapping absently against his lip as he scrolls through audio files. he doesn’t look back, but there’s something comforting in the rhythm of his presence. the click of keys, the faint scratch of pencil, the creak of that stupid chair.

"what are you doing now?" she asks.

you pause. “just… in his room.”

"on the phone with me while he ignores you from the corner?"

you grin. “exactly.”

"god, it’s just like when we were kids.”

and it is. the memory wraps around you warm and strange—those afternoons when the two of you would burst into yoongi’s room uninvited flinging yourselves onto his bed while he glared at you from his desk. he’d sigh and complain and say go be annoying somewhere else, but he never made you leave. not really.

you’d braid his sister’s hair while she told you stories she half-made up. you’d draw little stars on each other’s arms with gel pens while yoongi muttered to himself over math homework. it was easy then. uncomplicated.

you wonder if he remembers it like that, too.

“we were such pests,” she laughs.

“you still are.”

"rude." she clicks her tongue. "you’re lucky i love you."

you don’t answer right away. you press the phone closer to your ear. stare at the ceiling. swallow around the guilt that hasn’t gone away, even if it doesn’t ache the way it did.

“hey,” she says after a second, quieter. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you murmur, and this time it’s closer to true. “just thinking.”

“about what?”

you hesitate.

yoongi glances over his shoulder, like he felt the pause. your eyes meet for half a second—his brow lifts, a silent you good?

you nod. blink once. turn your gaze back to the ceiling.

“just… how easy it was back then,” you say softly. “when we were all together.”

"yeah," she echoes. “me too.”

you smile, even if it’s a little sad.

yoongi’s chair squeaks again. he stands, stretches, then crosses the room toward you. you look up just in time to see him mouth who is it?

you cover the receiver. “your sister.”

he makes a face. why didn’t you say so?

you roll your eyes. he leans down anyway and kisses your temple, soft and sudden. it sends something fluttering through you. warm and guilty. real.

you clear your throat, shifting the phone back to your ear.

“you still there?” she asks.

you nod, even though she can’t see it.

“yeah,” you say, voice quiet.

“you sound weird.”

you smile again, softer this time.

“i’m okay,” you tell her.

you mean it.

even if you’re not ready to tell her everything yet—you’re okay. and yoongi, hovering near the bed with one hand ghosting over your knee? he’s still here.

“hey,” her voice perks up in your ear, just as yoongi nudges your knee again and then flops sideways onto the mattress beside you. “i forgot to tell you.”

you shift the phone to your other ear, carding a hand lazily through yoongi’s hair when he nuzzles into your side like habit. “what?”

“i’m coming home for break.”

you freeze, fingers stilling in his hair.

yoongi hums in response to the lull, eyes fluttering shut. “what’s wrong?”

you ignore him, heart thudding.

“for real?” you ask, voice steady only because you’ve trained it to be.

“mmhmm. catching a plane next friday.” her voice softens, like she’s trying not to get her hopes up. “you gonna be around?”

you glance at yoongi. he’s on his back now, arms folded behind his head, shirt riding up just a little. one of his legs brushes yours where it’s draped across the edge of the bed. he doesn’t open his eyes, but you know he’s listening.

you swallow. “yeah. yeah, i’ll be here.”

she exhales, relieved. “good. i miss you. seriously.”

“i miss you too.”

and you do. you miss her like hell. but now the knot in your chest is back—worse. tighter. heavier. because now there’s a deadline.

you press your palm to yoongi’s chest, slow and gentle, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your fingers. he turns into the touch without opening his eyes, lazy and warm like he doesn’t have a single secret in the world.

like this isn’t a secret at all.

“you still there?” her voice is lighter again, oblivious.

you force a smile, even though she can’t see it.

“yeah,” you murmur, quiet. “can’t wait to see you.”

next thursday comes like a slow-motion car crash.

you’ve spent the whole week spiraling—picking at your cuticles, zoning out mid-class, avoiding mirrors like they might snitch. even yoongi, who’s been surprisingly patient about the whole thing, has started watching you like you might combust. gently, nervously. like if he touches you too hard, you’ll shatter.

the night before she’s set to arrive, you’re on his bed, legs curled under you, staring at absolutely nothing. your nails are red and raw. your stomach’s been a knot since tuesday.

yoongi shuts the door behind him, a soda can hissing open in his hand. he takes one look at you and sighs.

“you’re gonna give yourself an ulcer.”

you hum, noncommittal.

he crosses the room and drops beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you barely shift, and he doesn’t push. for a minute, the only sound is the fizz of carbonation and the quiet clink of his rings against the can.

then, finally, “you don’t have to tell her.”

you blink.

he’s still looking forward, elbow on his knee, soda held loose in his hand.

“not yet,” he adds, voice low. careful. “not until you’re ready.”

you swallow. “it’s not that i don’t want to tell her.”

“i know.”

“i just—what if she thinks it’s weird?”

he shrugs. “maybe she will.”

“yoongi—”

“but maybe she won’t.” he glances at you then, really looks at you. “she’s your best friend. she loves you.”

you nod, slowly. “and you’re her brother.”

he exhales, then leans back on his hands. “unfortunately.”

that gets the tiniest curve of your mouth. he sees it, doesn’t mention it.

“you’re allowed to be scared,” he says after a pause. “you’re allowed to keep things yours, if you need to.”

you chew your lip. then whisper, “even you?”

yoongi stills. then, gently, he says, “yeah. even me.”

the words settle deep, somewhere behind your ribs. you reach for his hand and find it already waiting. he squeezes once, doesn’t let go. and for the first time all week, you breathe.

you don’t mean to kiss him. not really.

you just turn your head and he’s already there—close enough to catch the faint curve of his mouth, the lazy slope of his lashes, the crease between his brows that always softens when he’s with you. and before you can think twice, you’re leaning in, catching his bottom lip between yours in a kiss that starts soft and tired and grateful.

he exhales through his nose, barely a breath, but it warms across your cheek as his hand cups the side of your face.

it deepens fast.

your fingers curl in his shirt. his mouth parts under yours. his thumb brushes just under your jaw and his other hand finds your waist, fingers slipping beneath cotton to rest against bare skin. you shift, thighs moving to straddle his lap. he lets you, pulling you in without question, like this is the easiest thing in the world—your knees at either side of his hips, your hands skating up his chest.

his fingers grip tighter, dragging a quiet noise from you when they slip higher along your ribs. it makes him smile against your mouth. you bite back another sound, but he’s already chasing it, tilting his head and kissing you rougher, hungrier.

“you’re so warm,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheekbone now, then lower. “always get like this when you’re worked up.”

you grip the back of his neck. “don’t make it a thing.”

“too late.”

he kisses your throat. your shoulder. his hands are greedy now, running down your thighs, tugging at the hem of your shirt, palms wide and searching.

you rock against him instinctively. he hisses, fingers tightening.

“fuck,” he mutters. “slow down.”

but he’s the one pulling you closer. the one with his mouth on your collarbone, open and wanting. the one who mutters your name when you roll your hips again, shakier this time.

you kiss him to shut him up.

he groans into it, hands sliding down again, cupping under your thighs and pressing you down flush against him. your breath stutters.

“yoongi—”

he swears again, head falling back against the pillows. his eyes are blown, lips pink and slick, chest rising and falling fast.

you hover above him, flushed and breathless, your hands still planted on his chest.

he meets your gaze.

“if we keep going,” he says, voice low and frayed, “i’m not stopping.”

you don’t answer right away. then, quietly—too quietly—you say, “i know.”

yoongi’s hands slip under your shirt again, palms gliding up your sides with no hesitation this time, just hunger. reverence. his thumbs stroke the underside of your ribs like he’s memorizing the shape of you, and then the hem of your shirt is rising, slow, careful.

you let him pull it off. his eyes flick down, widening reverently.

“fuck,” he mutters, like it physically knocks the breath out of him. his hands find your waist again, warmer now. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you lean down to kiss him, because it’s easier than letting yourself get shy. because he looks so wrecked already and he’s barely touched you.

his mouth is softer now. deeper. he drags you closer, tongue slow and searching, teeth barely grazing your bottom lip. you whimper against him and it makes him groan, low and tight in his chest.

then his hands trail up again, fingers brushing over your chest—tentative, just once, like he’s asking.

you nod before he even says anything, and that’s all it takes.

his thumbs slide over your nipples, and you gasp, whole body twitching forward. he hisses, holding you steady, fingers circling and rubbing with a focus that makes you dizzy.

“look at you,” he breathes, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw. “fuck. so responsive.”

“y-yoongi—”

“yeah, baby, I got you.” his voice is low, hoarse, the kind of gentle that comes from knowing exactly where you’re unraveling.

you can’t stop moving against him. grinding down where your body aches for more. he notices—of course he does—and one of his hands slips lower, gripping your hips to guide the motion. his thigh presses up between your legs and you instinctively rut against it.

he groans, like he’s in pain. “you’re soaked.”

your face burns. he tilts his head to meet your eyes.

“don’t do that,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his nose. “don’t get shy now. you want more?” he asks, slow and patient. “yeah?”

you nod, breath caught.

“good,” he murmurs. “lay back for me.”

you hesitate. he leans in, kissing the corner of your mouth. your cheek, your chin. “wanna take care of you. let me, baby.”

and when you do—when you lie back, thighs parted just enough, chest still rising and falling fast—he kisses you again, slower this time, while his hand trails down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. he doesn’t go further yet, just traces you there, rubbing slow and steady.

“tell me if you want me to stop.”

you don’t. you say his name in a cracked whisper and tug his wrist lower.

and yoongi listens. yoongi always listens.

he kisses your throat as his fingers slip beneath your underwear, slow, careful. you gasp when he finds you, slick and warm and trembling under his touch.

he groans. “jesus.”

he strokes you softly at first, gentle, just how you like. when you whimper, he presses tighter. when you grind down, he teases you slower.

he watches everything—every twitch, every whine, every time your mouth falls open around his name.

“you’re so fucking pretty,” he breathes. “you don’t even know.”

you’re shaking by the time he curls his fingers just right, when the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. you grab at him, nails biting into his shoulder, hips stuttering as your thighs close around his hand.

yoongi doesn’t stop. he groans your name again, lips at your ear now, voice wrecked.

“that’s it. let go. i’ve got you.”

and you do, soft and messy and full of him.

he kisses you through it, slow and endless. he doesn’t pull away, even when your thighs twitch, even when you’re gasping against his mouth. he holds you through it, lips warm and hands steady.

when it’s over, you’re breathless, flushed. still trembling in his arms.

he kisses your shoulder. then your chest. then the space just beneath your jaw, soft like a promise.

“you okay?” he whispers, brushing the hair from your eyes.

you nod, still dazed.

“good,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you close. “i’ve got you.”

and you believe him.

you’re quiet for a long time after. head tucked beneath his chin, legs tangled with his, your breathing slows eventually, even though the knot in your chest hasn’t fully unspooled. your body’s soft, sated, warm where he’s still touching you. but your thoughts… your thoughts are louder now, like your brain’s trying to fill the silence with every what-if it can think of.

he feels it. of course he does. the way your fingers twitch, the subtle shift in your shoulders, the breath you don’t quite let out.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice hushed. his thumb brushes along your spine, slow and steady. “don’t disappear on me.”

you blink. your throat aches.

“i’m not,” you whisper. but you are, a little.

yoongi presses a kiss to your temple. another to your cheek. “you always do that thing,” he says quietly. “where you get all in your head, right after something good. like you’re bracing for it to be taken away.”

you press your face into his chest. you don’t deny it.

he exhales through his nose, not frustrated—just soft. like he’s already memorized every one of your defense mechanisms and learned how to hold them gently.

“you know you don’t have to earn this, right?” he says after a beat. “me. us. none of this is conditional.”

your chest tightens. he pulls you closer.

“you don’t have to be perfect. or ready all the time. you’re allowed to be scared. and you’re allowed to stay.”

you nod, slow. your fingers grip his shirt.

“i’m trying,” you whisper, and it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all day.

“i know,” he says. “you’re doing good.”

you swallow the lump in your throat.

“and when she gets here,” he adds, quieter now, “whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. together.”

you lift your head just enough to look at him. his gaze is steady and warm. a little tired, but sure.

“you and me,” he murmurs. “we’re solid. okay?”

you nod again, quicker this time. “okay.”

he smiles. “good.”

and then he kisses you. soft and slow, like it’s just for you. reminding you with every breath that you’re safe here, that you’re wanted. that you’re not doing this alone.

the airport is loud in the way all airports are. distant intercom chatter, suitcase wheels clattering across linoleum, the low buzz of reunion and goodbye thick in the air. you’re chewing the inside of your cheek, heart rattling somewhere near your throat.

yoongi’s standing beside you, arms crossed, one foot tapping against the floor in lazy rhythm. not impatient—just moving. he keeps glancing sideways at you like he can feel the tension buzzing off your skin.

