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uncuredturkeybacon · 25 days ago

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𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you coach her game and quiet her mind

part two - part three - part four - part five

You met Paige Bueckers on a Tuesday afternoon in late September, your sophomore year at Hopkins.

It’s open gym. You aren’t technically supposed to be in there—you’ve already finished your weight training hour and your basketball season doesn’t start until winter—but the hum of a bouncing ball is too rhythmic to ignore. There’s a familiar comfort to the hollow echo of sneakers and grit on hardwood, something that calls you in like a whisper.

You open the gym door quietly, backpack still slung over one shoulder, and that’s when you see her.

Blonde ponytail swaying. Wide stance. Shot pocket high. Paige freaking Bueckers.

You’d heard of her, of course. Everyone at Hopkins had. Varsity freshman starter. Handles like a string puppet master. Shot like a dream. Girl had already been ranked nationally, and people couldn’t stop talking about her like she was some prodigy out of a sports movie. You thought it was all hype.

Then you saw her move.

And the thing was—she wasn’t just good. She was smooth. Every step calculated, but casual. Every pivot like muscle memory. She dribbled like the ball owed her rent.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Just keeps shooting from mid-range, the ball sailing through net with that soft, cotton-candy swish. Over and over and over.

You step in farther.

She stops, finally turning her head slightly, eyebrows raised. “You lost?”

You blink. “No. Just… didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

She nods once, grabbing her rebound. “You hoop?”

You shrug. “Yeah. But I train more than I play now. Strength and conditioning stuff. I work with Coach Cosgriff sometimes.”

Paige bounces the ball slowly under one hand, studying you with that squint she always seems to wear. “So you're, like, a trainer-trainer?”

You laugh once. “A sophomore trainer. I’m certified in watching YouTube videos and correcting people’s forms at the gym.”

She smirks. “Sounds legit.”

“Totally. Olympic-level.”

There’s a pause. You think she’s gonna go back to shooting, but instead she spins the ball toward you with a flick of her wrist. You catch it without thinking.

“Rebound for me?” she asks.

That’s how it starts.

You don’t say much that first week. You mostly pass the ball back to her and correct her foot placement when she does too many fade aways in a row. She doesn’t seem to mind your notes. In fact, she listens. Eyes narrow, brows drawn together. She nods when you speak. Adjusts. Tries again.

By week three, you’re staying after school just to watch her shoot.

By week five, she’s asking you to run drills with her. “I need someone who won’t go easy on me,” she says. “You look like you play defense like a demon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You calling me aggressive?”

She grins. “I’m calling you annoying. Like a mosquito.”

You end up training together every week after that.

It’s past 6:30 PM, and the gym lights are humming like they’re tired of you both. You’ve run suicides, jump-rope footwork ladders, and back-to-back spot shooting. She’s collapsed on the baseline with a towel over her face.

“You trying to kill me?” she mumbles.

You grin, stretching near her. “You wanna be the best or nah?”

She lifts the towel just enough to peek at you. “I was the best like three years ago.”

“Complacency,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “That’s the first sign of career death.”

She snorts. “You sound like a Nike ad.”

“I sound like someone who’s keeping your ass in shape.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, tossing the towel aside. “You do.”

There’s something unspoken in the air. The gym is empty. Just your water bottles clinking, the soft squeak of shoes as you shift. She looks at you a beat too long.

“You ever think about going into this for real?” she asks suddenly. “Training people?”

“I already am,” you say. “I’m applying to kinesiology programs. Sports science. I wanna do this for a living. Maybe NBA. Or… WNBA.”

“You’d be good at it,” she says, and there’s no teasing in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make people better without making them feel like shit. That’s rare.”

You blink. She’s never said something like that before—not with that tone. And something flickers in her eyes like she didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“I’d want you to keep working with me,” she adds quietly. “If I go to UConn. Or wherever.”

“You planning on bringing me with you?” you joke, nudging her shoe with yours.

She doesn’t joke back.

“Yeah,” she says simply.

The dorms are stuffy and the air smells like ramen and underachieving. You moved in early because Paige wanted to start pre-season training before official practices began. You aren’t on the team. You aren’t on staff—yet. But Paige made some calls. And they made an exception.

You’re the one in her corner before the season even starts.

You run her drills. Chart her shot percentages. Track her fatigue, time her sprints, log every mile she runs.

But you also learn her.

The way she hums under her breath when she’s shooting threes. The way she swears under her breath when she’s not getting it right. The way she pulls at the hem of her shorts when she’s overthinking.

The way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You see it more now. The lingering. The heat behind her glances.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look too.

You’re lying on your back in her dorm room after a long night of training, the air between you quiet but charged.

“You ever think this… all of it… happened too fast?” Paige asks softly, turning her head toward you.

You meet her eyes. “Basketball or…?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. “Everything.”

You inhale slowly. “No. I think some things happen when they’re supposed to.”

She smiles faintly, shifting closer.

“And what if this—us—is one of those things?”

You glance down between you. Your hands are almost touching.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does she.

“Then I guess we’re right on time.”

It’s weird how easily your dynamic translated to college. She still listens to you. She still trusts your eyes more than anyone else’s.

“Step on your left harder after the spin,” you tell her during an individual session. “You’re floating too long. You’re not getting enough power.”

She nods and tries again. Nails it. Of course.

Afterward, she walks with you back to your apartment, as she’s been doing for weeks now.

"You coming to the scrimmage Saturday?" she asks, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk.

"Obviously. I'll be sitting next to Coach. Telling him what he's doing wrong."

She laughs and bumps her shoulder into yours. "You're cocky."

"I'm right."

“You’re something,” she mutters.

You don’t ask what she means. You don’t need to.

But you can feel it growing. The way she lingers when she talks to you. The way she watches you when you speak with someone else. The way she listens too closely. Stands too close.

And then it happens.

It’s after a game—a blowout win. You’re the last two in the practice gym, her icing her knee, you jotting down some movement notes in your tablet.

She asks, “Do you ever think about us?”

You stop mid-type.

“Us?” you repeat.

“Yeah. You and me. Not just trainer-player.”

You blink. Slowly. “All the time.”

She’s quiet, like that answer knocked the wind out of her. “So what do we do?”

You swallow. “We try.”

She smiles, soft and quiet. “Cool. So… kiss me?”

You walk over, heart thudding like you’re about to play in front of a sold-out crowd. But this moment—this kiss—is private. Gentle. A quiet victory.

Dating Paige Bueckers is exactly what you expected and nothing like you imagined.

She’s a goof. Always humming Drake songs and using you as a weighted vest when you’re trying to do push-ups.

But she’s also laser-focused, and sometimes that means 3AM texts. My jumper feels off, help. So you drag yourself to the gym with bedhead and bad breath, and she lights up like the scoreboard when she sees you.

The chemistry you have—on and off court—is unmatched.

“Let’s try that pin-down cut again,” you say during a workout. “But sell it harder this time.”

She wipes sweat from her brow. “Why don’t you just play defense on me? That’ll make it real.”

So you do. And she doesn’t get past you the first three tries. Fourth try, she fakes right and spins left—you’re gone.

“God, I love when you push me like that,” she says, out of breath, laughing.

You grin. “Yeah?”

She walks toward you, playful. “Yeah.”

Paige kisses you there, right in the middle of the gym floor, hands on your hips like you're her anchor.

And you are.

You always have been.

There are tough days. Days she doubts herself. When the pressure builds and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.

“I’m not playing like myself,” she says one night, curled on your couch.

You rub her thigh gently. “You’re in your head. You need to come back to your body. You need to play with joy.”

She looks at you, teary-eyed. “How do you always know?”

You shrug. “I’ve always known you, Paige.”

There’s a long pause. And then she says, “I think I want to do this forever.”

“Basketball?”

“You.”

It’s not flashy. There’s no grand gesture. No candlelit dinner. But it’s her. And it’s you. And it’s exactly enough.

It’s senior year now. She’s a legend. You’re her official trainer.

And people still call you Bueckers’ shadow, but now it comes with respect. Because they see it now. That you’ve helped shape her, sculpt her, kept her balanced.

On her senior night, she gives a speech.

She thanks her coaches. Her team. Her family.

And then, looking right at you, she says, “And to the person who’s been here since day one… my first pass, my best read, my forever one-on-one partner—thank you for never letting me forget who I am.”

You don’t cry.

Okay. You do.

But so does she.

Later that night, she pulls you into her room, shuts the door, and murmurs against your mouth, “You were always more than my trainer.”

You smile into the kiss. “I know.”

The moment Paige Bueckers’ name is called, the world erupts.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks at you.

Not the camera, not the stage—you. With that look you’ve seen a thousand times since high school. The one that says we did it.

You’re already standing when she launches into your arms, nearly knocking you back into the row of chairs behind you. Her arms wrap tight around your neck, her face pressed to your shoulder, whispering through the noise, “Don’t let go.”

You don’t.

Not when she pulls back, eyes glassy, hands still gripping your waist.

Not when she walks up to the stage with tears in her lashes and your name on her tongue.

And definitely not when the cameras catch her glancing at you before every answer.

The draft is a blur of bright lights, cheers, cameras, and interviews—but you stay close. Just off-screen. Just like always.

Until the media starts asking questions that aren’t about her game.

“Paige, congratulations on being the number one overall pick to the Dallas Wings! Can you tell us who you brought with you tonight?”

She glances sideways to where you're standing in her shadow. But you know her well enough to read the decision flicker behind her eyes.

She’s not going to hide you. Not anymore.

She turns back to the mic, confidence radiating from her like warm sun. “That’s my person. She’s been with me since high school. Trains me. Puts up with me. Challenges me. Loves me. So yeah—she’s a big part of why I’m here.”

The reporters buzz.

“Who is she to you?”

Paige smiles softly. “She’s everything.”

You nearly choke on your breath backstage.

Paige’s suit jacket is slung over a chair. Her shoes abandoned by the bed. Her Wings hat perched crooked on your head.

She’s on her knees in front of you, chin resting on your thigh, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your knee.

“You really said all that on national television?” you murmur, smiling.

“I’ve wanted to say it since we were seventeen,” she replies. “Since that day in Hopkins when you rebounded for me until I cried.”

You slide your fingers through her hair. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m your number one overall pick, too?”

You grin. “That, and now the whole world’s gonna know you’re soft for me.”

She leans up and kisses you—slow, full of promise. “Let ’em.”

You lie back on the hotel bed as she climbs in beside you. Her fingers tangle with yours like muscle memory.

“I’m scared,” she whispers eventually.

“Of what?”

“The league. The pressure. Failing.”

You squeeze her hand. “You won’t fail. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

She turns to face you, nose brushing yours. “Stay with me through all of it?”

You press a kiss to her forehead. “Always. I trained you for this, remember?”

She grins sleepily. “Guess I’m stuck with you then.”

“No,” you say quietly. “You chose me.”

Her silence says everything.

And for the first time that night—long after the cameras stopped flashing and the confetti settled—you both breathe.

The sun’s barely cracked the skyline of Dallas, golden haze stretching long across the parking lot when Paige turns to you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her practice jersey half-tucked into her waistband.

“You sure you want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the passenger seat of her car. “Seriously?”

She grins, brushing a hand over your thigh before starting the engine. “I mean, you’re not on staff.”

“Nope. Just the person who got you to number one.”

She leans over at a red light and kisses your cheek. “Damn right.”

The gym is humming with controlled chaos when you arrive—assistant coaches shouting instructions, music blasting, rookies trying not to trip over their own nerves. Paige is handed her gear and directed to the locker room, while you find your way to the bench along the sideline.

You set your bag down beside you, pull out your tablet, and cross your legs. The gym smells like polished hardwood and sweat and the faintest trace of new opportunity.

And there she is—Paige Bueckers—tying her shoes like it’s still high school in Hopkins, rolling her shoulders, bouncing a ball between her legs like she doesn’t know every camera in the room is aimed at her.

Your stylus hovers, and you begin.

Hips tight in lateral slide. Right knee still drifting inward on push-off.

She doesn’t look at you once, but she doesn’t need to. She knows you’re watching. Studying. Calculating.

You catch her third turnover in scrimmage. The coach yells something—timing issue—but you know better.

Drifting right early on corner curl. Jumping the pass. Tell her to settle feet before turn.

The practice stretches two hours. Drills. Scrimmage. More drills. Water break. Media arrives toward the end, clicking cameras, calling out names. Paige answers politely. You watch how her smile fades when she turns away.

When it finally ends, she doesn’t even glance at the locker room. She walks straight to you.

“Alright, hit me,” she says, dropping beside you on the bench, water bottle tucked under one arm, legs wide and hands clasped between her knees. Her jersey clings to her back with sweat. Her hair’s pulled into a tight bun, a few loose curls framing her flushed face.

You smirk. “You sure? I’ve got five pages already.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, leaning over to peek. “You still do bullet points?”

“I upgraded. Color-coded now.”

She groans. “Please tell me red still means ‘sucked.’”

“Red means ‘must address immediately.’ But yeah, you sucked on a few.”

She tosses her towel at you. You duck, laughing. Then you glance down at your screen.

“You rushed your footwork on the baseline pick. Every time. You’re cutting the corner too shallow, and it’s forcing your hips to stay closed when you rise.”

“I felt that,” she says, nodding. “Couldn’t get any lift.”

“Exactly. Also—your right knee’s collapsing again on your jump stop. You need to slow down your load. Breathe through it.”

“Got it.”

“Scrimmage—third possession, you jumped the passing lane too early on the weak side. You overcommitted on a read that wasn’t there. That’s a high school mistake, Bueckers.”

She groans again, flopping back against the bleachers. “Ughhh. Be nicer.”

You smile. “No.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “Anything good?”

You glance at her, the way her eyes are shining despite the exhaustion. You nod.

“You read the defense perfectly on that skip pass to Crystal. Footwork was clean, timing was elite. Also—your fake hesitation in transition off that turnover? Disgusting.”

She grins. “Filthy?”

“Filthy,” you confirm.

There’s a pause, one of those quiet pockets that only exist with people who know every version of you.

Then Paige stands.

“Come on. Let’s fix my corner curl.”

Half the players are already gone, heading toward the locker room or training room or their cars. But Paige pulls you to the far basket like it’s still your high school gym at midnight.

You don’t even hesitate. You grab a ball and toss it to her.

“Start at the top. Walk me through your cut.”

She moves to the elbow, begins her motion slow.

“Too shallow,” you call.

She adjusts. Again. Again.

“Keep your center low. You’re rising too soon.”

She adjusts. Again. And again.

You step closer, placing your hands on her waist as she resets.

“Watch your hips. You’re twisting before your feet are planted.”

Her eyes flick to you. “You watching my hips or checking me out?”

You give her a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You sure?” she smirks, stepping closer, her hands ghosting your sides.

You push her shoulder gently. “Back to work, Bueckers.”

She backs up, laughing.

Across the court, Coach Koclanes is still talking to staff when he glances over and sees the way Paige moves differently with you. The way she listens more intently. The rhythm of it. The ease.

He watches as she finishes her last curl, catches the ball you pass her, and sinks it from the wing—net barely moving.

You jog to grab the rebound. She resets.

And he’s already walking over to her by the time she sinks another shot.

“Paige,” he says, calm but direct.

She turns, wiping her forehead. “Coach.”

He glances across the court, then back at her.

“She yours?”

Paige follows his gaze to you, where you’re dribbling the ball lazily between your legs and checking your notes again.

She swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

Koclanes raises an eyebrow. “Trainer or girlfriend?”

“Both.”

He watches you again for a moment then nods slowly. “She’s sharp.”

Paige smiles. “She’s the reason I’m sharp.”

Koclanes studies her, arms crossed. “Alright. Just keep it professional when it counts.”

“She always does. I’m the reckless one.”

He smirks. “I figured.”

You're sprawled on the couch, tablet in your lap, and Paige is sitting on the floor between your knees, her back against the couch as you gently press into her shoulders.

“How bad was I?” she mumbles, half-asleep already.

“You weren’t bad,” you say. “You were just out of rhythm. New system. New teammates. New everything.”

She sighs. “It’s weird. Being the rookie again.”

You thread your fingers through her hair.

“You’ll adjust. You always do.”

She tilts her head to rest against your knee. “Coach asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanted to know if you were my trainer or my girlfriend.”

You grin. “What’d you say?”

“I said both.”

You pause. “And?”

“He said you’re sharp.”

You tap her forehead lightly. “Told you.”

She laughs softly.“Thanks for coming today.”

“I’ll be at every practice I can,” you promise. “Always.”

Paige reaches back, wrapping one hand around your ankle. “Feels like we never left the gym back home.”

You smile.

Because you know, deep down, that no matter how far Paige goes—WNBA stardom, championships, international fame—there will always be a corner of a court, a half-lit gym, where it’s just you and her.

The next time Paige asks if you’re coming to practice, you don’t answer. You just give her a look from across your shared bed, tablet already charging, stylus clipped to your hoodie collar. She laughs like she already knew.

"You're such a nerd," she teases, stretching as she slides out of bed.

"And you're late to everything but the gym," you shoot back, already packing snacks into her duffel.

Inside the Wings facility, it's déjà vu—but with a twist.

Paige is looser now. She’s smiling as she jogs out onto the court for warmups. Still focused, still razor-sharp, but her eyes find you through the bleachers like you're her true north.

You're already scribbling notes.

Dribble height off the left—still inconsistent. No dip off the hip before the pull.

She looks smoother today. Reads are quicker. She’s calling out switches and catching mismatches before they fully form. You know she’s watched the film. Your film.

And it shows.

She has a strong scrimmage. Ten assists. Fifteen points. The gym buzzes every time she touches the ball. Coaches watch her like she’s the answer to every late-game possession. But she still looks to you when she’s subbed out, even for just a moment.

A raised eyebrow from you is all it takes to remind her, slow your footwork, release higher, trust the screen.

She does. Nails her next three.

After practice ends, some of the players linger around the half-court line, chatting and stretching. But Paige’s sneakers squeak straight toward you.

She slides onto the bench beside you, water bottle cradled between her palms, jersey clinging to her collarbone with sweat.

“Well?”

You pass her the tablet. “You tell me.”

She scrolls. “Less red.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Because you actually did your hip mobility warm-up this time.”

“Don’t out me.”

You smirk. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep hitting those high-release threes.”

She hands the tablet back, mock-serious. “Deal.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but someone clears their throat just behind you.

You turn and see him—Coach Chris Koclanes. Arms folded. Neutral face. Calculating eyes.

“Mind if I steal you a second?” he asks—not to Paige, but to you.

You blink, then glance at her. Paige just smiles and gives a subtle nod. You stand slowly, brushing your hands on your sweats as you follow him a few paces down the sideline.

He gestures toward the court. “That was a hell of a session for Bueckers.”

You nod. “She’s a rhythm player. Once she finds her pace, she’s lethal.”

“She credited you yesterday. Said you’ve been training her for years.”

“Since Hopkins.”

“She listens to you.”

You shrug, cautious. “We’ve built trust. I’ve been in her corner longer than most.”

Coach tilts his head, studying you. “You ever worked in a professional setting?”

“Not officially. Internships. Assistant roles. Mostly freelance analysis. Paige has been my primary focus.”

“I noticed.”

You’re silent.

Then he says it, casually—like it’s not a thing that could change your entire trajectory.

“I’ve got a spot open. Player development. One-on-one focus. I want you on staff—assigned directly to Paige.”

You freeze.

“Wait... what?”

He doesn’t waver. “You’ve clearly studied the game. You’ve got rapport. She trusts you more than anyone I’ve seen her with. I want that. I want you working with her officially. You’d be listed as player development assistant, but your job’s simple. Keep her sharp.”

“I—I’d need to talk to her about it.”

“You can. But it’s her job now. Not college. Not freelance. You’ll be part of the system. You in or not?”

You hesitate for the first time in a long time.

You’ve always been by Paige’s side. Always in the shadow just outside the spotlight. But this… this would put you inside the machine.

And that scares you.

But then Paige jogs over, towel around her shoulders, hair a mess, and eyes locked on you.

“You okay?” she asks, sensing the weight of the moment.

You look at her.

At the girl you trained through injuries, through heartbreak, through the hardest years of her life.

At the woman she’s become.

You smile softly.

“Coach wants to hire me,” you say.

Her brows lift. “For real?”

“To train you. Officially.”

There’s a pause.

Then her hand slides into yours, quiet but steady.

“What are you waiting for?”

You show up fifteen minutes early.

Even though you’ve walked through these gym doors a dozen times with Paige, everything feels different now. Your name’s on the clipboard. Your badge is clipped to your lanyard. You’re not just the person she looks for in the crowd.

You’re staff.

Official.

You nod to Coach Koclanes as you pass him in the hallway. He grunts a greeting, mid-conversation with another staffer, but you catch the way he gives a tiny approving nod in your direction.

Paige’s locker is already open when you make it to the court. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of it, re-lacing her sneakers like she didn’t lace and unlace them five minutes ago just to get it right.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks up and gives you the smallest smirk.

“You nervous?” she asks without looking up.

“Why would I be nervous?” you say, adjusting your tablet bag and trying to sound like your heart isn’t pacing like it’s game day.

“Because you look like you’re about to give a TED Talk instead of coaching me through curls and closeouts.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

“Y/N?” Coach Koclanes’ voice calls from across the court.

You walk over. “Yes, Coach.”

“You’ll be shadowing the guards today. Track foot placement and timing—specifically the pick-and-pop sequences. If Bueckers misses any lift opportunities, I want it noted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll run her one-on-one this afternoon. After team breakdown.”

“Understood.”

He claps your shoulder once, short and firm. “Welcome aboard.”

You nod. “Glad to be here.”

Practice unfolds like muscle memory.

You stay on the sidelines during group drills—eyes sharp, clipboard scribbling fast, quiet enough not to distract but focused enough to clock the split-second decision Paige makes before her assist in a half-court set.

Hesitation dribble sets defender. Delay creates opening. Reinforce timing.

During defensive rotations, she switches too late once.

You make a note.

She knows.

On the next possession, she’s early.

By a beat.

You smirk down at your page.

Water break.

Paige jogs past you, towel around her neck. She slows just enough to pass a quiet, “How am I doing, Coach?”

You don’t look up. “Foot’s still sliding out on the stagger screen. Don’t let your heel lead.”

“Got it.”

She grins and disappears into the huddle.

You keep writing.

The court’s cleared of team chaos. Most of the players have filtered out, heading to the weight room or showers. Coaches flutter around, chatting about the next game plan.

You wait with two fresh basketballs and a short list of drills. Paige walks back onto the court, damp hair tucked into a fresh headband, sweat already drying on her skin.

She nods at your clipboard. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad. But I’m not here to tell you what’s good.”

“Of course not.”

You toss her the ball. “We’re going to fix the angle on your split step first. You’re hesitating mid-transition when you don’t need to.”

She shifts into position. “I only trust you to tell me that.”

You smile quietly. “Lucky me.”

The next thirty minutes are the closest you’ve felt to home since stepping into this facility.

You aren’t just watching her. You’re correcting, measuring, coaching her through every breath and pivot.

Her shoulders relax under your voice.

Your fingers brush her knee to adjust her positioning—not intimate, but familiar.

You step in behind her on a jab series drill, guiding her hips gently with your hands to show where her weight should be. She exhales through her nose, eyes laser-focused on the floor.

When she nails it three reps later, she grins over her shoulder at you.

“I forgot how it feels when it clicks.”

You nod. “That’s why we’re here.”

Another assistant watching nearby chuckles. “She listens to you better than anyone.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

You’re gathering your clipboard and packing up your notes when Coach Koclanes walks over again. Paige’s eyes flick toward you once, but she heads toward the weight room with a soft brush of her fingers across your arm.

It’s subtle.

No one else would notice.

But you feel it.

Coach stops in front of you, arms crossed. “That was a clean session.”

“She’s responding well to structure,” you say.

“No. She’s responding to you,” he replies. “That’s why I pushed to get you on staff.”

You nod. “I appreciate that, sir.”

He watches Paige across the gym, already laughing with teammates in the weight room.

“You keep this up, you’re not just gonna be her trainer. You’ll be a real asset to this team.”

You look at him. “I want to help them all. But she’s the one I know best.”

He nods once. “Then don’t let her down.”

You tighten your grip on the clipboard. “Never have.”

That night, Paige sits beside you on your apartment balcony, toes tucked under her, hoodie zipped halfway, her knees brushing yours.

