#I'm telling you anxiety is a absolute bitch

[a-rand0m-bl0g]

Reminder to ALL my followers and ESPECIALLY my mutuals.

I have severe anxiety and I tend to overthink what people say and I am also extremely self conscious.

@foxgirl87

[call-memissbrightside]

a continuation of this one-shot

warnings: mentions of cheating, having an affair, bad-words, relationship insecurity, hints of NSFW, (Y/N) cries a lot but honestly I would too lmao

"If you think crying like this will make me want you, you're a fucking idiot."

You instinctively flinch, like Katsuki's words were physically hitting you. He notices your small movement from the corner of his eye, and moves so that his back is facing you to almost save you from the wrath he was unleashing on his ex-wife.

You weren't going to tell him what Ochako said to you. Because you knew it would cause trouble between them when that was the last thing you wanted. When accepting to marry the hero, you decided that no matter what, you wouldn't further cause tension between them. For Katsumi's sake.

Yet, it was Katsumi who told her father. Somehow she stole her mother's phone the moment they returned to Ochako's home across town and called Katsuki, explaining what she saw even if she didn't understand the whole story: mommy yelling at (Y/N) and making her cry.

Katsuki didn't hesitate to immediately coming home when receiving the distressing call from his own daughter, and scared the absolute crap out of you when he seemed to pop out of nowhere and demanded to know what Uraraka said to you.

Seeing his anger made you submit all too easily, and he patiently listened to you tell him what happened through broken sobs and snot pouring from your nose as you tried calming down. Katsuki was upset that you were upset, and had the idea to hug you, comfort you but then his phone rang.

Now he paced the living room, half listening to excuses Uraraka gave him for being unnecessarily cruel to you. You watched him from the plush couch, hiccuping now instead of intensely crying.

"I'm getting the lawyers involved," He barked, cutting off whatever his ex-wife was saying. You shake your head, not wanting to cause more drama but Katsuki holds a hand up to stop you. Leaning more into the couch cushion, you bite on your lip as anxiety digs into you.

"Tell Katsumi I love her and that she's not in trouble for calling me. You better not punish her for doing the right thing. I'll be damned if my daughter gets in trouble for calling her own father, you fucking bitch." He leaves it at that, promptly hanging up the phone before Ochako could have a word in.

Katsuki tosses his phone down onto the coffee table and rubs his face groaning. You watch, silent, not knowing what to do or say.

Noticing your cheeks were still read and how puffy your eyes became from crying, Katsuki cooed softly, "Come here baby, it's okay."

Holding his arms open, you immediately get up to let him hold you. Burying your face into his chest, you inhale his strong, expensive cologne. It works wonders to calm your racing heart.

"Let me see you, " Katsuki whispers, cupping your face gently so that you could look up at him. His red eyes burned like embers and seeing concern in them makes your bottom lip wobble so you bite it to stop from trembling.

"No, no," Katsuki lightly chastises, pulling your bottom lip with his thumb, tracing it lightly over the bite makes you gave yourself.

You still don't know what to say, but a broken, "Sorry."

Katsuki will have none of that, he scoffs and rolls his eyes, "No (Y/N), I'm sorry my ex is a fucking cunt."

You're still sensitive, and hearing him say something that cruel makes you flinch.

"Don't call her that Katsuki, she is still Katsumi's mom." You're careful on correcting him, knowing he doesn't like it when you do that.

Katsuki sighs loudly, you feel him inhale and exhale. Looking back down at his phone, he looks almost annoyed. "She is, huh?"

Turning back to you, Katsuki can't help but admire how you look at him with your full attention, like you can't help but hang onto his every word. When he leans down to kiss you, it starts off slow and sensual. His tongue dominates yours and you completely relax against him, getting lost in his kiss.

"You think all that shit 'chako said was true?" Katsuki mumbles against your lips. Your eyes were closed and they stayed closed, but your eyebrows furrowed at his question. You don't respond.

"You wouldn't have cried that hard if you didn't think it was true."

He knows he's right. You know he's right. But you continue not to say anything, embarrassed to be so quick to lose trust in your husband from one simple conversation. Katsuki looks at how how your face begins to crumble, and is hurt from your hesitance.

"Look at me baby," He demands, and a smile almost graces his face when you listen to him. Fingers that were threaded in the hair by your neck tightened, making your neck snap up.

"None of that shit Ochako said was true." Katsuki looks straight into your eyes and you knew he was telling the truth. A weight that you weren't even aware of seemed to be lifted from your chest, and you almost wanted to begin crying from relief. But you don't, because you knew that would only irritate Katsuki further.

"Do you regret marrying me Katsuki?" You finally ask.

He really didn't have to marry you. You sure weren't expecting him to when the affair was leaked to the press, and after Ochako announced their divorce in a press statement. That was hell for you, when the whole world learned you were sleeping with Japan's #2 hero, who was married and a father. It hurt even worse when people realized you were the babysitter, like you purposely broke up the Bakugou family for your own personal gain. That wasn't true, it just happened and yes, you felt horrible about it but also you and Katsuki were real. No one, absolutely no one, wanted to hear your side of the story. Their minds were made up.

You lost everything from having an affair with Katsuki Bakugou.

Your parents were so disappointed, they cut off all contact with you. You had to drop out of college mid-semester after getting harassed by your peers. Fans of Katsuki would throw things at you when you'd walk through campus. Coffee, paint, condoms. Uravity fans were even worse, calling you all the horrible names in the book: slut, whore, home-wrecker, gold digger. They bullied you online constantly, and you had to take down all your social media pages because it got so bad. And when your phone number got leaked online? You almost went mad with the countless calls and messages from trolls that you broke your phone just to have peace. You were broke because no one wanted to hire you, especially not as a nanny.

You truly thought that Katsuki would end things during that time. He would only call you from a new, secure phone his assistant dropped off at your dorm, hearing you cry about all the things people had done and all the names they called you. It was a while before you got to see him again in-person, due to his publicity team deeming it appropriate to wait it out until the divorce was settled.

You didn't think Katsuki would stick around. You already cried and yearned for him when under the impression that he'd leave you. Sure, the relationship started with just hot sex. But you liked to believe that there were moments when you saw the real Katsuki, the one who was kind and gentle with you, the one you loved. God, after all the shit you endured because of him, you still loved him. That's what made it hard to finally see him, because you convinced yourself he was only asking you out to break things off with you completely.

Yet, when Katsuki went down on one knee and asked you to marry him, you burst into tears and said yes before really thinking about it because you were just glad he loved you and chose you.

It all happened so fast, too fast and you were slowly cracking under the idea that all of this was a mistake.

Katsuki laughs.

He fucking laughs. Whatever vulnerability you felt comfortable sharing with him is locked away in your chest.

"Fuck you!" You yell, pushing at his chest but there's no way you're getting away from him. Not if he didn't want you too.

Katsuki kisses you silly, and only pulls you back when you try to speak up.

"Stupid woman," He whispers against your lips. "I must be a bad husband if I have you thinking I regret ever choosing to be with you."

He's smirking now, thumbs tracing the underlying of your jaw.

"Go to the bedroom and wait for me, and I'll show you just how much you mean to me."

Your body heats up at his words, and he finally lets you go. Katsuki was never much of a talker, but rather liked showing how he felt. You knew you would never get a full explanation from him on what or why he decided to marry you, but you body ignited at how he would explain in the bedroom.

Yelping at the feeling of his hand swat at your behind when you turn to head towards the bedroom, Katsuki laughs out loud again.

Checking his phone as he grabs his hardening cock in his pants, his eyes look over the countless messages and emails notifications to see if any need his attention immediately.

Assistant Hana: when will you be back?

"Katsuki!" You yell from the room.

"Be there in a few, calm down!" He yells back, texting a quick message.

Bakugou: i got important business to deal with at home

A/N: I was going to continue the angst but surprisingly i decided to go with a 'happy' ending. i'll probably make more one shots using this storyline, keep a lookout for them.

[lizzieisright]

The happy end to this story! (childhood friends to lovers). Thank you for voting!

Palestine: what can you do

Morning comes way too early and your head is absolutely killing you. You sit on the bed slowly, scared you'll get dizzy, and try to remember how much you drank yesterday.

Instead you're hit with a brick to your face when you remember the end of the night.

Holy fuck.

You can't breathe for a second. Why the fuck did you confess to Abby? Did she kiss you as well? What the fuck? What the fuck happened?

You don't feel like you can even start to unpack all of that in your current state. You take a shower with a slight tremor in your body and keep your head empty: it's not hard when the headache is still pounding at your temples.

You brush your teeth and lazily slump to the kitchen, eager to drink something - dehydration is such a bitch. You make yourself tea and sit on a chair, staring at your table.

It's not true, is it? You had these dreams before when you'd wake up and swear something happened, but then details wouldn't add up and you'd come to a conclusion it was your drunk hallucination. This was probably one of them, right?

Should you text Abby and ask if anything happened?

Yeah, no. You'd rather die.

It eats you alive and if it's really happened, it'd be the end. No way Abby really kissed you yesterday - she probably left and your mind decided to sweeten the pill and played the same tape it plays every time you get too upset. It's pathetic and humiliating, but it makes you feel better. Usually.

It doesn't make you feel better now since your intuition is screaming at you, telling you yesterday was real, but you ignore it, because you can't afford hope.

And even if it was real, what's next? Hey Abby, do you want to break up wi-

The doorbell rings and startles you - and now you're terrified. You don't want to know who is there. (Because you know who it is.)

But you can't ignore the doorbell because it hurts your head way too much, so you go to open the door just to end this awful noise.

And Abby is there, smiling with a bag of a takeout next door she knows you crave on the hangover.

"Hi." She breathes out and there's her usual adoring look you can't handle. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm genuinely considering dying as an option." You joke, but you'd really prefer to be anywhere else than face Abby and yesterday's.. situation.

"Did you wake up not long ago?" Abby makes her way around your apartment to go to the kitchen and you're puzzled.

"Half an hour ago."

So did something happen yesterday or not? Is Abby being normal or is she pretending to be normal? Your dry ramen brain can't figure her out, so you decide to go with the flow and see what happens.

Abby serves the food and you sit down to eat. Your stomach growls and there is disgusting smell of alcohol when you breath out; you cringe and start eating, your mind is still half-empty. You feel like a zombie with no functioning brains and it's better than hearing your anxiety.

"Thank you." You say and take a large bite, because apparently you're very hungry.

"I broke up with Mia."

You choke on your food.

"What the fuck Abby!" You cough and it takes a few minutes to calm down. "You can't just say it when I'm chewing, come on. But also: What?"

"I went to her place just before I came here. We talked and I told her I can't keep dating her. She was upset, but she said she understood."

You blink. Your hands start shaking and it's not hangover. You press your lips together to not smile because Abby's words give you hope.

"So yesterday was real?" You ask, scared shitless.

"Yeah." Abby smiles and reaches out, tangling her fingers with yours. "You thought it was a dream?"

"Yeah." You admit and stare at your joined hands. "Are you being friendly right now?" You are cautious. You can't have any subtlety right now, you need Abby to be clear with you. After yesterday there's no space for blurred boundaries and friendly flirting.

"No, I'm not." Abby chuckles. "You want to hear it?"

"Yes." You sound like you're begging and Abby giggles.

"I'm in love with you."

You fold. Literally. Your body gives up and relaxes in the chair and you take a deep breath. It's real. It's all real, and Abby is here and she is in love with you.

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

"Oh my god." You squeak under your breath. "Yes. Yes. Fuck. Fuck, I will."

Abby smiles happily and raises your fingers to kiss them. You shudder and you feel like you're going to throw up.

Oh shit.

You run to the bathroom and empty your stomach. Abby runs after you, laughing, but keeping your hair out of the way.

"Really?"

"Shut the fuck up, Abby." You say and wipe your mouth. "I'm hangover."

Abby washes your face for you and kisses your forehead.

"Is it gross I still want to kiss you?" Abby murmurs and you feel your face heat up.

"Incredibly gross. I'll brush my teeth first."

Abby laughs and watches impatiently as you brush your teeth. The moment you finish she is turning you around and kisses you, wet and hungry, and your knees buckle. Abby is not shy and she is not trying to slow down, practically devouring you, pushing her tongue inside your mouth and squeezing your waist as if she is mapping you with her fingers. You're overwhelmed by all of this, but you respond eagerly and hug her shoulders. The kiss tastes like mint, but both of you don't mind.

"I guess your skills improved since we were 14." Abby teases you, but she is smiling happily. You are both panting, and you pinch her side enough for it to be painful.

"And you still drool all over my face."

"Well." Abby smirks at you. "You seem to like it."

"Maybe." You return the smirk and kiss her again, wondering if your God is a still a God if you can reach her?

You think she is.

[jaegerisim]

Vent post y'all are gonna hate me for.

I viscerally hate how the Duffers treat most of their non white or queer characters and I hate even more viscerally, how y'all big byler blogs in your circle jerk of other 5 big byler blogs casually like to ignore many red flags the show has.

Y'all like to say: "tHe DufFeRs ArE gReAt WrIteRs" and it's like girl, who are you lying to??? They aren't top shit writers at all. The Duffers are pretty mid imo. Yeah, they run a good show that's fun to watch and theorize abt , but that doesn't mean they're good writers cuz they're not.

1. they completely side lined Will during s3 for the sake of their straight romances: lumax, jancy, mlvn, duzie and partly stobin (even if stobin wasn't endgame, thankfully, Steve's intentions were clearly wanting to date Robin and they gave it a lot of screen time). Will was sidelined bc he didn't fit the straight romance plotline bc they planned to make him gay or whatever. Now in s4 Will and his feelings have been used as mlvn toilet paper. Yes, we like to say this is build up for byler but canonically, Will's feelings have been used to clean the shit mlvn leaves behind.

2. Billy was sympathized a lot during the last 2 seasons. They gave him the sad backstoryTM in order for ppl to feel sorry for him. Billy's backstory is literally Jonathan's but whatever.

3. El's anger issues are constantly girlboss-ified. They down play her bullying situation and literally just use it for El to be a ''girlboss" without realizing how triggering that is. As someone who has lived bullying, seeing it be ignored by canon and fanon is super sad. The whole Rink-O' Mania experience must have been so traumatizing for her yet, everyone absolutely forgets abt it 🤷🏻‍♀️

4. Robin, Erica and Argyle are stereotypical characters. Robin is the quirky lesbian with social anxiety, Erica is the badass black woman and Argyle is the Latino stoner that sells weed to white kids and works as a pizza delivery guy.

5. Altho Argyle and Eddie both do drugs, (Eddie actually sells K-12 to a minor and nobody batted an eye. He has a huge fan base). Eddie is held in a pedestal bc "poor thing 🥺 he lives in a trailer with his uncle 🥺". Tell me a single fact you know abt Argyle that isn't "he smokes weed", "he is Jonathan's only friend", "drives a van" and "he works at a pizzeria". Exactly, Eddie is given a useless backstory and Argyle isn't.

6. Dustin stopped being important to the plot sometime around s2 and s3. He is only there to curse and be mildly funny. My guy needs to hangout with ppl his age cuz he only hangs out with seniors.

7. El needs to stop having so much "I'M THAT BITCH" screentime like I need in s5 for El's arc to not just be her becoming more powerful and falling in love with Mike. I need the Duffers to explore her trauma and problems.

8. Angela should have been run over by the van.

9. Patrick should have been given a backstory that isn't the basic "strict black parents that hit their kids cuz they are a disgrace". Patrick's backstory is actually racist af, fight w the wall.

10. As Lex already said, they didn't trigger tag the ep where Jason and his friends assault Lucas and Erica. Like wtf? Why was that necessary? Why did I have to see a black boy being held at gunpoint by some white guy?? Was it relevant to the plot?? I don't think so. And then I've got to see ppl online be like "Jason wasn't that bad. He was just mourning" like bitch you can stfu. This is what happens when you make the racist assholes conventionally attractive.

Also the fact that Lucas's arc is fulfilled by him fist-fighting Jason and "embracing his weirdness" aka accepting he is black. His arc was not fulfilled at all cuz that ending spoke so loud to me. It showed how little empathy ppl have towards the struggles poc ppl living in the Midwest have. Y'all circle jerks can only see racism when it's super obvious.

Furthermore, parents complained when ST showed "an excessive amount of smoking" yet nobody batted an eye when Billy tried to run over Lucas, when Erica (an 11 y.o ffs) was chased by white kids or when Lucas was held at gunpoint by Jason.

All of this happened while they focused on Max's guilt and mourning that, yeah, are important but certainly not less important than racism!!!

11. In s3, they gave us that whole Nancy vs The Bigots arc that was honestly just triggering and useless. It didn't help Nancy's character at all, quite the opposite it put unnecessary angst.

12. Lonnie being presented as an abuser just for him to never be spoken of again. Can we please get to explore the trauma he left the Byers's with?

13. The fact that both queer relationships are considered "sloppy seconds" is extremely sad. Both Vickie and Mike are rebounding from their failed relationship with Robin and Will. These 2 ships have caused more commotion than Jancy and Jopper together! (These last ships are technically sloppy seconds too but everybody forgets that. Shocker!!)

14. Last but not least, ppl blame Argyle for being the one to get Jonathan into smoking weed as if Jonathan probably wasn't the one looking for it. Let me tell you, that you only find weed if you look for it.

[buggyjuggie]

Could you do Johnny, Kitana, Kung Lao, Syzoth, and/or Smoke w/ a reader who has a Katya Zamolodchikova type personality/sense of humour? I'm talking pure chaos, but with a loving and caring vulnerable side. :)

──★ ˙ ̟ Johnny Cage, Kitana, Kung Lao, Syzoth and Smoke x GN!reader with a Katya personality

Note: I watched so much rupauls drag race just for this request because i was so scared of getting something wrong oh god i really hope you like it also @rueschronic you saved me i love you bitch

「 ✦ Kung Lao ✦ 」

* SHIT TALKING DUO

* you and Kung Lao are competitive and like to show off both of you can walk into any place and all eyes are on yall

* Both of you lift each other up as much as you can because you and Kung lao both know what it feels like to put on a character/facade or joke around people even when your hurting on the inside or try to hide it to appear fine

* When you called him queen he wore that like a badge of honour

* He picks up your vocabulary extremely fast and manages to confuse everyone around him

「 ✦ Johnny cage ✦ 」

* THE duo not a duo it’s THE duo

* I feel like Johnny has wanted to try out more ,,feminine” things but due to holywood and it being looked down upon he hasn’t yet until you gave him reality check and remined him that no one cares (bitch)

* Like Kung lao you and Johnny have that one thing in common: a character. Both of you act a certain way and have built a character to show off to people. People know ,,Johnny Cage” but do they know John Carlton. As more time passes you and Johnny start working on tearing those walls down and showing your true honest selves of course without loosing those confident attitudes

* Clubbing, going out, after party’s all the time most weekends will be endend with you and Johnny at his house not knowing how you got back home but not really needing to know because you’ll be too busy cuddling one another

* Has definitely asked you to be stunt performer because he knows that you can strut your shit like a its a performance

「 ✦ Kitana ✦ 」

* You captured Kitanas attention right away

* Kitana enjoys her status and work as a princess of Outworld but it does become dull at points. The people being careful around her, underestimating her and treating her almost like a porcelain doll

* Not you tho you treat Kitana like a normal person, tell her things honestly and aren’t afraid of what she can do

* Kitana is very observant she sees that you hide behind jokes and when she finally confront you about you let eveything out. All the toughts of self doubt, anxiety are washed away with promises from her to protect you and keep you safe for as long as she is alive

* A lot of time with Kitana and you is spent sparring or you telling her about Earthrealm, languages and culture (Kitana is prob a history nerd sue me)

「 ✦ Syzoth ✦ 」

* He was enamoured by you at first sight

* Because of his zetteran liniage Syzoth understands your struggles. Wanting to be yourself but the world rejecting it deeming it ,,too much” or even distasteful. He assures you to the best of his abilities that he’ll never leave you and will stay by your side no matter what

* ,,mother? But im a man” ,,slay ? Slay what ?” Her a little confused when it come to slang but slowly starts to understand it

* If you do drag or are interested in drag TELL IT ALL TO THIS MAN. Syzoth absolutely loves learning about earthrealm its cultures and norms and how people express themselves

* You insulted him once in a joking way and he didn’t understand that you were joking and it ended up in a hugs and kisses session for like 30 min and a long as hell explanation

「 ✦ Smoke ✦ 」

* The walking definition of polar opposites

* Smoke is quiet ,reserved and introverted meanwhile your loud, not afraid to make a scene and get dirty and extroverted

* ,,Excuse me he asked for no pickles” you say as Smoke stands in the background like a wet puppy

* Smoke is the only person who knows about your anxiety’s he does his best to assure that you are loved for who you are

* If you do nails he’s constantly asking you to do his. Smoke just really enjoys having pretty nails that match with his beautiful partner

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 17, Unanswered - Pt. 4

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, Anxiety

Word Count: 612

Previously On...: Bucky missed his your check-in call.

A/N: ::Ominous music plays::

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when I update, please enable notifications from my Blog page!

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

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You found Steve lifting weights in the training room, a group of agents, both male and female, pretending not to be transfixed with the way his muscles glistened under the strain of more weight than any normal man should be able to bench. You ignored the whispers that built up as you walked toward him, no doubt dumb gossip continuing to spread after the release of those fucking idiotic articles. You wondered briefly if you could sue the publications for slander. Or was it libel? You never remembered the difference. 

This was America, right? you thought. Wasn’t litigation one of your inalienable rights under God and the Constitution and Santa Claus, or something? You made a note to talk to Legal.

Steve looked surprised to see you when you called out his name to get his attention, no doubt expecting you to avoid him like the plague, all things considered. “Hey, Pocket,” he said, a little too nonchalantly as he set down his barbell and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve come to ogle me, too.” He nodded toward the not-so-subtle group of agents. “I’m beginning to feel a little objectified.”

“Have you heard from Bucky?” you asked, wanting to get straight to the point. Steve looked at you for a few moments, just blinking, before you went on, your voice growing faster and more high pitched as you spoke: “I haven’t heard from him since last night, and I’ve been calling and texting him all day, but he’s not getting back to me. I never heard from him after the raid, and then after the articles… He missed our regular check-in, and I’ve been worried sick. What if something happened to him? What if–”

“Whoa, Pocket,” Steve put an arm on your shoulder, shutting you up and steadying you. “Calm down, okay? Take a breath for me.” He waited on you to do just that before he continued. “Buck’s just fine. He and Jade were successful in their objective, and they’re on their way home now. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

His words took you by surprise. He was on his way home? “But… Why didn’t he call me back, Steve? All day, I’ve been thinking he either hates my guts because he saw those damned articles, or that he’s lying dead in some godforsaken Russian forest. And he’s just been completely fucking fine this entire time?”

“Hey,” Steve said, rubbing a hand comfortingly along your upper arm, “I’m sure he’s got a perfectly good explanation for not getting in touch,” he told you. “He radioed Communications from the Quinjet so, maybe something’s up with his phone. Don’t get worked up until you’ve talked to him, alright?”

You nodded, wanting to believe Steve’s words, wanting to let them give you comfort. “Did he say anything?” you asked him. “About the articles? Or give you a message to give to me?”

Steve shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Pocket. He just said they’d successfully cleared their objective and they were on their way home. That’s it.”

You blinked repeatedly, not sure what to make of what Steve had just told you. The only positive thing you could take away from it was that Bucky was safe. He was safe and he was coming home. All other answers would have to wait.

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded dumbly, “thanks Steve. I appreciate it.” You turned to head back to your room, thoughts spiraling until the only thing you could coherently think was: If Bucky had been able to get in touch with Steve, it wasn’t that he was out of contact; he simply hadn’t wanted to contact you.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[next-station-willde-central]

Something about Nine makes me sad and happy at the same time - he's an artist; he did his own grafittis, to be exact, and that's yet another thing that differentiates him from Tails, that, as I'm aware, isn't really skilled in spraypainting

"Wait, Wild, aren't you just projecting headcanons onto your favourite character?" - nope. The proof is in his original New Yoke base:

"Oh, but it's just the creators 'prolly drawing him and placing it as a treat" - then how, in-universe, did it appear there? And why is it a drawing of Nine specifically (notice he's shown in his hoodie and off-coloured), alongside a gun (?) and, I assume, some spray tests, just like people test brushes and paints? No one else had access to his base other than Nine himself, and knowing how distrustful he is, he would not let some random street artist barge into his lair and do his portrait on the wall.

What further supports this theory is the fact he has the same drawings in the Grim... which, again, could not be accessed by anyone other than him (by the way, it seems like all the paintings were made on a movable board that Nine must've carried all the way from New Yoke, which still, why would you move THOSE DRAWINGS in particular if you weren't the author that's, I'd even say, proud of them?).

Annndddd let's also not forget the board has a drawing of a gun, like aformentioned - the same one he used to scan Sonic... is that a coincidence? I really, really don't think so.

On the ending note(s), can we talk about how he even picks colors and how he portrays himself? Because in the drawing of himself, he seems sharper and more vibrant (f.e.: his fur is phosphorescent lime-yellow, or his muzzle is literally cyan), with a bitching expression ever more amplified by the shadows around his face and a black hoodie, like he even WANTS to be viewed, even in his private home, in interior no one should even see, in a simple spray doodle, as someone dangerous, someone you would never want to cross paths with, someone shady and a little bit of not obvious (that part refers to the absolutely eyesore colours he used; unless Nine is just colorblind and doesn't know how that drawing appears to most people, buut that's more of a big speculation-theory territory that we do not get into in this post).

