Call Of Duty Masterlist - 01

COD Men and Bad Brain Days

This is my self indulgant way of dealing with the titanic amount of stress that is making my brain whisper of the void. I will stick around, I have to much to be a menace about but why not think about how they would deal with it? Plus if my mother (derogatory) gets to outlive me? Absolutely not.

CW: Suicidal thoughts mentioned

Johnny: Froze a bit once he understands what you are saying.

"Bonnie, why? What? I don't understand?" He holds your face so tight as he flicks his gaze between your eyes.

You laugh lightly, "There is nothing to understand Johnny, sometimes my brain just starts throwing around death as an option. I've learned to tell people so they can help me keep me present. I don't want to die, and I have no plans. I just need you to know that if I randomly start crying I'm okay. I already have an appointment with my doctor and my therapist scheduled to look at my meds."

The concern doesn't leave his face as he pulls you in for a hug. Johnny is always watchful of you but it definately takes on a new level after telling him about the thoughts coming back.

Kyle: Pulled the car over the moment he realizes what you said to him and rests his head on the steering wheel.

"Thank you for telling me, what can I do for you?"

Fighting back the tears you blink and fan your eyes.

"Nothing really? My therapist challenged me to tell someone the next time these thoughts pop up, and I trust you enough to know you won't freak out." You watch him carefully take in several deep breaths before he sits upright and looks at you.

If his eyes are a bit shiny with tears? Neither of you mention it.

"Want to get a drink and sit in the sun for a bit?" He offers.

"I would love that." The tears flow this time. Kyle holds your hand until he is forced to let it go to get out of the car.

Gary: He would find you mid-breakdown because dammit you thought you were past this? It had been years since the last time your brain betrayed you like this and life was going good for once? Yes, you were under some stress but not enough to warrent this overreaction by your brain.

He would pull you into a hug as he sits next to you on the floor and hum lullabies and the randomest collecitons of songs that live inside his head. When you can finally breath without a hitch in your breath he would ask what is wrong.

"My brain is lying to me again. Saying that being dead would be easier than dealing with all this stress," you sniffle into his shoulder.

"Being dead would be easier," he observes calmly.

When you shoot him a glare because that is NOT helpful, he smiles and rubs a thumb through the tears leftover on your face.

"But I know you don't want that, and I'll keep you present and healthy. Let's get some food delivered and then go over some of the things I can take off your plate until things settle down, alright?"

When that causes a new round of tears Gary orders dinner from his phone before coaxing you to the couch with the promise of your favorite show (He can't stand it but knows it will help.)

Simon: The hug he would give you after you hold him? Soul altering. He holds you until you feel real again and presses a kiss to your head. If you find something helpful he asks that you share because he has dealt with his own share of suicidal thoughts ravaging his already messed up mind.

He starts picking up tasks around the house, starting the shower or making dinner, as a way to help you. He checks in at least once a day. He isn't overbearing about it, knowing that the fact you told him is a huge sign of trust and he wouldn't dare abuse it.

John: Oh this man, he would be calling your doctor and therapist and setting up an appointment for you the instant you fell asleep for one of those exhaustion naps. He would book you for a hair cut, a massage, and to get your nails done before the week is out.

He's lost good friends to suicide and the idea that you might disappear? That your thoughts might get to loud to hear that he loves you? He would never recover if he lost you like that. John makes you cry again when he explains everything he has set up for you but he shows his love through actions and these are things he can control. If he could mount a full scale invasion on your brain to kick out whatever makes you think of death as an option he would in a heartbeat.

Masterlist

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𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒆: 𝑶𝒍𝒊

𝑨𝒈𝒆:24

𝑭𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝑰 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕:

𝑪𝒐𝑫 & 𝑻𝑳𝑶𝑼 & 𝑹𝑫𝑹2

𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑹𝑼𝑳𝑬𝑺!

𝑫𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒓: 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒔. 𝑰𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓, 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒍𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆.

𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒐 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒂𝒔 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒐.

𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 <3

𝑹𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈:

𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒓, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆. 𝑨𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒎𝒆 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒔 𝑰 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒏-𝒂𝒅𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕. 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓.

𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑰 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒇𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎. 𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒇 𝑰'𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓.

𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑶𝑵/𝑰𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒕/𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔/𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒑𝒔/𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔/𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑-𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒚/𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒚, 𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚. 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕.

𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒌!!

(𝑾) 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑵𝑺𝑭𝑾 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌. 𝑰𝒇 𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒆𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇. 𝑰'𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒙𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕.

𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏 𝑨𝑭𝑨𝑩/𝑭!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓.

𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑨𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒐 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕.

𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑶𝒇 𝑫𝒖𝒕𝒚:

𝑫𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆

𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑷𝑫𝑨 (𝑾)

𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 (𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔) (𝑾)

𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒚 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔 (𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔,𝑮𝒂𝒛,𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂,𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆) (𝑾)

𝑱𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝑮𝒂𝒛 (𝑾)

𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑮𝒂𝒛 (𝑾)

𝑺𝒆𝒎𝒊-𝑷𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒄 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑮𝒂𝒛 (𝑾)

𝑹𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏 𝑵𝑺𝑭𝑾 (𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔) (𝑾)

𝑩𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅!𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒙 (𝑾)

𝑼𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆 (𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒋𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒐)(𝑾)

𝑮𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 / 𝑹𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 (𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝑪𝒐𝑫 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔) (𝑾)

𝑷𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆 (𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏, 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒋𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒏𝒚) (𝑾)

𝑯𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒆𝒙 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 (𝑾)

𝑻𝑭𝑻141 + 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 (𝑾)

𝑮𝒂𝒛 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉 (𝑾)

𝑮𝒂𝒛 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒋𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒚 (𝑾)

𝑮𝒂𝒛 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒗𝒐𝒚𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒎 (𝑾)

𝑮𝒂𝒛 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 (𝑾)

𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑻𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 (𝑺𝑭𝑾)

𝑻𝑭141 + 𝑹𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝑵𝑺𝑭𝑾 𝑯𝑪𝒔 (𝑾)

𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒛𝒂 𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒖𝒕 (𝑾)

𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒙 𝑲𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 + 𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒖𝒕 (𝑾)

𝑫𝒐𝒎!𝑮𝒂𝒛 + 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 (𝑾)

𝑮𝒂𝒛 𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒊𝒈, 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚? (𝑾)

𝑻𝑭141 + 𝑽𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒐 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒔: 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝑮𝒂𝒛, 𝑺𝒐𝒂𝒑, 𝑮𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕

𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 (𝑾)

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 141 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓.

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 141 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒄.

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 141 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒙𝒊𝒄 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑.

𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓!𝑮𝒂𝒛 (𝑾)

𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏!𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 (𝑾)

𝑵𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒓!𝑮𝒂𝒛 (𝑾)

𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒓!𝑮𝒂𝒛

𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒓!𝑮𝒂𝒛 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 2

𝑱𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 (𝑾)

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 141 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝑾)

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 141 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒃:

𝑲𝒚𝒍𝒆 '𝑮𝒂𝒛' 𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌:

𝑾𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔. (𝑾)

𝑴𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓, 𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍. (𝑾)

𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒅𝒐. (𝑾)

𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 (𝒇𝒕. 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆) (𝑾) *will be edited

𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒚 𝑷𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒍. (𝑾)

𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝑩𝒐𝒚 (𝑾)

𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝑮𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 (𝑾)

𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒈𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔.

𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒓 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 1.

𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚: 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒆. (𝑾)

𝑹𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒔. (𝑾)

𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆:

𝑰𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒕 𝑨𝒇𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒔. (𝑾)

𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 (𝒇𝒕. 𝑮𝒂𝒛) (𝑾) *will be edited

𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔/𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓/𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 1, 𝑺𝑭𝑾) (𝑾)

𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔/𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓/𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 2, 𝑵𝑺𝑭𝑾) (𝑾)

𝑵𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒅𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒆. (𝑾)

𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒙 141!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 (𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒌) (𝑾)

𝑴𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕, 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 1.

𝑴𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕, 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 2. (𝑾)

𝑷𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒑 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔:

𝑰 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒔. (𝑾)

𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔/𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓/𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 1, 𝑺𝑭𝑾) (𝑾)

𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔/𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓/𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 2, 𝑵𝑺𝑭𝑾) (𝑾)

𝑰'𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆. (𝑾)

𝑯𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒆𝒙 (𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔) (𝑾)

𝑩𝒊𝒈, 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓. (𝑾)

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆.

𝑩𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒔 𝑺𝒌𝒚 .

𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒙 𝑲𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓:

𝑭𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝑫𝒊𝒔𝒉 (𝑾)

𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 (𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕)

𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 '𝑮𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕' 𝑹𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒚:

𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒘 (𝑾)

𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 '𝑺𝒐𝒂𝒑' 𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑻𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒉:

𝑰𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑼𝒔:

𝑨𝒃𝒃𝒚 𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏:

𝑨𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈. (𝑾)

𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒆. (𝑾)

𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒎𝒔:

𝑻𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒆 𝑶𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅. (𝑾)

𝑮𝒖𝒏 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚 (𝑨𝒃𝒃𝒚 𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏). (𝑾)

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒔. (𝑨𝒃𝒃𝒚 𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏) (𝑾)

𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑨𝒃𝒃𝒚 (𝑾)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝑹𝑫𝑹2:

𝑫𝒓𝒖𝒏𝒌 𝑺𝒆𝒙: 𝑨𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒓, 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏, 𝑱𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓, 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒔 (𝑾)

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒊𝒈 𝑹𝒆𝒅 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒋𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔 (𝑾)

𝑨𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒓 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒏:

𝑹𝒊𝒅𝒆, 𝑪𝒐𝒘𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍. (𝑾)

𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏:

𝑺𝒂𝒇𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 (𝑾)

𝑱𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝑬𝒔𝒄𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂:

𝑨𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕'𝒔 𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉 (𝑾)

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝑺𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒉:

𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚. (W)

COD Fics:

Service Dog Johnny Ghost/Fem Reader/Soap (68k words, incomplete)

Come Quietly König/Fem Reader (8.7k words, complete)

Ax Grinder Gaz/Fem Reader (6.6k words, incomplete)

Unrelated One-Shots:

— Ghost x Reader —

Ghost worships you

Edging with Ghost

Ghost is too quiet when he finishes

Ghost is considerate of your triggers

Ghost thinks he doesn’t deserve you - Part 2 here

Ghost doesn’t know how to comfort you

Being silly with Bob

Keeping secrets from Ghost

Ghost helps you wax

Sleepy Ghost

Quickie

— Soap x Reader —

Soap helps you taste yourself

Stubborn Roommate Soap

— Ghoap —

Ghost and Soap praise you while you get fingered

Ghoap

Ghost Plays with Johnny in the Kitchen

Flirting

Dirt Man

Sensory obsession

Medieval

— Gaz x Reader —

Wet all weekend Part 2 here

Visiting him on base

— Price x Reader —

John Tied Up

— König x Reader —

König biting kink - Part 2 here

Water Bed

Chapter Four: Darker Than Death

Summary: Jason chases the past and sets fire to the future

Pairing: Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Words: 6,274

Content/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, Jason's self-destructive tendencies

SERIES MASTERPOST | PREV

Four months pass like lightning streaking the sky. Suddenly, you’re a staple in Jason’s life.

Soft kisses on biceps in the middle of the night. Mornings spent eating breakfast over your small kitchen table. Lunches in his station at the shop. The scowl on your face when Jason pulls out a dictionary to prove the word he played in Scrabble is real.

He didn’t think he could be happy again. After everything—the things he’d seen; the things he’d felt—it didn’t seem possible.

You gave him back something he thought he’d lost forever. You’re hope and future. Something to fuck up. Something to lose.

Jason knows what he looks like to the people on the street. It’s hard not to when he’s jarred by himself in the mirror sometimes. A big, brooding mass of man when once he was just a boy. He didn’t get a say in his dip in the Lazarus Pit, but the skin is still his own, adorned with in he chose and scars that he earned.

But no amount of ink nor callous nor scowling can actually protect him from the wounds that still have never healed. His never ending anger got the better of him today. A close call with Batman and Nightwing left him feeling bolder than ever. He went to visit the Joker.

Beating the Joker bloody with a crowbar didn’t have the cathartic impact he’d been hoping it would. The sight just made his stomach churn. He buried the flurry inside of him as he tied the Joker up, leaving him to sit in a closet for a few days. Until it’s time to bring him into play.

The rising sickness, cold and burning all at once, doesn’t go away. Distance doesn’t help. He still feels trapped there even when he’d been the one in control.

He doesn’t remember going to his apartment and changing. When he comes back to himself at your doorstep, he isn’t Red Hood. Just a boy in a soaked t-shirt shivering in the rain.

The door to your apartment building is inches away from his face. His hand is on the doorknob. It’s locked; he realizes now that’s what pulled him out of his head.

Rain falls down around him. It lands heavily on the shoulders of his jacket. The sound hammers on rooftops, onto the rusted cars parked out in front of your building. It splashes on the already soaked sidewalk, rushing into the sewers Jason knew so well. It’s always fucking raining. He would hate this city if he didn’t love it so much. If this city wasn’t in his blood just as much as Sheila’s.

Tears slick his face. That feeling in his stomach is still there, and he feels like he’s buried beneath earth all over again. The world is pressing down against him. He can hardly breathe.

His feet carry him to the back door of the building. The memory of picking the lock open is shoved into a corner at the very back of his mind. Safe memories fail to see the light of day now, yet he seeks safety just by being here. He needs you, though he hasn’t yet fully put it together yet.

Jason fiddles with the lock with less grace than usual. His hands tremble as he works, but even filled with tears, he’s focused. Maybe a little more so than necessary. He’s overly aware of the weight of his gun. Just as aware as he is he shouldn’t have brought it here. His mind is such a mess. What if he hurt you?

Part of him itches to turn back. The laughter echoing in his ears pushes him forward.

The wood floors creak beneath his feet as he moves through the otherwise silent halls. He pauses in front of your door. His nails bite into the palm of his fisted hands, trying to find the bravery to knock.

Bravery.

Once upon a time ago, he ran across the rooftops of this city fighting goons twice his size, reassured by his mentor, a less than perfect man who demanded perfection. He thought his bravery made him untouchable.

So much for that.

He knocks. You don’t answer.

It’s 3 AM; of course you’re going to be asleep.

He should have never come here. He hasn’t even thought about what he would say when you ask why he’s such a wreck. Just like anything real in his life, it’s not like he can tell you the truth. You wouldn’t know what to do with the truth; he kidnapped the guy who killed him back when he was just a little robin. His mind feels too syrupy to come up with a good lie.

He realizes with sudden clarity he never should have gotten this close to you. Sure, he’s been planning his takeover of Gotham’s underground for years, but plans go sideways. What if the Joker gets out and finds out a connection between Red Hood and you? He can’t even stomach the thought of you with a single scratch on you, let alone in the sort of condition Joker would leave you in.

The lock clicks on your door.

Undoubtedly, you’d spotted him through your peephole standing there. When the door opens, your tired eyes are swimming with concern.

“Jason? Is everything okay?” Your voice is thick with sleep as you blink him into focus.

He feels terrible. He wants to say he’s drunk. Tell you he wasn’t thinking. Free you of his bullshit. Instead, he sniffles pathetically.

The door creaks softly as you hold it open more. You’re a lifeline for him now, the one thing that’s keeping him from sinking back into that bottomless grave, and he pulls you against him. His grip is tighter than it probably should be, but if you have a problem with it, you don’t say.

You hold him like something precious.

He hates himself.

“Come on. Come inside.” Your voice is soft as you gently usher him in. “You’re soaked.”

Streetlight from outside diffuses through the raindrops on your window. It’s the only light offered in your darkened apartment.

He stands in the doorway of your bedroom, watching you rummage around the clothes piled on top of the old floral wingback chair in the corner. You pull out one of Jason’s t-shirts, the material washed and worn until the fabric was soft.

Cotton clings to his skin as he peels his shirt off.

He hears a soft gasp as his vision is obscured.

“What happened to you?” you ask, horror cutting through your exhaustion like a knife.

Bruises—fresh ones—scatter across his skin. He hasn’t seen them yet, but he feels them there. Normally, he’s pretty good. Keeping his clothes on when he knows there’s damning evidence. The less he has to explain, the fewer lies he has to keep track of. Tonight isn’t a normal night. His head is barely on straight.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He tugs the shirt down, obscuring whatever injuries you see.

“What do you mean, don’t worry about it? Did someone hurt you?”

God, you’re so sweet. You care about him, and you really shouldn’t. Right now, there’s a fire in your voice; you’d go up to bat for him against anyone. All the more reason to keep you out of the line of fire.

“It’s nothing,” he snaps.

“The hell it is. Jason, what is going on?” Your voice is demanding as you take another step closer. Your reach out to touch him, but you stop as if you would hurt him. You are afraid to hurt him.

He huffs and goes out to your living room, his large frame hunching in on itself as he falls into your couch. His head hangs for a minute before he looks around. He’s always found your apartment peaceful. Blankets tossed over the arm of your threadbare secondhand couch. Bookshelves stuffed with crumbling paperbacks. Feels more like a home than his place ever has, but it’s still no home of his.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you,” he sniffles.

You follow him out, pausing a few feet away from him. “We don’t have to cover everything tonight.”

The certainty in your voice is too brilliant, too forgiving; some things feel like they can never be spoken about. Should never be allowed to see the light of day.

“I dug up a lot of past today.”

He hopes you never understand him because that means you understand how it feels to die. What it means to come back from that. And what worse fate could he curse someone to? He never wants that cold to find you in the middle of the night and shock you awake just to confirm your heart is still beating.

“What do you need?”

The couch dips as you sit beside him. His arm winds over your shoulders, pulling you to his chest so he can feel the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. “Just this,” he says.

So you stay that way. He cries, and he thinks about how he shouldn’t be doing this to you. He feels better because you’re here. No matter how hard he tries not to, he can’t stop thinking about how fucked up it is that he gets to feel better while making everything worse for you. He’s going to ruin your life, and he hasn’t even given you the opportunity to know that.

A few more minutes pass. Your apartment is silent apart from his sniffles, but those, too, die down eventually. Just the rain remains, pattering against the glass.

“Shouldn’t have woken you up,” he says when he’s finally composed himself. There’s a resolution in his voice that had been lacking before. He hopes you don’t ask how he managed to make it to your door.

You shake of your head pull away from him to look into his eyes. “Don’t say that. You didn’t want to be alone. That’s a good enough reason to wake me up.” Your voice is just as firm.

