#chapter five is finally here

[demigodsanswer]

Chapters: 5/6 Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson Characters: Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase (Percy Jackson), Frederick Chase, Luke Castellan, Sally Jackson (Percy Jackson), Frank Zhang, Piper McLean, Jason Grace Additional Tags: Bisexual Percy Jackson, Bisexual Annabeth Chase (Percy Jackson), Modern Royalty, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Rimming, Frederick Chase is a Good Dad, Submissive Percy Jackson, Switch Percy Jackson, Switch annabeth chase, Submissive Annabeth Chase, Cock Warming, Bondage Summary:

Percy tapped his foot nervously as his father stared at him. It was never a great sign when his dad needed to speak with him. Percy was not, by any means, an important part of the Spanish monarchy: fourth son of the king's brother. He was basically a socialite with a memorable ocean-themed back tattoo. "Did you," his father finally said, "have sex with the heir to the Swedish throne last night?" Percy laughed. "What? No, of course not." Oh he had, he so had. ~ Modern Royals and old college rivals Percy Jackson of Spain, and Annabeth Chase of Sweden meet at a party and get snapped by paparazzi. Their hookup makes the front page.

[franeridart]

The Housecat Philosophy - Ep 65

Ep 00 || < Prev || Next >

Read ahead on Patreon || Catch up on Webtoon || support me on ko-fi~✨

[giftplane]

formalities & discussions

this is!!!! woaughhg. an artfight attack. this is being posted here because the full image can't go on the website. because odile is here.

anyways, it's for @twinleafsystem !!!!!! woahg.....

[yuechihua]

harumasa's greatest hits p.1

[pinkytoothlesso11]

Ghost in the Machine: Halloween special fic

My Halloween Trollhunters fic is finally here! First chapter at least lol. Its a crossover this time, and the first chapter is REALLY long so I apologise, but enjoy! Warning for: major character death and gore and violence.

Summary: Walter Strickler, along with his wife Barbara Lake and son Jim, are a normal, happy family.

That is until Walter’s life is abruptly cut short after a trip to Freddy fazbear’s Pizzeria goes awry, and he ends up murdered in a backroom by a strange man in a golden rabbit animatronic suit...Body hidden in one of the animatronic mascots.

Only this isn't where Walter’s story ends, not by a long shot...

Spirit bound to possess one of the animatronics, hope is almost all lost, when a chance encounter with a wizard sees him eventually reunited with his family, gaining a new body, or two, in the process, and battling both the darkness within— and without.

[hauntingblue]

I'm still scared in sabaody

This is crazy...

THS IS LIKE 300 CHAPTERS AWAY!!!!! THE SMILE... and mingo being the owner of the slave house for the tenryuubitos... OF COURSE

Look.... luffy enablers vs normal rational people

I was like yeah sure luffy was saying he wanted to become king of the pirates but rayleigh didn't explicitly say roger wanted to become pirate king just that people called him that so I am SURE shanks is saying luffy has the same dream we don't know about as Roger. Which lines up bc luffy said shanks knew of it and then in wano ace tells yamato and he says roger said the same thing and ace also knew of it!!! Which is crazy that it's set up this early but EVERYTHING is being set up here

I need to frame this btw.

Shakky the mother that stepped up.... also new conspiracy theory shakky is Hancock's mother bc she is a fan of luffy and hancock is too.... she was busy being a pirate to take care of hancock so she feels incredibly guilty about what happened to her so shakky either hasn't told her and hancock doesn't know or they have a difficult relationship. Yeah sure whatever. I dont care if rayleigh is her father or not bc as you know I believe in asexual reproduction in one piece thank you.

🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️what can I say

😳🫣

Here we fucking go again..... I can't do this

Incredible face sanji

SHE KNOWS!!!!!!

Luffy tearing up...... christ

Sanji getting away from his group with nami to save zoro will never get old like jesus christ look at this

CHOPPER 😭😭😭😭😭😭

CRAZYYYYYYY IM GOING CRAZYYYYY

LUFFYYYYYYY NOOOOO

NAMIIIIII NOOOOOOOOOO nami asking for help and luffy not being able to help her this time.... this is so sick and twisted

THE WAY THIS GETS WAY WORSE MAKES ME SICK!!!!!!!!!!! SICK!!!!!! TWISTED!!!!!!!!

[hebuiltfive]

The Alaskan Train Crash: International Rescue, We Have A Situation.

Six months after the return of Jeff Tracy and International Rescue has finally come back off their hiatus. One of their first missions with their dad back at the helm? A mysterious train wreck in remote Alaska.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Additional Tags: Artist!Virgil, Post season three, slight AU, Mentions of hospitals, Mentions of Blood, description of train crash, Light Angst

Series: Part 1 of The Long Game

NOTES: This has been MONTHS in the making and, I won't lie, I'm a little nervous about finally putting this out in the world. This is only the first chapter of the first part of (what I'm now thinking will be) quite a large story. Disclaimers to say that I obviously do not own any of the characters in this story. They were created by the wonderful Gerry and Sylvia Anderson. The only things I do own are the ideas and situations they end up in. Trust me, they'll end up in some sticky situations in the near future!

Read it below or on AO3 here.

The Hood’s haphazard approach to his criminal scheming, coupled with a blatant disregard for any life that wasn’t his own, only ever led to one outcome — disaster.

The unfortunate beneficiaries of today’s outcome were currently trapped under the wreckage of the buckled front carriage of a derailed freight train. The scene was horrific to look at, even with all of Scott’s years of experience and training that came with being in the rescue business. The whole of the train looked as though it had been flung from the tracks, and had flipped onto its side, except for the back carriage, which had somehow managed to stay the right way up, and the front carriage, which had been capsized completely. In stark contrast to the crisp white snow underneath the wreck, there was a dark patch of leaking oil developing. As Scott hovered in the air over the derailed train, guiding his jet pack over the wreckage to get a sense of the scope, he knew he had to work fast.

There had been three workers on board. Whilst two of the three had seemingly been rendered unconscious by the incident, one was still very much awake and aware of her current predicament. She had made sure that the receiver of her distress call also knew this. John had forewarned his older brother of the severity of this woman’s pleas for assistance whilst Scott had flown Thunderbird One to the danger zone at top speed; the way the woman had begged Thunderbird Five for help had sent shivers down (a normally stoic) John’s spine. Still, despite the advanced warning, nothing could have quite prepared Scott for the look of pure terror on that woman’s face as he landed himself beside the wreck and jogged over to that capsized front carriage.

Two Hours Earlier.

Virgil had just wanted the lounge to himself so he could finally finish his oil painting in relative peace. It had already taken him far longer than he’d expected to get the painting complete. Usually that was due to rescue missions interrupting him and not his two younger brothers, as was the case today. Gordon and Alan had come bounding into the lounge, as loud and as energetic as always, and then began to play the loudest alien-killing game they could have possibly found. Virgil knew that his easel and pallet in front of him had not gone unnoticed by the Terrible Two, but the boys didn’t seem to care. Or, rather, they didn’t seem to realise the disturbance they’d caused. That was normally the case, anyway.

Virgil should have known that asking for any semblance of peace in the Tracy household was very rarely answered. The villa was always a hive of chaotic activity, even when those rescue missions called half of the family away. As Virgil was usually on call in those situations, he rarely managed to find a moment’s grace unless he was up into the late hours of the day. As it was, the sun had already begun to set over Tracy Island and sleep would soon be beckoning to all of them. He only had a few hours left to get some painting done before Scott had another reason to berate him for staying up late again. Thankfully, Tracy Island was large enough to not only house International Rescue’s operations, but also cater enough room for everyone who lived there.

He had not long retreated from the lounge, away from Alan and Gordon’s loud but seemingly futile efforts to defeat an invading alien race, to finish up his work in his art studio.  He should have just stayed there this morning and not gone down to the lounge, but when that room was not occupied by bored, young adolescents, the lounge was just as serene as the quiet his studio offered. The views out onto the expanse of the Pacific inspired Virgil’s creative muse, and the colours seemed to flow so much better on his canvas when the warm, tropical breeze blew up through the open veranda. That being said, the picturesque scenery that now filled his peripheral was just as humbling.

His canvas, he’d carefully carried down from the lounge, had been placed on a new easel that stood in front of a large window. In the near distance Mateo stood, the rocks on the island glinting in the last rays of sun. Far more quieter than the disruption his brothers were currently causing upstairs. Content once more, Virgil started to mix the paints he needed on a new pallet.

He got all of two swipes of raw sienna onto the canvas when there was a gentle knock of knuckles against the wood of the art studio door.

“Virgil?” It was a voice that Virgil had thought he’d never hear again, up until a few months the back, that is. A voice that he was still trying to get used to hearing again after living so long without it.

Jeff Tracy had opened the door and was standing under the frame, his hands sitting idly in the pockets of his jeans. He looked over the artwork his second eldest was working on. To a stranger, or casual observer, they might have been deceived by the seemingly dark piece. With the shades Virgil had decided to use so far, that would have been an understandable mistake. But Jeff knew his sons, even after eight years of being separated from them, and he could see the hope that radiated through the painting. In the background, still only an outline and yet unfinished, he could make out the shape that he guessed would become Thunderbird Two. Jeff could see Virgil’s behemoth of a ship was to rise in the distance, to assist in the abstract disaster that was happening in the foreground. The smile that lit up his worn face gave Virgil a warm glow inside. “Looking good, son.”

In those first few weeks of Jeff Tracy’s return to earth after spending almost a decade lost in the outer reaches of the solar system, International Rescue had gone on an understandable hiatus. The Global Defence Force had offered to pick up the rescue work whilst the family became reacquainted and new routines were established. After all, just having their father sitting with them at their breakfast table in the morning again gave the boys enough of a shock. Despite the stresses and occasional disagreements that naturally came with the reshuffling and reorganising of the organisation, having their dad back was one of the greatest miracles to happen to the Tracy brothers, and they all thanked their lucky stars every day for having him home again.

“Do you have a moment?” Jeff asked, gesturing forward as a way of asking whether Virgil was okay with him stepping into his space.

By the look on his dad’s face, Virgil knew that ‘a moment’ was more than likely going to last longer than Jeff had suggested in his wording, but Virgil nodded all the same. As Jeff stepped inside and closed the door behind him, Virgil placed his pallet and paint brush on the side table beside his easel. He rubbed his paint splattered fingers on his equally paint splattered apron.

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

Virgil was used to being the one everyone came to for advice and assistance in the family. Along with Grandma Tracy, he was the soundboard that his brothers, and Kayo and Brains, relied on when they needed a solid voice of reason. Virgil never minded. He never saw any of them as a burden or a bother. Whenever they needed to seek comfort in Virgil’s warmth and way with words, Virgil was there for them.

“I wanted to just let you know that Grandma will be taking me to the mainland tomorrow.”

Virgil’s heart sank a little at Jeff’s words. He knew what his father’s words were code for, knew exactly where Grandma Tracy was taking him: the hospital. Jeff’s health had been fragile upon his return to Earth. Having had to survive eight years on a rock in the Oort Cloud, it came as no surprise to any of them. They were all wise to the fact that the situation would have been a detriment to anyone’s health, and they all were sure that, had Jeff been anyone else, he wouldn’t have lived through the ordeal for nearly as long as he miraculously had. Jeff’s health had been a major talking point in the reorganisation of International Rescue. The main question was whether he was fit enough to take back the mantel of Commander In Chief, or whether it was better for him to take a backseat and oversee operations from the sidelines instead. Both Grandma and Scott had been firm advocates in Jeff taking the back seat, but Jeff Tracy was Jeff Tracy and he wasn’t the kind of man who was content with being sidelined. In the end, they had all agreed on him sharing the job with his eldest son, at least until he was in a better condition.

Hence the hospital visits. Scans, blood work, physiotherapy, drugs and tests were part of their new normal, and they’d been advised that this new normal was going to stay in place for the foreseeable future. Jeff didn’t mind, so long as it meant he was still able to be of assistance, but the constant hospital trips had the boys naturally worrying.

“If dad is so unwell that he needs to be constantly visiting Doctor Mayhew every month, he shouldn’t be placed in a position that could cause him stress!” Scott had exclaimed on more than one occasion. Jeff never listened to him, always claimed that he was fine which only led to heated debates between the two. Usually it was Grandma who managed to calm them both down, but once or twice, the unfortunate role of mediator had landed on Virgil’s lap. Whilst he still didn’t see it as a burden, it was the only time he minded. It was the one time he didn’t like being a soundboard to his family.

“How long this time?” He asked his father, arms folding across his chest.

“A week. Maybe two. They want to check my legs, I think. It’s going to require a few tests back to back and they say that it’s easier if I just stay there whilst they get the results.”

Virgil nodded. It made sense for him to remain in one place. His next question was one he didn’t want the answer to. “Does Scott know?”

Jeff held silence for a moment or two, and Virgil knew the answer instantaneously. “No. He doesn’t. Not yet.”

Virgil pursed his lips, nodded once… twice, and then began to undo his paint apron. So much for a relaxing evening with his canvas. “He needs to know, dad.”

“He overthinks everything—”

“That’s Scott for you—”

“— and I don’t like how stressed out he gets. I don’t want to add to it, or be the cause of more stress.”

Welcome to the club, Virgil thought, but sighed as he threw the apron aside. Scott never knew how to take things easy. He was a classic overreacher, constantly trying to do more than his best. That perfectionism had only got worse in the months following their father’s disappearance, but that was a fact Jeff had still not been informed about. Their father had developed a legacy in people’s minds, one that only grew in his supposed death, and Scott felt compelled to continue that legacy. He had always looked up to Jeff, but this constant need to try and make their father proud, even in death, sometimes meant Scott took unnecessarily hazardous risks, and it had nearly landed him on death’s doorstep on more than one occasion. Virgil and the others had often tried to slow him down and make him see reason, but their talks rarely seemed to have a lasting impact. Come the next day, Scott would be back to his normal, overreaching self.

“Scott’s capable of handling a lot more than you think, dad.”

Jeff breathed out a long sigh. “I don’t want him to handle so much. He should share the burdens.”

“Good luck getting him to do that. We’ve been trying for years, but Scott is way too protective. It’s one of the reasons why he doesn’t want you being so involved in the rescues right now, what with your… health.”

“I know he’s looking out for me,” Jeff began, his eyes averting Virgil’s own gaze as he took in the view of Mateo from the window. “I just wish he wouldn’t try so damned hard all the time.”

Virgil let out a deep chuckle. “You and me both, dad.” Then, he began to make for the door. “But he needs to know all the same. If you want, I can be your bodyguard.” He joked. In honesty, the thought of having to referee another match between his dad and Scott worried him, but he’d do it if it meant avoiding a bigger conflict in the future.

Jeff’s lips quirked into a smile at Virgil’s humour, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a hologram of John appeared from the holo-disc on the side table beside the easel. “Guys, we have a situation.”

Exchanging worried glances with his father, Virgil dove out of the door of his studio and made his way up to the lounge as fast as possible, Jeff following quickly behind him.

[captainderyn]

touching prompts #14. putting an arm around the other’s waist

Knitter!! Thank you for this, so sorry its taken me forever ;--; I had half of it written, then Life Happened, but now its finally clicked! And its angsty, special just for my favorite angst-machine-mutual <3

Spoilers, I suppose, for Corellia of the Imperial Agent storyline

Five/Roslynd

--

Five scrubbed his hands across his face, pressing his forehead into his palms as he tried to stretch the tension from his neck. His entire body was taut, drawn tight and ready to snap. Each hour that ticked by on his chrono, with him twisted like a pretzel in his desk chair, didn't help. Nor did the words that kept him tethered to the data terminal.

The only thing that had changed was the time, each minute crawling by agonizingly slow.

He dragged his hands from his face and through his hair instead, tugging on the strands and level an exhausted glare at his screen.

Agent [REDACTED], [REDACTED]  Designation: Cipher Nine Last Known Location: Corellia, [UNKNOWN], Timestamp: 16:35 Dromund Kaas Standard Time Status: Missing In Action  Notes: Cipher Nine failed to report in at scheduled time to supervisor. Reports from war zone indicates possibility of agent being compromised. 

The anxiety had long since gone from sharp, stabbing jolts to his chest and gut to an ice-cold hum that froze him to his office. All he wanted to do was turn off his terminal, turn off everything, rewind before this tracker had pinged in his messages from Keeper.