"You were so locked in today," she says.

"So were you."

She leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, resting her head on your arm. “You made today feel like home.”

You close your eyes for a second, listening to the hum of Dallas in the distance.

“You are home,” you whisper.

She doesn’t reply.

She just laces her fingers with yours and holds on.

You linger near the back wall, just behind the assistants’ bench setup as the players finish changing. Paige tapes her wrists in near silence, bouncing her knee the way she always does before big games. You know her tells like your own breath.

She looks up once and catches your eye.

You nod, once. A signal.

You're ready.

She blinks slowly and exhales. A signal back.

I know.

Paige Bueckers in crunch time is art. She’s calm chaos. She moves like music. The crowd chants her name before the buzzer even sounds.

You don’t celebrate yet. You just stand with the clipboard tucked to your chest, waiting for the team to return to the bench.

And then she jogs off the court, towel over her head, high-fiving teammates—and her eyes go straight to you.

No smile.

No show.

Just a look that says everything.

I needed you here.

You give a subtle nod, lips parting just slightly, and she closes her eyes for half a second like she’s sealing the moment.

There are reporters. There are lights. Paige answers questions about the debut, the crowd, the shots. One asks if she felt ready.

She pauses. “I was more than ready.”

“What helped you prepare the most for your first game?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Honestly? I’ve had someone in my corner for years. She’s always known what I need before I do.”

A subtle answer.

But you know who she means.

Another day, another practice and you and paige stay past practice to work on more one-on-one training.

She’s standing at the elbow, hands on her hips, jersey damp with sweat. You’re holding the ball. Clipboard tucked under your arm. Your eyes narrow as you step forward.

“Okay. Three reps. Elbow pivot into the dribble-drop. Inside foot. One step. Pull.”

Paige nods. You pass her the ball. She moves—sharp, clean, quick—but her foot lands too flat. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head. She stops, pivots back toward you.

“Too slow?”

“Too flat.”

“Again?”

You toss the ball again. She resets. This time, the movement slices. Sharp plant. Quick pop. Perfect arc. Net barely stirs. You smile, but you don’t say anything. She already knows.

DiJonai Carrington is leaning against the wall near the exit, pretending to be texting. She's not. She’s watching.

She nudges Arike Ogunbowale, who’s walking by.

“Tell me that’s not a couple.”

Arike squints. “You mean Bueckers and iPad Girl?”

“Y/N,” DiJonai corrects.

“Yeah, I mean… they’re always together. I thought she was just training her.”

“Sure,” DiJonai says. “But you ever watch them?”

They both look again.

You’re walking in a small circle as Paige mirrors your movements, copying your footwork in silence, like dancers in slow sync. She laughs at something you say. You roll your eyes but reach out to adjust her elbow softly.

Arike raises an eyebrow. “That’s not just training.”

“Nope.”

You’ve got the court from 7 to 8 a.m. before scheduled practice begins. Paige shows up five minutes early—iced coffee in one hand, her mouth already chewing a bite of banana.

You’re in joggers and a Wings tee, tablet resting on a folding chair, cones lined up like a blueprint for something more serious than just “a workout.”

“You’re in a mood,” Paige says, setting down her drink.

“You’re inconsistent on your left side release. We’re fixing it today.”

She groans. “That’s a lefty problem.”

“It’s a you problem.”

She steps into her shoes and points. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”

You walk through it together.

Left foot plant. Shoulder twist. Off-hand steady. Ball into motion.

You call out commands. She adjusts immediately.

Thirty minutes in, she’s drenched. You toss her a towel and a water bottle.

“Better,” you admit.

“I’m gonna crash before real practice even starts,” she huffs.

You smirk. “You’ll thank me mid-season.”

Paige grins. “I always do.”

“Is it true?” Maddy Siegrist asks during stretching.

“What?” Ty Harris replies.

“That Paige and Y/N have been together since college.”

Ty shrugs. “They’ve known each other forever.”

“I thought it was just a trainer thing,” Maddy mutters.

Ty grins. “Look again.”

Later, during team cooldown, Paige finishes her reps and jogs straight to you. Doesn’t even grab a towel first.

You hand her one anyway.

She dabs her face and says, “Can we run that pick split tomorrow? The one we talked about?”

You nod. “I’ll draw it up tonight.”

She nudges you lightly with her hip. “Add a note that says ‘tell her she’s brilliant’.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

The gym’s closed. The team had morning practice and mandatory lift. Most of the players have left for the day.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not technically. But Paige had asked. Just thirty minutes, she said. Just to walk through that new screen sequence you diagrammed.

So here you are.

You both are.

No cameras. No coaches. Just the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the sound of Paige’s soft exhale as she resets for the fifteenth time.

You're seated cross-legged on the court with your notes spread around you like a campfire circle. She’s walking herself through spacing patterns and foot placement, talking aloud so you can listen for her rhythm.

She misses a step. You catch it instantly.

“Too wide on your pivot,” you murmur.

She sighs. “I felt that.”

“You’re rushing the top foot.”

She stops. Tilts her head.

“You know what helps that?” she says.

You squint up at her. “What?”

She walks over slowly, takes your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. “You.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to demo it?”

“No,” she says, slipping her arms around your waist. “I want a break.”

You laugh quietly. “Oh, so now I’m a human timeout?”

“You’re my entire recovery system.”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your joggers. Her forehead presses to yours. Her body still humming from the workout, but her expression soft, flushed in a different way.

You lean in. Her lips brush yours once—slow, careful, reverent.

Then again—deeper this time, her hand rising to the back of your neck. She kisses you like you’re the rhythm she’s trying to memorize.

You sigh against her mouth.

“Oh my god—”

Both your heads whip toward the doorway.

Maddy is frozen, Gatorade bottle in one hand, gym bag slung over her shoulder, eyes wide.

You and Paige instantly take a step apart—hands dropping, space returning.

Too late.

“I didn’t see anything,” Maddy says, blinking. “Except I very much did.”

Paige groans quietly. “Madd…”

Maddy grins—messy, teasing, thrilled. “So… I was right.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late. They’re all going to scream.”

Paige groans louder, dragging a hand down her face. “God.”

Maddy holds up her free hand like a scout’s oath. “I’ll be cool. But like… this is kinda iconic.”

She starts to back out the door, already pulling out her phone.

“Mad—no texts!” Paige calls.

“I can’t hear you,” she says, vanishing around the corner.

Paige is curled up beside you on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, scrolling through the messages with an embarrassed smile.

“Maddy said she saw a spark fly across the court when we kissed,” she says.

“She’s being dramatic,” you mumble, stroking her leg.

“She also said we owe her wedding invites.”

You snort. “Tell her she’s not getting a plus one.”

Paige laughs softly, then sobers. “You okay with this?”

You glance down at her. “The team knowing?”

She nods.

You rest your hand over her heart. “Feels like they always did.”

She smiles again. Quieter. More secure.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think so too.”

The Wings take the game by six.

Paige finishes with 24 points and 9 assists, carving up the fourth quarter with her signature midrange feints and off-ball creativity. You watched it all from the second row behind the bench, scribbling down your notes in silence, even though you knew everything you needed to say could be told with just a look.

After the buzzer, she walks off the court with her arm draped over DiJonai’s shoulder—grinning, exhausted, and glowing in that way she only does when she’s earned it.

She doesn’t come straight to you like she normally would. She gives you a look—soft, quiet, later.

You nod. Clipboard tight in hand.

Because you both know what’s next.

She’s in front of the mic, jersey swapped for a Wings hoodie, hair damp, eyes focused. The media crowd is familiar now—reporters from local outlets, national sportswriters, and the occasional YouTube basketball guy with a small mic clipped to his collar.

She’s answered three questions already. All standard.

“What did you see on that final possession?” “How has your chemistry with Arike developed this early in the season?” “What’s been the biggest adjustment from college ball to the league?”

She’s smooth. Thoughtful. Never rehearsed, but always real.

And then it comes.

From a new face in the third row. Out-of-town badge. Small outlet, but a big voice.

“Paige—this one’s off-court. There’s been a lot of speculation online recently about your relationship with your player development assistant, Y/N L/N.”

You feel your stomach go tight, even from where you stand just off to the side.

“There are viral clips. Locker room comments. A lot of fans believe you two are more than just athlete and trainer. Do you have any response to that?”

The room doesn’t gasp—but it shifts. Everyone suddenly leans in.

And Paige?

She blinks. Once. Steadies herself. And answers.

Calm. Clear. Unapologetic.

“I think it’s interesting that when a male player trains with someone for years and builds trust with them, no one asks these questions.”

The room holds its breath.

“But when it’s two women, it’s suddenly public interest. People want a headline. A label. Something to screenshot.”

She pauses. Looks directly at the reporter. Not angry—just... resolute.

“Y/N has been by my side since I was fifteen. She's shaped how I play. How I think the game. Whether we’re running drills or sharing silence, she's never once wanted credit for what I’ve done.”

Paige turns her head slightly.

Just enough to catch you in her peripheral vision. She doesn’t smile. But her voice softens.

“So no, I don’t owe anyone a label. But I will say this. Whatever she is to me, it’s not just anything.”

Silence. Then cameras flash. Keys click. But no one says anything else.

You’re leaning against the cool concrete wall when she steps out.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks toward you, tugging her hoodie sleeves down like she’s trying to hide how tense her hands are.

You hand her a water bottle. “You handled that well.”

“I hated that,” she mutters.

You nod. “I know.”

She leans her shoulder into yours. “Was I too blunt?”

“No,” you say. “You were just... honest.”

Paige swallows, jaw tightening. “They’ll make it into something it’s not.”

“Let them try,” you say. “They still won’t know us.”

She looks at you now. Really looks.

“Do you wish I’d said more?”

You shake your head.

“You said exactly enough.”

Dallas Wings vs. Connecticut Sun

The crowd is loud before the game even starts.

It's not UConn-blue anymore — this arena bleeds orange tonight. Still, there are kids in Bueckers jerseys lining the front rows. Signs that say "Hopkins to Storrs to the League". A smattering of navy Wings hats in the crowd.

You keep your head down as you walk out of the tunnel with the coaching staff. No clipboard today — not your usual one. Today it’s a tablet. Branded Wings quarter-zip. You’re seated next to the coaches. Front row. You’re not just behind the bench anymore. You’re in it.

“It’s a full-circle night for Paige Bueckers — back in Connecticut, where she built her legend at UConn. But let’s talk about something fans might not know…”

“You mean Y/N L/N?”

“Exactly. She’s seated right there on the bench now. Officially added to the Wings’ player development staff this season, but unofficially, she's been Bueckers’ personal trainer and basketball mind since Hopkins High School.”

“I’ve seen it up close. She has one of the sharpest eyes for the game I’ve ever encountered. Doesn’t just do physical development — she reads the floor like a coach with fifteen years in.”

“And you’ll notice it tonight — every timeout, every free throw, every adjustment, Paige checks in with her. Watch for it.”

Timeout. Wings down by 5.

The team gathers. Coach Koclanes talks to the core five. But Paige doesn’t go to him first.

She walks straight to you.

“Every time I fight over the screen, they’re slipping the weak side,” she says, breath quick but eyes locked on yours.

You nod, tapping a graphic on your tablet. “They’re baiting you. Your stunt’s coming too early. Let them close the lane, then rotate.”

“Got it.”

“On offense, they’re loading strong side on you. Reverse it. Skip it before the trap comes.”

“Copy.”

She claps your shoulder once and jogs back to the huddle.

Behind you, one of the coaches mutters, “It’s scary how fast she processes.”

You smile. “She’s just wired that way.”

The arena quiets slightly as Connecticut sets up at the line.

You see Paige backpedal toward your end of the bench. The ref glances at her, but she makes it quick.

“They’re stacking corner help every time we swing,” she says.

You lean forward. “Because you’re not cutting sharp enough off the split. Give the help something to respect.”

She nods, jaw set. “Backdoor?”

You whisper, “Only if Arike clears. They’re watching her eyes.”

Paige jogs back on-court, whispering something to Arike as the free throw bounces off the rim.

The very next play — skip pass. Fake drive. Backdoor cut. Paige lays it in.

Your stylus marks the play with a bright green tag.

“And there it is. Every time she glances at the sideline, it’s Y/N she’s looking for.”

“And you know what’s incredible? They’re not even speaking full sentences anymore. It’s absolutely fluid. That’s chemistry you build over years.”

“There are players who have court vision, and then there are those with a court language. Bueckers and L/N speak their own.”

It’s close. Wings up by 2. Sun with the ball.

Timeout.

Everyone’s shouting. The crowd is on their feet.

But Paige walks directly to you.

“What do I do?” she asks, fast, fierce.

You point at the digital clipboard. “Let her take baseline. You don’t need the steal. You need the stop.”

She nods. “You sure?”

“Always.”

She gets the stop.

The Wings win.

And as the clock winds down and the buzzer sounds, Paige doesn’t jump. Doesn’t throw her arms up. Doesn’t scan the crowd.

She turns.

And she finds you.

She walks straight to you and pulls you in with one hand behind your neck, pressing her forehead against yours again—this time longer. This time with the world watching.

The locker room is buzzing with celebration.

Not wild. Not champagne-and-speakers. Just a grounded, satisfied kind of joy. The kind that comes when you win with poise. When strategy trumps talent. When Paige Bueckers gets the stop that seals the game in the city where she once built her name.

You’re standing off to the side, tablet in hand, quietly reviewing clips when you hear her voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. She’s fresh out of the postgame cooldown, hair tied back again, towel looped around her neck. Her cheeks are still pink from the adrenaline.

“That cut worked,” she says, low so only you hear.

You nod. “Knew it would.”

“I’ll say it in every language if I have to,” she adds, stepping a little closer. “But thank you.”

You smile, voice soft. “You already say it in mine.”

She holds your gaze like she wants to say something else—but then a media assistant calls out, “Bueckers — press in two!”

She winks once. “Meet you after.”

The postgame presser is at full capacity. More media than usual. Because this one? This wasn’t just a win. This was a return.

Paige walks in wearing her warm-up jacket zipped to her collarbone, no jewelry, no flash. Just locked in. She slides into the chair beside Coach Koclanes, a bottle of water in front of her.

First few questions are standard.

“What did it feel like playing back in Connecticut?” “Did you hear the crowd reaction when you checked in?” “What were you seeing on that final defensive play?” “How do you feel still being undefeated at Mohegan Sun?”

She answers each calmly. Firmly. Head high. Shoulders square.

From a reporter in the second row—

“Paige, we saw a lot of sideline communication between you and your player development assistant, Y/N L/N. This isn’t the first time, but it was definitely the most visible. Can you speak to that relationship and how it affects your in-game decisions?”

A pause. The room quiets. Coach shifts slightly in his seat but says nothing.

Paige exhales once through her nose — not annoyed. Just... thoughtful.

Then she looks directly at the reporter and begins.

“Y/N isn’t just a development assistant. She’s my basketball brain outside my body.”

A few eyebrows lift. Cameras click.

“She knows my tendencies, my triggers, my adjustments. We’ve worked together since high school. Every version of my game — from Minnesota to UConn to the league — she’s helped shape.”

Another pause. The air is listening harder now.

“So yeah, we talk every timeout. Every free throw. Every off-ball set. It’s not just strategy. It’s trust.”

Her voice softens slightly.

“I trust her eyes more than film. More than instinct. She sees the angles I don’t.”

Someone clears their throat. Another reporter chimes in.

“There’s been public speculation that your connection goes beyond coaching. Are you prepared to comment on that?”

Paige tilts her head just slightly — and then gives the smallest smile you’ve seen all day.

“I’m prepared to say that what we have is ours. And whatever anyone thinks they see... I hope they understand it’s built on years of work, not just a few looks during timeouts.”

She shrugs once.

“If it looks like more, maybe that’s because it is. But it’s not for you. It’s for us.”

Silence.

And then, one lone voice, “Well said.”

You’re waiting just past the press hallway, tablet shut down, credential badge dangling loosely from your neck. Paige rounds the corner still in her team gear, phone buzzing in her hand, mouth curled into a small, tired smile.

She walks up slowly, voice low.

“You hear that?”

You nod. “Every word.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head.

“It was perfect.”

She steps in, arms sliding around your waist, and rests her forehead lightly against yours — again, the way she always does when the world outside is loud and this little pocket of quiet is the only thing real.

You whisper, “They’ll keep asking.”

Paige whispers back, “Let ’em. We’ll keep answering our way.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige buckets #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #wnba x reader #dallas wings #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh

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astrolook · 3 months ago

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🔥 Synastry Myths That Need to Die (Or at Least Be Roasted) 🔥

Because people act like one Venus square Mars = toxic disaster, while a chart full of trines = fairy-tale romance (hint: neither is true). Let’s break down some biggest synastry myths and how to actually interpret them. 👀✨

🚫 MYTH #1: Squares and Oppositions in Synastry = Relationship Problems? Nah, That’s Just Spicy Drama. 🔥😈

🔥Reality: No, they keep it interesting. A little conflict is necessary to keep things engaging, otherwise, y’all will be bored to death in six months.

🔹 Sun square Moon – Keeps things dynamic—you challenge each other emotionally and grow in the process. Passionate debates turn into deep emotional bonding. It could feel like you live in two different emotional worlds sometimes. 🔹 Venus square Mars – Enemies to lovers. Like a slow-burn romance novel where neither of you admits your feelings until you’re in too deep. Fights can get heated and so as passion. 🔹 Mercury opposite Mercury – Mentally stimulates each other a lot. Never boring.

💡 A mix of soft and hard aspects is 🔑. Too much "ease" = stagnation. A little friction? Sexy and exciting.

🗣️Some of y’all are out here begging for a “perfect” relationship, but are you sure you want one that feels like watching paint dry?

🚫 MYTH #2: Too Many Conjunctions = Soulmate Energy! Nah, You're dating yourself!

🔥Reality: Or suffocating as hell. Y’all might as well be the same person, which sounds cute until it’s not.

🔹 Sun conjunct Sun – "Omg, we’re so alike!" Yeah, for now. But do you really want a partner that mirrors you 24/7? 🔹 Moon conjunct Moon – Emotional twins, but can become too comfortable. Who’s pushing who to grow? 🔹 Venus conjunct Venus – Great for shared aesthetic and love language, but too similar = potential complacency.

💡Some conjunctions? Great. But throw in a few oppositions (for balance) and squares (for energy), or you might end up dating yourself.

🗣️You ever had a bestie you LOVED but couldn’t be around too long because y’all were literally the same person? That’s what too many conjunctions feel like in a relationship.

🚫 MYTH #3: "Saturn in Synastry = Restrictive. No, It's Just A Commitment Test!

🔥Reality: Without Saturn, relationships fall apart. The real problem isn’t Saturn—it’s immaturity.

🔹 Saturn conjunct Moon – Can feel like parent/child dynamics, but if handled well? Deep emotional security. This is forever. 🔹 Saturn opposite Venus – Challenges in expressing affection, but also high commitment potential when worked through. 🔹 Saturn trine Mars – Passion with stability—this is the "we still find each other sexy at 80" type of aspect. Slow and steady passion.

💡 If you have Saturn in synastry, embrace the responsibility but set boundaries so it doesn’t feel suffocating.

🗣️Saturn isn’t the fun drunk at the party, it’s the sober friend keeping you from texting your ex. You need that sometimes.

🚫 MYTH #4: Venus-Mars = Everlasting Passion? More Like a Telenovela.

🔥Reality: Yes, it’s hot at first—but will you even like each other in five years?

🔹 Venus conjunct Mars – 🔥 Chemistry? Through the roof. Emotional compatibility? That depends. 🔹 Venus opposite Mars – Can flip between passionate and exhausting, depending on how you handle conflict. 🔹 Venus square Mars – The sexual tension is wild, sparks fly in all directions. It's an exciting aspect.

💡If you’ve got Venus-Mars magic, add some Moon, Mercury, or Saturn connections so it’s not just lust with an expiration date.

🗣️Chemistry can only carry a relationship so far—do y’all actually like each other outside the bedroom?

🚫 MYTH #5: Moon Sign Compatibility = Everything? Okay, But Can You Communicate?

🔥Reality: Yes, emotional compatibility is important. But have you tried... actually communicating?

🔹 Moon trine Mercury – Emotional understanding and easy conversations (a great underrated aspect). 🔹 Moon opposite Mars – One is moody, the other is impatient. Passionate emotions and spicy debates. 🔹 Moon conjunct Saturn – Deep emotional security, but can also feel heavy or restrictive.

💡Don’t just look at Moons—how do your Mercury, Venus, and Saturn interact? Emotional security is great, but if y’all can’t communicate, it’s pointless.

🗣️Just because you both like to cry during sad movies doesn’t mean you’re soulmates.

🚫 MYTH #6: Twin Flames Can Be Seen in Synastry!

🔥Reality: No. Astrology does not confirm Twin Flames. Stop it.

🔹 North Node conjunct personal planets – Yes, this feels fated, but not every karmic relationship is "meant to be." 🔹 Pluto aspects (especially Venus or Moon) – Yes, this is intense and life-changing—but it can also be obsessive and toxic. 🔹 Vertex aspects – Yes, these can feel destined, but that doesn’t mean it’s permanent.

💡If a relationship is healthy, growing, and balanced, that’s what matters more than any hyped-up label.

🗣️Just because someone feels "fated" doesn’t mean they’re your forever person. Sometimes, the lesson is letting go.

💖 Want to know what the stars say about your love life? 💖

Whether it’s soulmate potential, karmic lessons, or long-term compatibility, I dive deep into your unique synastry & composite charts and let's see what the cosmos has in store for you! 🌙💫💖

✨ DM me for a personalized love, marriage, or relationship compatibility reading! ✨ 💌 Check out my pinned post for pricing & details! 💌

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4mrplumi · 5 months ago

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(concept: redstart) batfamily x reforming criminal reader.

soft moments with redstart!reader / prequel post

> damian plays the role of being a little-brother guide, having being raised in a situation somewhat similar way as you. little moments like listening to him complain about something mundane as you’re both perched on a terrace during patrol, him trying to peel an orange and the two of you ultimately squashing it open, him doing his school homework while you watch, giving small bits of what you think.

> like this picture, but it’s reversed and the reader’s copying what he does in a way to humour him.

> reader who watches tim work on cases in their free time. asking very few questions that he’s pleased to answer, subconsciously slipping into a more articulated way of talking, using big words and metaphors to elaborate on even the simplest things. he’s very pleased to explain his work without a time constraint or worry about quality, and you’re more than happy to listen.

> i imagine they don’t really know how to communicate appreciation well in a “way that matters” since they were expected to automatically be grateful for everything in their previous family. so they learn from observing, watching people give each others gifts and presents. leaving little trinkets they find or make cleanly and neatly placed somewhere for them to find.

> is embarrassed by being recognised for it though. so the family just opts to keep it on them/use the gift in front of them so that they know they got it. reader’s happy, but keeps a straight face, voice softening in the middle of a conversation just a little when they notice.

> you’re close to cassandra too, sticking to her like glue. you both were heavily indoctrinated by your fathers that you couldn’t place the world over, healing slowly but surely. she most definitely helps you settle into your new life at the manor.

> small things, like recognising feelings you struggle to express, she notices, offering you a hand or leaning into your arm. you are neither willing to speak out what you feel, and she won’t insist. she knows, and you’re grateful that she does.

> dick grayson is a little overwhelming. it’s more of the fact that he reminds you of your other older brother than it is him offering warmth that you’re not used to. out of habit, you do try to coerce yourself into a complacent, comfortable-around-him sibling, but there’s always a little self doubt. he’s welcoming, but you subconsciously walk in eggshells around him.

> he does notice that you’re nervous around him, and brings it up one day when you, him and damian go to hang out. there’s a small conversation, and you allow yourself to open up just a bit about your struggles upon the reassuring nod damian gave you before leaving the two of you be. the pressure of being perfect, the expectations set on yourselves by yourselves, is something common between you two.

> it’s safe to say that you’re a little less weary around him after that exchange.

> now with bruce wayne things are a little tricky. he feels indebted to you for being somewhat responsible for the death of your father, something strictly against his code. you feel indebted to him the way you did for your father, for taking you in and providing you with the comfort of a home and a family.

> but on the big picture? your interactions with him are a bit difficult, awkward. ues you’ll spend time together, he’ll let you follow him on patrol, teach you about the life of a socialite too, but casual conversations are a bit stiff.