Doubt crosses Jason’s face. You wouldn’t be saying any of this if he wasn’t selfishly withholding the truth from you. You’d already met Red Hood, and you didn’t want him inside of your apartment. He shouldn’t be here, and he knows it. He has no right to wake you up when you’re safe and asleep in your bed. He doesn’t deserve to seek your comfort just because he can’t face his ghosts.

Your palms are warm as you gently hold his face. The pad of your thumb wipes off his tears. “I care about you,” you say. “You aren’t burdening me by letting me help you.”

For one single second, it crosses his mind to open up. You’d think he would have totally lost it, but he could open up. At this point, it almost feels as if it doesn’t matter; he’s decided this won’t be able to last.

Even now, you know very little about him. Neither of you have put a label on what you have, but there’s a bind between of you. You’ve become a feature in his life, as often as he can allow such a thing. He’s gotten comfortable with your presence, and comfort can always be taken away from him. There’s benefit in staying unattached.

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t wanting you biting off more than you can chew, sweetheart,” he says. His thick fingers wrap around your wrist, keeping your hand against his cheek.

Your lips quirk up into a weak smile, but your visible concern doesn’t wane. “I’m pretty tough,” you reply.

Jason turns his head and presses his lips into the palm of your hand. “I know you are.”

But tough isn’t always enough against the people who come after him. Not even when you sign up for it. And you sure as shit didn’t sign up for this.

Most days, you make him feel like he’s soaring. When he takes you out on the bike—Gotham blurring around both of you as your chest presses into his back—he sometimes feels like he’s too giddy to drive.

That feeling, he thinks it’s love, but he can’t accept that. He’s been telling himself he doesn’t need love. He doesn’t need family. But he can’t convince himself he doesn’t need you right now.

One day, Batman is going to catch up to Red Hood. Jason is planning on as much. But if that plan somehow backfires, he could lead Batman right to you. He can’t curse you to a fate where your path intersects with Bruce Wayne. Jason doesn’t want your life any more tainted than he’s already made it.

He can handle losing you if he’s the one that calls it quits. He can handle losing you if you hate him over whatever lies he has to tell to make you slam the door in his face. But he can’t handle losing you over the truth, especially if it’s Bruce’s version of the truth. The very idea of you siding with Bruce in all of this makes his skin crawl.

“I care about you, too, you know,” he finally says. He looks at you in your pajamas, the softness of sleep still etched onto your features. His voice feels to gruff to be speaking to you. He takes your hand between both of his, lowering it down into his lap. He doesn’t want you to hear the finality in his voice.

You smile, though your face is sad. “I know.”

“Why’re you so nice to me?” he asks. You were supposed to just be some client. He was supposed to tattoo a dead bird onto your arm and say goodbye. He did everything right; he was a detached asshole. And yet, something about you broke him open, like playing the right notes on the piano to get into the Batcave.

Like a soft breeze, your laugh brushes across his lips. You’re close to him now.

“Didn’t we just establish that?” you ask, looking up at him with an even softer expression than before.

“I’m serious,” Jason says. “Why did you even bother giving me a chance?”

What makes me worth saving?

There’s a beat of silence. Your eyes study his. He doesn’t doubt you can see the tears still lingering, threatening to spill at the first kind thing you have to say to him.

“I mean, you were a dick for a little bit, but I could tell you felt bad about it.” You look him over carefully, your lips still tugged into that meager smile. “I don’t think you’re as bad as you think you are.”

He sighs and hangs his head. His grip on your hands loosens, like he’s offering you freedom. “You’re giving me too much credit,” he says. His voice rumbles up from his chest. He has to speak quietly or else he’d be yelling. All he can imagine is the Joker getting his hands on you. The thought alone makes him feel so sick he can’t stand to look at you.

As hard as he tries to stay with the kindness in your eyes, his mind starts to wander.

The floor had been so cold; he remembers it now. He acts like he’s not afraid of dying—maybe he isn’t—but he remembers how it feels to die. He remembers how dark it is. How bitter. Laughter rings in his ears. Blood in his mouth, bile stinging at his throat. There was nothing peaceful about it. Nothing peaceful about choking on his own blood. There was no ‘slipping off’; there was only a flash, the rush of heat, a deafening blast, and the screams of the mother who had sold him out.

“Why would I stick around this long if you weren’t worth it?” you ask.

“It doesn’t count when you’re used to fucked up relationships.” He breathes a bitter laugh like it doesn’t feel like acid. Like it’s effortless to put you down. If you believe it is, maybe you’ll ask him to leave.

He’s good at this, sabotaging relationships. Even though he thinks the world of you, he can summon up the words to make you question everything about the last four months. Doesn’t matter if Jason admires how much cruelty you’ve faced. Doesn’t matter if he finds wonder by the fact you still somehow stayed kind after that. He knows just what to say to plant a seed of doubt that will only continue to fester from here.

There’s a long silence. You’re not looking at him anymore. He wants to take it back, but he knows he can’t. That’s why he said it.

“Why are you trying to push me away right now?” Your voice is soft. He can barely hear it over the rain beating on the pane of glass behind you.

“I’m not pushing you away. That’s just the truth.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say. Your voice is low, but volume does nothing to lessen the severity of the chill. He’s used to your warmth. “You’re not that much of an asshole.”

The deeper he sinks into this character, the more he wants to to run out of the room. He’s ruining the one good thing he’s had since he came back to Gotham. He’s throwing away his one actual shot at happiness.

When he looks at you, he’s looking at a future he’ll never know. Baking cookies just because you mentioned in passing you wanted some. Slipping apology notes underneath your door when he pisses you off so much you won’t respond to his texts. Telling you he loves you; whispering it in your ear when he holds you on bad days. Telling the truth because he could finally fully surrender himself to you.

The truth, Jason likes to imagine, feels like the gentle release everyone likes to describe death as. Peace. A boy blown up isn’t at peace; he’s a poltergeist. But a man who can surrender and accept the death of a life he’d taken up, like a crab molting its shell to find something more comfortable, can rest. If he was brave enough, he could adapt again. Maybe make a life that offered a truce between him and this world.

“Ever consider maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do?” he asks. He buries the thoughts of your warm embrace. So many graves in his mind, all smelling of petrichor and freshly turned earth.

It rained the night he clawed up to the surface of Gotham. He doesn’t remember much about that night—doesn’t remember much before Talia got to him—but he remembers the smell. Dirt was everywhere, until suddenly, he smelled the rain. Drops fell into his parched mouth as he gasped for air.

His eyes squeeze shut, overly aware of the sheets hitting your window. Your silence doesn’t help.

“Please,” you scoff. “Do you think I just conveniently haven’t noticed you dodging topics the past four months? Just because I’m the only one who’s been open about my fucked up past doesn’t mean I’m the only one with it.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know you’ve got more going on then you’re telling me. The fact that you have secrets isn’t a secret to me. You can have things you don’t want to talk about, but don’t show up at my doorstep looking for help and snap at me when I give it to you.”

Jason doesn’t want it to end. He wishes he was just a little bit more selfish so he could will himself to hold onto you. He wishes his path wasn’t paved with blood so he could guarantee your safety.

But he can hold onto you for one more night.

He lays his head down in his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. It’s not a lie, but tomorrow he’ll tell you it was. His fingers tangle in his hair, and he finally looks up at you. You don’t look happy, that’s for sure, but you don’t hate him.

Tomorrow, he’s going to have to do this for real. Tonight, he just wants you.

Your eyes are fixed on him for a while before you respond. “Thank you for the apology,” you say. “You’re right. You can be a dick sometimes. But I think that shows you how intentionally I choose to be around you,” you say.

If you knew the truth, he imagines you poking fun at him for saying you were the one with fucked up relationships. You’d call him a hypocrite if he ever gave you the chance to.

“Let’s go to bed.” The words are clipped. You don’t look at him. “You’ve had a long day.”

“You’re gonna let me stay?” There’s hope in his voice when there shouldn’t be. You should turn him out, send him back into the rain; he deserves it more than the comfort of your bed.

You give him a look. “People usually say the worst stuff when they need someone the most,” you say. “Something you learn when you’re used to fucked up relationships.” You stand up and offer out your hand for him.

He follows as you lead him into your darkened bedroom. Sheets are rustled and tossed back. His stomach twists at the display of your rush to his aid. There’s so much more out in the world for you, even if he wants to sink into you until there’s no more him left.

Before you, he’d grown comfortable in harshness. The darkness didn’t feel unique because it was everything he had for years. And then there was you.

He’s going to know what life without you is like. But not getting to see you sat at your kitchen table, grinning at him sleepily over a cup of coffee in the morning is better than never seeing you again because someone got their filthy hands on you.

You guide him towards your bed. One last night to lie next to you and share your body heat.

Jason shrugs off his leather jacket. He misses the soft rustling of it hitting the floor; his eyes are fixed to the sight of your skin as you get into bed. The yellowish glow of city light slips in through a crack in your curtains.

The sheets rustle as you climb in. Jason still stands at the bedside for a minute more. You won’t look at him, and he’s glad. Goodbyes he’s not yet ready to say are written all over his face.

After a beat, your eyes do seek him out in the darkness. The sheets are pulled up to your chin, and Jason is trying to remember it all, even if he can tell you’re still upset.