But he couldn't.

It should've been him out there instead. That coiled serpent of anger still hissed and rattled inside his shelled out mind. That beast had been growing for years now, ever since the Minister had proposed the Star Cabal mission.

If he'd known this is where they would be, he never would've nominated Era as his top agent. If this was what giving her the recognition he thought she'd deserved, then he would've gladly faced her young, reckless ire and put her squarely in the middle of the pack.

Maybe if he'd done that, the then-Keeper would've reconsidered putting him forward on the mission.

He tugged harder on his hair, squeezing his eyes closed. His lids were gritty, heavy with lack of sleep. His body wanted to drift off, slip away. His mind wouldn't allow it.

With a soft whoosh, the door to his office slid open. He peeled an eye open, shoulders deflating, "You were supposed to be home hours ago."

Roslynd let the door slip closed behind her, enclosing them in the darkness of the office, lit only by the lightning strikes outside and gentle glow of the city, and the two lamps in either corner with their yellow glow.

"I could say the same to you." The heels of her uniform boots clicked against the floor, silencing when it met the carpet beneath his desk, "I figured you wouldn't be leaving anytime soon."

He'd stay here all night, keeping vigil, if Keeper would let him.

"There's still no word on her." The words came out raw, guttural. He cleared his throat.

Roslynd set down cups; he hadn't realized she'd brought coffee with her. The smell of his favorite late-night roasterie reached him, even if it roiled his stomach right now.

When she went to grab the second chair at the end of his desk he shook his head, pushing back his chair and holding out his arms. She paused and he gave her a single, pleading look. Her brows drew together, lips pressing thin.

But then she settled in his lap, her arms around his shoulders as one hand carded through the short hair at the back of his head. Perhaps, later, the paranoia about another agent seeing them like this would sneak in.

For now though, the blinds were drawn, and he needed her steady strength.

"Breathe, Val." Roslynd murmured, hand running up and down his back.

He drew in a shuddering breath, wrapping his arms tight around her middle and pressing his forehead against her shoulder, "I can't do this again."

Not one more ceremony with no body to bury. He couldn't handle the Minister handing him a velvet-padded box with another tile for the memorial wall, another name of one of his agents etched within.

Roslynd's hand paused, fingers clenching into his uniform, "I know."

Every time he lost another agent, a piece of him died too.

But this would be losing Rhys all over again. This would be worse.

His voice dropped low, cracking, "That's our daughter out there."

If he'd done his job right, he would've had a cold detachment from her like Intelligence preached. If he done his job right she never would be out there at all.

Of all the agents he could've failed so miserably, so completely, it had to be Nine. It had to be Era.

There were no words to say. Roslynd sniffled, but just continued the gentle motion of her hand. Five didn't want her to say anything, didn't want empty platitudes. Her presence was enough. The weight of her arms around him was enough.

When his terminal pinged with an alert, Five tightened his arms around Roslynd's waist, squeezing his eyes closed so hard that stars burst in the darkness.

"I don't want to read it." His voice shook, his stomach already dropping to the floor, "I don't want to open it, Ros."

For a long stretch, Roslynd was silent, but he knew, he knew from the way a tremor went through her entire body, the way her grip tightened so that it was almost suffocating.

"Val..." An exhalation, and she tried again, though Five was already shaking his head.

"No."

"An explosion was detected at a Corellia military museum."

A switch flipped somewhere in Roslynd, Five knew that distant, clipped voice. He squeezed his eyes even tighter closed against the burning.

"No."

"Agent designated Cipher...Cipher Nine's coordinates match those of the museum. Status updated to--" She heaved in a breath, "Status updated to killed in action."

A sanitized, cookie-cutter message that'd been sent to him dozens of times. Impersonal, clinical.

One he'd read over and over and over again.

But when he lifted his head from Roslynd's shoulders, clearing his vision, and saw the red mark on her file, saw Nine's picture from the day she'd pinned on as Cipher, defaced with an ugly red KIA...

His world shattered.

[aparticularbandit]

me, a while back: Mikan is my favorite. Like. Junko's fascinating, but I think she's a little overhyped. I don't know, bro.

me, 19k words into this fic: OKAY BUT DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND I LOVE HER?????

[artemisdesari-blog]

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[acid-ixx]

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

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

read under the end for an author's note.

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

the world was still spinning when you had awoken.

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

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

what happened?

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

— lots of it.

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

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

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

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

jason.

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

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

these days?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'he can have it for all i care.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

those were never meant to clash, let alone part.

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

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

jason, meanwhile.

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

how it never quite changed, even until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you were wrong, you always were.

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

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

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

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

— and remember the even more painful present.

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

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

oh, my momma.

how you miss her and her angelic presence already.

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

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

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

rather than...

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

this unfamiliar room...

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

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

have you been out for an entire day?

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

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

but worse yet, the most dreaded of them all—

a room with your brother in it.

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

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

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

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

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

dark and heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he sounded so...

broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

no.

your breath hitches—

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

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

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

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

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

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

since when did he care?

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

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

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

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

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

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

one word: fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jason.

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

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

your life is so fucked.

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

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

just like now: anywhere but him.

you can't expend anymore hope—

"why, angel?"

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

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

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

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

"for-for wh— what?"

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

it's just so incomprehensible for you.

his worry is just too foreign.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

were you... crying?

"just answer me, please."

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

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

what changed?

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

"i don't know..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you're lying."

"h—huh?"

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

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

"wh—"

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

until all you could focus on were his questions.

why?

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

"when's my birthday, jason?"

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

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

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

"what...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eighteen is a quintessential part of someone's life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you did, didn't you?

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

"—i have to go, jason..."

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

god, fuck—!

it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.

your heart, your head, your entire body.

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

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

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

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

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

the tears still won't stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it hurts, doesn't he know that?

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

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

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

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

not when you never mattered to him, right?

and it feels like a part of you broke tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the lonely, scared child you still are?

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

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

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

until it bleeds, until it all bleeds.

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

'this isn't the jason i knew.'

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

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

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

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

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

"— what?"

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

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

"JUST FUCKING ANSWER MY QUESTION, GODDAMNIT!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

so why, why does he care so much now?

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

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

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

why do you still cry after all these years?

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

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

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

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

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

'jason, why do you still try?'

"angel, calm down you're—"

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

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

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

"just calm down, please—!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what...?

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

just that?

just a burden?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's just silent understanding, a painful acceptance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

even if his expression shifted to shock, even if you find an ounce of softness throughout the exterior of his fragile agitation; is it not true?

he takes a step forward, but your hands shoot out to put distance between you two. even if it pains you to see the confused heartbreak in his eyes at your refusal, you don't want him any closer, you fear you'll submit to his whims if you do.

you can taste blood in your tongue, but you swallow it all like you're swallowing all the bitterness you feel, you drown this ache in your heart, replace it with temporary assurances that this will all end, that jason's stubborn attempts of placating you is just another attempt to draw you closer, only to push you away in the end.

... and yet he's still trying even after what felt like minutes, maybe hours, stretching between you two.

jason still keeps trying, while you're close to giving up.

"why are you like this, angel? what happened between you and bruce? did he hurt you—"

"nothing happened—" you're lying, but not quite so. you're lying but it's not a lie when you mean nothing, literally nothing, happened between you and your father. that's the worse of it all, you and bruce never had a moment together, never had any memories to cherish nor times where he comforted you through the trauma of it all.

that painful reminder just makes past emotions stir within you.

of those cold nights, the barren hallways and alfred's countless excuses for bruce's absences.

"i have my personal reasons, jason." you seethe through your teeth. it hurts to admit your feelings to him, hurts that your drying tears are still overlayed by a resurgence of new ones. "it involves you guys... you and the others; but it's nothing now. it doesn't matter now and you know it..."

"... no i don't, angel. and no, it's not nothing. because if it was, then what's all of this for? what do you want from him, from me? that caused you to act this way...? to act so selfishly, trying to rebel like us when you've always been a good kid, huh? god, (name), if you just wanted his attention, to be his favorite—"

"— then there's so much better ways, angel. than being like this... being someone that isn't you."

he truly never knew you well at all, huh?

considering everything that happened tonight, you thought he did, but fuck...

hearing all those assumptions come straight from him just destroys you inside out.

"jason... please listen to me."

cutting him off, it's both an act done to just stop him from rambling any further, stops you from just— just irrationally ripping your ears apart so you wouldn't have to hear it anymore; hear all those disillusioned excuses, those painful words ripping you apart at the seams.

he looks at you, at your weak hold against the edge of the bedframe, at the hushed, shivering breathing, at your downcast, almost resigned eyes. you don't reciprocate his worried gaze, you just... don't.

"i don't want to be his favorite... i never wanted to be— fuck!"

"why do you assume all this, jason?" you faintly glared at him, but that flicker of the fight blew off, and you returned, looking at your feet, speaking through your beating heart, your irrational thoughts of shutting down, if not for the faint stench of smoke grounding you, if just by a fraction.

"i never wanted to be an athlete like dick, or as academically talented like you, or some crazed detective like tim, or as skilled as an assassin like damian! i don't even have the determination steph has or barbara's perseverance to continue fighting alongside all of you! i can't even reach cassandra's level of fighting, and i certainly don't have powers like duke!"

there it is again: the envy, the spite, and the undertone of yearning in your words. maybe jason was right, maybe you're still the young, good kid afterall. but good kids still do bad things, good kids can still feel and fuck, you feel a plethora of negativity mentioning all their positive traits, while you have none.

you have nothing, not even a small merit to offer.

"— all of you guys are so fucking talented, and here i am, so pathetic for thinking i can reach the same level as you all when i can't!"

the medals are useless compared to damian's success in topping the entire gotham university. the certificates for placing indancing competition were none the more important than cassandra's ballet recitals. your research projects that you've spent nights crying on, was it all that relevant when tim always one-ups you within just a day of data-gathering?

so what makes you special, what makes jason think you'd even try to be bruce's favorite in the first place, when you're absolutely useless?

"—so i just can't, jason! how could i have the damn audacity to desire being bruce's priority when each and every one of you are beyond my level?!"

untouched breakfast, thrown away lunch, cold dinners. thrashed out backpack, unsharpened pencils, inkless pens, wornout diaries, bandaged arms and sleepless nights. your life was a cycle of constant wanting, of constant attempts to earn your place. even if there were moments some of them looked at you in pity, it was never enough to warrant their comforting words or even just a pat in the back.

the last time dick has ever looked at you was the first time you met.

and in those moments where you wish you were as forgettable to damian as you were to others, he'll remember to always remind you of your place.

maybe you were like them, in ways where you're always trying but never enough. in ways where their attention on you was never enough too. you need something from them, they needed something else from you too.

"angel..." you don't have to look up to know the air has changed. that wretched nicnkame plastered itself back into his mouth. this time, he said it softer, like he's come to a realization, like it was enough to draw you out of the caverns of isolation you've kept yourself in.

but before he could speak again, before you'd get lost in those memories of the past—

"i never wanted to be bruce's favorite, jason..."

"i just..."

your eyes soften, as tears begin to spring from your eyes, red and swollen, and you let them. you look down at your unclenched hands through blurry vision, and find indents of crescents present on raw, battered skin— and it's enough to make you remember your childhood, enough to deepen the heavy weight of conflict drowning your heart.

when you look up to jason again, you bite your quivering lips, just to silence the ugly wail brewing from your chest. he looks at you, as equally befuddled, as heartbroken.

"... i just wanted to be his child." the sentence comes out your lips, so silent, so broken and lightly pitched. it speaks volumes of wanting, of yearning, of years begging for even a sliver of love offered on your way. it felt like it was the younger you speaking to him, begging him to fucking understand how it was never about just wanting attention—

it was about wanting to just have a family. people who should've loved you, saw you through the veil of your reputation, yet chose to love you still.

because they're family, they're your family. and all that mattered to you was family.

how hard was it to understand that sentiment?

"i just want to be loved because i'm his child, not a charity case, or because he's doing this for my mother..."

you remembered those nosy paparazzi's stalking you even in elementary. they ask you how it's like being adopted by the bruce wayne, how it's like living a life most orphaned children dreamt of living; how lucky you must be, having a mother who's come to share a bed with him, that your life must be so full of luxury because bruce took pity on you and your poor, whore of a mother, right?

they didn't know it was alfred, the estate's butler, who'd suggested adopting you. and with a flick of bruce's wrist, a slight furrow of his brows and a dismissed thought of you, you were brought in the manor.

it was never bruce who considered you, maybe the paparazzi and journalists slowly came to realize that after discovering your father is nowhere to be seen beside your side. maybe that's why they slowly dissipated away from you year by year, leaving you as lonely as ever.

'and now,' you thought, 'bruce still doesn't care for me at all.'

that hurts.

"i just want to be selfish for once... i want to see him the same way he looks at you back then, every damn time he stares at your grave, while i watch by the fucking windows, wishing it was me he looked at."

despite never meeting jason from back when he was robin, you mourned for him too, you prayed for his soul the same way you prayed for your mother's. it helped you disillusion yourself to believe you mattered, sitting beside his grave by the gardens despite the rain pouring downcast and staining your clothes. it helped you think you were becoming closer to bruce.

"i wanted him to look at me jason! think of me as someone as important as you, even just a semblance of it...!"

you tried so hard to imitate them all. dick's athleticism, cass' elegance, tim and barbara's elite-level knowledge on the digital world, duke's cunningness when it comes to puzzles, damian's strategies and steph's awe-inspiring rebellion paired with sarcasm. you try to emulate it all, waking up early every day, schedule packed with activities in each corner of the manor just so you'd have a chance of finding bruce in the same room as you; but it just never was enough.

"god, i don't even want him to see me as a priority, i don't want him to see me and think that i'm the best damn thing in the world. i know i'm not, jay. i'm not perfect, not even half as good. but i just want him to stare and think, 'this is my child,' without any second thoughts, without any regards for my dirty fucking past."

there was one moment in your life where you almost despised your mother. almost. you blamed her for birthing you, for having you as her child, for bestowing you this curse of being unloved, as only being acknowledged as the woman who stole from others: a bitch, a prostitute who got pregnant too early, a lady with a sullen reputation bleeding into the present of her child.

you nearly hated her, you wish you never did. she was your only light, the memories of her was what kept you alive, and you dim that light off, purposely try to blow off the shining embers that gleam for you just because you wanted the love and attention from a family that was never yours.

and you nearly worked yourself to death because of it.

"jason, i just wanted to... to go through the normal things a father does with his child. i wanted him to love me, even just for the tiniest bit. is that hard enough to fulfill? am i just too high maintenance for him that he can't— can't even deal with me after you died? tell me, jason—

"—am i just the burden of an aftermath?!"

a small of you nearly excused bruce's neglect for his mourning of jason. but that mourning extended even after his resurrection. and slowly, the more the members of the family piled up, you figured it all out.

it was you that's unlovable.

and no matter what, you could never truly accept that fact.

not even as you cry out your woes to jason, not even as your voice cracks and breaks at every syllable, at every spilled word tinged with bitterness, with pain so deep it cuts through your already bleeding heart.

"i just- just wanted to be part of the family. i just wanted to eat takeout with you that day- wanted to forget you fought bruce— forget everythin' just to bond with you 'cause you never gave me enough time in your already busy day. so why can't i? why can't i have the things everyone else had? is it too entitled of me to say that i just wanted your love? am i too demanding if i just wanted a family?!"

"is it so hard to love me?"

"tell me, jason! just, fucking tell me, please..."

your fingers' grip on the edge of the headboard nearly slipped, your sniffles were unbearably loud, a reflection of the thrumming beats of your heart nearly escaping out your chest in the form of shrieking sobs.

he finally speaks, unsure. he still stands in his place, but you're crying too much to even care.

"no, no of course not. it's not... you're not..."

"i'm not what, jason? not your sibling, not bruce's child? 'cause that's what i've felt like this entire fucking decade! and now that i've left everything behind, you all suddenly want to pretend like i was never unnoticed back then? that all my damn efforts to be good enough was finally acknowledged just now—?"

"why can't you just answer me, jay? why does nobody want to give me answers?"