Second ending, it also further proves that Nine is not really Tails - sure, in the New Yoke universe he does fill the niche of being Miles Prower, same as Mangey does in Boscage Maze and Sails in No Place, but in this equation Nine =/= Tails (and some, like me, would say Nine > Tails, but we call those horrid phases opinions and we keep them under our pillows /lh). They share the basics - being super-intelligent, young foxes skilled in mechanics, inventors bullied for their two tails that overcame hardships due to their determination - but aside from that? The skeleton is identical, but everything else that's bulit upon it is completely different - this is why they aren't really the same person. Tails is a prodigy kid and a hero, accompanied by friends and a team ready to help him, and Nine is an isolated and ostracized anarchist basement dweller driven by anxiety and childhood trauma that also happens to be an artist. And a hacker. And a suprisingly good fighter. And-

And a person with his own identity - imagine stripping away his every single original trait and comparing him to a random kid that's also a "better", more successful version of him that actually won in the end.

A kid that's super great, but can the kid do those amazing grafittis like him? Nah. 1:0 for Nine, losahs' /j

--

tldr; Nine can actually spraypaint and he's good at it, as seen in his New Yoke lab/in Grim - the way he does it kind of tells his personality and thoughts; also further proves Tails and Nine are two different people and that Nine is just occupying Tails' "niche" in his Shatterverse, not directly being him

[barnesbabee]

[O]rgasm Denial || J.W

[ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴇɴᴄʏᴄʟᴏᴘᴇᴅɪᴀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ O]

Summary: A classic enemies to lovers quarrel, except this time you get to discipline them.

Pairing: sub!Wooyoung x reader

Words: Eminem - Without me (0:31 - 0:50)

Genre: Smut; Angst; Fluff

⚠️If you need warnings don't read my stuff you never know⚠️

A partner being jealous of his lover's closest friend isn't unheard of, it is quite common, actually. The problem is, you weren't San's partner, and neither was Wooyoung, but the jealousy you had of each other's friendships made it seem like the three of you were in some weird love triangle.

San didn't understand why there was so much tension, he considered Wooyoung to be pretty similar to himself so the reason why you seemed to dislike Wooyoung was beyond him.

To be fair, if asked, neither of you had a good response as to why you hated each other so much, it was just small issues (like San telling you he couldn't pick up because he was face-timing Wooyoung, or him telling his other best friend he couldn't hang out because he had plans with you), that went unresolved and started piling on top of each other until it reached a point where you couldn't stand to hear each others' names.

San had given up on trying to get you to be civil with each other, and he would just make time to hang out with you both separately unless it was absolutely impossible to get that to happen, which would often lead to a disaster. The one time you saw him truly mad was when you and Wooyoung caused a scene on his birthday, the last time you had to be in the same building together, so when San decided to put together a small get-together in his house for friends that were coming to visit him, he lectured the both of you for a long time.

The long long lecture didn't stop San from getting anxious though, and the anxiety grew when his friends called him, telling him their car had broken down because by that time you had both arrived and the tension in the room was palpable.

San ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, looking at the two people sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

"Right guys, the car my friends were driving in broke down and I need to go pick them up, I am begging you to not behave like animals for once."

"They're the one who-"

"Wooyoung I just asked."

Upon hearing his friend's pleas Wooyoung stopped talking and just sank on the couch, pretending not to be bothered by the fact that he was apprehended in front of his "arch nemesis".

San grabbed his coat and keys and pointed at the both of you.

"I will beat the shit out of both of you, not joking."

You and Wooyoung raised your arms up in defense as if saying "I have done nothing!", and the man left.

The silence was heavy and the pressure in the room felt somehow dense. You could hear every single sound around you, even the faint sounds of the refrigerator, and neither of you dared move, afraid to spark a reaction that would lead to San giving you the beating of your life.

That was until Wooyoung grew tired of your mere presence as if your person made him physically uncomfortable.

"Right I don't need to be here with you, I'm grabbing a beer." He said, as he placed his hands on the couch for support and stood up, before stopping and glancing over his shoulder "That is if you'll allow me."

Allow him? That was a weird, confusing joke...

You heard him trash around in the kitchen, opening the freezer, then the fridge, and then opening and closing the several drawers inside the fridge.

"Where did you put the beers? Are they up your ass? Must be nice and cold since you're a frigid bitch."

You glanced at the doorway to shoot him a threatening look only to find that he was not there.

"I must look like a bartender to you."

"You look like many things to me, none of them pleasing, but I just wanna know where you put the damn beers."

"I put them nowhere why the fuck would I bring beers."

You heard the refrigerator door close, and a couple seconds of silence. You then heard steps come your way, and soon enough Wooyoung's phone was plastered in your face, specifically a text San had sent to the party's group chat "Y/N you're in charge of the beer, okay?".

"You are so fucking useless oh my God! One thing you had to do and you fucked it up! It wasn't even that hard!" He semi-yelled, holding up one finger in front of your face.

He was right, you did fuck it up, but you weren't about to let Wooyoung think he was right, let alone reprehend you for it.

"Maybe it's for the best that there's no beer because you're unable to just shut the fuck up when you drink and I can't stand to listen to that window-wiper laugh of yours." You said, slowly standing up and walking towards him.

"Oh, you can't stand my voice, really?" He asked, pouting and with fake pity dripping from every word "Maybe you should fucking leave then, problem solved."

"You're so fucking unbearably annoying I can see why San would need me, must be nice to get a break from you."

You definitely struck a nerve with that comment, Wooyoung gripped your arms and brought you closer, your faces just inches apart.

"You're fucking delusional if you think for a second that San prefers hanging out with you. You're the most fucking dull and boring person I've ever met!"

You pushed him away from you. Wooyoung's back hit the wall and his eyebrows furrowed in pain. You walked towards him, cheeks red and eyes teary with anger.

"At least I don't bitch about my problems at every given second!" You yelled.

"At least I'm not a fucking bitch!"

"Oh, you're not? Are you sure?"

Wooyoung took back control of the situation, grabbing your shoulders and pressing you against the wall.

"Yes, I'm fucking sure, I'm not the idiot who ruined a party by not bringing the fucking alcohol, you're so useless."

The tension in the room had slightly changed. Your breaths were heavy, there was barely no part of your body that wasn't touching and you were looking into each other's eyes with pure hatred and fury, but somehow there was a hint of sexual desire between the two of you. It wasn't that you ever desired each other, but there was this... need to be rough with one another, to punish the other.

It was spontaneous, and if asked "did you mean to do that?" Wooyoung would deny it to the end of his days, but he gripped your neck and brought your face closer until your lips smashed together.

His hands moved to your hips, steadily keeping you in place, while yours were tangled in his hair, slightly tugging on it (which Wooyoung enjoyed, but he wouldn't let you know you were doing something right).

You pushed him away slightly, enough to part the kiss and leave a little distance between your bodies, and gripped his throat. He didn't say it, but you could tell he was into it from the way he leaned his head back to give you more access. His jaw tightened and he took a deep breath.

"I knew you were into some kinky shit, I bet you'll love it if I call you a slut too." You said, pushing him backward by the neck until he felt the couch hit the back of his knees.

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it." Wooyoung said, as he sat down and pulled you to sit on his lap.

You slapped his cheek, hard enough for him to feel something, but not too hard as to not actually hurt him.

"I can tell what you like from a mile away," you paused, gripping his throat a little harder and grinding down on a (definitely) growing boner "and if you keep acting like that I will be having a lot more fun than you, I promise that."

Wooyoung chuckled.

"Let's hope you keep promises, bitch."

One of your hands worked on undoing Wooyoung's belt and zipper, as you kissed him harshly. There was no passion, no romance, or any trace of mutual tolerance in the kiss: it was pure tension and hate.

Once you managed to get everything out of the way, your hand slipped in between the jeans and his thin boxers. You could feel every curve and every vein of his cock on the palm of your hand, and this time Wooyoung didn't hold back any noises, knowing fully well that his moans and groans would work towards teasing you.

Wooyoung could be insecure at times, but if there was something he was sure of is that he sounded good. Really good.

You felt yourself getting warmer and warmer, and your stomach started clenching. Your hand slowly pulled Wooyoung's cock out of the confinement of his underwear, and as you did so, you climbed down from his lap and knelt between his legs.

You avoided his gaze. You had no intention of seeing him looking down at you sucking his cock with his shit-eating grin.

You took his cock in your mouth, letting his tip hit the back of your throat as you slowly moved your head. Wooyoung groaned and bucked his hips into your mouth.

As a consequence, you slapped his thigh and looked up at him.

"You're so gonna regret that."

"Oh am- shit." His sentence was cut off by your mouth on his cock again, sucking him off at a faster pace.

He stared down at you, eyebrows furrowed and mouth agape. He could feel something bubbling in the pit of his stomach, and his chest started moving up and down quicker.

When his voice started becoming whiny and his moans became more drowsy as he came close to a state of bliss, you pulled your mouth away and began pumping him with your hand. You met his glossy eyes and from your devious look, he could tell what you were about to do.

"Fuck, don't you dare."

Your hand sped up, the sound of skin slapping becoming more frequent.

"Don't dare, what?"

Wooyoung groaned and hissed.

"Please Y/N, fuck- please don't do this."

You smirked, bit your lip, and, just as Wooyoung's hips bucked, ready to cum on your hand, you pulled away.

The tip of his cock hit his stomach, still covered by his shirt.

Wooyoung watched as you removed your pants and underwear, but he didn't dare touch his cock as you did so. The man didn't want you to know how badly he needed to fuck you right then and there.

You straddled him once more, making sure to rub your crotch against his in the process, earning a breathy moan.

"Are you still going to act like a little bitch? Hm?" You asked as you teased his cock with your entrance.

He pretended to think, letting out a "hmm", as he pretended to consider the question, and, when he felt his tip right at your entrance, Wooyoung grabbed your waist, bucked his hips, and smashed you down on his cock.

"Fuck!" You yelled, gripping his shoulders tightly, shocked by the sudden contact.

Wooyoung bit your jawline and smirked.

"Yes, I am." He finally replied.

You gripped his throat, tightly this time, and with your free hand, your kept gripping his shoulder for stability, as you began to ride him.

"You're such an annoying asshole."

His eyes were locked with yours, and his hands gripped your ass.

"Sticks and stones baby." He said, tongue poking against his cheek.

You kissed him to shut him up, and secretly because he was a fucking good kisser. Wooyoung helped you by bucking his hips up against yours and slightly propping you up and down.

Neither of you held back any noises, you knew it wasn't worth the effort, and it didn't take long for Wooyoung to get close again, as he was already pretty sensitive.

"Y/N let me cum." He demanded, almost.

You stared at him sweetly and you caressed his cheek with fake pity, Your hand then descended to his neck as your lips approached his ear.

"No." You whispered.

"C'mon- fuck. Let me cum."

You smirked and stared right into his glossy eyes.

"Beg."

"Shit- what?"

"You heard me, I want you to beg." You said, between breaths.

Wooyoung's jaw tightened.

"Fuck you."

You moaned his name loudly and gripped his throat tighter, knowing the outcome would be the one you desired.

"Shit I give up, Y/N please please let me cum!"

His whiny voice was music to your ears.

"You can- you can cum."

Wooyoung's hands gripped your ass with full strength as he trusted deep in you and came.

His hands fell down to your thighs and he rested his head on the couch, as the both of you tried to regain your breaths.

From the corner of your eye, you two noticed a wide figure: San, that had entered through the back door.

"You know what? I don't care to know what happened, I don't even care to know if you used protection or that you're doing it in my couch, just clean up this mess and get fucking dressed while I stall the other guests so no one sees you fucking. If this makes you stop twisting my balls about each other's presence then it's fucking worth it."

[ceilidho]

Sorry to dump this here, but no one in my immediate and/or accessible circle reads as much as I do and this conversation came up at the right time.

I don't read a lot of romance and I started reading some popular ones last year to ease my way into it. I feel like such a snob to say this, but the plot and writing are never fully fleshed out nor are the characters. None of the romantic actions I see people swoon over are ever explained well enough for me to understand the hype. A scene in which there should be an emotional inner monologue is shorted to a paragraph and if the character is toxic (I understand a lot of people enjoy toxic/dark men, but romance books never write them well enough) and destroys the other character's life/says a relationship-ending lie/any other cliche, there is never enough explanation, justification, groveling, or any thought process behind the reconciliation.

It's always just one half-written and half-baked trope after the other.

Again, apologies for dumping it here, but I think there are such damning consequences for women (the main demographic of romance readers) who read things like this and don't give constructive criticism or thought when facing these problems.

no but you're 100% right. i mean, this is one annoying bitch's opinion (mine LMAO) but trad publishing is in the absolute pits right now. that's not to say that there aren't still some good books coming out because of course, every now and then you're going to get a gem. but i think the environment has become outwardly hostile to good writing.

i mean, i know this has been discussed a ton, but the "fast fashionization" of books has become a huge problem. every time there's a new microtrend or whatever, every author rushes to push out a book to meet the demand (see: the hockey romance trend). this, obviously, means that the editing time is severely compressed and you get books published by like harper collins and penguin with typos, grammar issues, and more.

i got some flack for this when i posted about it on twitter ahah but i honestly do not understand why the sequel to "fourth wing" came out so soon (not even getting into the messy qualities of the first book). sequels used to take a year or more to come out to allow for the book to go through several rounds of editing and fine tuning! what happened??!!

i think authors now feel compelled to get their books out as soon as possible out of fear that booktok/readers will simply move on after the initial hype and they'll lose their reader base. there's like an anxiety about being left behind in the current publishing world.

this is kind of in line with what i was talking about the other day with Bo actually - writing romance and smut is actually way harder than people think. you can't just use the same 5 recycled porn dialogue lines and call it a day. you have to care a little about the story you're trying to tell, not just churning it out to make a buck or to make people pay attention to you. i'm not saying belabour every single action and decision made by your main character or go crazy on description (i still think the sweet spot for a published book is between 250-300 pages, and maybe more if you're writing a genre specific book that involves a lot of worldbuilding), but as a writer you need to want to be writing that book in the first place.

no one who's legitimately excited about what they're writing is going to resort to cliches and overused tropes - they might lean on tropes they like, but there's inevitably going to be something original and exciting there.

also my lil controversial opinion about the state of trad publishing lately is that i think it's 100% influenced by this weird pervasive strain of purity culture that's on booktok where people feel like any enjoyment they get from reading a particular thing has a direct reflection on them as a person and their values. rather than it just being a book.

(by the way i actually completely agree with you that even dark romances are as bad as everything else we've been talking about - that's another conversation lol. i also kind of agree with the idea of more romance books coming with content warnings on the front page - this hasn't really caught on yet except with some dark romance authors but i think it's a really good idea)

i don't think there's anything wrong about people getting excited about books on tiktok and instagram and youtube btw. i think it's a fun way to share recommendations, commentary, and interests. what i think is the big problem is that the publishing industry has almost become beholden to trends and online perception because they've seen how much profit they can generate by catering to it, and i think that's why books now just feel bland and soulless. they're tapping into a FOMO on both the authors' and writers' side, of either being left behind and not being able to make a living, or missing out on what everyone else is reading and talking about.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. phantom traveler, p.3

read it on ao3.

words: 14k notes: hello!!! on the wings of an absolute ARMY of betas, here is a fresh new chapter for you!! since the last one was a little short i took the time to really flesh this one out. I'm a shy idiot who is SO bad at responding, but i see your comments and they mean the world to me. i literally have a folder on my computer full of the sweet words this fic has been given, and i think i've re-read the comments in that folder at least a million times over by now. ty so much for reading, and i hope you enjoy!! bloody mary is next! a very special thank you to my beta readers, bear, M, venice, feeb, and daff, who easily made this my best chapter yet. thank you specifically for keeping me coherent and sane lol <3

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 4th.

You don’t have to be psychic to know precisely what your mother is going to say when she answers the phone. She’ll pick up on the fourth ring with an occupied, scathing drawl and say, Look who finally has cell service.

Alright. So you’re not the best, most communicative daughter in the world. You call when you can, you honestly do, but there’s not exactly loads of emotional bandwidth to spare on the road. Peeling off all the layers of case anxiety and Winchester grief takes a while, dammit!

Maybe you’d feel less guilty if you vented to Sam or Dean, but it’s kind of lousy to bitch about Mom-stuff to, uh. Yeah. The boys. You could use a simple, uncomplicated statement like, talking to my Mom reminds me of how much of a disappointment I must be to her, and Dean would hear matricide instead. Sam’s blank, uncomprehending look wouldn’t be much better. Looks like you’re alone on this one.

When there’s a natural break in the day’s long research-fest the three of you are riding, you slip away, pace beside the Impala for a while, then finally bite the bullet and call her. Cars whisk through the slurry of snow on the road. Your phone charms rattle in the icy breeze. One ring, two rings… She knew you were going to call, she could sense it, but of course she has to torture you… three rings, four.

“I didn’t know cell service was so hard to come by in Pittsburg,” Beth greets you, sounding preoccupied. Damn, do you know her well or what?

“Hey, Mom,” you sigh. The wind is loud, so you pull your phone further down your face and try to come up with an excuse that is even halfway reasonable. “Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been ages since I’ve been around the boys, and I guess I get a little caught up with them sometimes.”

This is objectively true. She used to have a rule about you getting your homework done before they came over, purely because you forgot about everything and anything else the second Sam and Dean entered the house.

“Forget those losers. You’re my baby, I love you most,” Beth gushes, and you understand that this is her way of saying that you’re forgiven. Both of you have fallen victim to the Winchester spell before, so she can’t exactly blame you.

You’re a little embarrassed by her mushiness, but a relieved, bubbly laugh jumps out of you. “Alright, consider them forgotten. Now… I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m gonna ask you a question, and I need you not to freak out or overthink it, kay?”

Beth snorts. “You mean my two jobs as a mother? Go ahead, shoot.”

This is not the kind of question that you just “shoot,” though. It takes you a moment to string together how you’re going to ask this, and of course, you’re nothing but graceful and delicate about it. “...What do you know about demons?”

Your mother doesn’t say anything for a long, yawning second. Still, you can sense her rising swarm of questions and outrage all the way from Pennsylvania, and you try to stop her onslaught before it starts. “Hey! No questions! Just answers. I promise I would tell you if this was outrageously dangerous.”

“Then you’ve already broken your promise,” Beth utters, slipping into her Sage Grandmaster Psychic voice. Just hearing it makes you deflate. She predicts, “...Let me guess. You’ve felt nauseous. Suffocated. Hungry, but everything you eat comes right back up again.”

You toe a chunk of ice on the asphalt with your boot, grumbling, “...Yeah.”

“Then you’re lucky,” she reveals, her words still ringing with the same crystal ball clarity from your childhood. “That means you haven’t come into direct contact with it yet. I’d hope you never would, but… you are your father’s daughter…”

You know your mom. You know that’s just her way of warning you about the kind of danger you’re in, here, but all the comment does is bolster your resolve. Damn right. You are his motherfuckin’ daughter.

“Tell me,” you push.

Beth sighs through her nose. There’s a squeak on the other line, and you can imagine her at home, dropping heavily into the massive, millennia-old armchair she always took her readings in.

“Demons… well, I won’t explain to you what you can already guess. They’re unlike most legends we know of, because everything that’s written about them is utterly true. Most spirits that walk the natural earth are here to feed—vampires, werewolves—or to take care of unfinished business. But demons… they come to earth to steal, kill, and destroy.”

Welp. Your mother is truly a pillar of optimism. You’d been hoping she’d say something along the lines of, don’t worry, sweetheart, they’re just really messed up ghosts. Instead of, y’know. The most evil creatures man encountered in the bible. Bible, capital B. An uncomfortable, existential shiver rolls down your spine. Now this was something you could bitch to Dean and Sam about.

You’d grown up surrounded by the idea of demons. Even before you’d fully understood that monsters were real, sometimes you’d slip into your mother’s reading parlor while she was gone and play a game with the strange, segmented star pattern on the giant worn-smooth carpet. Don’t hop on any of the lines! Only step in the points of the star! Or, jump from sigil to sigil!

The one time you’d gotten carried away and played for too long, your mother had appeared through the beaded curtain with a stiff frown on her face. Don’t play on the devil’s trap. It’s not a toy.

There was the fraying devil’s trap in your mother’s parlor room, which was one of the hundreds of sigils burned into your mind at a young age. You’d shaken hands with demon hunters before. Most of the rituals your family practiced were in Latin; and the list went on and on into oblivion. You’d always known demons existed, but as you pace the parking lot and take in what Beth is telling you, the ramifications start to stack. Demons. Actual, literal demons. The thing that took down flight 2485—the suffocating, unimaginable presence from your vision—was a real-life demon. When you’d stood in the skeletal remains of the plane and reached out with your Gift, you’d been sensing the lingering presence of a fucking creation of Lucifer. What the actual fuck.

In a strange, backward way, you’re kind of relieved. Anyone would be fainting all over the place in the presence of an actual, real-life demon. Especially somebody like you, with all their senses turned up to 100. It makes sense that you were having such intense reactions before.

What the fucking fuck. You’re suddenly grateful to be on the phone with your mom.

You wandered toward the Impala, (checked first that you weren’t wearing the kind of jeans with the little studs that would scrape the paint), then leaned against it. “...Um. Okay. That’s just… awesome… How do they get… up here, then?”

“I’m not sure,” your mother hums, thinking. “Your great-great-aunt Miriam wrote in her records that they find their way top-side on their own. Bugs through cracks, that sort of thing. Apparently, there used to be a whole lot more of em’—in Miriam’s day it was a Proctor’s job to shove them back where they belonged, but… I dunno.” Beth helpfully jokes, “Maybe we got most of them.”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s not the most sincere. “Maybe we did,” you cough. “But, um, do we have any Proctor family secrets that could help me out here? Did great-great-aunt Miriam have a trunk somewhere full of demon-killing grenades or something?”

Beth smirks. “Great-great-aunt Miriam turned the house into a brothel and carved terrifying sigils in all the ceilings. That’s all we got from her.”

Of course. How could you possibly forget? “Oh, huh. I was wondering why we have old chains and whips in the basement. That fills in a lot more for me, thank you.”

Your mom barks out a laugh at your joke, which gets you laughing too. The sound trails off. There’s that funny pause where you both remember what you just said, then start giggling all over again—and man, does it feel good to just have a moment with your mom. The boys both have an unforgiving radar for “bonding,” and the second they realize that you love them and they’re your friends, they creep right back into their shells. Neither of them were very good at absorbing that sort of thing.

Your mom is just as skilled at spoiling the moment.

“But, seriously…” She stresses. “Please be careful. Avoid contact with these things at all costs, especially with your Gift. It’s made to find the truth, and demons are made of lies. Not a good mix. They’ll rip into your mind… take you apart if they have to. This is a lot more hands-on than you should ever be with your Gift, ____.”

“...Right,” you say through your teeth.

This is the part where you start awkwardly shoving in a goodbye without coming across as an asshole. You open your mouth, about to say something stiff and unsure, when you sense a spike of alarm ripple out from where the boys are still researching in your motel room.

Phone call forgotten, you jolt off the Impala and whip towards the door. Not a second later, Dean’s slipping out onto the stoop and sweeping the parking lot with a calm, guarded stare. He doesn’t look at you—just gestures you inside, holding the door open. Even from the parking lot, you can make out the insane amount of notes and papers Sam has coated your motel room with.

“Jerry just called,” Dean utters. “The surviving pilot from 2485? Chuck Lambert? …He just went down in a plane crash.”

You snap your phone shut and follow him inside.

-

The three of you head to the site of the next crash as fast as you can. But first, you have the pleasure of watching the boys play Winchester Telepathy when you insist on coming along. They’re still worried. You would be too, in their position. (In fact, if the roles were reversed, you’d probably chain Sam to a radiator and call it a day.) But Chuck went down in a twin plane, not a massive, two-hundred-person graveyard, so your Gift should have the legs to handle it.

…And knowing what you’re dealing with has steeled your confidence. You weren’t slashing at the dark anymore, even if what was in the dark was, um. Proof that hell exists. After days of being totally screwed over by this thing, you finally had even the slightest leg up on what was going on. You were going to take that win and run with it.

Chuck’s twin plane was hardly a twin anymore; both the engines had been shredded, the white body of the cockpit twisted like a wrung-out washcloth. The plane had dove so hard into the farmland that the snow around it had melted. You still kind of felt like tossing your lunch, but more out of sympathy than psychic backlash. People had been in that plane. The thought made you taste bile.

Sam and Dean only hover a little bit (a lot) while you open your Gift to the wreckage. You take your glove off with your teeth and touch your right hand to the ashen, snow-soaked remains of the pilot’s chair… and there it was again, the leeching, seeping, violating presence from the vision that’d brought all of you to Pittsburg. A demon.

Your Gift wrings out another scraggly, disconnected vision for you. Chuck was beyond anxious to get back in the saddle after 2485. The co-pilot, Lou, had pep-talked him like any good friend would, reassuring him that the flight would go smoothly. After that, everything—gassing up the engine, takeoff, and the brutal, horrific crash—was blotted with poison ink. Every time you tried to steer towards Chuck with your senses, it was as if the strip of film playing your vision had been burned away. His face had been scratched out of every frame. He had become something else; something terribly familiar.

The research Sam had compiled began to link with what you’re seeing. You could feel, even through the leftover wisp of the demon’s presence on the plane, that it had done this many times before.

You jolted to your feet, scrubbing the palm with the eye tattoo off on your slacks. Dean and Sam reeled back, since they’d both been looming an inch behind you as you worked.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” Dean said, bracing himself.