The bed shifts with his weight as he lays down beside you. You face him. He doesn’t look away. He shifts a little closer, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulls you to his chest. If he were a better man, he would apologize right now. A real one. But if he means it too much, you’ll never believe him in the morning. He can’t afford to not be convincing.

Jason holds you. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and shuts his eyes. More than anything, he wishes he could enjoy this moment.

In another life, he wonders if maybe this is how things are all the time with you. He can hold you without worrying about what dangers he’s putting you in. Guilt might not gnaw at him. Jason curses him even if he doesn’t even exist because who else can he blame? Fuck that guy. Fuck his happiness.

You fall asleep in his arms. He feels like he’s taking advantage of your trust by even holding you right now, but he can’t will himself to let you go. He has hours left of this, and he can’t imagine wasting those moments by sleeping on the far side of the bed.

You have a strange dream, the kind that fades from memory the more you try to chase them.

In the shadows of what you remember, you see a red helmet, one like your dangerous friend wears. You found it laying on the ground in an alley. You searched out in the darkness for a face—his face—only to realize you were all alone, standing in a green mist.

Weeks had passed since your masked friend picked the lock to your apartment so you could get inside. Weeks since he’d sat on your fire escape only to never be seen again, but for some reason, he’s visited you in your dreams.

Your dream dissolves, but fresh worry blooms in your chest as you look at the empty spot on the other side of the bed where Jason had been only hours earlier. His words come back to you.

He was grieving something last night. Thinking of the loss in his voice leaves a chalky, bitter taste in your mouth. Instinctively, your hand smooths over the rumpled sheets where he’d been when you fell asleep. They’re cold.

Sunlight spills through the crack in your curtains. A rarity for Gotham. Last night’s downpour has been reduced to puddles in the dips of the sidewalk. You naively choose to believe that maybe this brand new morning has changed things. The finality in the air last night has been swept away like a shadow by the brightness of the day.

Even if it ends up hurting your feelings, you hold onto this hope like a wilting flower. It gets you out of bed.

The smell of something sweet fills the air as you poke your head out of your bedroom. Jason stands at your stove. His broad shoulders curl over a skillet, spatula in hand. Dark curls stick up in every direction. His t-shirt from last night is rumpled with fitful sleep. He looks up from the pan, his eyes straying on you as you approach.

“Smells good,” you say, stepping out.

“I made coffee,” he says, nudging his chin to the percolator on your counter top.

He carries his sleep deprivation well; you’ve heard about the sleepless nights he spent in Europe while he was traveling. You know some nights he stays up late with his friends you’ve never met. They’re a bad influence, he told you once. You asked him if he thought he was a good influence.

You kiss his shoulder as you walk by, your hand ghosting over his tattooed bicep. “Thank you, honey,” you say, still trying to get a handle on the situation. Still clinging to hope that this is a new day.

Except you see Jason tense out of the corner of your eye.

Instantaneously, your mouth goes dry. Today might be a new day, but nothing has changed. There’s still tension in the air. Jason’s mind is elsewhere, and wherever that is, you don’t seem entirely welcome.

Your body feels rigid as you try to pour your coffee, playing pretend like nothing’s wrong.

You like Jason; woozy, youthful joy swells in your chest when he holds you. He keeps you warm from all manner of coldness Gotham offers. Being around him is secure, safe in a way that goes just beyond the fact no one even gives you a second look when you’re next to him.

It feels like the day you met, but far worse. Because being pushed away some tattoo artist is one thing, but that’s not Jason anymore. He’s not just some guy who gave you a tattoo. You’ve spent more nights with him the past month than without him. He came to you sobbing last night because he needed someone, and you answered the call. So what changed?

Cup of coffee in hand, you sit at the small kitchen table pushed up against your wall. You watch him as he cooks; his mossy eyes are always decidedly fixed down.

Your finger traces along the deep divot in the table. Sunlight spills across the scarred wood; you can’t help but feel like you’re being mocked. Miraculous sunlight in Gotham at the moment where the light feels like it’s being sucked out of the room.

A few minutes later, Jason brings a plate of pancakes, a bowl of diced strawberries, and syrup to the table, setting them down in front of you. You’ve always believed Jason makes food in place of the things he’s never told you. You wonder what unspoken words your breakfast is supposed to represent.

“Looks great,” you say. Your forced cheerfulness sounds like exactly that, but Jason doesn’t make any indication that he noticed. He acknowledges you as he takes the seat on the opposite side of your table.

You stare at the plate in front of you, forcing yourself to eat even though your appetite has dissipated. It gives you something to do. Without a task, you’d just sit there, trying to figure out what went wrong.

There’s silence. Sunshine doesn’t fill the void the way Gotham’s rain does. The tension makes the pancakes less sweet. Or at least you imagine it would, but you haven’t actually tasted a single bite.

More than anything, you want to ask about last night.

Jason’s bloodshot eyes, the desperation with which he held you, is stuck to you in a way you don’t know you can brush away. Jason, who keeps himself so well guarded behind the walls he built up, was exposed last night. You saw something in him, something you’d never seen before, and wanted so badly to understand it.

You want to say something, but you don’t know how without maybe making things worse. Don’t want to dig up skeletons any more than he’s admitted he already has.

The truth is you do know so little about Jason’s past. Any number of things could have sent him to your door last night. You’d been so exhausted, you hadn’t even thought to question how he’d gotten inside. You content yourself to thinking he’d followed in after someone.

“I think we should call it,” Jason says. He doesn’t even look up from his untouched food.

You look up from your pancakes, red strawberry juice smeared all along your plate. “Call what?” you ask. You know exactly what he’s saying, but you’re hoping your willful ignorance will maybe somehow change his mind.

“This.”

This. The undefined thing going on between the two of you for the past four months. The thing that has made home feel like home again. Someone who gave a little more sense to the Gotham you’d once known so well that had been destroyed, uprooted, just when your life was.

You feel your jaw muscles tense, your teeth clenching together to try to lessen the emotional blow. It doesn’t work—you knew it wouldn’t—but you figured you would try. “Is this about last night?” you ask.

“No.” His response is quick. If your head wasn’t reeling, you would maybe pick up on how rushed it really was, but you don’t.

You’re silent, waiting for an explanation you know isn’t coming. So you do what you know to do; you grasp at straws, hoping maybe you can fix this. Hoping maybe there’s a problem you can solved that will keep Jason here.

“Okay, then what’s it about?” you ask.

The kitchen chair creaks as Jason leans back. His skin is golden with the light crossing over your table. You see the rosemary and lilies on his arm and think of his work permanently etched into your body.

You will carry a piece of him with you forever, no matter where either of you goes.

“It’s not about anything. This wasn’t supposed to be serious.”

“I deserve more than that.” The words are clipped and harsh. More than you really mean them to be, but you’re still trying to make sense of all of this.

Things had been good. Really good. You laughed with him and relished every time you heard his clandestine laughter in return. He comes over when you’ve had a rough day and are fed up from work. You’ve cried in front of him, and while you’re sure saying he was happy to do it is a stretch, he did it without complaint. There may not have been a label on what you have together, but Jason is right; you don’t feel casual.

You love him.

The realization crawls up your throat like bile, like you might say the words at the absolute wrong time and make everything worse.

“Fine.” He looks up at you, his face hardened in a way you don’t recognize. His eyes are hardened. Not guarded like when he wouldn’t talk to you during your first appointment; they’re cold. He’s never looked at you like that before. “I’m sick of this shit. The monotony. You don’t want to live the same goddamn day over and over again.”

You stiffen. Somewhere a few blocks away, a siren wails. His gaze doesn’t waver. You’ve never wished for him to look away so badly. Under his gaze, you feel trapped. Uneasiness creeps up your spine.

For some reason, your first date comes to mind. You think of Jason at the arcade machine, the way he’d held the plastic gun so steadily.

“So why’d you come here last night then?” You struggle to keep your voice steady, but now feels like the wrong time to show any weakness.

Once, you thought Jason looked at you like a prey animal. In the tattoo shop, when he first came out thirty-five minutes late,he stared you down like he was trying to making sure you weren’t going to run in the direction. But even then, he was studying you more than anything, a habit of his you’d grown to recognize.

This is something else entirely.

“Because I’m a lonely, fucked up guy. Is that what you want to here? The warmth of your bed was better than none at all.”

Anger and agony stir in your chest. Muscles taught, jaw hardened. You can’t even stand to look at him for a minute. “So, what? We’re just done? We’re broken up?”

“We’re not broken up because we were never together,” Jason snaps.

Another silence settles between the two of you, this one charged.

“I guess that makes things more simple,” you reply, your voice low. You feel your face burning. What had you been thinking? You knew from the start he was bad news. You’d known it, and you ignored every sign anyway.

Silence settles between the two of you again. Jason doesn’t look up at you, but you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

God, you should have seen this coming, and yet it still doesn’t make sense. Things were good. Things were working. Until they weren’t. Until you ended up here. Now you’re at a total loss for words.

“Alright,” you say when he doesn’t speak. “Well, thanks for breakfast.” There’s no point in hiding the bitterness in your voice. What do you have to lose, right? He wants nothing to do with you, and you’ve just wasted months of your life stupidly, childishly believing that this was something that could actually work.