"... why can't anybody just love me?"

it felt like heartbreak on both your sides. like a thread snapping, jason was as quick to retort—

"we do love you, angel. i do...! i love you so fucking much that i can't handle seeing you in pain. so please let me take care of you, just... just let me handle all of this, please."

— but you can't believe him, not anymore. it hurts falling for his lies, for his words and false reassurances. he can't even promise you takeout back then, what more does his 'i love you's' do you now?

"no, no you can't care for me, jason. not anymore... you're not my brother anymore, you guys aren't family to me anymore..."

is it betrayal in his eyes, or something far deeper? is it unadulterated anger at what you'd said? why can't he just accept your words? why can't he just accept there's nothing in between you anymore other than those past memories long gone?

"... yes, yes we're family. i care for you. just let me show you i do, angel—"

"... we're not even siblings, we're not. we're just strangers to each other.—"

you whisper softly through your damp lashes, throat sore after all the screaming. it doesn't calm down the momentary adrenaline rushing through your body, though. it doesn't, all these reassurances are just a temporary distraction.

"that's not true, angel. don't even... don't even think of saying that—"

"take me back, please. just please take me back to where you last found me. i'll find a way—"

you want to go home, you want to sleep your way through this pain. but jason proves himself to be stubborn, just like his father. and you are, too; anymore of those similarities, anymore and you'll bash your head to the walls just so you could forget.

"no, angel..." he retorts just as quickly, suddenly imposing, suddenly back to square one where it's all him, all his words that matter with no regard for yours. "who the hell says i'm letting you go back there?! that's suicide!"

but you don't matter, don't you? so that automatically means he shouldn't pretend like your life matters, too.

"... i don't care, just please! jason, i'm begging you...! just do this one single favor for me. i can't..."

'i can't go back to the manor...'

just saying it in your thoughts alone makes you sick with nausea. because that means returning to yearning, returning to those sick nights filled with broken diary entries and dick's huff of dismissal, damian's weapons pointed at you, tim's click of the tongue and just... that inflicted, neverending pain.

"you're hurt, angel, you won't survive out in the dark like that. i'm sure as hell not taking you back there. we're going back to the manor—"

"NO! i don't want to be there! that's not where i live, not anymore, no take me back home...!

anywhere... anywhere but there. anywhere but that wretched cage.

"please, jay!"

you call him by his nickname, nearly yanking yourself to his side if it weren't for your legs keeping

"if you don't want me to... then let me go and i'll call a taxi or something—! whatever...! just not—"

"—not there..."

"and if i bring you back to that apartment, what now? you're gonna commit the same old mistakes, you're going to hurt yourself!? you're gonna get yourself killed, break another limb, use more than just crutches to support yourself and get yourself hurt all over again?!"

"NO! i won't, jay... i won't bother you anymore. just not there and... not with them—"

"... not with you, please."

it was a mistake on your part, to audibly whisper out those last words. and yet it was unfixable, you can't take back words once they're said, jason can't take back all the cruel statements he made your way that day, and yet it's him who's offended, who tears up, who heaves and nearly shrieks at you, uncaring for the neighbors living below.

"why are you trying so hard to push us away?! push me away right after you.. you opened up?!"

"because we're not family anymore, goddamnit—!"

"why are you so goddamn stubborn?! care for me, care for me like you care for all those strangers getting mugged in the street! not as my brother—!"

"i am your brother!"

it hurts, your chest hurts, your throat, your wobbly arms and your unfeeling legs. yet what hurts the most is that you just can't accept it, accept all the words he throws your ways. can't accept how you've both changed and it...

it just hurts...

"and i care for you, more than you can ever fucking imagine, so don't... don't fucking push me away! not especially right after i almost lost you!"

"god..." suddenly, he resigns through a sigh.

why, just why, is he calming down now?

"i'm such a fucking dick to you, aren't i? i know i don't deserve you. nobody deserves you and your forgiveness, angel. you've always been so good to me- to us...

"i'm so fucking sorry. for everything. for leaving you behind after that day, even being an asshole to you after. for ignoring you all those years, for breaking every damn promise i made like you were nothing, for realizing all of this just right after you nearly died, in my arms."

his voice breaks at the last words, as if the reminder of what transpired last night permanently left a broken fixture in his memories. as if thinking about it is enough to destroy any bite in his argument.

"you don't— you don't deserve any that—"

"i'm— i'm so sorry, angel."

that was all you wanted to hear, all you wanted to be said throughout the layers of defensive, reckless statements he threw your way.

heavy were the unspoken words that hung in the air. heavy were the unbidden promises he forged himself to ensure but ultimately failed to do so, that were all meant to repair his relationship with you. heavy were the tears that streaked both your cheeks, the unsung arguments, the fists that curl, fingers that bite at indented skin until it bleeds.

"— I should've noticed sooner, i should've known you felt that way."

"i know, jay. i know," your mind, your mouth, they both betray the words your heart wished to speak, but you lock that beating organ out before it forces you to mutter something else. you feel too faint, from the tiredness coursing through your body as an aftershock of your injury, the throbbing of the holes in your body, and the intensity of your emotions.

'i know you know that, and i wished you did something about it when you knew you had the power to change all this—'

'all that were are, all that we were.'

you wanted to tell him, but the sentiment tastes bitter on the expanse of your tongue, as if confessing it would scorch you and your aching brain even further. you just couldn't anymore, you couldn't break both your hearts.

heavy were the emotions uncurling beneath both you and jason's chest, boiling and spilling, until the only words you both could mutter were the ones that scald your aching hearts.

"jason, i'm- i'm still hurt."

"i know, angel. let me take care of it, of you. just let me do this, just once."

he takes a careful stride towards you, a knot forms in your brows and in your stomach. it curls inside your body when his both his hands grip your forearms, gently, like you're made of glass, to push you to softly sit on his mattress.

made carefully, cleaned neatly for you.

you never thought you were worthy enough to have a bed made for you.

— you don't even allow alfred to clean your own room because you don't think you deserve it.

silence ensues, only the squeak of his shoes sliding against the floor, his panting breaths, your unstable intakes of air, and the hinge of his bed were heard, drowning out the swears of the citizens from below his apartment complex and the thumping of car horns.

it's just the two of you, in this room. you and jason, just like the moments spent under the roof of the manor.

you don't fight against him, don't push him away like you did so earlier, in favor of relinquishing your control, your pain, to his squinting, wandering blue eyes that trap your body, at his calloused fingers running across the expanse of the lumps in your arms.

and in that moment, under the sheer glow of his apartment's flickering lights, under the watchful gaze of the restless city nights, of the lamp posts gleaming in the streets; you both looked a little more like each other for every passing second, every passing moment after you'd scream your woes, after he'd retort and retaliate with his excuses, his reasonings.

you had his vengeful glare, staring daggers at him as he took in your wrapped wounds. he had your silence, desperate and aching pleas. you stuttered like him when he chases after words tangling in his parched mouth. he bites his lips like you when he couldn't find the right words, bounding his hands to his delicate strands of hair to pull in agitation, just like you always do.

and both of you were- were good...

a good soldier and a good child, lost in the weave of dreams, expectations and broken, unfulfilled promises.

it reminds you of how he was the only brother you truly had a bond with, of how truly close you were to him, shared moments of brief laughter with, a respite, a paradise without the need to chase after his presence, all done in such short moments, moments that could never be enough to quench your aching thirst for love and familial attention.

he finally speaks after taking his seat beside you, muscled arms wrapping around your shoulders. he broke the intangible silence, with knotted brows and sorry, pleading eyes that look at yours. it made you feel trapped, in his arms and in his mindful apologies, it reminded you of the manor.

"i could've been better for you, angel. i should've known, i'm so fuckin' sorry, i—"

"i know, jay. i know, please..."

please stop. no more, you don't want to hear anymore,. you don't want to dream, to fantasize what could've been.

— because that meant drowning yourself in the past, that meant running back to chasing after empty promises.

and yet...

the more you think, the more the possibilities unfold in your thoughts.

a bitter part of you wished it was him who had welcomed you into your home, into the manor. you wished it was him, not alfred, dick or bruce you'd chase after, wished he was alive when your fleeting dreams were too. the child in you wished his assurances were what graced you in such an early time. just so that, maybe, just maybe, your throat wouldn't close in on itself every time you're reminded of your solitary past, a past lost and without a cause because of his passing.

running after dick, acting as his invisible silhouette, hearing the empty yes's on your invitation for him to come visit your room. tugging on bruce's sleeves whilst his eyes flit elsewhere. knuckles rupturing on the door of tim's room, only to be greeted with a silent hm, and a plea for you to come the next time. hands shakily holding a heavy tray of arabic food you learnt to cook for your younger brother, just for the same bowl to scald and prick stickily against your reddening skin

— you wouldn't have to do all that, if you had at least one ally, an ally who had to be dead when you were alone. someone as perfectly imperfect as you.

he's not like dick, the sun doesn't shine for him, the world doesn't give him grace— if it did, he wouldn't have died. he felt more charcoal than diamond, jagged and rough on the edges. yet charcoal was easier to obtain than diamonds, like the bright blue's of dick staring at you - such a precious, yet rare instance - or brazen emeralds like damian that could only look at you like you're mere pyrite; his attention was easier to obtain, because he knew you outside of your ghostly reputation. saw you as something else. jason was the only presence you were able to share your laughter with in the face of his brief visits.

as you look at him now, as he looks at you too, through his panting and the neverending tears streaking his cheeks. you look at each other in painful, understanding silence. his face, shoulders, chest, legs are painted with scars, incisions on skin, the first trait your eyes lay could on, as your gaze flitters to your equally scarred figure, too.

on the cuts that run deep into your wrists and palms, on the lighter scars, the deeper pigmentation that lay awake, like a chaotic portrait, that throbs with painful reminders that unlike jason, you chose to hurt yourself to replace that pain in your cold, beating chest. but like jason, you both wear these memories painfully on your sleeves.

imperfect, sullen and easily broken, like you.

you don't know whether to cry, or to laugh. that finally, fucking finally, you could share your similarities, your flaws with someone else too.

and at this very time, you knew neither of you could win your losing battles. if you argue even further, if your heart spills anymore words you know would only cut through the tension and break into even more back and forths— jason would only retort, would call you angel as be attempts to calm you down, as if you were an still an innocent bystander to his pain, as if you never told him you wish he'd stay dead.

if you wanted to survive this wretched night without anymore heartbreaks, you'd have to be the first to back down, to step away, be the bigger person.

like how you had to choose to give up on your family, to finally let go of your expectations on them. it was the only way, it was your way of adjusting to them, as you always do.

maybe it was fortunate for jason, that you'd already easily given up.

you'd give up when he wraps you in his arms, and unceremoniously perched you up his lap like how an owner cradles his injured cat, ensuring your injuries aren't pressed against the weapons stuck in his utility belt.

for a moment, you let time with him be. you allow the course of calmness to wash over, for your tears to dry until it feels like sickeningly dry salt rubbing against skin, for the lump resting in your throat to retreat to your throbbing heart, for the blood escaping your body from your injury to slowly seep into the gauze that wraps around it.

without the adrenaline coursing through your veins, without the haste of trying to escape from his hold, you've now access to the feel of his entire body. when the panic escapes from your heart, and all you're left with is resignation, his muscled arms wrapped around your torso; you're left reeling at the scent of motor oil and gunpowder, head buried at the crook of his neck whilst your tears are drying ever so slowly, effuse into his favorite jacket.

everything about jason felt foreign, uncharacteristically huge. his body felt too strong, too heavy, like a burden deeper than just vigilante duties of ridding the crime of gotham.

you never knew just how touch-starved you were, ignoring the specks of blood littering his clothes and the familiar scent of cigarettes reminding you of the bustling streets of gotham, even though the stench of ichor overpowers it— you feel like you're home. not at the manor which smells of fresh, flowery sheets, not at your empty apartment polluted with car smoke just wafting outside your windows; but a home you've once lived in, with just your mother and you.

it was just so fucked up, how he could easily subdue the anxiety eating you away. it was so ironic, how in an apartment filled with deadly weapons: guns, knives, bombs, and journals containing contingency plans against all his enemies; it is where you felt currently the safest, as you're reminded of your past; your humdrum life with your mother.

back when everything was normal, back when all your worries were about the chances of having dinner that night, or hoping that your new clothes wouldn't tear as much so your beloved mom wouldn't have to spend wretched hours stealing just to provide you with all your wants and needs.

it never occurred within your mind, just how similarly you lived like jason. and in jason's thoughts, he realized how much you could've ended like him if he hadn't protected you this very night. if he hadn't heard the family pitch of your scream, a scream engraved deep into his memories, a haunting record that plays nightly as he's reminded that he was the reason why you had terror shocks from the shadows in the corner of your eyes.

he hated that he made you scream as a child, that he was the stuff of your nightmares, but he despised it even more when it had to be the others tormenting his little sibling.

it was enough to make his blood curdle, the sight of those filthy men touching, pinning and kicking, shoving a gun against the head of the person most important to him, puncturing holes into their body. he takes in a shaky gulp, yet he hums - pretending like he isn't truly bothered. he can't let you worry anymore - when your fingers listlessly play with the hems of his jacket.

'they're dead, jason. don't even think of doing what you have to do.'

the palm that rests on the back of your torso digs deeper at the thought of you wriggling in pain, not enough to hurt, but enough to tell you that whatever jason is thinking right now isn't good, your ears taking notice hearing the hastening thrum of his heart, even when his body is slumped against yours, you could still feel the slight shivers trailing across his body.

yet you only bury yourself deeper into him, closed eyes dry with tears and nuzzling at warmth you knew you'll soon never be able to feel again, from a brother who was too late to take you back. his right palm, big against your head, nearly covering the expanse of your scalp, scratches and guides you to properly lean on the blades of his shoulder. you don't see his expressions, you don't know if all the comforting he's doing, all the love he's offering you right now is authentic, or just out of mere obligation as your older brother, but you're grateful either way...

entirely grateful that you'd at least be feeling what it's like to be cuddled by one of your ex-family members, before you ultimately make a quick escape from gotham. you're so grateful that despite everything, at least now, the tiny little part of you, the innocence long gone, would rejoice at their life-long dream at finally being able to coddle with just one family member.

past you would've ranted about this in your journal, would've jumped in joy, run across the manor, and thank the world for blessing you with such a miracle. you wouldn't even care if damian shoved a nasty glare in your way.

even if temporary, even if a small, unyielding part of you wishes that you could stay like this forever; the stronger version of you, the one that learned to mature, to forgive yet never forget— it is the voice of reason amongst a sea of conflicting emotions. it tells you that you've moved on a long time ago, that whatever this is right now, will have you force to let go.

and even if younger you begged that it is unfair, that this is what they've always wanted in their life, for someone to acknowledge them as much as they've loved the family even without reciprocation; you've long since given up at hoping. your heart is weary, and tired of constantly being led to believe, only to come back broken in pieces all the damn time. you're older now, old enough to learn that, well...

everything is temporary in life. the comfort your family offered you was always temporary. jason, who succumbs to burying his head in your scalp to hum foreign tunes— he'll soon be just a burning memory, yet at least you'll be left with something positive to say about him.

after all, their love for you happens in quick successions, it wasn't all the time you were ignored, but chasing after it when it had already become mere dust before you could catch it with your clawing hands.

dick had shown you a crumb of his love, back when he first introduced you to his room. hell, even bruce was decent enough to transfer you out of school, even if it was out of mere dismissiveness and to keep a reputation, he showed he cared for a child, even if it was never enough.

and now?

