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bicycle4two · 1 year

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built to love, but broken now || Arkhamverse!Jason Todd x F!Reader || soulmate au

Summary:

"-you had your monsters. I only had this connection to you." . . . or Jason and you are soulmates but the connection you share has done more harm than good and maybe the universe is wrong about this pairing, that maybe two people can be too broken to love.

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tags: soulmate au, hurt and comfort, healing, lonely characters, mentions of abuse and torture, reader blames jason for their pain at first, swearing, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, post-batman: arkham knight

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Read on AO3

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Word Count: 11K+

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Before

It had brought you some solace, the words on your skin.

They appeared suddenly, the letters slightly ticklish, like a ballpoint pen gliding across your skin, maybe even just a feather with how light and gentle it was. You’d been in class when you first felt the sensation, saw a list of food and toiletries being jotted down the palm of your hand. By your wrist, a quick computation followed by a couple of snacks being crossed out.

It was confusing, alarming, but at the same time, comforting.

Because these words, no matter how simple, how random, how inconsequential, kept you company in your loneliest moments.

In the darkness of your room, the ink on your arms, sometimes drawings, other times quotes from books you’ve never read before, made you feel like you were seen, that someone wanted to let you in.

And even when the ink was replaced by wounds, cuts, and bruises that you watched heal and fade, you weren’t scared. You felt the pain, the impact of the injuries, but instead of worrying about yourself, about how you were getting hurt without doing anything, you couldn’t help but think that this, this is only a fraction of what it felt like on the other end.

Because you aren’t alone in this. There’s someone out there who used to write poetry for you, lyrics of songs that you’d hum to yourself on the school bus, and that person is fighting and hurting, and how can you feel anything but worry, sympathy, for the person whose scars now litter your own body.

There’s a story out there of pain and suffering, maybe even triumph, and you can do nothing but read between the lines on your skin, piece together the clues it gives you, how the skin hardens to protect itself and how ugly it can get the more its torn apart.

…

You wake up in the hospital and for once, you don’t panic. By now, it’s a familiar, almost like home. The white walls, the steady beeping of a monitor, the murmured chatter. In a twisted way, you feel calm, relaxed, peaceful. Because no matter how isolated you are, how lonely it is when no one is there to welcome you back, at least you are no longer in pain.

Maybe it’s the drugs they’re pumping into your blood stream or maybe, maybe you’ve been out for so long that you’ve healed, come back to earth good as new, or as good as you can be. Chipped, cracked, but not broken beyond repair, not yet.

But you know it won’t last long, that the pain always comes back.

If you didn’t know the cause of it, you’d almost think you were cursed, that maybe you had offended some deity or witch. Because this pain is different from before. Before, the pain only took your breath away, stopped you in your tracks. Sometimes, it knocked you out, but you’ve only ever woken up with a headache after. Nothing some Advil couldn’t fix. But now, now it feels like a joke, like you’re somebody’s plaything. The pain inflicted is like a test—a little experiment to see how much you can take, how far the human body can go before it gives up.

There were days when it felt like you were being electrocuted, your body crumbling to the ground, convulsing, and you’re left with nothing to do but scream while the people around you call for help, watch in horror as you’re attacked by an invisible force. Other times, you’re knocked out of your seat, head flung back, nose bleeding, jaw aching.

And maybe if it was just that, shocks to your system, blows to your face, your gut, that would be okay, because if the scars on your body had anything to say, it would show that you’ve survived at least that much.

But this, this constant torture, makes you think that you only have so much fight in you, and you’re tired and afraid. You’re scared to leave your room, scared that some outside factor could hurt you, too. That maybe you’d feel a hit in the ribs so hard, so strong, that you’d trip down the stairs, fall into traffic.

And maybe the impact on your side would push the other person over the edge, aggravate what already fatal injuries they have, and it could be the last straw.

Because this, this phenomenon—blessing? miracle? voodoo? curse?—is rare, almost unheard of, a fairytale, and there’s no telling how it works, the extent of it, the connection. What once was just simple doodles across your skin was now a black eye, broken bones, a burst appendix, internal bleeding.

And from the pain in your chest, the way it’s become so obvious to you that you’re breathing, that something that’s supposed to be reflex, natural, now feels like a great effort to do, you think that this, this could be the end. That any more of this and you’re not going to make it to tomorrow.

“Do you want us to call somebody?”

“It’s alright. I can make it back on my own.”

“No, I mean, should we get someone from the police to come? Are you safe at home?”

The doctors and nurses look at you in sympathy, concern, making up their own stories in their head. You tell them that you’re clumsy, that you were probably born under an unlucky star, but there’s only so many injuries that you can pass of as consequence of losing your balance, of not looking where you were going, of the natural misfortunes of living in Gotham City.

You don’t want to get anyone involved, don’t even know what to say to the police if they asked, even the doctors can’t figure it out, how a person’s body can just hurt itself the way yours does. How can you explain the scars around your chest, wrists, and legs, the way it looks like you’d been tied down with rope and barbed wire? The bruises on your back? The way it looks like you’d been beaten with a bat, maybe even something stronger, with sharper edges? The scar on your check, the raised skin spelling the letter J?

Even you don’t know how to cover that up, in all sense of the word. You stare at it in the mirror and somehow it glares back at you as if it’s supposed to mean something, remind you of something. It feels like a label of sorts, a brand.

And of all the stories the scars on your skin can tell, this is the one you want to hear the most. And yet, you’re scared to know what’s behind it. Because it can’t be good. Surprisingly, it’s the worse of the marks on your skin, worse than the gash down your leg, the new bullet sized one on your chest.

Because this, this simple letter, somehow carries a weight to it. It’s heavy on your face, distorts your features. And maybe that’s why it’s ugly. Because it’s taken something from you, made it difficult to recognize yourself, to remember the person you were before it was forced upon you.

And it’s this stupid J that made a connection that once brought you comfort, made you feel less lonely, dirty, tainted it in ways that you feel like it will never be clean again, never be the same, never be beautiful again.

_____________________________________________________________

After Part I

Jason knows what to expect with cheap apartments in Gotham City—a shitty living experience.

The shower water is cold, if there is even any coming through the pipes at all, the floorboards are creaky, and the walls are thin. Which is fine. Jason prefers that he knows what the people around him are doing anyway, would hate to be caught by surprise. And, he won’t admit it, but nowadays, silence unnerves him, leaves him with his thoughts, which, haven’t been good to him recently, for a while now.

And frankly, it’s entertaining, listening to the petty squabbles happening in the apartment to his right, how they argue over the trash piling up, and why the TV only seems to be broadcasting porn. The drug dealers living above him were a talkative bunch, too, always laughing, bragging about some kid they recruited last week, how fast he was, how easy it was for him to get away from the cops. There were talks about bringing along his sister, someone less inconspicuous. At least, that was before Jason took care of them.

Again, there is some benefit to the lack of privacy his apartment building provides. In this part of Gotham, people tend to keep to themselves anyway, have learned that it’s better to mind your own business. So, the other tenants may choose to ignore the kind of activity that happens in the back alley, turn a blind eye at sketchy neighbors, the kind that walk funny, smell a little weird, but Jason’s always been able to handle himself, always knew how to fight people so much bigger than him.

All things considered, after everything, Jason has been doing okay for himself.

Sure, he isn’t great. He still has his nightmares to keep him company at night, still has this rage bubbling inside him, the feelings of hurt and betrayal still leave a bad taste in his mouth, but he’s okay. He’s alive, at least.

It helps that he can keep himself busy. That the criminals on the street, no matter how many guns they carry on them, no matter how much armor they have on, are still scared of things that go bump in the night. And Jason has been trained to work in the shadows, knows how to use them to his advantage.

…

It was like a mouse was living next door.

Jason knows that the apartment to his left is occupied, hears the quiet signs of life through his living room wall, but he’s never seen them. They shuffle around their room, their footsteps light, careful, almost deliberately silent, the music they play is always just a soft hum, gentle vibrations that lulls Jason to sleep when he’s staying on his sofa, beat from the night out. Sometimes he hears them when they’re about to cook, pots and pans being placed on the stove. Other times, he hears them rearrange the books on their shelf, the sound almost therapeutic, and in the early hours of the morning, he can hear the typing of a keyboard, the clicking of, well, a mouse.

But other than that, Jason’s never heard them speak, never heard the front door open the entirety of his stay. Chances are their times have never matched up, that they leave and come back while Jason’s out, but still. If Jason didn’t know better, he would think that maybe the apartment next door was haunted by a ghost cursed to go about the motions of its previous life.

Which is why, he’s uncharacteristically caught by surprise when he sees his neighbor in the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around a brown grocery bag. It’s late, Jason’s just about to head out to follow up on a lead, and his neighbor, a girl no older than he is, is just coming in.

She looks up at him when she feels his stare and the first thing he notices is that half her face is covered by a surgical mask. The light blue fabric somehow highlighting the dark circles under her eyes, the fading bruise on her temple. Jason thinks he should probably avert his eyes now, go back to what he was doing, leave before she does something he’ll regret, like strike a conversation.

But something about her keeps Jason in his place.

It’s probably because she’s looking him over too, her tired eyes studying him from head to toe. And Jason has to wonder what she sees. Because like everyone else, she looks at him warily, sees his large size, the scowl on his face, the bruises on his knuckles, and knows that he’s bad news. There’s this aura about him that tells people that they should keep their distance, to mind their own business. And somehow the scar on his face helps seal the deal, makes him look like someone you don’t want to associate with.

And people in the halls, on the street tend to look away once they see the pale, puckered flesh, their eyes twitching to look at anything but him. And he waits for her to do the exact same, waits for the widening of her eyes, the sharp intake of breath before she scrambles to get back into her apartment, away from him.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, the moment her eyes land on the J, a series of emotions play on her face, and none of them fear. He doesn’t have much to go on, the mask obscuring most of her tells, but her eyes, her eyes are expressive despite being worn out. They’re sad at first, almost weepy, and Jason knows this look, loathes being pitied, but in the next second, there’s a fire in them, anger. And that’s familiar, he’s seen that same look in the mirror more than once, which is probably why he should have seen it coming.

But honestly who would have expected his mouse like neighbor to attack? To go absolutely feral?

…

There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, and you always thought that when you meet them, you’ll know the exact words that would come out of your mouth. You figured you’d introduce yourself, maybe even explain this connection you have, ask if they want to be friends because something as special as this cannot be ignored, dismissed.

But what comes out is a snarl, a sort of inhuman noise that perfectly fits your actions.

You didn’t think you could actually take him down, he’s so much bigger than you and obviously stronger, but if you could maybe get a scratch in, wrinkle his clothes, rip a bigger hole in his jeans, then you’d feel better. Never mind the fact that whatever pain you inflict on him would come back to you, at least this time, you tell yourself, this time you’ll see it coming, this time it’s going to be your choice.

But of course, things don’t go your way. Because of course this man’s reflexes were quick, catching you and twisting your arms in such a way that they were now behind your back, immobilizing you. His grip is strong, almost painful, but you don’t care. You’ve had worse and frankly if he hurts you, then that would be the best wakeup call he could have. Because you’ve been so careful over the years and he probably didn’t even know you existed, how strong this link between you two is, and if he breaks your arm then you’ll get to laugh in his face when the same thing happens to him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He growls out.

“You are!” You bark back, pulling against his hold. He only tightens his grip to an almost bruising extent, and you feel yourself smile when he lets out a hiss. “Painful, isn’t it?”

“What the heck are you doing?”

“Pretty sure you did that, big guy.”

And he’s quiet after that, probably confused, you can’t tell with him standing behind you, but you feel him test his hold on your arms, varying the strength of it. And it hurts, sometimes, but you let him figure that out on his own. When it goes on for too long, you take matters into your own hands. You twist your wrist so that you can pinch the skin of your forearm and he yelps, releasing you.

“Stop that.” He says with a sour look on his face.

“You stop it,” you retort childishly. He obviously doesn’t appreciate your tone, but you don’t care. You have bigger problems, like the fact that he looks like he’s leaving for the night. Which isn’t good news. “You’re going out again aren’t you.”

He turns his nose up. “What’s it to you?”

And you really want to hurt him, but again, you can’t, which is getting more frustrating the longer you’re in the same vicinity.

“Do us both a favor and don’t get your ass kicked, will ya?” You gesture to the bruise on the side of your temple, the hit you felt knocking you out of your seat while you were working. You had seen stars, almost missed a deadline because of it.

You don’t give him a chance to respond, reveling in the almost guilty look on his face, and you march back to your door, unlocking it with little difficulty, thankfully. You don’t know what you’d do if you somehow messed that up in front of him.

It’s only when you’re in the comfort of your living room that you realize that you left your groceries on the floor outside.

“Asshole.”

…

Jason doesn’t realize how lonely he’s been until he had someone else’s welfare to think about.

Back then, before…before, he had a partner, a family, and he made sure they didn’t get hurt, tried his best not to get hurt either if only just so they don’t worry about him, have to take care of him when he can’t do it himself. And, it was good, back then, he remembers how nice it felt to have people to depend on and to be depended on as well.