Jason doesn’t move right away. His dark brows are knitted close, but it doesn’t quite look like anger. The scar running through the brow makes him look more severe. You can’t imagine what kind of harsh truths he’s withholding. But you can’t look away. You think about running your fingers through his hair. You think about tracing the ink on his skin. You think about how empty your lunchtime will feel now because you’re not going to be swinging by the shop, a bag of takeout in hand.

This whole time, you’d just been a phase to him. Just another passing name he would forget in a month when he meets someone new. Someone better. Someone less acquainted with fucked up relationships, maybe. The point being, they aren’t going to be you.

And why should it matter so much? What’s four months? You barely know each other, right? Besides all of the times he listened to you spill your guts and probably kept waiting anxiously for you to shut up. All the while, you had managed to convince yourself this was actually going to be anything. You were mortified.

“I think your jacket is still in the bedroom,” you add pointedly as he keeps staring at you. Hopefully he’ll get the hint because you don’t think you have it in you to actually tell him to leave.

He stands, the chair sliding against the wooden floors of your apartment. Silently, he walks to the other room. It takes a few minutes for him to come back out. You’re so busy trying to make sense of all of this, you don’t notice.

When he reemerges, jacket in hand, Jason lingers by the front door. His eyes are fixed to the floor before he finally looks up at you.

“Bye,” he says.

Not see you later because he won’t. He doesn’t plan to. He’s done with you.

His eyes linger on you. He looks sad; you’ve gone and made him feel guilty because you thought you had more of a place in your life than you really did.

“Bye,” you say back, your voice rough.

Not it’s been nice knowing you because you can’t bring yourself to say the words. Not I think meeting you changed my life because you don’t have the right to that claim.

Jason doesn’t look back as he closes the door behind him.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider giving this a reblog 💛

You Say Goodbye to Soap (18+)

Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish Content warnings: Verbal child abuse, she/her reader Word Count: 3.5k

Service Dog Johnny Part 19 (full part list here)

Simon doesn’t do crowds. 

Well, he does them, he’s just on pins and needles the whole time. He turns into something granite and hyper-aware, covered as much as he can be with a medical mask and long sleeves, so you try not to force him through it too often. Sometimes though, there’s a good reason for suffering.

“Fuck you,” Johnny mutters, arms crossed while you both watch your boyfriend seamlessly plink through targets, with that mini rifle tucked tight into his shoulder. “Right prick.”

“Eight out of ten is still really good,” you remind him. Johnny only missed the first two targets, and that’s understandable considering the carnival air guns can’t possibly be accurate.

“Used my go to sight the weapon, is what he did. I’m goin’ again.”

You’re not entirely sure that it’s possible to aim a gun just by watching someone else shoot it, but then again, Simon is finishing up the last target right now, dead center.

“C’mere, you.” Your man motions you over with a jerk of his head, handing the pea shooter back to the bored worker. 

Simon watches your face as you hurry over to him, as if your delighted smile is all he wanted in the first place. You quickly scan the prize options as his hand settles against the curve of your lower back. Unicorn… cat… sloth… raccoon… teddy bear. 

You choose the pillow-sized raccoon because it’s fluffy, and it reminds you of Simon before he washes off his eyeblack. 

“Thanks,” you chirp, hugging your prize and stepping out of the way for Johnny’s turn. 

“Someone had to pick up the slack,” Simon mutters, turning his eyes to the determined set of Johnny’s shoulders.

Horrified, you shoot him a look that conveys, ‘You’d better shut the fuck up, or else.’

Plink. Plink. Good start. 

“Better hurry up, Johnny,” Simon drawls. “Too slow, you’re gonna miss it.”

“Simon,” you hiss at him, only to observe a devious light in his eye while he pretends he can’t hear you. 

Plink, plink, plink.

“Two, ten, seven, reload,” Simon barks. “Oh look, Graves is here.”

“I’ll fawkin’ kill ye,” Johnny growls against the stock, nailing the last few targets in rapid succession. 

Your face is burning by the time Johnny sets the gun aside. Of all the days for Simon to antagonize him, why does he have to pick this one? You’re not even sure there will be another chance to see Johnny after today, and instead of minding the delicate balance of things, your boyfriend’s decided to stomp all over it. 

Yet somehow, you seem to be the only one concerned. Johnny merely spares his friend a passing glare before turning back to the prizes, selecting a sparkly unicorn for himself. 

“Do you want me to carry that for you?” you offer with a shocked laugh.

He hugs it against his chest. “Aye, when I’m good and dead. No one’s separating me from my unicorn.”

Right. Okay, then. 

The sun has just gone down, and taken the last of the warmth with it, so you thread your fingers in with Simon’s and look around for things to do before the nighttime crowd fills the park.

“What kind of rides do you like, Johnny?”

He winks at you over the fluffy rainbow mane. “Fast ones.”

“Bloody hell,” your boyfriend sighs. “I’m gonna be stuck holding the toy shop for the pair of you.”

“We can take turns,” you suggest. “Look, this one’s the biggest roller coaster they have. You and Johnny go, before the line gets too long.”

Simon doesn’t disagree, but he starts squinting up at the ride the closer you get to it, as if he’s inspecting the track for defects. You’re just about to reach for the unicorn Johnny’s passing to you, when Simon makes a grunt of disapproval. 

“Fuckin’ back brace on him, I’m not going.”

Sure enough, one of the workers is gingerly crossing the platform to unstrap riders, while encased in a turtle shell of a brace. 

Johnny scoffs. “Didn't break it on the ride, you dobber.”

“Fuck are we supposed to know that?” 

“He’d be dead then, wouldn’t he? Puddle on the pavement.”

“No one is dying on these rides,” you insist, snatching Johnny’s toy. “It’s perfectly safe.” 

Simon smoothly plucks both animals from your grasp. “Seeing as you’re not worried, you and Johnny go.”

Okay, well, now you’re worried. 

You find yourself spectacularly stuck next to Johnny in that stuffy queue leading up to the platform, feeling like a total idiot for getting so easily conned into it. Why couldn’t you have thought of an excuse to avoid this? You only suggested the ride to give the guys a chance to have fun together without stepping on anyone’s toes, and instead you’re left scrambling for small talk. 

It’s not that you don’t want to be alone with Johnny, it’s just that you weren’t expecting it to happen so suddenly. You were perfectly fine with using Simon as a buffer for the night, and never bringing up that whopping pile of confusion until Johnny was at least willing to open up a little. But now he’s alone with you, acting fairly happy and normal, as if he never walked out that door. 

Is that what he wants? Is this going to turn into some horrible game of evasion, where he wanders back into your life and you’re forced to pretend nothing ever happened, and just hope he doesn’t do it again? Can you live like that?

You tried winging it before. You never made him explain himself to you or communicate, and all it did was blow up in your face.  

“So why’d you pick the raccoon?”

You blink yourself out of your thoughts, focusing on his face in the cheery glow of Christmas lights. “Oh, um. They’re cute. And I guess I like wild animals.”

For some reason Johnny laughs at your genuine answer. “Makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You know what it means.” He rests his elbows back on the steel railing and gives you this irritating smirk, so you roll your eyes in return. Okay, Flirt MacTavish. Nice to see you again, it’s been a while. 

Thankfully the line moves forward right when you need it to, and you sidestep his teasing eyes to poke your head around the beam and scan the waiting area for Simon.

“Oh my god, Johnny,” you whisper. “Look.”

His body presses to your back as he looks over your shoulder, and is greeted by the same sight you are — Simon, with one enormous plushie wedged under each arm, engaged in apparent conversation with some random, gray-haired grandma. You can’t see his mouth moving behind the mask, but he’s inclining his head the same way he does when he’s talking to you. 

“She’s stealin’ your man, hen.”

“Let her. He likes the attention.”

The stuffed animals have absolutely shattered his carefully constructed standoffishness. They’re like a beacon of cuteness, inviting in questions and curious looks, and honestly it serves him right for abandoning you to Johnny like this. You hope he’s suffering, but from the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, you kind of doubt it. 

Finally you get buckled into the ride next to Johnny, and the nerves you have about him give way to your more pressing fear of heights. When was the last time you rode in one of these things? All of a sudden the pattern of loops spreading across the open air in front of you look a lot more serious than they did from the ground. 

“Don’t let Simon see you scared,” Johnny says, nudging your shoe with his. The ride starts forward with a reverberating clunk, clunk.

“I’m not,” you lie. 

“Hold my hand then, or you’re full of shit.”

That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but you mold your palm around his and squeeze it tight, right before the drop. 

Holy shit.

Johnny wasn’t kidding about liking fast rides. He whoops and laughs through most of it, and you’re not sure if it’s the actual rush that’s getting to him, or your terrified shrieks. The loops hit rapidly one after another, and you just try to hang on as you pass through your threshold of fear and beyond. By the time you finally hit the end of the ride, your heart is slamming in your chest, and Johnny’s hand seems to have permanently fused with yours. 

As the ride cars slowly chug up that loud conveyor belt to the platform, you unlock your spine and glance over at your friend to make sure he’s all in one piece. 

He’s gorgeous. Ruddy-cheeked from the cold, breathlessly grinning at you, as if he’s exactly where he wants to be right now. Beautiful, human, completely impenetrable and emotionally closed-off.

It makes you want to hit him. 

