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thyde-cant-write-for-shit · 5 months ago

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1-800-red-hoods-gas-station-attendant-service

Your boyfriend's not fond of you pumping your own gas at night, so he insists you don't do it alone.

🩹 G/AUs: fluff, est. relt. 🩹 TW: reader (f) is called beautiful, pretty, princess, baby, doll (i love nicknames okay leave me alone 😭), mentions of blood and fighting 🩹 WC: 1.5k 🩹 A/N: Inspired by this reel (sfw). Just a little fun and easy read 💗 enjoy!

this blog is 18+. minors do not interact. plz & ty! (ageless/minors/blanks blogs will be blocked)

masterlist

Ever since Jason caught a group of people trying to rob someone at the gas station a week ago, he’s insisted you not get gas alone—especially at night.

Your arguments fall on deaf ears. He’s put his foot down and covered it in cement. There’s nothing you can say to make Jason change his mind.

“Hey, beau”—grunts—”tiful. Need somethin’?” Jason asks after the fourth ring.

You can faintly hear the sound of fists hitting skin in the background.

“You busy, handsome?” you wonder, eyes glancing at the low fuel light glaring at you. You already know his answer and the real answer before he speaks.

“Nope,” he answers followed by more grunting. “You home from your ladies' night?”

Upon seeing a gas station in the distance, you signal to take the highway's exit ramp.

“Not yet. I called because I’m low on gas and need to get some to make it home. I figured calling you while I pumped—”

“Where are you?” he asks instead, voice slightly strained.

“Near upper west side.”

“Come to the diamond district, and I’ll meet you there.”

You pull into an empty pump station.

“I’m already at a gas station, Jay. Just—”

“It’s not safe.”

“You’re tracking my location and you can hear—”

“It’s not safe to use your phone while getting gas too,” he continues to interrupt.

You heave a sigh and lean back into your seat, unable to stop your eyes from checking your locks. Although you’ve always been weary of pumping gas at night, you try not to be too paranoid. You hate being on edge all the time.

“Please, doll?” he pleads, breathing heavier.

There are curses in the background that don’t sound like Jason. His attackers must not like him much.

“Alright, but hurry. My light’s on,” you say. You sit straighter and shift gears to leave.

“I’m on my way now. Hey, Red Ro—”

The line cuts off, but you figure Jason’s recruiting Tim to take care of his loose ends. You feel bad for taking Jason away from his work, but you don’t want him to be upset with you for getting gas by yourself. He’s not fun when he’s grumpy.

Jason’s sitting comfortably on his motorcycle when you turn into the station.

When he sees your car, he stands and waves. You know there’s a grin behind his helmet.

The gas station is empty except for the convenience store worker. He looks at the vigilante suspiciously from inside.

You park at the station he’s at, turn off the car, and pull the lever that opens the gas tank. You climb out and smile at him, holding your card in one hand.

“Hi there, cutie. You come here often?” you tease.

He chuckles and swiftly pays for the gas before you can. You give him a disapproving look that he ignores.

“Only for you, princess,” he replies.

You put your card away as he takes the pump and untwists the tank’s cap.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, feeling guilty again. You figured he’d come and watch the area, not actually pump your gas for you.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “You can sit back down and jus’ look pretty for me, baby.”

“That makes me sound like a spoiled brat,” you huff but do as you’re told, keeping the door open so you can converse.

Jason leans against your car as he fills your tank.

“Well, you’re only half right. You are spoiled, but that’s the way I like it.”

You shake your head at his reply, but there’s a smile on your face. Truthfully, it’s a little nice to not have to worry about anything—to just let Jason care for you.

Your eyes scan his tall form, taking in his armored-covered body and shiny helmet. You notice a few dark spots on his gloves and clothes that you figure are blood.

“It’s a little funny seeing the Red Hood pump my gas,” you quip as you grin at him.

“What can I say? I’m here to help the citizens of Gotham in any way,” he jokes.

“You have a busy night?” you ask, recalling the phone call from earlier.

“Nothin’ too extreme,” he replies.

When your tank is full, he returns the pump and twists the cap back on.