But it’s been so long. And he’s been on his own for years, the people he worked with were nothing more than colleagues, employees, only there because they were beneficial to him and vice versa. Now, recently, he’s been going out without caring about what happens to him, not really. Yes, he’ll make damn sure that no low-level goon gets the best of him, and he won’t let the likes of Batman’s ex-rogues get away without a fight, would make damn sure that if he’s going down, they’re going down with him, but he’s only human and although there was a time he felt like after all he’s been through, he was invincible, maybe even thought that he could live forever, he has a clearer mind now, a better grasp at reality.

Not the best, but thankfully better than before.

Which is why after a moment of confusion, of disbelief, of denial, he can now admit what his mouse of a neighbor is to him, what she’s supposed to be, and he’s trying to be better now, doesn’t want to hurt innocent people, so he’s a little more careful at his job because of it, because of her.

Which is a good thing, all things considered. He dodges quicker, that’s for sure, thinks of better, sneakier ways to subdue criminals, to keep the fight from getting too big, too chaotic, and really, it’s all he can do to avoid the worst of injuries. He really can’t say the same for his fists. The guns are more efficient, sends a better message, but really, when someone gets too close, punching the daylights out of them is more of a reflex than anything.

Bruised knuckles are ten times better than a black eye or a shot to the knee so he’s not going to be picky about it, tells himself that she would know that it could be worse.

And for the past few weeks he’s been good, comes home whole, the heavy-duty stuff in his first aid kit mostly untouched, but he’s not made of stone. When he gets shot in the arm, he bleeds. A lot.

It’s really the voice of Alfred in his head that forces him out of his sofa to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. It says a lot about his injury, the amount of blood he’s lost, that that wasn’t his first instinct when he got back. Really, he’s just so tired that all he wants to do is go back to sleep.

And although he isn’t psychic, doesn’t know shit about what his future holds, he knows that this isn’t how he’s going to die, alone in his apartment, swimming in his own blood, so, he moves, sluggishly, but he’s further from the sofa than he once was so that’s progress.

It’s the series of knocks on his door that stops him halfway through his journey. He thinks to ignore them, that whoever’s outside is going to grow tired, probably think that he’s not even home, but the knocks continue, there’s an insistence to them, a demand that he open the door.

And Jason would hate for that noise to be in the background while he patches himself up, thinks that it would probably make things worse somehow, agitate him. So, he drags himself over, angles his arm in a way that the person on the other side won’t see it, and opens the door with a glare.

It’s her. The mouse.

“About time,” she says by way of greeting, pushing past him easily. Jason sees that she has her own first aid kit in her hand and her arm is wrapped in bandages. It’s the same arm as his, almost like looking in the mirror, only he’s still bleeding all over his floor.

And maybe, maybe that’s why she’s here. She knows he needs help, knew the minute he got hurt, and she could have ignored it, dealt with her own injury, and call it a day. Yet she’s here now.

And Jason sags in relief, glad to know that he isn’t alone tonight.

…

It would have been easier to pretend he was still some stranger on the other side of your link, some faceless figure, if he wasn’t so nice to you.

But he just had to leave new groceries by your front door. He just had to fix your broken lock when he saw you struggling with it the other day. He just had to glare down the creepy tenant on the fifth floor, the one who looked at you for too long whenever you passed by, threatened him, told him to mind his own business, to not bother you.

He just had to be careful.

It doesn’t escape your notice that it’s been a while since you’ve been hurt, since you’ve felt a punch in the gut, a hit to the head. So long that your bruises have finally had the chance to fade and your skin looks almost like it did before. It’s never going to be the same, time cannot heal the scars, but at least you’re no longer black and blue.

That’s why when you’re jolted out of sleep with a scream inducing pain, you know something’s wrong. The blood no longer scares you, no longer makes you sick, but your hands still shake when you gage the damage, clean it up, and wrap it. And it’s supposed to end here. There’s nothing you can do now but go back to sleep, hope that you’re not woken up by another mystical attack.

But you can’t. The apartment next door is quiet, empty, and you find that you won’t be able to rest until you know he’s back.

So, you don’t care about the ruckus you’re making in the early hours of the morning. You don’t care that the parents down the hall are glaring at you through the crack of their door, the sounds of a baby crying are quiet compared to your knocking. You don’t care. Because he’s on the other side of this door and he could be dying and no matter how angry you were, are at him for getting the both of you hurt, you can’t just leave him now that you know he’s right there.

“I have so many questions,” you say when you’ve finished your wrapping. It took longer than you would have liked, but he aggravated it on his way back from wherever he was, and you had to make sure that it wouldn’t get infected. You don’t know what would happen to you if it did. “But something tells me I won’t like the answer.”

“Smart girl,” he rasps out. He’s tired, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t let himself rest. He watched you the whole time you worked, probably making sure that you did it correctly.

“But I feel like I deserve it. You don’t know how it was like, getting hurt without seeing what it was that was attacking you.”

And it’s obviously the wrong thing to say. Because although he wasn’t relaxed, at least he wasn’t angry. He seemed all too happy to let you patch him up, probably delirious from the blood loss, unable to turn you away, but now that he’s no longer bleeding all over the floor, he has the strength to glare, to scowl. And you should probably be scared. But you know he won’t hurt you. Can’t. So, you stand your ground.

“Are you in some sort of gang?”

“I don’t have to answer you.”

“I don’t think you work for the police. You have that lawlessness to you. So, what is it? Drugs? Mafia? One of those costumed freaks outside on the street?”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t look like a follower though. I doubt you’re some goon. Maybe you’re new, been training for this moment. Are you some up and coming villain here to take over Gotham now that Batman’s de—”

And you choke, his hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing. It’s not enough to kill you, no, of course not, because then that would be counterproductive on his part. It’s just supposed to scare you, to keep you quiet, the way his fingers tighten. And you think that the connection you share somehow dampens the effects the receiver gets from the original source because he doesn’t look the least bit affected by his hold. That, or he’s been through worse. Which wouldn’t surprise you.

You really should have kept your mouth shut. The original plan was just to take care of him and leave, a sort of repayment for the groceries, the door, the creepy tenant, but you’re angry, have been angry for so long. Because all his good deeds these past few weeks don’t erase the hurt you’ve experienced the past two years. Old feelings of resentment bubble to the surface and you don’t care that your life is in his hands right now.

“You don’t know anything, little mouse.” His words are low but the stillness in his apartment makes it easy to hear him, to feel the impact. “You think just because we have some voodoo link, I won’t hurt you?”

“You won’t kill me.”

“No, of course not, mouse. But I can make you regret ever speaking to me like that.” His grip tightens slightly. “You think I’m scared of a little pain? I’ve crawled out of hell myself.”

And you imagine that this sneer shakes people to the core, the way it twists the simple letter on his face. But you have the same thing on yours and you feel pity instead. Because along with all the anger, there is hurt, and sadness, and confusion, and loneliness.

Because this link was supposed to be a gift, a miracle. At least that’s what the books said, the old folktales, and it was, it was something to celebrate, to cherish. Until the years tainted it, mangled its magic in such a way that something that was supposed to be, had potential to be, love left you broken.

“D-don’t underes-estimate me.” You say between struggled breaths. “Y-you may not ha-have se-en me b-but I, I was there, t-too.”

You don’t expect to be let go so you crumble to the floor, knees taking the brunt of your fall. You see him twitch slightly but other than that, he seems fine. Physically. He’s staring you down like he doesn’t know what to do with you, what to make of you, and you can’t blame him. You don’t know what’s happening either, what’s going to happen. Because everything’s a mess and you don’t know if the two of you are tied together because you’re supposed to be together or you’re supposed to ruin each other.

“It—It wasn’t my fault.” He grits out like the words are painful to say, like they’re tearing through his vocal cords. “I, I didn’t choose to be tortured.”

And you want to say that neither did you, but you have enough tact to keep quiet because this, this is one of those things that you’ve wondered about for so long.

“You think you understand, but you weren’t there, not really. You didn’t see these monsters, what they did to me. You didn’t see the looks on their faces. They—they were angry with me, hurt me for things I didn’t do. And for the things I did, they did so much worse. And, and they were happy to do it. Glad that I couldn’t fight back, that I wasn’t in my right mind, that I was bound. Helpless. For all my training, I couldn’t do shit.”

“So don’t you dare put this on me, mouse. I’m not to blame here. I’m as much a, a victim as you are.” he spits the word out like he hates the fact that it’s the truth, that it’s a part of him as much as anything. Because you can see now that he’s built to fight and although you don’t know him, not really, not at all, you know that he was made to protect. That for all his anger, his glares, his scowls, his brute nature, he was someone who could do so much more, that he was someone who once never thought of hurting anyone who didn’t deserve it.

And maybe it’s the link, maybe it’s the way you can see him clearly now that his walls have been kicked down, burned, but you can see why his presence, the very idea of him existing somewhere in this world, once brought you comfort, peace.

And you remember.

You remember the writings on your skin, the way they tickled with every stroke that appeared on your your arms, the palm of your hands. You remembered the lists he’d make, the little reminders. The doodles you can imagine him doing in class when he simply couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. You remember the quotes, the poems, the song lyrics. And you wonder how you could ever think that someone who was so gentle, who seemed so kind, could ever think to hurt you. And you think that you always knew about him, but never once did you make yourself known. You never wrote back to him, never completed his songs, never drew anything for him.

And you think that although he had kept you company, you had left him alone.

…

Jason expected the tears. He has that effect on people he’s threatened, verbally attacked. But this, this is different.

Because there’s something almost childlike to her crying, the way she curls up and just sobs, screaming like she can’t find the words to express whatever it is that she’s feeling inside, the frustration, the hurt, the anger. And, Jason understands, knows what it’s like to just want to scream at the world because it’s done nothing but hurt him. But he’s never had to luxury to do so, not really, could never bring himself to openly sob, let his emotions out as freely as she does.

Because it’s a sign of weakness. It shows that there’s a breaking point. That some things can be too much.

And he’s jealous. Jealous that she can be weak, that she can break, that she can show that there is only so much she can take. So, he lets her. He lets her cry in the middle of his apartment until she goes hoarse, until there’s no voice left in her, no tears, only harsh breathing, and the shudder of her shoulders to show that she’s hasn’t passed out on him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers when she’s finally calmed down. She hasn’t moved from her spot, from the little ball she’s made herself into, and Jason thinks that maybe she can’t look at him.

“You’re not the one who did this to us,” Jason says, feeling exhausted. It’s been a long night and all he wants is to just go to sleep. Lately he’s been too tired to dream or, at least, too tired to remember his nightmares, so he’s been getting some rest. It’s not much, but it’s better than before.

“Neither did you. So, I’m sorry I blamed you.” She looks at him now. Her cheeks are soaked, her hair and the mask stick to her skin but she doesn’t do anything about it. “This link, this connection, I thought it was like a fairytale come true.”

And Jason snorts. Because he once thought so, too. When he was younger, he had found a book in Bruce’s library about links like this, the different varieties, the way it brought people together. It was nice knowing that there could be someone out there specially for him, someone who would love him. Because for so long he went without anyone on his side, without anyone who wanted him. And the idea that someone in the universe was made to love him? Well, he couldn’t be that lucky.

But he wished he was. He really wished that he was part of that one percent that had this link.

And here she is, his little mouse, and he’s done nothing but hurt her. Even if he didn’t want to, didn’t mean to, the damage was done. To both of them. And Jason has to wonder if a link can break, if the people on either side were too hurt, too angry, too broken to be put together.

“I bet it looks like a horror story right now.”

“I think I could have loved you,” she begins, and Jason feels what little of his heart that’s left twinge, ache. “I wanted to love you. But, but the pain…it was so much. I was so scared. And I didn’t know what was causing it, not really. You had your monsters. I only had this connection to you.”

She pushes herself up to sit, to look at him without her hair in her face, without tears in her eyes. And Jason, Jason doesn’t know what to do. Because what can you do when someone tells you that they wanted to love you, that the thing you wanted the most, the thing you prayed for as a child, was right there in front of you, broken?

“I’m, I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, not knowing what else to say. He’s sorry that he wasn’t careful when he was Robin, he’s sorry that the Joker put them through torture, he’s sorry that even when he got out, he only fought harder, didn’t care what happened to him as long as he got his revenge. But again, it wasn’t, isn’t his fault. Not all of it, really. He didn’t know she was there, that she existed. “Why…why didn’t you try to contact me? If, if I knew you were there… I…”

I would have been careful. I would have fought harder. For the right thing. I wouldn’t have been alone.

“It’s not your fault. Don’t, don’t apologize. I…I should say sorry—I am sorry.” She traces the skin of her arm with her fingers in an almost comforting manner. Like how you’d stroke a puppy, lightly, gently, with love.

“When you grow up and no one wants to listen to you, you start to think you don’t have anything important to say at all,” she explains. “I was happy when I found out you existed. I, I didn’t know who you were, of course, but I was happy you were somewhere out there, you know? I just, I didn’t want to scare you away with…me. No one really wants to stay with me.”

“What was the universe thinking, putting us together?” Jason breathes out. “What? We’re both fucked up that’s why we’re perfect for each other?”

“Misery does love company,” she says with a shrug.