'now, jason will forget about me soon enough,' you tell yourself.

just like the times you stumbled upon steph and pushed yourself to be invited to watch a movie with her, only to be rejected and given her side of popcorn as compensation and an awkward grin promising that she'll find a time in her schedule to spend with you. waiting for months for an update proved fruitless, writing praises in your journal, all about her silky blonde hair, and her lighthearted smiles don't do anything to manifest time well-spent with someone you thought would at least put in effort to be with you. she was similar to you in so many ways, how she felt dismissed by the family, and never enough for them— but the sheer difference that places you both in different lanes is the fact that she was at least loved, that she still had people care for her outside her status of spoiler. people loved stephanie brown, because she was at least unique, she was noticeable with her ironic jokes and love for purple.

you still had nothing to offer.

it's like the silent moments you were able to cherish when you could last for more than five minutes in the room with damian, his emerald eyes petting titus and alfred the cat, as you sit in the far corner watching how softly, how precious like treasured gems, he treats them. he doesn't fight you, doesn't bat at eye, but witnessing the young assassin, your little brother, become a kid, watching him paint in your memories without his scowled growl directed at you, or a knife pointed on your body; it made you feel like they do have a semblance of love, of care, only for those who deserved.

you only deserve care when you prove yourself to be capable enough.

hell, despite you knowing the least about duke, watching him play with his powers against bruce's orders was what made your bleak life a bit more interesting. having to save him from nearly dying, from fainting due to the overuse of his metahuman abilities when he was still new to being signal. being the faint silhouette he sees throughout the white light in his vision, the quivering, desperate voice who assures him he'll be alive, he'll be fine; you don't know if he remembers it, if the young boy could even recall how your eyes lit up, how your chest felt lighter when his scarred palms came to cup your shivering ones to keep you from ripping at your hair—

your point proves, chasing after them amounts to nothing. you could only be a witness, a bystander if you want to relish in their shared memories, but never part of their small community. you'll never be able to know what's it like having inside jokes with them, to share your homemade meals with them, to show old albums of your life as a child before being adopted. you just can't.

even the prospect of being married, of having them help you arrange your marriage becomes mere fantasy.

everything you ever hoped to spend with them is fantasy, an unattainable desire. you should've known from the start.

to them, to you, to everybody you lived with under the same, gothic roof of a manor rich with history still unknown to an outsider like you— you are but a mere stranger. there at the wrong place, in all the wrong times.

maybe that is what jason felt after his untimely death, that he does not belong anymore. maybe he felt like an intruder instead, just like you, with how he felt replaced by tim, how the legacy of robin lives on even after his passing. how he felt like a cheap rebound of dick after years of searching for answers, or how he never truly mattered to bruce—

— but at least he still has a place in their heart. despite only knowing him after his resurrection, you've come to love him too, and learned to let go at the same time.

you hope jason understands why you're so unwilling for him to help return you to the manor. you hope he doesn't question why you chose to live in your apartment, you hope that if he does find out the reason, he'll shut up about it.

you wish that jason understands, even as you felt well-rested enough on his muscled shoulders, head slowly, eyes blinking away the drowsiness washing over you, rising even if the arms that hover over your scalp invites you to sleep instead.

you're stronger now, not physically, but you willed yourself to force your eyes to stare back at him. his lidded, dull blue oned unlike dick's, and it doesn't look like the ocean eyes you find yourself drowning in staring at bruce's whenever you watch him across the television during his interviews. it was a blue similar to the sea at night, tranquil shores that caresses the soles of your feet standing on sand. there was no shine in them, it was a symbolic retelling of his death, gazing into them, at the depths of emotions swimming in those orbs alone, you feel a sense of ease when they soften, when they give way for you to stare for as long as you want.

although you were sitting atop his lap, looking down at him, his gaze made you feel little. like you were a child all over again. both of his hands are now resting on your waist to stabilize you. you couldn't reason the sudden protectiveness, the unwillingness to let you go, but your mouth opens before you could think, yet jason beats you to it, spilling words you thought he was incapable of admitting — breaking the peaceful silence once more with the significant tremor, the apologies laced in his words— with all the years he spent looking at you in contempt before he resigned to casual, yet fleeting conversations with you back at the manor.

"you know, angel...? i'm so sorry for everything. i really mean it... for all the times i was blind to you wishing you could've spent time with me. and i was so stupid, rejecting you, hurtin' you all those years thinking bruce was out there favoring you when it's the opposite... I didn't know he didn't even care for you. i know you won't be able to forgive me, or them, i know it took me long enough to forgive bruce too. but it's different now, 'kay? i'll be different, angel. i'll protect you from now on, in your, what? your little apartment, right? i don't mind scouting the entire area for you even if it means you're on the other side of the city. all for you, i promise."

"all for you."

he speaks in a careful manner, choosing his words and flinching - the scar on his lip stretches, it reminds you of the one on your neck - when he feels it doesn't rightfully get the message across. you can feel it, feel how every sentence is wired with regret, heavy promises, and an unspoken desperation to keep you close to him, as if- as if he actually cares for you—

you blink, vision blurry as you catch sight of a stray tear running down your damp chest. your nose clogs once more, tongue licking at your chapped lips. jason, he- he takes your fingers before it ventures to tangle upon your hair, he hushes the tight wail escaping your throat as he cradles your body, other palm nuzzling into your sensitive scalp.

are you crying again? at what he'd said?

why are you so broken, that the prospect of somebody once full of disinterest towards you, now cares for you?

and for what is he doing this for, though? all for you? he apologized, exactly like dick, with the same foreboding assurance. is it to repair, to mend a broken relationship that was never there?

"y-you don't have to anymore, jay— i just- just wanted to—"

'i just want to make peace with you before i'll be gone from your life, before you could even fulfill your promises. you don't have to be chained with someone like me for the rest of your life anymore.'

thankfully, he hums at you, interrupting your growing stutters, at the thought that noisily seeps into your head. you hiccuped in reply, drowning out the shivers jolting across your body. if not for his hands still digging at your waist, you swore the dizziness of it all could've made you stumble across the floor.

but, you can't just stay silent about this. about all the shit that happened in your life. not when he's promising you something so burdening, not when he thinks he has a chance of making it up to you.

no, you can't just let them push at you anymore.

you whisper through your inconsolable stutters, eyes drifting down to your lap, at your hands that scratch at raw scars, "i don't blame you, jason. it never really came across to me to hate you for, you know- it's not- you're not the only reason that he neglected me—"

"shh, i know, angel. i know. but that doesn't change shit 'bout how he— we treated you, does it not?"

you shake your head, downcast gaze refusing to look at his troubled one. if you do, you might just surrender to the softness, to the child-like whispers at the back of your mind saying you wanted this.

"w-well you can't change anything about it now... and i hated you still back then, for different reasons. i hope, i hope that you know that, too..." your voice cracks at the seams, "i- i'm still hurt from everything, jason—"  he shushes you again, fingers brushing away at your stray hairs sticking to your damp cheeks. his palms were huge as it cups your face, emitting a comforting warmth against the jagged surface, a heat that makes you slowly, but unsurely melt.

— you never had this brotherly love in your whole life before, never felt comforted in the hands of who was once your tormentor.

"i know you're hurt. i know you're in so much pain because of us— of me, so let me take care of it from now on, 'kay...?"

he whispers, hushed voice a gentle tremor lulling you to near sleep. but you can't just return to this uncharacteristic softness, not now. your eyes, almost squinting shut, snap open to look back at him hesitatingly.

"no, you don't have to do this, jason... i told you," you hesitate, gulping. "we're not– we're not siblings anymore. you don't have to do all this for me... you're not obligated to, unlike last time."

you can feel it, his shoulders squaring in on itself, the subtle tension returning in his muscles, as if his arms were ready to trap you in his gentle hold, restricting you for further escaping.

"... nonsense, angel. take that back— i am doing this all for you."

his voice was always tinged with gruffness, rarely any softness in the way his words were said with finality. sometimes mocking, sometimes spiteful. for a crime lord, it was imperative to always be the supreme voice, a voice of reason.

... but this time, it seems, there's a childish softness, a despondency, laced in his reply. like him, though, your resolve to leave his apartment was as solid as his promise to keep you to stay.

"no, jason, you're doing this all for your guilt... not- not out of pure hearted intentions, aren't you...? just to prove that you're right and- and you're better than the entire family. and then you'll forget about me afterwards—"

you crack at the seams.

"this will be just like all the other times..."

you ignore how his fingers dig deeper into the plush softness of your waist, how it feels like he's staring right past you, mind drifting to another plane of existence at what you'd said.

yet you continue.

"— so please, leave me alone after this...?

after all, what's the point in considering their emotions anymore, when they've never done so for yours?

a silence you couldn't swallow, strangling at the chords in your throat. it feels like a bucket of cold water had washed over the once comfortable silence he'd bask in.

"... please, jay?" your heartbeat spikes at calling him by his once beloved nickname. the one you used to lovingly mutter under your breath, shyly taking his attention from back when you were a child, a subconscious manipulative tactic.

you always called him out with that title, a wide-eyed plea, with what felt like butterflies spinning in your tongue inviting him to linger for just a few minutes with you, just so he could spare some time reading a paragraph of your favorite classic book—

— it was a nickname that fell astray, turned into a flickering memory, after your relationship with him slowly strained. after every month, little by little, you saw him less. until you were a teenager, until he felt his business were with your other siblings instead, his priority on his and their vigilante lives— like the unbidden promises he kept from you, the nickname fell short, turned stranger in your eyes like the man you're seated atop on.

your lips feel dry, your sweat clings to your dampened shirt, and jason.

god, jason's hands enclose itself on your waist, heavy head dropping to your shoulders. you can smell it, his conditioner and a heady scent of cigarettes. his hair tickles the underside of your chin, you don't know whether to laugh or to cry when he takes his space in the corner of your neck, inhaling and exhaling deeply— the heat of his breath hits your skin, it feels too warm, a stark contrast to the shivers overtaking your body.

he heaves in a breath, you can't see his face from below, can't make it out if he's laughing or groaning or what. you can't wrought his head out, he's stronger than you.

momentary panic ensues, you fear he might've disagreed, that he might end up locking you up but—

"huh..." his gruff voice returns, a deeper tremor laced with confusing you'd expect a frigid reply, a desperate plea, maybe even a familiar anger bursting right out of him

"with you calling me that," he whispers on the crook of your neck, head burying far deeper as if- as if he wants his skin to fuse with yours. the depth in his words felt utterly abysmal when he referred to his nickname.

a little more, and you swear you might feel his teeth grazing your flesh. at that, goosebumps start to trail your entire body, your teeth aches with unbidden agitation.

you can't, you can't fall into hopeless respite.

he continues with his little monologue. you're too breathless, shallow air fills your lungs at every word he punches your way, clinging, burrowing deep into your mind, with every touch pinning you in place—

"how could i argue against you now, angel...? not when you sound like the little kid i met back then."

a scoff, laced with amusement, erupted from him. you can feel the vibrations on his adam's apple, you witness the thoughts churning in his mind, the subtle reminiscing in the silence that clings onto both your memories.

a sense of nostalgia washes over you —at the night you both meet, of the gentle giant sneaking past gothic windows and his reaction to being caught, at your excitement to make a new companion— but bitter resentment claws its way faster into your thoughts.

how could he pretend like everything's fine? how could he act like he didn't break your heart when you first saw him?

"but still, i'm serious about the change, for you, just you. anythin' you want, angel, anything—"

a small part of you hates him still, despises the entire family for what they did; what they caused.

how could he have the audacity to think he has a chance at your life? to assume he deserves one? right after- after destroying all your hopes?

he's right, though,. he remembers those memories from when you were a kid. a kid, but not anymore. you're not the little child who looks up to him, to dick, to bruce— who kisses at the soles of their feet, who acts as their shadow chasing after them.

'how dare you, jason...'

you don't know what overcame you, what monstrous being possessed your soul to spitefully reply all of a sudden. maybe it was bitter anger, the past resentment, an urge— a subtle defiance that wishes to torment them like how they did you.

maybe it was the broken remnants of your child that just wants assurance, or the mature teenager in you that wants to move on, to have a new lease on life.

but, either way. it's the words that need to be said that matters, and not the reaction, the unneeded outcomes from the same people who hurt you.

you had to grow past everything, had to take the first steps if you truly wish to let go, rather than run away from the past with no final message.

they say indifference is the opposite of love, not hate. and if you want your tormentors to feel what they've done to you, to know what it's like to be met with spiritless replies, empty promises and hallways, broken hearts and cold dinners— you had to beat them with oppressive silence; a loveless nothingness.

"jay," you call out to him, interrupting his shameless rambles.

"please promise me..." at the sudden shift in your voice, your soft tone, he wretches himself away from you, albeit slowly; looking you straight in the eyes.

there was naught a sudden flicker of absolute firmness in your eyes, but a quiet resolve that demanded finality, a silent plea opposite to the screaming that ensued just an hour ago.

'be the bigger person, (name).'

'because you are not a wayne anymore—

you are your mother's child.'

and she's kind, but assertive. gracious, but cunning. you see an imagery of bruce in your reflection, your passions in dick, your trauma in jason— so many similarities, so many stark contrasts.

but ultimately, you came from her.

you can sense it, the intangible shift in the air, the curious, yet hesitant flicker in his eyes.

you lick your lips, the tinge of blood grounds you in spite of the hastening of your heartbeats.

"look, okay... promise me this—"

a deep inhale, a quivering exhale. and for once, you control the tears brimming in your eyelids.

he nods, urging you to continue.

the knot on your chest only tightens, strangling you until it feels no words could escape your mouth. yet they're mere paranoia, you can't afford fear no more.

"i... i want you to forget about me after this. promise me, jason, to treat this night like all the other nights you pretended i didn't exist. that you love your family but not me, because i am not family. treat me like you despised me because i was your terrible replacement, i could never amount to you and that's all fine with me... let's leave all this behind and- and return back to our normal lives, alright...? where i'm nobody to you, and you're just a stranger to me... "

even your resolve tasted foreign on your tongue, as your eyes suddenly dart everywhere but at his breathless reactions.

"you don't— don't have to dwell on the past anymore."

'come on, (name). don't hesitate anymore. this is your future speaking for you.'

your guts twists in on itself, everything's spinning, your heart feels like it's running a mile. but you force yourself to smile at him despite the energy draining from your body, despite how you had to watch the color wash away from his face, feel how his hands dig into your skin, watch the frustated furrow of his brow—

you smile a shaky smile, grin a final grin, clasp his vulnerable, and equally conflicted face in your scarred hands, and finally let another wave of tears erupt from your eyes.

"can you do that for me, jason?"

"..."

"— alright..."

let the cinema's curtains finally close, let there be no more acts, no more formalities to happen between you two.

let this all be a fleeting memory. just like those past thirteen years and a half: let it be buried in a treasure chest you'll never visit.

his silence acts as resignation, your hands letting go of his cupped face, to carefully bring you down from his loosening hold, as you wince at the pain still throbbing in your wrapped scar; it shall symbolize a final message of goodbye.

the unspoken agreement to move, the cushion of his red helmet brushing on his hair as he puts it on, the jingles of his motor keys in the pockets of his heavy pants, the creak of the door as he opens it, slow and unsure, the stench of your blood still lingering in the air, the uncomfortable solace as he props your hands up his shoulders to lean your body weight against him before he brings a crutch to your armpit. the gruff that came after as his hands stabilized you, for you to properly walk with the newly armed crutches beside his company—

it provides at least a grounding notion for the thoughts spiraling in your mind. the drowned thumps of the wood stumbling on the carpet, the moonlight spilling out the cracks of the hallway's windows, the faint rumbling of the city streets as passing cars honk at the traffic,  the ding of the elevator, the anything of everything.

but him.

focusing on anything else, it at least helps distract you from his heavy gaze, from jason's prying arms ready to capture you, trap you in his apartment, the moment you show slight faintness, any hesitant stumble in your steps, any wincing sound at the pressure in your joints; his overprotectiveness still at an all-time high despite the promise you proposed that he had to pretended to upkeep for you.

when you were finally propped on to his huge motorcycle, a few mishaps being met in your way when he handled you too tight, so daintily as if you're made of fine porcelain, as if he were afraid to let go — crutches graciously placed in the space between his seat and yours — and when you hear the engine's gas revving up, but no jason making a brief quip, a comedic joke only he could understand which you laugh at still...

... only one thing was for certain despite the millions of ideas racing in your mind from his quiet reaction.