He moves in front of you, resting one hand on the car’s top while he leans down.

“If it weren’t for that goober watching us like a hawk, I’d give you a kiss,” he says.

“Only a kiss? I’d pull you in the back seat and have some fun,” you say with a flirty smile.

He laughs and lowers his head more. You’re so tempted to kiss him.

“We’ll have fun at home,” he says.

“You’re coming back with me?” you ask, eyes opening wider with hope.

He shakes his head. “Sorry, princess. I still need to go help Tim. I’ll be back soon though.”

“Define soon,” you reply with a slight pout.

Jason drops in a squat so he can take your hands; the act is hidden by your door.

“An hour or two?” he says. “But don’t wait up. It could be longer.”

You nod solemnly.

Jason squeezes your hands, thumbs rubbing your skin tenderly.

“Text me when you get home, ‘kay?” he asks.

“Okay,” you say.

Jason releases your hands to rub your thighs.

“Thank you for calling me,” he adds.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want my boyfriend upset with me,” you huff halfheartedly.

Jason squeezes your legs.

“Just want ya safe, doll.”

“I know,” you sigh and place your hands over his.

“I better get going,” he says and reluctantly begins to pull away.

You grab his hands to hold him close.

“Ya know, you might as well just kiss me. I think the worker knows you’re not just here to pump a random Gothamite’s gas.”

Jason chuckles and takes a peek at the window. The worker still looks on, but now with a confused face. When he notices Jason staring, he averts his gaze. Though, Jason knows it won’t last long.

“Fine,” he relents and leans down.

You grin, reaching out to cup his helmet as you kiss the cool material. Of course, it’s not the same as feeling his lips on yours, but the sentiment is felt.

“Love you,” you murmur as you pull away and drop your hands.

Jason sighs longingly. “Love you too, beautiful. See you at home.”

“See you,” you reply.

Jason ends up following you for a while for extra precaution before heading back to his patrol shift. He doesn’t come home for another three hours.

When he does, you’re on the brink of sleep. Still, you turn in his arms so you can snuggle your face against his chest.

“Missed you,” you mumble.

His chest vibrates as he laughs. “You saw me a few hours ago.”

“And what ‘bout it, Todd?” you huff.

He pulls you even closer and rests his head against yours. His body feels so nice. You wish you could stay in his arms for days.

“Nothin’, doll. I missed ya too,” he says in a deep, tired voice.

“Hmph! Thought so,” you reply and carefully lift your head to give him a triumphant smile.

Jason releases an amused puff of air.

“Get some sleep, silly,” he says.

“Kiss first,” you demand, puckering your lips dramatically.

Jason grins and angles his face to give you a tender smooch.

Your lips spread in a grin upon feeling him directly.

When he goes to pull away, you whine in protest and chase after him. You capture his mouth again before he can get too far.

Jason laughs into the kiss, pulling you on top of him. His hands trail up your sides to cup your face. His warmth spreads from your cheeks to your heart.

There’s a dopey, sleepy smile on your face when you pull away.

“God, I love you,” Jason says with the utmost sincerity that squeezes your heart.

“Not as much as I love you,” you sing-song, leaning down to peck his lips.

“Yeah, right,” he chuckles and moves his hands back to your sides. He slides them under your shirt to feel you directly.

Instead of arguing, you lean down to kiss him once more.

“You’re comfy,” you mumble.

He can’t stop the happiness that shows on his face at your words. He gently eases you down by pressing lightly on your upper back and says, “Good. I like you like this.”

He adjusts his head against his pillow and closes his eyes, arms holding your body to his like a teddy bear.

“I like being here,” you reply and lay your head on his chest. You love hearing the rhythm of his heart.

You feel him give your head a kiss before he gets settled. It’s not long before his breathing gets steadier, and his arms lax slightly around your body. As you join him in dreamland, you realize you’ll never feel safer than in his arms.