But she doesn’t look as hopeless as Jason feels right now, doesn’t look betrayed. Because Jason thought this link was supposed to be good, pair him with someone who was going to love him in a way that he’s never felt before. Unconditionally. But how can she love him when he’s hurt her? How can he love her when there’s no love in him to give?

It all just seemed like another middle finger the world just loved to send his way.

“Maybe we aren’t supposed to be fucked up together,” she says breaking the silence, taking Jason out of his thoughts. “Maybe, maybe we’re supposed to heal. Together.”

And Jason hasn’t been one half of a duo in so long and, and he’s so tired. So tired of all the pain, the anger, the loneliness. And here’s someone the universe is saying could love him, is supposed to love him, and all Jason really wanted was to be loved, to be seen, and he’s broken, she crumbled to pieces right before his eyes, but maybe together, they can build something, make something that would turn all the ugliness they have into something beautiful.

_____________________________________________________________

After Part II

No matter how magical the link seemed, how the stories described it as something that brought two people together, made people fall in love, you and Jason aren’t friends. Not yet.

You don’t hate each other, don’t glare, or spit out poisonous words at one another, but you aren’t friends. It’s hard, after everything, to be anything more than neighbors, but at least you aren’t strangers. Not anymore. You can’t pour your heart out, scream into the heavens in someone’s apartment and remain strangers.

So, neighbors.

It’s an interesting relationship to have. In all your years living in Gotham City, you don’t think you’ve ever looked at your neighbors let alone talk to them in the hallway, have them help you bring your things up the staircase when you run into each other in the lobby. And. It’s nice. After being on your own for so long, it’s nice to have someone welcome you back when you’ve been gone, to ask how you’ve been even if it’s just a question to fill the silence, to seem polite.

It's nice to know Jason, to have someone make you feel that you aren’t alone.

…

It’s late.

You’ve always found that you work better in the night, that editing videos with all the lights turned off, with nothing but Gotham’s city noise to keep you company, was so much easier than it was in the daytime. Maybe it’s because you know no one would disturb you this late, that you wouldn’t receive any phone calls or expect to answer emails at this time so you can work uninterrupted, get into the zone of putting videos together, find out the best transition between clips, to make them more interesting, more engaging. Or maybe it’s the aesthetic of being dressed in your pajamas, headphones on, sitting on your swivel chair in a way that you can’t do in an office that makes you think that this, this is how an editor should work.

Either way, the point is that you’re awake and maybe that’s why he comes to you, drags himself through your open window, landing on your floor in a heap.

It’s a miracle that you don’t scream.

“Jason?” You ask dumbly, scrambling to grab your mask from your table, hiding your face from him. It seems almost fair seeing as he’s currently concealed by a red helmet. “Is that you?”

“Hi there, mouse,” he groans, stretching out on your floor, hands petting your fluffy rug. “This is nice. Where’d you get this?”

“I ordered it online—What’s happening? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Just took care of some business. Nothing to worry about.” But the way he hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor makes you worry anyway. “You got some ice here?”

“Sure, let me—” And it hurts. You feel it when you stand, the way your ankle throbs when you put your weight on it. You didn’t notice while you worked, too focused on adding animation to the video to make it funny, to emphasis a joke, but now, now it hurts. It’s not blinding, not to the point that you can’t walk. It’s the link, you think. Whatever injury Jason has, you get the dampened version of it, which says a lot about how much pain he’s really in, what he isn’t showing you. “It’s broken, isn’t it?”

“Nah. I doubt it. I just landed wrong.”

“You don’t normally make that mistake,” you say.

“I’m only human.”

And it’s the way that he says it, the edge in his tone, that makes you drop the subject. You limp out your room and make quick work getting the things you need to ice and wrap both your ankles. When you pass by the mirror outside your room, you pull your mask down to check if Jason has any other injuries he isn’t telling you about. Luckily his helmet shielded him from most of the damage, but it seems like he’s bit his lip. You lick the blood off your own before slipping your mask back on.

“I can do it myself,” Jason says when you reach for the clasps of his boots. You see the guns he has strapped to his thighs but think that like any gun wielding person you see in Gotham, it’s none of your business. “Mouse. Stop.”

“Let me help you.” you say, suddenly tired. Your own ankle is nagging at you now, your position on the floor isn’t doing it any favors, and you wish you had at least finished your draft because you don’t think you’ll be getting back to your computer tonight. “Please, Jason, let me at least do this.”

“You’re hurt, too.”

“Not as bad as you.”

And, finally, he lets you take care of him. And you think that it’s been a long time coming. That you were always the first person to know when he was hurt, when he needed help, and finally, finally you’re here to do so. It’s not much, he’ll definitely be better off at a hospital, but something tells you that he isn’t going to go to one even you have to drag him there yourself. So, you do your best. He helps you remove his heavy-duty footwear, and you wince at the swelling.

“This is more than a bad landing,” you say, icing the ankle. You have a timer for twenty minutes already counting down on your phone.

“It’s two years’ worth of bad landings.”

You know that can’t be true, that there’s more to that statement. That the weeks you’ve been bedridden because you couldn’t walk was because of his monsters. That wherever they kept him, they made sure he couldn’t leave. But you keep quiet, knowing that Jason doesn’t do well when prodded for answers, that he’ll tell you things on his own time.

“Well, you better decide what we’re watching this week because we’re not leaving the bed for some time.”

And Jason laughs, a low chuckle that makes a shiver run down your spine. You look at him through your lashes and you hate that you can’t see his face right now, that you don’t know what he looks like when he laughs.

“Now, mouse, if you wanted to get me into bed, you only had to ask.”

“Oh my God. Shut up. You’re the worst.” And your glad that he can’t see your face either. That he doesn’t see how affected you are by him.

“You love me.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. You see the way he stiffens after the words leave his mouth and you don’t have to see his face to know that he’s cringing, grimacing. And you should ignore it. Act like you didn’t hear him. It’s the polite thing to do. You’d probably want him to do the same if the tables were turned.

But, at the same time, you think that maybe, just maybe, this is a chance. That maybe this link between the two of you hasn’t twisted in such a way that it can’t go back to how it was before, that it can still be fixed, cleaned, brought back to its former glory.

“Not yet,” you tell him quietly, almost like it’s a secret, something that only the two of you should know. “But I could, Jason Todd. I want to.”

…

“Hey, you didn’t forget the dog food, did you?”

“How could I? Your reminder took up my entire forearm.”

“I wanted to make sure you got my message!”

“Well, I did. So, congrats. What do you need dog food for? I thought mice only ate cheese.”

“Haha. Very funny. It’s for the puppy that stays by the back door. She makes me want to cry.”

“Oh. You should have said so. I could have gotten some toys, too.”

“And a bed? And treats? Wait, I’ll write it down.”

“Paper! Write it on paper!”

…

Jason hears the scream in his dream.

It breaks through the scene, distracts him from what’s happening, and it tears him out of the dream almost violently. He shoots up from his place on his living room floor, his breathing quick, gasping, almost panicked, and he has to tell himself—out loud so that it’s real, that it’s not just wistful thinking—that it’s over, that it’s all over and he’s free. That by some miracle he’s okay, he’s safe.

But the screams weren’t from him, weren’t caused by his nightmares. It’s coming from next door, his little mouse’s apartment, and he’s moving before he knows it, practically tearing out his door in the process to get to her.

(It’s a good thing that her apartment is practically baby proofed, her table’s corners guarded with soft padding, because Jason hip checks into one in his rush. It’s something he’s been meaning to bring up for a while, how her apartment is carefully designed to keep her safe from those small accidents people have with their furniture—stubbed toes, bumped hips, pinched fingers. He doesn’t want to be cocky, to think that this thing between them is more than it is, that the link is just that, a connection, doesn’t dictate what they are to each other, not really, but he wants to think, believe that maybe, just maybe, she did it for him. That she tries her best to not get hurt so that he wouldn’t either.)

She’s awake when he reaches her room, knees to her chest, hands covering her face, shoulders shuddering with every exhale. She looks smaller like this, somehow, more vulnerable, and Jason, Jason has never been good at handling things that were fragile, breakable, but he wants to try.

He thinks that she was with him in hell, and she survived, so she won’t fall into pieces just from his touch.

But honestly, it’s Jason who’s having a hard time reaching out. It feels like he’s going to fall into pieces because it’s been so long, too long since he’s touched somebody without it hurting. And maybe, maybe it would be the same for her, maybe she’d rather he just stay in the same room, comfort her with his presence, maybe he’ll even find the right words to say.

But he remembers the way her fingers trace over her skin when something’s bothering her, when she’s distressed. Thinks about how she grabs hold of her own hand, squeezing it to ground herself. And he thinks about how his writings used to bring her comfort, how she said they always made her feel less alone.

So, he grabs a pen from her table and slowly, carefully, writes the first thing he thinks of on his arm.

I’m here for you

I’ll always be here

…

“So, you edit videos for…vloggers?”

“I do commercials for small businesses, too. But yeah, vloggers.”

“Vlog…gers. Video bloggers.”

“It’s not that strange.”

“Why would you want to watch what people do in their life?”

“I don’t know… maybe it’s entertaining to see how people live outside Gotham City? I edit for a Metropolis vlogger. I saw Superman in the background of some of her shots.”

“I just don’t get it.”

“You watch reality TV.”

“That’s only because I lost the remote and you know it.”

…

It’s easy to forget with how he carries himself, confidently, dangerously, like he’s bigger than everyone else, that Jason slouches, that he walks with a hunch in his shoulders, that his back curves in a way that can’t be comfortable.

It’s not so bad when he wears his brace, when there’s something to support him, but some days, some days he can’t bring himself to put it on. That he’s just so tired from the night before—maybe even consecutive nights when things in Gotham City get too hectic, when the bad people get cocky, in over the heads— that he just chooses to be in pain. Or he just can’t help it. That maybe staying on the floor, on top of his new rug that you ordered for him, was better than moving.

Which is frustrating. But it’s not like you can wrestle him into one when he doesn’t want to wear it. You learned quickly that you can’t force Jason to do anything, that it’s a surefire way to end the day in a bad mood, so you think that there must be another way to help him because no matter how much he brushes it off, no matter the fact that pain is something he’s used to, he doesn’t have to deal with it.

“No, mouse. No drugs.” Jason says weakly when you kneel beside him, warm compress, massage oil, and some pain relievers in your hands. The internet said it should help. You even looked up some stretching exercises.

“You sure?”

“Definitely. I hate that shit.”

And you don’t ask. You think that it’s related to his monsters, to those two years, so you tuck the pills into your pocket and gently coax Jason back on his stomach. It would probably be better if he were on a bed, someplace more comfortable, but he’s never been able to relax on one, not really. He’ll sit with you, sometimes long enough to finish a movie, but he’ll never stay, never let the pillows cushion his head, never tuck himself under the duvet.

Jason visibly sags in relief when you apply the warm compress on his back, lets out a low groan. His eyes flutter close, and you think this, this is what he looks like when he’s at peace, when he feels safe and, well, warm. You think that Jason Todd deserves to rest, that he of all people needs a break.

“How is it you’re not in pain?” He mutters out after a few minutes, one eye cracking open to look at you.

“Maybe it’s like a loophole in the link,” you say. You move the warm compress away when the timer rings. “Like how you don’t feel my period cramps.”

“Are they really that bad?”

“Nothing compared to what we’ve been though, no. But they’re inconvenient. How are you feeling?”

Jason stretches a bit, and you hear a pop. He lets out a sign, melting into the rug once more. “Better.”

“You think you can get up? Want to put on your brace?”

“It’s better if I do.”

“I’ll go get it.”

You don’t remember when Jason’s apartment started becoming familiar. You think that it’s normal to think so, that your apartment has the same layout, but it’s different. You know Jason’s apartment, every nook and cranny of it, the things he keeps on display and the things he prefers you don’t know about, or at least see.

You know where he keeps his medical equipment, all the places where he’s tucked a first aid kit, where he keeps his everyday braces, the ones he has for his back, his knees, his bad ankle. They’re different from the ones he wears to “work.” The more heavy-duty ones are in the room you try to stay away from, scared that you might touch something the wrong way, set something off.

You know how he likes to keep his books organized, putting away the paperbacks he’s forgotten to tidy up when he leaves, making sure the bookmarks don’t slip through the pages. You know how he likes to put his groceries away, how he organizes his pantry so that the items close to expiring are in the front, so they don’t get forgotten, don’t go to waste.

What you don’t know is how long ago you and Jason have moved on from simply being neighbors, how long it took for you to know his life as intimately as you do now, to know how he lives in his little world on the other side of yours.

“What do you say we get out of here?”

Jason asks when you come return to the living room, still lying on his stomach, not in a rush to move, to disturb the comfort he’s found himself in.

“Like, outside?” You look out his open window, see that the sun’s behind the clouds but it’s still bright. It’s been a while since you thought Gotham as bright, having lived in its shadows for so long. “I heard the park has been renovated.”

It reopened last week and you’ve seen nothing but good news about it online. People were excited to see something nice, something new, untouched by the incident.

“We can,” Jason begins, pushing himself off the floor. You reach out to help him, but he holds up his hand, stopping you. Somethings, he prefers to do by himself. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He looks nervous. Almost shy. Which is cute if not a little unnerving.