You’d go to town on his stupid chest if you could, punching and slapping those perfect muscles on up and down his shoulder. You want to scream in his ear until he understands how much pain he’s put you through, because maybe then this hold he has on you would finally release. If you burned all your bridges and told him never to come back, maybe you’d stop wanting him quite so fiercely. 

Because even after all of that, you do want him. You want to own him. You want to ruin him. You want him like Veruca Salt stomping her foot and shrieking, ‘Daddy, give him to me!’

You want your heart to connect with his, and that craving is so intense that you’re almost jealous of anyone who’s ever deeply known him. Jealous of Simon, who always seems to understand what Johnny’s thinking before you do. It feels wrong, existing so close to Johnny and not touching, not staring, not knowing. 

Not allowed to know. 

This was all a mistake. A combination of oversights from all three of you, until you’ve reached this point of pain that was so, so preventable.

Johnny leans towards you as you pull your hand away from his. “Hungry?” 

The line for the concession stand is annoyingly long. You’re waiting here by yourself because you really needed some space to clear your head. You mentally repeat your food order to yourself, as if it won’t evaporate out of your brain the second you step up to the window.

Three pretzels, two cheeses, two hot chocolates, and do you have any hot tea? 

You’re being idiotic about Johnny. Look at them over there, holding a conference at the picnic table with two stuffies propped up next to each of them. How could you dare be jealous of the most important friendship Simon’s ever had? You’d have to be some kind of selfish monster to deny either of them that comfort. 

Three pretzels, two cheeses, two hot chocolates, and do you have any tea bags, and packets of sugar?

You just weren’t prepared for how unsatisfying this night would be. You’re giving Johnny space, and Simon’s giving you space, and it all makes you want to cry. 

“I hope you’re fucking happy.”

Your heart begins to race, hearing those words spat with such hate from somewhere behind you. Instinctively you twist your face around in search of the threat, hoping it’s just some old person berating a server who will never have to see them again. But no, it’s much worse.

An older man sits across from a boy who looks to be about nine, his lip curled up in contempt as he stares the kid down.

Looking away, the boy mumbles something you don’t catch, but the man doesn’t even let him finish before sneering, “You’re a pansy, is what you are. ‘Fraid of a little roller coaster. Don’t know why I bother taking you anywhere nice like this, when you’ll just wimp out.” 

Outrage pushes blood to your face, as you glance back over at Simon. He’s too far away to hear what’s going on, still shooting the shit with Johnny. It’s just you and the couple in front of you who seem to notice, the woman giving you an exasperated look, and the man determinedly staring straight ahead. 

You know that tone of voice. That kind of disrespect has is etched into your bones, and you know exactly what it leads to. It’s the voice Simon grew up with, the one he has in his head every day, and has to convince himself to ignore. 

Helplessly you take another step forward in line, watching the boy in your peripheral vision when he at last decides that the tirade is over, and raises his head. The direction of the kid’s sad gaze shouldn’t surprise you, but it does, as he peers over at your two soldiers across the way. 

You look as well, wondering what he sees. Two large men, built strong enough to hurt anyone who talks down to them? Friends who are comfortable with each other, happily performing for no one? Or maybe he’s seeing the innate self confidence they have, to be able to hold their heads high while lugging around stuffed animals in public. It’s almost a display of power, if you look at it through the boy’s eyes. Or at the very least, it’s freedom.

Maybe it’s because you know about Simon’s childhood. Or maybe it’s your own memories growing up that flood you with righteous anger, the firsthand knowledge of how it is to live in fear. How the wrath of your ‘trusted adult’ is absolutely inescapable at that age. You know that weight. You can see it on that boy’s shoulders, suffocating him. 

You know what, you’re going to say something. You’re not going to just turn your head away, like that man in front of you. You’re going to walk right up to that awful dad and chew him out, for your sake and for the sake of every kid who’s ever had to listen to words like that. 

Clutching your purse tighter and squaring your shoulders, you’re just mustering up the anger you need to go through with it, when— 

“Next in line? Next in line?”

“Oh, uh…” you step forward, trying to remember what you came here for. “Do you have… pretzels?”

The worker gives you a deadpan look and gestures over to the very obvious display of soft pretzels under heat lamps. 

“O-okay, yeah, two of those, please. No, wait, three, and cheese.”

“Three pretzels and cheese,” the guy recites, giving you the total. 

You’re obviously not going to cuss anyone out while holding a bushel of pretzels, so once you’ve paid you stuff your wallet back into your purse, and head towards your table to unload. 

“Can’t believe there’s no smoking here,” the horrible man grumbles as you pass by, fishing into his pocket. “Go get your old man a Coke, and don’t be keeping any change.”

The hatred churns in your chest but you keep walking, certain that you’re about to get your revenge. You’re a marginally attractive person, and you’re here with a couple of meatheads who can squish pretty much anyone. There’s no risk involved, you can just unload, and that man… will… take it out on the kid. 

Simon gives you a puzzled expression when your face falls, as soon as you reach them. 

It’s useless. There’s not a single thing you can do for that boy. Any way you tear down his father would only result in him getting the punishment for it. 

You’re just as stuck as ever, helpless and stupid and no one important, same as you were as a child. You might as well still be that little girl, realizing that nothing you could ever do would make the adults in your life see you as human. 

All you are is taller now, with tits.

“What’s wrong?” Simon asks, as you push his pretzel over to him. 

“Um…”

They’re both concerned now. Dammit. 

Your gaze drops to the sparkly unicorn, its horn twinkling in the lights. 

“Johnny?” you prompt, blinking at him while your form your thoughts. 

“Hmm?” 

You rest your hand on the head of his unicorn, tugging at the ear. “Can I have this? For keeps? Will you give it to me?”

He blinks rapidly in surprise, glancing down at his prized plushie. “Yeah, alright. Sure.”

Before you can second guess yourself, you scoop both animals up into your arms and head straight for the boy’s table. 

“Excuse me,” you chirp, giving that disgusting man your most sunshiny smile. “I got these prizes here, and I just can’t take them home. They won’t fit in my car. Would you like to have these?” You turn your eyes on the boy for the last question, hopeful. 

He doesn’t look at your face, just darts his eyes to his dad, and then to the unicorn. 

“Tryin’ to run a hustle?” The man asks suspiciously.

“Nope, they’re free! Just hoping you could help me out.”

The boy glances over at Simon and Johnny, and the man says, “Aww, why not. We’ll take the brown one, don’t need no girl stuff.”

“Oh, come on,” you practically flirt, setting both animals on the bench. “Can’t you take both? I’d really appreciate it.”

Yeah, you’re laying on the charm for the old guy. You’re crooking your shoulder up and smiling a little saucy, and you don’t even feel bad about it. You have tits now. 

“Well, alright,” he allows, seeming pleased to have you begging him. 

“Thank you so much.” You finally bend down a little towards the boy, who hasn’t looked at you at all. His brown eyes lift hesitantly to yours. 

“I’m very happy,” you tell him honestly, “that these guys got to go to someone really special.”

You leave before anyone can change their mind. You just turn right around and prepare to explain why you just Robin Hooded Johnny’s special—

Smack, slosh.

Instead of the clear path back that you thought you had, you run right into someone’s body, and frigid wet instantly coats your thighs.

“I’m so sorry!” the girl gasps, as you both stare down at your legs, completely saturated in some cold, fizzy drink. 

“I— it was my fault,” you stammer, brushing droplets off the bottom of your coat. “I’m sorry.”

You’re so frozen in shock that it’s not until Simon materializes next to you that you even think to move away from the puddle. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, “let’s get you home.”

What? Home? 

A breeze runs through the place then, and you shivery violently at how frigid it feels when your leggings are soaked. You do have to go home. That’s the only option. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell Johnny, when Simon’s hand on your elbow urges you to start walking. “I didn’t mean to… for it to be like this.”

“Ehh, it’s alright.” He offers you one of the pretzels he’s carrying. “There’ll be other times.”

No, there won’t. You had this one opportunity to prove to him that you should be in his life, and instead of doing what you needed to do to secure that, you were awkward and you stole his unicorn and you made everyone leave early. This was a disaster.

Fuck, don’t cry. You cannot cry right now. 

You stop up your tear ducts through sheer stubbornness, numbly traversing the park and passing all the things you never got to do. 

You’re a ruiner, you didn’t even get to talk with Simon tonight, just made him stand around everywhere you went and not have any fun. 

Don’t cry. 

By the time you make it back to your car, the only thing keeping the tears at bay is the surface tension on your eyeballs. You’be got patches of frostbite on the front of each thigh, and even your hair feels a little sticky from stray droplets of soda. It’s the most you can do to just mutter an excuse to Simon, and escape into the back seat of your car to strip off your leggings. 

As soon as you’re alone in that quiet, frozen car, the tears come. Silently they stream down your face, bringing with them the rising tide of your own inadequacy. The guys’ voices are a low hum from somewhere outside while you yank your shoelaces undone and fail to come up with a single glimmer of hope. 

There’s nothing you can do. You did your best, and it wasn’t enough. 

One shoe off, you’re forced to stifle a sob with your hands, as you come to the painful realization that you have to say goodbye to Johnny. Not just tonight, but in your heart. You’ve been clinging to that control, the idea that if you just perform everything perfectly, you can decide the outcome of the relationship. 

But that’s false, you know it now. No amount of flawless behavior will make him love you, if it’s not meant to be. 