“you know she’s not gonna interrogate you the second she sees you,” he says eventually.

you blink up at him. “no, i know.”

he hums. “then why do you look like you’re about to throw up?”

you let out a shaky laugh. “because i might.”

his hand finds yours—no fanfare, just slides into yours like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. he squeezes once, twice. you squeeze back.

you’re not sure what’s worse. the anticipation or the guilt still pressed like a weight against your ribs. it feels strange, hiding something like this from her. stranger still that you’re standing next to yoongi while you do it. like you’re betraying two different people at once.

she’s your best friend. and he’s everything else.

you’re still holding onto him when her flight number blinks onto the arrivals screen.

fifteen minutes later, she’s walking toward you through the automatic doors, wheeling her suitcase behind her with a grin that breaks something in your chest.

you let go of yoongi’s hand before she can see.

“you bitch,” she says by way of greeting, eyes bright as she throws her arms around you. “i missed you.”

you hug her back, tight. tighter than you should, probably.

“missed you too,” you murmur.

yoongi hangs back while you squeal and fawn over each other, but she pulls him in eventually, tossing her arms around his neck with a dramatic groan. “and you. you never text me back.”

“you text like a boomer,” he mutters, ruffling her hair with a smirk.

she shoves him. “your number’s getting blocked.”

you watch them bicker like nothing’s changed. and for a second, you almost believe it.

but then yoongi glances at you—barely, just a flicker—and your stomach knots again.

you smile too quickly, hope she doesn’t notice.

yoongi grabs her suitcase with one hand and waves toward the exit with the other. “come on,” he says. “mom made dinner.”

“ugh, god, yes,” she groans. “airport food is a scam. i’m starving.”

you walk a little behind them. you don’t say much, your fingers twitching once at your side. yoongi slows until he’s beside you again, brushing the back of your hand with his pinky. you don’t hold his hand, though.

the car ride is mostly her voice, bouncing between the front seats with a kind of breathless energy you forgot she had—like being back home makes her lighter, or maybe just louder.

“—and i swear, professor chang hates me. he gave me, like, an eighty-three for a paper that i literally sourced with eight different case studies. eight. who does that?” she scoffs, slumping back in her seat. “i bet if i were a man, he’d have slapped a ninety on it and called it a day.”

yoongi glances at her in the mirror. “maybe you’re just annoying.”

she kicks the back of his seat. “eat shit.”

“language,” he says flatly, but his mouth quirks at the corner.

you’re quiet in the passenger seat, head leaned against the window. you’ve chimed in a few times—small things, soft laughs—but mostly you just listen. and smile. and try not to think about how different your worlds have started to look.

she talks about torts and internships and one professor who tried to pitch her a start-up idea after class. you’re proud of her, you are. but every new story sinks your stomach a little deeper.

“what about you?” she says eventually, turning her head to look at you. “you still doing that art program thing?”

“yeah,” you nod, heart thudding. “still going.”

“you like it?”

you force a smile. “i do.”

yoongi shifts beside you, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. his pinky grazes yours again, barely a touch.

“ugh, i’m jealous,” she groans, falling back against the headrest again. “i wish i could be doing something fun. but nooo, i’m stuck writing fifty-page papers on the moral implications of contract breaches.”

“sounds thrilling,” you say lightly.

“it’s hell,” she says, dramatically. “i miss high school. i miss you guys.”

yoongi hums. “you miss mom doing your laundry.”

“okay, and that.” she grins, eyes flicking between the both of you. “you two still stuck at the hip, huh?”

you blink. yoongi’s fingers twitch against his thigh, and you don’t say anything fast enough.

she laughs. “good. someone needs to babysit him while i’m gone.”

yoongi groans. “i’m driving you home and this is how you treat me?”

“yes,” she says sweetly, then turns back to you. “don’t let him be mean. he’s got that ‘grumpy old man’ energy now.”

you smile, but it falters a little at the edges. the knot in your chest twists again, because she still doesn’t know. and maybe it would be easier if you didn’t care so much. if you could just let her stay in this space where nothing’s changed. but she will find out eventually. and when she does…

yoongi’s hand shifts. rests palm-up between you on the seat.

you don’t take it, but you want to. god, you want to.

it’s not bad, exactly.

her room’s the same as it’s always been—floral bedsheets, soft lamp lighting, a half-broken fan that whirs through the night. familiar, nostalgic. it even smells like it used to, like vanilla lotion and an old bath bomb stash tucked under the bed.

but something about it feels off now.

you’re curled up in the corner of the mattress, facing the wall, blanket pulled up to your chin. her quiet breathing fills the space behind you, slow and even, already asleep.

you should be, too.

but your eyes stay open. blinking slow.

yoongi’s room is just across the hall. you passed it earlier—door cracked, soft light spilling out, his music playing low. he caught your eye when you walked by. raised a brow. didn’t say anything.

you didn’t go in.

you couldn’t. not with her right beside you in the bathroom, cracking jokes about your old sleepovers and how you always used to talk so much she’d threaten to kick you onto the floor. not when your chest was already tight with guilt and the weight of all the things you weren’t saying.

you’ve been there three nights now.

three nights without slipping into his sheets. without his arm slung around your waist. without your legs tangled under the covers or his breath in your hair or the way he always runs a hand down your back before falling asleep.

you’re cold.

not just physically. in that way that creeps into your bones when you’re not where you’re supposed to be.

you roll onto your back, stare at the ceiling. the glow-in-the-dark stars are still up there. faded now. peeling. but still there.

you hate that they make your eyes sting.

the soft creak of a floorboard just past midnight makes your breath hitch.

then—two light knocks on the door. barely audible.

you slip out from under the covers as quietly as you can, careful not to jostle the mattress. her breathing doesn’t change.

you cross the room in socked feet and open the door just a sliver.

yoongi stands on the other side, hoodie-less and rumpled, lit by the faint hallway glow. he doesn’t step in.

“you awake?” he whispers.

you furrow your brows, a half smile flitting across your face before you can catch it. “a stupid question. obviously yeah.”

his eyes flick past you, toward the bed, but his smile mirrors your own. “just checking.”

you glance back. she hasn’t moved.

“can’t sleep?” you ask, voice hushed.

yoongi shakes his head. “not really.”

you lean against the frame. “me neither.”

the silence settles again, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“it’s weird, isn’t it?” you murmur. “me being in here again.”

he lets his gaze drift across the room. “yeah.”

you look at each other. the space between you feels too wide. the air feels too still.

yoongi tips his head toward his room. “wanna come sit with me?”

you hesitate. look back again—her silhouette barely rising and falling with each breath.

“just to talk,” he says softly. “no pressure.”

your chest tightens.

but you nod. because you’re tired. and you’re cold. and more than anything, you miss him.

“just for a bit,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he says, stepping back. “just a bit.”

his room’s dark, save for the soft amber desk lamp glowing in the corner. the air smells like shampoo and laundry detergent and whatever faint cologne still clings to his pillows. you catch it as you slip inside, door clicking shut behind you.

yoongi’s already settling back on the bed, one leg stretched out, the other bent as he leans against the headboard. he pats the space beside him.

“was starting to think you’d leave me hanging.”

you make a face, crawling in slow, careful, like the walls might remember. “miracle you’ve survived this long without me.”

he snorts, tugging the blanket over your legs once you’re in like it’s muscle memory.

his hair catches the light when he shifts. bright again. blonde again. roots soft and grown-in at the base, strands slightly frizzed at the tips where the bleach has started to take its toll.

you let your eyes linger a little too long.

“you’re frying your hair,” you murmur, fingers brushing the ends without thinking.

yoongi shrugs, knowing it’s not the first time you’ve said it. “it’s holding up.”

“barely.”

“i like it this way.”

you hum. “i know.”

you do. you remember the when he first went mint. bolder, sharper, a kind of statement he didn’t really want to explain. and now it’s blonde again. not out of rebellion, not for attention. just…him.

like the kid who used to sleep until noon and skate until sunset. the one who used to pretend he hated cuddling until he passed out on your shoulder without realizing it. the one who used to tease you for crying at dog commercials and now watches your face instead of the screen.

you sit there quietly for a beat, curled into the corner of the bed, half facing him.

yoongi’s voice is quieter when it comes next. “it still feels weird, huh?”

you nod.

“we’ve never hidden anything from her before.”

you nod again.

his fingers find your wrist, gentle. “we don’t have to say anything. not if you’re not ready.”

you bite your lip. “but you are.”

“i’m okay waiting,” he says, thumb brushing over your pulse point. “if you need time, you get it.”

you lean into his side. not all the way, not yet. but close enough that your knees touch. that his breath slows a little.

you don’t say it, but thank you sits heavy between you, unspoken but understood.

yoongi turns the lamp down a notch, the room falling deeper into that warm, late-night hush.

you stay like that for a long time. saying nothing. touching only just. but it’s enough. for now.

you wake up to darkness.

at first, it’s just a shift in warmth—yoongi’s arm no longer slung across your waist, but curled loosely under his pillow. your own limbs heavy, eyes sticky with sleep, mind blank.

then it hits you.

your heart lurches—sudden, panicked.

you sit up too fast.

the room’s still quiet. still safe. but your thoughts are already racing, breath caught somewhere too high in your chest.

what if you’d slept in?

what if his sister woke up and didn’t see you in her bed?

what if she opened the wrong door?

the image of it flares sharp in your head—her standing in the doorway, confused, then not. yoongi half-asleep and you tangled up in his sheets, caught.

your skin goes cold.

you slip out of the bed without waking him. careful not to shift the mattress too much. not to let the floor creak under your toes. not to look back.

the hallway’s darker than it was earlier. the whole house feels hushed. thinner.

you pad down the stairs and into the kitchen, flicking the light on low.

the bulb hums, soft and yellow. the tile feels like ice under your feet.

you grab a glass from the cupboard, fill it from the tap. your hand trembles just slightly as you lift it to your lips.

it’s not like you’ve done anything wrong. you know that. you’re both adults. careful. kind. trying.

but it still feels wrong. still feels like something’s going to snap under the weight of what you haven’t said.

she trusts you.

you grip the counter, glass still half-full, chest starting to tighten again. not from fear of her finding out—but from the way the guilt’s started to calcify around the edges of everything soft.

she trusts you.

your breath hitches. you press your forehead to your arm.

the fridge hums behind you. outside, a car rolls past, headlights cutting across the wall.

everything’s fine.

everything’s fine.

everything’s not fine.

you shut your eyes and breathe. slow. quiet. like maybe if you do it gently enough, you’ll stop feeling like you’re stealing something that was never yours to take.

the tears hit fast.

you don’t mean for them to. there’s no build-up, no warning—just a sudden, choking tightness in your throat that bursts into a sob before you can swallow it down.

your hand shakes as you set the glass down. it clinks too loud against the counter. you flinch, even though no one’s around.

and then you’re sliding to the floor.

knees drawn to your chest, palms pressed to your face, trying to keep it in—trying not to fall apart in the middle of their mother’s kitchen, in a house that’s always felt like a second home, in a life you’re afraid you don’t deserve anymore.

your breath stutters. catches. doesn’t come back right.

you gasp, but it’s not enough. it just loops—tight and shallow, like the air’s too thick to get in.

your vision blurs. tears flood your eyes until you can’t even see the soft yellow of the tiles anymore. just shapes. the blur of your knees, the flash of silver at the faucet. you clutch your chest.

and then, “hey.”

a voice. soft. startled. familiar.

you freeze.

bare feet shuffle across the tile, quick now. the fridge light hits her face just as she crouches down in front of you.

“oh my god—” she reaches for your hands, prying them gently away from your face. “hey, hey, what’s going on? breathe. breathe with me, okay?”

you can’t, not at first. your throat’s closed up and it feels like your ribs are locked. like you’re floating outside your own body.

“look at me,” she says, voice firm but kind. “just look at me, yeah?”

your eyes snap to hers, blurry and wide.

“you’re okay,” she murmurs. “you’re okay. i’ve got you.”

her hands find your shoulders. grounding, warm. she sits down fully beside you, pulling you against her like she used to when you scraped your knee or lost your favorite pen at school.

“i woke up and you weren’t there,” she says quietly. “i got worried.”

you try to speak, to explain. but your lips won’t move right. all that comes out is a shaky breath and a broken sound you immediately hate.

“shh,” she soothes, rocking you gently. “you don’t have to say anything yet.”

you nod, fast and desperate. try again. “i—i didn’t—mean to—”

“i know,” she says. no hesitation. “i know.”

you don’t know what she knows. what she thinks this is. whether she’s pieced anything together or if this is just her comforting her best friend mid-breakdown.

but it doesn’t matter right now.

she’s here. she’s holding you. she doesn’t let go, not even once.

and somehow, that makes it worse and better all at the same time.

you bury your face in her shoulder.

it’s instinct, not thought. some muscle memory from years ago, before the world started asking more of you than scraped knees and borrowed notebooks. when you didn’t have to hide, or carry the weight of a secret that doesn’t even feel wrong until you see her and remember how much you love her.

she smells the same. something sweet, soft. like lotion and dryer sheets and summer sleepovers.

you grip the back of her shirt. tight.

and for a second, just one, you let yourself be little again. before all of this.

you curl into her side the way you used to. no words, just the press of her palm against your spine and her chin hooked over your head and the quiet sound of her breathing steady for you.

it’s like time folds in on itself. like the kitchen isn’t glowing under the dim light of the fridge but lit with fairy lights and sleepover laughter. like your chest doesn’t feel carved out, hollowed by guilt, but full—safe, whole, hers.

you let her rock you.

and you cry in that dumb, ugly way kids do when it all gets too much. hiccups. red cheeks. spit and heat and eyes that won’t stop leaking no matter how hard you try.

she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t ask. just holds you tighter.

you want to stay here. in this version of things. before you knew what it meant to keep something from her.

but you also know you can’t.

you cry until your breathing evens out, until your throat aches and your head feels heavy, and she’s still there. she never lets go.

when you finally pull back, her eyes are soft. curious, but patient.

you swipe at your nose. sniff hard. “i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

you don’t answer. can’t.

but she nods anyway, and rubs your back.