“How about we move? Move out of this apartment?”

“Together?” You’re surprised that you’re not opposed to this idea. In fact, you like it. A lot. “That’s, uh, are we ready for that?”

“We’re at each other’s place all the time anyway and I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe. With me.” He scratches the back of his head, eyes darting away from you, blush crawling up his neck. “This place is a shithole, mouse. We can get some place better—better plumbing, better ventilation, better security.”

And you smile. “Getting sick of the cold showers, huh?”

“I just wanna feel clean, mouse. I miss hot water.”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

And Jason, you always thought Jason was good-looking, beautiful in that rugged way of his, but when he smiles, looks at you like you’ve given him something he’s always wanted, he’s breathtaking.

…

“So, how do you propose we move our things?”

“You have a car in the garage don’t you? Why don’t we just use that?”

“Oh yeah? Who’s going to drive it?”

“You? Mouse, it’s your car.”

“No. It was my dad’s. I don’t know how to drive.”

“How can you not know how to drive?”

“I’m barely out of high school, Jason. Why can’t you drive?”

“Bruce and Alfred never got around to teaching me.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to look up moving companies then.”

“…You’re, you’re not underage, are you, mouse?”

“I’m nineteen. Twenty this August.”

“Oh. Good, good. Same.”

…

This, this is difficult.

The bed. He’s not used to it. There was a time when he was excited about it, after living on the streets for so long, the bed at the Manor was godsend, never believed he’d ever touch something so soft yet firm with such a high thread count. He imagined that his old bed was something Goldilocks looked for, the exact bed baby bear had.

And there’s no doubt about it. This bed in their new apartment is good, comfortable, one of the best that they could afford. It’s just, Jason can’t sleep on it, can’t get himself to relax, to allow his body to accept the comfort. Because it’s been a long two years with nothing but wood or concrete to pass out on. Jason’s even found himself hanging on a meat hook once or twice, dozing off from the blood loss, the beatings. And maybe back then he’d give anything to be back on his bed, even the one he had before he was on the streets, the old lumpy mattress with the springs sticking out.

But now, now all Jason wants is to move to the living room floor, to sleep on the rug they brought over.

“Jason?” She asks from outside her bedroom door, voice sleepy, barely above a whisper. She has her hands up to cover the lower half of her face, probably not expecting to see Jason out this late at night. “Is that you?”

“I have to ask, mouse, what would you do if it wasn’t me?” Jason asks from the shadows, from his place on the floor in front of their sofa.

“Scream. Then you’ll come out and beat the intruder’s ass.” She shuffles closer, her bedroom slippers muting her footsteps. “Are you okay?”

And isn’t that the million-dollar question? Jason thought he was. He thought he was getting better. He thought he’s moved on from the worst of what’s happened in the abandoned wing in Arkham Asylum. He thought he’s moved on from that Halloween, moved on from the Arkham Knight. Yet here he is, on the cold living room floor, unable to fall asleep in his own goddamn bed.

“Y’know, I never thought about it, but this is pretty comfy.”

All of a sudden, she’s next to him, the throw blanket over her shoulders, corners held up to cover her face. She’s made sure that there’s still space between them, that she doesn’t sit too close, but it’s enough, enough to feel her warmth, to know that she’s there.

“It sort of feels like a sleepover, doesn’t it?”

“Have you ever been to a sleepover, mouse?”

“Don’t be rude. You know how much people scare me.”

“Not so much anymore though, right?”

And although he can’t see it, he knows she smiles. Because she’s still his little mouse, still a bit skittish around strangers, but she’s trying, she’s getting better at meeting people’s eye, at returning greetings. She’s even made friends with the kid across the hall, helps her with her homework sometimes.

“Not so much, no, but I live in fear of the water bowl trick.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the worst. I see it in movies all the time. So, you wait for someone to fall asleep first, right? And you warm some water…”

Jason doesn’t realize what she’s doing until it’s too late. Doesn’t realize the way the gentle tone of her voice lulls him to sleep, her steady speech providing some comfort he didn’t know he needed, wanted. And Jason never really liked the silence, not like before, no longer found comfort when all he could hear were his own thoughts. So, this little story, some nonsensical tale about warm water and waking up in a wet bed, allows Jason to relax, allows him to succumb to his exhaustions, allows him to sleep.

…

When Jason wakes in the morning, the first thing he realizes is that he feels well rested, his nightmares decided to give him a break for once, finally let him experience what it’s like to not wake up tired. The next, the blanket she was using was now thrown over him, tangled in his legs. Last, she’s cooking.

It’s nothing extravagant, nothing like the breakfasts he’s had at the Manor once upon a time. But it’s enough. Jason’s been having trouble with food again. Some days it’s hard to stomach the heavy stuff, the greasy kind of food he used to salivate over when he was younger. He’s glad that she somehow knew this, predicted that he needed something light after last night.

And he’s grateful. Thankful. Thinks that this, this is what he read about in those books all those years ago. Thinks that this is what the link promised him.

…

“I know it’s none of my business but…”

“But?”

“But you should know that, that it’s okay. It’s okay to show your face around me.”

“I, I didn’t think you’d want to see it.”

“I have it on my own face, mouse. It’s not like it’s going to surprise me.”

“I know. I, I just thought it would be harder to look at when it’s on me.”

“Mouse. You’re always going to be easy on the eyes.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s true. Just, think about it, okay? I mean, I’m no stranger to masks. I get it. I just wanted you to know that it’s okay. You’re okay. With me. I, I’d like to see your face if you’d let me.”

…

It’s quiet tonight.

Gotham, for once, is quiet in a good way.

It’s almost like everyone decided that tonight, tonight was going to be a break from, well, everything, and for that, Jason is grateful.

He’s tired. He’s been tired for so long. And it’s nice that he gets this moment of peace. With her. In the quiet.

And it’s different than usual. Because although it’s quiet, Jason’s thoughts aren’t hounding on him, aren’t reminding him of what he’s done, what’s been done to him, aren’t telling him that this peace he’s found with her is temporary, that this link they have is too weak after all its been through, that sooner or later it’s going to break and she’s going to leave. Because of course she’s going to leave him if there’s nothing tying them together. Because they always leave. Because why would anyone want to stay—

And.

And Jason can finally tell his thoughts to shove it, to go back in that dark corner of his mind and to stay there. Because he knows, he knows now that this connection is stronger than they thought, that no matter how much they went through, no matter the bruises, the scars, the trauma, it only got stronger, only held them that much tighter. And Jason knows that she isn’t going anywhere, that she’s here to stay. With him.

“I think this link is getting stronger,” she says in a whisper, almost like she’s afraid to disturb the quiet. “I can hear your thoughts from here.”

“Oh yeah? What am I thinking?”

And she smiles, a shy little quirk of her lips that makes Jason want to shield her from anything and everything that can threaten to take it away from him. Because he earned that smile, longed to see it, and if he could keep her smiling, keep her happy, keep her at peace, then he’ll know he’s doing something right.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll let you know if it’s the same thing I know.”

And what is Jason supposed to say? Is he supposed to tell her that after so long he now feels safe? Warm? Wanted? Is he supposed to tell her that he’s dreamed of her since he was a child, that he’s longed to have someone out there who was meant for just him? That the universe saw the two of them and thought that there is no way that they should not be together?

And Jason thinks that the answer is yes, yes, he should tell her that. Because she deserves to know. But, but can he really? Is he really capable of the feelings he has swirling inside of him? He’s been angry for so long, hurt for even longer, believed that he was broken. Could someone like him feel this way about her?

“Hey, Jason, why are you crying?”

He thinks of the way she was once curled up in his living room, screaming, tears running down her face. He remembers thinking that she cried in almost a childlike way, the kind of cry you do when you don’t have the words to express everything that’s in your heart. He remembers being jealous. Jealous that he couldn’t do the same.

But maybe, maybe he can. Maybe that’s what he’s doing right now. Maybe the child in him just couldn’t sob openly the way she could. Maybe, just maybe, the child in Jason could only cry quietly, could only cry without gaining attention so he wouldn’t get into trouble.

And isn’t it a relief that when the tears slide down his cheeks, wet the pillow he’s lying on, she doesn’t scream, doesn’t get angry. She only coos, speaks to him in a gentle way, in a way that makes him know that this, this is okay.

“It’s okay, Jason. You’ll be okay.”

“Can, can I, is it okay for me to feel this?”

“Feel what?”

“Because, for…for so long, all I wanted was to be loved. And, and I thought that I didn’t deserve it, that after everything I’ve done, no one could love me and…” The words are difficult, almost painful to say, but he has to, he has to try because she has to know. “And I thought maybe, maybe I was too fucked up, too broken to love, but mouse. This, this feeling. These feelings I have for you, what else could it be? How can someone like me feel this way? How is it even possible?”

And she’s quiet. Thinking. She wipes his tears with the soft pad of her thumb, traces his cheeks like he could break if she pressed too strongly. And it took a while before he allowed her to touch him like this, allowed her to treat him with such kindness. Because he’s gone too long without it and it scared him. But now, now he looks for it some days. Craves her touch, the warmth, the kindness. And he revels in it.

“I think,” she begins, her voice shaky, like the words are trying to come out all at once and she’s trying to get control of them. “I think you are love, Jason. For so long you had to be tough, you had to be cold and hard and unfeeling, but I think, I think if you were only given the chance, you would have been nothing but love.”

“I was made to fight. To protect.”

“No, Jason, you were built to love.”

And there’s no way he can keep it to himself now. No way that he can keep it from pouring out when she tells him that, looks at him like that.

“I love you,” he rasps out. “Is that okay? Is it okay to love you?”

“It’s more than okay, Jason. I love you, too. So much.” And she laughs, a weepy sort of laugh, but she looks happy, so happy, and Jason has a hard time believing that it’s because of him, that he can make someone as happy as she is right now. “Even without the link I think I would have found you and I would have loved you. You make it so easy to love you, Jason. And I love you. I love you. I love you.”

…

When Jason wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he’s in bed. He’d fallen asleep next to her, wrapped his arms around her in his sleep, pulled her close so that her back was pressed against his chest. It’s a first. Sleeping in bed. Sleeping with her. The next, he realizes that he’s in love. So, in love that it almost feels like a dream, but he knows dreams and this, this isn’t one of them. This is real. Last, he’s okay. More than okay, really. He’s finally happy.

...

author’s note: the conversation about jason not knowing how to drive is inspired by scaryscarecrows post. also jason's broken ankle and bad back is from lananiscorner

ps. want to see more of these two? check them out here

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tavyliasin · 4 months

Text

BG3 FicFeb SFW - Day 8

A little more of Tav's past slipping through into the present, fears born not of the darkness itself as it first seemed to be... Short below the cut, very mild CW for implied trauma. ----- -----

Day 8 “It will be okay as long as we’re together.”

Tav shuddered at the sound of another keening wail in the dark of the Shadowlands, brandishing her torch at every shape in the ink-black surroundings that looked too much like they were moving, bleeding through the page of reality. Her white-knuckle grip would’ve splintered the wood in her hand if she were holding anything weaker.

“Darling? Is something wrong?” His voice was like a distant echo, barely filtering through her focus on every cracking twig and falling leaf.

She continued, her other hand clawing at the leather wrapped grip of the sword at her hip, as if daring the darkness itself to stop taunting and leap. Hours of walking, with barely a flame to light their way, the flickering light only adding to the eerie way the landscape itself seemed alive with those that were no longer.

“Darling?...” Astarion tried again, his hand on her elbow sending a jolt of fear through her entire body, feet damn near leaving the ground, sword suddenly unsheathed with half a yelp. “Good gods - stop! Enough. We have to go back. You are exhausted, seeing things that were never there.”

“We can’t, not until we’ve found the missing Tieflings. We need less sleep, it’s fine - Astarion there are children unaccounted for out there. There. Where the restless dead walk cloaked in darkness.” He could feel her arm trembling as he kept hold of her elbow, she still did not sheath her blade.

“My love… You can rescue none of them if you fall prey to the Shadowcurse yourself. Please, come back with me. Tomorrow we will start again, and the day after that, and the day after still. But not tonight, not like this, and there is no chance of you sending me back alone - I can see that look in your eye.” He sighed, his grip on her arm loosening as he stepped around in front of her fully. His free hand found her chest, the cool feeling of his touch over where her heart ached in its rush to break free from her ribs with the adrenaline. The fear.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it. I have you, and you have me. I know we’ll get out of this one way or another, even if we didn’t have a room full of snoring companions who fight beside us.” Tears stung her eyes, a hot pain that welled up from the back of her memories. Nights in the dark, the alleys of the city holding living shadows of their own that sought to swallow the screams of any foolish enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Out there, they have nobody. For a long time, they’ve not had anyone besides a camp full of strangers, elders who aren’t their family.”

“And in them, you see everything you were.” Finally he understood. It wasn’t fear of the darkness leaving her shaken to her core, nor was it simple exhaustion robbing her of her better senses. This wasn’t about saving strangers they’d barely met - in each Tiefling she felt a part of her own past reflected back at her in a harsh light that was not fitting for the cursed lands they stood in. “You will not save them by having them trip over your corpse, nor will you serve them by sacrificing your safety for a couple more fruitless hours of searching.”