A/N: I have this for my other blog, so I wanted to share it here too: For my “shy/silent” readers, I’ve created a feedback form where you can share your thoughts on my fics in a more anonymous and private way. ^-^

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

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thyde-cant-write-for-shit · 5 months ago

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there’s absolutely nothing better than reading a 100k word fanfic, that is until you remember you have a body that is starving, thirsty and incredibly sleep deprived and hasn’t used the bathroom since the sun set 8 hours ago

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thyde-cant-write-for-shit · 5 months ago

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The Blood God and His Fledgling

An AU wherein Techno is a depressed ancient vampire and thinks Tommy is the reincarnation of Theseus. The first one is here.

Part 2-The Bus Stop

The Blood God hadn’t left his room in centuries. The wolves were in a frenzy, instincts registering a predator-master-god in a way they couldn’t comprehend. The raucous noise approached a howl and- no, that wouldn’t do at all. That would register as danger to the mind of a prey animal like the human boy. But his complete mastery over his thralls made it a non issue. Dozens of blood-red eyes lit up in the darkened husk of his home, and silently the wolves streamed out into the overgrown wilderness of the manor grounds.

Only one monster remained. The Blood God hesitated at the threshold, suddenly forced to reckon with the beast he’d become. Would Theseus be horrified to see him? He truly didn’t know if this boy, this splitting image of his friend, actually was some sort of reincarnation, or revival, or miracle. And if he flinched, The Blood God might never learn. With a snarl of frustration, he realized his eagerness might just drive his once chance of happiness away.

He didn’t know how to be human anymore. It hadn’t mattered, before. It was easier to abandon the false mask, to sink into the beastial nature of his shapeshifting.

The Blood God clenched his hand, forcing the stubborn claws to recede onto something tame. Next the tusks, fangs shrinking in his boarish snout. With no reflection to guide him, he clasped his face, touch his only guide as he tried to mold himself into the dull blur of mortal features. It was a face none on earth could remember, including The Blood God himself.

It was the face Theseus had loved. The Blood God had concerned himself so much with still being human, then. Ever so scared of being the monster. And Theseus was the only one who hadn’t cared, who saw him as a man.

He couldn’t remember why it seemed so important, now.

The gnarled bloody bat wings sprawled uselessly, a permanent stain no matter how he tried to rip them from his form. At best he could fold them and sternly coerce the leathery patagium to mimic the drapings of a cloak, his bone white scruff merging into the guise of a mantel. It would have to suffice to conceal the inhuman nature of the rest of him, patience wearing thin. Perhaps it would be enough. Please let it be enough. Please let his friend remember him. The Blood God threw open the door-

-and realized it was midday.

His snarl echoed like thunder, rumbling in the clouds overhead. They darkened with his frustration, nimbus whipped into a spiral of vicious winds slowly spilling out on the earth below. Theseus’ head jerked up at the first crack of thunder, vamperic hearing barely catching his distant groan. As the heavens split into a torrential downpour, he retreated under the awning of the bench, knees folded to his chest so his boots wouldn’t get soaked.

The world surrounding was foreign, rivers of black and gleaming horseless carriages and blossoming sky shields protecting mortals from the downpours. He floundered momentarily in the dauntingly unrecognizable civilization. It mattered little before, aloft and indifferent as he watched humanity from above. But once suddenly necessary to navigate, he was far less certain.

He latched immediately on the one island of familiarity in the sea of incomprehensible human machinations. In a blink, The Blood God stood at Theseus’ side. The awning was made of a strange not-fabric that deterred water, but was threadbare and pockmarked. And with the wild gusts of wind picking up with his heady excitement, the mortal was utterly drenched, lip and body curled in protest against his condition.

It was Theseus. It's all he could think, so close. The Blood God soaked in his image, as perfect as the day he died. Theseus down to the way his cobalt eyes crinkled when he scowled, the slight deflection of his dark thick eyebrows betraying the vehemence he was trying to project with an undercurrent of shameful crestfallen truth. The soft duo nicks of scars across a square jaw, every part of him right down to the stray freckles on his skin.

The hero breathed once more.

Theseus didn’t notice him, obliviously sullen, until a crack of lightning had his gaze flicker to the heavens. On a double take his eyes widened upon The Blood God, scrambling back with a yelp of ‘BWAH!’