You turn from the wreckage and bee-line straight for the road, eager to avoid a repeat of last time. The boys follow your lead. They fall into step on either side of you, and for once you feel like the specialist Sam always said you were, complete with stern-faced bodyguards.

“Full-on Pazuzu, just like last time,” you confirm, cursing. You shove your glove back on and stomp through the snow. “I-I get it now. God, it feels so fucking obvious. It’s—it’s playing. It finds these disasters, or it makes them, and then it picks off all the survivors one by one. Chuck Lambert, George Phelps. It possessed them. Like some sort of twisted cosmic-order thing.”

Sam pulls a face. “Final Destination style?”

“Minus the hot girls and the tanning beds, apparently,” Dean pouts.

“It’s trying to finish them off, boys,” you say, swallowing hard. “That’s something we can work with. If it’s only using disasters to do the job, then…”

“...then we need to see if any of the survivors are flying soon,” Sam realizes, finishing your thought.

The second the Impala’s on the road again, Sam is fishing out the passenger manifests from the first flight and chasing down any phone numbers he can find. There is a part of every hunt where your run is forced to become a sprint, and this is that turn-over moment, tensions ramping high. What once was seven people is now five.

As Dean hauls ass back to Pittsburg, you and Sam get to calling. You thank the Mother Goddess above for shitty, awful customer service, because posing as some lousy Delta Airlines representative has Dennis Holloway sitting in seat 21A and Kathleen Willard (seat 25E) swearing off flying for good. Sam uses a similar tactic on Blaine Sanderson (seat 14D). The two of you take the safe bet that the parents of Ava Struder (seat 1C), an unaccompanied minor, aren’t fucking idiots dumping their kid on another flight the second she survives one. That leaves you with Amanda Walker. A flight attendant on 2485… because of course, this job can never be easy.

Sam tries her phone. While it rings, you cross your fingers and hope that she has quit her job and started a new life as a dedicated couch potato. Sam’s forced to leave a message. He snaps his flip phone shut with a curse and throws it into the footwell, where it clatters against his boots.

You curl a cold hand around Sam’s shoulder, soothing, “Gimme the list, baby. I’ll try her emergency contact, at least find out where she is.”

Sam sulkily passes it to you, never once shifting under your hand. You do get a small, grateful look from him over his shoulder, and the urgency and anxiety there makes your gut twist. It would be more than easy to comfort him, to stroke your fingers through his hair, to rub his collar and tell him everything’s going to be fine.

But you’re a shit liar, so you open up your phone and make the next call. Sam’s lingering gaze ducks back down into his lap.

-

Of course, your luck continues to flourish. Amanda doesn’t answer her phone. But her sister does, and she informs you that Amanda, being a flight attendant, is in fucking Indianapolis for a flight. Indianapolis. As in, a good five-hour drive from Philly—and in the complete opposite direction of where you were going. Dean barely waits until the road is wide enough to turn the Impala around. The u-ey he hits sends you, and all your stuff, careening from the right end of the bench all the way to the left.

The drive is not fast. Staring ahead and silently revving yourself up can only waste so much time, so you pull out the mini sewing kit from under the seat and do your best to patch a rip in Dean’s jeans, struggling to thread the needle even more than usual. You feel a bit like a bad hunter distracting yourself from what’s ahead, but just one of you stuffing the car with anxious brooding is enough. Sam passes back a sudoku booklet for you and then goes straight back to his thousand-yard stare.

He used to be excellent when things came down to the wire like this. After years spent in empty motel rooms, counting pennies and waiting for John and Dean to come home, Sam’s patience was unimaginable. But losing Jess… had tilted his axis. These last few hunts, you’ve noticed how crazed he gets on the last couple steps to the finish line—when none of you are sure if there’ll be anybody to save. It happens. But you’re scared of what another round of it could do to Sam, even with a stranger like Amanda; he cared so much…

Dean isn’t happy, either, but he at least has something to do. He alternates between playing brain-melting Metallica or forgetting to reload the tape, so the drive is a strange mix of music you can feel in your eardrums and silence that’s just as loud. The first piece of levity you get is thirty straight minutes of Dean over-explaining the album to you. And, thank god you ask, because Dean rattling on about the “bass and drums feeding off each other” and the “musical integrity of a locked-in rhythms section” bring Sam out of his trance. He pries his eyes away from the rolling fields of snow, scrunches up his face, and sighs, “Can we at least listen to ‘...And Justice for All?’”

You’re an excellent tactician, so you use this opening to nudge them both toward the most surefire argument starter in the Winchester handbook: What’s the best album of all time? It would’ve been harder to lure flies into honey. Dean argues more with himself than he argues with the two of you, dancing indecisively between Zeppelin II, Dark Side of the Moon, and at least twenty other albums that you are vaguely aware exist. Sam outlines that there is a difference between someone’s favorite album (Californication in Sam’s case) and the best album objectively by sales (Thriller).

All three of you play into the argument more than usual. Guess you’re not the only one desperate to think about something other than the two hundred other people who might die tonight. By the time there’s enough of a break in the conversation for you to throw your hat into the distraction-ring, you’re thirty minutes from the Indianapolis International Airport.

“Both of you are wrong,” you decide. “There’s only one reasonable answer to that question, and it’s Rumours.”

Dean audibly grumbles, and when the Impala jams to a stop in front of a red light, he dramatically points at you in the rear-view mirrors and declares: “You are obligated by hippie, witchy-girl bullshit to love that album, Proctor. And it’s good, but it’s not the best. It’s mostly…” he flashes you a mean, big-brother smile, “girly music.”

You know you’re right, so his comment rolls right over you. Cooly, you remind him, “Nuh-uh. Sam loves Fleetwood Mac, too.”

You’d figured that was a good counter-point, since Sam was hardly girly. The hand he was using to keep his notepad on his knee was all kinds of veiny and calloused, and on top of being taller than Dean, he was a lot more comfortable with his masculinity. He didn’t have mile-long lashes or glazed donut cheekbones, either.

Sam hums in agreement, like you knew he would; the two of you listened to Go Your Own Way and The Chain endlessly before he left for school. Sometimes he’d even dance around the attic at home with you.

Dean side-eyes his brother, then barks out a hearty laugh. “Case in point.”

Sam elects to pretend he didn’t hear that, and instead turns around to talk straight to you: “I mean, the end of Silver Springs alone…”

…Maybe if Dean listened to more “girly music,” he’d have more women melting over him the way you melt when Sam says that. Even though you’ve gotten used to having him in front of you again, there are moments like these where you’re stunned by how similar the two of you still are. Dreams would play in your attic and Sam would already be offering you his hands, gangly and shy and bright red for you and only you…

You listened to Silver Springs a lot after Sam started dating Jessica.

INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - Dec. 4th, night.

All three of you must’ve been hyper-planning what to do the second the Impala parked, because you fan out as soon as Dean jams the break.

Sam uncaps the travel-sized hand sanitizer from your purse and empties it out onto the pavement. You’re a little sad to say goodbye to pumpkin cupcake, but then he starts pouring as much holy water as he can into the teeny bottle, and you’re reminded how clever he is. When Dean gives him a weird look, Sam explains, “3.4 ounces or less per liquid item, dude.”

“Shit,” Dean curses. Right. Travel size restrictions. That cuts your only physical weapon against the demon in half—or into a fucking fifth, I guess. But it’s something. “At least he’ll fuckin’ smell good when we send him to hell. Great.”

You give Sam the marshmallow pumpkin latte sanitizer, too. You’re going to look painfully suspicious walking into an airport with nothing but hand sanitizer and an occult journal, but there’s nothing you can do. There’s no time to check bags or trudge through security lines. Hopefully you won’t have to board, but knowing your luck…

You’re about to go peeling out of the parking lot at top speed, when you turn your boot and feel the warm piece of metal pressed against your ankle. Shit. “God, this is stupid,” you curse, and drop onto a knee. You lose the pocket knife in your boot, then dig around for the loose rock salt shells rolling around in your pockets. There’s a visible pout on your face when you abandon your iron knuckles. Anything that’d be caught by security or picked up on a metal detector goes straight into the trunk.

When you pull your butterfly knife out of your bra, Sam is suddenly very interested in the color of the sky.

The boys follow suit. By the time you’re through the doors and among the harried, criss-crossing crowd of travelers, you’ve lost ten pounds in weapons each. Dean grumbles the whole way about feeling naked. Everything in the airport is overstimulating, even at this time of night. The long, endless squares of glass looking out over the runway reflect the too-bright lights in big glossy spots, and the air is flooded with a constant stream of intercom updates and civilian chatter. You duck and weave all the way to the departure schedule, which is just the right font size to make you anxious.

Sam scans the chart. “They’re boarding in thirty minutes.”

Shit. You wrack your mind for something that could coax Amanda off her flight. But the gears in your head are suddenly muddy, and Dean’s faster than you, anyway. His eyes dart around the floor of the airport. “Okay… we still got some cards to play. We need to find a phone.”

Sam and Dean dart off like twin bomb-sniffing dogs. You move to follow them, but something tethers you in place. The buzzing, bustling commotion in the air pitches up, and then your ears are ringing, and your whole body is stinging with the ugly leeching feelings from before. The demon. It’s close.

You blindly walk in the direction your internal Winchester compass gives you, and just when Dean’s about to take a courtesy phone off its hook, your body extracts the phone from his hand on autopilot. For a brief flickering moment, you’re not yourself. Your powers talk through you.

Your Gift foresees, “That won’t work. Your only option is to board the plane.”

The boys exchange an unsettled look. For a second you’re confused why they’re giving you their Freaked Out faces, then you feel the hollow plastic of the phone in your hand, and you realize you’re a whole twenty feet from where you started. Man… you hate the whole psychic-possession thing. Just for fun, your Gift loves to take over and course-correct you when it thinks you’re being stupid. You drop the phone back on its hook with a heavy click. It takes Dean a second to answer, and he’s still giving you that look. After a long pause, he knocks up his chin and not-so-happily mutters, “...Uh, okay.”

Sam, at least, has learned to roll with your weird psychic bullshit. His voice is soft with conviction. “Fine. Plan B, then. We gotta get on that plane.”

You run your palms down your face, then steel yourself. There’s no other way, and no time to second-guess. Even your Gift has decided it’s your best plan. “Okay. Fuck it.”

The usual authority in Dean’s voice hikes up with a note of panic. “Uh, woah. Let’s just hold on a second–”

“Dean,” you wince, and your hands drop heavily at your sides. “We gotta. I’m sorry.”

Sam, per usual, reads Dean’s hesitance as something else. “That plane is leaving with over a hundred passengers on board. And if we’re right, it’s gonna crash. We have to–”

You watch as they have their usual back and forth; Sam, eager to throw himself at this, and Dean gnawing on the inside of his cheek. It’s easy for you to sense the steam of real, nail-biting terror radiating off your best friend. You feel Dean’s fear all the time–and even then it’s hard for you to picture him being afraid of much of anything, much less planes. It’s even harder for Sam to look past his little brother glasses.

“...Flying?” Sam puts it together. His voice is understanding, but super confused. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Dean flails. He fists his hands as he talks, swaying back and forth to try and work up the nerve. He glances at you, the only other witness to his weakness, just once. “Why do you think I fuckin’ drive everywhere, Sam?”

Sam is genuinely stunned. Slapped-in-the-face stunned. But he takes it in stride, and, also glancing at you only once, he blurts out: “Alright. Uh, I’ll go.”

The anticipation of boarding the flight is making your skin prickle with anxiety, and you can’t help but inch back toward the ticket counter as they talk. But when Sam says this, without question or complaint, you’re instantly stepping up to his side and demanding, “Then I’m going with you.”

You brace yourself to shut down the argument you know is coming, but this Sam continues to be different from the guy you knew four years ago. This answer is just as easy for him, too. “Okay.”

Not, you’re staying here, or even, I won’t let you risk yourself like this. Just a plain and simple, okay. It bugs you. You don’t even have time to dwell on it, though, because Sam’s blatant courage tugs Dean over his fear.

“Man…” Dean utters, face twisted with nervousness. He gives in with a helpless scrunch of his shoulders, and taking that as permission, Sam twists around to buy your tickets not two seconds later.

You both watch him rush off, neither of you over the moon about this situation. Dean’s so anxious that his hands are clammy, and you can tell because he clutches at the sleeve of your jacket like a little kid. He knocks his forehead down on your shoulder with a groan, and your palm automatically loops around to give his back a soothing rub.

“This is fucking… awesome,” Dean gripes. “No guns. Can’t even bring a damn bottle of holy water. Is there some kind of psychic Xanax you can give me?”

Maybe some of your Gift drains into your voice when you promise, “We won’t have to worry about that. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Dean doesn’t make his Freaked Out face this time. He does, however, bump his forehead against your shoulder again, and sink into your touch with a rough sigh.

FLIGHT 424 - Dec. 4th.

You’d felt bad for Dean the whole time he’d struggled to get on the plane. Now, you kind of felt like choking him with your bare hands.

So many people crammed into one space was enough to flatten your Gift with the weight. Adding Dean to the mix, shoved shoulder-to-shoulder against you with his jitters ramped up to eleven, made you feel like picking your brain out with a fork. Your Gift ping-ponged between Dean and Sam, making you bounce between chattering your teeth with fear and thinking things like, wow, I just love the Dewey decimal system.

Maybe it was a good thing. You’d much rather be in one of their heads than yours.

All day, you’d done a pretty good job not obsessing over the things your mom had said over the phone. It was hard with so much time to marinate in the car, but the massive weight of the existence of demons only slammed on top of you once or twice. Boarding had managed to keep you occupied, but then the colossal body of the plane had shuddered and heaved its weight off the tarmac, leaving all chances for escape behind on the ground.

A part of you was resigned to it; it is a simple fact of your life that evil things are real. So what’s one more, right? But at the same time, you thought about the cross Sam wore under his shirt… you thought about being one of those things, being “made of lies,” like Mom had said. That, too, had been gnawing at you—what had she seen to learn all that? How did she know that a demon would “tear into your mind?” The Vague Psychic Thing is fun, until you’re on the receiving end.

“Can you sense who it’s possessing?” Sam’s smooth, calculating voice interrupted your thoughts.

…Oh, right. You’d gotten so swept up in your own head, no doubt influenced by Dean’s incessant foot-tapping, that you’d totally forgotten to scan the plane. Tilting away from Dean and his panic, you subconsciously shifted toward eerily calm, level-headed Sam. Just catching a wisp of the clean cologne he wears cools you down a little bit. Okay. No more freaking out—it’s game time.

You’d hoped that the white noise of the flight would settle your nerves, but the air tasted painfully sterile, dry, and cottony against the back of your throat. Everything felt like cold metal touching an open nerve. If the demon’s influence wasn’t making your powers touchy, then the woman across the aisle definitely was, oozing with homesickness as she watched Indianapolis shrink far below—or maybe it was the guy two rows back, replaying an argument again and again in his head—or maybe the other two hundred fucking people stuffing the plane with their boredom and their tiredness.

You push your knee into Sam’s. He pushes back.

After a tense beat, you whisper to him over the chatter of passengers, “Too many people. There’s no way I can narrow it down to one person—not unless they’re right in front of me.” Sam’s gaze turns expectantly to Dean, who’s still in full-on dissociation mode. He’d spent the whole boarding process humming tracks from St. Anger, and you knew he was really going through it, purely because he’d stopped and restarted Some Kind of Monster three different times now. Poor guy.

One of the things that made the three of you such a natural team was your ability to rotate leadership. In moments like these, with Dean way too wigged out to take charge, you’d usually step into his shoes without much trouble. But Sam has fielded your fainting spells and panic attacks all week, so he’s already got a pep-talk prepared for the two of you.

“...Okay.” Sam checks his watch. His voice still has that touch of classic Sam softness, probably because he knows how hard this is going to sound: “Stay focused. We got thirty-two minutes and counting to track this thing down, figure out who it’s possessing, and perform a full-on exorcism.” You’re about to make a comment about how blissfully easy he makes things seem, but Dean beats you to it. He snipes, “Yeah, on a crowded plane. That’s gonna be easy.”

You snap one of your bracelets against your wrist a few times, thinking. “Who would it want to possess?”

This gets Dean’s head in the game. Easily, he recites: “It’s usually somebody with some sort’a weakness, y’know, a chink in the armor that the demon can worm through. Somebody with an addiction or emotional distress.”

As he explains this, you unlatch Dean’s claws from their death-grip on your arm and give the top of his hand a little soothing pat. Your gaze remains fixed on the pattern of the seat in front of you. “For a regular demon, maybe. This thing might not even need a chink. It wants maximum damage here—so maybe it’d go for the pilot?”

This is not a soothing thought. Checking his watch again, Sam suggests, “Or Amanda… Surviving a crash like that? I’d be pretty messed up if I was her. We should check both.”

You’re happy to spend the little time you have left wisely, so you’re quick to push out of your seat and get moving. Dean puts on a brave face and follows your lead. There are only two ends of the plane to check—this thing can’t hide forever. Just when you start to do an awkward side-shuffle to nudge Dean out into the aisle with your hip, the whole plane thrashes top to bottom, and there he goes, dropping like a rock back into his seat. His spike of panic is so genuine that you end up dropping with him.

“Come on!” Dean hisses through his teeth. “That can’t be normal!”

You and Sam immediately get to shushing and soothing him, and suddenly you understand how married couples feel when their kid starts crying on a flight. Shifty eyes in other seats pretend they’re not glaring at you. Summoning as much strength as you can to share with him, you drop a hand on Dean’s shoulder and order: “Breathe, dude. You’re okay.”

“I’m not fuckin’ four,” Dean whisper-shouts, sulking flat back into his seat.

“She’s right,” Sam whispers back. Should it be worrying you how much he’s been agreeing with you lately? Stern, he says, “Listen—if you’re panicked, you’re wide open to possession. So you need to calm yourself down. Right now.”

A weird part of you is grateful that Dean is having a rough go of it, because it’s giving you something to focus on. You’re usually pretty good with planes. But for a minute there, when the turbulence had hit, your mind had defaulted to oh shit, this is real, we’re all going to die. A slideshow of the last crash had blitzed through your thoughts. Thoughts that had nothing to do with the anxiety you were picking up from Dean.

You know you despise it when Dean uses his Parent Voice on you, so you try not to use it on him when you urge, “C’mon. I think Amanda’s in the back of the plane. I’ll check up front.”

Dean gives an unconvinced, “I’ll go talk to her,” then makes grabby hands at Sam’s pockets, “pass me one of the hand-sanitizers. Fuckin’ uh, pumpkin latte—don’t gimme that face, _____, not all of us can tell with just a look. What if it’s in her?”

“It’s a bit more than a look—” you begin to clarify, but Sam stops your back and forth with a shake of his head. He pulls out the little orange plastic container of your pumpkin cupcake holy water and passes it to Dean.

“We should try to conserve what we got,” he warns, passing you the only other weapon against the demon (marshmallow pumpkin latte). “Go more subtle—if she’s possessed, she’ll flinch at the name of god.”

Now that you’re running out of both time and options, the second Dean unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out into the aisle on coltish legs, you take the opening and bolt out of your cramped middle seat. Anything you can do to get closer to finding this thing will make you feel loads better.

You start down the aisle. As the chatter of the boys fades into the all-encompassing thrum of the plane behind you, you take slow unhurried steps past each row of seats, soaking up what you can get. A girl listens to music in her headphones. A businessman clicks away at his laptop. Each of them you comb over with your powers, and each pass feels like scooping your hand into a bowl of tacks and waiting to get stabbed.

They’ll rip into your mind… take you apart if they have to, Mom had said. You waited for that moment, steeling your nerves the closer you came to the cockpit. If the demon’s on this side of the plane, and it sensed you, would it immediately press into your mind? Would just being near you snap its presence to you like a magnet? You didn’t like the mental feeling that gave you; the stark secret-seeking white of your Gift clashing with the black choking smoke that’d been chasing you all week. When you spoke to a spirit through your Gift, it felt like you were touching fingertips through a curtain. Would it be like that? Would this demon press its claws through the veil and dig around for something to tear, to grab?

The other flight attendant on board pushes past you with her cart, leaving no barrier between you and the cockpit. Behind you, bobbing in a sea of blurry people, your Gift could distinctly make out Sam (practicing the exorcism) and Dean (talking to Amanda). You’re just a few paces from the front exit of the plane when a man emerges from the bathroom cabin, and—

He twists to meet eyes with you. Expecting you.

You’re flashed a clever, haunting smile, then—a set of glossy void-black eyes.

You wait for it. And in its own way, the presence of the demon does overpower you, bringing the heavy-as-the-sky, parasitic feeling from your visions into the real world. For a long ringing moment, you are blasted with dark leeching power hot enough to singe the entire front of your body—like a nuclear bomb had dropped down just a few steps from you. It is spidery and vicious and knowing and awful—

…but the conquering sensation never comes. Beth had said that it would root into your mind, that just feeling it with your Gift, as you are right now, would tear you to pieces. Yet all that really happens is you staring at it and it staring at you, before it shoulders its way through the cockpit door and disappears inside. The only thing you really experience is the shock of seeing it in somebody, puppeting around a person with dreams and thoughts and memories.

For a few moments, you suck down heaving breaths through your nose and stare at the closed door.

Something about it nagged at you. Besides the obvious—how different it felt compared to what your mother had described—you swear you felt something else, some ringing sense of strangeness that you just couldn’t put your finger on. Maybe it was the fact that you’d just made eye contact with a real creature of hell, an evil spirit, whatever. But you made eye contact with evil spirits all the time. This was… closer to home than that. Underneath the writhing mass of bloody, black ink that made up the demon, your Gift had recognized something unimaginably familiar.

Sensing the demon in person had reminded you of… of a sensory memory, almost. It smelled like… warm static. The old staticy TV in your house, the ancient one that sat square and unattractively on your Mom’s slanting sideboard in the living room. You remembered her crystal ashtray propped up on the top, the fizzy sound the TV made when you’d shut it off…

On the nights when it was just you and Sam home, and the house felt so big and empty that the silence throbbed in your ears, the two of you would set up a fort in front of that TV and watch old horror movies well past your bedtime. The silly effects and the dated acting were easy to tease together. You’d much rather watch movies on the newer screen in your Mom’s room, but for whatever reason, Sam insisted on the clunker in your living room.

Y’wanna know somethin’ cool? He’d asked you once, running a finger through the film of static bubbling on the surface of the glass. A little bit of the static in TVs is actually radiation leftover from the Big Bang. How weird is that? Something so old and powerful, picked up by this random piece of junk.

Sam always crashed first, leaving you alone with the white static the TV defaulted to when the movie ended. You could vividly remember how your shoulders bumped against the hard floor through the thin sleeping bag the two of you had shared—how Sam’s warmth had seeped into your shirt where he was curled up behind you, his soft sleepy breaths tickling your hair.

When you’d pulled his arm around your waist to snuggle, a spark of static had shocked you through his touch. When you’d closed your eyes and tried to go to sleep, you swore that the ancient, cosmic hum of the static in the TV ebbed and flowed at the same exact time as Sam’s breath.

In. Bzzzsh. Out. Bzzzsh. Crackling as he breathed.

It wasn’t the demon you were scared of anymore. The ancient, ever-present sting of static you’d felt deep down inside it… that scared you a million, a billion times more, because—

You felt that static every time you felt Sam.

_

It’s like trying to describe the smell of your childhood home.

Logically, you know your house must smell like something. But when you’re in one place long enough your brain filters it out as background noise, and it becomes something you can only notice after a long time away.

You’d known Sam since you were in diapers. Back then, the meager threads of your Gift were already taking him in and absorbing him into your memory. Eventually, you felt him so often that all the pain and optimism in his core, all the stuff that made Sam himself, had smoothed out into warm, familiar background noise to your Gift.

Then he’d left for Stanford. Four years passed, and the only exposure your Gift had to him was the flimsy thread stretched two thousand miles down to California. Because it’d been so long since you’d sensed him in person, hugging him outside his apartment had been like stepping into your home after a long time away—for a brief moment, the filter over your psychic perceptions of him had lifted. You’d sensed for the first time what had always been there, buried deep. The Static.

At the time, you’d gotten so swept up in Sam, Dean, and the adventure of finding their Dad, that it was easy to get sidetracked. Things came up. You got used to Sam again, and his Static faded to background noise.

Until you’d felt that demon with your Gift.

A demon. A creation of Lucifer. You’d always remember what Sam felt like—you’d never forget the smell of home—but in one of them?

Your mind whirls with so many questions that it flat-out pops, failing you. Pulled along on a cloud of white noise, you somehow manage to turn away from the cockpit and start back down the aisle. The demon is possessing the pilot. You have forty minutes, less than, to exorcize it and save the two hundred people on this flight. These are all truths floating around in your head, but no matter how much you try to circle back to one, the static of the demon overcomes you again.

Static. You think of Sam, the crackle of his soft raspy voice through the phone. Your heart is pounding in your ears, thudding away in your chest like a piston. The static had burned in the demon, burned like busted speakers and smoking plane wreckage. Little pins all over your skin pressing in. The space you have until you make it to Sam’s seat seems to yawn, your footfalls sluggish and shivery. Why do they feel the same? Why does he feel the same? The static of the demon worms under your fizzing skin, bubbling, boiling—

You stop in front of Sam’s row, and he’s already looking at you when you get close. He asks you a question. You stare at him, the whole world filled with that awful roaring buzzing, the air tight and dessert dry in the back of your throat. Even though he’s right in front of you, you feel like you barely see him—just the vague burning outline of him in your powers.