“You don’t know that, they might be just around-”

“You said that at the last fork in the path, at every corner we have rounded. They’re most likely at Moonrise - safely locked up where the shadows cannot reach.” He tried to be reassuring, but quickly realised the error of his words just too late to bite them back into his lungs before they were heard.

“That’s what worries me most. The danger within might just be greater than that which the walls keep out.” She sheathed her sword, and rubbed at her eyes. “You’re right, though. I surrender. I can’t go raiding a tower when I’m exhausted.”

She paused, finally letting go of the hilt at her belt, relenting to lacing her fingers through his as she took the vampire's outstretched hand. “Tomorrow. First thing.” She challenged his gaze, emerald eyes meeting crimson, yet she didn’t find resistance there. Only a resolve that matched her own with a quiet strength in the way he squeezed her hand.

“We will find them. All of them. I promise.”

#bg3ficfeb #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #fanfic #bg3 tav #a tav's guide

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rosiehunterwolf · 1 year

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The evening air was cool, settling down into the earth with a soft sigh after a hot day. Vibrant oranges spilled across the sky like an ink bottle that a careless hand had knocked over, bleeding into deep, blushing shades of ruby. He closed his eyes, inhaling the day’s dying breath.

“Techno!” A loud shout shattered his sanctuary, and, with a last, flickering smile, he got to his feet and turned to face the boy racing- rather ungracefully- through the grass towards him, a large white dog bounding at his heels. The boy narrowly avoided tripping over a root, and when he arrived in front of Techno he was out of breath and his shock of blond hair was tousled by the wind. The dog standing next to him looked rather similar, panting with a stupid grin on his face, fur ruffled by the kid’s grubby hands no doubt. And to think he was supposed to be an attack dog. So much for the intimidation factor.

“Are you coming, dumbass? You’re gonna be late!”

“I’m comin’ Tommy, would it kill you to learn some patience?” He chuckled, shoving the blond’s head away from him. The boy spluttered indignantly. He tried to lick Techno’s hand but Techno caught it from a mile away, having seen Wilbur fall victim to the same trick one too many times, and yanked his hand away. “Nobody’s goin’ anywhere.”

“Well, they’re waiting! And you’re being slow! So come faster!”

Techno shot him a glare. “Don’t tell me what to do, child. My dog could rip your throat out at any second.”

“Apollo likes me better than you, bitch!” Tommy cackled, before turning heel and sprinting off towards the house. Apollo looked slightly conflicted as he glanced between them, but as Techno shook his head and began to follow, the dog bounded forward, baying eagerly.

His boots crunched in the dry grass as he reached the front door, running a quick hand down Carl’s nose before slipping inside, where Tommy was (loudly) recounting whatever exaggerated story he had come up with this time. Phil was his victim of choice, a slightly strained smile on his face as he distractedly listened to Tommy’s animated words while trying to frost the cake.

“It’s bad manners to be late to your own party, y’know.” Wilbur was leaning against the wall, smirking.

“Woah, woah, who said anythin’ about a party? I thought we agreed, small-gatherings-of-people-that-I-guess-I-think-are-okay only?”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, trying to fight back his grin. “Yeah, sure, whatever. It’s still rude.”

“Tommy,” Phil said firmly, interrupting the boy’s ramblings.

“Tommy, leave the poor old man alone before you give him a migraine. Come over here and help your dear brother instead.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, coming over to them. “What do you want-”

“Thanks.” Techno dumped his cloak off his shoulders, onto the boy’s head, and Tommy yelped, scrambling frantically as he tried to free himself from it. Wilbur and Techno both burst into laughter, and Tommy managed to stick an arm out from under the cloak to flip them off while his face was still buried in the fluffy collar.

There was a gentle knock at the door, but before anyone could get it, it was already swinging open and Tubbo was barging in, yanking a flustered Ranboo by the wrist behind him. Niki followed them, smiling sweetly as she closed the door behind the boys. She took one glance at Phil’s cake before raising up the basket she was holding. “Don’t worry, Phil, I brought cupcakes.”

The man groaned. “It’s not that bad.”

“Sorry, Phil,” Techno shrugged, taking a cupcake from Niki’s basket and thanking her with a nod. “But Niki makes way better cakes than you do.”

Phil grinned at him. “Last time I ever try to do anything nice for your birthday, then.”

“If you’re even around for the next one,” Techno muttered around a bite of cake as Niki tried to stop the man from lunging at him.

“Happy birthday, Techno!” Tubbo cried, every bit as loud as his blond-haired counterpart, shoving a small, shoddily wrapped box into his hands. “Just don’t open it now, okay?”

“Tubbo, you better not have brought nukes into my house, young man,” Phil scolded, and Tubbo stayed suspiciously silent and he scurried off to pull the cloak off of Tommy and, subsequently, mock him for it.

“I got you something too,” Ranboo murmured, handing Techno a pink carnation. “I know it’s not much, but… it feels right for you.”

“Thanks, kiddo.” Techno smiled at him, giving the flower a gentle sniff. “I love it.”

Techno sat down on the couch, scratching the top of Apollo’s head as he gazed around the room. At Tommy and Tubbo bickering, at Wilbur trying (and failing) to steal another cupcake from Niki without receiving a slap to the back of the hand, and at Phil putting little braids in Ranboo’s hair where they chatted by the fire.

Somehow, he had a feeling that all of them were going to be alright.

“Techno?”

He started, realizing he had zoned out for a second. Phil was looking at him.

“You alright, mate?”

“…Yeah.” Techno looked down at the flower for a minute, then back up at all the people he had somehow found himself loving looking back at him. “…Yeah. I think everything’s going to be just fine.”

Happy birthday, king.

#we all miss you.#rosie writes #drabble #technoblade #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #philza #sbi #niachu #ranboo #tubbo #my fic #happy birthday technoblade

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lirusstories · 8 months

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Mirrors - Septic/egotober Day 13

Tw: Mentions of death, scars, burning, drowning, chase's suicide attempt, bleeding throats, implied strangulation, puppet strings. All are merely mentioned in passing

Egotober: Mirror

Septictober: Horror Movie themed (Paranormal Horror)

Word Count: 646

There's something weird going on, in the house, specifically the mirrors, sometimes someone will look in the mirror and there's these… scars, that could be seen, and when you blink they're gone.

But the most blatantly obvious are Jack’s videos there are these weird glitches, that warps his face or voice and sometimes it looks like he’s just sitting there… dead.

And worst of all Anti’s been acting different, more jumpy, practically glued to whoever is in the room with him side.

He’s been having nightmares too, of what they don’t know, he won't tell him, but sometimes he’ll wake up sobbing and apologizing before he asks about Jack.

Learning that he’s okay seems to help him fall back asleep.

And it seems almost every day now that they see Anti’s reflection and it just, looks wrong, Marvin swears that while Anti was distracted Anti’s reflection glared at him with the hatred of someone wishing him death.

And none of them are comforted by the fact that they’ve all caught him mumbling, pleading, with his reflection before that didn’t feel like his reflection until they made their presence more obvious.

It’s gotten to the point where Marvin, Jameson and even Chase and Henrik have covered any reflections in their rooms.

It makes it easier to ignore the whispering.

The most concerning thing is is how oblivious Jack is to all of it, and Anti’s been clinging to his side more and more, it concerns their brothers at how terrified he is to leave his side.

Marvin takes it upon himself to cover the mirrors in his and Jack’s room as well. At least until he can find out what's going on.

Regrettably that doesn’t seem to help Anti at all, it just seems to make him more paranoid with his eyes flittering about, as if he’s going to be attacked at any moment.

Marvin catches Anti staring blankly and unblinkingly into the bathroom mirror one morning. His eyes red and tears streaming down his face from his eyes desperate attempt to prevent from drying out.

They don’t leave Anti alone after that.

Henrik calls out of work sick, it worries Marvin when the man enters the house looking spooked with a hand resting by his neck.

Marvin’s hearts in his throat when he sees what he can only see rope burns in Henrik’s reflection on the granite counter top.

All these reflections, no matter what, seem to just get worse, Jackie burned and scarred, Henrik’s eyes dead with rope burns around his neck, Jameson’s eyes dead with what look like strings around his neck.

Chase with… Chase’s head bleeding and tears streaking down his face, Shawn’s eyes completely black, the man looking like he’s been drowned in Ink.

Markus with his limbs too long and strewn about, Angus burn scars that seem to engulf him, Jacques looking almost a sickly green and deep cuts all over his face (they’re rather grateful they’ve only seen his face in reflections after that one.)

Marvin himself has what appears to be burn scars all over his face and the most terrifying of all, they had caught Jack and Anti asleep huddled into each other on the couch with the tv off. And the reflection showed them with bleeding throats, Jack completely limp and Anti fritzting out, silently screaming and begging as he attempts to claw at himself and a darker than dark figure towering over him.

It only lasted half a second, but the sight of the figure towering over the two of them, struck a fear into Marvin he doesn’t think he’s experienced before.

Marvin doesn’t know how to react when he gets the call from Jackie that Jack’s in the hospital missing. But his stomach churns when he can see his reflection laughing at him out of the corner of his eye.

Hello! If you enjoy our work and wish to see more, including spoilers, cut scene's or replaced scene's feel free to join our discord!

And if you really enjoy our work and want/are able to help us out, feel free to buy us a ko-fi or send us somethin on paypal!

Taglist:

@glitchyartist @jselorekeeper @brokentimewatch @secondary-objective-active @randowaffle @malaboos-bodacious-blog

#chase brody #jameson jackson #henrik von schneeplestein #jacksepticeye #jackieboy man #marvin the magnificent #septictober #egotober2023 #antisepticeye #shawn flynn #markus brickley #angus the survival hunter #jacques septique #our stuff #character!jack

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lisutarid-a · 1 year

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[Gakuen K] Totsuka Tatara Route Translation

Caught up in bad luck

LIST OF CHAPTERS

[Translation under the cut]

Saya: ...Ha? My pen ran out of ink.

Saya: (I didn't even noticed that there's no much left...I should go to the school store to buy another one)

Saya: (...? It's pretty noisy...I wonder what's going on)

Saya: These are...

Yata: Quite complaing about every little thing, Saru!

Fushimi: If you don't want me to complain, just follow the school rules, that's all.

Fushimi: I can't believe that you can't follow the rules from one thin notebook. Your intelligence is less than that of a dog, isn't it? Mi-sa-ki~

Saya: Yata-kun and Fushimi-kun...they're arguing.

Saya: Does that mean that we are entering a war between the Red and Blue clubs?

Saya: What should I do? Do I have to participate?

Totsuka: There's no need for that. It's just a simple quarrel.

Totsuka: It's just a little conflict, we'll be fine just watching it.

Totsuka: Besides, with such atmosphere, even if we try to separate them I don't think we'll succeed.

Saya: It that so? What a relief...

Saya: Ah, that's no good!

Saya: Senpai! You're bleeding from the mouth!

Totsuka: Oh, it's all right. If I lick it, it will be fixed.

Saya: (Thanks god, I brought a handkercief today)

Saya: It's not all right at all! Here, use it, please.

Totsuka: Thank's for a handkercief. You're very kind.

Saya: No, I'm just glad it wasn't a serious injury. But you better go to the infirmary and disinfect it...

Totsuka: Un-uh, it's fine. And the blood has stopped.

Saya: I believe it's fine, but...

Totsuka: Un-huh. It's okay, it's okay. Still I was surprised.

Saya: I was also surprised. May I ask what happened?

Totsuka: Uhm. Of course. It's hard for me to talk about it, but actually...

Saya: Actually...?

Totsuka: An empty can hit me while I was walking.

Saya: Eh, an empty can?

Totsuka: Uhm.

Totsuka: I just happened to run into Yata and Fushimi arguing.

Totsuka: I was thinking of taking a detour and going home when an empty can Yata threw hit me perfectly!

Totsuka: Fushimi, a member of Public Morals Committee, got angry and said, "Don't throw empty cans". And that's how we ended up like this.

Saya: It's like the time you got hit by the sheep...Could it be that you're unlucky type, Totsuka-senpai...?

Totsuka: I wonder if that's so. I've never thought of myself as unlucky.

Choice: [Please be careful] ♥

Saya: (Anna-sensei said about senpai "you’re dependable but I can’t rely on you". This could be what she meant)

Saya: Senpai, try not to get hurt youself too much, please be careful.

Totsuka: Uhm. I got it. I would be careful.

Saya: There is still a possibility of force majeure though...

Totsuka: Ah, that's right. I'll try to be extra careful when I'm alone.

Saya: Yeah. Do it, please.

Totsuka: I don't think it's going to happen all of a sudden anymore.

Saya: I hope so, but...

Totsuka: What? Still worried?

Saya: Somehow...They say what happens twice could happen thrice.

Totsuka: Haha...No way...

Choice: [It's better to do a purification ritual ...]

Saya: Perhaps it would be better if you do a purification ritual.

Totsuka: Purification ritual... Do I look like I'm doing something wrong?