> he does try his hardest though, and you do too, to be family. the gift giving thing comes in here too. there’s not much bruce wayne can’t afford, but your small cards made with damian, origami made with cassandra and duke, and short letters describing your day written with alfred’s support warms his heart. the weight of guilt ebbs, just a little.

> if you happen to have a particular type of biscuit, or fruit juice, more often than the rest, expect bruce to remember to ask alfred to keep it in stock. seasonal fruits like guavas and oranges get imported year-round for you and the others, and that little, small extra care just makes you feel a little more appreciated. for doing nothing. your heart swells.

> solving puzzles with duke is a passtime training excersise you’ve taken up. it’s a replacement for the idle time you used to otherwise spend organising things for your father, but it’s comforting in a way other than being reassurance. whenever you get stuck on a particularly vexing crossword, he’s more than happy to sit with you and solve it. he helps you with the answer, instead of giving it, and it helps you understand that mistakes don’t undermine your efforts in anyway.

> “what matters is that you’re trying” is an oversaturated expression, but one you’ve seldom heard. and coming from him, the shared laughter and prideful “victories” from solving said puzzles, he shines an extra light through the dark window in your head that’s slowly opening up.

> jason todd is an enigma. you come across him in the manor library at dark, curious but not hostile about his looming shadow. you observe as he leaves, perceiving just a hint of hesitance from him as he climbs through the window.

> you did not much appreciate him the first time you met him, finding his opposition to bruce offensive, and your siblings slight awkward stiffness around him suspicious. you had considered him an enemy by their reactions at first, a familiar mixed rush of anxiety and impatience in your blood as you repositioned your leg carefully.

> but when he spoke, his voice wavered. just a little. and what took you up wasn’t suspicion, but familiarity. in his shadow, you saw your reflection. he was also your family.

> jason and your relationship is not much different from his with the rest. close, but only to an extent. but you understand him on a level that allows you to feel empathy for him, sadness that you couldn’t communicate it in the new ways that you learnt.

> so you slip into his dingy apartment while he’s somewhere on patrol, using your expertised ghost walking to enter without notice. you feel it’s wrong, and that there are better ways to be considerate, but you don’t care.

> alfred told you he liked to read, so you got him a book you had poured over and stuck into your heart forever. it was a little sentimental, stupid even, and you felt a bit embarrassed. he would be angry at you for entering like this, without asking, breaking in as an uninvited guest. so you reconsider your choices, and leave it in a bag outside his building, tied with a ziplock tie. you hope no one takes it.

> you’re not sure if jason ever got the book, not sure if he’d know if it was you or if he just ignored the packet and moved in. but the next time you see him out on patrol, he acknowledges you with a raised hand, before leaping away.

> it begins to feel like, your happiness is not deserved due to duty, but the consequence of your attempts at a new life. acknowledged, appreciated, noticed and even maybe loved. the moods you thought weak and unnecessary are the foundations of the stability you have found, the complications you faced with expressing them only obstacles in the face of support. sometimes you doubt their intentions are true, but even sitting among them whispers a little comfort.

> you deserve this. there is nothing you have done to not.

INTERACTIONS & Replies appreciated !!

next up: serious moments with redstart reader. the obstacles with a new life after such a violent upbringing, guilt and remorse, missing your old family, etcetera. im really just writing whatever, but do pls interact!! replies asks wtv,, it helps motivate and actually… want to write, since i kinda feel my itch to post on tumblr dying.. anyway,

thanks for reading!!

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cheeseboi420 · 3 months ago

Text

Of A Feather - Chapter 1

Preview: And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

It takes every bit of emotional regulation you can muster not to spiral into a full blown panic right then and there because good God, did He send a child to finish you off? The cruel irony is not lost on you. Come to think of it, this boy on your doorstep does bear an uncanny resemblance to-

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

You expect this evening to play out like the one before it. And the one before that. And the one before that. Your routine hasn't changed in the last 13 years. Why should it? It serves you well enough, keeps you alive and… Well that's about all it does for you. Not that you're looking for more! For the most part you are… content, maybe isn't the correct word. Complacent fits a little better, but still isn't wholly accurate. You're content in the knowledge that your boy is safe and loved, somewhere far away from the trouble that chases you. You're complacent in your own quiet misery. The longing and loneliness had been a bitter pill to swallow those first few years of running, but after this long you've learned not to complain. God knows no one would listen if you did.

You've got a shitty frozen pizza in the oven, this will be your dinner, tomorrow's breakfast, and tomorrow's dinner. You won't particularly enjoy any of the meals, but they'll sustain you well enough. These days food brings you little if any joy. Meal times are a chore to slog through before the distraction that work brings or the sweet embrace of sleep. You look forward to, more than anything, going to bed. Not because you're tired (though there is a bone deep weariness that permeates- that no amount of rest could ever fix) but because bed means sleep, and sleep means dreams, and dreams mean a chance to hold your baby again.

You don't dream of Jason every night, but every morning you wake thinking of him. Is he still asleep right now? Having breakfast? Is he eating well? Is he happy? Is he happy? Is he happy?

By the time you push your way through breakfast most mornings the cacophony of thoughts revolving around your son quiets to a dull roar in the back of your mind. It's better that way, you think. If you thought about him as much as your mind seemed to want you to, you'd never get anything done.

Life carries on, you suppose. However dreary and dull that life may be.

At one time you'd found the whole thing very exciting- though not in a particularly enjoyable way. The adrenaline rush has worn off over the years, no longer do you feel as though death is nipping at your heels. The paranoia never fades though. Even if your doom does not cast a shadow over you, you're always looking over your shoulder, always ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

You keep a bag packed and ready in the closet by the front door for when you have to leave this place too. Though, you think it's buried under a winter jacket and your work uniform. You really ought to dig it out, keep it easily accessible. You should do that but… it's been a long day. You want to eat your shitty pizza, lay down on your futon, and let the sound of TV static fill your studio apartment, lulling you to sleep.

You're getting too comfortable here, you think. You've lived in Michigan for nearly a year now. It is simultaneously entirely too close to and entirely too far from Gotham. The apartment itself was a godsend after spending most of your time sleeping in cars, tents, whatever unfortunate business was willing to employ you, anywhere you could, really- sure it has bugs, and the windows don't close all the way, and you're fairly certain it'll only take one more bad winter storm for the place to come crumbling down, but rent is dirt cheap, and the slumlord you rent from didn't ask for any ID when you signed your ‘lease.’ You're fairly certain that thing's not legally binding anyways- it was written on a cocktail napkin for Christ's sake. That didn't stop you from using a fake name when signing it. You can never be too careful.

You haven't seen your landlord since you moved in anyways. You don't ask for maintenance when things break, you fix them yourself or just learn to live with them broken. You deliver your rent by slipping a cash stuffed envelope with your name (your fake name, the one you signed your lease with, the one you use at work, the one you'd use at coffee shops if you ever went to any) on it through the slot in the office door. You do your best to be invisible. You don't cause problems, and you don't go out of your way to fix them for others. You make no friends or enemies. You've left no impact on the many places you've been, the cities you've drifted through.

The only evidence you've gone anywhere at all in your life is a stack of postcards, held together with a worn rubber band, sitting at the bottom of your go-bag. The only evidence of a life lived before that is in a similarly bound stack of polaroids, held together with a too-small paperclip. Every now and then you'll buy a bottle of cheap wine to chug as you pour over the old photographs. Only when you leave for a new city do you touch the stack of unsent postcards.

You can't bear to look at the photos too often, a painful reminder of your own failings. A reminder of the stupid, reckless little girl you'd been, and the shell of a woman you'd become in the aftermath.

It's all your own fault, really.

At least that's what you keep telling yourself.

It's easier to swallow than the alternative: that you were a vulnerable and unloved thing, eating from any hand that would feed you, until the hand that feeds decides to beat.

This, you think, is why you shouldn't think too hard about the past. It doesn't do you any good to dwell on it.

You force yourself to focus on the present, on the here and now. The scratchy polyester blend of the futon cushions, the scent of cheap cheese melting in the oven, the distant sound of sirens and howling wind outside your apartment. There's no sense in thinking about Gotham now, not when you're so far from it.

You sit up on the futon, no longer content to lounge and let your mind wander. Instead you task yourself with flipping through channels on TV, seeking something mind numbing enough to distract you from your unusually strong urge to reminisce.

The Wonder Years? No, you don't want to watch anything about a family.

Alf? No, that puppet creeps you out.

Cops? Fuck that.

You're about to resign yourself to another night of murmuring the (mostly incorrect) answers to Jeopardy questions at your TV, when you're startled by a knock at your door.

A… knock… at your door.

No one ever knocks on your door. You don't get mail, you don't have friends, if your landlord wanted something, you're willing to bet the greasy bastard wouldn't be willing to haul himself all the way up to the fifth floor at nearly 10 PM.

Oh God… Did… Did he find you? Is this it? Are you going to die in the upper peninsula of Michigan, of all fucking places?!

No, no. You have to stay calm. This could be anything. It's just a knock at the door. It could be anyone!

Oh lord, it could be anyone.

You keep the TV on, hoping that the sound of Alex Trebek grilling folks on useless trivia will cover your footsteps as you creep towards your front door. You hold your breath as you press yourself against it, double checking that all three of your locks are secure before you risk a glance out the peephole.

When you look out into the hall you're surprised, and frankly a bit confused by the sight before you. Standing at your door is a boy, dark haired and bright eyed. He stands straight but not particularly tall- he can't be more than five feet, if that. He's glancing around the hall, rocking back and forth on his heels. He's wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Despite his small stature he holds an air of determination that makes you think he must feel quite old for his age- you get that, you were the same way in your own youth. A chip too big for your shoulder.

You're so focused on studying him that it startles you when he leans forward to knock again. You jolt, accidentally kicking the door (with your bare feet too, damn does that hurt your poor toes) and responding to his knock-knock-knock with a solid knock of your own.

“Hello?” The boy calls. “Anybody home?”

“I don't have any money!” You call back, cursing yourself for the shake in your voice. You should not be this rattled by a random adolescent on your doorstep. “So, if you're selling popcorn, or cookies, or whatever, you should try next door.”

The boy rolls his eyes.

“I'm not a boy scout!” He says. “I'm looking for-”

And then the shoe drops; he says your name. Your full name. Not your fake name, that you use at work, and on envelopes, and in hypothetical coffee shops. Your real name.

“My name is Jason Todd,” the boy continues. “And uh… well, I might be your son?”

He could be lying, the logical part of your brain insists. This could be a ploy to get you to open the door, don't open the door! But your hands are moving on their own, shaky as they may be. The first lock twists unlocked with ease, the second takes a fair bit more of your fine motor function, and by the time your shaking hands reach up to unhook the chain on the door, you're struggling to see through unshed tears. You attempt once, twice, three fucking times to get your hands to cooperate and unlatch the damn chain.

Fuck it.

You open the door, yanking it inwards, towards yourself as hard as you can. It should probably unnerve you that the flimsy chain breaks at the first sign of real resistance, but that's not what's important right now.

What's important is the boy standing before you- your boy. Your Jason.

He looks as surprised as you feel, his eyes flitting between the broken chain, and you.

For a long moment the only thing you can do is look at him, reacquaint yourself with the sight of him. Of course, you know that he did not stay frozen in time, the way your memory of him did. It's been many years since you've held that babbling toddler. But knowing and seeing are two different things.

He's small for his age, is your first thought. Your own fault, you're certain. Between a premature delivery and your own malnourishment during both your pregnancy and his infancy, it's a miracle he'd survived in the first place. Small, but well fed. His cheeks are full and flushed, despite his size he seems healthy. Good. That means Will's been feeding him. Hopefully, it means they got the hell out of The Alley, into a nicer neighborhood.

His hair isn't as curly as you'd pictured it- too short in most places to hold a curl, save for his bangs, which seem to almost curl into the shape of a heart over his forehead.

“Jason?” You can barely manage to say his name through the lump in your throat. You find yourself suddenly struggling to focus your gaze on him, the haze of tears welling up in your eyes makes it difficult to see. You try to blink them away but instead they roll down your cheeks.

God, when's the last time you cried?

You reach out to him, cupping one of his cheeks in the palm of your shaking hand. He leans into the affectionate touch, and you're reminded of puppies, overeager and seeking love at every opportunity.

“Mom,” he says back to you, his tone just as reverent as your own. “Mom,” he says again, voice cracking. And then in unison, the both of you have pulled each other into a crushing hug. You can't tell if the sound you make is a sob or a laugh. You hold onto Jason like he'll vanish into the ether if you loosen your hold for even a second, one hand clutching at the back of his sweatshirt, the other at the back of his head, petting his hair as he buries his face in your neck.

Finally, at long last, your heart is home.

Tears roll freely down your cheeks and land in Jason's hair. You sniffle, extra hard to keep from getting snot on him too. It's one thing to cry on the poor boy, the last thing you want is to use him as a human tissue.

“My baby,” you sob, and your sons hold on you tightens. You think (hope, selfishly) that he has missed you as much as you've missed him.

He's crying too, you realize- not as hard as you are (which is a little embarrassing, get it together girl, you're the adult here) but with his face tucked into your neck you can feel every tear. When you begin to pull back he's quick to wipe the tears away, scrubbing at his flushed cheeks with the heel of his palm. You remove your hand from his hair to gently thumb away an errant tear, and he sniffles before giving you a wobbly smile.

“Hi,” you say softly, your hand lingering on his face. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, mom.” He parrots, closed-lip smile melting into the sweetest toothy grin you've ever seen. You try to sear the image of him into your memory, imprint this moment into the front of your mind. You're half convinced you'll wake up any moment, TV still playing Jeopardy, pizza burning in the oven.

“How did you- I mean, what are… I just-” you cut yourself off with a breathless laugh. “I don't even know where to start. How… How did you find me?” Why did you come? Do you have any idea how much danger you've put yourself in just by being here?

Jason pulls back from you fully, stepping back out into the hallway. The feeling of loss is immediate and gut wrenching. He's only a foot away from you and already you feel like you're losing him all over again. You're tempted to just pull him back in, to refuse to let go. But you refrain.

Jason reaches into his pocket and pulls out a postcard.

Oh shit.

“I went back to our old neighborhood,” Jason starts, and your stomach sinks. You hope to God he means the neighborhood you left him in and not the one you'd lived in together. You loathe to imagine him running into- no, you refuse to even entertain the idea. Clearly he meant Willis’ neighborhood and not your own. You don't know that he'd be here at all if he'd found the folks you ran with all those years ago. The same people you've spent the last decade running from.

“I got a bunch of old stuff- Mrs. Walker saved it all, and I found, well I found a lot of stuff, but y'know the important stuff was all-”

“Jason, honey, breathe.” He’s talking a mile a minute, where your brain seems to have stalled completely, his is working overtime. He pauses and takes a deep, purposeful breath. It's dramatic, childish almost, how his whole body tenses on the inhale and releases on the exhale. Tentatively, you reach out to take his wrist.

“Why don't you come sit down and we can… we can talk about everything, okay?” You keep your voice soft and low, as if trying to coax a frightened animal. You're afraid he might bolt at the first hint of danger. You wouldn't blame him in the slightest if he did.

Jason doesn't run nor does he shy away from the hold you have on his wrist. He allows you to lead him inside, setting his backpack on the floor next to the door.

Before you close it, you glance around the hall. No one is out there, no one has bore witness to your little reunion. You're not sure what you'd do if anyone had. You shut the door, locking your remaining two locks. You're aware of the concept of ‘mom strength,’ that adrenaline spike that mothers get when their children are in danger, that allows them the ability to do insane shit like lift up whole cars. You don't think snapping the chain off a cheap door lock is quite comparable, but shit. If that's what you can do just seeing him alive and well, you can't help wondering what you'd be capable of if he were in danger.

You know. You know full well what you're capable of doing when you think it will keep him safe. You know. You know. You know.

Jason's presence in your apartment makes you suddenly very aware of how… lacking your home is. Traveling often meant taking no more than what you could carry on your back. All of the furniture in your apartment is second-hand. The TV had been left behind by the previous tenant (whom you're fairly certain is still being billed for the cable- God knows you haven't been the one paying it), the futon and recliner picked up off street corners, the single TV tray you use as a dinner table and matching pair of folding chairs had been an impulse purchase at a thrift store when you first started working again.

You've passed through dozens of cities, only taking jobs that pay in cash. You'd never had a bank account, even before you started running. Too young and too female to open one on your own, and by the time you were old enough you couldn't get one anyway. Too traceable, too much risk attached to putting your name into the world like that. So you worked for cash, which meant your options were limited and often unpleasant. You've been a waitress, a hairdresser, a bartender (though you weren't exceptionally good at that- you learned the hard way that an aching heart and easy access to alcohol do not mix well), a housekeeper, and a- well, you won't list every occupation you've taken up. Some of them you'd really rather not recall.

The transient nature of your lifestyle makes it hard for you to see your living conditions for what they really are: fucking bad. You've got no decor, the whole apartment reeks of cigarettes and it's freezing cold to boot. You've got a space heater to remedy that last issue, but if you run it while the TV is on then you'll lose power in the whole unit and have to walk all five floors (your building has elevators, but they've been broken the entire time you've lived here. The slip on the doors that says ‘out of order - management’ is yellowed with age and tattered around the edges) just to get to the circuit breaker.

It's certainly not fit for hosting guests of any kind, let alone your long lost son.

“Sorry it's uh… like this,” you gesture broadly to the apartment. “I wasn't exactly expecting company.”

“‘S fine,” Jason says, leaning against your wall. You take care to study his expression as he looks around what you're sure must be the most depressing studio apartment this side of the Mississippi. To his credit (and your great relief) he genuinely doesn't seem perturbed by your place.

He's been with you in worse places, you think. Though you doubt he recalls even a moment of your time together. Less than two years you had him. Nowhere near enough time.

There's time now. He's here. He's here, he's here, he's here. The Greek chorus in your head continues to remind you. He's here, and he's real, and you still don't know what the hell he's here for. It can't be just for you, you'd left Willis with very strong instructions to not ever let Jason search for you. Though you suppose it probably would have helped drive home the message if you'd actually said it to him instead of leaving it in a letter, like a coward.

Coward is one of the words you associate most with yourself. Coward, idiot, whore, failed matriarch- that's what it'll say on your tombstone. You shake the thoughts from your head. Now is not the time to spiral into self loathing.

“Here, let's sit.” You guide him to your makeshift dinner table. At the time, you'd thought buying two folding chairs instead of one was a waste of money- who the hell were you expecting to have over? Now though, you're glad you did.

Jason's still got the postcard clutched in one hand. You can almost make out your own handwriting from this angle, but most of what you can see of it is just the scenic wintery landscape and the ‘Seasons Greetings From Michigan!’ printed in red cursive on the other side.

The postcards were, admittedly, an unwise decision. The one that Jason holds now was never supposed to reach him in the first place. It should be gathering dust in your bag with the rest of them. But you're as sentimental as you are stupid.

For the last 13 years, every city you've stopped in you've picked up a postcard. You've written the date and a note to Jason on it, filled out the addresses of Willis’ apartment, and (on the rare occasion when you've had a physical address of your own to write down) wherever it was that you were staying. Some part of you has to have anticipated this- that someday, somehow, one of these cards would find its way to its intended recipient. Maybe that's why you always wrote in the addresses, in spite of how completely and utterly stupid it was of you.

The both of you take your seats at the table.

“Can I…?” You point at the card in Jason's hand.

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, of course,” he hands the card to you. It's frayed in the corners, the edges of the cardstock now softer than the middle. Like he's been holding onto it constantly, like he's been running his fingers along the outline of it. Like he's been rereading it.

Dec. 25th, 1989

My sweet Jason,

I hope your having a good christmas. I hope you get a thousand presents and all the cookies you can eat (without getting sick!)

Im thinking of you, always.

I miss you more than words can say.

All of my love, all of the time

-Mom

Short and sweet, full of grammatical errors and hardly legible due to how absolutely shitfaced you were when writing it. You don't drink often, not anymore anyways. The first couple of years after you'd had to leave Jason were… tough, to say the least. You found yourself drawn to anything you could use to make yourself stop thinking about it, about him. These days you've learned how to just shut your brain off completely, how to operate on autopilot, how to not think about anything at all. You only drink on holidays now. And birthdays. Times when you can't help but think I should be with my baby. Thanksgiving, Christmas, your own birthday, mother's day, and especially Jason's birthday.

This was actually the second Michigan card you'd written him. The first one you'd written to him last May, when you first settled into the new state. That card is no doubt still buried in your bag with the others.

You had picked this card up on your way home from work, Christmas day. Why the pub you work in is open on Christmas is beyond you- the place had gotten maybe two patrons the entire day, and one of them was you. The bartender poured drinks for you your entire shift, topping you off every time your glass reached the halfway point. At the end of your shift he offered you a ride home, to which you declined. In retrospect you think he was coming onto you. Which would certainly explain why he's been so curt with you ever since. Oh well, it's no loss for you. In fact, maybe you ought to thank him.

Because if you had taken him up on his offer, you never would have stumbled home drunk, trudging your way through a foot of snow in your work uniform. You never would have stopped to rest at a closed news stand. Never would have picked up that stray postcard. Never would have taken the pen from your apron and scrawled out a quick message to your son, uninhibited and loving. Never would have drunkenly failed to slip it into your pocket as intended, instead letting it fall to the ground, where the next day some good Samaritan will slap a stamp on it and drop it in the post box. Never would have found yourself sitting across the table from your son.

You try to push down the lingering anxiety of it all, force yourself to feel hope. Maybe this can be good. Maybe no one will bother you two. Maybe you don't have to be afraid anymore. Maybe it's over.

“I'm sorry,” Jason is the one to break the silence. You set the card back down on the table.

“What for?” You've never done anything wrong, not once in your life, you think. What could you ever have to apologize for?

“I would have come sooner, but this went to our old place, and I don't live there anymore, so I didn't get it until a few days ago.” Jason gestures to the postcard. So they did make it out of the alley. Good. Your baby deserves to live someplace where people don't piss on your stoop every night and threaten you with violence every morning.

“Oh Jason,” you sigh. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I never expected you to come anyways.”

This is obviously not the correct thing to say, because he visibly deflates at your words. Your heart breaks a little bit- God, you're a terrible mother.

“Not that I'm not happy you're here now!” You correct yourself quickly. “I am happy, Jason. I'm so, so happy you're here.” You reach across the TV tray, palms up and open. Jason doesn't hesitate to place his hands in yours. They're calloused, which you didn't expect. It's not bothersome, you'd hold his hands even if they were too mangled to hold yours back. But it does make you wonder what he's done to make them like that. What kind of a life must he have led without you?

He smiles a little at that, soft and sweet and warmed by your affection. This is how he should always look, you think. Content and cared for.

“I'm a little concerned that you came all the way from Gotham by yourself though…” You say, squeezing his hands. You may have gotten up to some pretty crazy things at his age, but even you didn't start traveling cross country until you were nearly 22. At 15 your son shouldn't even be driving yet, let alone journeying from New Jersey to Michigan on his own.

“Aw, don't worry about that, ma!” Jason grins, looking awfully proud of himself. There's another expression you'd like to see on him more. And that word- ‘ma,’ he calls you. A much more casual title than you would have given yourself. Not that you’d expect him to call you ‘mother,’ or God forbid ‘ma’am’ like your mother had insisted you’d called her. No, you were prepared for ‘mom’, or maybe even just your name. You wouldn’t have been particularly pleased to have your only child call you by name, but you’d have understood if he felt more comfortable calling you that. There’s a certain familiarity in ‘ma,’ though. A kind of casual affection that you think would have taken years to develop, that in spite of your absence in his life, Jason gives freely.

“I'm your mother, it's my job to worry about you.” You say softly, and Jason's proud smile melts into something a little softer and more pensive.

“Going from Gotham to here was nothin'!” He insists. “I went to Lebanon first- here, hold on a sec.” He rises from his seat, pulling his hands from yours. Though you desperately want to keep your hold on him and shout ‘Lebanon?! By yourself?! You went to fucking Lebanon?!’ You refrain from that as well. He dashes to where he’s left his backpack at the door, picking it up and rushing back to his seat. He throws himself into the folding chair with such force that it rocks to the side, nearly tipping over with him in it. Without thinking you stick your leg out under the table, catching his chair and slamming your knee against the TV tray simultaneously.