Sam reaches out to grab your wrist, tugging it away from the long marks you’re viciously scratching into the flesh of your arm. The touch of his hand causes a literal static shock to jolt from his fingers to yours. You yelp in surprise, but it’s—

It’s different. There’s a similarity, definitely, between what you sensed in the demon and what’s always been in Sam… but his Static is hot chocolate warm and fuzzy and so good. Melt-in-your-mouth good. Your surroundings filter back in, and there are his soft, worried eyes looking up at you under his brow, and his big hand soothing over the irritated skin you’ve scratched raw. Sam. The same Sam he’s always been.

…Whatever it is, whatever weird connection you’ve just made, you’re sure there’s a lot more to it than Sam having something in common with a demon. Right?

Sam takes one look at you, your insane reaction, and your mysterious reappearance, then easily puts two and two together: “One of the pilots?”

“Co-pilot,” you tell him, and one of your absent-minded hands drifts up to scratch at your arm again.

And again, Sam fishes his fingers around your wrist and pulls it away. Now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t un-notice it. His touch makes your fingertips and the ends of your ears tingle, and not completely in the boy-crush way. In the psychic way.

He asks, “You gonna be okay? We got twenty-two minutes.”

That jolts you back to life. Twenty-two minutes until this plane is smoking ashes in a Pennsylvania cornfield. Though the last ten minutes have easily overcomplicated all twenty-four years of your life, you won’t have a life period if you don’t see this job through. When Dean returns from investigating a very un-possessed Amanda, he feels the exact same way.

Your resolve hardens, and you manage to give Sam an absent-minded smile. “I’ll be fine.”

There’s no time for arguing. Dean and Sam unanimously agree that the only possible place to exorcize the demon would be in the back, where Amanda is, since you can’t exactly jump the guy in the middle of economy. You don’t exactly like the idea of roping her into this, but Amanda’s the only one who could potentially lure that—thing to the rear of the plane. It is the world’s shittiest ambush. But by the time the three of you decide what to do, you’ve burned ten whole minutes on anxious chatter. A shitty ambush is the only plan you’ve got.

Dean starts down the aisle for the back of the plane. You stare at nothing for a beat, and only remember to get out of your seat when Sam nudges your elbow. He presses his lips together like he wants to ask you the million-dollar question (“Are you sure you’re okay?”), but there is literally no time. In a haze, you shuffle out of your seat after Dean and make a feeble attempt to get your head into gear. Sam does not make it easy. One of his broad hands brushes against the small of your back as you both squeeze out of the row, and you feel like you’ve just gone down one of those static-charged plastic playground slides.

Your Gift is exaggerating it. It has to be, right? Making big connections out of little things, picking at a fresh bruise. For weeks, you’ve been crammed into a little car with Sam, into teeny motel beds with him with no room between you. Why hadn’t you felt it? Why now? Not when you were four, napping in the same bed after playtime—not when you were twelve, and Sam was the first person outside your family that your Gift had connected with. Had it always been there, living inside him? Had you missed it?

You reach the back of the plane. Amanda is there, a pale, blonde flight attendant straight out of a commercial. You are dully aware that you have twelve minutes left before the demon makes its move, always on the forty-minute mark (...and you don’t like the line suddenly drawn between Sam and such an old, biblically evil thing).

The boys talk. A familiar conversation occurs over your head, which might be why it’s easy for you to tune out. Your mind returns again to thoughts of Sam, so intense and loud in your head that it all fizzles out to nothing, and you’re left standing there with the air pressure making your ears ring. Sam. The demon. It’s stupid and intangible and you’d have no fucking clue how to explain it out loud, but your Gift is made to find the truth. Something inside that demon exists in Sam, too. Something.

You try to reassure yourself that maybe, just this once, your Gift is wrong. Maybe this is the demon getting into your mind—learning your deepest fears and bringing them to life.

Sure enough, Dean’s charm and Sam’s earnest face must win Amanda over, because she flits out of the back room like a frightened bird. The boys peer through the curtain to watch her go, the two of them as still and sharp-eared as twin watchdogs. You’re slapped back to life by the sudden tension in the room, and quickly scuttle up behind them. Right. Amanda’s getting the co-pilot. These next ten minutes will determine the rest of your life.

In the same beat, you and Dean ready your holy water, and Sam gets the written exorcism from their dad’s journal out in front of him. There’s no need for the three of you to say a word. An understanding passes between each of you, hammered in from years of hunting as a team. Sam slides up next to you and Dean gives you a firm nod, squashing your last wisps of fear. You’re here to do a damn job.

A man’s voice floats toward the closed curtain to the back room, followed not-so-closely by Amanda’s. You’re glad she’s not the first one into the room—because Dean instantly slams a fist into their face.

The co-pilot—or really, the thing inside him—goes sprawling. You’ve got a strip of duct tape bridled over his mouth before he even fully collides with you, and for the blissful moment you have him pinned, Dean gets another fierce hit in.

While he’s still stunned, you whip the co-pilot to the grated metal floor. Dean clambers on top of him and keeps him there with a firm fist twisted in his rumpled button-up.

Amanda panics, “W-what are you doing? Y-you said you we-were gonna talk to him—!”

“We are gonna talk to him,” Dean grits.

Then, you’re hosing him down with holy water, splashing it brutally in the man’s pain-twisted face. Your gut clenches with empathy. Did the demon leave his body already? You’re terrified for a moment that you got the wrong guy… until you smell the smoke. It’s not just sulfur, but full-on dead body bloat, steaming up from the big black boils that spring up where the holy water hits skin. You get a mouth and noseful vile enough to make you gag. This thing fighting you? This is definitely not a man.

Amanda watches the demon’s skin sizzle, the usual terror and confusion on her face. “O-oh my god, what’s wrong with him?”

You pour all the psychic clarity and calmness into your voice when you whip around and tell her: “It’s going to be okay. Be calm, go outside the curtain, and don’t let anybody in. Can you do that, Amanda?”

You don’t stop to listen to her answer. Sam’s already tearing through the opening to the exorcism at ninety miles an hour, his pronunciation punchy and fatally clear. That had been one of the less exciting parts of the five-hour drive here; when Sam had run through it over and over, re-training himself. One misspoken word could get everyone on this plane killed.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

The demon thrashes viciously in your grip, twisting and contorting under Dean in ways the human body can’t bend. Bile rises in your throat as you hear a snap, then two, as the demon does everything it can to buck Dean off. By the time you go to stun it with another splash of holy water, it’s more of a dribble. That’s your first mistake.

Two people are not nearly enough to keep this thing down. It gets a hand loose that instantly sends Dean flying, and before you even see where he lands, it cranks your head all the way to the left in one vicious slap.

Your whole face is blasted with red, stinging pain. You go down hard, smashed sideways into the cramped wall.

The pain stuns you out of the headspace you built to distract yourself, and all at once the presence of the demon is thrust upon you. The black, molten psychic power of it crackles through your body, filling your nose and mouth with the same terror hanging in your visions all week. Until you realize— It fucking backhanded you.

Trying to see past the dots swimming in your vision, you mindlessly shove off the wall, snarling with rage. No fucking way.

And then it speaks (to Sam?), and in the fizzing noise of pressure in your ears you hear it promise, “I know what happened to your girlfriend!” The constant stream of Sam’s exorcism stops cold.

When the demon speaks again, its voice, a spectral twist of the co-pilot’s and something older, drooled with pleasure. “She died screaming,” it rasped, “Even now, she's burning.”

A lot happens in the next precious seconds. First, the little circular light flushed flat to the back cabin’s ceiling explodes. Just—bursts, in shock, spraying sparks and glass all over the little room. You’re stunned enough as it is getting hit in the face, so one more thing to fuck up your vision doesn’t help. But you heard what the demon said to Sam. Through the suffocating evil flooding your mind, you feel the sharp spike of hurt and rage and grief in your best friend—and that’s the precise moment when you decide that you’ve had e-fucking-nough.

These last few days have not been winners. And though you live a pretty shitty life with an impressive amount of shitty days, even before you got to Pennsylvania, your streak of bad luck had only just gotten started. This demon has screwed with your Gift on an unimaginable level. Your last few nights have been plagued with nightmares straight from hell, and your days haven’t been much better, riddled with useless visions that get more and more disconnected every time you faint. It made it even more obvious than usual that you’re deadweight for Sam and Dean. They had to handle your boiling water burns and your freakouts, not to mention your mood swings and your unhelpful visions.

The demon hurt Dean, which is enough to get your teeth grinding. And Sam—it had cut him much deeper.

You wanted to tear it apart. You wanted to reach into it the same way it had reached into you, dig in with your nails, and rip something out. Your mom’s words buzz in your head: contact, truth, lies, rip, apart. Rationally, you know you should listen to her warning. If just looking into its eyes has forever changed your view of the man you’ve loved since you were little, then looking deeper could kill you—scramble your mind. You know that. But beside the rage and exhaustion fizzing under your skin is this desperate need to know.

Demons are made of lies. What if it was lying about Sam? What if it had screwed with your Gift in some new way, tweaking the image of him in your mind? It had to be lying. The Static in him, as warm and as good as you swore it was—it came from something evil. Sam. The man you love, the boy you’d fallen in love with, his soft sleepy breaths as he lays on the floor beside your bed, his freckly arms swimming in his too-big sleeves. How could any part of him be evil? He couldn’t be. N-not your Sam. How could he ever have something like that inside him?

You need to be sure. Consequences be damned.

As the demon rears up to keep snarling in Sam’s face, you slap a hand over its forehead—reach in—and start ripping.

_

She died screaming.

Sam can’t pull a full breath in. The words burn through his body like a syringe of poison, spreading from limb to limb. The demon snarls up at him, its foamy spit hitting Sam’s face and its teeth snapping around Jess’s name—until.

_____’s hand seals over the demon’s face. The demon’s jaw snaps shut. There is a terrible hanging moment where Sam’s brain struggles to connect the touch to what she’s doing; she never, ever psychically connected with the full face of her palm tattoo. Even with her mom Sam knew she put up a barrier, reading Beth with the smooth back of her knuckles instead.

Shit. Another fresh shot of horror lances through him. What the hell is she doing to it?

The effect is instant. Whatever button _____ had just hit, it activates every horror-movie, Exorcist-level instinct in the demon’s body. Surprised yelps echo down the back of the plane as the lights violently flicker. In electrified, strobing flashes, Sam sees it. The co-pilot’s body is diagonal on the floor one moment, and then it’s arching its back three feet in the air, lurching up into ______’s palm like she’d hit it with a defibrillator. The demon floats up and stays up.

…Until Dean brings it smashing back to the floor again, throwing his weight on top of the co-pilot. He barks, “Sam!” Right. Whatever she’s doing to it, it’s the only working distraction they’ve got. Slapped back to focus, Sam stutters out where he left off: “...O-omnis congregatio et secta diabolica—” It’s a blessing that he makes it through the next lines of the exorcism. Sam pours all of his willpower into keeping his eyes on the stained notebook page it’s written on, no matter how many times his gut begs him to check on her. All he can do is have faith. This is what she does—when Dean’s not strong enough and Sam’s too weak, she finds a damn way, come hell or high water. Sam has always had endless faith in that. So when the whole plane gives that terrible shudder that he was expecting, and then tips, and tips, and tips into a full pitch forward, Sam grips that faith with both hands. The demon’s power ripples through the rest of the plane. Everything descends into chaos. Past the curtain, the lights go out in one silent burst, followed by the explosive, concussive screams of the passengers as the oxygen masks drop. Movies are unfortunately good at capturing this precise moment, but nothing could ever replicate the way Sam’s belly swoops as all five hundred tons of the plane heads straight for the ground. Sam and Dean both go flying, crashing sideways into the walls of the back cabin. The turbulence rips the journal from his hands, and of course, with their fucking luck, it goes skidding through the curtain and down the aisle to ricochet under the seats. “Grab it!” Dean screams.

Sam can’t hear him. He staggers into the open doorway of the back cabin, clutching the frame for dear life. A terrifying, unnatural howl whistles through the cabin, even louder than the wails of the passengers. Its wind flutters his hair around his face and sends luggage toppling out of the overhead bins. For a moment, Sam wonders if the plane’s been hit or the demon has done something—but no. It’s her. He flattens himself to the floor—or rather, gravity flattens him—crawling on his belly towards the shadow of the journal under the seats. The passengers sob and shriek. The air is singed with smoky fear, and riding that same fear, Sam surges ahead, lunging for the book where it’s lodged between tossed luggage. He has to twist to get his hands on it, and it’s then that he feels it.

Down the aisle behind him, the wind drags luggage and loose papers into the void-like darkness of the back cabin—where the great, cleansing, sweeping power of her is fighting the demon. Sam believes in what he’s seen; Sam believes in angels.

She’ll buy him enough time. He knows she will.

Sam’s hands don’t shake as he pries the journal open to the right page.

“Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus,” he shouts, and the words ring as clear and clean as a bell. The plane tries to toss him again, but Sam grits his teeth and persists, “audi nos!”

He waits. Sam sees it more than he hears it. Deep in the blackhole darkness of the plane’s cabin, something red and fiery flashes to life… flickers… and dies.

Maybe he’s imagining it, but he swears he feels the demon fizzle out. The heaviness in the air melts away. The lights, which Sam realizes had been snapping on and off, turn on for good. The hissing of the turbines spins to its normal hum. The plane swooshes back up with a slow coasting motion, then sets itself back on its peaceful forward track.

Gasps and sobs of relief chorus all around Sam, and sprawled in the middle of the aisle, he finds himself doing the same. Overhead, the pilot’s voice crackles reassurances over the intercom. As big wuffs of air cycle in and out of Sam, he waits for the moment for his heart to stop thumping, for the big “we won” moment to wash over him—but it never really does. It sits with him. For a long terrible moment, he is on the bed in his apartment in Palo Alto, Jessica’s blood boiling holes in his neck.

Even now, she’s still burning.

INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - Dec. 5th, early morning.

Somehow, amid all the noise of swarming paramedics, feds, airline authorities, and stunned 424 passengers, Sam manages to remain lost in his own head. He clenches his jaw til’ his ears pop. How had it known about Jess?

The terminal is quickly packed. He’s not in airports often enough to know whether they should be packed at one in the morning, but he’s gonna guess not. It is all background noise for him. Passengers whirl past, getting cleared by cops to go home, and Dean subtly nudges the three of them into the leaving crowd. Sam has a vague notion that he’s putting one foot in front of the other, but everything feels distant and hazy. His neck blazes with that terrible tingling feeling, and he digs into it with his nails until Dean stops him.

“Sam,” Dean orders, dipping his head towards the direction of the parking lot. Apparently Sam isn’t cooperating well. “Let’s get the hell outta’ here.” For a brief moment, the awful burning feeling covering him in a fog parts long enough for him to think, and Sam realizes that he doesn’t know where _____ is. Panic lances through his chest so fast that he sobers all at once, and he opens his mouth to panic more—until he sees her, scrunched up behind Dean.

Well, clutching Dean. Left shameless by whatever she saw in that demon’s head, she’s got Dean’s hand and wrist in a deathgrip, trailing him so close that her shoes catch the heels of his boots. She does not look good. Her eyes are big and wide and she looks straight through everyone and everything, still tethered to the other dimension her powers live in. She’s got her elbows pressed into her ribs and her body bunched up so tight that Sam can almost feel her psychic overstimulation from where he’s standing.

“S’okay, sweetheart, ” Dean hushes, the first in a long, quiet string of reassurances.

Sam stares at her. Even if she’s in her own world, she must be able to feel it, ‘cause she physically leans out of his way. That should hurt him—should make him burn with sympathy—but instead, all he can think is, she would know. She would know if the demon was lying. Sam’s connected with her like that—there’s absolutely nothing to hide, even if you wanted to, so there’s no way she couldn’t see if the demon had been telling the truth.

The line of people seeping through security to get out of the airport slows to a stop, making way for the pack of paramedics hauling 424’s copilot away on a stretcher. The black boils from the holy water have left his body entirely.

He’ll ask her once. He has to try. Sam lets the two of them in front of him, Dean, then _____, almost pressing her face into Dean’s back. When they’re stopped in line, Sam lifts a hand to touch her—but stops himself, not wanting her to feel any worse. “_____,” Sam swallows, trying to keep his voice even. “What did you see? H-How did it know about Jessica?”

Before she even has the opportunity to answer, (if she can even hear him), Dean swings around to shoot Sam a pained look. “Dude, look at her. Now is not the fuckin’ time. Let her get a full breath in before you start with the interrogations, okay?”

Sam recoils. The gnashing, rebellious fire he usually saves for Dad pours out here, instead, and before Sam knows it he’s snarling back, “I can’t ask one question about my dead girlfriend?”

It lasts only for an instant, but Sam gets to watch in real time the way that hit lands. He’s aware that it’s deeply fucked up of him to enjoy throwing Jess in Dean’s face, but it is his backward, comforting reminder that she was a real person; not a four-year-long fever dream he invented to escape. No one says her name but him anymore. At least, when he talks about her, someone else is forced to feel something too.

Dean sets his jaw. He makes the mistake of trying to turn towards Sam, which _____ thinks is an attempt to shake her off—and she lets out this awful, hoarse sob sound that stops them both cold.

Sam feels like a rail spike has been driven through his chest. Dean gives him a look, then mercifully drops it.

Immediately, Dean’s wheeling her back in and soothing her. The angle at which she’s clinging to him is awkward for all three of them, so he endures her trembling and hitching little sobs as he peels off her hands and re-arranges them. Dean loops an arm around her back so he can stroke her shuddering shoulders, uttering, “S’okay, kiddo, s’ all over… ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you…”

And of course, because Sam can never exist in peace, he watches the way ______ drops all her weight onto Dean and feels his chest squeeze. Suddenly, he’s very aware of what four years have changed between her and his brother.

The rush back to the car is silent, but for _____’s little sniffling breathes. After making it out of the blistering lights of the chattering airport and out into the peaceful snowy parking lot, things calm down.

Four separate times Sam thinks about reaching out to comfort her. The Gift always leaves her freezing cold, and early December in Indiana on top of that has her making audible little shivering sounds as they walk. Sam’s boiling under his coat. He unzips it, then zips it up again, unsure if she’d even want it. Dean gets her in the car and puts a warm blanket around her before Sam can get over his indecision.

They just saved two hundred people. In hindsight, that’s a massive win. Maybe if the demon hadn’t said what it’d said, and maybe if it hadn’t reduced her to this, Sam could celebrate. Seeing her so messed up always throws him. Less than an hour ago, she was the powerful psychic that used to have Dad clutching his telepathy-blocking charm under his shirt.

Sam scrubs his hand down his face, staring blankly at the trembling lump of blanket lying across the backseat. Now, she’s… whatever she saw in that demon.

Dean tucks her feet up onto the seat, then nudges the door closed with his hip. Sam stares past him, through him, at her silhouette in the Impala’s dark glass, because that’s somehow easier than looking at Dean.

The smattering of snow growing on the asphalt makes the whole world sound muffled. Sam feels like he’s talking to empty air when he croaks, “It knew about Jessica.”

“Sam,” Dean calls, softer this time. Asking for Sam to look at him. When he manages to heave his head up, Dean’s face is firm and reassuring. “These things—they read minds. They lie, just like Beth said. That’s all it was. Don’t let that thing get into your head, okay?”

Sam forces himself to nod. They both spare the shaking shape in the backseat one more look, then Dean’s rounding the car for the driver’s seat, and Sam’s sliding in next to him without another word.

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 5th, night.

Green. It had to be the ugliest color a motel room could be, Sam thought as he stared at the empty room. The walls were this sad limey green color that managed to look awful even in the dark, some parts made even limey-er by the huge neon green vacancy sign right outside their window. Their room was parked right next to it, so there was no escaping the sign even with the curtains pulled shut.

You and Dean, who were positioned right under the ugly green light, had somehow managed to fall asleep anyway. The only sound in the whole world was your soft breathing across the room and the crackle of the ancient TV.

Right now, it was playing a rerun of some televangelist in a big shiny white suit. He paced the screen on mute as Sam watched, curled on his side, laying diagonal to face the screen. Nightmares were so common for him now that the hardest part of the battle was getting to sleep in the first place. His strategy was to get so bored and so tired that his body would simply have nothing else to do but crash. Bored was the key word—Sam had tried reading, sudoku, and counting cars as they whisked by, but all of that occupied his mind too much to work. Tonight was another night where his mind was just too full to sleep.

He hoped Dean was right. He prayed that the demon had just been lying, lips pressed to the cross he kept under his shirt. Most days, Sam dropped into bed and sent off a brief prayer before the fight for sleep began. Tonight, though—tonight was one of those nights where he clasped his cross in both hands and poured his heart out. Sam prayed for his brother, his Dad, and for you, like usual, pleading for protection and strength. Sam prayed for Jessica, too.

(But never for her forgiveness—he knew he didn’t deserve that).

When Sam had first started getting comfortable with prayer, he’d always worried that he was being greedy or selfish by asking for so much. Health, food, lunch money, for Dad and Dean to get home okay. Now, it’s a natural comfort to him. To open yourself up to something higher than you, to give up your pride and ask for help—that is a mark of holiness. Goodness. Sam closes out his prayers and feels clean.

Across the room, Sam hears the covers in the opposite bed shift. He squints sleepy eyes at your silhouette, and even sluggish and drained, the shifting colors from the TV and the vacancy sign illuminate you like something not entirely from this world.

You pad over to his bedside. A soft, ice-cold hand shakes his arm. When you get up close and realize Sam’s awake, you scuttle back in surprise. “Uh.”

Sam shoves his face into his pillow. With his mind still on Jess, it’s hard for him to look at you right now. “What is it?”

It’s funny. From the moment you got off flight 424, you’d been glued to Dean’s side. Sam had kept his teeth pressed together through the entire thing, watching from a distance as you reached for Dean, spoke to Dean, took the food Dean gave you. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d figure you were avoiding him. Now you’ve decided you want something from him?

The second you touch his arm, every wisp of jealousy in Sam dries up. Not at all in the mood to be touched, he squirms out from under your hand and hoarsely repeats, “What?” You speak to him for the first time in hours. You sound rough and broken, and the edge of that awful sob from earlier today threatens to tip into your voice. “Can I…?”

Sam keeps his face planted in the pillow. At first he’s unsure what you’re even asking for—until you drop a hand on the mattress and he feels your weight tilt closer, wanting to… to lay with him. Like when you were little. When you share beds on the road, there’s often space left between you. That’s not what you’re asking for. If that’s what you wanted right now, you’d be in Dean’s bed.

The soft, choked little voice he can’t resist begs, “I just need to feel you.”

The last sliver of guilt and self-loathing that Sam has been holding onto instantly slips out of his grasp, hearing that. For the millionth time since this morning, he’s reminded of how awful he was to you. You’d been brought to the brink with your powers in a way they hadn’t seen in years, and Sam chose that precise moment to freak out. He wished he’d been better to you. Maybe he can’t pray for Jess’s forgiveness, but he can work to earn yours now.

Sam shuffles back on the mattress and opens the covers for you. “C’mere.”

As quiet as a mouse, you duck under his arm and slip under the covers. Sam immediately realizes that he should’ve fucking braced himself or something, because holy shit, you are so close. He accidentally gave you very little room in the already small bed. To keep from tumbling off the mattress and onto the questionable carpet, you reasonably and logically slot right up against him, your back against his chest and your heads on the same pillow. Holy shit, he did not think this through. Sam has very few gentlemanly places to lay his arm. And even if he found one, your icy cold hand picks up his warm one and—right, okay, you take it and wrap it right around your middle. That’s fine too. Cool. Awesome.

Okay. Forgetting every way he could sabotage this for himself for just a moment, Sam realizes that he missed this. God, he missed it so much. You wiggle back into his body and Sam gives you a big, indulgent squeeze around the tummy, earning this watery little sigh that makes his already racing heart zing out into orbit. Friendly snuggling became a lot less friendly when you were pushing seventeen instead of nine, so Sam hasn’t allowed himself to properly, um… cuddle you… in ages.

That isn’t even the best part. That little squeeze makes him realize just how pleasantly cold you are, a wonderful ice cube in blazing hot soup. Sam’s practically cooking under the covers—and that must be perfect for you and your chilly hands, because you make the same pitiful happy noise that Sam does as you get comfortable against each other.

Maybe if this were any other moment, after any other day, that would be something you might laugh about together. Instead, Sam’s prayers are filled with you and your incredible burden. He hesitates to go all in and hold you like he wants to… until your breath makes that tight, hitching sound again, and Sam’s sure you’re holding back tears. Screw it, Sam thinks. He’ll take care of you this time. Sam presses his face into your hair and entwines your hands on your belly, unsure of what to say and yet wanting to say so much. Dean can’t hold you like this—this is something you only want from Sam.

You both go still. Sam feels you hold your breath. His legs are itching to shift under the covers and your hand awkwardly holds his, the two of you afraid to disturb the magic.

Your thumb slowly caresses along the flat side of his hand. His heart leaps into his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to relax. You need this. Finally, it’s his turn to comfort you.

Sam swallows hard. There’s no way you can’t feel his heart thudding away, inches from popping clean out of his chest. Neither of you are stupid. If Dean were to wake up, you know exactly what this would look like to him—to the cleaning lady, to the strangers out on the street. But right now, in this frozen moment, there’s no one awake in the world but the two of you and the TV. It is so, so wrong. But when you touch him, Sam feels clean.