Saya: That's not the case... I'm just thinking that a lot of bad things have happened in a row.

Totsuka: Uhm. I see... Purification ritual, you say...Maybe I should start that kind of hobby.

Saya: Hobby?

Totsuka: Yeah. To become a prayer or a pilgrim. It's seems quite interesting.

Totsuka: Alright! It's decided. Immediately-...

Totsuka: !!!!

Saya: Totsuka-senpai!?

Yata: Totsuka-san!!

Fushimi: ...A clean hit.

Yata: That's because you throw a dustpan, you bastard! How dared you... to Totsuka-san...!

Fushimi: Tsk. If you hadn't dodged it, he wouldn't have been hit. This is your fault. Am I right?

Yata: I won't forgive you this, you bastard...Totsuka-san, please rest in peace. I'll definitely avenge the enemy for you!

Totsuka: No, I'm still alive...

Yata: Yatagarasu's battle of revenge is gonna be loud!

Totsuka: Even so, I told you, I'm still alive...Ouch...

Saya: Totsuka-senpai...

Totsuka: It's all right, it's all right...I'd like to say this, but you’re not going to believe me with those eyes.

Saya: Let's go to the infirmary.

Totsuka: Ahaha. Oka-aay.

[Prev chapter] [Next chapter]

#k project #gakuen k #gakuen k wonderful school days #totsuka tatara #tatara totsuka #yata misaki #fushimi saruhiko

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moonfurthetemmie · 1 year

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Kid was late to arrive after school, wonder why.

Someean student knocked them unconscious and wanted thier gang to arrive at the bathroom stool to Beat kid. Kid woke up and tried to strangle them but they slammed kid to the mirror. Kid took the broken glass and tried to free themselve from the ropes on thier wrists but they were pushed out the window and tried to hold on the bricks of the wall causing thier finger tips to bleed. They wanted to stall some time so someone would help them.thier back was bleeding due to the broken mirror shreds.

Who will be able to help them before they fall to the ground? And how everyone they met from the horror squad to delsuon and guogd react to that?

Jesus Christ what school did that kid go to??? Holy shit

I’m. assuming the is school as multiple floors then

um. Those kids are dead if the horror squad finds out who they were

Gouge may not really care much about the kid so I think she’d just be like ‘whoa. Kids are brutal these days. Jesus’ and probably take them to someone who can treat their injuries, but if she does care. Those kids are dead. At least she’ll probably make it quick for them? I don’t imagine she’d be interested in torturing kids. Probably especially not right now

Delusion. Delusion isn’t going to kill them i don’t think but kid’s definitely going to a different school. And the ones who did it are going to be sniffed out and he’ll be sure they’re severely punished. Probably they get to go to juvie bc whether they actually meant to or not he’s going to charge them with attempted murder. He’s pissed

Who catches them depends on who the kid’s staying with. If they’re in JR it’ll most likely be Gouge; as worried as Delusion may be he probably assumes they’re hanging out with other kids, so he just asks Gouge to go check in on them. He’s ever so optimistic after learning about Friend. Gouge was expecting to find them being bullied but not like. That. Gouge can try to use her ink to catch the kid if she can’t get there in time but it might not feel super nice

If they’re staying with the Horror Squad, the whole squad comes looking for them In Disguise and the three of them are going to do their best to get the kid down. Byte can grab the kid with her strings and yoink them over to the three of them, hopefully faster than they fall. It’s going to be terrifying but at least they’re safe

They’ll DEFINITELY switch the kid to homeschooling after that, no matter how much they protest. They can go see Friend but they are not letting that shit happen again holy shit

#horror!ds #h!ds slash #h!ds pluto #h!ds byte #h!ds gouge #h!ds delusion #fucking hell what is wrong with those kids #Pluto’s probably going to immediately go find them #he’s uhhhh. he hasn’t had to deal with something that bad. but probably only because the kids in the village didn’t have the means to #do something like th at #at least that’s what he thinks #I don’t want to say he’s overreacting. he has every right to be absolutely furious #but he’s also much angrier and homecidal about it than the other two which is both impressive and scary #kid’s even afraid #this is going to make everyone absolutely terrified for their children but it’s fine. it’s fiiiine

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astinginthetalealexandrailieva · 2 years

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This is a post for comic book artists preparing their pages for their publisher or colourist. I’m aware that many pros still don’t know some of this stuff, often because the bigger publishers have production teams who will take the incorrectly sized or shaped pages and adjust them before passing on to colourists or for print. However, this a) is giving more work to people that you can easily do yourself and b) reduces the amount of control you have over how your work is printed. It makes sense to provide files that will present your work in the best way possible.

A standard US comic book page size is 6.875 by 10.438 inches bleed, 6.625 by 10.187 inches trim, with a live image area of around 6 by 9.5 inches. The DPI depends on your publisher, but the higher the better. 600dpi is standard at DC, Image and Dark Horse, Marvel prints at 400dpi (or did when I worked for them – if that’s changed, someone please let me know). What do those terms mean?

TRIM: This is the final page size of the printed publication. The paper isn’t cut to size before printing, it’s done afterwards. Now, with mass produced offset printing, pages are trimmed at speed and in batches. This means that the trim on the digital file isn’t EXACTLY where the trim will be in real life. Closely compare two copies of the same comic, where art extends to the edge of the page. You will more than likely see that they’re not cut at exactly the same part of the artwork. This means that, when you’re providing art that extends to the edges of the pages, say with a cover, it’s not good enough to have art that just goes to the edge of the final printed page. The cut will more than likely not land exactly where you’ve drawn to. This is why we need the…

BLEED: The bleed is the area of art that extends beyond the final trimmed comic page. To compensate for shifts in the cutting process, it is 0.125 inches around the entire page. You’ll note in the image above that panel 3 extends past the edges of the trim to the bleed, so that it reaches the edges of where the page is cut.

LIVE AREA: This is the area of the page where it is safe to assume that wherever the trim cuts fall, everything inside this area will be safely on the printed page. Now, modern printing presses are MUCH better at this than in the past, so it’s not as much of a worry as it once was. But all lettering, for example, should ideally fall within this area, at least 0.25 inches away from the trim.

DPI: Dots Per Inch. This is the “resolution” of a printed comic book page. Literally how many dots (pixels on screen) of ink there are in each inch of page. A DPI of 600 means there are 600 pixels across or down in every inch of printed paper. It’s worth noting that if you’re zoomed into 100% in Photoshop or whichever art program you’re using, this will look massive on most screens. That’s because your screen probably isn’t 600dpi – at most, in modern screens, it’s 300dpi, so your art will look about twice as big as printed at 100%. This is very important to note. Print requires MUCH higher resolution than screen. Your 72dpi image that looks great on your computer will print like blurry crap.

If your linework is aliased – meaning it’s pure black and white pixels, with no grey edges – 600dpi is essential to print smoothly, with no jaggies (the visible square pixelated effect). If you use anti-aliased lines then 300 to 400dpi is OK, but still, the higher the better. This also applies to more painterly styles. I personally don’t use anti-aliased lines when inking, for sharper images, and it can be easier for the colourist, but that’s down to personal preference.

or digital artists, it’s probably easiest to set up your page dimensions for the canvas you work on, so you don’t have to do anything afterwards. Manga Studio/Clip Studio only goes to two digits after the decimal, so after drawing a page in MS and exporting it, it must be correctly sized in Photoshop using Canvas Size. For traditional artists, the standard board is 150% bigger than the printed page. An easy way to make the art the right size before you change the Canvas Size to the exact inch size in Photoshop is to scan at 400dpi, then use Image Size with “resample” unchecked to change the DPI to 600. This keeps the number of pixels in the scan the same, but tells the computer that they will print in a smaller space.

It’s worth noting that many artists don’t like to scan at this low a resolution, and prefer to scan at a much higher res then reduce the image size in Photoshop, to better control the quality of the scan.

File format: Pages should NOT be provided as jpegs or PDFs. Both these formats compress the artwork to reduce file size (PDFs can be set not to, but it can make the file size enormous). What this means is that the art is degraded, with artefacts appearing especially around the edges of big blocks of colour. JPEGs are fine for the web, as they reduce the file size for quicker downloading, but are not at all suitable for print. If you’ve got a painterly style, and your jpeg quality is set to maximum, you can juuuust about skirt this, but it’s not preferable. Especially if they’re not CMYK (see below).

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contrarywiseizybel · 2 years

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Kinktober 2022

Day 10: Lord Voldemort/Cedric Diggory (master/slave)

Warning for: Power imbalance, implied torture

(Cedric's whole aesthetic here is 100% Link's Gerudo Vai outfit from Breath of the Wild. I regret nothing.)

The Master was in a foul mood.

Again.

From the Death Eaters suddenly remembering they had jobs to do elsewhere, to the house elves giving him tear filled looked while they hid behind tapestries, it was pretty obvious the Master was upset. The closer Cedric got to the throne room the more dark magic he could feel, like a viscous goo coating the floor, trying to trap his bare feet. Just outside the throne room one of the Lestrange brothers, Cedric could never remember which was which, gave him an appraising look.

“Took you long enough.”

Cedric didn’t respond. His orders were to behave around the Death Eaters, but that didn’t mean he had to respond to their jabs. And like the rest Lestrange didn’t find much enjoyment teasing the Master’s toy, so he wandlessly opened the heavy, ornate doors.

“Good luck.” Lestrange teased, slapping Cedric’s ass and slamming the door shut behind him.

Cedric buried down the irritation and embarrassment. There were bigger things at risk than his pride, and he needed to remember that.

Still it was hard to hold onto that conviction when the Master was leering at him.

“There you are, my badger,” Lord Voldemort teased, “I thought you may not have been coming.”

“I apologize, my Master.” With a practiced cant of his hips Cedric made his way closer, ignoring everyone and everything who wasn’t Voldemort. He wasn’t to be curious and could not try to figure out what had upset his lord. That wasn’t his job.

No, his job was something much simpler, and much worse.

Lowering to his knees Cedric pushed his chest out, letting his Master inspect the loose silk that draped over him. Red eyes scanned Cedric’s jewels, the ruby earrings that trailed up his ears, the golden serpent that circled his arm, the rune engraved collar on his neck. All were in place, a reminder that Cedric was still bound to Voldemort’s spells and whims.

A pale hand reached out, thin long fingers tipped with black, as though they had been dipped into a pot of ink. Without hesitation Cedric kissed the tip of each finger, careful to keep his face blank at the grimy taste of dark magic made tangible. He must have done well, as those same fingers began scratching through Cedric’s hair, careful not to dislodge the sheer veil.

“We have guests today, pet. Don’t be rude.”

The Master was far too pleased, but Cedric couldn’t wince, couldn’t hesitate. Delicately he turned, chin hooking over one bare shoulder so he could see what had the dark lord in such a mood.

A sea of red stared back, the Weasley family trapped behind Voldemort’s silencing spell and all held at wand point by elite Death Eaters. He recognized Charlie and the twins, having known them well enough through Quiddtich back at school. They were all three boxy, more solid than their other siblings, and it looked like they had taken the brunt of the torture. Charlie was a mess of bruises and one of the twins was bleeding from a head wound while the other held his fallen brother close. The more willowy Weasleys were hurt as well, from Ron’s missing eye to Ginny’s muscles spasming, most likely from having been put under the torture curse. He also recognized Fleur, the brave French champion, who was still beautiful despite her roughly chopped hair and the long scar down her pale face.

“Hello.” Cedric greeted, toneless and uninterested as he had been taught. He turned back to his Master, watching with hooded eyes and an indulgent smile. No reaction to their pain, no wince at their anguish.

He had something more important to worry about.

Red eyes locked on his own and Cedric knew that thought had been plucked from his skull. He didn’t recoil. No, he had no secrets from his Master.

Couldn’t have secrets from his Master.

“Yes, my pet, they’re here for your little treasure. Thinking they can sneak right in and steal it away, after all your hard work.” Voldemort took the delicate chain that trailed from Cedric’s collar, wrapping it around his hands. “Ah, they’re yelling again. Would you like to hear from them?”

Cedric shook his head sharply, eyes still locked on Voldemort. The sight of the once proud Hufflepuff shivering on the marble floor, dressed in fine silk and pleading silently to the man who had kidnapped him, such a pathetic sight seemed to delight the dark lord.

“Tell them.”

“I don’t want to hear from you, Weasleys and Fleur.”

“Ah, ah.” Voldemort tutted, black stained finger tapping Cedric on the nose in reprimand. “They’re all Weasleys now. Congratulate the newly weds.”

“Congratulations Fleur and whomever you married.”

His Master laughed in delight, his Death Eaters following along. He didn’t hear any scuffling, no brave Gryffindor leaping forward to attack Cedric’s unguarded back. Not that Voldemort would let them.

Well...not that he wouldn’t heal Cedric if he let them attack.

“These little rebels have been quite annoying. Calm me down, my badger.”

Cedric hesitated then, only for a moment. This wasn’t the first time Voldemort had made such a demand. Not when they were alone, not even when Death Eaters and sycophants milled around the throne room. But in front of his old classmates? In front of people who knew him before he became this?