“Sorry,” Jason says sheepishly.

“Don't worry about it birdie.”

The nickname makes Jason freeze in place, eyes wide and body tense.

“Birdie?” He asks.

“Sorry, it's- old habits die hard, y'know? That's what I called you when you were a baby.”

Jason's wide eyes relax a little, but his posture is still rigid.

“Why?”

“There was… you had this mobile, with doves on it. Until you were about a year old it was the only thing that would get you to sleep.” That and the sound of you singing, more often than not it had to be both. You force away the memory of that mobile, tangled and broken, lying in your bed many years ago. You force away the memory of how it was broken in the first place. It's not a night you'd like to recall.

This answer seems to placate Jason, but only momentarily.

“Wait, a year old? I thought… I mean, I figured you gave me up right away.”

And oh, oh, if that doesn’t break your heart, what will? It's by design that he doesn't know much about you- an intentional but unfortunate side effect of your leaving. It's safer for him this way. Or at least it was safer for him… or maybe it was never safe at all, considering he's found his way to you regardless of your attempts to shield him from the horrors you carry.

“You were about a year and nine months when I had to,” you pause to take a shuddering breath, lump in your throat threatening to choke the words right out of you. “When I had to leave you with Will.”

Neither of you says anything for a torturously long moment. You scrape at your cuticles, and Jason plays with a loose string on his sweatshirt. Jason looks like he wants to say something, his brow furrowed in concentration or perhaps concern- you struggle to read people sometimes. In the silence you recall an overlooked detail from earlier in the conversation.

“I'm sorry, just- just to circle back real quick, you went to Lebanon?”

“Oh, right!” The sullen expression leaves Jason's face, replaced instead by boyish pride. He reaches into his bag and digs around, procuring a few sheets of paper of varying sizes. The first one he presents to you is his birth certificate.

Your eyes follow the familiar text, the ink long dried though you could almost swear you've still got smudges of it on the side of your hand. It feels so terribly long ago and so recent at the same time.

Your eyes follow his name, written in sloppy print, Jason Peter Todd.

Along the line for the father’s name is your handwriting, spelling out in all lowercase letters ‘willis todd.’ You had been a little delirious still when they’d asked you to sign the certificate- frankly it’s a miracle you managed to even spell the names right- Jason’s, Willis’, and your own. The box for the mother's name however is almost entirely whited out, save for a single letter. That was not your doing.

“I went back to the old place,” Jason says, picking up his story from where he'd left off in the hall. “Mrs. Walker, I dunno if you knew her,” (you didn't) “but she was our neighbor. She saved a bunch of our old stuff for me after I left, including this.” He taps on the certificate.

“Which is how I found out that mom- my… my other mom wasn't my real mom.”

The thought of Jason calling another woman mom makes you sick to your stomach. But you suppose you forfeited the right to be his only mother when you left. That must be why he’d defaulted to ‘ma’ after your initial embrace- to distinguish you from the mother who raised him. The mother whom you are certainly not jealous of, no, not one bit. A blatant lie, you must admit to yourself. You are terribly jealous of the woman who got to watch your son grow up. You’re sure she’s lovely, and you’re infinitely grateful to her for watching over your boy, for loving him as if he were her own child, but you kind of hate her.

“So I looked in dads address book to try and match up the names in there to the letter on my birth certificate!” He presents you with the other two slips of paper, no doubt torn straight from Will's address book. Sharmin Rosen and Sandra Woosan. You don't recognize either name, but that doesn't surprise you. For all his faults, you've always known Willis to be popular, and awfully charming when he wants to be.

You examine both slips of paper, not sure what you hope to achieve by reading the names and addresses of these unfamiliar women.

“I didn't find the postcard until I was on the plane back to Gotham. Kinda jumped the gun on that one.” He says, a little sheepishly.

“You went all the way to Lebanon just to look for me…” You whisper, reverently. God, what an incredible kid. He's brilliant. You never would have thought to match the names in Will's address book to the singular uncovered letter on his birth certificate, had you been in his place. He's a clever kid- he gets it from you, you’re certain. And boy oh boy, isn’t that quite the thought? In your youth you had an ego the size of Texas, though a series of failures and hardships had tamed it somewhat, it appears as though some of that confidence remained, lying dormant, waiting to be impressed upon your greatest creation to date.

“And, Will was just fine with this?” You ask, suddenly realizing what Jason's solo presence means. “He just let you go to fucking Lebanon by yourself?”

Jason's proud expression fades fast and your stomach sinks.

“Dad's not…” he clenches and unclenches his fist, the loose thread he'd been twirling between his fingers snaps. “Dad is dead.”

“Oh,” is all you can think to say. Because really, what else is there to be said? You were never in love with Willis Todd- you liked him plenty, thought he was funny, and charming, and handsome in his own way. But you were not in love with him, and your mourning of him extends only so far as to mourn the loss of something that means a great deal to someone you love.

Despite a lack of love for Will, you do hold a deep affection for the man. After all, he gave you a son and a handful of very memorable evenings. When your eyes begin to water, you think you’re sad more for Jason than for yourself. To lose a lover is one thing, to lose a father is another beast entirely.

“I'm sorry, ma,” Jason says, and this time he's the one reaching across the tray to hold your hands, to comfort you.

“I told you earlier, you have nothing to apologize for, baby.” You say. With his hands in yours you can't wipe away your tears. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Jason sniffles and shrugs, trying very hard to seem unaffected.

“It was a while ago,” he tells you.

“How long ago is ‘a while ago?’” You ask. You wonder who has taken care of him in Willis’ absence. Though you have no doubt your boy could hold his own, you certainly hope he hasn’t had to. You hope he’s always had a warm bed to crawl into at the end of the day. A hot meal waiting for him, prepared by loving hands.

“Dunno when exactly but, I only found out he was dead a couple years ago.” Jason answers. “I thought he was just in jail but…” His face hardens, turns serious in a way that makes him look much older and (though it shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does) quite a bit like his father.

“Two-Face killed him.” Jason says, his hands tightening around yours.

Christ almighty, what is wrong with you two?! Poor Jason, never stood a chance, both his parents victims of Gotham’s famed rogues. You force those thoughts out of your head, push them deep, deep, deep down. You’ll have to tell him eventually, you owe him the full truth of his childhood. But for the moment, you don’t think he needs honesty, he needs empathy.

“Oh, birdie, I’m so sorry.” You squeeze his hands, which are still holding yours perhaps a little too tightly for comfort. You make no mention of your discomfort to Jason though- if he needs to have a vice grip on your hands to feel better then you’ll let him crush every bone in them. Not that you think he would- he’s a good kid, you’re certain of it.

“Can I ask…” you start and then hesitate, thinking for a moment that maybe it’s a little callous to interrogate him on the matter only moments after he revealed to you that his father had died. You soldier on anyway. “Who’s been taking care of you, honey?”

Finally Jason’s grip on your hands loosens, until he’s pulling his hands away entirely to return to playing with the loose thread on his sleeve.

“It was just me and mom- my… my stepmom,” he hesitates on the word, as if he’s not sure he said it right. Really, he’s just unused to referring to her as such. It makes sense of course, that he’d assumed the woman who raised him to be his true mother- no one had ever suggested anything to the contrary. “For a while there. But she got sick and…” He sniffles hard- he does that when he’s trying not to cry, you note. “She’s gone too.”

You presume by ‘gone’ he means deceased as well, not well, performing the same disappearing act you had.

“And now…? Oh, God, have you been all on your own?” It makes you absolutely nauseated to think of him alone, frightened and cold in the cruel streets of Gotham. If that were the case you’d never forgive yourself for abandoning him. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? An abandonment. You can dress it up however you like, insist to yourself that he was better off far, far away from you but… In comes the nagging thought that you fucked up. You made the wrong choice and your son has suffered for it. The only person on this earth that you care about has suffered for the choices you made.

“Not anymore!” Jason exclaims, some of his enthusiasm returning to him. You’re grateful for it, and you think he is too- relieved to find a small reprieve from the heavy conversation. Though you note that ‘not anymore’ is technically an answer in the affirmative. He had at some point or another, for a duration of time he didn’t seem too keen on sharing, been left entirely to his own devices. Your stomach turns.

“Bet you’ll never guess who adopted me,” he says, regaining some of the youthful energy that he’d displayed upon first arrival.

“I bet I won’t,” you confirm. “I’m no good at guessing games.”

He leans forward over the makeshift table, head swiveling as if checking to ensure that no one else is in your apartment. It’s supposed to be a playful motion, a commitment to the bit that normally you would find quite endearing, but you’re paranoid. His joking reminds you that there are in fact, people or a singular person, commanding those beneath him who would like to see you dead, or worse. You’re so distracted by the sudden onset of anxiety that you almost miss when Jason tells you who his mysterious benefactor is.

“Bruce Wayne,” Jason whispers conspiratorially, as if it were some grand secret.

“Bruce Wayne?!” Jason was correct, you would not have guessed that. “No shit?”

“No shit,” he confirms, satisfied by your surprise.

“That’s gotta be one Hell of a story,” you are honestly a little thrown by the revelation. You kept up as well as you could with the goings on of Gotham, though admittedly you paid much less attention to the kinds of gossip columns that Bruce Wayne was a frequent feature in. Your focus was much more… villainous, in nature. Waiting and watching and hoping and praying for when He gets put away for good. Not just stuffed into Arkham for a brief stay before the inevitable breakouts that plague the storied institution, but well and truly gone. Then and only then would it have been safe to return to your hometown, and to the baby you’d left behind in it. Not that he’s much of a baby anymore.

“It’s kind of a long one,” Jason warns.

“I’ve got time,” you reply.

“Actually, could I ask you some stuff first?” It’s a blatant redirect, but you won’t press him. Not yet anyway, you’ll get that particular story out of him sooner or later. But you’ve never had the heart to deny him anything, and as you thought earlier, he deserves honesty.

“I’m an open book, hon,” you tell him, though it comes out sounding unconfident. You hope he doesn’t pick up on it, but if he’s half as perceptive as he is clever, you’re certain he does. Regardless, he doesn’t call you on your bluff, opting instead to begin asking his own questions.

“Why Michigan?” It surprises you that that’s the first question he asks, and not ‘why did you abandon me?’ God knows that’s what you would have asked, and in much less kind words.

“Why not?” Is your answer. “I’ve actually only been here for, hm, I think it’ll be a year next month. I ah, I’ve traveled a lot since…” You trail off and let him assume the rest.

“Where else?”

“Oh, lots of places- I never stay anywhere for very long. I’ve been all over the place.Chicago for a few weeks, Austin for a month or two, a very poorly timed trip to Metropolis kind of turned me off to big cities for a while. Until now I never stayed anywhere for more than a couple months.”

You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he begins to piece together an idea of the life you’ve led in his absence.

“Why stop here?” He asks.

“I guess I just… got tired of running.” You answer honestly. You’re not as young as you used to be, and living by your charms is less and less viable every day.

“What are you running from, ma?” To his credit, he seems to have put together the pieces quite quickly. Rapidly coming to the understanding that you aren’t traveling just for the fun of it, but that you are traveling to escape. He’s a smart kid, brilliant even. You couldn’t be prouder.

Unfortunately, his cleverness is to your detriment. You’d hoped not to reveal this aspect of your history (your shared history) for a little while longer- long enough to establish a rapport with him. Long enough that he won’t immediately turn his nose up at you in disgust when he sees your true nature.

“I've done a lot of stuff I regret, Jason.” You say softly, instead of offering a real explanation. Just a moment longer, you think. Please let me keep this from him, let him continue to love me for just one more moment. You see the unasked question written all over his face.

‘Am I something you regret?’

“But please, please know that I wanted you. From the second I knew you existed I wanted nothing more than to be your mom, okay?”

“Why'd you leave?” Jason finally asks, his voice just above a whisper, and your heart seizes in your chest. He sounds so sad. You're a monster, a terrible mother, and a despicable human being.

“Oh, Jason…” That lump in your throat hasn't gotten any smaller. Your eyes sting with unshed tears. You want to hold him, but honestly you don't think you have the right.

“I didn't- I was just trying to- fuck, I'm sorry.” You sniffle, struggling to find the words.

For a second Jason looks like he's going to say something, and your stomach twists in knots as you try to predict what exactly is going to come out of his mouth. I hate you? You're a terrible mom? I wish I'd stayed in Gotham? All strong contenders, all things you wouldn't blame him in the slightest for feeling.

Instead, he pauses, face twisting up in confusion before he sniffs the air.

“Is something burning?”

It's only after he mentions it that you too begin to smell the smoke.

“Son of a bitch, my pizza!” You scramble from your seat, releasing Jason's hands to go open the oven. Jason follows you up, hovering only two steps behind you the whole time.

As soon as you open the oven a cloud of thick black smoke wafts into your face, making you cough.

“Shit, shit, shit, motherfucker!” You curse. And of course, to make an already wretched situation worse, your fire alarm begins to blare. Almost instantaneously one of your neighbors begins to pound on the wall, calling out a muffled ‘shut the fuck up!’

“Open the window for me, please!” You call to Jason as you rush to drag a folding chair up to the wall so you can reach the fire alarm. Jason does as he's told, quickly unlatching and opening the kitchen window, cool spring air rushing in. He even goes the extra mile and grabs the cardboard pizza box off the counter to fan the smoke outside. For some reason that makes your heart ache.

He's a good kid, you think. In spite of everything, he's a good kid.

You clamber up onto the chair and shut off the alarm, quickly hopping down to grab your singular oven mitt and precariously pull your burnt pizza from the oven. You plop it right down on the counter, uncaring of any mess or burns on the vinyl that you might be leaving. You slam the oven door shut, and finally the billowing smoke seems to dissipate. Jason's fanning slows to a stop and you reach around him to close the window.

What should have been your dinner is now a pitch black disk of inedible garbage.

For a minute you just stand there, with your hands clutching the window sill, adrenaline still flowing through you. You're shaking again- or maybe you never stopped. You try to steady your breathing, repeating to yourself over and over again don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Beside you, Jason gingerly sets the cardboard box back on the counter.

“You okay, ma?” He asks softly, and the dam bursts.

You let out a sob, pitching forward against the counter before sliding down to your knees, collapsing to the floor. Jason follows you down, kneeling next to you.

“It's okay! It's just a pizza! We can- I could get you another one!” He attempts to soothe you, but you can hear a nervous edge to his voice. You'd be nervous too if your mom started wailing over burnt pepperonis. But it's not about the food, not really.

“I'm sorry!” You sob, burying your face in your hands. It's humiliating enough for him to hear you cry, you don’t want him to see it too.

“It's fine, really mom, I wasn't even hungry, I ate on the way here,” Jason insists, and his hands find your wrists to gently pry them away from your face. You don't want him to see you like this, but you don't have the heart to deny him anything.

“I don't mean about the pizza, Jason!” You cry. “I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I left, I never wanted to leave you birdie, please believe me!” It takes all of your strength to lift your head and meet his gaze. “I'm sorry for everything. I'm so, so sorry. I'm an awful mother, please forgive-” you're cut off by Jason pulling you into another crushing hug.

This isn't fair, you think. He shouldn't be the one comforting you. But you just can't seem to push him away, instead clinging to him with renewed vigor and sobbing apologies into his shoulder.

You’re pathetic, weeping like a child, in front of your actual child. Have some dignity, woman. Your internal dialogue has taken a particularly cruel tone. Your mind does this sometimes- turns on you in the worst way. It didn’t used to do that. Once upon a time you’d been so certain of yourself, so confident in every action you took that even your enemies struggled to doubt you. But now, after many years of continued misery, spurned by His interference in your life and your mind, you’re reduced to a sniveling self conscious mess of a woman with nothing to her name.

After a long moment you manage to sort of collect yourself, at least enough to stop blubbering and making a fool of yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat for at least the tenth time. “I shouldn’t have- I’m just- I’m sorry, Jason.”

You pull away from him and he lets you, releasing you from his grasp. But his hands hover next to your arms, as if he’s waiting to catch you again.

“It’s okay, ma.” He says, though you know he doesn’t understand what you’re apologizing for, not really.

“It’s not,” you tell him. “But thank you. I’m… I’m sorry you had to see me like that. It’s just been…”

“A long day?” Jason finishes for you, and you can’t help the manic little laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Try a long life.” You say, and though your smile is rueful and bitter, all that seems to matter to Jason is that he’s gotten you smiling again. Which in turn makes him smile too, and really that’s the perfect balm to all your aching wounds. You’d do anything to keep that smile on his face, anything at all. “But yes, a long day too. What time is it?”

Jason pulls up his sleeve to check his watch- it’s a nice one, one of the fancy digital ones. A gift from Bruce Wayne, if you had to guess. That still perplexes you a little bit, but you’re in no state to be asking anything more of Jason, certainly not the emotional labor required to continue that particular conversation.

“Half past midnight,” Jason answers.

“Shit, it’s past my bedtime,” you mumble, realizing suddenly how utterly exhausted you are. You worked a double today, that alone is enough to tire you out. Combined with the whirlwind of emotions that the last hour has brought you, you’re absolutely drained. Slowly, you rise once more, joints cracking as you do. Damn, getting old sucks. Jason springs to his feet in less than half the time it took for you to stand up.

“What do you say we put a pin in this and continue in the morning, yeah?” You ask, though it’s really more of a plea than a suggestion. “I think this will be a much more productive conversation when we’ve had a full eight hours.”

Jason nods, though you can see it on his face that he’s disappointed.

You’ll tell him everything tomorrow, you swear you will. You owe him that much.

You shuffle your way back into the living room (which is also your bedroom, because you live in the world's grimiest studio apartment), and get to work fully laying the futon down. Rarely do you ever bother to do so for yourself, but you’re not about to make a growing boy scrunch up on a couch to sleep. Jason may be small for his age but he’s not that small, it would still be an awfully cramped place for him to sleep.

You’ve only got the one blanket, currently thrown over the back of your ratty old recliner, a ‘gift’ from the previous tenant. You unfold it and lay it down on the futon. You have no pillow for him, but you think he’ll manage. Just for good measure, you turn the TV off and turn your space heater on, aiming it at the futon.

“Do you need to borrow pajamas, or did you bring your own?” You ask, turning back to Jason who has been quietly observing as you prepare his bed.

“I can sleep in this!” He says. That simply won’t do- you know from experience that sleeping in jeans is uncomfortable. You put your hands on your hips, doing your best to appear stern but not angry- motherly instead of… whatever it is that you really are.

“That’s not what I asked. Do you need pajamas, or did you bring your own?” You repeat, and bite back a laugh when Jason huffs indignantly. It’s cute that he thinks he can get away with avoiding your doting! You’ve missed out on so much, now that he’s here you are going to mother the crap out of this kid.

“Ma, it’s fine, really, don’t worry about it.”

“Y’know, I hate to pull this card, but I didn’t spend nineteen hours giving birth to you just to be told not to worry about you.” You say. “Now, I’m gonna ask one more time, do you need pajamas, or did you bring your own?”

“I didn’t bring any,” Jason replies, crossing his arms across his chest. Though his brow furrows like he’s annoyed, you can see how he’s fighting against a smile. You suspect that secretly, he’s going to enjoy being loved as much as you are going to enjoy loving him.

“Thank you,” you say, turning to go dig through your closet and your sparse collection of clothing. You don’t have much to wear, even less that will fit him, but eventually you settle on a pair of well worn sweatpants and your only surviving possession from before Jason’s birth: a ratty old GSU t-shirt. You fold them, stack them one on top of the other, and hand them off to Jason. “Bathroom’s right there. Did you bring a toothbrush, or do you-”

“Ma, please,” Jason cuts you off, putting on a show of being much more exasperated than he really is.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I swear. Go get dressed.” You ruffle his hair as he passes by you, mussing up the loose curls.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, you’re digging through your purse for a cigarette. A bad habit, you know, but one that you’ve never quite been able to kick. You open up the living room window, grabbing your lighter from where you keep it on the kitchen counter. You do your best to smoke fast, you want to finish it before Jason returns. You’re a bad enough influence on him already without the added issue of secondhand smoke. Unfortunately for you, Jason is quick and you’ve only smoked half your cig by the time he’s exiting the bathroom, holding the hem of your t-shirt, examining the faded lettering.

“You went to GSU?” He asks, not looking up. You take a final quick drag, before stubbing the cigarette out on the window sill. You’re definitely not getting your meager security deposit back.

“Mhm,” you hum, exhaling through your nose. The smoke burns your nasal cavity, stinging even as you inhale fresh air.

“What did you study?”

“I majored in mechanical engineering and minored in biochemical engineering. Never finished my degree though,” you shut the window. Your college days aren’t something you think of often anymore. God, you’d had so much potential. You still had that potential, even after getting pregnant and dropping out. Even as a struggling single mother you know you’d been brilliant. It’s what you did with that brilliance that really fucked you over.

“Why not?”

“I got pregnant,” that’s the simple answer. Though, now that you’ve said it, it sort of sounds like you’re blaming him for your own failure to thrive. You’re quick to amend your statement. “I don’t like to half-ass things, especially not important things. I wanted to be able to focus on you.”

“You wanted to whole-ass it,” Jason nods sagely. You snort.

“Yes, exactly. I wanted to whole-ass motherhood.” You chuckle and look out the window at the quiet street below. “I did a pretty piss poor job though. Put my whole ass into it and still couldn’t see it through.” A street light flickers down below. You can see Jason’s reflection in the glass, the details of him warped and blurred by your view of the road down below- not willing to turn around and face him directly. You don’t want to subject him to your shame, your regret. He will see it eventually, most likely sooner rather than later. You steel yourself, school your expression, and turn.

“Time for bed now.” You say, and cross the room to put the recliner in position for you to sleep in. You’ll have no pillow or blanket, and the heater will be hitting Jason more than you, but it’s fine, you’ll manage, you’ve slept in much worse conditions. With the sleeping arrangements all settled, you turn back to Jason.

“All yours hon,” you nod in the direction of your rickety futon. Jason nods and rubs his eyes. Poor thing, he must be exhausted too. You can only imagine the kind of whirlwind day (week, month, year, life) he’s had. As he slips into bed you’re tempted to tuck him in, kiss his forehead, hell, you’d read him a story or sing him to sleep if he wanted you to. But no, you push this motherly instinct deep down inside of yourself. Jason’s 15, you doubt he wants to be treated like a child. But still, as you watch him relax, settling into your bed, your home, your life, you can’t help but to-

“I love you,” it comes out in a harsh whisper, your voice threatening to break. Your eyes are suddenly misty with tears that you swear weren’t there a second ago. You sniffle hard and blink them back. Despite visibly fighting sleep just moments before, now Jason is looking up at you with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to say it back,” you tell him. “I just needed to say it.”

You can’t bear to face him for his reply (or lack thereof) so you turn away from him to shut off the lamp, bathing you both in darkness.

“I’m gonna-” you pause to clear your throat of any lingering emotion. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth. Goodnight, birdie.”

And just before the bathroom door shuts behind you, you think you hear, “goodnight, ma.”

The second you feel the latch click, you’re turning the tap on to full blast.You sink down to the floor, bury your face in your hands, and do your very best to cry quietly. Hopefully the running water will muffle the sounds of your sobbing. The last thing you want is for Jason to hear you having a meltdown again. Once was one time too many.

Tomorrow you will do better. Tomorrow you and Jason will sit down and have a real conversation. Tomorrow you will tell him the truth.

AN: well howdy strangers!! it took me entirely too long to finish chapter one, and even longer to actually post it on Tumblr proper. For those of y'all who have been tagged this is just chapter one again but posted directly to Tumblr instead of being linked to ao3! Chapter two hopefully won't take as long but don't hold your breath lol. I plan on posting a preview of it in the next week or two! Anyways, thanks so much for reading! Taglist:@leirobles @qardasngan @amphiroxx

#of a feather #jaybin #jason todd #jason todd x reader #Jason Todd & reader #batfam #batmom

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bullet-prooflove · 11 days ago

Text

The Problem With Winning The War: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: The problem with winning the war is that you don't expect the second attack.

Companion piece to:

Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he's with someone else.

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.

Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend's stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.

Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.

Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.

Diamonds - John's friend and rival makes you an offer you can't refuse.

The Stethoscope - John's world is turned upside down when he finds your stethoscope in his locker.

Elderberry Wine - You come home to find John waiting for you.