'let him bring me home, give him space, and let him forget about all this in the end.'

let the past be a dream.

and you shall only hope that everything that comes after this, will also be just another dream.

after all, he had only agreed to let you go home - for now, just now... - but hadn't truly promised to leave you alone, not at all, never.

and maybe, just maybe, you should've never trusted his words at all.

it was all that it is, all that it was.

a mere device for tactical missions.

the intercom linked directly to the batcave was just a device used to communicate with the family in the rare instances he chose to pair up with them in case jason learned his current tactics required more than a helping hand, but rather companionship in the midst of completing tasks.

its usefulness was only for practicality.

and it was just that, a tool for the greater good, yet easily discarded after he gained what he wanted.

when you left him, crutches in hand, back turned as your body fades in on the distance, he realizes that even thought it was his pride that he knew you the longest - now even bearing your deepest, most personal issues that just makes letting you (temporarily) go hurt his heart - he had only ever used you for his entertainment, not even an apology nor a confrontation was made to confess to you of his past sins towards you.

he's such a shitty brother, isn't he?

all that it is, all it ever was.

and yet as the polluted breeze of gotham flutters through his hair, the night sky still gleaming over the horizon of long standing, abandoned buildings camouflaged amongst shitty, barely functioning apartment complexes - where he knows are one of the current places you live in - he willed himself to comb them back, especially the stubborn strands sticking near his ears. in his hands, he holds an intangible device.

the same old, rickety intercoms.

just like old times.

so he presses the tiny button used to trigger direct calls, and shoves it deep into his ears, a perfect fit as every device was crafted to each individual working for the batman. you're the only member of the family to never adopt the vigilante life, he's glad you never did, but at the same time... it was what what you apart from everybody else.

everything just reminds him of how much you're worlds apart from the family. everything just pushes him to change that current position of yours; to make you know you matter more than you ever know.

"... ah, young master jason, you're back," alfred's contemplating voice buzzes through the call. no hint of surprise was evident in his tone, but rather a welcoming quip at his current rebellion towards jason. "i suppose you might require some assistance if you're calling then, right?"

'yes,' he might've said, stalling, but it's not as simple just as money heist problems or an issue regarding the resurgence of new kryptonite deposits— no.

jason doesn't want that. he doesn't want to waste anymore time, not with making jokes or pretending like the topic at hand was just a joke.  not when the matter precedes mere missions or a tendency to prank bruce, not when it's his angel who he refuses to truly let go of.

not when your life is at stake living in a completely foreign part of gotham. not when you nearly died, and if he wasn't a lick away from saving you, you'd end up like him.

but with nobody to mourn you.

"we need to talk about (name)."

and then like a thread snapping, he hears gasps from a distance, beyond the device's speaker registering. he hears hushed whispers, stephanie's feminine voice cutting through the tension, but no sarcasticness, no quips from duke, not even cass' occasional question. despite only hearing a fraction of the batcave's echoes, he feels like a witness to the tension rising, even he feels his shoulders squaring up. like a spectacle to behold, like time frozen in the hands of fate itself.

gotham wasn't always this silent, but the space between jason and your world felt like mountains apart that it just destroys any caution jason feels at the current moment; all in the name of this... this urge to feel your head resting in his shoulders once more, your arms wrapped tightly around his, safe and sound.

"tell me what happened."

it wasn't alfred's voice this time that cuts off the ever-so confusing thread, the dangerous thoughts swimming in jason's head. a deep tremor, laced with an undertone of desperation, is heard through the silent murmers of the intercoms. he couldn't see it, but he could picture the haste, the emergence of the bat to be the very

and yet all was said in a tone so different, so completely foreign to jason.

it wasn't as commanding, as opposing as what he's used to. it wasn't his voice that he uses towards criminals, it wasn't the vibrato used to interrogate criminals, let alone scold his vigilante partners.

... something completely different, yet easy to catch on.

it was batman through the call, yes, yet not quite so.

no.

it was bruce wayne asking, it was a father who hides his worry through a veil of composure. yet jason knows him, knows him enough to know that he, bruce, knows of your disappearance all too suddenly. knows that that the entire family might've finally come through their senses like he did.

"jason... did you... did something happen?" dick's voice, laced with audible shivers. jason had to do a double take at the noticeable shift in his behavior, at how... wrecked his eldest brother asked. but despite it all, it seems like he catched on as easily, at the sudden convenience, of what might implied jason's impulsive decision to call them at such a dire moment.

— that's why his next question doesn't come off as shock.

"you didn't possibly... meet them, didn't you?" it's like the athlete couldn't believe the words escaping his mouth, yet jason could feel it, the charged air, the shift of movement, as dick's mouth presses uncomfortably close to the speakers.

"tell me, did you... find them?"

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 20,490+ words. no beta, we die like the reader's love for the family. anyways, wow, this was the hardest scene of all to write. so many dialogues compacted into one scene alone. because of all my hard work, revisions and even rewrites 😭 i demand you all to comment and interact with me because i am NOT wasting all this effort for only like a few comments. that's all i ever ask for actually <333 anyways, the jason and mc parallels are still prevalent, but i'd also like for all you guys to take note of the miscommunication trope that i did. like the reader who's so broken to the point they can't comprehent that people are capable of loving them, and jason who can't property communicate how much he cares for you, stumbling over all his words and saying all the wrong things wow. very much me and my siblings' dynamics to one another. we love doomed siblings trope!!!

yes, again, i am begging for you guys to interact with this post, and avoid on hate comments, please. i've already dealt w/ enough anons but oh well, that's unavoidable huh. happy late valentines day, btw! and please do remember to not directly steal parts of my work. now to check if you guys actually read the author's notes: what is your favorite line/quote/literally anything in this chapter? again, despite its shitty quality, i put a lot of time and effort into the creation of this. this is not just a fanfic for me, but something very personal. again, don't forget to interact and give inputs, thank you all for being so patient and waiting for this!

taglist: @neerathebrightstar , @ghostdoodlen , @prince-nikko , @daisy-spot , @strawberryglass , @h0neybun-was-here , @confused-they , @weirdcore-fantasy , @mystyque234 , @marssthings , @notwhoy0uthink , @aliengutzstuff , @lilyalone , @luffyadolover , @bunbunsonny, @lazyemmy , @questionthegrapevine , @oh-nowo-i-got-uwu , @winter-world , @budijojo , @budijojo , @altruisticbeauty , @dopepursebasketballplaid , @the-holy-pigeon , @red-phantom-0 , @em-draws14 , @thypplover , @cens0r3d-blog , @yl90 , @sadeem575, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch , @maicenitas, @kiiyoooo , @flyingpansaurus , @farmerboywakatoshikun-blog , @rogueofbullshit , @earlqurl , @dotomuses , @sheep-from-rad , @tsuniio , @thesm1l3yface, @nosochek-3o , @radiantharry , @iwasveronica , @kdjhubby , @ashstwin , @thetreefairypersonalblog, @se-rae2 , @0ut0fsweets, @notwhoy0uthink

[prokopetz]

Concept: puzzle game that plays with the formalisms of obtuse true ending requirements in console RPGs. The combat tutorial involves confronting and defeating the "final boss", after which it proceeds to a "post-game" walkabout sequence where you can wander around town talking to all the NPCs you notionally met and befriended on your journey. At any point you can decide to go home and receive the game's "normal ending"; however, by performing a specific series of not-intuitively-obvious actions hinted at in NPC dialogue, you can unlock a "secret post-game chapter" (i.e., the game proper).

At this point you're probably thinking okay, so what – that's just the last two hours of every Persona game. Now, here's trick: we nest this bullshit. You can complete the "secret post-game chapter" and get the game's "true ending"; or, by puzzling out a second, even more obtuse set of criteria, you can short circuit the "true ending" and unlock a secret post-post-game chapter which leads to an even truer ending. The secret post-post-game chapter in turn contains a hidden set of unlock criteria for a secret post-post-post-game chapter, and so forth. This goes on for like a dozen layers, with each layer unveiling increasingly nonsensical revelations about what's "really" going on, together comprising a full-length game.

(To anticipate the obvious question, no, the final layer is not the "it was all just a dream" ending. That ending is only about five layers deep, with the secret secret secret secret secret ending unlock in that layer revealing that the reveal that it was all just a dream was itself a cunning trick perpetrated by... well, let's not get ahead of ourselves!)

[abbyholmes]

Hi Suits-fandom,

does anyone still remember me and my messy monster of a fic?

Well to my own surprise I finally wrote and uploaded the final chapter. I hope it brings some joy to any fellow Marvey-enjoyers :)

Marvey-Fanfiction - Can I lean on you?

Summary:

After the fight with his mother (S6E12 “The painting”) Harvey hastily leaves his family behind, returning to a loneliness that seems to suffocate him. Knowing that the firm is still in danger, Mike is still angry with him and Donna can’t help him this time, Harvey slides down a dangerous trail of anxiety and depression. When things seem to get out of hand, his Pearson Specter Litt family rushes to his aid. But only one of them seems to be able to get through to him. Mike.

AN:

This is going to be my first Suits-Fanfiction, even though I wanted to write something about the show for years. Episode 12 of season 6 got me thinking about what would’ve happened if Harvey left after the fight with his mother without reconciliation.

The begining of the story focuses mainly on Harvey, but later on I’ll also get to Mike’s and the other character’s POV. And there will be Marvey. And Angst. And Fluff. I promise.

Inspired by the Song “Bad Habit” by Ben Platt. The title (and some of the chapter’s titles) are taken from it’s lyrics.

I hope you’ll enjoy this :)

TW: Depression, anxiety, alcohol abuse

Weiterlesen

[madamechrissy]

Took you Like a Shot

art in the banner by Yuana on X

Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader

Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?

Contents/Warnings- MDNI -Emotional in places, hilarious in others, LOTS of feelings, the baby is heeeree- pregnant sex, teasing, kissing, fingering, Satoru being soft for reader- former rivals to lovers, weed smoking, mentions of labor, prepare to laugh your ass off but also cry bc it's so sweet- WC- 8.2k -

Comments and reblogs so appreciated if you enjoyy <3 (extras here and here)

<<<Chapter Three - Masterlist - Playlist- Chapter Five ( final) (soon)>>>

Chapter Four

“Get out of here with it, she’s gonna be here soon!” Satoru’s shoving Sukuna and Suguru, who are high as fuck after building the baby’s crib, changing table, and setting everything up for the baby.

In exchange, he promised the finest purple haze - but that doesn’t mean they needed to smoke it now, he panics as he sees the time on his watch, cursing. Suguru is chuckling and Sukuna’s snorting in laughter, their eyes blitzed out and bright red while they stare at a panicking Satoru.

“Bro, chill, it’s like fine, or whatever…” Suguru says, and he then hears the doorbell, cursing.

“She’ll kick my ass because of you shitheads!” He’s running to grab air freshener as you wait patiently, spraying his friends who start sputtering now, Gojo’s blue eyes all lit up.

“What the fuck, man!” Sukuna’s coughing, inhaling the pumpkin spice whatever Satoru snatched up, since he remembered you liked that shit. He ordered candles and all sorts of things so you’d enjoy it here, and now it smelled like skunk weed.

“Let me open the door, I wanna see our girl!” Suguru says, and Satoru’s jaw locks as he shoves his friend again.

“Our girl!?”

“It’s our baby too, man.” Sukuna agrees, as the two of them go to the door, but Satoru runs and beats them, opening it to see your pretty face, an overnight bag slung on your shoulder, wearing the prettiest pink dress.

“Hey, sweets, um…” You’re glaring at the two men still coughing, as plumes of smoke pour out of the door. 

“You two, out.” They pout as you walk in, Suguru touches your tummy and you smack at his hand. “Ah, ah.”

“You’re gonna be a mean mom, let us touch your tummy, that's our godchild!”

“It is so not your godchild, cheech and chong go on.” You smack Sukuna’s big ass hand away too, and Satoru can’t hold back his laughter, as his friends stare over at him now.

“You’ll let her treat us this way!?” Sukuna pouts, Satoru just shrugs. “Whipped.”

“So whipped.” Suguru agrees, Satoru glares at them as you take the two men by their ears, like an angry little thing dragging huge men out like it’s nothing, it’s probably the funniest thing he’s seen.

“No smoking in the house, we’re having a baby soon. Do it at home.” You finally get the two friends shoved out of Satoru’s penthouse, locking the door as Satoru walks up to you now, one hand over yours against the door, the other wrapping to hold you, pressing your back against him.

“Damn, mommy, look at you beating up men over six foot.” You giggle then, you can’t help it, looking up at him and turning your head, seeing his clear, blue eyes.

“You’re not high?” You ask softly, he shakes his head then, pressing little kisses to your hairline.

“I promised them primo weed to help me with the baby stuff, but they decided to smoke up when I told them to wait. But they really did help set it up…”

“I still don’t feel bad.” He laughs again as you turn, lifting your chin up to look at him while he leans down cupping your face.

“I thought it was hot.”

“Did you now?”

“Mmhmm.” He exhales, kissing you softly, lips pressing against yours hungrily, your arms slip up his chest now, wrapping his neck. “Beat them up all the time.”

“You’re such a freak I swear.” He chuckles again, picking you up for a moment, hugging you as your legs dangle, and it feels far, far too good. “I missed you a bit.”

“It was two days?”

“Shut up.” He sighs, feeling your bump against him, when the baby kicks hard, and you wince. “She’s mad at you.”

“Is she now?” He eases you down, getting on a knee and slipping your top up, pressing a kiss on your belly button, your hand runs through his silky hair as you gulp down far too many emotions.

You’ve fallen so deeply.

You wonder if this has always been there, all these years it’s been lingering in the fucking air - the longing for him, physically of course, sometimes you longed to just beat Satoru at everything. Sometimes you longed to beat him. But you always wanted his presence, annoying or not, and now as he looks up on one knee, smiling at you so sweet, you can hardly speak.

“You okay? They piss you off that much?” He teases softly, holding you by your hips, kissing your tummy lower, you tremble from your emotions, your desire.

“No, it’s… I told you I missed you, okay?” You glare again, he chuckles, continuing his kisses.

“You’re such a tsundere.”

“A what now!?”

“All angry outside but you’re sweet inside.” He puts his hand on your tummy as you lean against the door, the soft lights casting shadows from his long lashes as he feels for her kick once more.

“I’m moody and miserable, I know. But I do feel good today, the nausea seems to have finally gone away.”

“Good, I bought so many hot cheetos.”

“Yay!” He feels it then, the little kick, and he smiles, he looks so fucking adorable then you’re two steps from saying it, heart pounding.

“I love you already.” He whispers to your tummy, as she kicks his hand again, and tears start falling, dripping down onto his head, which make him look up at you, immediately standing, cupping your face. “What’s wrong!? Is she hurting you?”

“No, no not at all I…” You’re a mess, fuck you’re always a mess lately, sniffling as the moment hits you.

“What is it? Hormones?” He’s cupping your face, swiping at your tears. “Does it still smell like weed - I’ll kill them I swear. I got all that pumpkin spice stuff for-”

You cut him off with another kiss, and he tastes the salt of your tears, standing there for a moment in confusion when you pull back, sighing now. “I think I’m in love with you.”

“What!?” He’s wide eyed, brows together, lips parted.

“Blame the hormones if you want. You don’t have to say it back. But I can’t hold it in, I feel like I’m falling apart and you’re holding it together.” You kiss him again, desperately as he feels like he is high, off the highest grade purp he could actually imagine, in what world did you say it to him?

In what world does he deserve a love confession from you?

“Have you whacked your head? Baby kick you too much?” He’s teasing, but his heart is hammering, while you’re shoving him on the couch, and he moans as you straddle him, his hands slipping up your thighs. “Are these the third trimester sweet hormones coming?”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

He’s dreaming.

There’s no way this is happening.

Like some high school boy he’s shaking, desperately kissing you deeper, breaths mingling when your heat presses on him. “Don’t even wanna see the room, just need dick, sorority brat.”

“Maybe I don’t love you. Maybe it’s the dick.” He glares right up at you now, cutting your giggle off when slips his fingers under your dress, finding your soaking wet cunt as you lean forward, whining.

“You’re a mean little thing, you know that? Taking back a hormone filled love confession?” He whispers, only earning your little whine as your head falls to the side, and he kisses across your neck, cunt gushing already. “Your water break?”

“Fuck you, I take the love confession back - mnh!” Satoru moans again, flipping you on your back, fingers angled deeper inside your snug, slick walls, glaring harder at your pretty face.

“No take backs.” You try to scowl but fail as he scissors his fingers in and out of you, squelching wetness filling and echoing his lush living room, your hips arch up for more, so sensitive you can’t stand it.

“Why, you w-want it? Hormone confessions -ah!” You’re blinded when he hits some spot so deep, thumb pressing your clit as he watches you, hungrily, panties shoved over to one side.