“whatever it is,” she says gently, “you can tell me when you’re ready.”

your lip wobbles. you nod.

and just for a little longer, you lean back into her shoulder. because right now, she’s not the girl whose brother you’ve been kissing. she’s just your best friend. and for now, you get to be the kid who never had to lie.

the next morning, you wake up before her.

the sun’s not all the way up yet—just brushing the windows with that early pale light, sky still more grey than blue. the blanket’s twisted around your legs, her arm slung carelessly over the pillow beside you.

it takes a minute to remember where you are. why your face feels tight, why your eyes sting.

you don’t cry often. never in front of her, not like that.

but she didn’t say anything when you climbed into bed last night. just made space. curled toward you and handed over the blanket like she knew you needed it more than she did.

you slip out of bed slow, careful not to wake her. feet silent on the carpet. quiet down the stairs.

the kitchen’s still cool from the night before. you fill a glass at the sink. don’t drink it—just hold it, both hands around the rim, trying not to think too hard.

yoongi’s voice comes soft from the archway. “you okay?”

you turn.

he’s in sweats and a loose tee, rubbing at his jaw with the back of his hand, hair pushed back in that messy way that says he just rolled out of bed.

your stomach flips.

you nod. “yeah. just… woke up early.”

he steps closer. not too close, just enough to let the space fill in.

“she told me,” he says. “about last night.”

you blink, gripping the glass a little tighter.

“you were asleep,” he adds. “she didn’t say much. just that you came down upset.”

you look at the sink. the counter. anywhere but him. “sorry.”

he shakes his head. “don’t be.”

you wait for him to say something else. a question, maybe. a quiet are you sure or do you want to talk about it.

but he just leans against the counter beside you, shoulder brushing yours lightly.

“i should’ve checked on you,” he murmurs. “when you didn’t come back.”

you shake your head. “you were asleep.”

“still.” he glances at you. “i don’t want you to feel like you have to handle it on your own.”

you swallow, voice coming thin. “i don’t want her to hate me.”

“she won’t.”

“you don’t know that.”

he exhales through his nose. “i know her. and i know you.”

your throat tightens again. you don’t say anything. don’t have to.

he bumps your shoulder with his. “we’ll figure it out. okay?”

you nod, keeping eyes on your glass. “okay.”

he lets a beat pass. then: “you look tired.”

you huff, half-smiling. “thanks.”

he grins. “still cute, though.”

you roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosens a little. just enough to breathe.

a few days pass, and things settle.

not perfectly—there’s still the ache of what’s unspoken, still a quiet hum of guilt in the background—but it’s lighter now. softer, easier to carry. you’d let out the worst of it.

the days belong to her.

afternoons spent sifting through old boxes in the garage, polaroids curling at the corners, homemade bracelets missing beads. walks to the corner store for slushies you’re too old for and potato chips you swear taste better than they used to. long talks sprawled across the living room carpet with the TV humming reruns in the background, her voice bouncing between excitement about finals and exasperation at her professors.

you laugh like nothing’s changed. you let her braid your hair while she rambles. you pretend not to notice the way her eyes linger a second too long sometimes, like she’s piecing something together but hasn’t found the edges yet.

the nights are his.

not every night. just the ones where the house feels too quiet, where you catch his eye across the room and something in your chest flickers.

you slip into his room with the door just barely cracked—old habit—and he doesn’t say anything. just shifts to make room, lifting the blanket wordlessly.

some nights you talk. about nothing. about everything. about the weird customer who refused to pay for his oil change until yoongi hand-signed the receipt in sharpie. about the new mix he’s working on, something moody and low and only half-finished.

some nights he kisses you slow. touches you slower. hands warm, familiar, a little greedy when you let them be.

but always, before the sky turns, you leave.

you slip out of his bed the way you slipped in. quiet, careful.

back down the hallway. back into her room.

you don’t need to set an alarm. your body just knows.

and every morning, when she yawns and stretches and groans about the day ahead, you’re there. blinking at the ceiling, pretending you didn’t just spend the last six hours wrapped up in her brother’s arms.

she never says anything. never looks at you funny.

but there’s something strange about the in-between and how you’re suspended in it. how it almost feels like nothing has to change, as long as you keep playing your parts.

sunlight. secrets. rinse, repeat.

and for now, you let it stay that way.

his room’s dim, the curtains pulled just enough to let in the glow from the streetlight outside. cassette deck humming in the corner, some slow beat looping under the sound of your breathing.

you’re curled into his side, one leg thrown over his, your hand tucked under his shirt, just resting on the warm skin of his stomach.

yoongi’s fingers trail along your spine, soft and absentminded, and you’re kissing—lazy and unhurried. the kind of kiss that doesn’t go anywhere because it doesn’t need to. his lips move against yours with that same quiet confidence he always has, just a little slower now. more certain. like he knows you’ll let him have you again. and again. and again.

you tilt your head, deepen it a little, sighing into his mouth.

he makes a low sound, pulling back barely an inch just to look at you.

“you’re getting real comfortable sneaking in here,” he says, voice rough from too much kissing and not enough air.

you smirk, fingers brushing along his ribs. “not like you mind.”

he hums, dragging his thumb along your jaw. “no. i don’t.”

you kiss him again. slower, this time, softer. your whole body relaxes against his, warm under the blanket, the clock ticking somewhere behind you.

you know the time. you always do. every minute spent here is another step closer to slipping back down the hall, crawling into her bed and pretending nothing’s changed.

but for now, he’s here. and you’re here. and his hand is on your hip, your lips are on his, and the world feels a little bit quieter when it’s just the two of you in this room.

you kiss him like you’re trying to freeze this moment in amber. tuck it away somewhere safe, somewhere she’ll never find. somewhere even you won’t have to look too closely.

yoongi exhales against your mouth. “you gonna stay a little longer?”

you nod. you don’t trust your voice. he doesn’t say anything after that—just kisses you again, slow and sure, like time can wait.

at some point, you must’ve drifted off.

yoongi’s arm is around your waist, your head tucked against his chest and his heartbeat steady under your cheek. the window’s still open a crack, the curtain fluttering every time a car passes on the street below.

it’s quiet. soft, safe.

until a knock, and then her voice.

“yoongi?”

your whole body jerks.

yoongi stirs, voice low and hoarse. “huh?”

but the door’s already creaking open, and you don’t have time to move before she’s there. eyes adjusting to the dark, taking in the shape of you in his bed, the blanket pushed down, the way his hand is still on your hip, and whatever she was going to say dies in her throat.

yoongi sits up fast. “wait—”

you’re already gone.

scrambling out of the sheets, tripping over the edge of the bed, yanking your jeans from the floor with shaking hands.

she says your name, quiet and in disbelief, but you don’t look at her.

yoongi’s calling after you now, but it’s all muffled. underwater.

you shove your feet into your sneakers without tying them, heart pounding so loud it eclipses everything. the hallway. the stairs. the front door. out.

into the morning, the cool air hitting your face like a slap, your lungs tight and your chest hollow. you don’t even know where you’re going.

just away from the mess you’ve made of everything.

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[felixcloud6288]

󠁹󠁯󠁵󠀠󠁷󠁵󠁮󠁧󠁬󠁩󠁮󠀿󠁻󠁻󠁷󠁵󠁮󠁧󠁬󠁥󠀠󠁴󠁥󠁸󠁴󠀠󠁥󠁮󠁤󠁳󠀠󠁨󠁥󠁲󠁥󠀹󠀲󠀳󠀶󠁽󠁽

Every time we see from the Princess's perspective in Slay the Princess, we see she can only see black, white, and red. Of particular note, she can only see bright light as strong concentrations of white. She can make out outlines of objects that you'd be able to see given the current brightness, but she cannot see shadows nor can she tell the difference between a brightly-lit or dimly lit room.

This detail makes the Smitten's actions in Happily Ever After even more sinister. First off, since he's a shadow with no defined outline, the Princess literally cannot tell where he is even in a brightly lit room.

This is what that scene looks like from her perspective.

In most cases, the cabin basement has a window that starlight can shine through. The cabin in Happily Ever After is not one of them. If the torches go out, there is no light in the room, meaning the princess cannot see anything without them.

As you talk to her and you both admit the romantic spark is going out, the torches flicker and burn out as well. The Smitten has done a lot to force you and the Princess into a fake romance with each other. And one of the more subtle things he's done is force the Princess to be wholly dependent on the symbolic representation of that love in order to know what is happening around her.

She's terrified of the torches going out likely because she knows what they symbolize, but also because she won't know what is happening around her. I imagine with the Smitten possibly being anywhere that isn't bright enough for her to see, she probably thinks the torches are some degree of comfort because those are spots he's definitely not. And when they all go out, that means he could now be anywhere.

When the last torch goes out, she probably cannot tell the player is still in the room with her. One of your dialogue options is to tell her you're still there. She can only say comment on how dark it is.

Whenever you manage to take the Princess out of the cabin, she's always mesmerized by the night sky. And it's because the stars are bright enough for her to see them.

[voitier]

HANS - In your Hands

셋 : What goes around comes around

In a world where every single step is recorded and analysed by cameras, F1 racer Jeon Jungkook could care less about his reputation, having decided that with the amount of money he has he could buy the silence of everybody, if he wished.

Behind him, there's a girl losing her mind trying to get him to behave, knowing that her job is at risk if she doesn't cover up his mess-ups in time.

What happens when one of the most influential and world recognised racers falls head over heels for his PR manager, who absolutely despises his "I've got it all" attitude and wants nothing more than to keep doing her job in peace?

WORDCOUNT: 2k7 words

WARNING: a tinge of angst, Tae being Tae and JK being JK, OC having none of their shit.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: heii...heii... how ya doing...? okay, I know, I know, I'm a piece of shit for having y'all wait all this time. I promise that I haven't done it on purpose, exams and writer's block kicked me in the ass. But! Chapter 3 is finally here, all's well, right? right? ok, for this chapter: it's weird. it's all over the place. we've got OC almost killing both Tae and JK. and honestly? can't blame her. Tae pushes boundaries while knowing what he's doing. JK does the same, but he's completely clueless. and she's tired, cause on one hand there's a man who means well but acts reckless, and on the other hand there's a man who's not aware at all of what he's doing. and then, there's Amanda. sweet, lovely Amanda. I won't say much about her, I want YOU to tell ME what you think about her (and her words). there's a lot of hinting to the past in this chapter, but I won't spoil too much. anyway, that's all. buckle up loves, cause the worse is yet to come.

“Do you mind explaining how the actual fuck you managed to stay underwater for a good five minutes without breathing?”

“I call it pussy power.”

“I call it practice. Did you pick up swimming lessons or something during these years?”

Taehyung shrugged, pushing his slick hair back with his hands. "Kinda. Do you remember Chaewon?"

"Your little cousin?"

Taehyung nodded, and you watched with a soft pang to your heart as the man you had known for years broke into a tender, loving expression, his eyes fixed on a random point underwater. His lips were stretched in a gentle reminiscing smile when he spoke again. "The little fucker insisted on betting on who could hold their breath for longer while underwater last summer and the summer before."

Right as you were about to coo fondly at the thought of Taehyung acting like a big brother, the man blurted out "I won every time, of course," with the most obvious tone ever used before.

Your expression froze for a couple seconds before dropping in time with your shoulders, your hand coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers. You sighed, shaking your head almost imperceptibly. "Taehyung... did you actually compete with a five years old little girl? Seriously?"

"Hey, don't look at me like that," a long slim finger pointed at you accusatory, threatening to poke your eyes if closer. "Life isn't fair and someone had to teach her before she could find out in worse ways. I would argue that I actually did her a favour."

"Tae... fuck, I can't believe you. Do me a favour and get out of here before Jungkook comes back, please and thank you."

"What? No, why should I?"

"Because he's gonna come back and think it's weird that we're both here?"

"Why would he? I swear, you've become so much more paranoid since—"

"Shut up."

A long silence stretched between you two, an apologetic look plastered on Taehyung's face. You hated it, hated noticing how his eyes turned pitiful almost immediately, how he looked at you like he was looking at a kid who had lost everything.

"Vel,” his next words were tentative, delivered while standing on tippy toes. “You need to accept it."

Being locked in a cage would probably feel less claustrophobic than staying in that pool any longer, physically free yet mentally restrained.

"Fuck," you muttered, climbing out of the pool in a rush. In a matter of seconds, you were wrapped in your pool towel and headed towards the elevator, marching away like a fury from the man yelling your name over and over again. 

The elevator button rattled weirdly as you continuously pushed it, impatiently waiting for the doors to open. As soon as they did you stormed inside, smashing the "3" button without even looking around to see if you were alone. Safe to say, you weren't. 