Sex, Lies and Cocaine Dreams - John takes his revenge on the man that shattered your dreams.

By The Grace of God - An unexpected ally goes to bat for you during your beard hearing.

Choices - You and John discuss your options moving forward.

The Sexual Revolution (NSFW) - You decide to give John a private show before the event.

A Love Story - Your performance sparks an unexpected conversation with Gamma.

The problem with winning the war is that you don’t see the next attack coming. You become complacent, enjoying the spoils of your conquest. You’re not looking for the literal knife in your back, not until it strikes.

That’s what happens to John in the parking lot of his apartment building. He’s just dropped you off at the door because it’s beginning to rain, watched you run up the steps to safety with that glittering tuxedo jacket over your head to fend off the weather before heading into the lot.

It’s as he’s locking up the Jeep that he feels the blade sink into his skin, that sharp burst of agony sends shockwaves through his nerve endings as warmth blossoms across the back of his shirt. Blood, he realises as he tastes the copper tang in the air. His blood. The knife plunges in again, twisting this time and his knees buckle at the white hot pain that sears through him.

The earth rushes up to greet him as he falls forward into the tarmac. He tries to brace himself, his keys digging into his palm as he ends up on all fours, trying to suck in a breath. It comes out in a wet rasp and that’s when he knows how bad it is, that his lungs are starting to soak up the blood that’s ebbing into his abdomen.

The rain pelts down on his back, a relentless and harsh pounding as fingers slide through his damp hair, gripping it tightly, yanking his head back so hard he hisses in pain.

A familiar face appears in his mottled vision.

Ryan Burkefield II.

Burkey.

The knife in his hand glints wickedly in the light from the streetlamp overhead, the only one illuminating the parking lot.

In that moment John is thankful for two things. The fact he made you get out of the car to avoid the rain, and the knowledge that you’re locked safely in his apartment.

“Is she up there waiting for you?” Burkey asks him, his voice raw as he crouches down, picking up John’s keys. “Is she up there right now, undressing for you, hoping that you’ll make love to her into the early hours of the morning?”

John grits his teeth, trying to wrench himself away but his limbs they’re starting to tingle, another sign that he is losing far too much blood. Buckey’s grasp on his hair is the only thing keeping him upright, holding him steady.

“I’m going to leave you here to bleed out.” Burkey tells him, shoving him forward. His head bounces off the tarmac, the crack echoing underneath the sound of the rain as black tinges at the edges of his sight. “I want your last thoughts to be of me fucking your woman before I slit her throat in your bed.”

He kicks him in the face then and John feels his nose break under the force of the impact, fresh agony ripping through his features. His eyes sting and his breathing comes in short, ragged pants as he watches those boots walk way, toward you, the love of his life.

He tries to crawl, to raise the alarm, but the rain makes his clothes heavy and his body refuses to coordinate with him. He makes it a few inches before collapsing from exhaustion, his blood intermingling with the puddles that are starting to form underneath him.

“I’m sorry Crys.” He whispers, tears rolling down his cheeks as the darkness rolls in like storm clouds, death's icy fingers caressing his spine. “I’m so damn sorry.”

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#john carter #john carter x reader #john carter er #john truman carter iii #er nbc #er 1994 #nbc er

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prettydaisygirl · 1 month ago

Note

i am on my hands and knees when i ask u for rafe!zombie au where they(rafe) finally admits how much he loves her after another close call with a zombie or person/group

Nonnie, I am on my hands and knees thanking you for this request! I had some ideas floating around but nothing solid and this is exactly what I needed! I love you, I hope you're doing well, and I hope you enjoy! Also, shoutout to the person who asked for a longer part, this one is the longest by far <3

Us and Them (zombie au): Chapter Nine

Rafe Cameron x fem!reader & the first "i love you" ✿ 5.4k words

cw: zombie apocalypse, fem reader, reader gets threatened with a gun, reader gets kidnapped(?), reader gets a knee injury and wounds on her feet, death from gunshot, death from fire, death from zombies, lots of death described in detail, I can't really say 'happy ending' given the AU but sweet ending

rafe cameron masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You and Rafe are on the road again.

You can say with 100% certainty that you hate when you and Rafe are moving, unsure of when you’ll get to sleep in a bed or eat a full meal again. You miss the farmhouse more and more every day, but when Rafe says it isn’t safe anymore, you know he’s right. Staying in one place for too long will just lead to complacency, which will just lead to death.

Rafe lets you hold his hand as he leads you through the woods. He pretends like he hates it, but when his thumb brushes soothingly over your knuckles, you think it brings him just as much comfort as it does you.

The sun beams down on the two of you from high in the sky. The days are getting longer now, the bone-chilling cold of winter slowly melting away into spring. The ground sloshes slightly with every step, saturated with water now that the last of the snow has melted away. Your shoes, coated in mud and plant debris, are soaked through and making your feet cold. You’ve been looking for some new ones but haven’t had any luck. The only shoe store you’ve found was completely ransacked, and you sure as shit aren’t trekking through the woods in six inch stilettos.

You feel the sting of another mosquito bite and whack it as soon as you feel the pinch. Your body is covered in small bites and welts, the tall grass not doing anything to help your poor, eaten-up legs.

“Rafe?” You say his name quietly, and he turns his head for a moment to glance at you. You press yourself into his side just for a second, just to be a little closer.

“Hmm?” His questioning sound is accompanied by a gentle squeeze of your hand, his eyes returning in front of him.

“Do you think we can get infected from mosquitos?” Your question hangs in the air for a moment and when Rafe tugs on your hand again, you realize he isn’t going to respond. You continue anyway, “I’m just saying, if a mosquito bites a zombie, and then bites me, I could die.”

“We don’t know that,” Rafe’s short response is nothing new, but his soft tone is a significant contrast from the harsh, biting words he used to spit in your direction.

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t,” You argue, bumping your body into his side again. He gives you a quick side-eyed glance but doesn’t say anything else, so you speak again to fill the silence. “If you got bit by a zombie mosquito, I would shoot you and put you out of your misery.”

“I wouldn’t,” Rafe quips, voice husky and low, “I’d watch you turn ‘n let you suffer forever.”

Your jaw drops in offense and Rafe smirks, jerking you against him again. He presses the gentlest of feather-light kisses to your hair as an apology, though you know he’s just teasing.

The woods are never-ending, bits of sunlight shining through the canopy and into your eyes. Twigs crunch under your feet, and you cringe with every squish and squelch of your socks.

By the time the sun is approaching the horizon, you think your feet might fall off. Rafe picks a spot to camp, and you peel off your socks and shoes while he gets the fire started. You wiggle your toes, feeling the light breeze against your wrinkly, water-soaked skin.

“Gotta get some new shoes,” Rafe states, though more to himself than to you as he glances at your sneakers, barely holding together. He pokes at the fire as it begins to grow, then he stands with a groan as you stretch your legs forward, letting the heat of the fire warm you.

“I’m gonna walk around, scope a perimeter,” Rafe announces like he doesn’t have the same routine every night when you camp. You nod, and he nods back, grabbing his crowbar and his flashlight and moving back into the trees. The fire crackles by your feet and you hold yourself up with your palms on the ground behind you. You let your eyes fall closed as Rafe’s footsteps slowly recede further into the trees.

Things have been good between the two of you lately, at least romantically. There’s not often enough energy or space to have sex, but Rafe has been more forward and open with his affections toward you otherwise. He kisses you more, he lets you hold his hand. A few nights ago, you’d woken up to him cradling you and stroking your hair. He said you’d had a nightmare, but you think maybe he just wanted to hold you.

It’s hard, given the zombies and the survivors hunting you both down. But in a lot of ways, love is easier than it used to be. There’s no expectations, no family to argue with, no jobs to move for or rings to buy. And definitely no class standings that would keep Rafe from being with you. Now, the biggest hurdle in your relationship is keeping each other alive.

You sit up a bit, wiggling your toes again and stretching your arms. Rafe is far enough away now that you can’t hear the clomping of his heavy boots. Not having him in your line of sight is still a little nerve-wracking, less so than it used to be now that you’ve adjusted to the zombie apocalypse. Or adjusted as much as you possibly can, anyway.

The joints in your knees crack as you stand. Bare feet on the forest floor isn’t very pleasant, but it beats the possibility of getting trench foot from your wet shoes and socks. You shiver a bit at the thought.

Walking over to your pack, you kneel down to dig through it. You unzip it, digging through to find a different pair of socks.

You don’t get far in your search before something cold and metallic presses against the side of your head, and a deep voice hisses in your ear.

“Scream, and I’ll blow your fucking brains out, bitch.”

Your heart stops, your breath catches, and fear surges through you. Not Rafe. Definitely not Rafe. Is it a gun he has pressed to your head? You aren’t sure, but you aren’t going to take any chances. So, you don’t scream.

“Take your hands out of the bag, zip it, and hand it to me.” His orders are clipped and low, like he knows Rafe might sense something is off if he speaks too loud. You hesitate, and his next words are harsher.

“Now, bitch! Your man will be back soon, we don’t have time for you to fuck aroun’!”

Your hands tremble as you scramble to follow his command. You zip the bag up and lift it to hand to him, catching a glimpse of both the man and the gun that he definitely has pointed at your head. Fuck.

“Get up,” He spits, and you slowly raise up from your kneeling position. The man swings your bag over his shoulder and presses the gun into your head harder to push you forward. “Move! Grab his bag too.”

You flinch as your bare feet scrape against the ground, scrambling to grab Rafe’s bag. Your brain is completely blank, survival taking over you as adrenaline surges through your veins. You grip Rafe’s bag like a lifeline, but the man rips it harshly from your grasp. He shoves you forward again, gun to the back of your head now.

“Put your fuckin’ shoes on and let’s go,” The man growls and you cringe at the thought of putting your wet sneakers back on your aching feet. “Now!”

You shove your feet into your shoes with no socks, and you don’t waste time tying them, just shoving the laces inside beside your feet. It’s uncomfortable, and you can feel your eyes burn as you stumble forward again, the gun pressed firmly to the back of your skull.

He forces you to walk quickly, sometimes shoving into your back to push you along. He’s worried about Rafe being on your trail, you can tell. You know he’s going to be frantic in his search for you as soon as he realizes you’re gone. You can only hope it’s soon.

The sun sets quickly, the light not illuminating the ground in front of you nearly as much as it had when it was beaming down from above. You find yourself slipping and sliding through the mud and grass, and your captor’s threats only become more intense the further you go.

“Keep fuckin’ walkin’ bitch. Tha’s right,” Every word out of his mouth makes you feel like puking.

The sun has officially fully set by the time you finally get where you’re going. Your captor grabs you roughly around the arm, taking the gun away from your head. You take a full breath for the first time in what feels like hours. Your feet are killing you and you feel numb, like your body doesn’t want to process what is happening. You miss Rafe.

The man shrugs your bags off his shoulder and pushes you into a small clearing. There’s a camp with three other people around the fire, two men and a woman. They are all smiling and laughing in the middle of a conversation, but it stops immediately when they see him approaching with you. Your captor keeps a firm grip on your arm, tossing the two bags toward the others. Their eyes dart between the bags and you. You stand there, petrified, and the man only squeezes your arm harder when you try to squirm out of his grasp. It’s going to leave a bruise.

“Levi, what the fuck?” One of the other men steps forward. The man gripping your arm, Levi, scoffs.

“The fuck was I supposed to do? He left her there alone!” Levi shakes your arm with each word and you grit your teeth from the pain.

“We told you to grab their stuff and run,” The woman speaks now, standing up and taking a few steps toward you. She eyes you up and down before turning to Levi with a look of anger, “We don’t have enough supplies for anyone else. That’s why we have to steal, dumbass!”

“I couldn’ just grab the stuff n’ leave! She was righ’ there!” Levi shakes his head and shoves you forward. You stumble, landing on your knee wrong as you hit the ground. You cringe, moving to sit up and Levi pushes your head down again roughly.

“Will you stop?” The other man speaks up again. The third man is still silent, watching the interaction. “If she was there, then it clearly wasn’t the right time!”

“Well, I did it, alright? Fuck me…” Levi kicks dirt toward you and you watch as he walks away for a moment before he turns again and pulls out his gun, pointing it directly at you. Your eyes widen and you try to scramble away, crying out a bit at the pain in your knee.

“Woah, hey stop!” The woman stands up and puts herself between you and Levi.

“Move, Angie!” Levi demands, waving his gun at her. His finger is on the trigger. “If y’all want her gone so bad, I’ll just get rid of her!”

“No.” The third man finally speaks up, his voice a deep boom.

“Fuck off, Matthew!” Levi spits but Matthew stands up. He towers over Levi, who immediately backs down the closer Matthew gets.

“You aren’t gonna fuckin’ shoot her. You’ll get us all killed, who knows how many zombies are crawling around this forest.” Matthew’s voice is low, but he doesn’t need to yell. Levi gets the message and huffs, sending you a glare.

“Whatever. Fuck all y’all.” Levi flips Matthew off and pockets his gun, turning and walking back into the woods. You watch the entire interaction silently, a hand cradling your knee. Matthew gives you a look, but there’s no softness or pity at all. He returns to his spot, and you curl up where you are.

The second man, the one whose name you don’t know, grabs Rafe’s bag off the ground. You watch helplessly as he digs through it, tossing out some of Rafe’s things and ‘ooh’ing when he finds Rafe’s granola bar stash. He grabs several, tearing into them. He passes one to Matthew, who takes it and slowly begins to eat.

Deciding not to watch the three strangers continue to rummage through your stuff, you return your attention to your feet. You tug off your shoes with a hiss, each slight movement causing pain on your skin and deeper within your foot, your nerves alight. You can see blood on the inside of the soles and when you examine your feet, you see several popped blisters and some that are just forming. The sores line all sides of your feet, the skin red and inflamed. You wiggle your toes a bit and find it hurts to do so, which worries you even more.

“Well…” Man #2 speaks up again to Matthew. He thinks he’s whispering but the quiet of the night allows you to hear his words. “What should we do with her?”

Matthew closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing his fingers against his temples in small circles. You try to act like you aren’t listening, pretending to tend to your feet. “Fuckin’ Levi. He always fucks everything up.”

There’s a long moment of silence before Matthew’s gruff voice speaks up again, slow and quiet, and you have to strain your ears to catch his words. But you do.

“I guess we tie her up so she don’t run. And in the mornin’, we’ll head off and leave her.” The idea of being left alone in the woods, tied up by yourself makes your stomach churn. They don’t need to tie you up, you can’t run given your knee and your feet. When the unknown man comes toward you, you try to scramble away but he is able to tie your wrists and ankles with some thin rope, easily overpowering your struggle. The woman, Angie, watches from the sidelines with a frown.

“Do you really have to tie her up?” She asks, finishing off her granola bar and tossing the wrapper into the woods behind her. “She’s injured, look at her feet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Matthew gruffs, “You know the rules.”

You struggle against the ropes binding you but they don’t budge. You have to curl against the ground and get leverage to sit up. You lean against a tree trunk beside you, watching the others as they demolish all of your and Rafe’s work before apparently planning to abandon both of you, separated and with no supplies.

The ground is cold and wet underneath you, your clothes and skin covered in patches of mud. You fight to keep your eyes open, to keep sleep from taking over you. You don’t trust any of these people, and even though you can’t run, the thought of being unconscious and unaware right now doesn’t sit right with you. You watch as they prepare for bed, your shoulders and ankles aching from the position you’re stuck in with the ropes.

The other three settle in pretty quickly. You’re surprised none of them stayed up to keep watch. The fire begins to die out soon after they go to sleep and you somehow manage to stay awake, the twinging pain in your back keeping you from getting too comfortable. You manage to loosen your ropes, freeing your wrists and then your ankles. You're thinking of running when something catches your attention.

You hear Levi’s return before you actually see him. At least, you think it’s Levi and not a zombie. You’re not sure which one would be better, though.

The moon shines down, not quite full but almost, as Levi huffs and puffs, stomping his way back into the camp. He’s not even trying to be quiet, twigs cracking under his steps and letting out careless groans of anger. You see his shadow pass by you, and you’re grateful that you don’t seem to catch his attention. He kicks at the fire and realizes it’s out, cursing loudly as he reaches to restart it.

His movements are loose and carefree, almost like he’s drunk. He might be, though you aren’t sure where he would’ve gone to drink. There aren’t bars anymore.

Levi grunts as he tosses something into the fire and it ignites quickly, even larger than it was before. You can’t see his face, only his silhouette illuminated by the flame. He stands up, stumbling back a bit and seems to chuckle, a small shake visible in his shoulders. His hand reaches behind to his back pocket and he pulls out the gun again, his finger going to the trigger as he waves it around carelessly. You try to stay completely silent, hidden behind him and hoping he won’t notice you.

He seems pissed off that the other three are asleep. His head moves, and you can assume he is looking at each of them before he scoffs, and then he lets out an ear-piercing whistle. You jump, and the other three leap from their beds instantly, panic immediately taking over. Loud sounds like that are a surefire way to die out here, attracting God knows what in the middle of the night.

“Levi, are you crazy?” Angie hisses out, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps toward the gun-wielding man. “You’re going to get us all killed!”

“Y’all never fuckin’ appreciate what I do for the group!” Levi’s words are yelled and slurred, and he continues to wave the gun around aimlessly, finger on the trigger. He’s definitely drunk. “I got the fuckin’ bags!”

“Levi,” Matthew’s face is stern, and he approaches Levi slowly, “You need to shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck you, Matthew!” Levi points the gun at Matthew, who raises his hands despite the fact that he could easily overpower Levi. It’s better not to risk getting shot at all, you guess.

“Levi, stop!” Angie and the man whose name you don’t know both move forward to try and stop Levi, and he turns his attention back to them, gun primed for shooting in his grasp.

“No!” Levi’s voice is howled and you push yourself further up against the tree. Your feet are fucked, and so is your knee, but maybe if you stay silent, any zombies he attracts with his yelling won’t notice you. Angie’s eyes dart toward you, but as soon as they land on you, her gaze is back on Levi.

“You’re being a fuckin’ moron,” Matthew growls, stepping forward to reach for Levi’s arm. “If you’d just think for one goddamn-”

It all happens so fast, and then all hell breaks loose.

The gun goes off, the end smoking, with Levi’s finger holding down the trigger. Matthew stumbles back, raising a hand to his abdomen where the bullet entered his gut. Blood begins to seep from the wound, pouring down Matthew’s skin and soaking through his shirt. His body crumbles to the ground with a loud thud, a wet groan bubbling from his throat as he grasps at the gunshot wound.

The four of you watch for a moment, disbelief and shock thick in the air. And then Angie starts screaming.

“Matthew!” Her words are piercing, harsh and loud in the dead of night. She scrambles across the ground, hand moving over the wound in Matthew’s abdomen. The other man charges at Levi, roaring and grabbing for him. Levi seems to panic, trying to dash away so as not to get grabbed but he gets punched in the gut, doubling over. You watch, pressed against the tree and completely in shock at the scene in front of you.

Levi hits the ground, the gun tumbling from his hand and going off again. The sound echoes through the trees, bouncing off the leaves as the campfire seems to surge with the violence and chaos. The unnamed man punches at Levi over and over, the sound of his fists on Levi’s bones again and again causing you to feel sick. Levi somehow manages to shove the other man off with a grunt, and man #2 falls back, landing directly in the campfire.

His screams are immediate, his body writhing to try and escape. The flames soar around him as his clothes ignite, melting to his skin. Levi struggles to sit up, the both of you watching the scene in horror. Angie finally looks up from Matthew’s body at the other man’s screams, and she screams even louder, practically howling as she stumbles over to Levi and begins to hit him too. He tries to fight back, but he grows weaker, his body flopping back against the mud as the woman continues to pound on his chest. By the time Levi stops moving, the man in the fire has stopped moving too.

You don’t know what to do. You can’t think, you just feel like you’re separate from your body, like none of this is really happening. Like maybe you’ll flinch and wake up to Rafe holding you and stroking your hair again, like maybe you really did just have a nightmare this time because there’s no way any of this is actually happening, right?

Things go from bad to worse when you hear another raspy growl, and a few zombies begin sneaking into the clearing from the other side, lured by gunshots and screams.

You let out an involuntary cry when you try to stand, and you’re quick to cover your mouth with a hand. You can’t run, you don’t know if you can even walk really, but you know it isn’t safe to stay here. Especially not if zombies are coming. A few sneaking in could mean a dozen are headed this way. You don’t want to stick around to find out, and your body seems to understand this without you even consciously deciding to move. It hurts though, once you do.

Your feet… you’re worried if you think too much about them, you might not like what you find. It’s a pain like you’ve never experienced, only amplified by your knee, which is likely injured pretty badly if you can judge by the swelling and the obvious limp in your stride. But you keep going. You have to keep going, because if you don’t, you’ll die. And you’ve only just started to explore things with Rafe. You miss Rafe, your heart aches for him and it hurts almost as bad as your feet.

You manage to get up fully, shuffling away from the scene as quietly as you can. It hurts terribly, it’s probably the hardest thing you’ve ever done, and you can still hear the screams of the woman behind you, her ‘No! No! No!’, the sound etching itself into your brain as you slowly push yourself further and further away from that nightmare.

The movement doesn’t get easier, especially the further you get from the light and the deeper you get into the woods. It’s almost pitch black, the moonlight not able to cut through the thick canopy like sunlight can. You are running on fumes, the adrenaline in your blood is the only thing keeping you going. You trip several times, and you get cuts and scrapes all over your body, but you never fall.

When you finally manage to break through the trees, you do find yourself crumbling to the ground. Your body aches everywhere, there isn’t a single part of you that doesn’t hurt. Your eyes scan the road in front of you. It’s empty.

You can see the faintest hint of light on the horizon, or at least what you’re able to see of it from the ground. You breathe heavily, trying to will yourself to get up again, to find Rafe, to keep going, but you can’t. You lay there, trembling and in pain, until you ultimately lose consciousness.

Rafe’s laugh is deep, a full belly one you’ve only heard once or twice since you met him all those months ago. His fingers slide against your lower back, pulling you a bit closer to him. You blink, taking in your surroundings, and he places a gentle kiss to your temple.

“You alright?” He asks, tilting his head as his eyes scan your face. You nod, but you’re sort of lying. Your brain feels sluggish and you don’t feel right. The laughter of children catches your attention and you find your head turning. A little boy runs toward the two of you and Rafe picks him up easily.

“Hey, buddy!” He says the boy. You can smell a grill, hear the chatting of neighbors. Are you having a barbeque? You close your eyes for a moment, trying to get your bearings, nothing makes sense.

“Babe?” You hear Rafe’s voice, but when you open your eyes, there’s a zombie in front of you. You scream and everything goes silent. Everyone watches you with unnaturally dark eyes as you scramble back, and when you blink again it’s Rafe, not a zombie. There’s an eerie smile on his face, and on the face of the small boy he is holding too.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe’s mouth opens, but it’s not his voice you hear, it’s Levi’s. White hot fear surges through you and you step back again just as Rafe’s arms let go of the boy and he once again transforms into a zombie. You turn to run, screaming, but there are zombies everywhere, your neighbors who have become undead clawing and grabbing at you. There’s nothing you can do, you’re completely surrounded.

The grabbing is real. You can feel hands on your arms, your face, your neck. They aren’t painful, but the sensation of the touch is enough to have you screaming out and writhing away from the thing. It doesn’t let up, a gruff tone reaching your ears as you try to push them away, tears streaming down your face.

“It’s me,” The thing says, “Shh, I gotcha. It’s me, baby.”

You force your eyes to open, vision swirling as the familiar voice soothes you before you even register that it’s Rafe. He’s above you, the morning light making him look like an angel and for a moment you think you died.

Until all the pain, fear, and memories come back.

“Rafe?’ You ask, hissing as you try to move. You can’t, and Rafe reaches out to stop you before you try again. “How-”

“Don’t move,” He says lowly, arms moving to reach around you. He gathers you against him and you cry out a little when he jostles you. He coos into your ear and you manage to wrap an arm around his shoulder, face buried in his neck.

If you didn’t hurt so bad, you really would think you died. Rafe is so gentle with you, soft and kind in a way he’s never been before. Even during the more intimate moments between the two of you, he was never really a lover.

He carries you through the woods, and into a cabin you don’t recognize. You don’t ask, you can’t ask, moving in and out of consciousness as he cleans you up and places you on an old bed. The mattress is thin enough that you can feel the beams but it’s better than the floor.