“Want you to cry it out as I cum inside you.” You shake your head, he pulls out his fingers, sucking them and moaning. “You keep tasting sweeter.”

“Fuck…” You’re yanking him down, tasting your sweet arousal off his lips, tongues hungry and messy, your hands slipping down eager to unbuckle his belt with a rushed click, head fuzzy with need, heart racing with spilled words, as more threaten to pour from your mouth. “Please.”

“You’re so needy, I like you this way.” Satoru whines out as you grab him, stroking him eagerly, he leans back so as not to put pressure on your tummy, yanking you over so he can lift up your hips, before grabbing a pillow off his pretty gray couch, hoisting you over it.

“Oh! What’s…” He’s slipping his tip between your folds, moaning as he gets on his knees now, you’re at the perfect angle.

“Back support, it’s important for you right now.” You blink back your emotions once more, to be this horny and on the brink of tears was too much to handle. He rests one hand on the back of the couch, while you hold onto his soft sweater, gripping it tightly when he presses in ever so slowly.

“You’re gonna make me say it more, you ass.” You sniffle, he sighs now, cupping your face as he slides his cock inside you, at the angle it’s so intense you can’t stop your hoarse screams, while he shoves your dress higher, eyeing your tummy and moaning, brushing his hands across it.

“Fuck you’reso  pretty like this,” his hushed whisper is met with a full thrust, cock penetrating those slick walls that grip him so tightly, Satoru’s own eyes roll back for a moment, already sensitive. “Wanna fuck you every day, not once in a blue fucking moon, I can’t take it.”

“Y-you do?” Your surprised question is met with a sharper thrust, and a moan, while he starts pumping deep inside your cunt, leaned back, dragging your full breasts up out of your dress now. You gasp as he touches those sensitive nipples that perk up just for him, thighs quivering, head sinking back into the softness of the couch.

“Are you kidding? Want you to fucking stay here.” You don’t know how to speak, not when he’s leaned down, kissing you, so careful around your tummy, slow, long thrusts, as you soak him completely, eager cunt sucking him in. His lips hover above yours as he holds himself up, noses brushing. His blue eyes drink you in, and you fall into them more and more as you gaze up.

“How long?” Your whisper is soft, broken from your cry, as you cup his face.

“As long as you want, baby girl, fuck I’d love you bitching at me every single day,” he’s pushed in to the hilt, tip drooling on your cervix, as you’re closer and closer to falling off the edge. “Don’t want you to ever go home.”

“Fuck…” You drag him down to kiss you, while you shatter around him, cumming so hard you can’t even see, Satoru eyes you hungrily, pulling back and brushing your damp strands of hair. “Satoru…”

“Say it again.” You glare even as aftershocks hit you, while he reaches down, sliding his hot palm across your curves. “Say it, sorority brat.”

“Fuck you frat boy,” he slams his cock harder, your eyes roll back as your hips buck, just a twinge of pain as the baby reacts by kicking your ribs, but he’s got you right there again. “W-why do you want to hear it!?”

“Such a brat even filled with this huge cock, hmm? Say it.” Satoru’s rolling his hips again, stabbing thrust once more so hard you’re about to cum, but he doesn’t let you, just sitting there, raising a brow. “Say it.”

“Why!? F-fucking just fuck me, ngh! Satoru.” He lets you wiggle, moaning as he holds you still by your thighs, cock twitching as he tries to keep it together, putting a smirk on his face like he’s not madly fucking in love too.

“Stroke my ego, while your pussy strokes this cock, don’t you need it baby?” He practically cooes those words, while you shake your head, he sighs then, pulling his cock out, leaving you to whine. “Need something?”

“You’re such an ass. Hormone confessing rescinded.”

“Mmmkay, orgasm rescinded.” You huff a lock of hair that falls in front of your face, and then push him down on his back, making his lips part as you straddle him, grinding your slick heat and making him groan.

“Two can play this game, been playing it a while with you, Satoru Gojo. Oh, are you sensitive here?” You blink your lashes, feigning innocence, Satoru groans, gripping your ass and grinding up on you, so wet you can hear it, the slick of you rolling up and down his length.

“You never won anything, I am the one that always won.” Your scowl deepens, just making him leak more precum, loving being under you, watching your head fall back when his tip bumps your engorged clit, making you gasp, before you shake yourself out of it.

“You didn’t a-always win, half the time at best.” You brace your hands on his chest, breasts spilling out of your dress. “It was hormones.”

“Nah, your hormones are bitchy, that was all you.” He gently lifts you up, sinking you back down on his cock, lashes fluttering when you’re sinking all the way down, biting your trembling lip, gripping him tighter. “Fuck you gotta feel better every time, don’t you?”

“Lemme cum, jerk- mnh!” You’re rolling your hips again, and he sighs then, knowing your stubborn ass wouldn’t say it again.

But he wants it, he needs it.

He needs to say it back, but he’s terrified to do it, to be so vulnerable, and he knows you’re scared too - but you’re braver than him. You always have been.

“Say please, like a good girl.” His taunt makes you want to keep arguing, to keep the back and forth that has always entranced you if you admit it, but instead you sigh, lifting your dress and leaning back, showing him a perfect view of your lower tummy and cunt sucking him in as you move, his hoarse voice whispering your name ruins the fight inside you.

“Please, Toru. Lemme cum.” Satoru exhales, finding your clit and pressing in little circles, his other hand pinning your hips, grinding against your cervix, feeling you spasm, gushing all down him in a mess of clear milky arousal, forming a ring right on his base. “There, please!”

“I know what you need, sweetheart, don’t I?” You just nod weakly, as he fucks inside you, swearing you feel better and better the further along you are, impossibly wetter, more sensitive, gripping him so good he has to try to hold back the cum that’s about pour in your pretty pussy. “Ask so p-pretty again.”

“Please, please make me cum, Toru, please- mnh!” He rolls his thumb just so, feeling your clit twitching against his thumb now, looking up under long lashes at the beautiful girl riding him.

His girl.

With his baby inside her.

He can’t hold back when you cum, falling apart under you, sitting up to kiss your lips, while you drink each other’s cries, your hands gripping in his hair when you just roll your hips, pressing more and more of his tip on your cervix while it keeps pumping. So much, too, Satoru’s pulling you against him, sighing into every kiss, turning his head to get the perfect angle.

“Mmm, l-love you, love you - ah shit.” You pause now, cursing and scowling again, he grins deviously, cupping your cheek while he inhales your sweet scent, feeling those aftershocks pulsing on him, milking more and more cum spurting deep.

“Hah, knew I’d g-get it out of you. Can’t help yourself. Hormones?”

“Just hormones.” You pout now, looking away, wincing when you get another sharp kick.

“Baby knows mama’s lying.”

“Uh huh! Now… give me a tour, Richy Rich.” He chuckles, shaking his head, brushing back that lock of hair that keeps falling over your brow.

“Ah I see, you got your dick, now you’re ready?”

“Ugh! I wanna smack you.”

“Mmm, please Mommy?” You roll your eyes, giggling without thinking, the flush on your cheeks, the thin sheen of sweat just making you achingly prettier.

“You would like it. Freaky ass.”

“Says you, maybe I wanted to give you a tour!? You kicked my friends out and pounced on my dick.”

“Psh.” He’s easing you off his lap so gently, despite his teasing words, making sure you’re okay.

Soon he is cleaning you up a bit now carefully in his bathroom, the first stop on the tour of his elegant home, so gorgeous and spotless it did not scream bachelor pad. You pause when you see skincare in a pretty gold box, fingers brushing on it, blinking a bit as you recognize the brand.

“Is this for me?”

“No way, all me.” He winks at you in the mirror. “Of course it’s for you, I’d like you comfortable for as long as you wanna stay. It’s some fancy Korean stuff.”

“It’s very fancy, thank you. And… a toothbrush?”

“Mmhmm. Body wash, shampoo, conditioner, razors… got you anything you need. And some clothes if that’s okay.” You flush at the excessive sweetness, looking down now.

“You don’t have to do all that. It’s one thing for the baby, but me?”

“You’re her mom, and my… my girl.” His declaration is soft, unlike him and his teasing, your eyes meet his, when he tilts your chin to him, back pressed against his hard chest. Your breath catches at the sight of him, that red streaked across his high cheekbones. “You are, right?”

“Your girl?” He nods then, a bit nervous - you never thought you’d see Satoru Gojo nervous, but here he was, being as open as you were. “You want me to be?”

“Yes. I want a lot of things, sweetheart.” He sighs now, kissing you while gently holding under your chin, lips plush against yours, swollen from his kisses, perfection in his quiet bathroom.

You feel his heartbeat against your palm when you turn, touching his chest, feeling it grow quicker as you stand there, eyes locking. “I already am.”

“We’re not making the tour if I fuck you again on this sink.” You back away before he can do more, earning his soft sigh, his cock ready to be inside you again.

“No, I really wanna see her room, please?”

“Come on then.” Satoru leads you down a hall, hand in yours, opening a beautiful room with a floor to ceiling window. The view is so pretty, as the sun illuminates every corner of the room, the lush white carpet and cream walls. It’s bright, airy and so beautiful, everything so perfect you can vividly picture your little girl right there.

“You did all this!?” You’re in awe as you walk into the nursery, seeing the beautiful white rustic furniture, a beautiful crib still bare, changing table, a beautiful rocking chair and a pretty dresser with little pink stuffed animals strewn over it already.

“Suguru and Sukuna did, I paid them in Purp.” You giggle then, covering your mouth as tears fall.

“God, Satoru, it's beautiful!”

“You get to decorate it all, so that means you get this.” He hands you his black card with a grin, earning your little giggle. “I didn’t get bedding or curtains, anything like that, I just ordered the basics. I figured you’d want to get all the extras.”

“Oh yes, I’d love to. And oh my god, I love this chair!” You sit down in it then, sighing, vividly picturing holding your little girl in your arms soon. Satoru sees it too, grabbing one of the plushies and putting it in your arms, fingers brushing against your skin, making goosebumps rise up.

“Do you really need your house still?” He asks then, you look away nervously.

“Satoru what if we-”

“I love you too.” You pause, gasping as you look down, his hands on the arms of the chair, stopping the rocking.

“What!?” He sighs, cupping your face now, pressing against you as his eyes dart back and forth across your pretty face, drinking you in.

“Yeah, brat, I love you too. Fuck I’ve been in love since you smacked me for staring at your ass.” You giggle and sob then, the tears flow, hot and sticky, burning your eyes as you melt for him, joy and surprise filling your every vein. “I want this baby to have everything, and that includes their parents living together. I don’t want one day without you, or her.”

“Satoru,” you’re kissing him now, his own tears falling, while you take a breath, resting your forehead against hers. “Mnh, a couple conditions.”

“Conditions, you’re such a mean ass little brat.” He glares, eyes watering while you stroke his sharp cheekbones, sighing.

“No more spring breaks with your friends. You can hang out with them as much as you want, but I want you here with us.” You take a hand, putting it on your tummy, and he swallows, nodding.

“Had a horrible time anyway.” You tremulously smile, and the baby kicks his hand, making you both look down on it, so huge and warm on your swelling tummy. “That’s the condition?”

“Also no more partying. I know, I’m-”

“No more then.” You’re shocked, eyes lifting to meet his cerulean depths, silvery eyelashes sticky with droplets of tears.

“That easy!?”

“I have a lot more important things right here,” his hand on your tummy presses just a bit, the other touching your cheek. “Think I don’t love you so much I’d do fucking anything? For both of you?”

“Fuck…” You kiss him once more, soft and sweet, stealing more of his heart with every breath. “We’re doing this? Moving in together?”

“Well you’re moving in with me, you can sell that itty bitty-”

“Don’t you trash my house now!” Your glare earns another chuckle from him, then you sigh. “I didn’t tell you, my work found out I was pregnant.”

“What gave you away, the giant tits or-”

“Hey!” You shove at him, then the chair rocks forward, he catches you when you damn near fall, chuckling at you. “They’re not that big.”

“Sure they’re not, they have their own time zone.”

“Jerk!” You roll over to the side, on the soft plush carpet of the nursery, Satoru has a devious grin on his face.

“What did they say, sweets?” He rests on an elbow, laying side by side, while his fingers trail down your shoulders, and everything feels too perfect, too easy. So right you wonder how the two of you had fought it for so long, he was willing to give it all up for you. He was perfect, aside from being an endless pervert, but it’s not like you really minded it.

“They actually want to give me a segment, where I talk about babies, motherhood, pregnancy, and health. All of it.”

“Shit baby that’s so good what!?”

“Right! They asked me why I didn’t tell them but they weren’t even mad, thank god, I was so stressed. Also, I do get a really good maternity leave, and they’re going to work on a good schedule.” His grin is infectious, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss on your head softly.

“I’m so happy for you, but, there is a side of me,” his murmur is hot against the shell of your ear, making you tremble. “That wants you as a little pretty housewife, just having all my babies.”

“You’re too much,” your whisper is just a half hearted sigh, something in you loves to hear it, even if it’s insane. “You know I’m not gonna be a little housewife.”

“Mmn, wouldn’t have to clean, I have a maid you know.” He winks, all cheeky with his grin as you get pulled closer to him. “When are you moving in?”

“I don’t know, I’d have to sell it and that’s a whole process-”

“I’ll have someone do it.”

“You seem to have planned this, hmm?” You raise a brow at him, and he gasps, a hand to his chest.

“Me!? No way, I just thought about it when you professed your love.”

“Oh whatever.” You shove at him again, and he holds you tightly now, sighing and running his hand down the curve of your spine while the two of you lay there on what would soon be your baby’s room. “I’m so excited, Satoru.”

Satoru grins now, making him fall deeper and deeper for him with every breath he takes, the sun lightly illuminating his pretty face, the way his eyes glimmer like yours do, showing his every emotion. “Me too, sweetheart.”

*****

Nine months pregnant - Satoru’s house

“God why’d I move you in!? You’re evil!” Satoru grumbles months later, as you waddle around , scowling at him.

It’s been months of paradise, but today you are two days overdue and absolutely miserable. You know you’re being psychotic to put it plainly, as your boyfriend crosses his arms, raising a brow at you. You know you should try to calm down, but you don’t even feel like you anymore, just a damn blob being kicked with a long legged, mini Satoru.

 “I’m sorry I’m not cheery, have you seen me!? I look like that fucking alien movie, like it’s about to just burst out! It’s not funny!”

He’s snorting in laughter, he can’t help it, sighing a bit when tears fill your eyes, walking up and touching your tummy gently, she kicks so hard you hunch over, sniffling more tears. “Damn she needs to be a soccer player.”

“Her legs are long because of you.” He rolls his eyes, when you press him off, eyeing your phone now, as another braxton hicks hits you. “This is all you!”

“You begged for me to cum in you too, you know-”

“Ugh!” You plop down, crying now, as Satoru falters, wishing he could just go smoke that blunt he’d rolled, but he knows you’d trip more.

You were so sweet until the past few days, now you’re a whole monster, bursting into tears one minute, the next eating hot cheetos and laughing, and then you’d get all pissy and mean. He could not figure out an emotion on any given moment, like the end of the last trimester was just frying your brain, throwing your hormones and making them batshit.

“Will weed hurt the baby because you need something-”

“I am not going to smoke weed! It wouldn’t help anyway- ah!” You feel another, far too close, sighing as you hold your tummy. “Sorry, I’m being a bitch.”

“Yeah you- I mean what!? No baby!” You sigh now, holding out a hand to him, he takes your little one in his own, kissing it.

“I am and I’m sorry. It’s not you. I just want her to come, tomorrow they have to induce it and - ah! Another!?” Satoru frowns now, looking at the timer.

“You sure these are braxton? Your tummy is so hard…” He’s pressing on it gently, as another contraction hits, and you’re in so much pain you’re sobbing. “Baby you could be…”

You inhale sharply, wincing and rubbing your tummy. “You think? I wasn’t dilated yesterday… fuck it hurts…”

“Let’s get you down there. Come on.” He helps you up gently, tilting your chin up now, swiping at your tears.

“I’m sorry I w-was mean…” Your sweet little sobs and trembling lips end any irritation he has, he hugs you tightly, the woman he’s had in his bed and by his side for months now, growing rounder and rounder with his child.

He adores you more and more every day.

Even when you’re an evil little thing.