Bit by bit, you adjust to one another. Your breath syncs up. The whole time, your eyes never move from the TV, but if Sam focusses he swears something washes over him—that same great, sweeping, cleansing power from the plane, as light as moth wings on his skin. He has to bite back his smile. If you did that to anyone else, they’d find you creepy as hell.

After what feels like forever, you plainly croak, “It was lying about her. It was made of lies.”

That hits Sam like a slap to the face. That’s… yeah. That sounds right. He absorbs the impact as best he can, because although his faith was thin, Sam trusted Dean’s word and he trusts yours, too. There’s—so much that he feels about that, but he doesn’t want any more of his grief to overwhelm your Gift. Sam’s not naive. No matter how good of a person you are, no matter how considerate and understanding and empathetic you can be, Sam knows that talking about Jessica brings you some level of pain. It hurts him, too. And he has zero clue where that conversation would even begin, so he stores his shame and his loss and gives a shaky nod.

Instead, Sam asks, “...What did you see? When you looked into its head?”

Right. Cause’ that was such a better question to ask her, Sam.

You go silent. It’s a weighty, knowing silence, one that chokes the whole room. Sam readies himself for whatever you’re about to share with him. Admittedly, he’s curious. When the Gift was something new in your life, Sam used to pile on question after question about what the world felt like to you. ‘What does it feel like when Dean’s happy?’ A car motor turning on. ‘What does my happiness feel like?’ Dimples and a mystery being solved. ‘You’re joking.’ Not even a little. It fascinated Sam—how does a demon feel in comparison to a regular spirit?

“...It was just an evil spirit, Sammy,” you dismiss. “That’s all.”

Sam highly doubts that’s true. If it was just a spirit, then why did it screw with you so deeply? What had you seen in its head that had scared you? You, of all people, who was built for this? He knows there’s something more here, but after this week and all the ways you’ve fought to avoid being a burden, the fact that you’d crawl to Sam for comfort is a sign of surrender. You’ve given up. Clearly, you don’t want to talk about it. Sam isn’t going to push you. God knows he’s done that enough.

When Sam doesn’t push you, you shudder out a wet sigh and pick up his hand. At this point, Sam expects you in this state to do something weird—and sure enough, you do. You pick up Sam’s hand and you just stare at it. Just stare. Your thumb presses into the meat of his palm, almost like you’re looking for something. Feeling him. Sam’s heart gives another pathetic, noticeable throb. Feeling him and being close to him is, after everything, still a source of comfort for you. His cheeks burn.

Just to fill the silence, Sam whispers, “I’ve lost a lot of my calluses.”

Per usual, his little creep says nothing. You’re still feeling him. Your other hand comes up to investigate too, adding even more soft gentle touching to Sam’s already overloaded system. Your thumbs press into the center of his palm (reading it, maybe?), then over each bump, confirming for yourself that Sam’s real.

Maybe he’d be a bit more resilient if you were doing this to him in a crowded diner or a rowdy college party. Instead, Sam can feel the rise and fall of your breath through your thin shirt, and it’s the only sound in the dead world besides the buzzing static on the TV.

Your gaze turns to the TV. The fingers caressing his hand stop cold.

Sam says your name. He can feel your heart thud thud thudding deep in your chest, like rabbit’s feet hitting snow.

Again, absorbed completely in your own task, you don’t answer him. You roll over very suddenly under the covers. Sam hopes for a minute that being face to face with you will give him some answers, but the flash of your face he sees only serves to scare the shit out of him. You give him no time to process before you’re full-body hugging him, shoving a hand between his side and the mattress and fisting one in his shirt to bodily haul him against you. Sam sputters out a sharp noise and awkwardly slopes his hands down your back. The sudden intimacy gives him a whole world of shameful butterflies and freaks him out enough, but…

You looked terrified. The same bone-deep horror you had on your face after you saw the demon in person—when you trudged up to Sam with those haunting Proctor eyes, staring straight through him and right at his future. What had you seen in that demon?

Sam tries to speak, but you talk over him, just as haunted as you’d been on that plane.

“I love you. So much, Sam. You know that?”

It’s not a sweet, reminiscent kind of question. It is a genuine, unironic, please-tell-me-the-truth, You know that?

Sam’s brain stalls. “...Yeah. O-Of course.”

In case that wasn’t worrying enough, your hands needily grasp at his back, refusing to let Sam go as you duck your face into his shoulder. Sam can feel your entire body trembling from head to toe, can feel your hot breath on his neck choking back tears. “You’re a good person,” you tell him, insisting. “The best to me.”

“That’s—”

“I can feel it, okay?” You snap. One of your hands slips up his chest to smooth over Sam’s heart, and you squeeze him against you, promising, “Here. Right here.”

…Okay. Consider him officially freaked out. Sam manages an unconvinced, “...Thank you.”

You’re so wound up that you’re gritting your teeth, digging your nails into his shirt and clawing him as close as possible. This has to be an effect of what you saw. Which is strange, because that… whatever that was, did not feel like psychic possession or a psychic panic attack or any kind of psychic anything. It felt like you, trying to convince Sam that he’s a good person. It strikes a cold, dark chord somewhere deep within him that he doesn’t like. You’re just… you’re just reacting to what the demon showed you. You’re overwhelmed from stretching your Gift so thin. T-that’s. Yeah. Regardless, you’re scared. You need him. That, at least, is something he can work with.

“Shh,” Sam coos. He rubs a warm hand from the base of your scalp all the way down your back, then up, and back again, repeating the soothing motion until his arm goes numb. “You’re tired. Let’s go to sleep.”

You mumble something non-committal under your breath.

Sam hushes you, blindly reaching for comforting things to say. “S’ okay. You’re okay, baby. You can fall asleep on me.”

Maybe the demon showed you visions of Sam getting hurt. Something. That would explain this, maybe. He fixates on it, purely because it’s a problem in front of him that is much easier to think about than how scared he is for you, and worse, how much he loves this. Being your person. It’s a stupid, selfish thought to have in a moment like this, but—Sam wishes he could take care of you like this all the time.

As your frantic breathing smooths out into a clear, easy in-and-out, Sam wonders, wherever Jess is, what she would think if she saw this.

He closes his eyes and tries to steady his own breathing, the TV still crackling away on the dresser.

In. Bzzzsh. Out. Bzzzsh.

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydennyy @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan

[jasntodds]

Petrichor [6]

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Powered!Reader (little bit of fwb)

Words: 17,546 (next chapter is at most 10k i promise lol) 

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, angst, canon violence, blood, bruises, mentions of nightmares, ptsd, jason is a little bit of an asshole, mentions of being tortured, mentions of the roof scene, mentions of being kidnapped, yes i did put an utrh reference in here, i eventually fix things with bruce later

Summary:❝Pylades: I’ll take care of you. Orestes: It’s rotten work. Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you.❞

Gotham is home, not just for Jason but for you, too. And now that you’re both finally back home, together, you’re ready to see where this next chapter brings the two of you. He’s your best friend and you’re his. And you both might want a little something more with being back home, the place you both feel most comfortable. Surely, nothing could possibly go wrong now.

A/N: I tried to cut out some scenes from this chapter so I'm sorry lol but everything comes back at some point so it's important. I'm super excited for next chapter lol Also idk if you guys look at my chapter titles but sometimes, 2 chapter titles go together and this is one of those cases and I am so sorry lol It's from the song Destroy Me by PALESKIN if you were curious lol I hope you guys like it!! If you want context from book 1, let me know and I’ll tell you!! You can add yourself to the tag list below, ask me to be tagged, or you can follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary and turn on notifications if you prefer that!! I love feedback, I swear it keeps me posting on a weekly basis 😭

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By the time the next day comes, Jason and you are nearly as happy as you’ve ever been with each other. Finally, after everything that’s happened and after all these months, you have both the confirmation in your feelings. You have each other, wholly and solely. You are each other's and neither of you could possibly be happier. And for the first time, you're both doing your absolute best to ignore the anxiety that comes with that. For each other.

You both try to ignore the fear of one of you dying, or dying for each other. The fear of one of you leaving or giving up or pushing or running. For the first time, you both are finding it in yourselves to ignore those feelings because you are with the person you both trust the absolute most. And you both know, the other person deserves for you to suck up the fear and the anxiety and make a solid effort in not freaking out. Despite everything you’ve both ever known and been taught, you’re choosing each other and choosing to trust each other to always be by your sides. And you both are so happy. It’s practically euphoric.

“Good luck, Jay.” You offer Jason a sweet and gentle smile as you stand outside of Bruce’s car in front of a large house.

He is not thrilled about this. He’s done it before, several times. It’s exhausting seeing a new shrink, again, and having to tell the same damn stories over and over again. He gets the same diagnoses and that's the end of it. It never really helps. He’s left with another person knowing more about him than he would ever really like. It’s exhausting but it’s this or he’s not Robin anymore. Jason doesn’t give up that easily.

“Yeah.” Jason scoffs, looking to his shoes and back to you. “Thanks.”

“You’ll be fine and it’ll help.” Your smile grows as you pick his hand up in yours.

“We’ll see.” Jason chuckles softly. “Be here when I’m done?” Jason asks with the raise of his brows, hopeful.

In all honesty, you're masking this a bit more tolerable. You promised you’d always come with to drop him off and pick him up. Bruce doesn’t exactly trust you to drop him off. He thinks maybe you’ll ditch the appointments. So, you promise to come with and if you have to spend an hour with Bruce, you’ll do it for him. And he can then bitch to you all he wants about how the shrink doesn’t know shit and Bruce is ridiculous for making him do it. As long as he goes, you’ll be there. Before and after.

“Of course.” You chime, closing the distance between you and capturing his lips in a tender kiss.

“Would rather keep doing this.” Jason mutters against your lips as he snakes his hands onto your waist.

“Too bad.” You kiss him again. “Your mental state comes first, Jaybird.”

Jason chuckles against your lips. “Yeah, alright, princess.”

You laugh softly. “Okay, get in there before you’re late.” You pull away and your smile is gentle. “I love you.” You beam, smiling with full teeth and your eyes are brighter than Jason has ever seen before.

“Love you, too.” Jason chuckles as the fluttering of his heart nearly sends him into cardiac arrest.

You watch Jason walk up the driveway and to the front door before he knocks. You watch and wait until a woman greets him and allows him into her home. A part of you thought maybe he’d try to bail out of it. Actually make a solid effort to anyway. You almost expected him to walk up the driveway and then sprint behind the house and take off, leaving you and Bruce to chase after him. But there he is, going into a therapist’s house on his own and you're happy for him. Relieved.

You don’t always think therapy will help but nothing else is helping him and at the end of the day, he needs help even if he wants to insist he’s fine. Everyone else around him knows he’s not. The limp isn’t because he’s still hurt. You know Bruce well enough to know he would have Jason checked out by a doctor to verify he was fine. It’s in his head which makes it all feel the same as if there were something physically wrong with him. He needs help. And he thinks no one notices his hands and the terrified expression after a nightmare. He can’t work through all his problems alone and he never should have had to. And you're proud of him for doing it even if he’s only doing it so he can be Robin. The point is that he’s going.

“What do we do now?” You ask Bruce as you get back into the front seat.

Bruce almost laughs. You and Jason have been beating around the damn bush since you showed up and you're finally doing something about it. Of course, never mentioning what that thing is to him and he finds the whole exchange a little amusing. Bruce has never told anyone, but Jason has always reminded him a little bit of himself. But, Jason is his son and you clearly make him happy.

“We could grab lunch while we wait.” Bruce offers.

“That’s fine.” You offer Bruce a soft smile.

Your issues remain with him. A part of you thinks Jason’s problem is still Bruce. Bruce was a lot of Dick’s issue. Had Bruce gotten Dick into therapy instead of giving him a mask and a cape, maybe Jericho wouldn’t have died because Dick would have been able to handle his problems better. Or, at the very least, maybe Dick could have handled that entire situation better and it wouldn’t have led Jason and you after Dr, Light. Maybe it wouldn’t have led Jason to the roof that day. Dick is an adult who can handle his own problems, but he was just a kid who was never taught how and you think the same is said for Jason.

Jason’s case is a little different. He wasn’t thirteen when Bruce took him in. But, maybe Bruce still could have done better. You do, however, admire the fact he’s trying now and maybe that’s what matters. He’s here now and trying and doing the one thing that might actually help. Forcing him to get help before he’s Robin again. You will never admit that to anyone though. So, you just go along with him for lunch and try your best.

After lunch, Bruce and you head back to pick up Jason. He’s not feeling great after the therapy session. He was never one that liked it very much. He was tossed around between therapists and psychiatrists while he was in the system. It was always repeating the same story over and over again, none of them offering anything that ever really helped. It was always more a state requirement and not because anyone actually gave a shit where his mental health stood. This therapist seems different than the others but like with everyone, Jason isn’t sure he trusts her. He gave her the same spiel about his parents and asked about her because that seemed easier than the same old boring story. But, she at least communicated with him and that part was at least nice.

“So, how did it go?” You ask once you're back at the manor in your room and away from Bruce. “You don’t have to tell me what you talked about or anything. Just asking how it went.” You shrug with ease.

“Fine, I guess.” Jason shrugs his shoulders as he stands near your fireplace. “Still not fucking happy about it.” A chuckle leaves his lips.

“Figured.” You match the chuckle, leaning back onto your hands, the bed soft under your palms. “When do you go again?”

“Next week.” Jason scoffs.

“Well, I’ll be there for you.” You smile softly at him and Jason thinks that’s the only upside. At least you’ll be there before and after.

“Yeah, thanks.” Jason lets out a breath. “Okay, well fuck that shit.” He approaches you, his eyes narrowing slightly as a smirk splits his lips. “Get ready. We’ve got a date to have.” He leans down, resting his hands on either side of you.

He’s tired of talking. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s going to do everything in his power to avoid it today. It’s too heavy and he wants today to be perfect. It’s your first date. Officially, as a couple.

“Oh, we’re going soon?” You perk up as your stomach swirls. This is real. It’s happening.

“Hell yeah. Got a whole fucking night planned, babe.” His voice is low and the way he smiles like this, the light hits his canines just right and it looks like he has small fangs. He’s so endearing.

“What are we doing?” You beam with excitement as you wrap your arms around his neck.

“You’ll see. Go get ready.” Jason urges, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Okay, Jay.” You peck his lips before Jason pulls up and lets you out of his grasp.

You get up and go to get ready. And Jason starts to feel nervous.

Technically, him and Rose never went on an official date. They mostly ran around Gotham, doing busts and then spent more of their time hiding out in someone’s house. There were no official dates. And come to think of it, Jason doesn’t think he’s ever done this before and he’s thinking maybe he went a little overboard with what he has planned. But he knows you better than anyone and he knows what you like. But then he comes back to realizing maybe he doesn’t know what you would like in forms of a date, it might be different than your usual thing. He’s just hoping he doesn’t royally fuck this up like he tends to have a habit of doing.

You meet Jason back in his room. You don't do much with your hair or your makeup, keeping both mostly the same as usual but you wear one of your nicer jackets. And even then, he swears you look beautiful. He smiles softly at you. He’s so in love with you and he really hopes you like the date.

He walks up to you and takes your hand in his. He hopes you don’t notice his hands are cold and clammy. You do but you think it’s cute. Jason nervous is not something that happens very often but the idea of him being nervous for your date, makes your head swim and your bones vibrate. He’s so cute.

The two of you head off on Jason’s bike, arriving at a movie theater in the city. Jason takes you to see a movie you mentioned wanting to see. It’s simple but it’s something he knows you really like movies. And he’s not one for big fancy dates. This is simple and it’s you. You find the gesture adorable because you don’t like the idea of a fancy restaurant either. This is kind of your thing. You’d go with a group sometimes, sure, but it’s your way of showing him how much you care. Showing him your things and movies is one of those things. And you adore him for it.

After the movie, you head back to the manor where Jason has insisted the date isn’t over yet. While he’s not one for something fancy, he is one for making an effort. Words are hard, they always have been and he knows sometimes he’s never going to be able to tell you exactly what you mean to him. But, for your first date, he can make as big of an effort as he can to show it. Even though you don’t need him to. You already know.

“Okay, keep your eyes closed.” Jason states as you both stand in the main living room, his hand intertwined with yours.

“If you walk me into a door, Jason--”

“I won’t!” Jason laughs. “Do you trust me?” He asks and it’s a little sarcastic and cocky.

“Yes.” You mock, keeping your eyes closed but you want to roll your eyes at him.

“Okay, so trust me.” Jason states as he leads you through the kitchen and into the courtyard.

He looks around, letting out a breath and he definitely owes Molly and Bruce for this one. Though, he thinks they’ll be giving him enough shit that maybe he won’t have to.

“Okay, you can open.” Jason nearly holds his breath as you open your eyes to see the backyard.

There’s a projection screen in the grass with a projector on one of the outdoor tables. Blankets and pillows cover the grass in front of the screen. The tables are lined with a variety of snacks, all of them being your favorite. And there are fairy lights decorating the rest of the courtyard.

Jason remembers what you said about that scene in Tangled, with the lanterns. Fairy lights aren’t lanterns, but they give somewhat of the same effect. So, he took inspiration from it. Because maybe, Jason’s a little bit of a hopeless romantic underneath the trauma. And he’d do anything for you. Cliche and cheesy and all.

“You--how?” You look over at him, eyes wide and a smile tugging at your lips. A lump forms in your throat as your entire chest nearly combusts into flames.

“I asked Molly and Bruce for help while we saw the movie.” Jason grins at you. “You didn’t really think we were just watching a movie for our first date, did you?” Jason quips, hiding his nervousness under his cocky grin.

“You asked for help?” You ask and you're not sure what’s more surprising. The courtyard or Jason asking for help. “I actually knew we’d go see a movie but this? Wow.” You look around, your voice soft and tender.

“Yeah.” Jason scoffs. “Look, you deserve it and you liked that scene in Tangled so. I needed some help while I distracted you.”

You swear it’s perfect because at the end of the night, it’s just him and you. It’s him and you in the courtyard watching your favorite movies. It’s him and you when it matters. He’s thoughtful and caring and kind and loving. Jason has only ever known pain and neglect but when it comes to you, he manages to show love and tenderness. You don’t really understand how he manages it but you're eternally grateful for this boy with dark hair and green eyes.

“It’s beautiful.” You say softly. “Thanks, Jay.”

“You like it?” Jason asks, stuffing his hands into his front pockets, something you've picked up he does when he’s nervous.

“Yes, of course!” You beam. You let go of his hand and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him for a deep kiss. His hands meet your hips as if on instinct, giving a light squeeze.“What’re we watching?” You ask against his lips.

Jason pulls away and there’s a grin of pride and confidence this time. “I’ve got Ready Or Not lined up since we didn’t get a chance to see it before it left theaters and Little Women. I read the book and the trailer seemed good. I think you’ll like it.” Jason states as he squeezes your hips again.

“Do you really remember everything I tell you? And I did want to see Little Women, just didn’t think you’d be into it.” You chuckle softly.

“Yeah,” Jason’s chuckle is gentle this time, bashful even. “It’s important to you.” He rolls his shoulders. “See, I know you.” Jason grins at you, wiggling his brows.

“Yeah, you do.” You scrunch your nose before pressing another kiss to his lips and dropping your arms from him. You head over to the snacks. “This is really nice, Jay.” Your smile is gentle and you love him with every fiber of your existence. “Thank you.”

“You deserve it.” Jason holds his head with pride, joining you to grab snacks.

“I get to plan the next date.” You offer him a devious smirk.

“Now, that’s unsettling.” Jason teases. “But fine.”

The two of you grab your snacks and head off to the blankets and pillows that are laid out for you before Jason starts the first movie. The two of you cuddle up with each other, attention mixing between the movie and each other. Your legs are rested over him as his arm is behind you and you just exist together.

To love, wholly and honestly, is terrifying because of the pain that seems to be intertwined with love. To love is to be brave and honest and optimistic. To love is something powerful but, to be loved back, that’s the greatest feeling in the world.

It’s the acceptance and understanding that comes with being loved back. It’s being loved for every broken piece and every bad, ugly, and terrible moment that comes. It’s knowing there will be bad days and hard days where the world seems to want to destroy every happy and peaceful moment, but choosing that person anyway. Falling in love is accidental, but staying in love is done on purpose. And that is why it’s so indescribable and remarkable and powerful. It is choosing to love and be loved back, risking the pain. And at the end, it’s worth it.

For Jason. And for you.

Over the next few days, everyone gets the news you and Jason have finally made things official. Gar and Kory actually kind of figured you were together. It was more of an inside joke with the Titans back in San Francisco. How long it was going to be before the two of you realized you were actually dating. Gar won. Dick wasn’t in on it (mostly because he thought you were friends this whole time who were just too oblivious and stubborn to say anything). So, they’re all happy to see the two of you happy together. Even Conner who didn’t really get a chance to know Jason and who only knew you for a short time.

Molly is your biggest fan though. She’s the best friend of the two of you. Her best friends are dating each other and she knows you’re both stubborn as hell with minimal self-preservation unless it comes to your hearts. You’ve both always been so guarded and she swears up and down, you’re supposed to be together. You’re the most guarded people she’s ever met and yet, the two of you manage to open up to each other. She swears you’re meant for each other. 

Today, Jason goes out with Molly while you hang back at the manor to have a training session with Bruce and a marathon with Gar afterward. The training session is fine but it's definitely not as fun without Jason. So, you're relieved when you can just sit down and have your marathon with Gar, filling him in a little bit on you and Jason. He's really happy for you both and it means a lot to you. He's your best friend.

But, with the marathon underway, it’s interrupted as Bruce walks into the living room.

“Excuse me.” Bruce calls from the doorway, pulling your attention away from the show and Gar.

“Is that Bruce Wayne?” Gar beams.

“Yes.” You furrow your brows at the screen before looking back at Bruce. “Oh, did you need the living room? I can move to my room.”

“No, no.” Bruce shakes his head. “You're fine in here. I was wondering if I could speak to you, however.”

“Uh…” You look back to your screen. “We’re…we’re kind of watching something, can we talk later or do you need to talk now?” You don’t know why he didn’t just talk to you earlier.

“I would like to talk now before Jason gets home.” Bruce states.

“Oh…” You widen your eyes before looking at the screen. “Pause it and I’ll call you back when we’re done?”

“Yeah, yeah of course. Hey, Bruce.” Gar chimes.

“Hello, Garfield.” Bruce chuckles slightly as he walks further into the living room.

“Okay, I’ll call you soon. Don’t continue without me.” You warn with a fake glare that turns into a cheeky smile before you end the call.

Bruce takes a seat at the armchair beside the couch and you watch him cautiously. It’s weird. You don’t really talk one-on-one and if you were being honest, you prefer it that way. You're growing to like Bruce, slowly. He doesn’t seem so bad. It’s just, every time you have that thought, you can hear Dick in the back of your head warning you. And Jason telling you about Dick taking out one of the trackers he knew about and how he shouldn’t do that because Bruce is looking out for them. And you catch yourself keeping your distance. So, you don’t normally talk like this unless you have to and it’s sending off alarms in your head.

“What’s up?” You ask slowly.

“How are you?”

You raise a brow at him. It’s weird because Bruce definitely doesn’t seem the type to be asking someone how they are. “Uh…fine. Yeah, I’m fine.” You nod at him, giving him a soft smile. “Why?” Your eyes narrow with suspicion.

“You have been through a lot. I wanted to make sure you were okay with everything that has happened.”

“Uh…yeah? Still fine, just the usual, I guess.” This is fucking weird. Even for Bruce Wayne. “Why didn’t you ask earlier?”

“We were training. I didn’t want to distract you.” Bruce sucks in a deep breath.

“Um…okay. Well, I’m fine. I’m just trying to watch some stuff with Gar.” You nod your head and he said he wants to talk before Jason gets home which means there is something about Jason he wants to talk about. “Bruce, I appreciate you checking up on me but if I’m being honest, I think you know I’m fine or that I will be and I am getting better because I know Dick and Jason filled you in. So, I think you’re asking how I am so you can ask about Jason.”

“I do want to know how you are.” Bruce defends in his usual stoic way that's somehow a little unsettling.

“Yeah, no, I mean I’m sure you care and everything. But, if what you really want to know is about Jason, you can just ask.” You let out a sigh and you can’t understand why these bird boys have to beat around the damn bush so much. “If you wanted to ask about me, it wouldn’t matter if Jason were home.” You nod your head as you scrunch your nose.

Bruce lets out something you think might be a chuckle. “Is he okay?”

You blink at him because you can’t believe he’s asking you that. Surely, he knows. That’s why he’s going to therapy because he’s not. Seriously what is it with the batboys that they can’t just talk?

“You sent him to a shrink?” You question.

“I mean,” Bruce clarifies. “Since going. He hasn’t said much to me. I want to make sure he’s okay.”

Truthfully, if Bruce actually wanted to be honest, that isn’t really why he’s asking. He sees a lot of himself in Jason. That is the problem. He doesn’t want Jason running himself into the ground over being Robin. Bruce has done that to himself too many times. He’s been thinking about it and what Jason means to him as a son. He’s worried about him, even with the therapy. Bruce knows you care about him. He hopes that’s enough for you to give him some insight

“Why?” You ask slowly as you narrow your eyes.

“He’s my son and I’m worried about him.” Bruce answers candidly.

“Yeah, no, I mean why are you asking me?” You shake your head, a snip your voice. It’s not your job to communicate for the two of them. They’re adults.

“I thought you might know.” Bruce nods.

“Of course, I know, I know everything about him. But you should know if he’s okay.” You widen your eyes as you furrow your brows. “He’s your son.”

Bruce lets out a sigh of defeat but you keep talking.