“Pet.” Voldemort said, tone warning as if the pressure of his dark magic wasn’t already alerting Cedric of his mistakes. Cedric pushed himself up, undoing Voldemort’s belt with a practiced ease. Maybe the Weasleys were screaming behind him. Maybe they were cursing him. Maybe they were crying for what the once Hogwart’s Champion had become.

He didn’t care. They weren’t what mattered.

“Swallow me down, and I’ll let you return to your treasure for the evening.”

The pale dick he pulled from Voldemort’s robes was still flaccid, but Cedric had a mission. The sooner he finished the sooner he could get back to the safety of his rooms, the sooner he could -

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

The sudden voice startled Cedric, causing him to release his lord and almost, almost, look back. But he saw the bleached white wand in his Master’s hand and knew this was another test.

“Can you not finish your job?” Voldemort teased, pulling Cedric’s hair harshly. “I suppose if you’d like to stay down here the rest of the night someone else can go keep an eye on -”

Cedric didn’t let him finish, instead wrapping his lips around the hardening cock and tuning out the scandalized screaming behind him. He swallowed around the heated flesh, the only part of his Master that seemed warm. His hands were usually like ice, like a corpse. But he ignored that thought the same as he ignored the yelling.

He had a job to do.

His lord certainly seemed pleased, claws digging into Cedric’s scalp so hard blood fell down his forehead. His own dick, thanks to years of conditioning, began to harden but he paid it no mind. Instead he was focused on Voldemort, on his dark lord, and on bringing him pleasure unmeasurable.

Another scream sounded behind him, not in outrage or disgust but instead in pain. Cedric ignored it, willing down that part of his heart that longed to reach out and comfort whoever was being tortured. But he couldn’t, not for them.

Oh so carefully Cedric ran his teeth over the hard shaft, tongue following to lavish his Master with attention. It didn’t take long for the dark lord to lose himself in the rhythm, thrusting carelessly into Cedric’s mouth and casting spells at the prisoners. Cedric ignored them, ignored that part of him that swore he knew those words and what they would do to the family behind him.

It didn’t matter. They didn’t matter.

Finally, finally, Voldemort pushed Cedric away, pumping his cock with his own hand so he could finish on Cedric’s face. Semen hit Cedric, some on the very tip of his eyelash. Experience said it would stay there until he left the throne room. His Master did enjoy showing off.

“You rapist bastard!” One of the Weasleys screamed, and Cedric fought down the wince at how young the voice was. “Is this what you did to Harry too?”

If his lord hadn’t just finished a taunt like that would have done the job. He rather loved hearing what people thought he had done to the boy hero Harry Potter. They could only speculate after all. After Peter’s death, at Cedric’s own hands, only three people knew what happened that night in the graveyard.

“Perhaps someday.” Voldemort teased, and for the first time since entering the throne room Cedric knew fear. His hands grabbed at his Master’s robes, trying to not tug them like a child but losing to that instinct. Voldemort just smiled, a wicked smile with too many sharp teeth and no good cheer. His thumb wiped away the semen on Cedric’s bottom lip, holding it out to his captive. “But not today.”

And Cedric smiled, eagerly sucking at Voldemort’s thumb. The Weasley’s went blessedly silent behind him, a spell most likely as he never knew the family to choose to be quiet. And while he worked at cleaning his Master’s finger, Lord Voldemort smiled down at his slave.

“Go on, you may have the rest of the night to yourself.”

Cedric didn’t hesitated, bowing as low as he could and hurrying away. He never looked back at the Weasleys, didn’t look at the elite Death Eaters who were probably cackling at his little performance, and didn’t even pause when one of the Lestranges opened the door.

Instead he hurried off to his gilded cage, a paradise trapped in a bubble of magic he couldn’t escape. Once inside he could not leave again, not without Voldemort’s summon. And yet he always returned.

Because there, at the center of the Master’s magic, preserved in a crystal coffin and sleeping as he had for years now, was Harry Potter.

“I’m back now,” Cedric whispered to the unresponsive boy. He wiped off his face but otherwise made no move to clean himself. There would be time later. “You’re okay, Harry. I won’t let him hurt you.”

A voice echoed in his own mind, a scared young man in a dark graveyard, trying to protect a boy who never volunteered for the danger he had been assigned, desperately hoping he could kill the portly man who was sending curses at the pair. He could hear that young man’s yelling, a perfect mimic of his own words now.

“I won’t let him hurt you.”

#kinktober #kinktober 2022 #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #voldemort/cedric diggory #implied harry potter/cedric diggory

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kirascottage · 3 years

Note

Request to do the first time lip decides to be… sexy with you in a public place? Maybe? 😅

the kids are busy

lip gallagher x f. reader

summary: you and lip try and be quiet while debbie has her daycare in session.

word count: 2.1k

cw: public smut, f!receiving oral, making out, hickeys, swearing, d/s undertones, pet names

a/n: i hope this is considered public because i genuinely could not think of anywhere else that like wouldn’t be considered “gross”

Pool days for the Gallagher’s in the glittering heaps of summer heat were always infamous in their neighbourhood.

It was like the underprivileged children from the block that had even just met Debbie or Carl would come pounding on their tattered door for some fun.

It was most struggling parents that would routinely drop off their ‘ankle-biters’ (Nickname: courtesy to Lip and Fiona) to Debbie for daycare; where she could watch, feed and play with them throughout the day and pursue with a pool time soak after the humidity was beyond excessive in the living room with thrown toys and whining children.

It had ultimately reached that pivotal moment in the day, where the kids would be jumping for joy and manhandling each other to get to the bathroom so they could get their bathing suits on.

You and Lip maintained a vacant schedule as he decided to join in as well; meanwhile, you had strayed away from the swimming portion of the event.

As the time came, noon had approached along with whining children desperate to swim had led to way more than one shout on misbehaving.

“Hey, Woah, Woah, Woah! No jumping on the rim of the pool!” A firm mordant chastise quickly rolled off Lip's tongue as his forefinger gestured to the young brunet child that Debbie had run over to and carefully pulled the adolescent off.

“Sorry! Guys, let’s go. Lunchtime!” Debbie hastily apologized to her brother before naturally gathering up the children in her care with the beckon of her waiting arm, persuading them inside the Gallagher home with chips and juice.

Lip had hovered on the ladder for a moment, observing his sister for a moment before returning his focus back on you; who had instead helped run between the kitchen and the backyard for errands and requests per the Gallagher siblings rather than hop in the pool alongside him.

“Thank God they’re goin’ inside.” Lip thanked as he began rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye while simultaneously the final kids had joined the premises in the kitchen.

You carefully scrutinized his contorted body language for a moment. His bent knees, steadied feet and his tilted body, in a few haste moments your jaw went slack and your brows rose at the sight.

“Lip! You can't cannonball from there!”

“Don’t worry about me, baby. I got it all covered.”

The immature chuckle was expeditious when leaving his trachea after the frigid splash of shallow water had ricocheted. You slightly crouched from the striking recoil of the water — your palm gripped onto the ledge as he reappeared from the reservoir:

The fluff of his brunet hair had been exchanged for a mop of brown that clung desperately to the sunburnt skin of his forehead prior to the considerable shake he gave it.

Your eyes began from the visible tips of his budding curls — noting the callusing points of fingers wringing his waterlogged hair that he had just jerked around.

The deep adam's apple bobbing in his throat was your following focal point. You took into heavy notice the faded bleed of violet into his neck had naturally settled in a pinkish shade that could’ve been fooled as a burn. Something the suction of your lips could fix in mere seconds.

Your addled brain seemed to have jammed when focussing on his torso.

The small, onyx triangle imprinted on his left pectoralis muscle was consistently a pinpoint for affections directly from your lips onto his inked skin.

The slight grooves and deepening shadows of his abdominal muscles made your head tilt and his baby blue trunks had embraced the burly muscles of his quadriceps, you weren’t even concerned as to what he was doing anymore — just simply admiring him.

It was as though your eyes had swelled twice the size, your irises portraying vibrant red hearts as they swept down his silhouette.

“Is that how you wanna play?” Lip inquired, the unchaste ridicule blatantly obvious in his tone.

The white pigments in your eyes stayed prominent as his face was now the primal focus, merely nodding at his question.

If that wasn’t enough, his next move surely knocked any air right beneath your lungs. It was as if time was sped, similar to a time-lapse over a prolonged period. Lip had removed himself from the pool, via the ladder, and immediately retreated to you.

His bicep has curled beneath your soused thighs, and his spine had curved beneath your height. Your abdomen had nimbly smeared against the contorted muscle of his ample shoulder — a yelp of shock and surprise had surpassed your lips.

“Lip! You little— put me down!” You shrieked in complaint. His view of the striped bikini hugging your curvature had merely increased the more you slid down his shoulder as your bottom was spilling on his face.

“Oh c’mon, babe. I can’t resist when you look like this.” He chuckled, finding all the humour in this situation. He patted at your bum as if it were to brace you as he strode throughout the backyard, with considerable difficulty, as you had swatted at his lower back.

“Lip, this isn’t fucking funny!”

“No, no. You’re right.” He falsely agreed, intentionally setting you down beneath the patio cushion sprawled on the sodden grass, “It’s hilarious.” Lip finished with a boisterous laugh; half of his torso lounged against the indigo mattress as the other hovered over your face and neck.

You both panted for a moment to let the minuscule adrenaline rush simmer in your veins. You both relaxed against the dilapidated cushion, his arms comfortably settling by your sides for the time being as you heaved.

“Lip…” You choked out a breath — his two palms slightly waterlogged gripped at the low curvature of your waist, “there are people right inside.”

He shrugged.

“Lip, like little children that could be traumatized just inside.” Your eyes frantically widened when his lips attached to the hollow portion of your throat.

Dispersed kisses were now decorating the dampened flesh of your neck and your collarbones with blooming afflictions to the natural pigments of your exposed skin.

The frequent hitches and sighs trembling from your lips became all too recurrent to be concealed, and it was blatant your boyfriend had begun boasting by the curve of his lips whenever they had pecked and suckled at your neck in his closed embrace.

“Debs is watching them,” His mumble was severely disinterested at the topic of Debbie and the wandering children, rather putting all of his conscious efforts into the pucker of his lips and the wander of his tongue.

The rest of his torso had lied flat against your chest, the mounds of your breasts cautiously pushing into his pectoral muscles along with the timorous hitch in your chest were limpid to him — pressing a few kisses to your cheek he continued, with his only stabilization being his two strapping appendages curved around the arcuate of your waist.

“I want you, right here, right now,” His Lips disconnected with your flaccid, bruising skin as he gently kissed your clenching jaw. The intertwining hues of your skin moulding together were a sight solidifying in front of the cerulean blue of his eyes, the magnifying pupils of the burning blue only subsisted the more he gazed.

“Lip, please. Please, please — I need you.” You pleaded desperately.

He only persisted.

The kiss was melodious; similar to a forbidden kiss between two lovers that were prohibited from their love for one another after unwavering, concealed affections and tireless endearment shown behind closed doors.

The smoothing muscle of his tongue galvanized the swell of your curved bottom lip and his tongue pried apart your hearty pout that was eagerly pressed against his own. The keenness and fervour stimulated his mind into a sensual state of intoxication. The surges of unbridled greed and desire overpowered any state of consciousness he once had as to anyone that could wordlessly influx the obscene situation.

Any traces of lip cosmetics had been scrubbed away by perspiration of the heat — now dried into your skin and the ambitious kissing that had smudged any residue into your boyfriend's swollen lips.

“Lip, please.” The beg was nothing less than a beseeching mewl while his deft fingers thumbed at the bottom of your swimsuit. He chuckled at the implore with a warped smirk ingrained on his lips.

His body faintly squirmed down the torn and frayed matt. The edges were worn down and tattered as it was utilized for an old beach chair set bought nearly two decades ago. The remaining cushions were thrown around the backyard when Debbie had run her daycare.

The children inside had their visage directed at The Transformers: Rescue Bots, displaying on the screen. One blonde-haired child who had been washing up her hands had squealed in a shrill-like manner when the water had bespattered her new pink shirt.

Prior to hearing the shrill, Lip had managed your bottoms to be flung somewhere near the perimeter of the pool, with his biceps curled near your thighs and his lips darting out to your cunt. Upon hearing the scream, he paid no mind to it, his tongue curling around your throbbing button as one of his arms fled from your leg.

“Lip!” The previous hands that were entwined with the roots of his drying hair were now belligerently pulling at his tufts away from you, “I think we just fucking traumatized a child!”

“That wasn’t because of us! Listen.” He gently tapped against your thigh waiting passively for Debbie’s chastise which came seconds after,

“Hey, my sister’s sleeping upstairs! Let me help you dry off.” You gradually heard from the convenient distance between you.

He arched his brows, stealthily watching the heave in your chest before his hand pressed at your lower abdomen where your navel had practically clenched which nerves and the budding rouse building beneath your navel.

“Gotta be quiet—“ He kissed your knee, “—and we’ll be fine.”

You clenched your jaw — it seemingly looked slack as it dropped open but that hadn’t been the case at all but the tightness crawled to the lock in your jaw permitting it to remain open. It was the wicked tip of his tongue that caused your docile pupils to narrow and seemed to flee the expanding whites of your eyes.