Shy fingers brushed over your shoulder, catching you unprepared. You jumped slightly, feeling your soul leaving your body for a second before recovering quickly. 

Big, round eyes were presented in front of you once you turned around, Jungkook’s expression merging concern and curiosity in a weird puppy-like stare, head tilted and all that. When he spoke, his voice was soft, gentle, almost resembling a lullaby.

"You alright?"

"Yeah..." you sighed, feeling your shoulders drop. You hadn't even noticed how tense your whole body was, almost in an attempt to contain the emotions swirling around. "Yeah. I'm alright. Oh, uh— shit, I haven’t even given you time to get off the elevator, I'm so sorry. Here, let me—" but right as you raised your hand to press the "1" button, Jungkook reached around you and swatted your hand away from the panel.

"No! No, it's fine, I was going to the pool just to be with you anyway."

Oh.

Oh. 

Weirdly… intimate, but ok. The man was probably sexually drained and romantically constipated, saying shit like that to run after anything that might resemble emotional connection before solitude got the best of him. Maybe you were just imagining things, maybe he had meant to say something else entirely but stuck with it cause he still had some difficulties with English every now and then. 

Anyway, it didn't matter. Not enough to overthink it, at least. 

Not for now.

“Oh. Is everything alright?”

“I can’t just want to be around you?”

“Seems weird.”

“Everything seems weird to you.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh uh.”

Jungkook snorted as your middle finger went flying in his face, bewilderment clear in his expression. “Okay, first of all, rude,” his hand wrapped around your wrist, pushing your hand down. Your mind immediately catalogued the prominent scratch of his calloused flesh against your own, and you made a mental note to have moisturising cream delivered to his room.

Maybe you could even wring out a sponsorship from one of those expensive cream brands since they were already up and about in his comments under each. Single. Video. 

Wouldn’t hurt to kill two birds with one stone, right?

“Second of all,” he continued, moving his towel from his right shoulder to his left, “I figured I haven’t annoyed you enough lately with the GPs and all that stuff. Gotta compensate for my lack of action.”

“Lack of… Jungkook. You hooked up with a random woman in the garage’s bathroom two minutes before you had to jump in the car. Fucking Netflix was all over the place with their cameras and microphones, I had to kidnap that poor woman to make sure they wouldn’t see her. Trust me, you’ve been annoying me more than enough lately.”

The doors of the elevator opened, a quiet ding echoing in the ridiculously large and luxurious looking machine.

Jungkook let you step out first, then followed you right after – it wasn’t something new, he definitely had a habit of walking just a couple steps back from you. He once claimed that he did it because his legs were longer and his steps wider, but you never missed an opportunity to tease him about being your shadow. Except for now, because his confused face only gave you the need to strangle him with your own hands.

“What are you– ooh!” he exclaimed, a lightbulb appearing on top of his empty head. “Isabella?”

You stopped right in your tracks in the middle of the hallway, giving him no time to stop as he lightly bumped into you. “Isabella? Are you fucking serious, Jungkook? You don’t even know her name!”

Throwing your hands up in the air, you stomped away — yes, Jungkook was normally annoying. Yes, he had a lot of casual hookups, just like you. And yes, since you took up the role of PR manager your whole thing was to try and brush away countless scandals he was doomed to be the protagonist of because of his reckless behaviour. But not even knowing the name of the woman he almost risked his career for? That was a new low even for him. 

“Wait– Y/N! I don’t understand why you’re acting like this.”

“Of course you don’t!” jamming the code to access your room you stepped in your room, not even bothering to close your door. You knew he would have pushed anyway inside. “You don’t get to treat that woman like some sort of… object just to empty yourself. Buy yourself a fucking fleshlight at this point, it would be way more respectful!”

Heading towards the suitcase lying open on the ground, you crouched down to pick up a new spare of clean clothes. Jungkook stood behind you, leaning on the wall right beside your bed, arms crossed, an unimpressed expression printed on his face. “All of this just because I don’t remember her name?”

“Jungkook—” your breath hitched, and you had to physically restrain yourself to not jump up and claw at his face. “I swear to god I’m gonna kill you one day. Let’s use our brain for once, yeah?” Babying him. Yes, that was definitely the right move. “What’s the first thing you know of a person when you meet them? Their name. You still don’t know them, but now you have that single element that allows them to exist in your dimension. You’ve got a name, and memories attached to it, and virtues, and wrongdoings and lessons and a whole fucking life. Everything’s chained to your name. There’s a reason why parents are asked to name their children as soon as they’re born. So yes, excuse me if I put some weight over this whole ordeal, but it is an issue and I’m not gonna allow you to disrespect that woman just because you’re Jeon Jungkook, racer of the century. Not gonna happen.”

You watched Jungkook’s expression slowly fall , his gaze lowering in shame. He wasn’t stupid,  he was actually insanely good at putting himself in other people’ shoes when talked to, but sometimes you wished you didn’t have to explain to him the basics of human decency.

“Now go, please. I have to shower.”

Nodding, he turned towards the door, head low and shoulders slumped. You couldn’t see him in the face, but you were sure he was pouting. 

“Oh and, Jungkook?” you called one last time, letting your tired body lean on the wall right where he was a couple of minutes before. 

He turned around, his eyes sparking with a hopeful light. He couldn’t handle being scolded by you. “Yes?”

“Her name’s Isadora.”

“How’s the shoulder doing?”

“Been worse, but my neck hurts like hell.”

Amanda hummed in understanding, pumping body oil in her hands. You sighed into your pillow, burying your nose into the freshly washed sheets, still warm and clean-scented. Gotta love the McLaren team and luxury hotels.

“Take off your shirt, sweetheart.”

Amanda’s kind voice guided you through the motions you had done numerous times before, from the moment she told you to lay face-down on your bed to the moment her hands were on your back, pressing all the spots that felt a little too tight for her liking. 

“So, how’s work going?” she asked, hands pressing a spot right under your shoulder that made you wince in pain. Amanda muttered something along the lines of “sorry love, part of the routine” and waited for your answer.

“It’s going,” you sighed, biting back a groan as Amanda’s hands worked around your back like their whole purpose was to draw out insanely sinful sounds out of your mouth that would probably make people press their ears to your door just to know what was going on.

She hummed in understanding, then continued: “What about Taehyung? Still trying to hit on you like the old times?”

You, Amanda and Taehyung used to be friends in college. Or, well, Amanda and Taehyung could be better described as acquaintances instead of friends, they acknowledged each other’s existence when together, but not enough to become close friends or anything similar on that list. 

Anyway, Amanda knew about you and Taehyung. She didn’t approve of your friends with benefits dynamics, but she also knew that she could say very little in regards since it wasn’t her life she was judging. She was respectful even when in disapproval, and you appreciated it wholeheartedly. 

It was a friendship based on mutual respect and understanding even when the differences between you two were more than the things you had in common. At 20, it was clear that the two of you had lived completely different lives: Amanda came from an upper-middle class family that was definitely too religious for your own liking, and she started college while already being in a committed five years old relationship. So it didn’t come as a surprise to you when she first admitted that she didn’t approve of your arrangements with Taehyung, seeing as not only she came from a strict religious upbringing, but she also spent most of her teenage and young adult years side by side with her boyfriend. You, on the other hand, came from a family whose wealth was inherited from past generations, with family structures that weren’t too strict like Amanda’s, and with a spiritual upbringing almost inexistent. Casual sex wasn’t a taboo to you, much less to Taehyung. 

You sighed, closing your eyes as memories of the college years flooded your mind. “I wouldn’t say he’s hitting on me, but he’s definitely trying to go back to those old times, yeah.”

“So he is hitting on you.”

You grumbled, knowing that no matter what you said, she wouldn’t accept that Taehyung wasn’t interested in you like that. Amanda had always had this weird idea that your friend was trying to get to your heart through sex like the hopeless romantic she was, and in all those years she never let go of it. 

She didn’t press further, opting to change topic. “I heard another luxury hotel is waiting for us in Monaco.”

“Oh I fucking hope so, I’ve never slept better.”

Amanda chuckled, leaving your side just for a second as she gathered a clean cloth and some sort of cream that she squeezed on top of your shoulder. “You need to take better care of yourself, love. We can’t keep doing this every time.”

“I know, Am, I know.” 

You peeked behind you, catching a glimpse of her stomach right below her top. A nasty violet bruise had formed next to her belly button, and you could clearly see where the needle had poked her skin. You reached your fingers towards her body, softly stroking the bruised area.

“Still committed to those IVF shots?”

Amanda looked down, a frown taking place on her face. “Jesus, I don’t remember having this dark of a bruise this morning. I swear I don’t even remember what it’s like to have normal, not bruised skin anymore.” She brushed her hand on her stomach carelessly, almost like she was brushing away dust, then went back to work on your body. “Me and Leo are trying. It’s not an easy thing to accept, but you know how keen on having kids we were already back in college. I guess it’s worth giving it a shot, right?”

You turned around fully, throwing her way a look that screamed “really?” before she replied with “No puns intended, by the way.”

Chuckling, you laid back on the bed, letting Amanda finish her job in peace. A soft buzz from your left brought your attention to your phone, the screen lighting up with two notifications. 

Jeon Bun

- I’m sorry for today :(

- Can we talk about it?

You sighed, stomach clenching in guilt as you read his messages again. Jungkook was never one to text first. No, screw that, he wasn’t the one to apologise first. And for him to reach out first and apologise? Topping it all with a sad face? Oh, Jungkook was feeling like shit, that’s for sure. 

You 

- Sorry bun, I’m with the physio

- Talk to you later?

Jeon Bun

- :( 

“Fuck,” you whispered before throwing your phone to the side, looking back to ask a clearly interested Amanda “How much longer, Am?”

“I can make it shorter if you tell me how you ended up being the love interest in a love triangle.”

“A… what?”

“Taehyung and Jungkook? The Jeon Jungkook? There’s too much you’re hiding from me, love.”

“You can’t be serious,” you laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. What was Am even saying? You? A love triangle? With two of the most irritating men you had ever met? Yeah no, hard pass. You couldn’t even remember the last time you were romantically interested in someone, let alone being interested in a douche bag who had been knowing you for years and another douche bag whose body count was higher than his age. 

Absolutely not, thank you very much.

“Am you need to hang out more in the garage with us and see what happens in there. I can guarantee you, there’s no love triangle in my—”

The door busted open, Taehyung marching inside with a smug look on his face. “You would never guess how I got the code to— oh, hi Amanda!”

Your eyes darted between Taehyung and Amanda, then back again. 

Fuck. 

Your life had to be a social experiment, right?

“Oh, hi Taehyung! Long time no see.” Amanda slowly turned to you, her eyebrow raised in what was the most judgemental look you had ever seen her wear, her lips curled in a smirk. “You were saying, love?”

© voitier 2025

series masterpost here

[isaythingz]

Edit: Clarity

So, to summarize my blazing hot take without naming actual disorders, I believe the Salamancas are more capable of empathy, emotional intelligence, and connection with others than Gustavo Fring. I would go so far as to say that if not for their damaging childhoods (looking at YOU, Hector), the Salamancas might have been fully functional members of a law-abiding society.

Seeing how sweet Abuelita is helps a lot with my theory. If she’s related to them by blood, they could have affective empathy that Hector forced them all to shove down from early childhood.

Speaking of children, we can infer that Gus had a better childhood than the Salamancas. We don’t have anything to indicate him being abused like Leonel and Marco. Despite this, Gus tormented animals like the Coati. Who was teaching Gus about cruelty? Gus is also much better at cold calculation, remorseless murder (Victor), and stoicism than they ever were. Bonus points for Gus triggering “this is a threat” instincts in many major characters, Hector and Lalo included. This type of behavior is consistent and so early on, even before losing Max…that combined with what we know about his role in the Pinochet Regime, I don’t see enough environmental or abusive instances that would artificially push Gus in that direction. He could have a genetic predisposition that makes him struggle more with connection but makes it easier for him to act in these ways. That doesn’t mean he’s fully emotionless. He may just have an advantage at shutting it down.

Lalo was my guinea-pig the last couple of posts. He seems to be the most capable of compassion. It sounds crazy at first. And yet, his relationships with friends and family, his avoidance of killing unless it’s necessary on a time crunch, or moments where he puts his family above himself are huge tells for me. That doesn’t mean he’s a saint. He’s still fucked up. But writing him off as fully void of empathy or deeper connections doesn’t sit well with me.

I know people use Fred and Hotel Tulipan as moments where Lalo is showing sadism or a lack of care for anything living, but I think we’re talking about one instance of logic and a moment in Lalo’s youth that can very well pass as abuse. Also note, he never mentions hurting the professor or his wife. We don’t know if he did anything at all. The worst thing he could have done was watch it all and go back for the bell because it reminds him of Tío.

I always think: “Imagine what his life could have been had he not been abused by good old Tío (which could have happened even around Hector’s incarceration due to the lack of a definite timeline),” they may even be capable of breaking the cycle of abuse if they ever wanted to try. While both Fring and the Salamancas are presently evil, Fring comes across as “nature” while Lalo and Co. show “nurture.”

Of course either way, it’s not an excuse of their canon actions. Me just spitballing. 🤪

[shygirl4991]

Six Splits For Four Chap 4 Bonding

All art is done by @b-r-i-n-g-x be sure to check out her other stuff! Please do not repost art!