You have more to say. It’s not your job to communicate between the two of them but it’s clear someone needs to. You don’t care much for Bruce but Jason does. And that’s important. And he’s not okay. You think seeing Leslie will help him but, maybe telling Bruce isn’t such a bad idea. Jason needs the help and that means telling Bruce.

“Bruce, I think Jason Todd has never been okay a single day in his life.” Your voice is quiet and normally you wouldn’t be saying anything but it’s gotten to the point where you're really worried about him.

You being officially together over the last week has been absolutely incredible. You both are certainly the happiest you’ve both ever been with each other. But, Jason is derailing anyway and you always knew it would happen. Your validation for him is not what he needs. It will never be the thing that he needs because you're not Bruce and you're not Dick and that’s fine. It is never about your validation when it comes to him. His issues lie with the two of them, not you. So, Bruce making him see a therapist, is driving him a little bit insane. It’s only been a week though, so you hold out hope maybe it’ll help in the long run. But, you tell Bruce anyway because he should know. He always should have known.

Bruce nods with understanding. “He has not had an easy life.”

“Yeah, no shit.” You let out a scoff. “I think saying he hasn’t had an easy life is putting it lightly.” There’s a snark and a bite to your voice because you can just hear Dick in the back of your head.

Not to trust him. It doesn't matter that Bruce and Dick sorted out their shit. A part of him doesn’t trust Bruce and every time you think maybe, just maybe, Bruce has changed enough where Dick is wrong, he says something or does something where you know he hasn’t. This is one of those things. He shouldn’t be asking you if Jason is okay or saying he hasn’t had an easy life. It’s his literal job to know if Jason is okay and how to help him. It shouldn’t be up to you to tell him.

Bruce nods. “It’s been rough for him.”

“Ya know, it’s just….I don’t think Jason has ever felt….protected, safe, cared for….or loved in….at least most of his life. He felt, at least, most of that here and as Robin but all of that is gone and Deathstroke changed a lot of that. Bruce, he’s not okay and I am only even telling you this because I’m worried.”

Being happy in a relationship doesn’t make the pain of everything traumatic that’s happened just go away. It doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t suddenly fix and mend and cure mental illness. You wish it did but it doesn’t. Being happy and traumatized can co-exist. He is happy with you and you know that, but in the last week, he’s still waking up screaming from nightmares and he’s still limping after training. He’s still terrified. And you're endlessly worried about him.

“He can’t be Robin again, not yet. I made mistakes with Dick and I don’t want to repeat them with Jason. That’s why I want him to see Leslie.”

It’s not that you agree or disagree with it. But you do want to know why Bruce treats Jason and Dick the same way. They’re wildly different people. Maybe taking Robin from Dick and sending him to therapy would have worked, simple as that. But Jason isn’t Dick. Robin means everything to him. Why can’t he be Robin and see Leslie? Why does he have to be benched entirely instead of half the week even? It’s just not very fair to Jason, in your opinion.

“Okay, I get that, but you know Jason. He’s gonna prove to you he can be Robin.” You shake your head. “He’s going along with it for right now and maybe it’ll help. I hope it does, but what if it doesn’t?” You raise.

“We’ll have to have that conversation if we get there.”

“Okay yeah, and what you want him to just see a shrink for the next year with his fingers crossed he’s not permanently benched from the most important thing in his life? Only for something to happen and you rip it away from him entirely?”

“You believe he should be Robin at this point? You just said yourself he is not okay. It’s not safe for him to be out there. Do you think it would be safe to send him out there if he is deemed not well enough?”

It's not that. It's that you know, firsthand, that Jason will absolutely go out of his way to prove himself. You both do it. Jason isn't going to be able to stay benched for months on end. He's just not going to. And you know that. The fact Bruce doesn't when he knows why Jason wanted to go after Dr. Light, is infuriating. And it scares the hell out of you.

He's going to prove himself if Bruce doesn't give him Robin back eventually. One day, Jason is gonna think he's had enough and he just needs to prove himself and he'll try. The last time that happened, you both were kidnapped, tortured, and dropped from a skyscraper. And that is lucky. Somehow, that was actually lucky because you both made it out alive. What happens if he doesn't get so lucky next time?

“Whatever I think about him being Robin is completely irrelevant. It’s not my place to have an opinion. It is yours but…I’m just saying, he’s gonna prove to you he can be Robin eventually. He’ll get bored and tired of waiting.” You state. “He did in San Francisco.” You shake your head. “He’s gonna get himself killed one day if he does that, to prove you wrong.”

With Robin off the table, the training sessions have gotten…a little nuts. He’s rougher than usual and you can handle it just fine, he's not out of control. But he’s more relentless. He’s training himself into the ground again. He just wants to prove to Bruce that not only is he capable, but he’s better than Dick ever could be. Without even realizing it, Bruce doing this and the way he treated Dick, he’s pitting them against each other. And Jason is set on proving to Bruce he’s fine. No matter the cost.

“He won’t do that. He knows the rules. If I tell him not to go—“

“Dude, seriously? We knew the rules in San Francisco, too and then we went anyway. Jason is your responsibility and you have to do something, I can do everything I can but it’s not gonna be enough.” You stress because even when you have hope that therapy is gonna help over time, you aren’t sure if Jason is actually going to put in the time to let it work. And you're worried what will happen if he quits.

“I can’t let him be Robin and let him get killed out there. You said yourself, he will get killed out there. I made mistakes in the past, I cannot repeat them.”

A part of you want to blow. You were always right about him. He wouldn’t have to worry so damn much if he would stop recruiting kids to be fucking Robin. He wouldn’t have to worry so much if he would stop weaponizing their grief. He turned Jason and Dick into weapons and he’s, somehow, the one paying the consequences of that. You think the whole thing is ridiculous. It’s like he doesn’t see what he’s done to either of them and how fucked up this whole thing is. But, that’s not your place to tell him off about him recruiting people. For Jason’s sake. So, you decide you're gonna fall back on your usual reasoning for having a distaste towards him.

“Okay, you know what, you wouldn’t have to worry so fucking much if you’d just kill those fucks. Like, you know that right?” You snip.

“We do not kill people.” Bruce’s jaw squares just slightly. “We talked about this. Once you kill one person, it gets easier to kill the next until the lines blur. We cannot be the ones deciding who lives and who dies.”

You let out a scoff followed by a hollowed laugh. “And at what point is that not good enough?” You grit your teeth. “How many times have you captured the Joker?”

Bruce knows the number but he won’t say. “Several. I always catch him.”

“And every time Joker escapes, he kills at least one person. So, if over the last 10 years, you got more than 10 people killed by letting the Joker roam around and one of those people were my mom.” A lump forms in your throat with the mention of your mom. It’s some sick joke him and the Joker like to play almost. It’s like a damn game of chicken in the worst fucking way. “You let the Joker kill my mom. I’m not talking about Penguin or Scarecrow, I’m talking about killing the Joker. He puts bombs in buildings for fun. He’s killed thousands of people since I’ve been alive. You could have saved those innocent people if you would have just killed the Joker.” You shake your head. “And he’s the main one you’re worried about, right? He just escaped Arkham again, right?”

You shake your head and this whole thing is insane. It’s not even that you expect Bruce to toss his morals out the window. But you think it’s something he should consider if he's so damn worried about it. Deathstroke was different. He was the best mercenary in the world. You and Jason never stood a chance but the fuckeads here? Bruce’s usuals, they aren’t much concern besides one. And you know it. That’s why you’re having this talk right now.

“It’s the Joker. We literally laughed in Penguin’s face. Mr. Freeze, Bane, Scarecrow, and Mad Hatter are all locked up. Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy aren’t even a concern. The Riddler doesn’t kill people. I know you are not worried about fucking Condiment Man or Kite Man. I can keep going. But it always comes back to the Joker being the main concern, if Jason fucks up out there with him, that's it. Right?”

Bruce gains a scowl. He doesn’t appreciate you calling him out. You aren’t right but you aren’t wrong either. “It is not just about the Joker. And I cannot cross that line.” Bruce states firmly. “You should know that. You cannot cross that line either. The Joker is still a person and I will not determine if he gets to live or die. That is not how this works.”

“And what are you gonna do when he kills Jason? Or Dick? Or the next Robin? It’s gonna happen, it will. He’ll kill one of them eventually and then it’ll be too late.”

“I will not kill him for a what if situation.” Bruce lets out a sigh and this is not where he thought this conversation was going to go. A part of him thinks there’s a chance you're doing this on purpose to avoid telling him more about Jason. You're good at deflecting and not just when it’s about yourself. “That is not justice.”

“Then the guilt will eat you alive when it happens and then I’ll find a way, myself, to kill whoever kills him. Joker’s death is inevitable regardless and you could prevent the death of your sons.” You shake your head and get up from your spot, grabbing the tablet from the table. “I respect what you try to do as Batman and taking in Dick and Jason. I think that’s admirable. But, I think everyone has morals and sometimes you have to toss your morals aside for the greater good.”

“Even if that means someone has to die?”

“The Joker is a homicidal psychopathic sadist…so yeah. I don’t narc, I don’t tell anyone what happens with me and Jason, ever. But I’m telling you that he is not okay. Putting my morals aside because I care about him. I know you do, too, but you need to figure out how to get that through his thick skull or let him be Robin. It’s that simple. Always has been. Always will be.” You end the conversation, heading back to your room because that conversation was going nowhere and it never will.

You feel your blood boil and there is just something about Bruce sometimes. You don’t see it. You don’t see why Jason looks up to him so much. Maybe it’s just because Bruce saved him. Maybe some part of Jason is so hung up on that that he can’t see through Bruce’s other bullshit. But it irks you anyway, even when Bruce is genuinely trying to be better with him.

You just find the whole thing real rich. If he didn’t want to watch his kids die, he shouldn’t have offered them the vigilante lifestyle from the beginning. Maybe they both would have ended up here anyway. They both like to help people and that can’t be just a Bruce thing. But, maybe it would have been safer.

Maybe had Bruce offered therapy from the start, it would have been better or if he could just have a damn conversation with them. Literally, anything could work besides what he’s doing now. Training them to be brainwashed, taking them out to the cabin, training their bodies into a world of pain. Manipulating them with the idea of being invincible because of a mask and a cape. Anything has to be better than that.

And you feel like you can’t even tell Jason about it because he’ll get mad and annoyed further with Bruce. He’ll be annoyed he went to you to talk. And you know him, you just know he’ll think it’s because Bruce doesn’t think he’s good enough and you can’t let him think that about himself. And it is not your place to complain about his adoptive father. So, you keep it to yourself as you grind your teeth and call Gar back.

You pretend everything is fine as you and Gar continue your marathon until Jason gets home a few hours later.

“Hello, beautiful.” Jason chimes as he stands in the doorway of your room.

You look over with burning cheeks. He looks happy right now. So, you smile back, pretend like you aren’t still annoyed with Bruce. The call with Gar helped but then he had to go and the annoyance flooded you once more.

“Jaybird.” You say with ease as Jason walks into your room, tossing his jacket onto the end of your bed.

“How’s Gar?” He presses a kiss to your forehead before sitting down beside you.

“Good.” You answer simply as you suck in a breath. “He, uh, he misses us and Rachel but he said he’s good. He really likes being a Titan, you know Gar.” You laugh softly.

“He could come visit.” Jason chuckles softly.

He misses him, too. They lived down the hall from each other for four months and went through some crazy shit together. They’re best friends. Jason thinks it’d be cool to have Gar come. He could show him the Batcave.

“That’s what I said.” You widen your eyes. “He said he’d ask Dick about it.”

“Cool.” Jason laughs softly.

“Yeah.” You let out a breath as you look back to the tablet.

Jason watches you carefully and he knows you. Something’s off. You usually have more to say. You usually ask about Molly or whatever Jason is up to when he comes back home. You didn’t this time and you look like you're not really here with him. Your eyes are distant. The corners don’t crinkle when you laugh. Your jaw is clenching and you didn’t even mention what you and Gar watched.

“You going out tonight?” He asks and his words are a little flat.

He doesn’t mean for them to be. But, it’s sore. You still go out with Bruce. You asked him what you should do because you didn’t want to overstep. Going out on patrol with Bruce is Jason’s thing. But, you don’t really want to give it up either. You love patrolling and the more you do it, the more you understand why Robin has become Jason’s entire world. But, if Jason asked you not to go with Bruce, you wouldn’t. You’d go on your own if you had to. But, Jason assured you it was fine even if it hurts, even if he wants to tell you to not to do it. Even if feels like you're overstepping.

You shake your head and furrow your brows, bringing your attention back to him. “No, I just wanna stay here with you tonight.” You scrunch your nose, trying not to set off Jason’s alarm bells.

You don’t want to be around Bruce. The only thing you want to do is be with Jason tonight. You love patrolling but not tonight. Not tonight when you're reminded of the cruelty you face every day and the life-or-death stakes that exist outside of this manor. Outside of this safe bubble. The conversation, knowing the Joker is out there and likely who Bruce will be trailing tonight, reminds you of what could happen out there. You know. You already know but sometimes conversations take place and it becomes real. Patrolling and fighting, that’s fun and it’s easy to forget the stakes. And while you're terrified of Jason dying, he’s not the one going out there right now. You are. What would he do if you didn’t come home?

You just want to stay here with him tonight. It’s too heavy tonight.

“What’s wrong?” Jason asks, searching your face for any indicators.

“Nothing.” You lie. “Can’t want to stay in for a night with my boyfriend?” You say it like that on purpose but Jason sees through it.

You aren’t as insistent on patrol as he is. But you haven’t missed a single night since you got the suit. You're turning it down and he doesn’t get why. There’s something wrong and he knows it. He always knows.

“I know your fucking obsessed with me,” Jason starts with a chuckle, earning himself an eye roll. “But, I know when something’s going on with you.”

“It’s nothing, Jay.” You sigh. “I just want to stay in.”

“What happened?” Jason pushes, gritting his teeth because now he’s thinking someone did something. To you.

He thinks of the conversation with Molly, how she thinks you'll run. She told him she's worried that you're gonna be the one to fuck it up, not him. And that if you do, Jason should just not let you, even if he wants to push. It's what you both do, push and run. Molly is right. It’s what you do but if you both don't want to hurt each other, you both need to find a way not to do that. So, he tries.

“Can you drop it, please? I’m fine.” You rest a hand on his cheek, offering a tender smile. “Thank you.”

“Worried about you.” Jason states.

“How the tables have turned.” You widen your eyes, dropping your hand.

“I’m fucking serious.” Jason doesn’t so much as grin at you.

He can’t lose you. He is so certain of that. He can’t lose you in any capacity. So, he pushes just as you do with him. There’s something wrong and if someone did something, to scare you out of going on patrol, he doesn’t care what Bruce says. He’ll go back out there.

“I….Bruce he talked to me about something and I just…” You grit your teeth. “I don’t want to go out tonight.” You shrug your shoulders, voice laced in annoyance.

“What did he do?” There’s a mix of anger and confusion in his voice. Jason trusts Bruce but he knows as much as you fake it, he knows you don’t.

“Nothing.” You shake your head. “Just, uh…Joker was brought up and you know. Shit sucks. So I just don’t want to go out tonight.” You bite your tongue with every worry you have because you can’t burden him with it.

You can't put worried thoughts into his head. He has enough going on. And you know that he does worry, in his own way, when you're out there. He's more subtle than you are and he's not nearly as paranoid but he loves you and wants you to be safe. It's a natural thing. You don't want to add to that burden by saying you're worried about what he'd do if you died. On top of the rest of the conversation with Bruce, it's just too much and you don't want him to deal with it. Not right now.

“Your mom?” Jason asks.

“Yeah.”

“You know you can tell me, right?” Jason questions, getting the feeling it’s more than that. When it involves your mom, you're sad and you tell him. You seem annoyed today.

“I know.” You offer a weak smile. Guilt feeling heavy in your chest. “It’s just….it’s heavy today and I’m tired of it being heavy. I’m fine though, Jaybird. Can you just…..read to me when Bruce leaves, please?”

Jason nods softly, moving closer to you. “Yeah, of course. Did you want to talk about it?” He asks before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Thanks, Jay.” You smile softly. “No, I’m okay.”

“You and me.” Jason smiles softly and he’s worried about you, too.

You rest your forehead against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, it’s just one of those days, ya know? Where it just…”

“Feels worse again.” Jason finishes.

“Yeah.” You pick your head up.

He wants to help and Bruce doesn’t leave for a few more hours. So, his solution is training. It always helps you, too anyway. He just doesn’t want you to feel the heaviness of it and if he doesn’t have to carry the weight alone, neither do you. It’s like he told you, you can put it on him. He’ll carry it for you.

“I get it.” Jason stands up abruptly. “Wanna train about it?” Jason wiggles his brows, offering you his hand.

You roll your eyes but there’s a smile tugging on your lips. He always gets it. “Yeah, I almost won yesterday.” You put your hand in his, getting to your feet.

“Maybe I let you win one round, think of that?” Jason teases.

“You wouldn’t let me win anything.” You scrunch your nose. “You’re too competitive.” You beam at him as Jason lets out a laugh and swings his arm over your shoulders.

“Guess that’s true.” He says as the two of you make your way to train.

You know you’ll tell him your concerns later and tell him about Bruce because while it might not be fair to tell him, it’s also not fair for you to hide it. He trusts you and he’s doing better about telling you everything that bothers him. You owe him the same. But right now, it's just too heavy to deal with and you just want to sit with him and forget about everything for a while.

Jason is really good about helping you forget and letting you relax so it’s easier to tell him. It's one of the many reasons you adore him and wholeheartedly love him more than anything on this planet.

After a few rounds of sparring, you having lost because Jason really can’t let you win, you move to the targets. When Jason runs out on his end, he takes a break, sitting a few feet behind you and to the right, having a drink of Gatorade.

He watches you when you train. There’s something enthralling about it. You throw the knives at the target with so little effort, Jason can’t help but stare. He remembers how bad you were at combat all those months ago. He never told you, but you were not good. It was obvious you never wanted to throw a punch, like you never hit someone before and you hadn’t. Maybe a part of him thought you might be hopeless. Even when you fought Jerry, Jason is pretty sure you only got as far as you did because he was surprised and you had a hit of adrenaline hit your system from the anger. You never stood a chance otherwise. But now, you make Jason actually put up a fight in training.

He puts in effort to make sure you don’t pin him now. You never miss a target. You're even getting over your fear of heights with having to grapple from building to building and with being on so many rooftops. You're so good at all of this now and his entire chest warms because he knows a part of that is because of him. But the other part, wants to completely shatter.

On the one hand, you never wanted to be violent. You told him that, more than once. You never wanted to be this way and now you are. It’s not his fault. He didn’t make you that way. That was Jerry, that was the Joker. But he looks at what you've become and he feels guilty anyway because he doesn’t stop you from being violent. He encourages it. And he thinks of how he was before Robin.

It wasn’t that Jason was violent. That was never it. He could pick a fight just as good as the next person. But it was out of survival. It wasn’t because he liked the bloody and bruised knuckles. Or coming back with his body covered in shades of navy and maroon and the pain that went along with it. It was how he had to survive. Fight or die. Fight or let people take advantage of him.

He was small. He got lucky he grew taller as he got older but he was a small kid. It was either learn to fight and take what he could or get taken advantage of or die trying. It was learn to fight and hold his own or deal with whatever his dad would dish out or the new guy his mom brought home that didn’t really like kids. It was never that he wanted to be violent.

He was just angry with the world. Robin gives him the outlet. Robin lets him be violent in a way that’s productive. Robin lets him choose violence. Robin lets him pick fights that matter. Robin lets him let the anger and the violent side of him be a good thing instead of something that hinders him and something people find to be annoying and a nuisance. Robin has given him so fucking much including that outlet and he can’t lose it. And he just gets so fucking mad when he thinks about it. He’s mad about it being taken away and mad at Bruce and a little mad at you for getting to use his outlet as your own, even when he knows that’s not fair.

It’s the anger that always got the best of him. Not the violence.

“Where’s your head, Jay?” You ask, looking over your shoulder from the targets as Jason sits on the floor behind you.

Jason snaps away from his thoughts, looking over to you. “What?” He furrows his brows up at you.

“You’re quiet and you’re never quiet unless something is bothering you.”

It’s only been two weeks but you know him better than anyone. It’s been rough for him not having Robin. He wasn’t Robin, technically, in San Francisco. He wasn’t supposed to be anyway. He was supposed to be taking a break but that didn’t seem to bother him as much as it does now. You’re not entirely sure what the difference is this time but whatever it is, you’ve got this feeling that there’s something more going on. Something’s poking at his head.

Jason shakes his head. “Want to get back out there.” Jason scoffs.

You nod. “Yeah…” You suck in a breath, looking at your target full of knives before you move to sit in front of him. You match his position, stretching your legs out right beside his with your hands on the floor behind you to hold your weight. “You sure it doesn’t bug you I go out?” You ask.

Of course, it bothers him. That’s his thing. But, it’s yours, too. Maybe it wouldn’t sting as much if you weren’t going out with Bruce. But, there’s nothing he can do about it and it would be wrong for him to even try. So, he bites his tongue about it.

“It’s fine, it’s your thing, too.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, but if it bothers you, I can wait until you get Robin back or I can just go out on my own.” You offer.

The first night Jason was benched, Bruce asked if you’d still join I’m for patrol. Jason assured you it was fine. So, you went and you talked later about it. He swore up and down it would be fine. You like to go out on patrol. You like to help people and who is he to try and take that away from you? You’d never do that to him.

“You think Bruce will be okay with that? You going out on your own?” Jason quips.

You grin before you let out a laugh. “Well, probably not anymore.”

Jason furrows his brows, his eyes scanning over your face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You bounce around how to tell him about your conversation with Bruce earlier without including the stuff about him. It’s hard because on the one hand, you respect Bruce but on the other, he can be a little insufferable. And Jason looks up to him for reasons you don’t really think you’ll entirely understand. It’s not your place to speak poorly of him to Jason. So, you tell him but you hope he doesn’t ask what sparked the conversation in the first place.

“We, uh, we had a moral disagreement today.” You chew the inside of your cheek as you raise your brows.

“Ah,” Jason nods his head. “That why you don’t wanna go out tonight?” The moral disagreement doesn’t surprise him. He knows how you feel about all of it but he is a little surprised you even brought up to Bruce.

“Amongst a few other things but yeah. I think he might think I’ll kill people now.” You roll your eyes.

Jason lets out a snort. “What the hell did you even say to make him think that?” Jason shakes his head. “Wait, let me guess.”

“I’m listening.” You gesture a hand for him to continue.

Jason clears his throat. “You should kill the Joker. He’s a piece of shit maniac clown who kills people for fun. He should be dead.” Jason grins at you. “Sound about right?”

“Shut the fuck up.” You groan through a laugh as you tilt your head back. “No.” You shake your head at him. “I said he was a homicidal, psychotic, sadist.” You state. “And that he should die, yes.” You mutter softly while Jason lets out a booming laugh.

He is certain you’ll never let it go which he doesn’t blame you for. He gets it. He doesn’t like his dad but a part of him still wanted to go after Two-Face. Dick went after Zucco. Parents are killed and their kids want to take revenge. But, he also knows you and he doesn’t think you’d ever actually try to kill anyone, but especially the Joker. You have more self-preservation than that.

“And he said something about we don’t cross that line or whatever?”

“Yep.” Your eyes widen as you nod your head. “Him and Dick think it’s ridiculous as if Dick didn’t feel that same way, ya know? But it’s the Joker. So, uh, I might have said his death is inevitable.” You scrunch your nose and maybe that was the wrong choice of words.

Jason eyes you carefully and there is something going on with you, too. It’s one thing to have the moral disagreement with Bruce but to actually say anyone’s death in inevitable seems a little off. Jason’s so wrapped in his own anger, he’s started to wonder if he’s missing anything with you.

“Okay seriously, what the fuck is going on?” Jason nudges your leg with his.

“Nothing. I don’t think I really meant it or anything but I kind of wonder if Bruce thinks I’m serious and thinks I’m like a ticking time bomb or something.” You roll your eyes.

“Did he take the shit from you? The suit or anything?” Jason questions and he is getting increasingly more curious what even started that whole conversation and got you mad enough to say anything to Bruce.

“No. Why?”

“Then he doesn’t think you’re gonna out and kill people.” Jason chuckles. “He’d take it away and send you to Leslie if he thought you were serious.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief.” You chuckle softly. “Still don’t wanna go out tonight though.” You shake your head.

Jason pulls his legs to his chest, resting his forearms over his knees. “What started the whole conversation anyway? Did something happen?”

You pause and you hate lying to him. It’s the one thing you really don’t do with him. But, telling him why Bruce even talked to you, that just doesn’t seem fair. You worry he might take Bruce’s concern the wrong way. Maybe it’ll send him spiraling even further. Maybe it’s best if you just keep that to yourself.

“Nothing.” You shake your head. “It’s nothing, really.” You assure him before you suck in a breath. “Seriously though, if you have a problem with me going out, you can tell me.”

The switch back the topic at hand does not go unnoticed and that’s also uncharacteristic of you lately. You tell him everything that bothers you and what leads to it bothering you.

“I said it’s fine.” Jason states. “If something’s going on with you, you’d tell me, right?” Jason questions.

You nod your head. “Of course. Nothing’s, uh, nothing’s going on. You need to stop worrying.” You offer him a cheeky grin and he knows you’re lying. “Look, Jay, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t stand a chance out there. I know it’s hard being benched and I don’t wanna make it harder for you.”

“You said yourself, you like going out there.” Jason bites his tongue.