The Blood God flinched.

“JESUS MAN DON'T SNEAK UP ON A BLOKE LIKE THAT!” he squawked incomprehensibly. Theseus let out a breath, scooping up drenched hair from where it’d flattened into his eyes to look at him. Not fear. No not fear, and the tension freezing the vampire eased in a slump. Only startled, and…annoyed. He didn’t recognize The Blood God even slightly, the fact immediately blatant and agonizing. Another glance to size him up, and Theseus pointedly pinned his eyes on a nearby post to avoid the awkwardness of staring at a stranger.

It wasn’t fair to the child before him, the swelling betrayal choking him. Abandoned for a second time then, and he knew it wasn’t Theseus’ fault, could never have been, but it didn’t ease the fact his friend left him alone for thousands of years when he died. But Theseus was a hero. And heroes were destined for tragedy. And so the wound in his chest speared entirely through to lodge in The Blood God’s, too, and unlike the human he was not offered the relief of death from a mortal blow.

A reincarnation, then. But why now? Had- had his friend being reincarnating over and over for the sake of reuniting, and he’d been sunk too deep in his grief to even notice? Or had he gone more than blood-mad? The splitting image of Theseus perhaps, but that meant nothing if the similarities were only skin deep. Yet attempting to reign in his long doused hope might have been pointless, soul soothed merely by soaking in the image before him.

Theseus’ gaze flickered to him through periphery, but each time their gaze locked together it jolted away as if caught red-handed. He hunched into himself defensively, though that might’ve been to ward off the chill of the weather. The Blood God used to summon storms to tease him, the image of the hero laughing while drenched plastered into his mind. But now Theseus only looked miserable, like a little sopping wet raccoon.

The Blood God’s wing stretched out to shelter him from the rain before he remembered it was meant to be a cloak. Belatedly he reached as if his hand held it in place. Theseus blinked, then looked up at him. It took a second to cough up a grateful grin in the midst of his stormy mood. “Oh, uh- thanks. You also forget an umbrella?” Theseus offered awkwardly. The Blood God froze, suddenly sharply aware he’d lost track of human tongue. Perhaps he could rely on a jumble of conversations he’d heard from passing conversations below? But- oh, Theseus was giving him an odd look for the hesitation. Too accustomed to introspection, The Blood God feared the breakneck pace of mortal lifespan was foreign to him now. “Talkative, arntcha slenderman? What’s your insta? …twitter?” The Blood God…couldn’t understand him. Theseus squinted at him. “Huh, coulda sworn by the silver mop,” he gestured vaguely at the wild tangle of The Blood God’s hair, “and everything you were a cosplayer? For some rizzless edgelord anime? Eh- no offense, since the cloak was definitely a W ‘cause of storm. Has to be drip given we’re both drenched!” Uncertain what was even being said, he cautiously shook his head. Certainly as chatty as Theseus, immediately brightening once he had someone to talk to. Perhaps that was just being sheltered from the rain, however. At least he seemed to catch The Blood God’s lost expression. “Boomer, then. What’s your name?”

That at least was intelligible. “τέχνα.” He hadn’t used the name in millennium. That name -that man- had died with Theseus. But perhaps it could be reborn alongside him.

“Techno? That’s a funny name.” It rolled strangely on his tongue, made unfamiliar in a way that hurt. To no avail, The Blood God tried to correct him. But maybe it couldn’t sound the same, no warm love shaping every syllable. He swallowed the distance bitterly. “Techno! Sick. That a nickname, is it?”

“...’Tis not Nicholas, nay.” The Blood God was quite pleased with having deduced what a nickname was, and even more so with hearing Theseus laugh.

“You must be a riot at parties.” Violence? Upon who? Whoever it was would be slaughtered if Theseus willed it. “Halloween ones, prolly. I’m Tommy.”

The Blood God jolted. “Are you certain?”

His nose crinkled up in bafflement the same way as Theseus. “Uh. Well, Thomas if I’m in trouble, but that’s just for my mum innit?” In these unenlightened days, he supposed children might not be named Theseus anymore. Tommy. He rolled the name around in his mouth, and then discarded it.