The side door opens before you've managed to make progress on the second shoe, the task of removing your leggings now utterly cast to the side with the flood of emotion. 

You already know it’s Johnny, even before he scoots himself into the backseat with you and wraps you up in his warm arms. Somehow you can tell even without looking, but you know it for sure when you bury your wet face into his shoulder and get a lungful of his scent. 

“I missed you,” he says.

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

Old Faces

Characters: Albedo, Xiao, Zhongli, gn!reader

Word Count: 2,151

Warnings: None

Premise: In which the reader runs into their ex

Author’s Note: Did something a little different by changing which character perspective it was for different prompts. I found it a good way to explore this particular prompt.

Okumaya devam et

a love like religion

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: smut MDNI, unprotected sex, gentle dom!jason, size difference, creampie, biting and scratching hard enough to draw blood, all the pet names from Jason (baby, sweetheart, ma, mama, darlin’, honey), lots of aftercare, hints of codependency from jay and reader.

a/n: was daydreaming about jason (as per usual) and got to thinking about how if he were real I would be so down bad for this man it would be borderline unhealthy. something something about your lover becoming your god or whatnot. ngl wrote this with a bit of a “bones and all” vibe in mind of just needing jay in every conceivable way and it uhhhh…spiraled. so here, have some fucking with copious amounts of aftercare and maybe codependency if you squint?

divider credit: cafekitsune

There aren’t many things in life you can be certain of. The ever changing tides of fate have washed you ashore and swept you back into drowning more times than you can count. You’d grown used to it, the ephemeral nature of being alive. You relied on the two things you knew to be unwaveringly true: you are currently living and breathing; and one day you will die, and the living and breathing will be over. You did not anticipate adding any other unchangeable qualities to this list. You now have one that supersedes every other: you love Jason Todd.

You love him more than anything in this universe or the next. You love him like you love air to breathe. He’s your entire world. The sun holds itself in the smiles he reserves only for you, the stars in the gleaming of his seafoam eyes when the moonlight hits them just right, gravity residing in the weight of his hands on your waist.

You love Jason so much you wish you could crawl into his chest, nestle yourself between his ribs and feel the beat of his heart from within. You can’t, of course. But right now, with his broad frame between your thighs and his hips rocking relentlessly into yours? It’s as close as you can get.

It’s intoxicating, the combination of physicality and emotion. Jason feels so good. His cock pushes against every sweet spot you have, delicious toe-curling drags that have you whimpering his name. And he’s so big. It feels like he’s splitting you in half even though he’d spent a good half hour prepping you on his fingers and his tongue. You wouldn’t have it any other way. Feeling your body give way to him, conforming to the shape and weight of him—it’s like nothing else you’ve ever experienced. Nothing compares to Jason.

That’s part of it too. Sure, the feeling of him driving his thick cock into you would be amazing no matter what. But doing this with him while knowing how much he loves you, how much you love him? It’s divine. No heaven could come close to this. You’d take an eternity with him over anything else.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty, ma. Feel so fuckin’ good around me,” Jason moans as he trails kisses down your neck.

“Jay–Jason, please,” you whine.

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for. He’s giving you everything you need. His hips rock back and forth at the perfect pace, deep thrusts that you swear you can feel all the way in your throat. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossing over his lower back in an effort to keep him close. He’s buried to the hilt inside you and yet you still want more.

“What is it, baby? Tell me what ya need,” he pants. “I’ll give you anythin’, sweetheart. Anythin’ you want.”

“You.”

The word tumbles from your mouth over and over and over again. He’s reduced you to a crying, needy mess, incapable of thinking about anything other than him. But he knows you all too well and indulges you in your request. He leans in closer, using all his weight to pin you between his warm body and your disheveled blankets.

All you know is Jason. His large frame above you, so big that he blocks the candlelit bedroom from your sight. His voice cooing praises in your ear—you’re so beautiful, takin’ me so well darlin’, I’m all yours sweetheart. His lips kissing and biting adoring bruises into your neck, your collarbone. How heavenly the wet strokes of his cock feel inside your over sensitive cunt. He moves his hand down to rub your clit at the same time that he licks his way into your mouth and you’re done for.

Burning, bright—a white hot supernova that explodes across every nerve ending from your head to your toes. Your legs lock around him as your whole body shudders. Your nails rake across his back and biceps, pretty red lines blooming over his scars. Your teeth sink into his shoulder and you recognize the coppery taste of his blood. The pleasure-pain of your bite draws forth Jason’s orgasm and the warmth that floods you makes you dig your claws in deeper. You mark him as he marks you. A permanent claim, tangible evidence of the love that hums between you. You have one semi-coherent thought before your mind becomes static: you’re as full of him as you can be; mouth, nails, pussy—you’ve got him in every part of you now.

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until you feel his gentle hands wipe the tears from your face.

“You with me, mama?” he whispers, forehead resting against yours.

You hiccup. It takes all your energy to nod weakly in confirmation. You cling to him, not letting him move an inch away from you. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you as close to him as physically possible. The movement causes his half hard cock to grind deliciously inside you and you’re gasping into the crook of his neck.

“Stay. Please,” you beg through tears.

Jason just holds you tighter to his chest, and you find safety in the strength of his embrace.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m stayin’ right here with you,” he assures you.

After a few moments, your head clears ever so slightly. You become conscious of touch. Your hands twitch back to life and you discover that Jason has placed them around his neck. Your fingers rest against his pulse, the steady badum badum badum lulling you back to lucidity. You blink open your teary eyes and see concern swirling in the deep sea green of your lover’s.

“Was it too much? I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, baby. I’m sorry,” he whispers, gentle as the winter rain that’s beginning to fall outside.

“Not overwhelmed,” you mumble into his neck. “I just love you.”

Your voice cracks on those four words. You break under the bruising weight of your love for him. You think it could kill you, could bury you six feet under, and you would happily die for it. You would happily die for him. You don’t think you’d want to go out any other way. His hand in yours; it’s the only way you can exist now.

Jason feels it too. He knows you almost as well as you know yourself. He knows how complete your devotion is to him, how he could ask for anything and you would offer it up without hesitation. He knows his is the same. You could demand his heart on a silver platter and he’d go grab his daggers that are displayed neatly on the wall and the fine china back at Wayne Manor. And maybe it’s a lot, maybe you’re both a little too attached. But how could either of you possibly care when loving each other felt this good?

So he handles you delicately. He soothes you when your sobbing returns as he goes to grab a warm washcloth. He wipes your tears as he cleans your combined spend off your thighs. He gently pulls a pair of his boxers over your hips, one of his hoodies over your head. He cradles you in his arms as he carries you to the living room to eat some snacks and continue binging The Great British Baking Show. You’ve come back to reality now. A soft peace settles across your overworked body and mind as you lie intertwined with Jason on the sofa.

“I’m sorry I lost it a little there,” you mumble into his chest, cheeks flushed and more than a tad embarrassed.

“You got nothin’ to apologize for, honey. How many times have I done the same?”

It’s true. Most times it’s Jason that’s the sobbing, fucked out mess in the afterglow. It’s part of why the come down hit you so hard this time. You feel almost guilty, like you should’ve been able to hold yourself together better for him. You swear he can read your mind when he gently grabs your chin and turns your head to face him.

“Hey, none of that feelin’ bad bullshit. We take care of each other. It’s what we do. You’re the one always sayin’ that, right?” he asks, softly nudging his hooked nose against yours.

“Yeah, we take care of each other,” you whisper. “Forever and always?”

Jason absolutely beams at you, and suddenly nothing matters but him and the love you share in this little bit of time and space that’s all yours.

“Forever and always.”

Me all the time 2

Me: I ship A with B

Me: I ship A with C too

Me: B with C isn’t that bad either

Me: But you know what is the best?

Me: Ship another pair!

My Brain: Do a love tringle!

Me: …

My Brain: …

Me: Why are you like this?

progression | aventurine blurb

loving aventurine was as easy as breathing to you, something incredibly hard for him to grasp. he didn't get it at all. when he first walked into your life, he had this arrogant mask up, another one of his well preserved fabrications to protect himself. he was snarky to you. not necessarily rude, but he wasn't afraid to bare his fangs and show you that he was capable of hurting you if he needed to. he wasn't afraid of hurting anyone. another gamble he was putting his faith in, that he wouldn't be put in a situation where he would have to hurt you.

you loved him during that stage. every sarcastic 'friend' he tacked on to every sentence like it was more of an insult than anything else, every boundary that he crossed of yours, every little lie he spun to keep you at arms length, trying to protect you from his teeth. words hurt less than his bite. and yet, you were there for him even when he was sure he would have pushed you away, and it unnerved him.

" aventurine ~ " you called out from behind him to get his attention, before lightly jogging up to him, standing by his side. not in front of him, but beside him. " i know you might be busy today with business as usual, but i was hoping that you were free this afternoon ? there's this new coffee shop that opened up, and i though- "

" coffee ? sorry to disappoint you, friend, but i am busy this afternoon, " he shook his head, as if dismissing the idea outright entirely.