Next Chapter Last chapter

Tags: Action/Adventure, Romance, fluff, angst with a happy ending!, blood, character death, injury, SMG34 is canon, split au

Parent walks in and lets out a sigh of relief as he looks over the other personality, his eyes locked on to Delinquent who rolls his eyes and walks away from the group. He frowns before forcing a smile for the rest of the group “Alright guys, we should make a plan on how we should spend time with our original!” Artist hums as he takes out a sketch book “Oh I have a plan, but I’m going to need several hours. Side note, Parent, do you have any hobbies other than being the team dad?” The personality gives the man a confused expression before he attempts to answer only to get interrupted by Ringmaster and Prince. With a twirl of his cane Ringmaster smirks at Artist “Well as you know I’m all about the showmanship, so whatever you draw for me better show off how much of a star I truly am to this team!” Artist stares at Ringmaster unamused “I will make sure to draw you in the trash like the talent you have.” 

Ringmaster's cocky smile drops as he glares at Artist, and in a flash the two start to bicker about who is truly the most important personality in the group. Parent sighs as he turns towards Prince and Producer “Anyone else wants to take this shift?” Producer shakes his head as he steps back “Memes no what if i do something wrong and they hate me, or worse!” Prince gently pats Producers back "Nonsense! No one can hate you my anxious half!”  Delinquent growls getting annoyed from the fighting walks over smacking the pair with his notebook “I would love if you two shut the fuck up!” Ringmaster and Artist both pout from the hit as Parent gives a thankful smile to Delinquent “To be clear I didn't do this for you, I did this so I can write in my journal without a headache.” 

Delinquent leaves going into Four’s bedroom, with him gone Ringmaster pulls Prince off to the side making a list of demands for Artist. The painter sighs at the sight, Producer gives a small anxious smile to the purple personality. “Um…what are you planning?”  Artist smirks as he tosses his pencil up in the air then catches it “The second floor is empty space, I don't see us leaving any time soon so I say lets make it ours!” Parent nods, thinking over his words “You have a point, it would be a good idea for us to have somewhere to stay, while I don't mind sleeping in the guest room, it's not enough space.” Artist hums as he waves his sketch book “So tell me, what would you like and I will draw the design!” The front door opens catching Parents attention, seeing SMG4 he walks away from Producer and Artist “Hey original, you look…drain are you okay?” Four looks at Parent then at the other splits in the room, even with Three’s comforting words this whole ordeal was a lot to swallow. He rubs his head wondering how he can fix this mess, as he scans the room he notices one of them missing “Where's Delinquent?” Parent frowns at his question being ignored as he points to the bedroom, without another word Four walks towards his bedroom. He opens the door to see Delinquent writing in a journal “Hey…mind if I borrow this room, I need to..process everything before Three comes back.” 

Delinquent stops writing, slowly he turns, his orange eyes devoid of any spark compared to the other personalities looking right at him. He stands making his way to the door “Three wont fix this mess for you, for once you need to take responsibility and fix something on your own.” Without another word he leaves the room, as the door shut Four collapse. On his knees he starts to cry, Delinquents words echoing in his head. Has he become overly dependent on his friends? He thinks back on all their adventures, how Saiko helped them out with the T pose zombies to reach waluigi. Tair even helped him with her powered up control to help stop Waluigi, not to mention his brother coming in at the last minute showing the taller brother that he is important. Boopkins and Waluigi helped out with Bob when the rapper became too cocky, Meggy and Axol helped deal with Francis even though they ended up losing someone on that journey. Four hits the floor, he couldn't even use his powers without holding his boyfriend’s hand. He has seen how Three has grown with their power, he was able to use his meme magic without a second thought. 

What good does he bring to the group, he made Three into a villain thanks to his ego. He was too weak and slow to save Desti, someone that didn't deserve that fate. He feared Saiko when she first showed up only for her to be saved by Luigi, the more he thought on things he truly wondered what was his worth in the group.  “I..I almost killed them all just…for the perfect video.” Anxiety started to take over as he felt Producer’s energy filling his body, he coughs struggling to breathe. Three walks into the castle seeing Producer on the floor panicking, Parent was comforting him while Prince was running over with blankets. Artist was attempting to help relax the personality by doing breathing exercises, Ringmaster knocked on the door to Four’s room. Seeing the chaos, Three pushes Ringmaster aside before he charges the door down “FOUR?!” There on the floor he saw his boyfriend crying, struggling to breathe.  Three gently grabs the man, the moment he touched Four their meme energy clashed shocking Three “The fuck?” seeing he couldn't touch Four with his bare hands he runs to the bed grabbing the blanket on it. In one swift movement he wraps his boyfriend up, holding him close “Four I need you to focus on my voice, just listen to me okay?” 

Ringmaster looks in the room concerned before he turns to check on Producer, seeing Parent smile softly as Producer starts to breathe normally. Ringmaster let out a breath of relief seeing things were getting better, he closed the door to leave the couple alone. Slowly he walks over to the others “He…our original is struggling to accept this.” Artist frowns as he looks at the door. “This is a lot, I mean isn't it normal to panic when you have different versions of yourself show up.” They all stay silent as Producer relaxes, to lighten up the mood Artist stands up with a bright smile “Guys! I just sparked an idea and have to say it's going to be quite electric!” Ringmaster face palms at the pun as Artist shows off his sketch, the group all agree excitedly except Delinquent. He sighs seeing the group excited to pull off Artist idea, Delinquent walks over to them looking at the sketch “Please, something like this isn't going to make him accept us. Try all you want but Four wont change.” Parent gently pulls away from Producer “D what is your issue? We are trying to connect to our original, yet so far you're just being a grump!” Delinquent waves his hand “That's cause you all are blinding yourself, I’m just being real.” Producer grabs onto Delinquent's sleeve making the man look down, looking at Producer made Delinquent feel bad for how exhausted the personality looked, he pulled his sleeve away walking to the kitchen. Ringmaster scoffs as he pats Parents back "Don't worry about him, you have me around after all. With me around we will make this story have a happy ending, after all I'm a charming main character who doesn't love that!” 

Producer slowly gets up feeling better “Thanks everyone…I hope our original feels better too.” Artist nods, giving him a hug “Of course! Dont worry about our original, with our boyfriend there im sure Three will bring him the comfort he needs!” Producer smiles at Artist as the personality walks away to start planning the surprise for Four along with planning the group's rooms. Seeing that the others weren't paying attention to him , Producer slowly walks over to the kitchen. He peeks in to see Delinquent pouring something into a cup "Didn't take you as someone that snoops around Producer.” He jumps in surprise, slowly he walks into the room closing the door behind him. He starts to play with his sleeve nervous on what Delinquent was going to say, only to have a cup shoved into his hands “Here, now can you all leave me alone. Also you guys better clean up those blankets on the floor, or at least place them where Three can slip on them.” Producer looks at the cup for a moment, the smell of chocolate hitting his nose. He sips the drink and smiles “Hot chocolate…you were worried too.”

------------------------------

SMG4 opens his eyes to see he is laying in bed, slowly he gets up confused on what happened to him. He looked around the room, it was pitch dark making the meme guardian squint slightly. With a sigh he gets up hoping that the others didn't make too much of a mess in the castle, as he leaves his room he notices something was wrong. The entire castle was silent making the man uneasy, knowing that there were six other versions of him there was no way the castle could be so silent. He walks to the kitchen, opening the door he looks around hoping to find anyone yet there was no soul in sight. He gets ready to head to the next room when he pauses in front of the kitchen door, he starts to hear music start playing. The jingle felt familiar, it sent chills down his spine, with shaky hands he grabbed the knob of the door. Opening the door he sees a TV in the middle of the lobby, he steps out of the room as he walks closer to the TV. The screen turns off causing Four to take a step back, then static fills the room as words appear in the static. “Can you face yourself?” 

Four tilts his head before hearing the doors around him open, he looks around to see his personality walk out of the room.  They all smile at him as they reach out to him, he panics trying to escape only to feel the ones behind him wrap their arms around him. Now with them closer he could see the personalities being controlled by chains around them, their eyes filled with colored static as they held him down “WHAT ARE YOU GUYS DOING!?” Ringmaster chuckles as he leans close to Four’s face “Do you even know who you are? Are you even the main character anymore?” Four attempts to pull away till Producer grabs his leg “We need to be perfect…there is only one way to do it.” Artist pulls Four close as his eyes begin to glow. “Discord will be your end unless you can accept the truth!” 

The jingle gets louder making it harder for the man to think as the personalities push and pull at him. His tears threaten to escape as their words start to hit him “I DONT KNOW WHO I AM!” With those words Four opens his eyes, he sits up in a panic almost smacking Three “Whoa you okay? Where's the fire?” Four turns seeing the concern on Three’s face, without a second thought he hugs the man shaking. Hearing the scream the personalities run to the room, Three turns to see them watching with concern. Three smiles softly at them “Four had a nightmare, he is looking for comfort right now.” Before he knew it each of the personalities drop down to join in the hug, Four looks around seeing the soft smiles of his other sides. He pauses when he sees Producer giving him the brightest smile out of the group, seeing the smile made Four chuckle as he enjoys the comfort. Delinquent watches from afar disgusted by the affection, he was also angry with himself feeling concern for his original. His eyes soften for a moment seeing Four smiling with the others, he shakes his head to clear his mind “Mind getting over this pity party, it's gross and distracting.” 

Three gently pulls himself free from the hug pile glaring at Delinquent “What is your problem, this is your original!” Delinquent claps as he walks up to Three “Congrats you know shit, that doesn't change that treating him like a baby isn't going to help anyone.” Three takes a deep breath attempting to relax “Listen, we're not doing that we-” Delinquent turns away from the conversation writing in his journal  “Getting his trust so you can back stab him again? Doing a good job there boyfriend.”  Three was starting to lose his cool with Delinquent, as he got ready to fight with the personality he felt a gentle hand pull him back. Prince stares sternly at Delinquent “You have upset our maiden, apologize." Delinquent blankly stares at Prince “What? I didnt do shit, if he is that soft then maybe he shouldn't have made a comment!” Prince keeps his stare until Delinquent sighs “Whatever.” Prince turns, giving a soft smile to Three, at that moment Three felt his heart race at the smile. Sure all the personalities looked like Four, yet for some reason at this moment Prince felt more like Four in this moment compared to their first meeting. Three smirks at Prince “Thanks for that, you know you're quite the storybook romeo~”  Prince blushes as he rubs the back of his neck “Oh uh hehe I don't know what to say.” Delinquent crosses his arms at the display “I do, gross.” 

Three sighs as he looks back at Delinquent “Look being at each other's necks wont fix anything, so how about we just take it easy today and get to know each other.” Prince turns to Delinquent, worried about the reply the man will give, with a scoff he starts to walk away before SMG4 calls out to him “Delinquent! I’m sorry for how I have been acting…you're right about me. I promise I will fix this, so please give me a chance?” The room was quiet, Delinquent pulled up his hood hiding his face from the group. He then started walking to the entrance of the castle, seeing this Prince reaches out to him “Wait!” Delinquent eyes glowed as he snarls at Prince “LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!” Prince stops moving, staring at him surprised, Four frowns as he watches his personality leave the castle. Four turns to look at the group behind him, then at his boyfriend who gives him a thumbs up. Four nods “Everyone I meant what i said, tomorrow I will take my time to get to know each of you. If Three found a way to fix everything then I'm sure together we can figure it out!” Artist claps in excitement “Speaking of tomorrow I have a fun idea for the second floor.” Four looks at man curious, Three smiles seeing Four awkwardly interacting with his other selves. He gently touches the pins on his overalls, as he touches the heart pin a memory comes to him. He leaves the castle to head straight to his cafe, he starts to dig through the piles of items Heart bought. He swears that one shopping trip was enough to fill his back room with random gifts for Four, as he digs through the items he lets out a squeal of joy finding what he was looking for.

Three grabs the box double checking the contents in it “thanks Heart, never thought even now you would be my little helper.” He runs back to the castle missing a shadow watching him from a distance, as he enters the castle the shadow sneaks into his cafe. Three nervously looks around, his eyes find his target talking with Parent. He slowly walks up to the pair “Hey Blue! Get over here, got something for ya scrub.” Parent takes his leave as Four smiles at Three “Glad to see you back, I thought you left to open up though I guess it's pretty late now to do that.” Three shakes his head as he holds the box in his hand tight, with his eyes shut he shoves the box into Four’s chest. Four’s eyes go wide as he lets out a soft cough from the shove, he takes the box opening it. He gasps as he sees in the box were a pair of gloves with a glitching number four on them, his eyes water as he changes gloves. A bright light flashes catching the personalities attention, they all gasp showing off their new logos on their gloves. Delinquent walks back into the castle at that moment noticing his gloves, his eyes go wide as he removes his gloves, shoving them into his pocket. He looks at the group excitedly showing off their gloves making the man sick, as he makes his way to another room someone grabs him. He was ready to fight until he saw it was Producer “Want…to see my glove?” Delinquent looks at the man's gloves finding amusement that it was a director's snap bored with the number four on it, he gives the personality a small smile “I don't have anything to show you…but cool gloves i guess.” 