“Was it fate that drew you here?” Why now? Why not centuries sooner?

Theseus scowled. “Waiting for my friend to show up.”

“So am I.”

Brightening at their commissary, Theseus butted his arm with an elbow. “We can wait together then.” Yes. They had to. Eternity, if this really was Theseus. But reminded by his misfortune, Theseus darkened slightly. He swiped his nose angrily to get rid of the water dripping down it. “Mine was meant to show ages ago. Rotten useless ditcher. AND my phone died hours ago, so I dunno if he texted me about it before ghosting.” He gestured with a piece of black glass clutched protectively in his hands. “Maybe he cancelled or something, dunno. Might’ve checked the weather forecast, unlike me.”

He understood at least one word in the plaintive cry! “The weather is a capricious god, tied to its whims and falling carelessly to dash mortal plans,” The Blood God lied awkwardly to cover up part of the Theseus’ misery was his own fault. He was pleased to discover he laughed the same as Theseus, too. He found he wanted to replay the sound over, and over.

The chuckle trickled into a sigh. “I’ve been skipping buses out of- well, spite by now. But the last one dipped right before the storm.” What was a bus?? “Guess I’m stuck out here,” he grumbled glumly.

Opportunities multiply as they were seized. “I offer my home as an aegis from the storm.” Theseus blinked, then seemed to catch what he meant. Hah, so the language barrier went both ways!

“You’re not gonna kidnap me, are you?” Theseus joked. Like many words he wielded, The Blood God made little sense of ‘kidnapping’, but laughed along anyway. It seemed to ease the slight tension to his shoulders. “It’s prolly too far lol.” Another slight widening of his eyes as The Blood God gestured to the manor, and then a double take at the structure nestled between tall modern buildings. “Why am I surprised you own a castle? But really, I can handle a little rain, no skin off my nose…” it became an utter downpour at once, Theseus squeezing his eyes shut as the gales slammed into him. Making a disgruntled expression, he rose, water pooling at his feet. “...or not! Lead on then, Hannibal. You can’t be worse than drowning.”

Next>

#wait wrong fucking blog

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thyde-cant-write-for-shit · 5 months ago

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where’s connor’s “how has this man not been banned yet” compilation

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thyde-cant-write-for-shit · 5 months ago

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The Blood God and His Fledgling

Part 1: The Window

The permanent stain upon the earth called himself The Blood God, but he had collected many names in the thousands of years he’d haunted humanity. He supposed these days he would be considered an elder vampire, though in truth ‘these days’ spanned centuries, and as of late he had rather lost track of it all. He’d been called a monster, a demon, a nightmare. In the ancient days when he’d still cared, he had forced the humans to call him a god. And before then, when he had still been human…

The last time that name had ever been spoken, it was in a hero’s dying screams. The Blood God’s humanity died with him.

The Blood God was left in his place. A menacing brute, more predator than man, his tusks long stained with the blood he drank. But where once mortals feared his presence prowling in the night, now he was nothing more than the fading memory of a nightmare. The mankind he’d haunted had lost even the whispers of stories about him, an old myth, forgotten myth, a dusty artifact abandoned and to lay where it was discarded. But The Blood God preferred to be undisturbed, anyway.

At most The Blood God moved only to feed, and even then it was delayed as long as possible until the maddening blood thirst at last overwhelmed the listless immortality it sustained. It irked him to have to move at all, that the instincts to survive plagued him still. How inconvenient he must persist, but persist he did for an immortal is good for nothing else. The Blood God fed upon the strain of wolves he’d personally domesticated, less for any concern of mortal life, and more so of convenience and a simmering misanthropic temperament born of apathy.

He didn’t concern himself much with humanity, withdrawn from a world speeding past at incomprehensible speed. Below the window he always sat at, the city grew ravenously, architecture transforming with incomprehensible materials, the world unfamiliar and lonely. But the humans rushing past were all the same, swarming ants. The faces he’d seen over the centuries had become little more than an indistinguishable blur, repetitious, dull. The predator’s eyes lazily traced the movement of his prey, but they held no interest, truly. It was only the instincts of a wretched beast, building pressure in the back of his skull telling him it had been too long since he last fed. But perhaps he could postpone another fortnight.