" oh, that's okay ! i'm still able to say hi right now while we're walking, so that's enough, " you chirped, but he could hear the unmistakable sound of disappointment and sadness in your tone, making the guilt inside of him at being the one who caused your unhappiness eat him alive. but the look on his face didn't change, his walls too big to penetrate.

he did find you at that coffee shop, though. " oh, hello, friend- " he had called out, approaching your table, sitting next to you without even asking. he saw your eyes light up, and for a second he felt the warmth in his chest burst forward, his heart beating against his ribcage. " what good fortune that i was able to finish my tasks a little while ago. i didn't think you would actually come here alone. " there was a hint of confusion in his voice, but it was masked just as quickly as it came.

after this interaction, aventurine got a little awkward with you. what was he expected to say ? what did he do if he wasn't trying to push you away ? he was clumsy with his words, often just silently nodding along as you talked, and sometimes bringing up tiny points. he wasn't good at conversation when it wasn't to serve an agenda. being in survival mode his entire life, he had no idea how to be social, much less to someone as kind as you.

no matter how much he stumbled and fell over his own words, you treated him the same. he approached you cautiously, as if he was afraid that one day you would get sick of him and throw him out of your life permanently. was his personality too much for you to handle ? was he doing something wrong ? he wasn't sure, this was uncharted territory for him. all he could do was throw his dice and hope for the best outcome, something that was so comforting now unnerving. he could bet every single one of his chips, every possession he owned, including his own life, but you ? betting on you felt like one risk he wasn't willing to take.

" hey- i was at this shop a while ago, and i was hoping that you'd want to visit ? with me, of course, " aventurine asked, trying very hard not to look how pretty you looked right now, how your smile made his heart flutter every single time without fail. " i saw something i thought you might like. i wanted to get it for you but i don't know your size. "

" oh ? yeah, i'd love to go with you ! " you agreed immediately, as if everything that you were doing before this was suddenly unimportant. " but you really don't have to pay for me, honestly. i can take care of myself. "

this through him for a loop, and he hid it well, but aventurine had no idea what that meant. did you not want him to pay for you ? or were you just trying to be modest ? it wasn't like he was hungry for money, it was fine on his pockets, and he didn't mind spending if it meant spending on you, of course. besides, what did you want from accompanying him if it wasn't to buy things ? that's what friends were for, right ? it was a mutual beneficial agreement between two people to be friendly with each other to gain something from another, right ?

he was pretty sure that was how it was to be friends, but you challenged all of that. especially when you bought him a drink from a shop. he'd just mentioned it offhanded that he could go for some boba tea, and you had agreed, saying that it would be really good right now. and then you bought him his ? that's not how that was supposed to work, he was sure of it. why would you go out of your way to pay for something for him that you yourself wouldn't even get to enjoy ? he was willing to buy you things to keep you around him, but you didn't need to buy him anything to keep him around.

the possibility that you didn't want anything from him other than his time and himself was confusion, but refreshing.

eventually late night outs became late nights inside, and aventurine found himself in a precarious position, on your couch, your body on the other side, cuddling up against a pillow. the intimacy of the situation felt like it was choking him. and he finally got the courage to ask you the question that plagued him - why ? why did you care ? why did you try so hard ? what was in it for you ? putting your bets on him was a foolish decision that he couldn't rationalize. even he didn't bet on himself.

" because you're worth it, " you shrugged a little, the answer's simplicity wiping everything from him. all of his fears, his confusion, his doubts, just for this moment. right now, he understood. you never pushed him out of his comfort zone, and let your companionship evolve naturally. he didn't even realize he had let you inside of his shell before it was too late. " because you deserve it. "

he thought you were worth it, too. trusting you, putting his faith in you even though you had the ability to hurt him. it was worth it. you were worth it.

please take this. I made myself cry writing it and I have nothing to say except that putting ya’aburnee and darling by halsey on my jason playlist was a brutal choice. also look up flower language if you want additional feelings.

There’s so many things you want for Jason Todd.

You want him to get a good night’s sleep for once. You let him close his pretty seafoam eyes and lay his head in the crook of your neck as you scratch gently at his scalp. It always calms him down, grounds him in the here and now. Your arms around him, your fingers carding through his hair, the rise and fall of your chest that’s synced with his–it all reminds him that he’s safe, that he’s home. You want that feeling to follow him into his dreams, to let him find true rest. So when his body goes tense and his breathing gets labored, you hold him closer and hum gently into his ear until whatever haunts him in his sleep is chased away by the comfort you bring.

You want to make sure he’s protected. You wish you could deflect every hit, blade, and bullet away from his body. You wish he would see his body as something worth protecting. He would stop if you asked, would settle into a normal life as best as he could. You would never ask because to do so would be to deny the part of him you love most: his heart that beats to help others. So you protect him in the ways that you can. You stitch cuts and treat burns, you mend his jackets and help clean his guns. More than anything, you guard his peace of mind like it’s the most valuable thing in the world. You’re never cruel to him, never scream vicious words or toss him out into the cold night. You call Bruce and thank him for the first edition Jane Austen novels that arrived on your doorstep on August 16th when Jason just…can’t. You let him grip your hand brutally tight under the table when you go to the manor for Thanksgiving for the first time. And when it gets really bad? When he feels the burning of green waters that breathed life into him that he didn’t want, when hideous laughter echoes in a place it’s never been? You do something no one has ever done for him. You wait. You stay. You stay by his side until he can breathe again, until dawn breaks and he can see the light again. And always, always you, haloed in it like an angel he doesn’t think he deserves. He does.

You want him to have a good cup of hot chocolate. He told you about it once when he came home after a long winter patrol. Half delirious from exhaustion, he reminisced about how Bruce would make them both a cup of hot chocolate after particularly rough or successful patrols in December. How this specific hot chocolate had no equal—even Alfred couldn’t replicate the richness and warmth. You noticed the fondness in his voice, the longing so intense that it still makes your heart ache for him. So you do some light stalking and hunt down Tim Drake, demand that he give you the information you want or else you’ll disclose how he really lost his spleen to Bruce (why he was dense enough to tell Jason, you’ll never know). And that is how Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist single father and the Batman, receives an email with the subject line “URGENT: Recipe Request” that reads as follows:

To whom it may concern,

I have been made aware that you have a remarkably compelling hot chocolate recipe that is hitherto unparalleled by cafes, franchises, and butlers alike. I am emailing you to inquire about my being sent this recipe post-haste. This is less a request than a demand. I will do my best to ensure that you, at some point in time not specified (it will take great effort on my part), are able to witness the consumption of the hot chocolate by the individual that will be receiving the product of the recipe.

Best regards,

Someone who loves your son.

Bruce sends the recipe the second he receives the email. He has to sneak his phone under the conference table at the Wayne Enterprises board meeting to do it, but he still manages to reply in two minutes and forty-seven seconds. And you make good on your promise. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Jason shine as brightly as he does that Christmas, lit up by the lights on the twelve foot tree as he sips his hot chocolate from the same red mug that’s been sitting in the kitchen cabinet since he last drank from it. The matching black mug is clasped in the hands of the hot chocolate connoisseur himself, who smiles softly like the magic of the season has returned to his life for the first time in ages.

You want him to heal. It’s a big ask; you know that. But you’ve never been one for giving up hope, and if anyone can manage to achieve the impossible, it’s Jason. So you tell him it’s a great idea when he jokes about getting a therapist. You wait for him in the car the first time he goes and you let him open up to you in his own time when he comes out of the appointment body tight as a bowstring and eyes bloodshot. You watch quietly and celebrate the little victories you see him win. He can call his father first now; he doesn’t do it often, but he can. He can talk to his younger brother without hating his hands and the blood that’s been spilled on them, without going out on patrol and intentionally letting all the worst hits make contact. He can go out to lunch with his older brother and his youngest, can laugh with them over that ridiculous thing Bruce did at a gala once to make them all laugh. He can bear his birthday a little bit better now, can accept the cake you bake and actually make a wish when he blows out the candles. But you’ll never know about the moment that you start to get what you want. Jason goes to visit his own grave on the anniversary of his death and finds a bouquet of red carnations, baby’s breath, and honeysuckle with a note in your handwriting that reads “Someone told me once that you were magic, that that was the best thing about you. I think it’s far more important that you were loved. I don’t know what you could’ve been. I don’t wonder about it like those that loved you did because all I know is who you became. He’s wonderful. He’s still magic. I think you’d be proud of him. I’ll do my best to take care of him for you.” He sits there for an hour in tears. Then he takes one bud of each flower and the note, goes home and presses them into the pages of his favorite book. He holds you in his arms in bed that night and feels, for the first time in a long time, a sense of peace down to his very bones.

You want—above all else—Jason Todd to feel loved. You want him to feel so cherished and wanted that he cannot possibly look at himself without realizing that he is something precious, something beloved. So you tell him that you love him and you accept his warm embrace as his way of saying it back. You make him chocolate chip cookies and sneak one into the pocket of his tactical pants when he goes on patrol (they’re soft, they don’t get crunched when he’s thrown from a roof). You read his favorite books to understand what he’s saying when he goes off on tangents about class and social hierarchy and how they governed life in the 19th century. You trace his scars and kiss away his tears when he can’t believe that he could be transformed from a being marred by brutality into a man revered with gentleness. You will love him until the day you both die. You will love him in death, until whatever atoms made up you and him come together again. You will love him until everything that ever is or ever was ceases to be in a supernova of light. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll love him in whatever is born after.