“Yeah, but if it weren’t for you, I’d never stand a chance. I know it’s hard for you to be benched and I go out. I don’t wanna make it harder for you.”

He knows you’re lying but he can’t figure out why you would lie to him about something like that. It doesn’t seem important or serious enough to need a lie. Maybe a part of him is even hurt you won’t tell him. But, he knows it’s not fair to push because you don’t push him when he’s adamant about not tellin you. He hopes you’ll tell him later when it’s not so fresh.

Jason scoots closer to you, resting a hand on your thigh. “I’m fine, alright? Go out kick and some ass, with or without Bruce.” Jason grins at you. “Stop worrying so much.”

“I’ll always worry, I love you.” You smile wildly at him.

“Yeah, I love you, too.” Jason chuckles softly. “I'm fine, I’ll be back out there in no time.”

“Good, miss you out there with me.”

“I got you, babe.” Jason presses a kiss to your lips. “Spar again, then dinner?”

“Yeah, okay.”

The next day, Jason and you head off the coffee shop to meet up with Molly. It’s colder than it has been. The air is crisp as you walk inside, hands in your jackets. It seems to fit the mood. Your hearts are heavy in your chests, matching your sleep-deprived eyes. Last night was bad.

And Molly is sat at your usual table with a smile.

You think this is good. Maybe hanging out with Molly, the three of you will be a good distraction for him. It’s been only been two weeks, but you know he’s already going stir-crazy. The more you think about it, you're surprised it took him three months in San Francisco to finally break the rules and go out.

“Hey.” You chime.

“Sorry, we’re late, Molly.” Jason takes his jacket off, throwing it over the back of his chair before he sits beside you.

“It’s cool, I ordered for you guys.” Molly states with ease, barely looking up from her laptop. When she does, she has a look at the two of you, Jason specifically. She glances to you before going back to Jason.

He looks more tired than usual lately. But today, he looks exhausted. The bags under his eyes are thick and his grin seems lazier than usual. And she knows you've been more tired lately, too. When you hang out, you nod off and completely space out mid-conversation. You look extra tired today as you lean your head on Jason’s shoulder.

“You look…tired. Are you sleeping?” Molly keeps her eyes on Jason.

You glance to Jason with a heavy heart, last night was rough. He woke up screaming at the top of his lungs. He got you in the face with his elbow. He sputtered apology after apology, nearly throwing himself into a guilt-ridden panic attack over it. It was fine, it was an accident. He was having a nightmare.

You eventually got him to calm down and fall back asleep but that only lasted about two hours before he woke up screaming again. This went on all night. It was bad. No, he’s not sleeping.

“Don’t worry so much.” Jason brushes it off with a smile.

It’s one thing for you to know but he doesn’t want Molly to know even if it’s written on his face that he isn’t sleeping. He still feels guilty and tired and annoyed and angry and frustrated. He swears taking Robin away has made the nightmare worse. Everything feels worse.

“We just had a late movie night.” You state.

“And what about you? You look tired, too.”

“I’m sleeping fine. Jason’s right, don’t worry so much.” You lift your head from Jason’s shoulder.

“What’re you working on?” Jason changes the subject as you lean forward, fully engaging with the topic change.

Molly let’s it rest. It seems weird but it’s the two to you. It’s always a little weird. Your sleep schedules are a mess anyway.

Molly turns the laptop around so Jason and you can see. The screen has a large picture, a missing person's flyer. The sidebar contains others with other missing kids.

“Diego from the shelter went missing.” Molly states, her voice annoyed “Rumor is, The Joker’s got a dude on the streets taking in strays. Diego’s poor and brown so you know the cops don’t give a shit.” Molly shakes her head with a scoff, taking the laptop back.

You feel your blood boiling. That’s the shit you want to do. You want to target those terrible people who are bringing in kids. Kids are innocent. The three of you at this very table were once innocent and you should have been able to stay that way. It was ripped from you and you never want another kid to deal with any of that. That dickhead, has got to fucking go. And who the hell works with the Joker anyway?

“Batman will take care of him.” Jason states, crossing his arms on the table as he leans forward slightly.

You snap your attention at him, narrowing your eyes. “Right.” You nod your head, getting a confused look from Jason.

“Batman protects rich people.” Molly closes the laptop, resting it on the seat beside her. “Be careful, Jason, living in that fake house got you slipping.” Molly crosses her arms. “Should’ve stayed in San Francisco.” There’s a slight bite to Molly’s words.

“Fuck Sam Fransciso.” Jason states. “That whole thing was a mistake. Gotham’s where I need to be.”

“You’ve been different since you’ve been back.” Molly leans forward, she glances to you who raise a brow in confusion

Jason leans back in his seat, brows knitting together. “Different how?”

“I don’t know. Like something happened over it here.” Molly looks to you.

“Nothing happened.” Jason brushes it off coolly. “I was bored, so I left.” You think that’s one way to put it.

“It was boring as shit there. It was nice, but it’s not Gotham.” You back Jason up. This whole thing would be easier if Molly knew the truth. You want to know how everyone can keep up with all the lies.

“Okay.” Molly lets out a breath, not believing either of you. Something definitely happened over there. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it—“

Jason leans forward, not wanting to deal with the integration. “Where’s this guy who’s picking up the street kids?” There’s a grin that tugs on his lips and you know he’s about to go track the guy down. And you for one, are completely on board.

Molly looks to you who now also looks extremely engaged. She has a bad feeling but she does know. “I heard he’s hanging near a shelter on Dunsmuir.”

“Show us.” Jason states.

He’s not Robin but he still has the same abilities without the suit. He is itching to be out there doing something and Molly has a point. Bruce does look out for the rich. Kids like Diego can get left behind. This is a chance for him to do something. To prove to himself he can do it, even without the Robin suit. He can deal with a lowlife picking up street kids. He could do it in his sleep.

“Yeah, take us.” You match the grin Jason has and Molly finds the whole thing a bit unsettling.

Molly lets out a scoff as she deadpans. “Right. Cause you’re cops now.”

“I’m serious.” Jason urges. “Let’s just go see if he’s there.” Jason's grin is wild and dangerous as he looks to you.

“Come on, let’s go.” You jump in. “It won’t be so bad or anything. Especially if he’s recruiting kids.”

You're worried about Jason but you’ll be together. He’s one lowlife working for the Joker. That’s easy. Jason can just threaten him, get a picture, call it good. Neither of you can sit by and let him do this. Plus, you think Jason might need the pick-me-up.

“And then what?” Molly can’t believe the two of you. You are both completely insane.

“Take some photos. Show them to the cops. It’s worth trying.” Jason states and he’s so convincing.

“It’s better than sitting here talking about it.” You offer. “It’ll be quick anyway.”

Molly glances between the two of you and she can’t help but find some part of this amusing, you share a similar grin. Ones that got her into trouble, ones she knows means you’re both up to no good. Ones she knows she’ll regret listening to. And she knows it’s such a bad idea. You aren’t cops. You have no business finding this guy. But, she knows Diego stands no chance if you don’t at least try.

“Fine.” Molly agrees reluctantly.

You and Jason share a triumphant grin between the two of you. Jason swears this won’t be like Deathstroke. He’ll be on better alert in case there is a team this time and he knows you will, too. You’re going to find a lowlife, not a supervillain. And besides, with Molly there, him and you won’t do anything too reckless to make sure she doesn’t get caught in the crossfire. This will be fine.

The three of you make the walk toward the shelter. Small flurries fall from the sky on your walk. You look around at the snow with a soft smile. You haven’t seen snow in a year and maybe a small part of you missed it. Maybe it feels like home in a weird way.

“How’s Sheila?” You ask, walking between the two of them, your right hand tangled with Jason’s.

“Yeah, no.” Molly scoffs. “She was the wrong one. Might even date boys again.” Molly states.

You let out a laugh. “Seriously that bad? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You're going through some shit.” Molly shrugs. You and Jason have asked about her and Sheila but Molly is the observant friend. The two of you always seem like you have real shit going on. She didn’t want to bother either of you with her relationship problems when, for once, you and Jason seem happy in one. “Broke up yesterday, you didn’t miss much besides screaming and her throwing things.”

“That’s also a lovely breakup.” You give a large nod with the roll of your eyes. You never cared much for Sheila. Sheila was the jealous type.

“Yeah.” Molly scoffs. “It’s cool though.” Molly shrugs.

“Yeah, you deserve someone better anyway. Didn’t she lose her shit on you for being home like five minutes late?” Jason asks, glancing over to her.

“That should have been one of my red flags.” Molly lets out a dry laugh.

“Yeah, maybe.” You agree.

The three of you reach an alley where you see an older man sitting on the hood of his car with a girl standing in front of him who looks way too young to be around him. She has a bottle in a brown paper bag and he looks like he’s a little too friendly with her. You can’t help the way your hand squeezes Jason's as you feel the anger start to bubble in the pit of your stomach. Jason glances to you, squeezing back.

“Over there.” Molly states. “Gotta be him.”

Jason lets go of your hand and pulls out his phone, taking a picture and using the software on his phone to do a check on him. The software runs facial recognition through the system, pulling up his extensive rap sheet. You peek over at the screen, making out a few of the charges and this is the shit that pisses you off.

Why do they keep letting him out? He is very clearly a danger to the public and yet he gets to roam around free, hurting more kids. Now, he gets to work with the damn Joker of all people. He’s got to go.

“Got him?” Molly asks.

“Hold on.” Jason says as it finishes loading. “Name’s Pete Hawkins. Piece of shit’s been in and out of Blackgate. Hooked up with the Joker last year.” Jason explains.

“Another piece of shit they refuse to keep locked up because they don’t actually give a fuck about the general public.” You let out a bitter scoff, stuffing your hands in your pockets.

“How do you know that?” Molly asks, looking between the two of you.

“Told you. I’m still me.” Jason smiles cheekily at her.

“Right. That’s one of those things that sounds real cool, but doesn’t actually mean anything.”

“Means he’s got it covered and he’s good at it.” You smile softly with the shrug of your shoulders.

Jason nudges you with his shoulder. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.” Jason suggests and you knew this was gonna happen. “Just a conversation. That’s all, come on.” Jason takes a step forward as Molly looks to you for help.

“It’ll be fine,” You step forward with Jason. “We’re just gonna talk and that’ll be it. Don’t worry.” You offer a soft smile and you’ve been here before.

You're confident, similar to Jason, this won’t be Deathstroke. This isn’t Dr. Light. This is just some guy. This is your home. This is your city. It won’t be like last time. You swear it won’t be and it can’t be because you have Molly with you. You swear it but you feel the fear creep into your stomach anyway.

The three of you make your way down the alley until you reach this guy. The closer you get, you can hear some of the conversation. He gave her alcohol. And he compliments her smile and tells her he can introduce her to someone that can make her smile. You nearly gag. He doesn’t deserve to be here.

“It never works out like that.” Jason states as the three of you stand in front of them.

“Yeah, it’s all sweet talk until you’re in too deep then it’s anything but sweet.” You add in, your hands warm in your pockets.

There’s a silence that consumes all of you for a few seconds. The man eyes the three of you, not quite confused but annoyed. The girl though, she looks uneasy. She looked uneasy before you approached anyway. And this guy is just gonna let her feel that way. He was going to use it against her.

“Give us a second.” Pete states to the girl. “Keep the drink.” The girl nods her head and walks away, glancing back at all of you on her way down the alley. “We have a problem?” He asks.

“A little young for you isn’t she, hoss?” Jason questions.

Jason also can't stand people like this guy. He was a kid once. He remembers it all. No one was there to protect him and he can protect himself but what about the other kids? That's supposed to be the point of Batman and Robin. To protect those who can't protect themselves. He doesn't need the suit to threaten this guy and try to find out where, at least, Diego is.

“She’s old enough to make her own choices,” He states back.

“Yeah? And exactly how old is old enough then?” You quip back. “Cause, uh, she didn’t look old enough.”

“Do I know you?” He questions, the annoyance soaking his words.

“I’m fuck,” Jason starts. “She's off.” Jason gestures to you. “We hate clowns.”

“Clowns?” Pete asks but there’s a seriousness in his voice.

“You know the type.” You state.

Molly watches the two of you and she’s getting the idea you’ve done this before. That seems a little weird and somehow not even close to surprising. But, she can’t figure out why you would do this? In your free time. Do you and Jason just go around Gotham interrogating people?

“Maybe you ran across a kid?” Jason asks. “Diego.”

“Martinez.” Molly finishes.

Pete shifts just slightly and Jason takes that opportunity to close the distance between them, getting in his face. You watch the two of them carefully, waiting for any quick movements, waiting for the throbbing to start, so you move to stand in front of Molly. You knew it was never going to be just talking and that’s fine with you. That girl was lucky you showed up and he should know he can’t get away with what he’s doing and what he wants to do.

“You know him?” Jason asks.

“You must have me confused with someone else.” Pete says but there’s almost a mocking tone in his voice. Jason stares him down and it goes eerily silent for a few seconds. Pete doesn’t like the look and you're getting the feeling this is going to go south.“You haven’t done enough time to look at me like that.”

“You have no idea who I am.” Jason's voice is low and unwavering, despite the fear pushing at his chest and vibrating his blood like a relentless and agonizing earthquake.

Molly gets the idea this going to turn violent. He’s done time and she knows Jason can fight but maybe not him. So, she moves past you and walks forward, touching Jason’s arm to grab his attention.

“Jason, let’s get out of here.” Molly says as Jason looks at her and as soon he does, a gun cocks.

It’s fast, happening in just a second. The gun is cocked as Jason looks back to Pete who puts the gun right under his chin. He was just waiting for his opportunity. You swear under your breath because for some reason, you thought he’d be fine. He knows better.

“Where’s your swag, cowboy?” Pete asks as you quickly move to Molly, yanking her back and behind you.

Jason freezes, flashes of Deathstroke cross his eyes. The beatings, the pain in his leg is agonizing. It throbs and if he didn’t know better, he’d swear it were bleeding right here, right now. He falls again and again and again. Everything that happened flashes his eyes and he can’t breathe and he can’t move. Why can’t he move? He has no time to react before Pete smacks him across the face with the gun, sending Jason to the ground.

“Jason!” Molly screams, trying to push you to the side.

“You shut your mouth, bitch!” Pete threatens as he aims the gun at her, you keep her blocked, locking eyes with Pete with your mouth in a hard line.

Jason tries to get up but Pete kicks him in the face. Jason starts coughing up blood onto the ground. He’s weak. Why is he weak? He’s fought men three times the size with ease. But Pete kicks him and kicks him and kicks him over and over. In the stomach and the side, over and over again. Jason tries to back away but he’s on the ground and useless.

He was never like this. He was never afraid of everything. It never caused him harm before. If anything, fear managed to protect him. It has always kept him on high alert. It made sure he could be physically and emotionally safe from anyone that would hurt him. But, now, all it's doing is getting him beaten up. It's traumatizing reliving the same damn fear every single day. He's so damn tired of it. He's so sick of being weak. And scared.

Jason rolls on his side where Pete kicks him again and you've had enough. You tried to give Jason a little bit of time to get it together, hoping he'd be able to. But, you can't stand by and hope anymore. You push Molly to the side and move towards Pete.

“Hey, dickhead!” You get his attention, taking a solid swing to his face and then another. “You wanna fucking fight, let’s fucking go.” You have a wild look in your eyes as he points the gun at you, Molly rushing to check on Jason. “Aw, cute! You think I’m scared?” You taunt him, the throbbing in your head intensifies and you move out of the way just as he fires the gun. “Missed me, fuckface.”

You swore you'd never be unprepared again and you pull out a knife from your belt hidden under your coat. In a swift motion, you nail him in the leg. He yells out and shoots again, you already out of the way by the time he fires.

Jason hears the gunshots through the ringing of his ears and he'll never forgive himself if you get shot because he couldn't even get a single punch in. You shouldn't be taking him on, by yourself, just because he couldn't. Because he started it. You're here again. Jason's idea. You in the middle of it.

“What the fuck.” Pete grits his teeth as he pulls the knife out.

“I got more if that’s not enough for you.” You pull out another knife, tossing it between your fingers. “Bet I can nail your jugular in a single shot. Wanna find out?” You question. “If your gun is fully loaded, you have fourteen more shots. So, we can go fourteen more rounds if you want and then I can hit your jugular. I do love target practice.”

Pete grits his teeth, holding the wound and he’s missed two shots already. Whatever you have going on, isn't worth his time right now.

“I’ll see you around.” Pete threatens you before he walks off.

You let out a breath of relief as you rush over to the two on the ground. Jason is still coughing and trying to gain his breath. Molly’s hand is on his shoulder. You can see the bloody gash near his temple and he should have had this. Maybe it’s worse than even you thought it was.

You and Molly help him to his feet, Jason brushing the both of you off. He struggles to gain his footing, the pain in his leg is as bad as it was when Deathstroke cut out the tracker. His entire body is aching with every breath. He’s embarrassed and pissed.

“Look, you’re hurt, we need to get you to a hospital—“ Molly starts once Jason is on his feet.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Jason says, keeping his voice level. It’s not her fault.

“Jay.” You state.

He can't. He can't do it and he doesn't want to.

“Just tell me what I can to help—“ Molly starts.

“Get the fuck away from me, okay?” Jason screams, gesturing his arm in the other direction.

He doesn’t want help. He’s tired of people offering to help. He doesn’t fucking want it. It doesn’t fucking help. Nothing is helping. It’s been months and he’s still paralyzed with fear. Every single time, it seems to be getting better, it just gets worse. He relives it over and over and over. It’s drowning him even when he knows how to swim.

Molly stands for a second, her heart aching being yelled at. Jason doesn’t yell at her. Jason never yells at her. Tears brim in her eyes. She’s just worried about him. He just had a gun pulled at him and got the shit beat out of him. It was terrifying.

You let out a breath and you can tell Molly’s never seen him like this. Of course, she hasn't because she doesn't know. She doesn't know about Robin or Deathstroke. It's one of those times you wish desperately that she did because she'd understand. But, she doesn't and she's going to be the one left confused and hurt.

“It’s okay.” You turn to Molly walking her towards the alley. “It’s fine, okay? I got him.” You nod your head with a weak smile

Molly stares at you in disbelief. You can’t be serious because you were just shot at. How is this fucking fine? Neither of you are fine and Molly is sick of you both trying to fool yourselves and her.

“What the hell was that? With you? He almost shot you!” Molly panics, looking you over just to make sure he missed.

“I’ve been shot at before, it’s fine. Just something I picked up.” Your voice shakes and that’s new.

Your hands are vibrating at your sides and you're realizing, it’s getting a little hard to breathe. But it’s the realization that you have been shot at before. You were left for dead, twice. It all comes back in a wave but you have to push through it. Molly can’t know and Jason needs you. You need to check on him. You can’t panic over it. It happened months ago. And you weren’t the one tortured and kidnapped by CADMUS. It’s not your trauma to process.

“You were what!?”

“Molly, it’s fine. He’ll be fine. Just go home.” You keep your voice calm and pleading.

“He’s hurt.” Molly urges with tears in her eyes.

“He’s fine, okay? I’ll look him over—“

“You’re not a doctor.” Molly grits her teeth.

“I know. I’ll get him to go, okay? Just, head home and I’ll call you. It’s fine. I promise.” You pull her in for a hug before walking back off to Jason who’s pacing and fuming.

Molly pauses for a second before she decides to listen. Jason and you aren’t gonna listen to her anyway.

“You, too!” Jason screams at you.

He doesn’t want your help either. He doesn’t deserve it. The cruel voices are back, louder than ever and echoing through the deepest parts of his chest. They scream and cackle, telling him over and over that he's not good enough. Anyone could have beaten that guy up. Anyone could have taken him and anyone would know he had a gun. Of course, he had a gun. But, Jason's terrified of everything. He's too scared. He's weak and useless and hopeless. 

“No!” You yell back. “I’m not fucking leaving you here like this.”

“Get away!” Jason’s voice cracks as he stands in front of you.

“No! Molly’s right. You’re hurt. We need to get back.” You urge him as you reach for his shoulders.

He can't go back. Bruce is going to be home and he's going to have questions. What if this gets him benched permanently? What if this proves Bruce right? What if Bruce gives up on him entirely?

“No fuck that shit!” Jason brushes you off and he’s so fucking sick of this shit. “Leave me alone!”

“Jason.” You grit your teeth. “What the hell is going on?” You move forward anyway and cup his face, minding the blood.

“Just leave me alone, please.” Jason pleads with you as a lump grows in his throat. He’s so fucking sick of this. He’s so exhausted from feeling this way.

“You know I won’t, Jay.” Your eyes soften as your heart breaks for him.

Jason takes your hands in his. “You fucking should. I’m fucked up. You deserve better anyway. Go the fuck home.”

He’s pushing. Your heart breaks and you're gonna keep fighting. You have a lot of regrets and one of those is not fighting for him sooner. You always should have. You're not gonna repeat that regret. So, you're gonna fight and if he wants to push, he’ll have to try a lot harder than that.

“Jason, don’t do this.” You beg him. “Come home with me, please.”

He shakes his head and he can’t. He’ll pay for it later. He knows he will. He’s gonna push as hard as he possibly can to get you away from him. He doesn’t want you near him. He’s fucked up. He’s useless and weak and a mess. You don’t deserve him. He doesn’t want you coming to his rescue. It’s not your job and it never should be. Jason has always been able to take care of himself alone. This is no different. He doesn’t want your damn help. He doesn’t want it. It’s embarrassing. Humiliating. He loves you but he's in so much pain right now he has to do the one thing he’s always been best at. Pushing.

He’ll regret it.

“No.” Jason huffs. “I’m not going fucking home!” He yells. “Get the fuck out of here. I don’t need you bailing me out! I could have fucking handled it!”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, your voice cracking. You tug your sleeves down, Jason catching the action.

You haven’t done that in a month around him. He crumbles with the act. He knows pushing hurts you and that’s not fair just because he’s hurt. You don’t deserve it and maybe he’s right. Maybe you really do deserve better. He can’t take it back. He didn’t mean to hurt you. Not on purpose. He can’t take it back and he can’t deal with it all. He can’t deal with more guilt and pain and disappointment.

“Just leave me the fuck alone, alright?” Jason scoffs and he walks past you, knowing you’ll never leave. You don’t have it in you to walk away. So, he does.

He knows you’ll get him to break if he stays. You've always been good at getting him to calm down and be reasonable. But that’s not what he wants to be right now. He almost wants to be angry about it. He just wants to be alone, away from every person he’s disappointed and that includes you.

You watch him walk away as tears brim your eyes. You were making progress and now you’re back here. What is so different than before? You've had to bail him out before this and it wasn’t this bad. He didn’t push like this. And you realize the difference is Robin, the difference is always Robin.

At least when he was Robin, he had that to fall back on. He could chalk up his freezing to still being able to be Robin later. He’d have a second shot at it. He’d get a third shot. He was still Robin but Bruce benched him and now he’s getting his ass kicked by some nobody trafficking kids to the Joker. He has nothing left to fall back on. Every horrible thought he ever had about himself has become true today. He is useless. He is weak. He is not good enough. And you hate that he even feels that way.

But you can’t follow him because then you’ll just fight and that’s not something you want to do. He doesn’t need to feel worse over an argument with you. So, you let him walk away and you make your way down the alley.

You head back to the cafe where your bike is parked and you decide to hang out for half an hour, hoping Jason will come back. You can go back to the manor together and make sure he’s actually okay but as the time ticks by, there’s no sign of him and he’s not answering his phone. Jason is really good at pushing.

Jason looks at his phone and it's cold. It's snowing. You should just go home but he knows you're definitely still waiting for him. But, he's not even close to being ready to talk or cool down.

Jason: go home be back later I’m fine

Jason looks at his phone, watching the bubble show up. He’s still so angry with himself for all of it. He can’t even look you in the eyes right now. He doesn’t want to do anything. He just wants to be alone. But you worry. It’s been half an hour and at the very least, he can text you that he’s fine.

Y/n 😍: I don’t want to go back without you

Jason’s heart sinks as he reads the text. He hesitates over the keyboard. He almost types out “too bad” but he can't bring himself to type it out. It'll be even worse if it does.

Jason: you have to get ready for patrol tonight anyway stop worrying

Jason shuts his phone off as soon as the text sends. He simply can't. He knows he just fucked up your whole relationship. It’s been two weeks and he just fucked it all up. He’s not good enough anyway. It doesn’t matter. And yet it breaks his heart in two.

All he wants is to be Robin and be good enough again. He doesn't want to be so tired anymore. He's tired of it all. The nightmares and shaking hands. He's tired of the leg pain and the headaches and the nausea and racing heartbeat that makes him feel like he's going to pass out. He's tired of disappointing everyone and letting them down and not being good enough. He's tired of being weak. 

You let out a sigh, texting him back saying you don't have to go but the read receipt doesn't come through. You want to give him some more time to come around before you head back. So, you get on your bike and decide to head to Excellent Gotham. You always like it there anyway and it’ll be warm. And Jason knows that. If he wants to come around, he'll know where to find you.

You open the take-out container of your food once you're seated at your favorite table against the back wall. You try to eat while you scroll on your phone. Gar posted a new picture of him with Conner and Krypto at a park. Dick and Kory are seated at a picnic table behind them. A smile tugs at your lips as you double-tap the picture and pull up the comments.

You: @/dickgrayson @/koriandr look real cozy in the background 👀

You send the comment, mostly to harass Dick. You can’t do it in person, but you can do it through social media. It is something that can cheer you up usually. And you smile softly, remembering when Kory told you and Gar how Donna was the one that showed her how to work Instagram and helped her set up her account. You miss all of them.