Rafe lays next to you, fingers resting over your neck to feel your pulse. He was able to get you to drink a few sips of water, and you managed a hum of agreement to try and eat in the morning. You don’t know if Rafe really knows how to take care of you, but he’s trying. Even in your state, you recognize how different this is from how he normally acts.

“You’re not a zombie?” You ask him, brows furrowing as your overwhelmed brain confuses your dreams with reality. “What happened to the cookout?”

Rafe takes your words in stride, shushing you and pulling you closer as gently as he can manage. You still whimper but you curl into him, seeking his warmth. “You’re okay,” He says, and then again, “I gotcha, baby.”

Someday soon, he’ll ask you what happened, and he’ll hold you as you sob and recount the entire night. He’ll vow to never leave you alone again, to teach you how to fight, and you’ll swear he lets a few tears fall too.

But for now, you don’t think about what happened. You think about Rafe, and how warm he is, and how his body keeps tensing and he pushes his fingers against your neck to feel for your pulse. You think about the dream you had, the good parts of it, with the neighbors and the cookout and the little boy who looks like Rafe. You think about finding somewhere safe like the farmhouse where Rafe can hold you like this and you’ll never be worried about Levi or anyone like him ever again.

The words come then, whispered that same night while he cuddles you in the cabin’s small bed. He’s barricaded the door and completely blocked the windows. You know he won’t sleep a wink and you probably won’t either. The bed isn’t comfortable. You feel more like yourself, the pain dulled after Rafe managed to find some pain pills. Other than that, and a few expired cans in the cabinets, you have no supplies, you’ve lost all of your things, and it’s probably the worst off you two have been since the beginning. But you’re together.

“I thought I lost you,” He whispers against your hair. You don’t move, his hand sprawling against your back under your shirt. Maybe he thinks you’re asleep. “Fuck, I’ve never been scared like that.”

The admission is one that has your heart pounding and butterflies erupting in your stomach. Even with your feet bandaged and your knee swollen, and cuts all over your face, Rafe still wants to hold you. He’s admitting things to you in the dark, things he never would’ve imagined himself saying to anyone. But you’re not anyone.

“When I got back, I was going to tell you I found this place but you… you weren’t there. And your shoes were gone, and the bags. I knew something had happened. I tried looking around but I had no idea which direction you went in.” He pauses, swallowing thickly and you think he might cry, but he doesn’t. He pulls you even closer to him, completely wrapping himself around you.

“You did so good goin’ to the road, baby. I’m so proud of you, tha’s how I found you.” His lips brush over your cheek and your ear, and you find your skin warming under his touch, his whispered praise.

“I thought I was going to die,” You admit to him, and his lips pause for a moment. You think maybe he really did think you were asleep. “I tried to get up, but I saw the road and I just…”

“Shh… You did everything right, I’m so proud of you.”

You don’t feel like you did everything right, the horror of what you witnessed will probably always be with you. But your life since the start of the End has been suffering broken up with moments of peace and joy. So you think this moment, with Rafe in this cabin, will mean more to you in the future as eventually the horror begins to fade away. You let tears fall, soaking into his shirt.

“I love you,” He whispers, and you sniffle, pulling back enough to look at him, trying to hide your grimace from the pain of moving. “I’ve never said it to anyone before, but I do. It scared the fuck outta me when you were gone.”

“I love you, too.” You whisper back, and Rafe wipes at your tears. He kisses you then, soft and sweet. His fingers barely touch you, afraid of causing you any kind of pain. He whispers it again when you pull away from the kiss and settle down to try and sleep. There, etched into your soul right next to the helpless screams of Angie, is the sound of Rafe’s whispered words, holding you together as you’re falling apart.

“I love you.”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

163 notes · View notes

kuroposting · 2 months ago

Text

Now, obviously, I don’t think Sebastian knows that this is a trigger. Or that he grabbed his hand in a familiar way the first time, either.

I think it’s symbolic. Yana is constantly drawing hands as analogous to relationships. Sebastian is insecure in his ability to understand the complexities of human emotions and, by extension, his ability to care for Ciel in this arc. He has an idea, but he defers to Takana’s authority on the subject (initially); I’ll make another post about that later. Meanwhile, the crisis of conscience Ciel is experiencing is over his growing camaraderie and dependence on Sebastian, in r!Ciel’s place.

Using Sebastian to attain revenge is one thing, but to stop holding a grudge against him for presumably eating r!Ciel’s soul and shamelessly accepting his attachment to Sebastian and the autonomy that he provides Ciel with, is a severe betrayal. A betrayal of r!Ciel, and of Ciel’s own morals.

Sebastian is at least somewhat aware of this. I’m not totally sure- I think Sebastian is under the impression that Ciel did intentionally sacrifice r!Ciel in his place, and that he took on his identity out of jealousy. He wanted to be heir, and he wanted to marry Lizzy. Sebastian may believe that Ciel regrets doing it and resents Sebastian for being the living proof of Ciel’s wickedness. He wants to force Ciel to confront this aspect of himself and do something about it, but I think he’s slowly come to realize that Ciel isn’t actually to blame, and feels conflicted over his own attachment to him.

These last two panels, by Sebastian’s expression and the black backgrounds isolating the two of them, read to me as if Sebastian is slighted by Ciel’s scolding and lack of gratitude for saving him; something Sebastian is good at and took pride in. It reminds me of his interactions with Will. Even so, it’s apparent to me that he otherwise admires Ciel for being so resistant to the temptation of accepting his comforts, but then he sincerely wants to comfort him. By rejecting Sebastian and maintaining all the loyalty to his brother that he can, Ciel maintains this very unique (“pure”?) form of integrity that Sebas both resents and yet also wishes to maintain himself. Allowing Sebastian to touch will get his master dirty, so he changes his gloves and offers himself again. Unbeknownst to Sebastian, part of the guilt Ciel feels is over him fulfilling r!Ciel’s role as his devout protector and guide. This will have to be elaborated on in a part 2. (will add a hyperlink here when I have it written)

On the other hand, Ciel already believes himself to have already betrayed his brother for being able to benefit from his death whatsoever. This makes him beyond redemption and beyond saving. We have reason to believe that between r!Ciel’s acceptance of his role as first born and Ciel’s illness keeping him holed up in the manor while r!Ciel had fencing lessons and went traveling with their parents, r!Ciel was less innocent than his younger brother. Our Ciel believes himself wicked and weak for having shamelessly accepted their roles, as his role allowed him to be so naive and complacent that he never felt the same responsibly to protect anyone; most notably, r!Ciel. For that, there were consequences.

His powerlessness cost r!Ciel his life and at the cost of his life Ciel was granted the pursuit of living; the ability to help people and bring justice to evils are things only granted at the price of facing the horrific realities of a world that has failed others. Of feeling the weight on your soul when you take on the responsibility of other people that you can fail, responsibility for the failures that are inevitable in pursuit of your goals. Chess is a game of sacrifice.

When Sullivan gave them a chemical shower and performed it as a “purification ritual”, something thematically relevant was happening. Their personal feelings of inadequacy surfaced and they’ve been forced to confront them- though Ciel’s was much more immediate and visceral. His pursuit of Sebastian was an acceptance of himself, that he is worth living for despite what he expressed to Finny. That he accepts the responsibility for his own survival in the face of all who have been sacrificed for his continued existence so far.

Here Sebastian almost seems to reveal the truth of the matter to Ciel, that the ritual was not required to summon him and that it most likely wasn’t even the true intentions of the adults who had committed such evil against him. Demons can appear on a whim, and he repeats as much to Sullivan. On Twitter, Yana said that Ciel was about to ask “did you come on a whim?” but dropped it because it ultimately didn’t matter. She said it wasn’t relevant to the arc iirc, but I disagree lol, It’s at least relevant to the philosophy this manga holds as truth. Ciel wondered if he was already prepared to forfeit his soul for his wish or if Sebastian chose to come to him regardless.

You could wonder if that means that Ciel actually is responsible for sacrificing r!Ciel’s soul (however unintentionally), because that meant that Sebastian never would have eaten him if only Ciel cherished his own soul more.

You could wonder if Sebastian made the decision to take r!Ciel’s soul just to crossover and meet Ciel’s calls completely on his own. You could wonder if Ciel wasn’t prepared to forfeit his soul at all, until he was manipulated and pressured into it by Sebastian.

Who is the blame supposed to fall on? What were Sebastian’s motivations?

You could wonder about any of that, and it doesn’t matter, because the outcome is the same to Ciel. It does not change where they are now. What is done cannot be undone.

#I’m on mobile so I’m sorry for any typos #I’ll come back to proofread and fix them later lol #black butler #kuroshitsuji #ciel phantomhive #sebastian michaelis #black butler ciel

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allbark-no-bite · 11 months ago

Text

call it brotherhood (not love).

jake seresin x reader (wc: 6.2k)

summary: jake meets his match in a soldier rather than a sailor. you’re a bit more war torn than he expected, but it’s okay because maybe he is too

warnings: 18+ smut, * graphic descriptions of injuries and death ⚠️

* if you are uncomfortable with this, please don’t read

author’s note: spoiler alert, i know this isn’t the Jake fic that you’ve all been wanting but i swear that one is in the works. i’m about to go back to school and wanted to get this out there for y’all :) (ps i apologize for the lazy ending)

————————————————————————

"At ease, gentlemen —And woman," Admiral Simpson adds after a moment, shooting an uncharacteristically apprehensive look in Phoenix's direction. Payback snorts at his hasty correction, and Jake is surprised when the admiral doesn't fix him with a nasty look.

If the man's cursory show of inclusion perturbs the female pilot, she doesn't show it, and instead she takes a seat with all the rest of them. Jake turns back towards the front of the ready room, sinking down into his chair just a bit, toothpick clenched between his teeth as he waits for the admiral to address them.

However routine, this training meeting was a bit out of left field, especially for a Sunday afternoon. The Dagger squad typically had one weekly, but it was usually led by Maverick and much more informal. That wasn't to say that seeing Beau was surprising, but the man usually steered clear of the wayward captain and left him to his own devices when it came to training the Daggers.

Today the captain sits in the ready room beside the rest of the pilots. Jake watches as Bradley sends his godfather an inquisitive brow from across the room, to which the older man just shrugs. Interesting.

Cyclone clears his throat. "Good afternoon. I apologize for keeping you all, but I promise this will only take a minute of your time. As I'm sure you are all aware, the United States Department of Defense takes immense pride in maintaining one of the most well integrated military forces in the world. It's our job to work closely with other service members to ensure their safety and the safety of our nation." He pauses. "As experienced as you all are, your time here at Topgun has not reflected that."

Jake's brow furrows, his tongue worrying at the toothpick clenched between his teeth as he listens to the admiral go on. Javy shoots him a look but Jake stares ahead, waiting for Beau to continue.

"The permanent installment of your squad here at Miramar was to create a tightly knit group of elite fighter pilots who would be available at a moment's notice, and however successful that may have been, I cannot neglect the fact that comfort builds complacency. Later today, a squad of U.S. Army soldiers will be arriving to aide in your training for the next six weeks. The integration of mixed branch training units has been widely effective around the country, and it's about time we do the same here at Miramar."

With that, the screen positioned on the wall behind him lights up, displaying enlarged headshots of about eight soldiers. The first seven are males of varying ages, but none older than probably thirty. Jake quickly skims over their names and credentials, but when he gets to the last profile, his eyes stop.

The last solider is the only female projected on the screen, but even so she stands out as compared to all the other members of her squad. He can't quite put his finger on why though.

She's uncharacteristically pretty. And by that he means that to most, her appearance would be inherently off putting— even without the straight-mouthed scowl on her face. She's got a square, almost masculine like jawline that hardens her features considerably. Her hair is light, worn from spending too much time in the sun regardless of however dark it may have been naturally. The same goes for her skin, which is comparably bronze in contrast to the tan line on her forehead, he would assume from wearing a patrol cap out in the field.

Her eyes are wild.

And that's when it hits him.

She'd been all over the news just a few months ago. Something about a patrol gone wrong out in the Middle East, which ultimately turned into a high stakes rescue mission to extract the surviving soldiers. They went in hoping to bring back nine men and came out with one. Apparently they didn't even get to recover the bodies.

Jake can't imagine what that'll do to a person.

Before he can stare at her profile any longer, Cyclone quickly clicks off the projection and the image disappears. This time he appears almost nervous as he stares back at them. "These soldiers are recently returning from a deployment in the Middle East, so I trust that you all will do your best to make them feel welcome. If none of you have any questions, that is all. You're dismissed."

---

The following morning, the Jake receives word from Maverick that the Admiral wants to see him in his office. It's not a strange request but certainly raises Jake's attention as to why specifically he was needed.

Upon entering the room, Jake finds not only the Admiral but Maverick and another female that he's yet to have seen before. All heads turn towards him when he enters, as if he were interrupting something. Immediately, Jake snaps to attention, his heels clicking together and his fingers brushing his brow with a sharpness that would make the academy proud.

Cyclone nods in his direction, acknowledging Jake's customary greeting and dismissing him with the notion. "Lt. Seresin," he begins, gesturing to the female standing across the room. "This is Lt. (L/n). She's uh—a member of the squad that I briefed you on yesterday."

He hadn't noticed that she was wearing Army OCPs but he connects the dots as soon as the admiral mentions her name. He remembers reading it on the projector during the meeting.

Rather than introducing herself, the soldier stands rigidly across from him, her arms folded in front of her chest with a look on her face that Jake can only describe as fucking pissed. Unsure of what to do but aware from personal experience with Phoenix that he shouldn't try to cross any unknown boundaries, Jake settles for offering her a respectful nod. She glares back at him.

"You're two of our only service members with active combat experience," Cyclone continues, obviously ignoring the girl's crossed disposition. "I'm hoping that you and Lt. (L/n) can find some common ground. Perhaps it would do you both some good to—"

"Respectfully, sir, if I wanted to vent to someone about my feelings, I'd go see a shrink," the woman growls. "I recommend you do the same, Lt. Seresin." Her tone makes Jake's brow raise slightly in surprise. No one talks to an admiral like that, not even Pete Mitchell.

"Lt. (L/n)," Cyclone snaps. "That's quite enough."

This time, she rolls her eyes with a scoff. "You can't just—"

"Get out."

She clamps her jaw shut but doesn't budge from where her feet are planted in the ground.

"I said, Get. Out," Cyclone reiterates.

The eyes that had caught Jake's attention in the first place fix the admiral with a chilling stare. To Jake, there's something familiar in those eyes. Some sort of unmistakably justifiable rage that runs deeper than just being dismissed from the conversation. Jake watches, his breath stalled as she sets her jaw, unwilling to move, when it hits him. Identical jawlines and untwitching scowls mirror each other.

The illegitimate child of Admiral Beau Simpson stands before him.

He doesn't know how he didn't see it before, granted they don't share a last name, but Jake was aware that the Admiral was divorced, had been for a while. Allegedly he wasn't the marrying type. Jake isn't surprised by the statement. Beau Simpson is a hard man to deal with.

Jake watches in silence as the girl ultimately releases an irritated huff and storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her. He can hear the loud, petulant stomp of her boots as she retreats down the hall. Evidently her looks weren't the only thing that she got from her dad. She had a temper that rivaled even Bradshaw's.

The clearing of the Admiral's throat removes Jake's eyes from the door. "I hope you can forgive my daughter's behavior. Her return to the states has been...difficult."

"I'm sure difficult is the way she would describe you too sir," Maverick jokes.

Cyclone fixes him with a perturbed glare but decidedly ignores his comment in favor of addressing Jake. "Lt. (L/n)'s squadron was ambushed six months ago. Just about everything that could have gone wrong went wrong and she was the only survivor. As her father, I wanted her to accept the Purple Heart and retire." He gestures flippantly towards the door. "Obviously that's not what she did."

Jake speaks for the first time since he entered the room. "Respectfully, sir, I don't blame her. I'm taking this career to the grave. I'm sure both your daughter and Captain Mitchell can agree," he adds glancing over at his instructor.

Before Maverick can voice his agreement, the admiral cuts him off.

"As I'm sure Captain Mitchell can attest to, as her father, I'm just trying to look out for her."

With his preexisting connection to Rooster, the godson that he would risk his career to protect, Maverick has no room to disagree with the admiral. For once, the captain, who usually always has something to say, stands with his palms folded behind his back and keeps his mouth shut.

"As I was saying," Cyclone continues, taking a seat behind his desk and kicking back as if to signal that he's won the conversation. "It is my hope that given your own—" the admiral hesitates for just a moment too long for Jake's liking "—personal experience, you'll be able to get through to her."

Jake swallows and hopes that he doesn't look as uneasy as the insinuation makes him feel. He has to take a moment to reassure himself that the psych unit has repeatedly cleared him for duty and that no one's threatening to take his wings away.

The nights that he wakes up, drenched in sweat, with his fingers wrapped around imaginary joysticks hard enough to make his palms bleed are few and far in between these days. And even those he's gotten good enough at faking like they don't bother him because he hasn't failed a psych evaluation in months.

It doesn't mean he likes to talk about it or that he won't hear the fear in Rooster's voice if he does.

But he's more scared of not flying than anything, so all Jake does is nod and offer a dry, "I'll do my best, sir."

———

PTSD or modern day shell-shock is what they like to call it. You call it waiting on the other shoe to drop.

Because there is always another shoe.

The slam of a beer bottle down on the bar top lights your nerves up like nothing else. It sends your heart straight to your stomach and makes your palms sweat like when you miss a step on the stairs and for a split second, you think you're going to die. You never do of course, but your body is hard wired that way to keep you alive.

There's a flaw in your system that hasn't been right since the east.

You knew that a popular naval bar on a Friday night wasn't the best place for you these days but your nerves had been yearning for an ice cold beer and fuck all if you weren't going to get one. The alcohol would soothe your nerves anyhow.

But after thirty minutes of waiting on said beer, you were beginning to lose your patience. Normally you weren't bothered by that kind of thing. The place was obviously busy and the lone woman behind the bar was doing her best to satisfy the flock of servicemen that only seemed to accumulate with every beer that she handed out.

Just when you're about to give up and leave, a large hand covers your lower back, pressing you forwards through the crowd and toward the bar top.

"Two more on me, please, Penny."

The voice belongs to the tall man standing behind you. He's removed his firm, but respectfully placed palm from your back and is now leaning over you to accept the two dripping bottles of beer. It doesn't take you long to recognize the green of his eyes from a few days prior.

"My dad didn't put you up to this did he?" you ask, somewhat reluctantly taking the bottle that he offers you. It's finger numbing cold, just how you like it.

He kind of just slowly smiles and shakes his head.

Immediately you feel like a jerk. You sigh, dropping your shoulders and smile softly back. "Sorry. That was rude."

"No, ma'am, he didn't. Just had to find out if you smiled like that all the time."

The part of you that's a little bit of a bitch makes you clench your teeth together, tightening the smile that was once spread across your lips. "I'm not looking for that kind of thing right now," is all you say.

You want to tell him that you used to not be so mean.

At the realization that his words had the exact opposite effect of what he was going for, the guy graciously extends his hand. "Look I don't mean to bother you, I just wanted to say hi."

Despite not being keen on his advances, you aren't going to be rude so you accept his outstretched hand. You're surprised by his gentleness. It's not the rough, over-masculine shake you are expecting.

"Lieutenant (Y/n) (L/n)."

"I know your name," he admits with a light, almost embarrassed laugh. "I think everybody in here knows your name."

Your skin prickles. You stare at him stoney faced, bracing yourself for what's going to come out of his mouth. "Why's that?"

The guy—Lt. Seresin—you're remembering, shrugs. "I mean, you're quite the story back here in the states. A bit of a ghost story, I must say."

Ghost story is right. Because who survives that? How the fuck does a twenty-two year old girl survive an outnumbered ambush and not eight men with years of experience? Not someone who deserves to be called a hero, that's for sure.

You're trying your best to keep your cool with him. You know that you're in a public space and he's just being friendly. You used to be so good at this kind of thing, the flirting and small talk.

The thought occurs to you that maybe this is what you need. Maybe this will make you feel normal again. You need to feel normal again.

Maybe that is why you let him lean in closer, buy you another drink when yours runs dry, and another one after that. Maybe that is why you make an effort to laugh when he does, and you close your eyes when he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You let out the breath that's been tightening your ribcage and do your best to smile. "Thank you for the beer. You didn't have to do that." You hope the words sound as genuine as they're intended to.

He smiles back like he's supposed to, all polite and inherently forgiving of your original attitude. You catch onto the way it doesn't quite reach his eyes. You're not sure why but it makes you think maybe he's just a bit sad too.

Maybe that is why he lets you wordlessly take his hand and lead him to the back of the bar. Maybe that is why he lets you sink to your knees on the cold, sticky tiles of the men's bathroom floor, his hands already fumbling to unbuckle his belt.

It smells like beer and piss, and you don't even wait for him to get fully hard before you take him in your mouth, your nose buried into his pelvis, where it smells like sweat. It's all wrong and right at the same time, and he won't ask you to stop. He just curls his fingers into a fistful of your hair, pinpricks stinging at your scalp the same way tears sting at your eyes.

He—Jake—he'd told you a while ago, has a pretty cock. At least as pretty as cocks go. Pink and ruddy at the tip, where it mushroomed beautifully. Almost dauntingly long but not grossly so with a throbbing vein on the underside. You run your tongue along it and he muffles a whimper, his fingers wrapping harder around your hair in an effort not to buck up into your mouth. At least he's a gentleman about it.

He's heavy and twitching in your mouth. You feel heavy. He is standing above you, a harsh line of a man against the buzzing bathroom light. You remind yourself to breathe through your nose and he punches himself further, the head of his cock skimming the back of your throat.

You swallow around him, trying to hold together what little is left of your remaining sense of self. It's been a while since you've been so careless as to place yourself in someone else's hands, rolled over and showed your belly to someone who could easily take advantage of you.

Your jaw aches, uncomfortable and familiar, like something you don't want to remember. Tears well up behind your eyes, the threat of an unwanted but unknown feeling looming just out of reach. Jake's hand in your hair hold your head firmly against his pelvis, hips rocking up into your mouth. He sighs like he can finally breathe.

You can't breathe.

You try to and something rasps inside of you, choking. The feeling that had been looming threateningly sparkles through you. Panic.

You know that he tries to settle you, does his best to wipe the tears leaking from your eyes with his thumbs and murmurs softly to you. "Breathe. It's okay, breathe for me."

You can't. You can't breathe.

Your head is pounding and suddenly you aren't kneeling on the bathroom floor of the bar. You're on the ground, crying, screaming like a wounded animal and no one is coming to help. You can almost feel the dirt under your knees, taste the blood in your mouth.

"Y/N, you have to breathe."

Someone's grabbing you, hauling your useless feet across the floor. Your chest hurts like you've been punched with a bowling ball.

"C'mon, let's get some air."

How you end up outside the bathroom is beside you. All you know is one minute you're dying on your knees back in the desert and the next you're being sat down on the back steps of the bar.

The cool air of the San Diego evening brings you back. That and the press of a cup of ice water to your lips, the condensation dripping from the glass and rolling down your throat. You swallow, letting the cool liquid soothe your burning throat.

You're aware of Jake sitting down beside you, close enough to touch if he wanted to but still keeping his distance. You can feel his eyes on you, watching carefully for a moment before he turns to stare out at the not so distance shoreline.

Your stomach feels odd, like you might be sick.

He probably thinks you're insane. You would think the same. But if he's dying to ask what the hell that was, he's doing a good job of hiding it.

How do you tell him that sometimes you think that you should have died, that sometimes the memories almost kill you?

"I hid."

He looks up from peeling off the label around the neck of his bottle. "What?"

You swallow, trying to collect yourself before your words fail you.

"I hid. A—After I was shot, I didn't get back up. I crawled under the humvee and... and I just laid there. I laid there and I closed my eyes and I prayed. I prayed that they wouldn't notice me lying under there or that they if they did, they would think I was already dead."

A mixture of sweat and dust burns your eyes. When you blink, you can feel the sandy grit trapped between them. You squeeze them shut while trying to swallow back the dryness of your throat in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort, but it doesn't do much. An unwarranted tear escapes and runs down the track of your nose.

With your rifle held closely to your chest, you let it slide down and collect on the bow of your lip. It joins the puddle of sweat that has already accumulated there. Out here, the sun cooks you alive. You swear it's a constant one thousand degrees. The twenty pounds of kevlar doesn't help.