With that he leaves not seeing the huge smile on Producer’s face, Three looks around seeing all the personalities gloves change “Huh guess I got all of yo-” Four wraps his arms around Three, the look in Four’s eyes told Three everything. Romance has taken over, in fact at that moment he also felt his heart take over as he leans in meeting Four in the middle. As their lips met the pair felt as if they were floating. Anything bad that has happened in the day vanished, at this moment what mattered was each other. 

Mario and Meggy open the door with wide eyes as five different looking Four’s turn to look at them, Meggy blinks pointing at them all in confusion. Mario on the other hand was distracted with something more important as he took out his cell phone, with a chuckle he took a picture of the couple kissing. The pair pull apart glaring at the plumber “MARIO YOU ASS!” The two start chasing Mario as Meggy tries to wrap her head about what is going on. Parent nervously looked at the others “I feel this day is only going to be longer…” 

[fokron]

Hi, as per our replies... some details/things that someone who has chronic tendon/muscle/joint pain + fatigue would love to see depicted in fanfiction!!

Paradoxspaceheater, feel free to use or not use any of these and pls no pressure to reply in a huge way bc i accidentally wrote um. a lot.

For others reading, what I've written below is directed at a specific char (Maia Drazhar <3) but alot of these notes could be used for any character that experiences issues such as these!

First, context of my own issues bc everything i say after this is in reference to my lived experience with those issues.

I was relatively good health until age 16 where I had my first hand surgery, now I'm 24 and have had 7 of my fingers operated on for trigger finger and both my wrists for carpal tunnel (5 surgeries total). I still have semi-chronic pain/fatigue issues even in the places i've had surgery + hypermobility in my knees and elbows + neck issues that could be related but idk + mild case of raynaud's syndrome. Doctors have never been able to tell me distinctly what's wrong with me other than my tendons are just way shittier than they should be for someone of my age and activity.

I'm going to structure this as general tips and leave more maia specific ideas at the very end :-)! But a quick maia thing to get the ball rolling.

First I'm going to bring up this lovely fanfiction by ao3 user seekeronthepath (https://archiveofourown.org/works/63247609) That gives Maia a condition resulting in swollen joints in his hands/discomfort and pain bc of it that is exacerbated by the rings he is obligated by his position to wear.

a quote from the fic is below.

Nemer frowned, kneeling to ease off His Serenity’s boots. “You believe it is a result of the cold, Serenity?” he prompted. His Serenity folded his hands in his lap, hiding them from view. “Such aches have always passed in warmer weather.”

COLD TEMPS make Everything Worse, especially tendon/joint issues for me. so I loved this detail. My symptoms are generally worse in winter, but even in a colder room, being stiff and irritated is not fun

Sudden changes in weather (especially rain) can also make aches and pains worse

Cold temps can also increase risk of straining, tearing, or otherwise injuring urself further if u just move wrong on accident. cold tendons are stiff and not as willing to stretch. stretching while cold is one of the worst things u can do.

in the reverse WARM TEMPS ARE MY FRIEND. I have a heating pad on my desk always, i could not operate without it. If I'm in a cold place I may try to heat my hands on my skin of my stomach or forearms or somewhere bc they won't be able to warm up themselves. warmth eases pain.

The way Maia's edocharei find a way to ease his pain/symptoms in this fic is through wearing decorated lacey gloves instead of rings which i LOVE for SO many reasons.

Gloves can provide a degree of compression which eases pain, while also warmth, increasing blood flow and easing pain in that way

COMPRESSION GLOVES are a thing because of this, I generally see them advertised for ppl with arthritis but anyone with arthritis adjacent symptoms would probably be helped by them. I used to wear them all the time, but now I prefer just regular fingerless gloves bc compression gloves can irritate me if I wear them for too many hours

Even in the summer I always carry gloves on me bc places blasting their AC can irritate or exacerbate aches in my hands

On the topic of compression gloves, let's get into

Pain Management and Ergonomics

Much of my day to day life involves pain management, it has to or i wouldn't be able to get anything done. This involves having to plan specifically when I eat, bathe, when i do certain activities that are hand-strenuous, and baking in rest-time and arranging these events so i can get the most out of my hands bfr they crap out on me.

This gets inconvenient and frustrating, especially if I know i want to do A, but i can't do it until i do X, Y, Z, because i will NOT be able to do X, Y, Z, at all if i do A first, and then may not even have energy for A after doing X,Y,Z. <--- seeing a character who has to have a more planning mindset because of this would be rlly cool.

I generally dislike surprise hangouts and unanticipated events bc i can't plan around them/interrupt my plans. If i don't know how long An Event will take it will make me anxious.

There are things I like doing (hobbies) that i KNOW will put me in (a manageable amount of) pain and there's nothing i can do about it--sometimes this is worth it and sometimes its not. Participating in most activities is generally a question of: okay based on my current pain level how willing am I to make that worse and by how much.

ERGONOMICS AND PHYSICAL AIDS

part of pain management is restructuring your life and habits to try to minimize pain. some of this i've done unconsciously over the years and others on purpose.

pencil/utensil grips!!

things with thicker handles are easier to hold and cause you to make less small-hand motions which is less stressful on the hands. they can also offer some grip stability for people with fine motor control issues.

There's a bunch of different styles of these, but i prefer just wrapping ace bandages around stuff bc I can adjust it as needed.

I also prefer thicker, and weighted metal utensils for the same reason. Very thin, flat, forks/spoons etc are rlly hard for me to use.

People with hypermobility in their hands can be helped with ring-splints + wrist splints. They help for stability and lessening dislocation issues or pain from overextension (and also look super cool) but I don't use these and don't know much more details on them bc i don't have those specific issues.

Other various things I do to minimize my hand pain which could be good minor details in a fanficiton

if i can I open doors and close them with my feet, forearms, or back

I still put on pants in a way that doesn't use my thumbs because my thumbs get irritated easiest.

managed to shift most of my stimming to legs/feets instead of hands to avoid moving them.

if im cooking or in the kitchen doing smth, will often just take a break to run my hands under hot faucet water for a while.

at this point im basically ambidextrous out of necessity (that's what five hand surgeries will do to a motherfucker)

General tropes or things I would love to see in fanfiction/characters deal with relating to all of this:

being in constant pain gets really boring really fast. Especially if it is a flareup preventing me from my hobbies/safetly leaving the house for an extended period. I can only read/watch so many things bfr I start getting stir crazy. In these moments, company really helps. I love to see a character's loved ones still hanging out with them even if the disabled character is maybe too low energy to do alot for conversation and such, I find it rlly sweet. Bonus points if the disabled characters feels a bit guilty for it bc lets be honest i often do (the classic 'am i a burden' agonies).

Pain medication not working as desired. ive never been able to find an over the counter pain med that does anything significant for specifically my hand issues--this is very frustration and saddening and i'd love to see a character get inflicted with a similar issue LOL

No one knows what distinctly is wrong with you. This is very targeted at my own experience, but doctor incompetency is real and knowing SOMETHING is wrong with you but no one can tell you WHAT so you don't even have a proper excuse for it when ur symptoms flare up other then I'm Just Like This Sorry is so frustrating and awful and a bit scary bc ur always like what if im just lying what if im normal but u know ur not.

Fear of being a burden/getting worse: kind of classic feel like this goes without saying. Even with ppl I know love me there's always the fear of if i get x amount of worse will that be Too Much. I vastly prefer this kind of trope when character B doesn't say "oooh ur never a burden!! ur always okay all the time!!" and rather smth adjacent to "everyone's a burden sometimes but I love you and I want to carry it". However I am speaking as someone who's condition isn't progressive (to my knowledge) not sure how someone with a progressive condition would feel on this.

Invasive and pointless medical tests. Okay even tests that don't find smth can be good bc it atleast shows a negative of finding something... but the amount of invasive and painful tests ive gotten that amounted to nothing is infuriating and I love putting blorbos through shit like this. BONUS POINTS if a loved one comforts them afterwards.

Character B offering to do a task they know is difficult for character A. I think some disabled folks will have mixed opinions on this, and potentially find this scenario patronizing/infantalizing depending on the specifics of it. Because my disability is invisible (not physically apparent) and even my friends/family forget sometimes unless im in a flareup, I feel very loved and appreciated when they offer to do things that are difficult for me unprompted now and then. But the key here is offer.

Semi-accidentally causing your own flare-up. Sometimes you get over eager and think you can handle something and then you can't and then it causes a flareup. This sucks and is frustrating and i'd love to inflict this onto a blorbo, especially ones that are already inclined to a bit of self-hatred <3 (COUGH maia COUGH)

being in pain all the time pisses you off yes this is a no duh moment but, i just cannot emphasize enough how me going through daily tasks during flareup, every minute motion can cause pain---i try to distract myself as much as i can but so much of my thoughts are just ow ow ow ow which is annoying. sometimes just sitting there doing nothing ur still in pain. Bonus points if character A accidentally snaps at character B and bonus bonus points if char A feels terrible about it.

Not knowing that an activity isn't supposed to hurt. I havent had these issues from a super young age so this doesnt apply to me, but ppls who have only known their life with their condition may not realize that certain activities AREN'T supposed to hurt. This can lead to them thinking theyre just being a baby about things/not thinking they have issues/not seeking help etc etc, a very good avenue of angst -> hurt/comfort

Maia specific ideas that would be cool

I feel like it's mentioned lots in the book (tho i dont feel like hunting down quotes rn) how cold as balls the alcethmeret / maia's bedroom is (along with another building?? I'm blanking on or getting mixed up with). so like maia just feeling worse in these locations and such and eventually his peoples notice (probably nohecharei or csevet first)

again maia not liking his rings bc they irritate his hands would LOVE to see more of this <3 <3 <3 + the lacey gloves/some kind of glove action.

restructuring of Maia's desk/work areas to be more ergonomic and hurt his hands less. writing at an upward inclined angle is bad for hands, not having elbow wrests can be killer, and shrimp posture is no good for anyone. also aforementiioned thickening of utensil grips id loooove to see. Both for his writing utensils and eating utensils!!

^^^ on that note, when my hands hurt (not even in flareup, just regular hurtingness) i massage them alot even without knowing it. could EASILY see csevet and maia going thru a bunch of missives and maia not noticing as he massages his hands more and more and then csevet noticing etc.

on that note (also). food. when im in a flareup, anything i have to cut WHILE EATING (steak, some vegetables, etc) sucks so bad... i like soups alot bc theyre easy. Maia getting his things pre-cut or getting foods easier for him to eat (like soup) while in a flareup would be sweet. (or cala or beshelar offering to cut his food, hi). I could also just see maia like.... eating less bc it's difficult (before everyone knows abt his issues) and eventually ppl noticing bc of that.

Maia seeking warmth to soothe his hands or other aching joint/tendons etc. TGE universe doesn't have electric heating pads (probably?) but he likes tea and holding warm tea mugs can ease things. hiding hands in sleeves and warming hands on underarm skin also works, can;t remember if Maia ever wears drapey sleeves or sleeves loose enough that he could do this and make it look normal. alternatively his wardrobe could be altered to include more of this for that reason.

one of my favorite au concepts is one where maia has chronic health issues that occasionally cause him to be so sick he can barely move (and cause severe fatigue and join pain the rest of the time)

growing up in very poor health, with his mother doing her best to help him with what limited care she could provide even as she succumbed to her own illness (makes him anxious about being a burden to others) and then after her death being treated as though he is faking his health issues in order to be lazy, and denied care or even punished for needing it (makes him afraid to admit to needing help)

when he arrives at court, along with the rumors of madness, there are rumors that he is an invalid, that he is physically and mentally incapable, and so he tries to hide his symptoms, to push through and show a brave face and never ask for help... and of course that only causes more pain and problems for him later, since he can only run on reserve for so long

...culminating in a very nasty flare up where he is stuck in bed and forced to confront both his limitations and the care he now receives from his household

[lollytea]

Idk how long this chapter is gonna be but I've got 20k words of it not only written but revised and thrown in the ao3 draft. If that means anything

[lucabyte]

even dogs pass the mirror test

[headfullof-ideas]

Some bored doodles I did while…well, bored, at work. The first one is me trying to draw them from memory, and then the second is with a reference. I wanted to test myself and let’s just say some turned out better than others

[leviathiane]

Natural team dynamic progression over stream for Blue team (Soulfire) [Day One of purgatory]:

Split into two main groups—

Farming/base-bound: Tina, Missa, Lenay, Niki

Fighters/Runners: Bad, Tubbo, Pierre

Tubbo is main official leader, and Bad and Tina have been acting as co-leaders per their groups for the most part. Tina had been the biggest support leader and the main person keeping morale up within the group-- Missa, Lenay, and Niki being her main supply runners/farmers that she distributed tasks through. Pierre has become main runner who turns in missions, while Tubbo and Bad run distraction. Majority of plans are thought up by Tina, Bad, Tubbo, and Pierre, and are run through Tubbo before execution.

They’ve maintained lead the entire stream for the most part.

[volfoss]

i cant even like post about the horrors that are going on currently because im gonna get too mad but oh my god. like i would give her really good credit for writing a character like marius that has 0 self awareness about his insanely disgusting behavior bc like. that CAN work. you can make the reader feel disgust and see things through the eyes of someone who is horrible while not romanticizing the behavior. clearly anne did not get the memo for this one.