And then in the midst of the miasma of humanity, a beacon. A flash of familiar gold working through the crowd. Vampires healed too quickly for it to matter, but The Blood God still hadn’t lost the impulse to prod at a throbbing wound despite knowing it would still hurt. And so he carefully watched the young human with hair like a gleaming summer harvest, anticipating the second he turned and grief speared through The Blood God once more. Perhaps he could have spared The Blood God by passing out of view, but he lingered at a strange bench. Back to the window, swinging his legs a little as he waited. A type of cruelty, in its own right, to deny The Blood God a swift blow. But he was already waiting till the cessation of eternity with no relief. This throb of his long dead heart made little difference.

As if likewise impatient, the boy’s head twisted, searching. A glance at something small in his hands, a bouncing leg, and he rose. Looking around, and The Blood God braced as he turned into view. But the expected pain never came.

Because this time, it really was Theseus.

The same dancing cobalt eyes and cheekbones and jawline and eyebrows and nose and him, it was him, it was his friend.

With a rattling, choking gasp, The Blood God remembered how to breathe again. It hollowed him out like a gale, almost scorchingly invasive. His chest heaved with it, then stilled, the repetitive instinct long, long dead. His claws twitched, then pressed to his maw in wonder. Thousands of years had passed since those lips drew their last breath. The Blood God had been so worried over it at first, how he could just forget to breathe. Theseus had just teased him over it, subtly assuring him it didn’t matter. And the hero had been right, of course. So wearisome a habit, frequent and mundane, too fast to keep up with for an ancient immortal.

Mortal. Startling, The Blood God lurched to his feet, hooves splintering the floorboards. He needed to act now, before the mortal slipped through his claws. A life so fleeting- no, he could blink and Theseus would be gone again. Cobwebs lacing him to the chair snapped, dust billowing from the dragging of his wings as The Blood God lunged for the window.

The mortal was fully facing him now, talking to seemingly thin air with a familiar exacerbated ribbing that ached to not be directed to him. The vampire pressed to the shaded glass, enraptured with the vision before him. He soaked up every last detail, basking in the mortal’s image. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind. That was Theseus. His friend. The other half of his soul.

A fractured soul could not endure eternity, not alone. And now, he didn't have to be alone. This time, The Blood God wasn’t going to accept no for an answer.

Next>

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thyde-cant-write-for-shit · 6 months ago

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Motion Sickness

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason makes you cry after a fight

warnings: angst with comfort

“Jason—”

He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”

Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” he challenges.

You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”

He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently.

A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”

“It’s not about needing it—”

“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”

You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”

“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways.

You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung.

Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen.

“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”

There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.

The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.

You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.

You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that.

Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?

You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat.

It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.

He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.

Dick stills, blinking warily.

“What’re you doing here?”

His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.

As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”

Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”

Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch.

“What’d you do?”

Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth.

“Be myself.”

Dick says nothing,

When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.

“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.

Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.

He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.

“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.

Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”

Jason exhales desperately.

“Both, I think.”

Dick nods, understanding.

“Then go home.”

Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What did you say?”

He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”

Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”

“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”

Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to.

He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it.

The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.

He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.

“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.

He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.

So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.

“Not right now.”

Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.

He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.

He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.

He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance.

Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands.

It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now.

Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.

He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.

He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.

He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.

“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.

It takes a long few moments, but you nod.

He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.

“Will you turn over?”

An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot.

He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.

He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.

You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to.

He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.

“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”

Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated.

You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”

He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”

Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.

You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out.

Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly.

“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”

But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.

He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.

“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”

“No, it’s not.”

That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.

It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.

When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.

He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.

You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”

You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”

“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”

His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.

Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.

“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.

He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?”

You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement.

He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.

“I love you,” you tell him quietly.

His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered.

“I love you too, baby. So much.”