“It’s okay,” his calm voice helps you breathe, he’s been here through it all, and you wish your hormones wouldn’t make you snap. You want to tell him how much you love him, not treat him so damn mean, but it’s like your body and mind are done. “Hey, shh.”

“I love you and I’m a bitch!” He smiles just a bit, shaking his head.

“You’re miserable is all. Baby is cooked enough, well done, you’re ready to kick him out of this apartment, huh?” You giggle at that, before crying out once more in pain, making even Satoru tense, like he could feel it.

“I love you so much and her… I just want her here and not in here, she so clearly wants to come out, but she’s stubborn.”

“Wonder where she gets that,” you go to retort, then another contraction hits, making you wince once more. “Come on.”

The drive is quiet, you’re in so much pain you’re starting not to speak, making Satoru so stressed he can’t take it, he keeps looking over at you, baby bag all ready to go in the back seat, touching your tummy again. You take his hand, tears falling on it now, as you struggle to breathe at all.

“I want her to be okay. I need her to be okay.”

“I need both of you to be okay, and you will be, okay?” You nod, leaning against his shoulder as he drives, holding onto him so tightly, the life support you need so desperately right now, your everything.

Satoru is your everything.

But soon, your sweet girl would be too.

“I’m so glad you’re here for m-me, mmm…” He just kisses your head, trying to drive as quickly as he can without getting pulled over. When he finally gets there he’s carrying you in his arms, even though you insist you can walk, until the nurses put you in a chair and push you to the room.

It’s just a little bit before you hear the words - ‘you’re having the baby!’

It’s just a little longer before you’re screaming, and a natural birth is absolutely a dumb fucking idea. You’re breaking Satoru’s big ass hand, your loud sobs  and cursing scaring half the damn hospital, and he once again wonders why he loves this evil little brat who’s gonna ruin his throwing hand, only for you to cry again, apologizing so sweetly, and him to melt.

In short, you’re a mess.

And he loves all of you.

Your mom comes up to the room, thank god, taking your hand, as Shoko, Utahime, Suguru and Sukuna all show up too, your dad was out of town but on the way. Of course… Satoru doubted his parents would come, though they’d sent plenty of fancy baby things to fill the house, he supposes it’s their shitty version of trying, but until he married you, they were dissapointed.

The media had talked plenty of who the Satoru Gojo was with, and it didn’t help that you had built quite a little fandom with your segments. Moms, and moms to be loved your segments, you spoke of the real things - body image, self esteem, your worries. You interviewed fellow pregnant celebs and moms, it was truly impressive to have watched you thrive.

Satoru was so fucking proud of you.

He is proud of you.

And you’re so proud of him, always doing things his own damn way, yes, he was running the family company but he was fixing their corruption bit by bit, working on the greed internally. The changes he had already made were so powerful, keeping every bit of who he’s always been, you don’t know if his parents will change, though.

But Satoru has you now.

Soonl the room is so crowded it’s ridiculous, and the clearly stoned ass Sukuna looks at you in horror. “I’ll never have a kid, shit that looks horrible!”

“Like you’d have a kid anyway, you’re an idiot.” Utahime says then, and Sukuna glares, crossing his arms.

The four of them are bickering like old times, when you glare at them all. “Can everyone just shut up!?”

“She is mean.” Suguru whispers, in horror as well as you scowl at him.

“Everyone go for a few, okay?” Your mom is shoving them all out, Shoko and Utahime press kisses on your cheeks, as they carry their college long feud out into the halls, and Satoru looks at your mom pleadingly. “Satoru, get some coffee, you look rough honey.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice.

His girlfriend in labor is quite terrifying.

Getting coffee with a shaky hand, Shoko walks up to him then, and he rolls his blue eyes, irritated by the fluorescents of the bright, open hospital, sipping the shitty coffee with a wince. “Yeah, talk your shit, Shoko.”

“You stepped up, and I’m happy for you.”

“What!?” Satoru sputters, considering he’d fought with Shoko and Utahime forever, they were your girls and thus his enemies since freshman year.

Shoko takes her own cup of coffee, wincing now at the bitter taste, brushing dark locks back. “You stepped up for her, and did the right thing. It’s clear you always were in love anyway, but it’s nice to see you grew up.”

“Always in love?” He puts down his cup, eyeing Sukuna and Suguru snickering at something, while Utahime starts informing everyone on her social media about you - since you’re in no condition to update your friends - then back at Shoko. “Yeah, maybe I was, but I was…”

“A dick.”

“Hey now.” Satoru glares, and Shoko just laughs softly, a hand on his shoulder. “I was a dick, a big one.”

“You were like a boy dipping a little girl’s hair in ink behind her in class.”

“What are you from, the eighteen hundreds?”

“Shut up. I’m complimenting you, little shit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course I did, though I… it was never an option not to be there for her,” his voice softens, as they walk over to the waiting room chairs, sitting next to each other. Satoru crosses an ankle over a leg then, sighing, running a hand through his locks and murmuring, “It was just a matter of how much she’d let me be involved.”

“She’s always been in love with you too.” Shoko’s words make Satoru blush then, as Utahime sits next to Shoko, he expects some smartass words from her too, but she just smiles.

“She’s been down bad for a while.” Satoru clears his throat now, the words making his heart flutter.

“You all were, like, really dumb.” Suguru says, blitzed as fuck clearly with narrow amethyst eyes, sitting across from the three of them. “For years.”

“I need no words of wisdom from you all, except… maybe advice.” He sighs now, leaning forward a bit, elbows on his legs that are spread so wide, Shoko shoves at one with her foot, making him glare.

“Advice bro, for what? The baby?” Sukuna leans back in his own chair, red eyes surrounded by even more red. “It’s our godchild you know.”

“You are not the godfather now, I swear that’s in your head.” Satoru says with his lips quirking up, the huge man scoffing as the girls giggle. “No, how long until I… ask her?”

“Ask her…” Shoko trails off, and Satoru nods. “Shit!”

“Wait until she feels more… herself.” Utahime says softly. “She’s kind of a…”

“Terrifying, evil mess?” Satoru chuckles as Shoko slaps him.

“Wait for a proposal until a nice date night, okay? Something sweet and intimate. Right now of course she’d say yes, but poor thing is-”

“This is your fault Satoru Gojo!” Echoes throughout the waiting room, and the five of you pause, as the entire waiting room laughs and murmurs. “Your long ass legs, your big ass head!”

“My head is not big, yours is!” He shouts back, earning the look of everyone in the room. “What, it’s not!?”

“I hope you survive this, man…” Suguru says, standing then. “I need a smoke, shit.”

“Me too man, fuck.” Satoru glares at his friends, as you scream out again, this time in pain, and the doctor comes up to him.

“It's time. She's dilated-” Satoru is already running in the delivery room, the nurses help him scrub up as he sees you, sitting up with your thighs spread and glaring at the doctor on call.

The one that said how tight you were.

He'd laugh if you wouldn't kill him.

“Ready for this baby?” The doctor asks, and your eyes go wide in panic.

“Shit, no! Mom!” Your mom holds your hand, while Satoru is getting ready, his heart racing, knowing he's about to meet his baby girl.

“You can do this, baby.” You sigh, and your mom looks at Satoru, tilting her head to gesture for him to come then, he takes your hand instead, feeling you squeeze it with a death grip, wincing.

“You're strong as shit, damn.” He huffs under his breath, seeing tears on your cheeks as you push for the first time, the pain you're in making him woozy.

After a good hour, you’re prepared to push, and Satoru’s got the phone, filming you, much to your anger. He wonders if his own baby will be scared of their mom, you’re something else for a little pregnant brat, even the doctor is a little frightened, as he asks - ‘You ready to push?’ - and you scream.

“Oh my god, I can’t, I can’t!” You’re sniffling, when Satoru comes around to where the doctor is, and he looks at Satoru then, shaking his head.

“You don’t wanna see this, she’s about to crown.”

“Crown, what’s- oh. Oh! Oh…” 

Satoru Gojo faints.

He faints!

Your mom runs to him in concern, as a nurse rushes over to your six foot four boyfriend collapsed on the hospital tile. “Is he okay? Ah!” You can hardly speak through the pain, he fell hard, everyone heard it.

“God, he’s heavy,” the nurse murmurs, when two of them try to pick him up.

“G-get his friends, go get them they’re huge and - ow!”

“Deep breaths, you can do it.” Your mom tries to keep you calm, and in moments Suguru and Sukuna stare in horror, getting the view Satoru just had, and you swear they’re about to pass out as they look in horror.

“Pick him up!” You whisper through your teeth, they quickly turn away.

“God that’s terrible,” Suguru says, kneeling next to Satoru. “No wonder he passed out, is that how babies are born!?”

“You’re all so- stupid just - ah!” You’re screaming again, even Sukuna looks pale, and he’s not scared of shit, aside from ever seeing a vagina like that again.

“I’m gonna be scarred for life.” He whispers to Suguru, while they pick up Satoru, who’s still unconscious, all while you’re having the damn baby.

“I hear you all. Ow! Shit!” You’re breathing - he he he, hoo hoo hoo - but you just want to kill everyone and everything around you, the pain is stupid. “Knock me out, drugs, drugs!”

“Way past that, honey.” Your docor says, you curse your shitty idea, all while Satoru’s being checked. “We’re close, let’s go, you’ve got it!”

******

Two hours later

“It’s our baby,” Satoru holds your beautiful baby for the first time, after finally having woken up from crashing and bonking his head. He’s smiling as he whispers in wonder, sitting next to you finally.

“She’s our baby.” He kisses her head, inhaling her.

“She smells so good.”

“I know, it’s addictive, I keep sniffing her.” You both grin at each other, god you feel such comfort now, in the hours since your boyfriend had been good and passed out, Shoko, Utahime, your parents, everyone had held her. Sukuna and Suguru even had already taken pictures of each other, enamored with her.

You suppose they weren’t the worst, though you don’t think you would trust them to watch your baby as they offered, they certainly cared, in their stoner way. Though you’re pretty sure you traumatized them into using protection for a long, long time, considering the haunted looks on their face.

“They saw it too!?” Satoru asks, when you recount some of it.

“Yep. I think they don’t even wanna touch one anytime soon.”

“Jesus, it was…”

“Stop, you’ll faint again!” He shakes his head.

“No way,” he watches as your eyes are drifting shut, while he stares at her pretty face, snowy white hair, but your eyes, when she looks up at him and opens them, blinking her snowy little lashes. “She’s so beautiful, just like her mama.”

“Oh, Satoru… I love her so much already.” You’re sniffling, tears streaming down your cheeks, he sighs, leaning over and kissing your forehead, still damp and sweaty.

“So do I, god I’m so sorry I passed out. I missed her coming!”

“No, no, don’t you apologize. You scared me, but everyone else just laughed actually.” He glares, and you let out a tired giggle, yawning and reaching a weak arm out, brushing her snowy, downy hair.

“They told me not to look, but I did. Got babe your cooch-”

“Don’t remind me, there are stitches.” He gets pale again, making you panic, sitting up and gently touching the arm that’s holding your baby girl. “Satoru please, don’t pass out again.”

“Stitches oh god, that bad? And I wasn’t even awake.” He’s pouting, even as you’re shaking your head, leaning forward and wincing a bit at the pain.

“I had a pretty difficult time, but it was all worth it, just look at her, hmm?” He nods then, soft smile on his plump lips, eyes crinkling in the corners when he scoots even closer, holding the sweet bundle so tightly in his arms.

“They laughed at me!?”

“They all did, even the pervy doctor.” You can’t stop the laugh, wincing then as a twinge of pain hits, Satoru frowns with worry. “I’m fine, just worn out.”

“Get some rest, your baby daddy is conscious now.” You giggle at that, eyeing the two loves in front of you, your sweet baby girl so tiny in his huge, strong arms, and you feel such a sense of peace you could never describe. Your eyelids droop, you’re yawning once more, the hospital room lights are dimmed as a nurse walks in, smiling at the two of you warmly.

“Aren’t you three just the cutest? Let me check you out before you take a nap, Mama.” You hold back yet another yawn, exhaustion creeping up, while she turns on the blood pressure cuff still on your arm, eyeing the measurements. “And how are you feeling, dad?”

“I’m sad I passed out and missed cutting the cord.” He says softly, the nurse laughs a bit.

“It happens, don’t feel bad at all. You have your entire life with your new baby. What’s her name?”

“Satoruette-”

“No it’s not!” Your glare, making your blood pressure spike, and the nurse blinks a bit.

“That’s a unique name. Calm down, let’s try again.” You take a breath now, shaking your head at your grinning husband.

You adore him, but he’s still just a little shit.

“Not Satorutte.” You whisper again, the nurse can’t stop smiling at the two of you, at Gojo’s cute little pout, blinking his snowy lashes.

“You’re still so mean. Why’d I fall in love with a demon?”

“That makes our daughter half demon.” Satoru chuckles then, shaking his head, fingers stroking her sweet little cheek, so soft to the touch, as she yawns, her little mouth in an O.

“She’s all angel.” His soft words melt you even further, not enough to name her Satoruette, of course, but enough to have a beautiful smile, so serene on your sleepy face when he looks back up at you. “You’re half angel too.”

“No way.” He shakes his head, when the nurse lifts up your blanket and gown, peering at the stitches.

“Any pain, love?”

“A little…”

The nurse presses the button of the IV, pumping the medication into your bloodstream, you sigh blissfully while she checks the baby, taking her gently from Satoru’s arms. As she checks her heartbeat and pulse, Satoru comes over to you, swiping back your hair gently, eyes looking so deep into yours, you hold his hand, which swallows your own, feeling so overwhelmed then.

“You did great.” Satoru’s soft words make your heart swell, when he kisses the back of your knuckles gently, exhaling as he does. “Look how amazing you are.”

“You helped make her too.” You smile, eyes drooping once more, the pain medicine sapping the last of your resolve to stay up. “Satoru, can I take a nap?”

“Of course, I think I took a long enough one.” You laugh softly, before drifting off to sleep, Satoru watches your pretty, exhausted face as you do, tucking you in while the Nurse bundles back up the baby, putting her inside the little bassinet.

“She’s perfect, Mr. Gojo.” Her words hit his ears, drawing his attention to the bundle, and the nurse now comes up to him. “You had quite a fall, are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, shit I shouldn’t have looked. Ugh. Everyone left?”

“Visiting hours were over, but they all took plenty of pictures.”

“Of me!?” The nurse flushes, shrugging. “They did! Imma kick their asses tomorrow.”

She laughs now, eyeing your monitor that’s beeping slowly, when you start snoring suddenly, filling the room with the loud sound, and Satoru has not once heard you snore. He can’t stop the affection pouring, along with the amusement at how cute you are, while he looks down at you, then at your baby girl.

“We have a bed we can set up over-”

“Can I just lay with her?” Satoru asks, the nurse smiles again, nodding, moving some of the wires to one side.

“I’ll grab some extra blankets and pillows.” Satoru lays his lanky body right in that hospital bed now, making you stir, looking at him with eyes dilated from the pain meds, a smile on your face that’s too cute.

“Satoru, you’re ssleepingg w’me?” Your slurred words make him chuckle, while you scooch over, allowing him more room, and one of his arms wraps around your waist, pulling you close.

“Sure am, you’re fucked up aren’t you?” He teases softly, you just giggle. “Is that how we get you nice, morphine?”

“I was sso meann S’toru, sorryyy.” Your words are all jumbled, your arms wrapped around his waist, burying your face against his chest and kissing the hollow at the base of his throat.

“You’ve always been mean, I kinda dig it.” Your giggle is infectious, another kiss pressed, while his hand softly runs up and down your back, and the nurse brings in pillows and blankets. “Thanks.”

“Of course, I love to see a devoted husband.” He doesn’t bother to correct her, that he’s just become your boyfriend a couple months ago - because he feels like he will be that for you, your husband. “Any name ideas for the sweet girl?”

Satoru pauses then, remembering a few of your ideas. “I’ll wait until she’s off the good stuff, she’s definitely gonna give me some weird-”

“Not Satoruette.” Your mumble is incoherent, as you doze off slowly in his arms, trying to stay awake, to feel how good it is to be held by Satoru Gojo.

“Oh yeah, then what name?” He teases, looking down at you, you sigh, cupping his face with a weak little hand, while the nurse places another blanket over you both.