[mssishipi]

wet the bed — sjy

— soft people fucks the loudest.

content tags: established relationship, sub!jake&reader, jay cameo, explicit content (smut) unprotected sex, multiple sex position: 69, doggy style, mating press. squirting, overstimulation. lots of whining and moaning, they fuck like rabbits :) MDNI. WC:2.4k

note: this is a request from an anon, hope u like it!

Who the fuck decided that two soft, submissive people in bed are automatically boring?

"Too vanilla," they say with wrinkled noses and half-laughs, like they know what happens when the lights go out.

You and Jake have been together for nearly five years—since the final months of high school, when you stumbled into something that felt a little too gentle to be real, too safe to be intense. Most people around you just don’t get it. They whisper that your relationship is sweet, sure, but stale. Predictable. Lifeless, even.

But they don’t know a damn thing.

They don’t know that you and Jake don’t need dominance or power games to melt each other down into quivering pieces. You don’t play roles. You don’t lead or follow.  You move, he moves. You're both responsive, both hungry, both gentle in ways that burn just as deep. It’s not about who takes control—it's about how far you’re both willing to unravel for each other.

If those assholes could see what actually happens behind closed doors, they'd choke on their smug assumptions. 

"Nghh—baby..." Jake's voice is slurred, barely even speech anymore. His face is buried between your legs, the heat of his breath searing against you, tongue dragging slow as he works you over.

 And fuck, you are gone, head thrown back, hips twitching, thighs trembling around his ears.

The only soundtrack is the obscene wetness of his mouth on you, your choked moans, and the blaring growl of an electric guitar seeping through the wall, his room mate, Jay’s latest desperate attempt to drown out the symphony of you and Jake destroying each other.

It doesn’t work.

Your ears are ringing. Your vision blurs every time your spine arches off the mattress. Your legs are shaking so hard they barely stay hooked around his shoulders. Your body is covered in bruises and teeth marks. Jake’s arms are clawed raw, red streaks down to his elbows from where you grabbed and dug in, helpless under the waves he pulled from you again and again and again.

You’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come, how many times you’ve done the same to him. It's a haze. A loop. An exchange of pleasure until your bones feel hollow.

You barely catch your breath before his fingers are inside you again, curling just right, his mouth crashing into yours, swallowing your moans as you clench around him and cum hard enough to see stars. Your hand slips between you, wrapping around him, stroking with messy urgency until he gasps into your mouth and spills across your stomach. 

Then comes the slow grind of hips in missionary, Jake above you, eyes glassy, sweat dripping down his temple. He pushes in deep, moaning into your throat while you clutch at his back, legs locked around his waist, and both of you fall together again. 

Vanilla, their ass.

The aftershocks haven’t even stopped vibrating through your bones when Jake rolls off of you, chest heaving, lips parted. He sprawls across the sheets, flushed and trembling.

Without a word, you swing a leg over him, straddling his face. He groans like a man starved as your thighs settle against the sides of his head, and your gaze lowers to his cock. thick, flushed, and still rock hard despite having cum four fucking times already.

You lean down, tongue flicking out to tease the head, your breath warm over his slick skin. His hips twitch instantly, a soft, choked whine escaping from under you.

“F-fuck,” he gasps, voice muffled between your thighs.

You take him into your mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him,  the way his whole body tenses beneath you. At the same time, you feel his tongue drag through your folds.

You moan around his cock, the vibration making him jerk. You grind back against his mouth, and he groans right into your cunt, tongue sliding in and curling upward. He hardens it, fucking you with it, slow and deep, as your hips begin to roll.

It’s a filthy rhythm—your mouth stretching around him, sucking harder, faster, your spit dripping down his shaft while he licks and licks and licks, tongue relentless, hands gripping your ass as he pulls you tighter against his face. Your thighs clamp down on instinct, not letting him breathe, not letting him stop.

You feel the familiar pulse in your core and the slight twitch of his cock against your tongue, he’s close, again. You squeeze him tighter with your lips, hollow your cheeks, and the sound he makes is damn near ruined. His whine hits a high pitch, hips jerking once, twice and then he spills into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.

Jake latches onto your clit now, sucking, and you are barely holding on, every nerve burning. Your whole body is tensed, arms braced against his thighs, cunt pulsing uncontrollably around his tongue. Your thighs clamp even tighter, grinding down until he can’t even moan, just hums and licks and loses himself.

Jake loves it—loves how wet you get, how you suffocate him with your thighs like it’s nothing, how your pussy clenches around his tongue. He loves the little tremble in your legs, the broken cries you try to stifle, the taste of your arousal dripping down his chin.

"Jake, fuck! I'm gonna cum!" you squeal, your voice shaking, one hand fisting around his softening cock, feeling it twitch, swell, harden again.

Your hips grind down one last time, helpless, chasing that final drag of his tongue as your orgasm hits. You cry out, body shaking above him, pussy spasming around his mouth. Your forehead presses to his thigh, gasping, and you barely manage to keep sucking him as your world shatters again.

Jake lets out a high whine, hips twitching upward into your mouth. He’s still so fucking hard, again. You can feel it, thick and throbbing between your lips.

He moves again as another orgasm crashes into the both of you.

Another orgasm.

And another.

And another.

You lose count. Time folds. The two of you are always going at it like rabbits, bodies slick and tangled, pleasure drawn out like it might never end. At some point you’re flat on your back again, back arched off the wet bed, sheets soaked with sweat and everything else, Jake’s mouth between your legs for what feels like the hundredth time.

You’re delirious, you feel like you are floating.

He pulls back, lips shiny, chin drenched. You barely get the chance to breathe before he’s kneeling between your thighs, jerking himself off with quick, rough strokes. His eyes are locked on your chest, on the rise and fall of your breath, on your wrecked body twitching with aftershocks. He grits his teeth, then pulls his cock free, aiming it at you.

You're hypnotized.

By the way it twitches. By the way his jaw clenches. By the way his abs tighten and he throws his head back with a broken moan as hot ropes of cum spill across your chest, painting your skin with another climax that somehow hits just as hard as the first.

And still, he's not done.

Jake leans forward, one hand smearing the mess across your breasts, mouth crashing into yours with wild hunger. His cock presses against your thigh, still hard and leaking.

"You want more?" he pants against your lips, voice hoarse, almost disbelieving at how far you both keep falling.

You nod, eyes wide, lips parted. Jake flips you over in one smooth motion, pushing you onto your hands and knees, body trembling beneath him. His hands grip your hips, pushing inside again, deep, slow, a stretch that feels impossibly full despite how soaked you are.

You both moan at once. And then he starts to move, hips snapping into you, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room, drowning out even Jay’s music, which is now thundering through the walls in one last futile attempt to ignore what’s happening just a few feet away.

“Ahh, fuck, Jake, baby!” you cry out, fingers clawing at the twisted sheets as the rhythm builds.

Jake groans behind you, bracing himself with both hands on yours, pinning you to the mattress as he drives deeper, rougher. You love this position—God, how you love it. He finds every spot, angles his hips just right until you’re gasping, sobbing into the mattress.

“We’re so fucking good together,” Jake pants into your ear, his voice shaking with need, “Fuck.” His lips find your neck, kissing everywhere he can reach, hot, sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate to mark.

You tilt your head back blindly, catching his mouth in a messy kiss over your shoulder, tongues tangling, moans swallowed between breathless gasps as he starts to thrust harder, deeper, your bodies slamming together.

You’re clenching around him so hard, you can feel every ridge, every twitch of his cock. The orgasm hits, your breath catching, head lolling forward as heat floods you from the inside out. "Fuck!"

Jake keeps going through it, keeps thrusting through your high, refusing it to end. Your hips instinctively push back against him, your eyes roll back, jaw slack, pleasure crackling through every nerve.

“F-fuck, I—shit,” Jake chokes out, repositioning behind you with a sharp slap to your ass that makes your whole body jolt. He watches it jiggle with a low groan, hips snapping forward again and again. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, and your arms finally give out.

You collapse forward, face buried in the soaked mattress, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, your body slack and trembling. Completely, utterly fucked out.

“B-b-baby,” Jake stammers, leaning over you again, his chest slick and warm against your back.

You feel his arms slide beneath you, one curling tightly around your waist, the other slipping under your body to knead your breast in slow, circular motions. He’s still thrusting, slower now, but no less intense. You feel every inch, every grind of his hips, his cock dragging against your overstimulated walls as he pants against your ear.

“You can take another one for me?” he whines, voice cracking into a whisper. “P-please? Pretty—pretty please?” 

You moan weakly, unable to find words, only nodding as your fingers twitch into the sheets. You’re half-asleep, fucked so deep into the mattress your limbs barely move but Jake’s still moving, still inside you.

“Don’t s-sleep, nghh, baby, fuck,” he breathes, nuzzling into your nape, teeth grazing the sweat-slick skin there before sinking in gently, biting down as his hips start to pick up again.

The pleasure's too much now, tangled with pain and pressure until your body doesn’t know the difference. You're a trembling mess, whimpering, twitching, your muscles weak from everything he's already wrung out of you.

You don't know how he's still strong enough to shift your limp body, but suddenly you're on your back, legs pushed up and pinned high beside your shoulders. His hands curl behind your knees, holding you wide open as he sinks into you again with no warning.

He grunts as he slides home, balls-deep, moaning loudly, eyes locked onto your face, drinking every twitch, every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. His hips start pounding again, relentless, slapping into your soaked cunt with wet, brutal rhythm.

Your mouth falls open, lips slack, eyes half-lidded. You can't even speak.

“Baby! L-love you—ahhh!” Jake cries out. One of his hands slips down, thumb pressing to your clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles.

You twitch violently beneath him, chest heaving, body barely holding together.

Even with your consciousness slipping—your mind half-blacked out from pleasure and fatigue—you feel it again. That same heat blooming low in your belly. Your legs are burning in the mating press, your lungs clawing for air, your head spinning.

“J-Jake, w-wait!” you sob, shaking your head from side to side, voice cracked, but his thrusts only get harder, his thumb moving faster, and ruthless.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop—just one more,” he begs, almost delirious.

“FUCK!” you scream,  fingers twisting the sheets, your body shaking as it hits you. “Fuckfuckfuck!” you shriek as your entire core contracts violently. Your back arches. Your vision whites out. You feel the gush of hot liquid pulsing from your cunt, soaking the sheets, his pelvis, everything.

Jake groans loud and deep. But he doesn't stop. He keeps moving, keeps rubbing, his thumb grinding your clit as you cry out and shake under him. Your legs jerk in his grip, body trying to retreat, but he doesn’t let go.

Your voice cracks—"No! No more!"—but it's lost in the noise.  

“O-one more, baby, please,” he moans as he leans over you again, his body trembling, lips brushing your ear.

Your scream rises again as his cock drags through your soaked walls, now slick with your release. You’re squeezing him so tight he’s nearly frozen in place. His eyes roll back, mouth dropping open.

“Jesus Christ, people! Tone it down!” Jay roars from the other side of the wall, banging his fist hard against it, rattling the drywall. His voice is muffled, furious, but distant and irrelevant.

Jake doesn’t even blink. He’s too far gone. His hands tighten around your thighs as he slams forward, again and again, slick friction loud and obscene, the slap of your bodies echoing through the room.

“Last one,” he gasps. “Fuuuuck, baby, fuck—!”

You scream again, nails digging into his wrists as your body explodes for the final time—another hot gush forced from your cunt, a violent surge that splashes his abdomen and thighs. Jake throws his head back and howls, the tension in his spine snapping as you clamp down so hard around his cock it punches the orgasm straight out of him.

He cums inside you, trembling, moaning, his voice broken and high as he spills deep, cock twitching wildly, over and over. His whole body quakes as he presses into you, emptying himself in ragged pulses that stretch on and on.

By the time it ends, you're both shaking. The room is thick with heat and the sharp, musky scent of sex, every surface damp with sweat, slick, and release.

Jake pulls out slowly, carefully, and even that soft withdrawal makes you both moan. The two of you are oversensitive. 

Jake collapses beside you, arms immediately wrapping around your waist, pulling you in close. His face buries in the crook of your neck, lips pressing the faintest kiss to your skin.

You curl into him instinctively, legs tangled, your body heavy and sore but warm in the aftermath, without another word, you both drift under—naked, tangled in each other’s arms, unconscious on a mattress you’ve completely wet the bed in.