Dirt kicks up beside you and gravel showers your helmet as a round of bullets buries themselves into the ground a mere six inches from your face. You hardly flinch.

Somebody is screaming. The sound of machine gun fire is ringing in your ears. Somebody is screaming.

"(L/N), C'MON. LET'S MOVE."

It's Cain. He's grabbing the strap of your kevlar vest and yanking you to your feet. You scramble after him, desperate not to be left behind. Bullets explode at your feet the moment the two of you emerge from the concealment of the dirt mound. Fear makes you run faster.

You spot Manny crouched behind the tire of the SUV to your right. He's firing rounds into the brush. You can tell that he's bleeding from a wound to his arm and you're about to veer off to help him when his head jerks backwards, the scattered remains of his brain plastered onto the white side of the truck.

You stop running, the words caught in your throat.

"RUN," Cain screams. He'd backtracked a few paces and grabs hold of your vest once again to drag you behind a second SUV. You stumble over him, falling haphazardly onto your rear once he lets go of you. He immediately turns to fire over the hood of the truck, and the bullets hitting the truck stop momentarily.

Clawing at the gravel on the ground, you hurry to scramble to your feet. Your head is pounding, your mouth dry and gritty. Huffing, you glance between Cain, who is fumbling to reload his magazine, and the crumpled figure of Manny a few yards away. You can only hope Ronny is still out there somewhere.

Before you can even try to locate him or any other members of the squad, movement to your left springs your muscles into action. You slam your back into the side door of the SUV just as a round of bullets pelt the spot where you were standing just moments before. Automatically, you raise your gun, returning the fire. There are a few more shots fired in retaliation, but they stop a second later.

Once you're sure they're subdued, you lower your gun, breathing hard. There's so much smoke and debris in the air that you can hardly even see Cain ten feet away. He's shuffling towards you in a low crouch.

"Let's move, (L/n). They know where we are. We've got to find different cover."

You nod, your finger still pressed tightly to the trigger of your weapon. You drop into a crouch and follow behind him as he creeps towards the back of the truck. He pauses a moment, scanning the landscape before looking back at you. His blue eyes are a startling contrast to the dirt and sweat covering his tanned face. He lifts his gun in the direction of a flipped humvee about fifty yards away. His mouth moves in a silent command.

One.

Two.

Three.

The gunfire starts up as soon as the two of you spring from behind the vehicle. You can hear the whizzing of bullets as they just barely miss your head. All you can do is pray you don't trip as you struggle to keep up with Cain. Your lungs burn and your boots feel impossibly heavy.

The terrain is barren but the ground loose, and rocks threaten to upend your footing, slipping out from beneath your feet as the two of you flee towards the vehicle.

30 yards from the humvee, Cain tumbles to the ground with a broken cry. The bullet catches him in the thigh, stopping him mid stride. He hits the ground hard.

Without even thinking, you skid to a stop. Bullets spray the ground around you. Somehow you're more afraid of leaving him than being shot.

"Go!" he yells at you, already trying to shove you away. "Go, I'm coming!"

Already, there's a lake of blood beneath him. You step in it and the ground squelches under your boot. Crimson gushes from his left thigh, effectively saturating the fabric of his pants. His face is terrifyingly pale. The bullet must have hit his femoral artery.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Like hell," you snap at him, your pervious fear suddenly boiling into the purest form of anger you've ever felt. Angry for being in this situation in the first place. Angry that of all people, Cain is going to die.

It's terrifying how quickly the realization comes to you, how easily you accept it as the truth. There's already too much blood. Without a tourniquet, he'll bleed out in minutes and there's not quite time for that.

"Leaving him behind wasn't an option. It never even occurred to me that it was," you confess, as if saying it aloud will somehow explain away this title of heroism that everyone wants to pin on you. "Dead or alive, he was coming with me."

You shoulder your rifle and use both hands to grab onto the straps of his vest, hefting him backwards towards the truck.

He must clamp onto his bottom lip to stop the scream that threatens to escape because the noise that comes from his mouth is garbled.

You drag Cain about ten feet before you realize how just heavy he is. There's sweat leaking into your eyes and all you can see is the bloody lake that's left behind as you drag him through the dust. Cain's gone quiet, his head lulled to the side, eyes almost shut.

"C'mon, Cain. We're almost there."

His boot snags on a rock, and when you tug him free, he doesn't utter a word.

Something inside of you knows he's gone, was gone long before you started dragging him. You're still ten yards from the SUV.

POP. POP. POP.

You pause, your eyes fixed ahead of you. "Have you ever been shot before?"

Beside you, Jake shakes his head.

"It feels like someone has shot a bowling ball into your chest. Knocks the breath right out of you."

Pain explodes straight through your ribcage. Your vision clouds and you're vaguely aware of your knees buckling beneath you.

When you come to, all of the wind has been knocked out of you from hitting the ground so hard and your immediate reflex is to suck in a reviving breath. Instead all that comes out is a gurgle, the tell tale sign that your chest cavity is filling with blood.

You swallow, looking off at the dark shoreline of the beach, watching as the waves crash against the sand. "I knew that I wasn't dead yet—I did— I just—" Your throat constricts and when you speak again your voice is quieter. "He was already gone so maybe a part of me had already gone with him."

Jake nods slowly, as if putting together the pieces that you're laying down bit by bit. Somehow his green eyes have remained soft this entire time and maybe that's where you find the courage to continue.

Lifting your head, you crane your neck to see the damage, but the thick layer of kevlar strapped to your chest obstructs your view of the lower half of your body. Grunting in frustration, you reach blindly in the direction that the pain is radiating from. Numbly, your fingers find the gushing hole in your side. The bullet had buried itself in the exposed inch of your stomach between your belt and your vest.

There mustn't be an exit wound because there isn't a ton of blood surrounding you. If the wet cough you emit is anything to go by, it's probably pooling in your abdominal cavity instead.

You're going to die.

"I don't know how long I laid there," you admit. "I knew that the clock was ticking, had been since the moment I hit the ground. It was only a matter of time before I blacked out or bled out... I guess I was just waiting to see which one came first."

The scattered rounds hitting the ground around you become muffled background noise as the lull of unconsciousness begins to sweep over you, dulling the world as you know it. Through the haze of your fading senses, your eyes fall on Cain's motionless figure a few feet beside you.

He's lying face up, his desert tan uniform seeped a muddy crimson. You'd known he was dead a while ago. Still, you carried him. He'd have done the same for you. He was your brother, dead or alive.

Blood bubbles from your nose as you struggle to keep yourself breathing. The fact that you have to remind yourself to do that isn't a promising sign. Your body is shutting down, doing anything it can to keep your heart pumping, even if it means shutting down everything else.

Somewhere through the dullness, you hear Cain's voice. MOVE, (L/N).

You close your eyes, trying to picture his face from what had been just a few minutes ago. You remember the urgency in his blue eyes, the intensity of his fear overridden by adrenaline. How had that been only moments ago?

MOVE, (L/N).

"I—I heard his voice," you state, your tone not open for discussion. "Not the gun fire, not God, not anyone else's. I heard his voice."

So many people had tried to convince you otherwise, tried to tell you that it was because of the shock and your brain was shutting down, that you were hearing things. But you know what you heard.

"He saved my life, Jake."

You can see the gears turning in his head, the question carefully forming on his lips. "Were you two— I mean was he—"

It's the first time you have to suck back tears, your chest rattling with a longing emptiness as you fight the urge to cry. Memories of his wild blue eyes and wide smile that could only ever mean he was misbehaving flash through your mind.

You met Sergeant Anthony Cain not long after you commissioned as a Lieutenant. You were still a green officer when you were charged with your first platoon and given orders to deploy out East. You were scared as hell and Cain was your saving grace. He came in as if he'd always known you needed him and the rest was history.

There was never any question about intentions or commitment to each other. Cain was as honest as they came and you left it at that. You never imagined that's where your story would begin and end.

"I don't know, Jake. We didn't get that far."

Forcing your eyes open, you access the area around you. The sound of enemy fire has slowed but that doesn't mean movement won't trigger a return of bullets your way. Still, you know they'll be looking for survivors once the dust settles, and you don't want to be around when they do.

The humvee is only a little over ten yards away. You might would say it was crawling distance if it weren't for the fact that you were actively bleeding out. Even so, you don't really have any other option.

You take as deep of a breath as you can, your chest rasping as you do so, before lifting your right leg and using the weight of it to swing yourself over onto your stomach. Immediately, searing hot pain radiates through your chest and legs. You cry out, curling in on yourself, writhing on the ground like a wounded animal.

Sputtering, trying to breathe through the pain long enough so that you can move, you feel hot tears track down your face. They're tears of insurmountable pain and hopeless desperation.

"All I kept thinking was 'how does anyone survive this?' It was unimaginable, the pain. Looking back now, I don't know how I did it. I don't think I could do it again if I had to," you admit.

Softly, as not to scare you, you feel the gentle weight of Jake's palm on your knee. "You won't have to," he promises. "But you did it. You survived."

You stare down at his hand on your knee.

With a trembling, blood stained hand, you reach out in front of you and dig your fingers into the ground. Heaving, you draw yourself forward, your legs dragging limply through the dust. It takes an unimaginable amount of strength to pull yourself even six inches.

Sniffling back tears and out of breath, you curl your fingers into the ground and drag yourself forward again. This time, you probably only move half as far. You have to fight the urge to just lay your cheek against the ground and cry.

You do this again and again, keeping one hand pressed into the gushing wound at your side while the other drags you forward. Your lower half has become increasingly heavier with each passing minute, your legs nothing but dead weight to pull along. You don't think you could move them if you tried.

It takes you forty minutes to drag yourself to the humvee. By the time you get yourself fully under the abandoned vehicle, your fingers are torn and bleeding, the tips ripped open and embedded with bits of gravel.

Your muscles collapse the very second you give them the chance. Your forehead drops down to rest against the ground, and you finally have a moment to shudder out a sob. Your throat is dry and cracked, and dust coats the inside of your mouth. You're dimly aware that your breaths are dangerously shallow. You just know that you're miserably nauseous and each passing moment is more unbearable than the next.

You turn your own palm over, staring at the scars of your ruined finger tips, scars that tell a story of how you survived. They're ugly, and you wish you didn't have to look at the all of the time. At least your torso is mostly hidden. You've moved to a beach town and will never be able to put on a swimsuit.

Jake’s eyes follow yours and after a moment he flips his palm over, his fingers spread and inviting. His hands are large and calloused from years of flying. There are fingernail divots in his palm.

Almost shyly, his green eyes meet yours. You see a bit of that sadness you saw earlier. “I know it’s not my job to be your shrink or whatever,” he adds with a laugh and you can’t help but laugh with him. “But you’re not alone. We’re all a bit fucked up if you haven’t noticed.” He shrugs. “It comes with the job.”

You can’t help yourself. You trace a finger over the scarred palm of his hand. “My dad would disagree.”

Jake is fighting the urge to close his palm around yours, not wanting to overstep, and so he’s pleased when you intertwine your fingers with his.

“Family dinner must be interesting.”

Jake came from a military family himself and so he knows how deep the ties run. His old man was a sailor and so he knew better than to come home sporting anything other than his dress whites.

You laugh out loud because he’s not wrong at all. Jake squeezes your fingers in response. His hand feels good in yours. Safe and heavy in the way a padlock feels. Like he’s not going anywhere.

“It’s not all ‘Go Army, Beat Navy’ believe it or not. Don’t get me wrong, I was raised a Navy brat and I have a hell of a lot of respect for my old man, but at the end of the day, I had to choose myself. I couldn’t do that with him watching over my shoulder. The Army’s been both the greatest and the worst thing that could have happened to me,” you confess.

Jake hums, dare you say almost disbelievingly.

“What?”

“A few weeks here and you’ll change your mind. No one does it like the Navy does.”

It’s your turn to make a noise of disbelief.

“I guess you’ll just have to impress me, Flyboy.”

Jake squeezes your hand again. “Oh I plan to.”

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sylus-doll · 6 months ago

Text

Synopsis: You tend to forget that Sylus is a dangerous man. There are moments when reality decides to slap you across your face. It reminds you that he is unhinged— an untamed force of incomparable power.

Warnings: Death; he kills someone. People, actually. Sylus doing his job. Descriptions of violence, blood, etc. Licking of said blood (done by MC [you]. Don't ask why, I'm ashamed). MC (you) lowkey being obsessive of him because why not.

Author's note: Felt unhinged. Comments and reblogs are appreciated. <3

Your time spent with Sylus is always pleasant. Even with the constant banter, filled with your witty remarks and his teasing. It feels right. Everything seems to fall into place when you stand by him. This is natural; to embrace the rough edges of the other and sharpen it with your tongues. It feeds into your unlabeled bond. Two people dancing, never intertwining— not yet. Not lovers but not quite discernable from it.

Sylus is not forceful. At least, not anymore. Very persuasive at best. He knows exactly how to tug your heartstrings. You think it is because Mephisto has been out on “kitten duty” as Sylus so affectionately puts it. Just a nicer terminology of stalking you. He takes the time to learn more about this version of you. Invites you into his territory, his home. Has the twins deliver you clothes, trinkets, and whatever else he knows you love.

Anything that money can or cannot buy, it is yours so long as he thought of you while obtaining it.

“I thought this necklace from the auction would look nice on you. Throw it away if you don't like it.”

Sylus never tells you how much it costs. Or the price of anything he gifts you, for that matter. You know the number is likely to be in the millions. That's what he does— spoil you endlessly and ask that you discard whatever is not to your liking. You've tried protesting, insisting such gifts are far too much. And he does tone it down. But he could never resist adorning you in glorious luxury every once in a while. All he says is that you could stand to be a little greedier.

It goes beyond material pleasures. Sylus knows when you step into the N109 Zone, sent by the association to deal with whatever they need done. Sometimes through Mephisto, sometimes because you tell him. After every mission, whether it ends in success or failure, you'll know he's not far away. Mephisto's incessant caws only cease when you follow him back home— back to Sylus. What welcomes you are a set of red eyes, a quirked brow and a soft tug of his lips. His thumbs in the pocket of his pants, waiting for you as he always did.

Rinse, repeat.

Too comfortable. You've become complacent with that routine, and you are reminded of who exactly Sylus is. Infiltrate a protocore auction; that was your mission this time. An Aether Core fragment was rumoured to be the star of tonight's show. You should have expected Sylus to be here, too. Why would he not be? He was always interested in Aether Cores. The scene before you is familiar, the only difference is the man you've grown accustomed to.

“Well? What's going through your head? Don't tell me you've forgotten what exactly I do, sweetie.” He looks at you, piercing, bored. The term of endearment tastes bitter on your tongue, how ironic.

But you already learned that this expression is simply a mask. Sylus cannot afford to lose anything, so he gives away nothing. Only you could tell, of course you could. His breaths are heavy, deeper. There's a slight tremor in his voice. He stays deadly still as the bodies that lay at his feet. Splatters of blood on his cheek. Crimson coats his fingers, dripping, he's painted an eerie silence of death.

You had been compromised. One of the attendees blew your cover. And soon enough, the guns were pointed at you before you could even raise your fists. Yet, the bullets never came. Black-red mist decays people. Whoever was closest to you met their demise through Sylus's gun to their heads or even his bare hands. You watched the spectacle, rendered incapable. The stark contrast of the Sylus you know and this— this man who is the leader of Onychinus.

So why are you not afraid? This is who Sylus really is. Who he has to be despite the warmth and safety he provides for you. The same hands that cradle you are tainted, the heart he has given to you have rotten bits. A monster, soaked in an ocean of blood that only grows with each day. But it is still a heart, yes? He still chooses to love you, yes?

You walk towards him, stepping on carcasses. His thumbs are in his pockets; he's waiting for you again. Always. This time, you reach for them. This time, you nuzzle into his palms like a cat starved of affection. You look into his eyes and don't break away even as you lick his fingertips clean. Sylus's hands were meant to cradle you, damn whoever's blood decided to taint what's yours.

“You always said I could be greedier with you. Don't start complaining now.”

#❝ —𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖘. ❞#sylus x reader #l&ds #l&ds sylus #lnds #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace x reader #sylus #lads #lnd sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus imagine #lnd x reader #lads x reader #lads sylus #sylus lads #sylus l&ds

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soundop-central · 23 days ago

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The first pride was a riot.

This is what online activists love to say, especially when anything especially horrible happens in our community.

What was originally intended to be a rallying cry of the queers has become a meaningess token slogan.

Jonathan Joss, beloved actor, Indigenous elder, a cherished queer elder was brutally murdered on the first day of Pride Month. The murder is being widely misreported and gone under the radar of many.

While there are tributes for him, especially from the King of the Hill fanbase, there is no outrage.

Are our queer indigenous elders not the very people That online activists say we must protect? Are they not on the fringes of our society, and do their lives not demand our outrage when they are taken?

If Pride is a riot, where are our bricks? Where are our cans? Where is our outrage?

Does Jonathan's story not reflect the brutal reality in which we live?

His home was burned down. His dogs were killed. He died saving the life of his husband.

Does his bravery mean nothing to you? Does his sacrifice not reflect generations of heroism from queer and indigenous peoples. Does his death only mean mourning to you?

If Pride is a riot, why do we take this sitting down. Why do we hold only funerals and not direct action since when has the queer community become so complacent?

Have we torgotten what "rioting" means? Have we grown so used to terror that we allow it to make us complacent? Have we become so stricken with fear that we allow ourselves to stare such injustice in the face and take it lying down?

We praise our black, trans, indigenous and GNC ancestors for their unrelenting bravery, but we use it as a sheild. We allow these stories to comfort us and to make us "Think" we are doing something by remembering them.

But we are not remembering them. Their actions towards liberation are meaningless without continued struggle.

We currently live in a world where queer people are under attack We live in a nation that is dismantling queer rights brick by brick. What are we doing to fight this?

Screaming "Pride is a Riot!" while begging elected officials to do something? Who do you thine Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera were rioting against?

If you think there is something that can be saved in this current system, you are WRONG. They want us DEAD. They are killing us, our queer children, our queer elders, with every piece of legislation that is passed.

When will enough be enough? When will you be tired of taking this injustice and moving on?

Our complicity will be our definition if we do not take up the mantle of liberation our elders passed down to us.

Begging for justice is not enough. We must create our own justice. We must rebuild our world where our justice is revolutionary.

The lack of response is revolting. It is a stain on ourselves. This stain can only be cleansed by truly remembering our history and putting its lessons into action.

There is no justice in a corrupt system. There will be no peace until this system burns. Pride will be the first riot that leads to revolution; but that cannot happen unless we throw the first brick.

Rest in Power Jonathan Joss, Sylvia Rivera, Marsha P. Johnson, Sam Nordquist, Matthew Shepard, and all other queer lives that were taken. Your deaths must be remembered through revolutionary action and nothing less.

#lgbtq #lgbtqia #lgbtq community #lgbt pride #queer rights #pride #pride 2025 #queer history #jonathan joss #marsha p johnson #sylvia rivera #matthew shepard #sam nordquist #no justice no fucking peace.#i am tired of complacency #arent you?

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p1tterp4tter · 19 days ago

Text

“Think about it.”

Playlist & Sneak Peek!

Series Masterlist

READ CHAPTER ONE HERE!

Pairing: QZ!Joel x Reader, Jackson!Joel x Reader

Summary: You loved Joel. Then he abandoned you. He came back after you had already moved on. But… had you? Actually moved on? Or is that just what you told yourself to survive in the years without him?

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, Infidelity, marriage of convenience/loveless marriages, explicit sexual content, angst, previously established relationship, age gap (20s/50s), abandonment, slow burn, female reader, no use of y/n, Joel doesn’t know how to express his feelings until it’s too late, brief mentions of physical violence, non-canon timeline, some canon characters have been written out of this story, I’m so nervous posting this please be nice to me

A/N: This story will contain a ridiculously inaccurate timeline! We are honestly deviating from canon in a lot of ways. Also, HEY, haven’t written anything in like almost a decade? What the fuck? Fanfics are written so differently now than they were the last time I wrote something. Please be nice to me. Also, there will be themes of infidelity, loveless marriages, and more, so if anything like that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read! Some parts of this story are inspired by personal experiences and relationships I have been in, so be gentle please. Also no one has proofread this besides me so bear with me.

Dividers by @saradika

Images featured and characters mentioned in this story do not belong to me!

“Think about it.” — Playlist:

It didn’t take long for you to settle in nicely to the Jackson settlement.

Taking quickly to a job in the stables, you cared for the horses and made sure they stayed fed and healthy, training them to be able to handle long patrols through the harsh terrain and hazardous weather. Making sure they wouldn’t spook at the sound of gunshots or clickers.

Years passed. You made a life for yourself, wedging yourself comfortably into the community. You had a routine— friends, even. A life that made survival worth it.

You had almost forgotten about Joel, about the QZ.

Almost.

You lived in a nice enough cabin, alongside a man named Mitchell. The two of you made it a home. He fixed leaking pipes and squeaky hinges; the kitchen smelled like homemade bread on the weekends from your baking.

He treated you well. He made sure you were both warm and fed. In some ways, he reminded you of Joel. Only… less. Smaller; physically and metaphorically. Less of a man, in a stereotypical, selfish way that you hated to admit thinking about. That, and the fact that you didn’t love him.

You were comfortable. Happy, even, most of the time. It wasn’t love. It was complacency. You felt guilty, but reminded yourself that this was just what life was in the apocalypse— find someone when and where you can. Lean on each other’s backs and stave off your inevitable death for as long as possible.

You shared a bed. Shared rations and conversations. It was more of a relationship than it wasn’t— so that’s what the two of you called it. You wore a ring on her left hand for him, and he for you. Husband and wife, or as close as you could get to it in the end of the world.

Life was good, all things considered. Until the day two new figures approached the gates of Jackson. You had been working the stables when you heard the commotion outside. Tommy, one of the leaders you had gotten to know here in the settlement, was shouting at something or someone.

You made quick work of tacking up your favorite horse. A tall, chestnut quarter horse mix named Gus. You made your way to the gates from the stables, heavy canvas coat keeping you warm, jeans hugging your once hunger-pang legs and hips, flannel tucked in loosely. Your boots tapped Gus’ sides softly, upping his pace as the two of you made your way towards the commotion. Silently praying it wasn’t anything serious, that no one was hurt or worse, nothing could have prepared you for the real cause behind the sudden draw of attention.

Despite the layers of fabric covering your body and the thick socks inside your boots, or the wool cowboy hat resting your head, you felt your entire body go cold when you saw who the sudden fanfare was for.

Tommy was locked into an embrace not too many paces from the gates… with Joel.

Joel Joel.

Joel-who-should-be-dead Joel.

Joel-who-left-you-without-a-word Joel.

And with him, a little girl.

Your heart began beating rapidly, ears ringing from the revelation that he was even alive, head foggy as it tried to wrap around the fact that he was here in Jackson. All you could hear was the panting of your own breaths and the sound of Gus’ heavy hoof beats crunching in the snow, slowing and eventually coming to a stop under the steady guidance of your hands on the reins. Your ears were ringing, vision blurring at the edges.

Tommy and the once familiar figure were still just silhouettes in the distance, but there was no mistaking the man.

It was him. Joel.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #tlou hbo #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel x reader #joel x you #please be nice to me I haven’t written a fanfiction in years

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sambhavami · 1 month ago

Note

yk one woman I will always feel bad for is Kripi.

Unserious reason: I'd feel sorrry for any person who has ashwatthama as a son because im an Ashwatthama hater.

Serious reason: She was probably raised very comfortably and lovingly with Shantanu, doted upon by Kripa, idk if she saw Shantanus other kids as her siblings but maybe them too, very cute, right? And then got married to drona. This makes me wonder what the circumstances of their marriage were, what did the royal family think about it? I like to think Drona liked her at least at first. And. And the first few days are fine, right? Like hey maybe shes not living in a palace but its a quaint little house and shes happy. But slowly Drona begins changing. Or rather showing his true colours. Becomes a stingy but power hungry guy and Kripi had to manage the household with those few resources... he disappears to go learn from Parshuram, when they they have ashwatthama, he's crying for milk and Drona will sit there dreaming about power and money and not even try to do anything... (taking this next part from BR Chopra idk if its in the official editions) When the Drupad thing happens he sacrifices all practicality for pride and even after he gets a job in Hastinapur he's still staying in a small hut because he wants DRUPADS money/cows... like be fr dude. And its all so messed up. And she sees her son grow up. He carries the same ambition as his father did. The cycle is repeating and all she can do is watch. It's so sad... and what did she get at the end of the war. A dead husband and a son who would be known for all eternity as the most cowardly man ever. Her son is alive but at what cost. He will outlive her like he is supposed to but at what cost. It's so sad. I'm sure I can come up with more but this is my Ted talk for now thank you for listening.