“Miyuki, it means beautiful. She is so beautiful, hmm? Like you.” He smiles at you, shaking his head.

“You’re sloshed, telling me that.”

“Miyuki is beautiful.” The nurse mentions it, and Satoru sighs.

“Satoruette on the next?”

“Nope.” You say it with a pop on your lips, the nurse leaves you all, shutting the heavy door, and the drugs in your system make you feel way too good, along with your boyfriend holding you close. “You’d want another baby, S’toru?”

“Can’t even say my name, tsk,” you giggle again, while he studies you carefully. “I wanna figure out how good I’ll be at raising her, but if I am amazing at it - like I am at everything-”

“Conceited.” He laughs and sighs, pulling you against his hard, warm body, enveloping you tightly. “You’ll be such a good dad. I already know.”

Your sweet words make him blink back tears, peeking over your head as your little girl sucks on a pink binkie, all swaddled tightly, so precious it makes him ache. “Yeah, I want another one, some day. Do you?”

“Mmhmm.” You nod and hug him tighter, your eyelashes tickling his neck as your lids close once more. “Satoru, I wanna be with you forever.”

Shit.

“Yeah, think I’d leave you, brat?” He tries to tease, as if your sweet words didn’t want to make him propose then and there, to your morphine ridden, sleeping frame, but knowing he needed to wait was torture.

But it’s okay, because you're already his wife, whether you know it or not.

One more to wrap up these cuties, I hope you all enjoy all the sickeningly cute fluff, and smuttt, and got a kick out of Satoru passing tf out LMAO!!! Idk why, but that had to happen hehe. See you in the next and finalll part which will show life with a baby for these two <2

taglist 1- @jannythewriter-pt2 @gojosoups @lycoris-radiata-4-sale @cutiepi-iee @closerbutnevertogether @myahfig4 @coq1myun @rinny27 @abibliolife @coq1myun @megumisthirdog @p4lli @turtlebangtan @webshooterrr9 @aldebrana @msqudo18 @s0ulsnatchaaa @ovela @midnaamethyste @nearlyfuckingwitches @shibataimu @msniks @missthatgirl @fantasy1nightmare0 @maddyhehehehhe @yourst3pm0mmy @haithamsbb @rentheannihilator @ilovebeansyay @lemonswirlz @dilfkentolover @evelynxxo @bkgnotsuma @suki91 @burntasian @nakiich @hyunjinsruinedpainting @miniv1x3n @minascasket @ihrtmack @contaminatedcupcake @girlwithn0j0b @tokyi999 @queenofthekill @verriees @vullzo @jkslaugh97 @howmanytimesamigoingtotrythis @nkpajares @emonaculate

[plutotheplum]

chapter one | the proposal

multi x fem!reader

chapter summary: the spring season seems to have brought on an unrelenting case of baby fever. being single is a problem though... so who better to ask than your five, handsome friends?

cw: modern au, fluff, kissing, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of sex

wc: 1.7k

a/n: first chapter is here! something short and sweet before we get into the smut teehee ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎

also on ao3!

series masterlist | next up: the magician

“I want a baby.”

Usually you’d be sitting across from your head-over-heels, doting, caring husband that would be willing to do anything for you whilst having this conversation. It’s an important decision after all, having a baby and taking care of it, having the finances to dote on your child. It’d be nice… except for the fact you don’t have a husband, or a boyfriend for that matter.

Instead, you’re sitting across from five men, currently lumped together uncomfortably on your couch, staring at you with slight bewilderment in their eyes. It was your best shot, inviting them over. 

Besides, you’d decided that it was the spring season that had caught you in its snare. Going out to a cafe, taking a stroll in the park, perusing a bookstore; babies were everywhere. It hadn’t bothered you so much until you’d set your eyes on one of the cutest, chubbiest babies you’d ever seen, its little hand curling around your finger when you’d been waiting in line to buy your book. 

Yeah… you’d gotten baby fever.

“A baby?” Rafayel asks, his brows raising, “are- are you even ready for a baby?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you reply, fingers fidgeting nervously in your lap, your eyes drifting across each of them, “a lot. I even made a short presentation if any of you would like to-”

Zayne shakes his head subtly and you sink back down into the chair, having gotten up half-way.

“I am ready,” you breathe out finally, “I’m not getting any younger and I just think it’d be nice, y’know? I wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore.”

“Why’d you invite all of us over at once?” Caleb asks, his hands folding behind his head, drawing a sound of annoyance from Xavier who he elbows in the process.

“I didn’t want to have the conversation five times,” you sigh, “besides, I figured none of you would actually agree to this. I mean, it’s sort of crazy. Do I sound crazy?”

“Maybe a little frantic,” Sylus muses, propping his elbow up on the armrest of your couch, his head tilting lazily to watch you.

“There are other options,” Zayne offers, “other than what you’re proposing. I could help you look, if you wanted. I know someone I went to medical school with, maybe they could help?”

You flush lightly, shaking your head. “I um- I want to do it naturally,” you squeak out, cheeks growing hotter when you spy the grin on Caleb’s face. “Less- less complications that way, which is why I decided to ask all of you.”

“Well,” Caleb yawns, stretching his arms above his head, managing to knock one against Xavier’s head again, “I’m in.”

“What?” you sputter, staring at him with wide eyes. “You- you can’t just agree! I had a whole thing planned and we still need to go over agreements about how this is going to work.”

“I’m not just going to disappear once you have the baby,” Caleb sighs, staring at you, his gaze never wavering. “If we do this, we’re doing it together.”

“Oh,” you say, sitting back in your chair, “well if that’s what you’d like, but I don’t want you to feel obligated or anything.”

“Obligated?” Sylus interrupts, raising his brows, “Sweetie, if you decide to have one of our kids, we aren’t going to abandon you to handle everything on your own. It’s as much of our decision as it is yours.” He pauses for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. “With that being said, I also accept your proposal.”

“You do?” you ask, your head tilting. “Wouldn't the two of you be overkill? I really think one of you agreeing is enough-”

“It wouldn’t be fair,” Xavier pitches in finally, having had enough of being squished on the couch as he stands up, sending a brief glare towards Caleb. “It wouldn’t be fair,” he repeats, shifting on his feet, “if only the two of them got to have you. Besides, you said it was up to us to decide.”

Was he jealous? Maybe you’d dug yourself in a little too deep. You’d had fleeting moments with each of them, shared lazy kisses every now and then, had a few of their heads buried between your thighs on some nights, but nothing serious… especially not this serious.

“So all three of you,” you look pointedly at Caleb, Sylus and Xavier, “want to help?”

“Yes,” is the unanimous reply.

“I can’t have sex with all three of you!” you protest, looking at each of them, “I mean, I could but that’s besides the point!”

“You’ll have to alternate between us,” Zayne supplies, adjusting his glasses, his lithe fingers pushing them up to sit more securely on the bridge of his nose. The action distracts you for a moment, your mind conjuring up the memory of those very fingers sinking inside of your pussy only a few weeks ago when he’d been pent up and you’d been eager to help.

“Right,” you reply as though the situation made complete sense and nothing about this entire thing was crazy. “Alternate- wait,” you pause, your eyes flicking over to meet Zayne’s. “Us?” you echo, “what do you mean ‘us’?”

“Us,” Zayne says simply.

“Us- us as in you included?” you ask, voice pitching upwards with how incredulity takes hold of you, part of you hoping that your faith in the english language was now failing you.

“Yes,” he replies, his head tilting to take in your expression. “I am the most… qualified for this position.”

“This isn’t a job interview!” you snap, glaring at him, before pointing at the others accusingly, “and you are all way too eager to agree!”

“We’re helping you out,” Caleb counters, turning his attention to Zayne, “and what do you mean by qualified? You just have to cum inside of her.”

You wince at his crude words.

“I often see children during my rounds in the wards,” Zayne says coolly, “I don’t see you handling any children while you fly your plane around.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Caleb mutters, sending Zayne a glare.

“Okay,” you pitch in, hoping to ease some of the tension. “Rafayel?” you say, eyes focusing on the purple-haired man who’s been watching the situation unfold with amusement, “I’m glad you haven’t said anything, because four is more than eno-”

“Who said I didn’t agree?” he asks, raising his brows, “I’d be the odd one out, wouldn’t I? As Xavier said, that’d hardly be fair.”

“So what you’re all telling me, is that you’re all ready for a baby?” you ask bluntly, tilting your head skeptically. “Because I feel like none of you have thought this through.”

“We’re just giving you the best chance of having a baby,” Xavier says, meeting your skepticism with his own bluntness.

“Fine,” you breathe out, your eyes flitting across each of the handsome men. You’d be lying if you weren’t somewhat excited about the idea. “You’re all accepted.”

“Great,” Sylus says, standing up.

Your eyes widen when he approaches you, his arm tugging you to your feet, before wrapping around your waist.

“What are you-”

Your voice is muffled when he slots his lips over yours. You make a noise of protest until he presses closer, your eyes fluttering shut at the soothing stroke of his thumb against your cheek. A soft whine escapes you, arms sliding up to wrap around his neck, your lips working against his eagerly.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Caleb snaps.

You squeak when you’re pulled away from Sylus, arms reaching out to grab for him, only for Caleb to swat your hands away, sending you an equally harsh glare.

“I thought we were getting started,” Sylus drawls, his eyes flashing with a hint of disdain. “I’m not one to sit around and watch.”

Caleb snaps out a retort and your shoulders sag as you watch the two men begin to argue.

“Are you sure you wanna have a baby with one of them?” Rafayel asks, his voice hushed as he sidles up to you. “They seem awfully… ill-tempered.”

You blink up at him, face falling. “Do you think that’ll affect the baby?”

Rafayel nods, putting on a grave disposition until you see Zayne roll his eyes.

“We’ll alternate,” Zayne says, rubbing his temples, “like I said. It’s the fairest way and none of your egos will get hurt in the process. We can draw numbers to figure out the order.”

You end up scrawling the numbers one to five on a piece of paper, ripping them up before scrunching them, so they can’t see what’s written on the paper.

“Take your pick,” you offer, opening your hands up for each one of them to choose a crumpled piece of paper.

You stare at each of them expectantly as they open up the pieces of paper, rocking up on your toes to peek over Xavier’s shoulder. 

Two.

Well, you could handle that. You smile up at him and he smiles back, dipping his head quickly to kiss your cheek.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Caleb groans staring down at his paper.

“Did you place last?” Rafayel asks smugly, waving his paper around as though he had won the lottery. “I’m first!”

“Asshole,” Caleb grouses, ripping up his paper agitatedly, “third.”

You turn your attention to Zayne and Sylus, raising your brows.

“Fourth,” Zayne says, tucking his paper away neatly into the pocket of his trousers.

You swallow nervously, glancing towards Sylus. He gives you a devilish grin in return, flipping his paper to show you the messily scribbled five. 

“You’re not… mad about it?” you ask tentatively.

“Why should I be?” Sylus asks, running a hand through his snowy hair, the strands falling across his forehead prettily, “It just means that I get to spend the longest with you.”

Well, that sounds more like a threat than anything. You weren’t a stranger to Sylus’ ways, you’d spent a few nights in his bed, face shoved into the pillows while you’d sobbed and cried pathetically with every snap of his hips against your ass. 

“Right,” you clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray your nervousness.

Your gaze drifts over each man. Smug Rafayel, mellow Xavier, disgruntled Caleb, stoic Zayne and devilish Sylus.

Yeah, you think, you were definitely in for it.

taglist >///<

@serenitymaria @kreishin @qyuin @wegottastayfocus @novthirty @syluslittlecrows @blorbohunter @luvleixo @crimsonmarabou @skylaryoung2002 @multisstuff @chirikoheina @supermissnkta @serenity-loves-red @shi-thats-kiera @froleineeeee @jaynawayna @schooki @minyoongi-pouts @mizienjoyer @isagistar @zaynesnowflake @athena-portgas @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @cutelittlesugarfairy @pookiei-bookie @dooopiee @rafshottestgf @thetimetravelernightmare @slytherin-min99 @envy-of-greed @paninisstuff @h0ngh0ngh0ng @nezuswritingdesk @teeheeheartless

[kyri45]

A final letter

Hello Everyone!

The queue is paused and everything is scheduled, which means we are ready for the finale!

I know that, in the end, this was just a silly side project for me, with everything else going on in my life. But for this occasion, I wanted to drop some words here and hope they make sense.

I started watching LMK only because a friend told me there was a "Sonadow-coded" ship. I ended up consuming the entire thing in one sitting on July 10th, 2024. At the time, I was still recovering from a bike accident that had left me with a broken right forearm—unable to draw for a little over a month. (I did try drawing with my left finger, but it wasn't exactly fun.)

Not only that, but it was summer, and I couldn’t enjoy the season or practice my main sport, windsurfing. To say I was feeling the blues is an understatement. I remember being in physical pain just from not being able to draw my sillies. But then, watching LMK did something to my brain chemistry that my little undiagnosed autistic self had never experienced before. It hit so hard that I’ve been physically unable to rewatch the show SINCE that very first day. (And y’all still call me the CEO of this fandom. Bro, I just work here.)

A lot of you have asked what inspired me to start this comic or to draw LMK fan art in the first place. While my usual answer is, "I saw Shadowpeach and thought MK could be their lovechild, given his appearance," the moment that actually started it all was THIS ONE—

(I HAD TO REWATCH THIS SCENE TO MAKE THE GIF AND IT HURT ME ON A MOLECOLAR LEVEL)

I have… a thing for characters who discover their entire identity was something else all along. It consumes my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment. I live for identity crises, for characters who thought they knew who they were, only to be forced to rediscover themselves, their existence, and their place in the world. If you give me a story where a character has to go through that, I will like it—regardless of how bad the rest of the story is.

Pair that with loads of trauma, daddy issues, the pressure of a legacy, and world-ending stakes, and congrats! Now I’m obsessed, and I will not stop thinking about it for the rest of my days!

At first, my brain just wanted to release some of that energy with a small, four-panel post about the monkeys discovering that MK was technically their kid.

That was supposed to be it.

But since I never seem to learn my lesson, it didn’t stay like that. Because once I started drawing, I just... continued.

And

I

never

stopped.

A lot of you have also asked how I found the motivation to draw so much, to never take a break. Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it one last time: I am my number one fan. No matter how much you laughed, cried, screamed, or went feral over this story, I did all of that and more. Because I got to think about the chapters months before they released. I got to daydream about them. I got to watch them come to life—first through sketches, then line art, then dialogue. And finally, I got to witness your reactions and see the incredible creations you made, inspired by my story.

So yeah, in a way, it was almost an addiction. A good addiction. Because, for the first time in my life, I actually understood what loving art means.

I’ve been drawing for ten years, working professionally for five, but I never loved art before. I just liked it because I happened to be good at it. But creating this comic made me understand why artists say, "Oh, I’ve loved drawing since I was a child!" This was the first time I allowed myself to create purely for my own enjoyment. Something I hadn’t had the privilege to do for a long time.

Other than making me feel even more single than I already was, this story somehow also helped me a little with my own family relationships. So yeah. Crazy how the gay monkeys changed my life.

Of course, I never could have predicted how much traction my AU would gain. Man, y’all were really starving to latch onto something this silly. /j

But yeah—thank you. Thank you for sticking around until the end, for having the patience and trust to follow the story even when I made you rage with angst and cliffhangers. (The statement in my bio still stands: I am not responsible for any physical or emotional damage my art has caused.)

I’m absolutely shit at thanking people, or at writing, or at talking in general, honestly. I’m the furthest thing from being good with words, so I hope the final chapter will be enough to show you my gratitude.

Through this story, I met so many wonderful, talented people. I watched as fans across different platforms found each other through memes and fanart of the AU. I saw artists start their own AUs inspired by mine, growing their own communities. I witnessed an explosion of creativity and collaboration through our takeovers. And I laughed along with you all.

And yeah—at its core, this story has always been about love. Whether it’s platonic, sibling, parental, romantic, or whatever the hell Mac and Wukong had going on for millennia.

At its heart, it’s a story about family.

And maybe, in the end… the real family wasn’t just the one in the comic, but the one we’ve found together along the way. 💛

See you all at the finale.

Love you all, freaks /affectionate

Jade