[seungisms]

( skz headcanons ) virgin!skz

🖇️📂 some bitchless skz headcanons 

genre: smut, minors dni, warnings: unprotected sex, virginity loss, dryhumping, oral (female receiving), teasing, putting cocky!minho in his place 🗣️ note: y’all already know i’m gonna have to make a series out of this 🤤 so please keep a look out for that! in the meantime enjoy these filthy little headcanons i had gathering dust in my drafts

방찬. BANG CHAN

virgin!chan who can’t stop thinking about fucking you. he’s a little bit of a perv - he lets you walk up the stairs in front of him so he can steal a glance of what you’re hiding underneath your pretty little skirt, makes dirty jokes around you just so he can see that cute flustered look you get not being able to meet his eyes, fists his cock at night with your name dangling from his lips. sometimes he can’t keep his filthy thoughts at bay, especially when you’re bending over in front of him, skirt riding up and giving him a nice view of your cute ass that he wished he could part to sandwich his cock between. he swears you do it on purpose to get a reaction out of him. when you finally let him between your legs he’s so eager. it’s pathetic the way he’s so desperate to please you, how he fights off the almost painful need to cum just so he doesn’t disappoint your little pussy so early on, especially not when he’s finally got the chance to fuck you. he can’t keep his mouth shut either, asking you every few seconds if you like it or if he’s doing okay - tearing up and slurring over his words the closer he is. he’s so thankful, little thankyou’s spilling out past his lips as he drills deeper into your pussy, arms trembling on either side of your head and before he knows it he’s cumming, hard. spilling out past your folds and onto the bed, pretty and creamy and he almost wonders how he’s went so long without the sight. 

리노. LEE MINHO

virgin!minho who acts so confident and cocky until he’s inside you, and suddenly he doesn’t know where to put his hands or what to say. minho will never outright admit that he’s a virgin, he has too much pride for that, but you’ll find out the second you get him between your legs. you were so sure he fucks, but with the way he looks up at you so unsure over your mound, eyes silently begging for guidance as he strokes and thumbs at your cunt with long fingers, fumbling nervously over your clit - it was clear he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. he’s a little awkward, stutters over his words a lot when he tries to dirty talk you, breath hitching and an uncharacteristic whimper falling off his lips when his fingers slip into your cunt and he feels how tight you are, just imagining how it’ll feel when it’s his dick being suffocated by the warm plush walls of your pussy instead. he gasps and groans and whines when he finally nudges his cock inside of you, stilling his hips when he’s only a few inches deep to catch his breath, holding onto your hips with shaky hands and a wild look in his pretty brown eyes, panting beneath you like a bitch in heat cause just cause he doesn’t wanna cum so soon but you’re making it so hard for him :( it’s cute the way he can’t seem to live up to his name, the cold, almost bad-boy like reputation he’s had all this time suddenly out the window with one taste of pussy and instead replaced with a whimpering, tearful mess just begging to lose himself in the heat of your cunt, begging you to take his virginity.

창빈. SEO CHANGBIN

virgin!changbin who’s a fast learner. show him where to touch, tell him what to say, how deep to go, how fast or slow - he’ll listen, acting like he’s done it his whole life. all those nights spent thinking about stretching and tiring out your cute cunt couldn’t prepare him for the real thing. he gets hard at the most inconvenient times and he hates the way his cock jumps in excitement when you notice with a sweet giggle, only to end up mocking him for being such a virgin. he wishes he could shove his dick between your lips to finally shut you the fuck up, make you apologise on his cock for ever thinking about making a joke out of him, force you to moan and cry his name and admit he’s the best you’ve ever had, how he could leave you to get fucked by 100 men and the little virgin you love to mock would still be the one you run back to. but he just walks home and kicks stones and resorts to fucking his own fist, spewing vile cruses underneath his breath that should’ve been tainting your ears instead as he fucks you to tears. the first time he eats you out you almost think he’s enjoying it more than you - groaning and slobbering messily into your cunt, nudging your sensitive nub with the tip of nose everytime he lays a fat swipe of tongue against your clit, humping into the bed when he hears your little gasps. as soon as he loses his virginity he’s just eager for more, looking at you with a pathetic desperation glinting in his eyes, wondering when the next time you’ll let him play with your pussy will be. 

현진. HWANG HYUNJIN

virgin!hyunjin who’s mouth dries up everytime you’re near him. he’s normally so confident and talkative, can’t seem to stfu most days but as soon as you come around he’s gone quiet - eyes too busy following the hemline of your cute skirt to entertain the conversation happening around him, wondering what colour panties you’re wearing or even if you’re wearing any at all - and just the thought of your bare pussy being inches away from him has his cock swollen and twitching in need to find out. hyunjin is so nervous around you and it shows - hands sweaty and adams apple bobbing in his throat when you make brief eye contact - wondering if you can read his mind and find out all the disgusting dirty things he wants to do to you, if you can sense just how badly he wants to ruin your cunt for every other man to come until it’s just him you think about. him. him. him. he’s almost embarrassed about the effect you have on him, but he can’t find it in himself to care when you finally let him fuck you. he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, trembling and hovering over your hips like he’s afraid to touch, as if his cock wasn’t making a mess out of your pussy in the meantime. he gets a tad pathetic the closer he is to cumming, thick cock stretching you open like no one has ever done before and small pleas falling from his pretty lips in rushed nonsense and gasped whimpers - “please just cum, m’so close. tell me you’re close too please” little sighs of “can’t believe you’re actually letting me fuck you, thankyouthankyouthankyou” he just wants to be good for you!!

한. HAN JISUNG

virgin!jisung who’s so easy to manipulate. he’ll let you do anything to him as long as he ends up in your pretty pussy by the end of it. slap him around a little, call him names, mock him for being a virgin, tell him where to kiss, go slower, go deeper or harder - and he’ll be in near tears before he’s even inside you. eats you out like a man starved, drool and spit and arousal dripping down his chin as he locks his jaw around your clit, sucking and nipping at your folds until you’re bucking like a wild animal against his face. makes you cum from his greediness alone, he’s a tad sloppy and makes a completely mess out of your cunt, not the most skilled but eager enough to make up for it. constantly thanks you over and over for finally letting him fuck you, all sloppy and teary eyed and getting so fucking pussy drunk that he can’t even register your whimpers of, “s’too much jisung, slow down,” cause this man fucks like a rabbit, no matter if he’s a virgin or not. literally can only focus solely on the sight of your pussy stretching out around his cock and no wet dream or filthy image his mind ever managed to conjure up about you could compare. he also defiantly nuts real quick and gets embarrassed about it, spilling into your cunt before he even realises it and he’s apologising over and over with cute tears lining his eyes - swearing he’ll fuck you better next time if you would only give him the chance.

필릭스. LEE FELIX

virgin!felix who’s super awkward. he can’t really look you in the eyes without being ashamed of himself and his nasty thoughts, his hands tremble when you makeout, he can’t help but whimper a little when you poke fun at him for still being a virgin. he never really tells you what he wants, just tugging at the hemline of your skirt and looking up at you with a greedy glint in his pretty eyes - wanting nothing more than to dip his fingers under and play with your pussy a little - he’s just too shy to ask. and all he really asks you to do is grind on it, torturing himself everytime you work his swollen cock between your folds - cause in his mind the longer he can go without actually fucking you the lower the chance of disappointing you is. but he doesn’t last for long, basically gets on his hands and knees and begs you for a taste of your pussy that you’re more than willing to give. he completely loses all sense the second he dips into you - focused on nothing but the sensation of you, the snug fit of your pussy, the fucked out look on your face, the gasps of pleasures filling his ears and he’s kicking himself for going this long in life without it. as soon as he gets one taste he’s addicted, fucking you any chance you allow him and he’s always so thankful too.

승민. KIM SEUNGMIN

virgin!seungmin who gets a little carried away. he’s sometimes too messy and greedy, completely pussy drunk the first time you let him bury his head between your legs. thumbing your folds apart and practically making out with your cunt like he’s done it a million times before, tongue nudging and playing with your sensitive bud until your dripping and clenching around nothing. he’s a little too rough, all those pent up years of not having a cute pussy to play with being let out on you, forcing his cock into you just to see how deep you can take it, watching every little twitch and spasm of your pretty face, until you’re clawing at his arms and begging him to slow down. but he just can’t. he’s went all this time devoid of your cunt that he just can’t help the stuttering of his hips grinding into your at an animalistic pace, fucking you so well you wouldn’t have guessed he’s never done it before. he defiantly watches amateur porn, picking up a few of the less exaggerated tips and tricks he could use to make your little pussy twitch in excitement if you ever allow him the chance, making you eat your words of how a virgin like him couldn’t possibly know how to fuck. and he proves you wrong, tiring out your cunt for hours on end, bending your knees until they’re pressed tightly against your chest so he can fuck you even deeper and harder, coaxing more of those cute tears out of you while talking about how a virgin like him can fuck you better than all those other assholes you let between your legs. 

아이엔. YANG JEONGIN

virgin!jeongin who gets overwhelmed way too quick. he can hardly makeout with you without making a mess of his boxers. his mind runs a mile a minute and he just can’t handle it when you’re sat pretty on his lap, subtly grinding down onto his cock through layers of clothes - still he’s able to feel the heat of your cunt through the fabric, the hard press of his cock bumping and jutting painfully between your folds. paired with the way your mouth is busy working his own open, nails scratching through his hair and down the nape of his neck, pressing yourself against him until he was painfully aware of your tits pushed into his chest and he’s silently begging you for mercy, hands scrambling to still your hips until its too late. he can only look away bashfully when a gasped whine dangles from his lips, red creeping up his neck and ears when the warmth of his cum leaks uncomfortably through his jeans. and he hates the slight mocking tone of your words when you try to comfort him after, wishing the ground would swallow him up whole and he’s certain he’ll die a virgin. he jerks himself off to you at night, muffling little whimpers of your name behind his palm as he fists his cock - thinking about that one time you stroked on his biceps, commenting how much bigger he’s gotten with a flirty smile, the way your skirts seem to get shorter and shorter eveytime you link up, how you like to make him hard in public then turn around and make him deal with it alone. it makes it all the more sweeter when you finally let him fuck you, nudging into your tight cunt with a sigh of relief, praying that this time he won’t cum so soon cause he just wants to savour it.

© seungisms - all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated. 

[acid-ixx]

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

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

read under the end for an author's note.

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

the world was still spinning when you had awoken.

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

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

what happened?

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

— lots of it.

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

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

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

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

jason.

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

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

these days?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'he can have it for all i care.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

those were never meant to clash, let alone part.

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

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

jason, meanwhile.

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

how it never quite changed, even until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you were wrong, you always were.

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

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

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

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

— and remember the even more painful present.

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

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

oh, my momma.

how you miss her and her angelic presence already.

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

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

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

rather than...

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

this unfamiliar room...

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

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

have you been out for an entire day?

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

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

but worse yet, the most dreaded of them all—

a room with your brother in it.

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

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

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

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

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

dark and heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he sounded so...

broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

no.

your breath hitches—

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

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

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

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

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

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

since when did he care?

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

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

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

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

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

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

one word: fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jason.

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

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

your life is so fucked.

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

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

just like now: anywhere but him.

you can't expend anymore hope—

"why, angel?"

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

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

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

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

"for-for wh— what?"

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

it's just so incomprehensible for you.

his worry is just too foreign.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

were you... crying?

"just answer me, please."

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

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

what changed?

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

"i don't know..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you're lying."

"h—huh?"

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

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

"wh—"

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

until all you could focus on were his questions.

why?

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

"when's my birthday, jason?"

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

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

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

"what...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eighteen is a quintessential part of someone's life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you did, didn't you?

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

"—i have to go, jason..."

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

god, fuck—!

it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.

your heart, your head, your entire body.

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

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

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

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

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

the tears still won't stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it hurts, doesn't he know that?

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

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

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

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

not when you never mattered to him, right?

and it feels like a part of you broke tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the lonely, scared child you still are?

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

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

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

until it bleeds, until it all bleeds.

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

'this isn't the jason i knew.'

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

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

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

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

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

"— what?"

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

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

"JUST FUCKING ANSWER MY QUESTION, GODDAMNIT!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

so why, why does he care so much now?

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

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

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

why do you still cry after all these years?

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

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

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

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

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

'jason, why do you still try?'

"angel, calm down you're—"

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

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

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

"just calm down, please—!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what...?

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

just that?

just a burden?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's just silent understanding, a painful acceptance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that painful reminder just makes past emotions stir within you.

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

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

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

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

he truly never knew you well at all, huh?

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

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

"jason... please listen to me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i just..."

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

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

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

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

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

how hard was it to understand that sentiment?

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

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

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

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

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

that hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you nearly worked yourself to death because of it.

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

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

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

it was you that's unlovable.

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

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

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

"is it so hard to love me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"please, jay!"

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

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

"—not there..."

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

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

"... not with you, please."

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

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

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

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

"i am your brother!"

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

it just hurts...

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

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

why, just why, is he calming down now?

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

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

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

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

"i'm— i'm so sorry, angel."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

made carefully, cleaned neatly for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and both of you were- were good...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

imperfect, sullen and easily broken, like you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and now?

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

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

you still had nothing to offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"all for you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you crack at the seams.

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

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

yet you continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'how dare you, jason...'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'be the bigger person, (name).'

'because you are not a wayne anymore—

you are your mother's child.'

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

but ultimately, you came from her.

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

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

"look, okay... promise me this—"

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

he nods, urging you to continue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"can you do that for me, jason?"

"..."

"— alright..."

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

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

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

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

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

but him.

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

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

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

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

let the past be a dream.

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

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

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

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

a mere device for tactical missions.

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

its usefulness was only for practicality.

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

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

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

all that it is, all it ever was.

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

the same old, rickety intercoms.

just like old times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but with nobody to mourn you.

"we need to talk about (name)."

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

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

"tell me what happened."

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

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

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

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

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

no.

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

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

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

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

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

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

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

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

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