@/dickgrayson: we were talking?

You: wE wErE tAlKiNg 🥴

@/garlogan: they’re always “talking”

You:“talking” is the first stage @/dickgrayson “don’t do anything…graphic”

@/garlogan: 😂🤮

@/dickgrayson: NOT FUNNY

@/garlogan: yes it is

You: you said it first 😂 sorry @/koriandr ily 💕

You laugh softly to yourself. You'll never miss an opportunity to bug him. You scroll through a few more photos until your attention is pulled from your phone when someone sits down in front of you.

“Hey.” Tim chimes. “You here alone?”

“Uh…yeah.” You shake your head. “Why?”

Every time you come here and Tim is here, you have a conversation about anything, really. This isn’t too weird of an exchange but you find it odd anyway for him to ask.

“You never come here alone anymore. Jason and Molly are always with you.” Tim gestures with his hand. “Everything okay?”

Tim is observant. He notices and remembers everything about everything and everybody. Before you left, you’d come in alone but since you started showing up again, you're always with Molly or Jason. Tim hasn’t seen you alone at all since. He notices you tugging your sleeves down when you order and the fact you always sit with your back up against a wall, looking out over the entire restaurant, something he doesn’t ever remember you doing. You’ve had enough conversations over the years that he considers you friends, friends enough to ask anyway.

“All good.” You shrug your shoulders, brushing it off.

Tim sighs. “My dad said you seemed down.” It’s not a lie. Mr. Drake did say that but Tim noticed anyway.

You laugh softly, nodding your head. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure? You can tell me if you want. I know we don’t know each other that well, but might help. Then I don’t have to run a delivery.” Tim chuckles.

He’s always so warm. You don’t think you've ever seen Tim seem down, annoyed but not down. He’s always excited to talk about whatever new thing has been picking at his mind. He was one of the people that told you he suspected there was a new Robin. Batman and the crazy maniacs of Gotham were a topic of discussion on occasion. And boy could he ramble about it. But, you always felt like you could trust him.

He doesn’t really know Jason. He kind of knows Molly but it was you and Tim that had the most conversation. He doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know what happened to you or where you were and what happened. He doesn’t know any of it. And you find that a bit comforting. You trust him enough to at least talk a little bit because having to not tell anyone anything because everyone you know knows Jason is really difficult sometimes.

“Just, uh, some shit is going on and I, uh, can’t tell anyone about most of it.” You shake your head. “Me and Jason got into a fight and uh, I don’t know. He pushes sometimes. It’s fine, ya know? I get it but it, uh, it sucks anyway.” You chew the inside of your cheek.

Tim furrows his brows. “So, he gets mad and pushes you away? That’s not fair to you.” He lazily points a finger at you.

“Yeah, but he has shit going on.” You defend.

“That’s not an excuse.” Tim scoffs. “He seems cool. I don’t know him. I’m just saying, no one deserves to be pushed just because someone’s going through shit.”

“Well, he’s not an asshole to me. And I do the same shit so, ya know?”

“Well, I still think he shouldn’t do it." Tim states casually. "Why’s he do it anyway?“ Tim asks and you raise a brow at him. "I'm just saying, you're together so why's he still pushing you away?"

“I’m so serious, if you ever bring this up, I’ll kill you.” You threaten softly and Tim nods, gesturing for you to contiue. “Everyone gives up on him and I just…don’t? I’m like the only person who hasn’t and I’m not going to. I don’t even know why people do. He’s an ass sometimes and he’s all bark and bite. But, I don’t get it anyway, right? Because when you give a fuck about someone you don’t just give up cause shit gets hard. Or they fuck up. But it’s like he’s so damn used to it that when I simply don’t give up, he freaks out a little more when shit, like today, happens.” You state, keeping it a bit vague on the actual events.

Tim nods his head and he agrees. He believes in second chances. He doesn’t think people should just give up on people. He’s fucked up several times and his parents don’t give up on him. They were not happy about him dropping out but they’re not giving up on him. He doesn’t know what happened and he highly doubts you're gonna be less vague if he asks. But, he also knows some things you definitely don’t know he knows.

Tim knows. He knows Jason is Robin. Dick was Robin. Bruce is Batman. He knows you're Bluejay, a vigilante name the Gothamites have given you all because of your blue suit and you patrol with Batman. You do not talk about the irony in it. At least it's a little better than Acid Fingers. But, Tim is very observant. With a photographic memory.

Dick is one of two people in the world who can perform a specific flip and Robin 1.0 and Nightwing can also perform that trick which means Bruce Wayne is Batman. Jason was adopted by Bruce after Robin 1.0 left which means Jason has to be Robin 2.0, on top of the fact Tim remembers seeing videos and him and Robin 2.0 walk the same way. They share the same stride and confidence. And that’s how he figured out you're Bluejay.

The way you walk, how you hold yourself. You're living with Bruce Wayne, dating Jason Todd. It’s all pretty obvious to him in all fairness. So, he is kind of guessing whatever is going on has something to do with the vigilante life and that’s not something he can so much help with. But, he can try.

“Do you want my advice?” Tim asks.

“Sure?” You question.

“You said he pushes so, have you tried…letting him?”

“The point is that I don’t? So, I’m not like everyone else and I don't give up on people very much.”

“Yeah, but, you not letting him doesn’t work with whatever is going on, right?”

“I guess?”

“So, let him. And he’ll come back, right? Be there when he comes back. You said, it’s what he does. So, maybe you,” Tim gestures towards you as he leans back in his seat. “Being there all the time is suffocating him.” Tim states casually. “You could give him the space and when he comes around, be there like you normally would. Maybe he just needs the space, right?”

“I--” You pause and that’s kind of a good point you haven’t thought of. “I…yeah, actually that kind of makes sense. I just…worry about him. If you knew, you’d know why, ya know?”

“So, tell him you’ll give him space or whatever but he has to check in and tell you he’s fine so you’re not worried.”

You groan, putting your head on the table for a second before picking it back up again. “That’s actually a good idea. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It’s easier from the outside sometimes.” Tim chuckles awkwardly.

“Thanks, Tim. I will try that.” You nod softly.

“You're welcome.” Tim smiles warmly. "So, you decided to just come here because you had a fight and wait for him to come around?"

“Oh, you really don’t want to work. Don’t you have like schoolwork to do or something?” You quip with a grin tugging at your lips.

“I dropped out.” Tim shifts in his seat slightly.

“Why? Aren’t you like a genius?”

Tim shrugs casually. “I mean not...”

“He does our books.” Mr. Drake calls from the counter making you laugh.

“Genius.” You state with a nod.

“Kind of.” Tim rolls his shoulders.

“I just, uh, I always liked it here. Your family is always here, and always felt real warm. And, uh, ya know? Been a while since I felt that so. Like, whole family dynamic thing.” You nod your head.

“Oh, well, in that case, you can run my deliveries. Really feel the warmth of a family then.” Tim nods twice with a toothy grin, glancing to his dad.

“No, I’m good.” You laugh. “That’s all you, Timmy.” You scrunch your nose. “Thanks, though, seriously.”

“Hey, we’re friends, right?” Tim shrugs casually.

“Yeah, I guess.” You shake your head. “Coming in here enough over the years, I guess so.” You smile softly. “Seriously, thank you. And also, I’m serious, don’t tell anyone. We don’t normally like when people know our shit.”

“I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry.” Tim chuckles.

“Well, I’m gonna head back to the manor. Give him space like you said. I’ll be back probably tomorrow.” You laugh as you get up.

“Oh, well, I’ll be here.” Tim states with wide eyes. “They won’t let me leave.” He whispers.

“So, go to school.” You mock him as Tim groans.

“Yeah, alright, be safe.” Tim chuckles.

“Yeah, too. All those delivers and such.” You offer him a thumbs-up before you head out of the restaurant.

The night goes by and you don’t go on patrol. You want to be here when Jason gets home and being out with Bruce just seems like it’ll make you more annoyed tonight. It’s his fault today happened anyway. So, you stay home and listen to Tim, giving Jason some space for the night.

Jason texts you here and there saying he’s still fine because he’s not throwing in the towel. The later the night gets, the more texts come through from him. He’s calmer as the night goes on and his anger is fading away. He apologizes a few more times and he wonders how he’s ever going to come back from what he said to you and Molly. Neither of you deserve it. You were just worried about him.

At some point, Jason stopped receiving texts from you and figured that was his cue to head back home. It’s two in the morning and he has to guess you fell asleep. He thinks it’s safe to go home and get to bed. He won’t have to talk about it when he gets home. He can just try to get at least some sleep.

When he gets home, Bruce is still out on patrol. The manor is completely quiet and he goes right to your room, just to check on you before he heads to his own bed. But, when he looks into your room, the bed is still made and you aren’t there. His heart plummets because he thinks he really blew it. He’s so sure you left. Maybe you're staying with Molly. Maybe you're just waiting for him to calm down before you break it off entirely. You're done and it’s all his fault.

Maybe you were only texting him back so you wouldn’t feel guilty if he did something stupid. He’s not sure, but he really thinks he messed things up with you this time.

Jason feels tears brim his eyes as he shuts the door. His head hangs as the lump grows further into his throat as he walks to his room. He did what he always does, push until someone gives up. He really, in the pit of his stomach, didn’t think you ever would. And he doesn’t even blame you. He just feels guilty and hurt for everything in the first place. He just keeps fucking it all up.

When he reaches the door of his room, his arm is weak as it creaks open but his attention snaps to the TV that’s on. There isn’t anything playing, it’s just the screensaver but it’s on and there’s an automatic shut off which means he didn’t leave it on. He looks in the opposite direction towards his bed where you're sleeping.

Jason sucks in a breath of relief at the sight of you. You didn’t give up. You didn’t leave. You waited for him in his room because you knew he would be avoiding talking and probably you when he got back if you were awake. And his heart swells. He doesn’t deserve you. But, he walks closer to the bed anyway and strips to his boxers before crawling into bed with you and wrapping his arms around you. He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

You hum from in front of him, your back pressed against his chest. “Jay?” Your voice is groggy as you tiredly look over your shoulder.

“Yeah.” Jason whispers softly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay.” You smile softly, rolling around his arms to face him, your eyes barely open as you look up at him. The bruise from the day is hidden against the pillow and the low light of the bedroom. “Glad you’re home.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” Jason states and you barely make out the guilt across his face.

“It’s okay, we’ll talk in the morning.” You snuggle against his chest. Truthfully, you're just glad he's home and he's safe. One bad day doesn't destroy everything you've built. “Not mad, just tired. Get some sleep, Jay. It’s just you and me.” You press a kiss to his chest, feeling Jason relax against you.

“I love you.” Jason mutters against the top of your head.

“I love you, too.” You smile softly against him.

Jason squeezes you softly against him and he doesn’t know why he’s still lucky to have you. His life is shit besides you and you pick him anyway. You should leave him and he knows you should. He was wrong for speaking to you that way and for pushing so damn hard. But you don’t. You're here anyway for reasons he’ll never understand. But he is immensely thankful you're still here. With him.

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[running-with-the-feels]

Please keep doing the Lin kuei bro’s driving Raiden mad posts because honestly after what that man put Bi han through they deserve to be petty bitches towards him. Also your neurodivergent Bi han HC is healing my soul because honestly that man is so adhd/autism coded

hehehehehe your wish is my command

Raiden: Why do you never follow my orders?

Kung Lao: You're not my real dad

Bi-Han: Spite, mostly

Kuai Liang: I hate you and everything you stand for

---

also, Bi-Han is absolutely adhd, not sure if he's autistic or just spent too much time with Kuai Liang who is def autistic (I'm autistic and my brother isn't but sometimes he acts Very autistic bc he spent too much time with me when we were kids). Hanzo is also autistic, Kung Lao is something tho nobody can tell what yet, and Liu Kang is adhd and has anxiety

[bnha-more-like-bnh-gay]

Izuku "I'm Actually A Sassy Little Shit, So As Soon As I Learn Self-Confidence It's Over For You Bitches" Midoriya does indeed one day gain self-confidence, and suddenly he starts reading villains to filth! And he does it with a patented Aizawa Gremlin Grin!

🥦: 😏 "You know, I get why you're robbing this bank. Dental work is expensive. Trouble is, there isn't enough Yen in Japan to fix your smile. You need a fucking miracle, ok?"

🦹‍♂️: ...😱😢😭

Aizawa has never been more proud of his Problem Child. 😁

BDJDBAIXJ BROOO, I LOVE CONFIDENT IZUKU😭😭 it’s what he deserves. Like, he’s a sarcastic little shit, he just has anxiety. Shouto but with the anxiety filter.

Bakugou: *complaining about being paired up with him*

Izuku: you know what kaachan? I didn’t want my dad to abandon my mom and I either! I certainly didn’t want my “best friend” to ab*se me for over a decade! Sometimes we don’t get what we want! I know this is a shocking concept for you because you yell and someone, usually me, gives you whatever you want, but shockingly enough, I don’t want to work with you either! So, we’re both just going to have to suck it up!

Bakugou:

Class a:

Izuku: :)

I also love him just berating villains poor life choices 😭

Like, some villain is telling him their tragic backstory (Midoriya izuku, quirk: loose lips. People feel compelled to trauma dump whenever in close proximity with him)

Villain: my father never loved me

Izuku: oh I get that! My dad went out for milk when I was a kid, I think he must’ve gotten really lost, because it’s been over a decade and we haven’t heard from him

Villain:

Izuku:

Villain: kid-

Izuku: get therapy and make absent father jokes like the rest of us, don’t throw your life away to prove some piss poor point

Aizawa:

Aizawa: so, Midoriya. I heard that you don’t have a father-

It happens gradually over time and he grows and goes to therapy. Jirou is honestly the one who expected it most because he mutters things a lot and she’s been privy to his sass since the beginning. She’s just proud, and also surprised, that he’s being more vocal about it

The first time anyone sees him do the Aizawa signature smile, they fear for their lives. They shudder. Nezu smiles. Aizawa feels a shift in the tectonic plates that signifies a problem child back on their bullshit (not that they were ever really off their bullshit, but still)

It becomes such a regular occurrence though, that when he does it at the next sports festival, everyone fears for what will come from this monster’s plot. Mic just sees his face and sighs. “Eraser, what are you teaching this one?”

“No no, don’t look at me. He did this by himself. Also Nezu.”

“That’s your face! That’s the logical ruse face that you do!”

“It’s not my fault he’s like that!”

“No, you’re just his home room teacher, why would it be your fault what he’s learned…”

“Some kids just come with an extra side of crazy, it’s not the teachers fault. Did I nurture that crazy? Yes, absolutely. And I’m glad I did. Am I glad that it got introduced to nezu? No, absolutely fucking not”

Midnight stops then there.

[aria-ashryver]

my introverted ass gets a lil shy about participating in fandom events sometimes lol, but I wanted to give some folks some love for ✨Choices Fandom Shoutout Day!✨

Firstly, to all my moots, but especially @pudb1e @alleykatart @icanmakewords @honeyinadream @scrumptioustimemachinetragedy @aces-and-angels @zhoras-bitch @lilyoffandoms and anyone else i've missed! (chemo brain is a bitch)

ngl, every time you guys like something to do with the Starlight blorbos it makes me giddy. You make this such a warm and joyous place to be with every little interaction -- your joy is my joy, and I'm so glad our shared love of ID and Choices fandom stuff (and hopefully, my writing too!) has brought you all some happiness.

I hope something makes you smile today. You deserve all the happiness in the world and I appreciate you all so much 🌻🌼🌷

I wanted to give an extra special shout out to @jerzwriter for making this fandom such an inclusive and welcoming place -- you are just straight up lovely! I know I barely know you, but you have a generosity of spirit that I really, greatly admire.

[Skip this bit if you want, as I'm touching on heavier health stuff]. I realise I haven't actually got around to posting the fic in question yet (writing takes a lot out of me atm), but I have been frittering away at a piece based on the ask you sent me forever ago, and I really wanted to thank you for taking the time to send that ask in the first place. Not only did it make me feel like I really was a part of the community here, but you actually sent me that ask right before a meeting with my oncologist where I was due to find out whether I had been responding to chemotherapy or not. (I am getting better! ✨🎉) It was a pretty rough morning, and through some truly serendipitous timing, you swooped in and offered me the perfect distraction. I immediately found myself imagining all these soft scenarios and trying to cobble together little plot points instead of fixating on my anxiety; you gave me an escape when I really needed it.

And for me, that's exactly what fandom is all about! That's what fanfic writers and fanartists are so wonderful at achieving with their works; is bringing this refuge of joy and levity and beauty when we need it the most. So, truly, thank you -- not just for the ask that day, not just for all your hard work with @choicesficwriterscreations, but simply for being you and for sharing your stories with the world. You really do bring a light 💛

And through all of this, my OG reader and wonderful friend @freedom-kitty ✨ You've been there since the beginning bringing so much enthusiasm and eagerness and leaving some of the most wonderful comments on my fics that I have ever had the joy of reading. I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that you are an absolute GEM and I'm so glad ID brought us together 💖 I have so many of your comments saved to go back and re-read when I'm doubting my own skills, or when I just need a smile (I'm still absolutely cracking up about the Aria the Great saga when I "joined you" on holiday lmao). You are the best ever, and I hope you know it.

Thank you for cheering me on, both in writing and in life with all the bullshit going on this year. You kick ass, lovely, and you should feel awesome about being you 💕

Lastly, thank you so much @choicesfandomappreciation for your hard work and thoughtfulness in hosting such an awesome event!! 🧁🎀 I love seeing events like this!

Sending you all hugs (if you are the hugs sort) and sunshine and warmth (if that's more your jam)

You are loved

You are brilliant

You are capable

You are enough 🌻

all my love,

aria xx

[bsnotoneaskedfor]

Tired MK

Before you judge, hear me out.

MK goes through SO much shit because of his "Monkey Kid" status. Like, a ton. As someone who is a teen and struggles with mental health it is so obvious that MK has been spiraling since day one. The poor dude is going to die of anxiety and depression before the Lady Bone Bitch tries to order a smackdown with a side of trauma. MK is also a people pleaser. He legit is always trying to live up to people's standards and be "just like Monkey King".

Here's the thing: I also suffer from trying to please everyone and let me tell you that shit is exhausting. Fuck magic, the thing that really makes this show fiction is that MK hasn't had a massive mental breakdown. He's had baby ones, that are still valid, but he's pushed them aside because "he has to be the hero". He never really shows signs of emotional distress besides the show poking fun at it or using it for plot. For those in the comments, please don't try to psychoanalyze the show to prove me wrong. This is just what I have seen. So, with this being said, there is something I really would love to see and have adopted it as my personal headcannon.

MK being done with everyone's shit.

Not, "MK's tired", or "MK's sassy ;D", or even Mk going through an emo phase.

I want absolutely 100% done MK.

I want to see him surviving on coffee or energy drinks because the weight of everyone's expectations keeps him up at night. I want him mad when people start blaming him/looking to him for answers because "he's the Monkey Kid". I want him done with Wukong's bullshit. I want my realistic representation of burnout and mental illness. I want to see him trying to get better and no longer caring about calling people out for being toxic.

I don't know if I'm 100% explaining this right because words are really hard so here are some examples of what I see my MK head cannon as.

(This one's based off that one TikTok audio where the guy yells at the cats to get off the couch)

MK: *Sitting peacefully, attempting to do homework or some other quiet activity*

Macaque and Wukong : *fighting like feral cats*

MK: (almost roars it) STOP IT!

Macaque and Wukong : *is startled and a little afraid*

MK : LEARN TO FUCKING GET ALONG OR SO HELP ME I'LL TEST THE LIMITS OF YOUR IMMORTALITY

Macaque and Wukong : *obeying, nearly about to piss themselves out of fear*

MK: *Deep Breath. Goes back to what he was doing*

Every Demon Within 50 miles : wtf was that?

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

MK: *chugging a coffee or energy drink*

Some Demon: *starts destroying the city*

MK : Dammit *Chugs faster. *

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

Wukong: Hey bud! When's the last time that you've slept?

MK: *completely deadpan* It is finals week.

Wukong : That doesn't answer-

MK:*getting angrier* I have to defend the city every damn day. I have to deal with your messes, including you. I train every day for at least 4 hours even when we don't meet up. I WORK FULL TIME AT THE GODDAMN NOODLE SHOP AND THEN I HAVE TO FUCKING STUDY FOR COLLEGE. WHEN IN THE NAME OF BUHDDA WOULD I BE ABLE TO SLEEP?!?!

Wukong : *sweats* So I see that you're stressed-

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

Team Monkey : Why didn't you use [ insert power] to start with?!

MK: *sarcastic* I'm sorry. I thought we all deserved a nice bonding trip where we spent the entire time bickering and getting the shit beaten out of us. Was that supposed to be next week?!?

Team Monkey : . . .

MK: How about you guys make a list of everything I can do. That way, next time, we can just all look at it together and none of you blame me.

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

Red Son : * trying to pick a fight and just being a dick in general*

MK: *Not having it* Do not make me duct tape you down so I can embroider your worst nightmares onto your skin, you pompous little fuck!

Red Son : . . .wtf

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

Red Son : *Is pretty*

MK: *deep sigh of disappointment* I need therapy . . .

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

Mei : * Gets the Samhadi Fire*

MK: *remembering all the shit and expectations he went through once he got his powers*

Mei: *About to have a breakdown*

MK: *laughs* Have fun

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

Red Son: *breaks in at the middle of the night in an attempt to capture MK*

MK: *is awake because insomnia* So, do you , like, want some tea . . .?

May do a Pt 2

[killersimp]

Killer x scared reader

⚠warning⚠ This story contains elements of panic attacks and crying. Do not proceed if you are triggered by any of these.

You were currently hiding in the closet in the bedroom you shared with Killer. Your anxiety had been building up the past few days. Right now, you didn't feel safe. Which was absolutely ridiculous given the ship you were currently on. Tears were flowing down your cheeks and breath escaped short and uneven. You then heard heavy footsteps enter the room. To make yourself as quiet as possible, you covered your mouth.

"(Y/n)," you heard Killer softly call out "you in here love?"

He has a slightly worried tone in his voice. So you tapped on the closet door to let him know your whereabouts. His footsteps approached, and he slowly opened the door. He looked at your trembling form, squeezed in the back of the closet.

"There you are," he sighed with such affection in his voice "what are you doing in here?"

Tears continued to make their way down your flushed cheeks "Don't... feel....s-safe."

Killer proceeded to sit on the floor outside of the closet. A silent sign he was willing to be there and listen. Killer was always good at listening no matter what was being discussed. He always gave you his 100% attention.

"Alright," he said gently "can you tell me why you feel that way?"

While you tried to calm yourself down, the tears started to slow down. However, you found yourself unable to answer his question. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't form any words.

"You're alright love," he said reassuringly "no need to rush yourself, I'm right here."

Nodding was the only way you could answer showing that you understood. You took a couple slow and deep breaths trying to calm down enough to speak.

"Anxiety was building up," you explained "couldn't, hold it in anymore."

Killer said nothing as he listened and waited for you to finish. He was always so patient with you. Knowing that anxiety could be a bitch. You wiped off your face with the back of your hand. Killer held his hand out to you in a silent offer to help. "You want to come out now?"

Nodding your head, you took his hand and slowly crawled out of the closet. Your legs wobbled from being in the same position for a while. Killer helped you to the bed and sat you down. Reaching over, he grabbed the plushie you kept on the bed. He knew it was a comfort item for you. Taking it, you buried your face in its softness. Killer sat next to you in silence. There were a lot of quiet moments with Killer around, because he was just a naturally quiet person. And right now, he knew you needed quiet.

"Kid had noticed you seemed a bit off," he said "he wanted to make sure you were ok."

As you looked over at him, you sniffled and leaned against him. Killer gently wrapped a comforting arm around your shoulders.

"Do you feel better," he asked "or do you need more help calming down?"

Thinking for a moment, you decided you wanted to actually do something. You wanted to take your mind off of everything. "Can we do something?" You asked in a small tired voice.

You couldn't see his face, but you knew he had a small smile. Getting up, he took your hand. "You can even bring the plush with you if you want."

Clutching the plush to your chest, you let Killer practically drag you around. Eventually the two of you ended up in the kitchen. You sat down in one of the chairs while Killer stood at the pantry.

"Hey love," he said getting your attention "you want me to make you a milkshake?"

Nodding your head, you sank down further into the chair, burying your face into your plush. As Killer prepared your drink, another set of footsteps approached the kitchen. Peeking out from the plush, you saw Kid enter. He looked over at you, to which you gave him a small smile.

Kid walked over and sat in one of the chairs next to you. He then reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Kid took hold of your hand, and slid a small bracelet onto it. The beads were small, but shiny, and were your favorite colors. Looking it over, you noticed that it had a small charm on it. It was a small heart with a tiny red gem in the center.

"I know you've been having a rough time lately," he said quietly "so when you look at this, you know you can count on others to help."

He then reached over and wiped a tear away from your cheek. You hadn't realized that you had been crying till now. Looking at the bracelet, you silently swore to never take it off if it wasn't necessary.

"Kid?" You said with a slight sniffle.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for always looking out for your crew."

Kid playfully scoffed "Heh, what kind of captain would I be if I didn't?"

Both of you laughed at that, as Killer came and set down your milkshake. He then took the chair opposite from Kid.

"You're not alone anymore," Killer said taking your hand in his "you can count on people to help you now."

Taking a sip of your milkshake, and enjoying the sweet, cold of it, you now knew things could be different. Because you had friends who cared now.