Hey, thank you so much for putting all this into words! I agree with you about 90% 😂, so, I am going to put some bullet points 😂

Shantanu all but adopts the twins yes, but he still keeps them in separate lodging (because, caste). We see Bheeshma too later speaking to Kripa with the respect of an elder, even though Bheeshma is the oldest person in the room (again, caste). Seeing that like his father, Kripa is also interested in archery, Shantanu arranges for training in that field alongside your normal theory stuff, and Kripi gets home science lessons (and some of the theory part too).

Now, when they grow up, Dr. Bhaduri's baseline assessment of Kripa is- lazy. He has grown up with the respect of a brahmin and the luxury of a kshatriya, and has never really experienced the 'hardships' of either side, which has made him extremely complacent. I mean, it takes Drona all but one month to take over his sarkari naukri! Throughout the epic [at least till Drona's death] Kripa's maximum contribution is: "Uh, what he said." He follows his muh-bola brother and brother-in-law in whatever decision the latters take. He loves his sister, but I doubt he had anything to do with her marriage this way or that way.

Kripi's marriage to Drona is fixed via a three-way agreement between Shantanu, Sharadvana and Bharadvaja. The reason for this alliance, is speculatively twofold: (1) Both Kripi and Drona's mothers come from a 'lower' caste, and they would find it difficult to marry within full-brahmin families, so this arrangement was b/w equals that way, (2) the Maudgalya brahmins, the Bharadvajas and the Kurus are all cousin lineages, and they did like to keep it within the not-immediate family.

Now, Drona does NOT want to marry her. He only agrees when Bharadvaja sort of blackmails him with a 'this is my dying wish' argument. The marriage happens, I think, shortly before/after Bharadvaja's death, at a time when Drona is too much in shock to protest. We see the ripple effects of this throughout Kripi's life [most of it behind the scenes though].

Bharadvaja was solidly upper-middle-class however. He was after all the dean of a very, very successful gurukul. He might've kept Drona in a pseudo-austere situation, but they weren't by any means hurting for cash. Drona might not have clocked it, and Bharadvaja probably did not think it very appropriate to flash money before his very impressionable kid but Drupada did that job, and the damage was done.

Throughout his childhood and youth Drona loudly complains, to anyone who would listen, that he hates his father's job, and does NOT want to become the next Bharadvaja and keep the gurukul running. He does teach at the school under his father when he's a bit older, but kicking and screaming all the way.

Hence, it's no surprise that once the old Bharadvaja dies, the parents start to withdraw their kids from his school, because why would they allow their children to toil in vain under a guy who very vocally hates the job? Bharadvaja's usp was political science, which isn't Drona's strong suit anyway, so that was the official reason for the students to leave. It is around this time that Kripi marries into the mess. She is comfortable at first yes, but she can see the future too, just is unable to stop it because Drona never listens.

Drona, however does nothing to stop the leak because baap ka maal dariya mein daal, right? He only wises up once all the savings and the students are gone, and he is well and truly penniless. It's now that he sets aside his ego, and asks his neighbours for tuition contracts, and they just say heck no! They rather suggest, "You wanted to be a kshatriya so bad, then go be a soldier under some king instead." And Drona even tries that, and all the local kings go, "I won't sin by employing a brahmin to do a kshatriya's work! Have you considered teaching?"

Now, Drona is well and truly out of options, since no one would even donate a single cow, and he was running out of ways to feed his family. Ashwatthama, he loves dearly, and it pains him immensely to see him suffer and be bullied by kids and adults alike on top of that, but he would still not accept his wife's family's help.

The milk-incident is the straw that breaks the camel's back, and Drona packs up and drags his little family all the way to Kampilya, gets insulted and then finally, to avoid being homeless with a wife and kid, he finally, reluctantly goes to stay with Kripa.

There, once he has enticed the princes, Bheeshma is finally informed that his sister and brother-in-law are here [that much of a low profile he was keeping out of shame]. Bheeshma obviously treats him with respect regardless taking him to his own quarters to have a chat mano-a-mano, and then we get this golden(?) exchange:

Bheeshma: "So Drona, how is my little sister then?"

Drona: "She's got less hair on her head, but she's kinda smart so I tolerate it."

I mean I would still like to know, what was going on in his brain for him to first think of, and then say aloud these words, to her BROTHER no less! YOU starved her for the better part of a decade, your son's voice never changed and he's got a bump on his head as a direct consequence of that, and you were expecting your wife to be what, Hema Malini?!

Bheeshma kinda glosses over that comment, because I guess ladkiwale and all that nonsense, plus I think he realized giving Drona the teaching job was the only way to ensure his sister and nephew would have something to eat the next day, because Drona would still not accept any charity, much less from him.

Bheeshma actually gives Drona an entire apartment complex's worth of four-to-five-storey buildings under the guise of arranging student hostels, and Drona, with his family actually live in a penthouse type flat in one of those buildings itself, with an army of servants and a hefty allowance that he doesn't have to touch since food and lodging are paid for already [gurudakshinas on top of that]. They are comfortable, but Drona would never admit that this turn of fate happened thanks to Kripi and her family [and also he hates teaching unless it is Ashwatthama or later, Arjuna].

Ashwatthama actually grows up relatively well-adjusted considering how most of his childhood went. He is also a better friend of the Pandavas [Arjuna in particular, and there's a bit of jealousy too, and some healthy competition] that the Kauravas. He fights on the Kauravas' side only because Drona doesn't want to be on the same side as Drupada, and Kripa will follow Drona to the earth's end [mostly because he can't bothered to make his own choice]. Ashwatthama mostly sticks around to keep his father and uncle safe, despite the fact that he HATES and is nearly coming to blows every night with Karna.

Karna too, a tactless, filterless idiot, decides that the best time to air all his grievances with Drona [all fair points which I agree with wholeheartedly], to Ashwathhama no less, is one freaking hour after his father's been brutally murdered. Time and a place, man! [Ashwathhama cuts off his janeu, declared himself not-a-brahmin and challenges Karna to a death match, but Duryodhana gets in them iddle and stops it].

Also, this is where something in Ashwatthama cracks. Due to the previous circumstances, he has a kind of an unhealthy attachment to Drona, to the point that he never even goes to rule the part of Panchala that his father crowned him for. His death unleashes something feral in the man, that we see get compounded when he sees Duryodhana dying [this, imo, meshes in his mind with the manner of his father's death, and in a way he goes to avenge Drona when he massacres the remaining Pandavas and Panchalas].

And yes, Kripi is left all alone [except for her twin], to deal with the emotional as well as physical fallout from the war. The only solace was probably that she was great-grandma to Parikshit, and we can only hope that she found some solace there.

#hindu mythology #mahabharat #kripa #kripi #dronacharya #bhishma #ashwatthama

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casuallyobssessed · 15 days ago

Text

Violent Nature - B (Unute) x Queen!Fem!Reader ❥ 3.9k Words

A/N: Originally started writing this due to @treedaddymcpuffpuff 's influence and finally decided to finish it. Shout out to @opheliainlove42 for proof reading this one for me 🫶🏻 /kodaswrld creds for divider

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence and death (canon typical), dub/non-con, p in v sex

Archive of Our Own Link

After your husband, the King, decides to punish you for your disobedience, you find yourself face to face with his semi-human captive pet, B. The King has demanded to see you ravaged by his beast in front of the entire royal guard.

“Well? Go on then,” The King's voice reverberates against the walls as he nods to one of his guards.

Following orders, the guard moves up behind B with the sharp prod he's been itching to use and gives him a quick jab in the back. B stumbles forward towards you with a frightening look in his eyes. There's a mix of fury and uncertainty etched across his features, brows furrowed and mouth set in a deep frown. His shackles give him just enough room to reach out towards you, but it's not enough length for him to touch you.

You recoil, afraid of him after seeing the monstrosities you know he's capable of. You bump into the chest of one of the guards behind you, who roughly shoves you forward. You avoid his gaze, but you also try not to look down, either. They brought him to you already unclothed. A testament to just how inhuman they believed him to be, really.

Normally, he's shackled in the dungeon, mostly subdued, unless the King has ordered for someone to be brought to death by B’s hand. This happens fairly often; a criminal sentenced to death means that the monster's thirst is momentarily quenched.

With this arrangement, there have been no surprise outbursts from him since the first one where he decimated half the King's royal guard. The King, foolish as he is, believes that his pet is utterly complacent.

Unfortunately for you, the Queen, your King also believes that you have become rather disobedient. In your defense, he is an impossible man to please and after becoming his bride at the young age of sixteen, you've finally had enough of him after all these years. It began with small things, like experimenting with the arts after he forbade it and refusing to have relations with him, and moved to more grand explorations like leaving the castle on your own at night to see the stars from outside of the walls.

One day, a guard caught you sneaking out and drug you all the way back to the great hall. Your husband was none too happy to learn of your rebellion, and came up with an unconventional solution. He decided that for a bit of needed entertainment, he'd allow his monster to have his way with you, assuming you'd be killed in the process.

“Free him from the chains. I expect no trouble from the beast,” The King instructs his guards.

They make quick work of removing the cuffs from around his ankles and his wrists. B rubs the sore area where the metal rubbed against his skin as the guards back away. He reaches out again and places a gentle hand on your arm before snatching you closer to him.

He makes a show of feeling his way up your body, slowly taking in your soft curves with calloused hands before leaning down to whisper to you.

His lips hover over your ear, breath tickling your skin as he speaks, low and gravelly, “I don't want to do this to you, but I'll make it as pleasurable as I can.”

You nod, unsure of how to respond. The whole situation is fucked up but you take some comfort in knowing that your husband's precious pet will try his best to look out for you. There's a silent moment, between the shouting of the guards and the hammering in your chest. B looks you earnestly in the eyes, his face has softened and you hope he can't see your tears threatening to spill over.

He looks away from you, and your attention is drawn back to where your husband, the King, is resting on his throne. He's toying with a goblet, as if he was watching a play. There's an unreadable, hard look on his face and your heart shrivels up inside your chest. The sudden pang of betrayal sends the tears flowing down your cheeks and you struggle to collect yourself.

B’s hands squeeze your hips and then come up to cup your cheeks. His hands are huge compared to your face, making you feel impossibly small. He wipes away your tears with his thumbs before kissing you softly. You hate that it feels good, the way his tongue brushes against your lip like he’s asking, not taking. You hate that your body leans in, even now.

Once again his hands are travelling down your body. He busies himself with slipping his fingers under the edge of your barely-there dress, gripping it tightly, and ripping it in half down the front of your body with ease. There are a few whistles from the crowd, reminding you that they are, in fact, still watching.

You feel exposed and vulnerable now that your only clothing is in tatters on the floor. Without thinking, you move your arms to cover your chest and stomach, but B stops you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them to your sides.

“Let me see you,” He says cooly before stepping back to sweep his eyes over your body. He makes a grunt of approval before leaning in close to your neck to speak only for your ears, “You're beautiful.”

You feel the heat of blush rising in your cheeks. When he releases your wrists, you make no move to cover yourself again. B carefully guides you backwards until the backs of your legs bump against the edge of the bed, placed here for this occasion. You hesitate.

B leans in, his breath warm against your throat, his hands sliding slowly down your sides in an attempt to comfort you. Then, without a word, he eases you down onto the bed and onto the soft, plush fur of the animal hides laid out just for you.

You lie back with your heart hammering in your chest. B follows, caging you in with his arms. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another just below it. He trails soft kisses down your chest, across the curve of your breast, the rise of your stomach. You moan, body arching subtly toward each brush of his lips. When he parts your thighs and presses a kiss to your clit, the touch is so light it makes you gasp. The sensation ripples through you, a spark that lights up every nerve in your body.

“Enough of this nonsense! Get on with it,” The King demands.

The King never made the effort to help you finish when you “made love,” didn't see the point. His pleasure was always the main event, assuming all five pathetic thrusts would be enough for you to get yours, too. Maybe it could have been if his dick was big enough for you to actually feel when he was inside you. Asshole. You close your eyes and try to push him out of your mind.

“I'm sorry,” B whispers against your thigh, loud enough for only you to hear.

B presses a haste kiss to the sensitive area between your thigh and your cunt. Slowly, he straightens and positions himself, aligning his cock with your entrance. You know you’re not quite ready, but you hope that what he’s already given you will be enough.

With a tight grip on your hips, he presses the swollen tip of his cock into your soft, wet heat. He growls, deep and feral against your neck, making you whimper in response. There's an eruption of cheers from the audience that makes your skin crawl. Tuning them out is easy because you're completely consumed with the delicious way he's stretching you out as he seats himself fully inside of you.

A few shallow thrusts in, and suddenly the crowd of people has grown closer. The King is now standing beside you with an inquisitive look on his face. He circles the bed with his hands behind his back, deep in thought. A handful of guards join him at your bedside.

One even tries to include himself in the action by reaching out to grab at you, but B intervenes by shoving his arm away from you and letting out a possessive growl. The offending guard tries to retaliate by pulling his weapon and you can feel B tense up against you.

For a moment, there's a silent standoff between the two until the King steps in and diffuses the situation by placing a hand against the guard’s, motioning for him to sheathe his sword.

“Patience boy, you'll get your turn in due time,” says the King.

You're suddenly hyper aware of the people surrounding you. The crowding of the room is overwhelming. From the shifting of armor, the stink of sweat and leather, to the glint of hungry eyes. You can’t breathe. You begin to frantically look around at the faces staring you down and your pulse is thundering in your ears.

“No,” B grabs your face with his hand, keeping your gaze on him, “Look at me.”

You keep your eyes trained on his and take a deep breath. You try tricking yourself into calming down, but it isn't working very well. The abrupt realization of what's actually happening right now hits you like a freight train.

B adjust his grip on your hips, his fingers sinking into your flesh like he’s anchoring himself to you. For him, you’re probably the only thing keeping him from snapping the chain on his humanity and ripping the King’s head from his shoulders.

You wish he would.

Instead, he moves inside you again. It's slow, deep, and deliberate. He turns the moment into a show, a calculated performance for the wolves circling the bed. Your nails dig into his back, not out of pleasure but in an attempt to ground yourself. A way to hold yourself with a pleading grasp to something strong and steady. His skin is warm beneath your palms, soaked from sweat with the effort of holding back. He murmurs ‘I’m sorry’ again, like that makes any of this bearable.

“How… charming. My beast has manners,” The King chuckles.

The ass-kissing laughter from his guards leaves a sour taste in your mouth. One slaps another on the back, whispering something crass that you can't fully hear, but the look they simultaneously shoot your way makes your stomach churn.

B’s thrusts falter, and you can feel him trembling. You know it's not from strain, but rather from restraint. He glances up at the King with something venomous in his eyes. You know that look. You've seen it before when a man's head was crushed like wet paper between B's hands. Your husband notices too.

“Don't forget, brute, I can always send her to the dungeon instead. I'm sure the other prisoners would be more appreciative of this opportunity.”

A shiver runs down your spine from the way B’s whole body reacts. The dam holding back his self-control cracks and then bursts open. His next move inside of you is no longer gentle. It's desperate and violent. His anger isn't directed at you, but you're the avenue for him to release it.

He growls like a feral animal and buries his face in your neck. You can feel his teeth scrape your skin, but he doesn't bite, not yet.

“Please,” You whisper.

His teeth sink into your skin as he thrusts into you, and you moan. When he licks across the sore spot on your neck before pulling away, the shame you feel creeps back up to the surface. You let out a whimper and try to turn your face away, but he catches your jaw with his hand and forces your eyes on his.

“Stay with me,” B snarls, more commanding than comforting now, “You look at me.”

He's trying to protect you from their disgusting, leering faces, but you feel worse facing him knowing that he's being forced to do this to you. In his attempts to shield you from the crowd, you know they can't rip you apart without going through him first, and that brings you a modicum of comfort. There's something a little bit sick about it, but you cling to it anyway.

The King circles the bed again, dragging his fingers across the curve of your shoulder as he passes.

“Truly, I expected him to rip your throat out by now,” He muses, “But he's being unnaturally kind to you. As if you deserve such a luxury.”

He leans down beside you and speaks softly, “You never moaned in such a manner with me. It seems he's awakened something sinful within you.”

You don't respond to him. You keep your burning, teary eyes glued to B. The heat of his body is the only thing keeping you in the present.

The King steps back and then speaks again.

“Hear me, beast. When you finish, you are to hold her down for the others to defile her in your place. Each guard has earned his time with her,” His voice bellows.

For a breath, no one moves.

B’s body stops shaking and he freezes with your heat still wrapped around him. Your husband's words hang in the air and echo in your mind.

You can feel the moment B processes what was said. Something awful carves itself into his face. You’ve seen fury and hunger in him before, but what flashes across his eyes now is something more similar to betrayal. Not towards the King, but towards himself. As if he let this happen, like his restraint somehow invited it. He presses his forehead to yours.

“I won't let them touch you,” He promises.

“Unute…” You caution, using a more familiar name for him, hoping it'll calm him.

He doesn't hear you, or if he does, it doesn't make a difference. B leans back and you can see the blue glow emanating from his eyes.

Behind him, the guards start to move, emboldened by the King’s decree. One undoes his belt with a lecherous smirk, another spits into his hand. Their steps toward the bed are eager and predatory.

B slowly turns his head, inching himself out of your cunt, little by little. Deep down, you're disappointed. Now that you have experienced a taste of what he was like, you’re craving more time with him.

The first guard to reach the bed is dead before his body hits the floor. It's so fast, you almost miss it. There's a blur of motion, the sharp crack of bone, and the wet snap of someone's neck being twisted too far. Blood splashes across you and the bed, leaving a trail of red along your stomach.

You scream, or maybe someone else does. You can't tell. Chaos erupts in the great hall. The second guard gets his blade halfway out of his sheath before B rips his arm off at the shoulder and bludgeons him with it. The body topples over, twitching. The room is screaming now, and B is roaring over it all. He sounds so inhuman, it makes your skin crawl.

The King’s voice cuts through the noise, mighty and full of disbelief, “Stop him! STOP-”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. B reaches him in three strides and slams him to the ground with one hand around his throat, the other crushing the King’s jaw until it crumbles like glass. You hear the bones shatter. The King gurgles, his eyes bulging. He slams the King’s head into the stone floor. Once. Twice. The third time, it splits like a melon. Silence follows.

There's blood everywhere as more red spills out from your husband's cracked skull to coat the gray beneath him. B turns to you, chest heaving, drenched in proof of his victory. His eyes are wide and there's a hunger in them that has yet to be completely fed.

B stands over the King’s mangled corpse, shoulders rising and falling with every labored breath. His chest gleams with sweat and blood. His fingers twitch like they still want to break something. The sound of his snarling breath fills the vastness of the room. His gaze doesn’t leave you, but it’s not actually you that he’s seeing. There is no recognition behind his eyes.

You sit up slowly, ignoring the ache between your legs and the stickiness on your thighs. The room has mostly cleared out, save for a handful of guards too stunned to move.

“B?” You whisper, “It’s over.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn't even flinch. His lips curl back from his teeth in a slow, wolfish grin. His hands clench into fists at his sides and he's trembling again. You can tell things are about to get worse.

“You don’t… you don't have to fight anymore, Unute,” You plead with him.

B stares you down with no proper response. He’s lost in it.

You slide off the bed, your knees shaking. When your bare feet hit the stone floor, you hiss softly from the cold, missing the warmth you had under B.

One of the problems with the King keeping B as a pet, and his personal killing machine, is that he couldn't stop killing. There is no halt or down command. Once he got started, he kept going until there was nothing left. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time usually meant you'd get caught in his grasp. Many of his handlers met similar fates while trying to subdue him.

You used to hear rumors about him around the castle. They said he once tore through twelve men in the time it took for a chalice to fall from a table. You never believed the hushed whispers until you attended his first “feeding.” Your husband was more than delighted to show off what his pet could do, though it left you feeling ill.

B is an incredibly powerful tool, and after today, you've learned that he is also a surprisingly gentle man. He was more human to you than anyone else who had been in this room today.

You take a step forward, but you don't reach for him.

From here, you're close enough to see just how far gone he is. You can feel it radiating off him, a fiery, dangerous heat. The bloodlust hasn’t drained. It’s lying in wait, just beneath the surface and begging for an excuse.

His gaze skims over you, and pauses for the briefest second, like something inside him is trying to remember who you are. You're hopeful that maybe you can pull him out of this without further incident. But just as quickly as you got your hopes up, it’s gone again, drowned beneath the sound that rumbles from his chest. Suddenly, he's moving toward you.

A single backhanded blow catches you across the face and flings you from your feet like a ragdoll. Your breath explodes from your lungs as you crash to the cold stone floor. You hear something crack and pain blossoms all over your body.

You lie there, blinking up at the vaulted ceiling, trying to catch your breath. You touch your side, your fingers come away red and wet. Blood is already pooling beneath you.

B looks down at you, and for a second, he sees what he’s done. There's nothing but indifference when you look into his eyes. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but he doesn't.

Instead, he turns and bolts, vanishing into one of the side corridors. A couple of the remaining guards chase after him, while the rest drop to their knees in relief that he spared them. You're left on the floor, naked, with the heat dissipating from your body as your blood spreads further along the stone. You're able to roll onto your side, but your body feels too heavy to go any further.

From your position with your cheek pressed to the floor, you watch as the last three guards approach and hover over you. Your lips tremble. The word ‘help’ barely leaves your tongue before the men are kicking you onto your back.

Of course. Of course they'd use this as an opportunity to take what they were robbed of. The beast is gone. The King is dead. The Queen is vulnerable and not long for this world. There would be no consequences.

One of them forces your legs apart with his boot, and you try to scream but you can't take a deep enough breath. You imagine you must look like a fish out of water with the way your mouth gapes silently.

He laughs, palming the small tent in his pants, “Don't worry, your Highness. We'll make it quick.”

Before he can lay a hand on you, a small figure jumps between you and the guard. It's a young woman, dressed in a simple servant's gown. You recognize her as one of your new ladies-in-waiting. You haven't even had a chance to learn her name yet.

“Get back!” She cries out, arms spread wide as if she could take on the world, “She needs help. She's your Queen for God's sake! Please don't do this.”

One of the guards punches her and she crumples with a shout. The other two burst out in laughter.

“Stupid wench. Are you asking for a turn, too?”

And then, the laughter cuts off. The air changes. You can feel it before you see it. There's a cold chill and an electric charge that buzzes in the space above you. One of the guards turns his head and frowns.

The same guard stumbles back, frantically looking around the room, “What is that?”

It's too late for him..A shape barrels out of the shadows of one of the corridors. You can barely believe your eyes when you realize it's B. He's all muscle and rage, covered in even more blood. He slams into the nearest guard. The man barely has time to scream before his chest caves in with a sickening crunch. The other men don’t even move.

B rises from his fresh kill and sets his eyes on his next target. This man makes the mistake of reaching for his blade before B can reach him.

“BACK! Stay back, you animal!” The guard warns as his sword shakes in his grip.

B wastes no time in grabbing him by the neck, lifting him clean off the ground, and slamming him headfirst into the closest wall. His skull gives before the stone does. B drops the body on the floor with a wet thud and steps over it, heading for the last guard standing. He barely makes it within five feet before the man pisses himself and takes off running as fast as he can out of the great hall.

He turns to the girl, the lady-in-waiting, who’s trying to drag herself up to her knees. She stares up at him, eyes wide with terror. He looks at her for a long, excruciating moment. Then, he passes her and disappears behind the same doors that the guard fled through, without a glance back at you.

The stone underneath your head begins to feel softer. The world is darkening around the edges of your vision. The pain is getting quieter. You blink slowly, your fingers twitch toward him. You feel a small hand grab yours.

“My Queen? Are you still with me?” You hear her voice but you can't see her face. You can't see anything.

#brzrkr #b x reader #b x you #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #x reader #unute #b #keanuverse #the berserker

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