When he dove in for the second time, he was almost drooling in anticipation, not even consciously was he so enraptured to do such a lewd action in such a public location. His face was rubescent and feverish meanwhile his mind was a blaring siren to keep your legs in position beside his ears and your nimble fingers tugging at his roots.

The sensual expedition of his tongue was adamant as if you could feel every molecule of his taste buds sliding across your cunt. Your legs writhed atop the brawny muscles of his shoulders, the quickening flick of his tongue could only fan for such an extended period before he could hastily nudge you to your release.

Eyes clamped shut, and your head thrown back was the only non-verbal way to silence the rapture of his head between your legs. The faint whimpers and heaving breaths egged him till the final writhe in your calves, the first of many ruptures seizing from your navel.

The dancing stars across your visage had come to a trivial conclusion, and the tingles in your toes had yet to cease.

You sighed.

It seemed as if there were no cares in the world — no kids to fret about, and nothing to break the worthwhile numbing in your legs.

It was till then you felt a splotch of kisses spray across your skin — a reminding indulgent you were yet unfinished.

His fervent kisses were searing in warmth, the drooling saliva and arousal from his tongue seeped into his lips that left a trail of kisses across your belly to the tips of your collarbones.

“Oh my God, fuck.” You murmured languidly. Lip chuckled into the peeing crevice of your neck, “I thought you were so worried about the kids, huh?” He retorted.

It was only then you felt the prodding tent in his swim shorts poke at your knee. “They’re inside, they’re busy.” It was a quick riposte as to which he raised a brow at.

“You’re right, they are busy.”

🏷 @miiamour @zzzfour @bloodyrockwork @yofavkiara @sprucewoodlover @black-rose-29 @myalupinblack @o-rion-sta-r

#lip gallagher fluff #lip gallagher fic #lip gallagher fanfiction #lip gallagher x reader #lip gallagher #lip gallagher smut #lip gallagher x you #lip gallagher x y/n #lip gallagher blurb #lip gallagher headcanon #lip gallagher hc #shameless x reader #shameless headcanons #shameless fluff #shameless fic #shameless smut #shameless fanfiction #shameless

2K notes · View notes

tteokdoroki · 3 years

Text

waves that hurt | k.bakugou + i.midoriya.

♡ pairing: katsuki bakugou x gn!reader x izuku midoriya.

♡ word count: 3.04K

♡ rating: everyone.

♡ genre: pro hero!au, hurt, angst and comfort.

♡ summary: dark days mean dark waves that crash across your mind, intrusive and mean the waves pull you under— but they are the helping hands that pull you up and let you breathe.

♡ warning(s): please read ! heavy tw for depression, intrusive thoughts and self depreciation, self doubt and low self-worth. this fic is written mostly from personal experiences and may not be accurate to how everyone feels! mentions of therapy.

♡ author’s note(s): this is my contribution to @doinmybesthere ‘s mental health awareness collab, this is kinda personal to me and something i experienced recently!! i hope it can provide some comfort to anyone out there, please don’t forget to check out everyone else’s works and i hope you’re all safe ‘n well <3

♡ masterlist | requests | kofi

“kacchan, it’s much worse this time, i really think you should come home early tonight.”

deku whispers into the phone, his marred hands rub slow and soothing circles into your back from over the duvet— you can feel his warmth, light and airy through it but he feels and sounds much further away. a million miles across a dark ocean that trickles through your thoughts, intrusive and mean, keeping you under and away from clear air.

you wouldn’t want to pull him into this, bother him with the way you drown in dark thoughts— so you pull away from your boyfriend and tuck yourself away into the sheets.

izuku doesn’t retract his hand even as you pull away, listening to katsuki grunt orders down the phone— make sure yn’s eaten, make sure yn’s had water. basic things you should be able to do on your own but can’t, paralysed by the anxiety and depression that clamps down on you like a vice and refuses to let you up so you can just breathe. you want to breathe and not feel like the world is crashing down on you, to have a second to yourself where everything seems like it’s okay.

brushing fingers over the nape of your neck, toying with the coils of your baby hairs, your boyfriend speaks, only gently. “baby,” says quietly, his weight causing the bed to dip. “katsuki will be home soon, do you want to come with me to let him in?” you shrug, a sick feeling twisting in your gut. you see the black tendrils and waves in the back of your mind, bringing forth a new batch of ugly words that force you down. are you really that much of a burden these days that katsuki has to call it quits on work for you? “how are you feeling?”

you don’t know, you don’t know how to tell him that every thought you have hurts and there’s a pain in your chest with every breath you take. “i don’t know, it’s just...bad izu…” you want to explain how you feel deep inside, but the words are trapped like balls of tar in your throat— fear that if you say something he’ll walk away.

“you don’t have to say anything, don’t force yourself to…” he speaks with a soft voice, cotton to your ears in an attempt to soothe you. you can just about feel the clean air flowing through your lungs at the sound— it tells you he loves you, no matter what and you almost believe it before sinking back under. “let’s get you some water okay? wouldn’t want kacchan scolding us would we?”

the joke hangs in the murky and heavy air for a few seconds before you muster a small smile— your green haired boyfriend lets out a tiny sigh of relief and pressed a kiss into your hairline, the affection simmers under your skin and briefly brings light to your dark mind as izuku starts leading you to the kitchen.

you’re curled up in izuku’s lap when the front door pops open with a click— signifying your other boyfriend had arrived home. you flinch, hiding yourself in the blankets keeping you warm and locking away the dark thoughts from the eyes of your lovers.

part of you hated them seeing you this way, that’s why you forced yourself to keep everything away from them— but they knew, they always did and always came to your rescue. you didn’t want them to feel like they had to look after you when the days were bad and draining and your mind took hold of everything that you felt. you didn’t need the weight of your own problems on the shoulders of two pro heroes who had enough to deal with.

in the end, you would destroy them like you did with yourself.

you can hear katsuki shedding his gear by the door, feeling his intense and heated presence flood the room and barely penetrate the barrier you created for yourself even while you lay in izuku’s arms. for as long as you’d known the two— even from back in your U.A days, bakugou had hated self-pity, of course in recent years he’d cooled down a little and spoke less on the actions of others but even still, you weren’t sure if you could handle him looking down on you for looking down on yourself and for feeling this way.

the blanket is suddenly lifted from your head, momentarily blinding you with the overwhelming light that is your boyfriend, katsuki bakugou. a twinkle of concern lines his ruby eyes and you can see traces of his charcoal eyeliner that he usually smudges underneath his mask— he’s so beautiful but you’re afraid of the twitches of worry, afraid that he’s mad at you for being the way you are.

“hey honey,” bakugou hums, crouching to your level to cup your cheeks, stress bleeding from his body when you nuzzle into him.

izuku gives you a squeeze, an encouraging one and you nod. “hi,” is all you can muster, afraid of blurting the intrusive words that crackle across your brain.

katsuki sits back on his haunches, looking between you and his boyfriend before he attempts to kick off his shoes. the room is full of a thick, ugly quietness that you know you’re responsible for— they don’t have to say anything, you know that it’s you. because when you’re like this it’s hard for bakugou and midoriya to talk, afraid that they’ll say something to set you off and you afraid that they’ll leave if they knew how you really felt. how trapped and alone you felt inside, how the twisted darkness added tones to your vibes and dragged you down with every step that you took.

they don’t need to say it because it flows from your body like a rushing river and drowns them, fills their lungs and it’s your fault for infecting them with your own bitter taste of life.

“have you eaten?” the blonde of the two boys asks, looking you dead in the eye. you want to answer, but again the viscous back from earlier starts to flood through your body. you try to take care of yourself of these days where you feel it the hardest, but it’s difficult to move and to breathe— and the drive to complete even the simplest of tasks is barely ever there.

you move to speak, caught up in the thick smog of your own brain when izuku gives your body a squeeze and shakes his head, the forest of his hair brushing against your cheek. “you’ve had water, right?” izuku has no problem answering for you. “but nothing to eat,” he whispers, keeping his voice low as if to hide his worry from you— it’s light in his tone but tremors throughout the number one’s body. you feel sick for making him feel that way.

katsuki’s gaze shifts back from his boyfriend to you, his expression unreadable because he knows how you get if they worry too much about you. you’re thankful, partly for that at least, his blank face prevents your mind from reading too deep into things and blaming yourself for things out of your own control.

“‘m makin’ your favourite for dinner. you’ll eat it, no questions asked.” the explosive pro hero states firmly, rising from his place crouched down by your side, obviously not before thumbing over your cheeks to wipe away evidence of your dried tears. “gonna run you a bath too, damn nerd better get you upstairs and ready by the time it’s done.” deku’s chest rumbles with a light hearted chuckle beneath you, lifting the heavy weight of the air within the room— bakugou had always loved brashly, with a fiery intensity that hardly left room for the answer ‘no’, and while izuku was more tame, they balanced one another out in a way that felt more like a warm hug than a battle. they grounded you, in the best of ways.

true to his disgruntled words, your blonde headed boyfriend runs you a hot bath. you don’t miss the addition of lavender oil to the perfectly warm water, the baking soda which you’re sure he only knew to add because his mother had said it would remove the demon spawn toxins in his body. izuku is the one to help you strip, holds your hands as you kick off gross comfort clothes and folds them away, after pressing kisses to your groggy face and chin.

it’s almost funny to see the two biggest and beefiest pro heroes sit on your bathroom floor crossed legged and beside the tub— both of them taking up the majority of the room. you know for a fact that no one would believe the sight unless they saw it, but they’re there. both of them, izuku midoriya and bakugou katsuki are with you encompassed in the silence while you wash away the ugly words that plague your mind and fill the pores of your skin.

they’re still there.

even as sweet lavender water moves in soft waves over your bare body, while black ink moves in the same way across your brain— tattooing self-depreciating thoughts into every inch. you’re not worth their time, they say, you’re wasting it. because how could their precious time be put to good use if you’re taking it up, they could be saving people but instead your boyfriends are here, drowning in your own darkness.

they’re still fucking here.

when they could be out there saving the people who needed it, who were suffering out there in the world outside of your home.

and the suds against your body, the warm water sloshing over your thighs isn’t enough to get rid of the burning sensation of vile phrases printing themselves against your body and clouding every thought that you think. toxic, mean and nasty things you can’t scrub away— none of it is enough to make you feel like you deserve bakugou tenderly lathering you up with the rose scented soap his mother had sent you for christmas or the sips of cool water midoriya brings to your lips in order to prevent you from overheating in the steam of the bathroom.

deku catches the painful twist in your face, pausing his movements to study you. “whaddya need?” you need it to stop, to find something to replace the pain and doubts that fill you.

“water, hotter,” you croak quietly, tears building up in the base of your throat as katsuki catches on and flicks the tap for a stream of hot water to fill the tub. “please,”

they tell you to let them know when to stop if the heat gets too much, but the scalding water burns away any reminders of the self loathing you feel across every inch of your mind, your body and your soul. it stings at the darkness in a way that’s painfully soothing and maybe if you sink under— it could stop hurting completely. if you could slide deeper into the water, would the waves of darkness not crash so hard?

and then the damn breaks, like a tsunami the guilt and anguish you feel crashes over your body and takes control, leaving you fighting for oxygen in the form of your happiness.

everything that you’d been holding back flows freely in salty tears from tired eyes, scorching a path down the apples of your cheeks and mingling with the contents of the tub below. your boys, they don’t notice at first, how you cry and curl in on yourself until you think the world won’t notice you anymore but then just as they always do, they’re pulling you into their warmth and bubble of light— freeing you from black intrusive tendrils even if it means they have to crawl into the tub and wade their through the ocean you’ve made to set yourselves apart.

“don’t—!” you heave with an uneven voice, signs of you falling apart evident in every way. bakugou and deku pull away from you slowly, with dripping shirts and worry written across freckled faces and red eyes. they’re scared for you, hate seeing you force your feelings down and away from them. “please don’t touch me—you’ll—“

the water in the bathtub sloshes from where you retract from their touch, backing yourself up against the wall and away from your boys. “we’ll what?” izuku presses but only gently, keeping you afloat, stopping you from sinking and bakugou stays put in his place, letting the latter talk you down.

you shake your head, trying to think of the right words but it’s hard to, with the crashing waves heavy against your ears. how do you tell your lovers that everything hurts, to think and to feel, to live day by day. you don’t want to bother them with and an extra stress to their busy lives. but you can’t keep it in any longer, bursting at the seams. “you’ll drown. i-if i touch you, i’ll pull you under, you’ll drown with me and you won’t be able to breathe and all those horrible things that i think about will burn in your lungs until you give up fighting like me,” your tears and hiccups interrupt your words, but they listen. bakugou and deku, they listen and they stay.

“yn—“

“because if you do, then all that i feel will be a burden to you— i’ll break in ways that can’t be fixed and you’ll be forced to pick up the pieces and i’ll just be a burden,” you continue, not even pausing to take a breath while you continue to cry. “if you stay to pick up the pieces, you’ll be taken away from people who need you, who are worth saving, and can be helped and—“

you can’t recount how many nights, similar to this in which you wondered why and how two pro heroes could want and love you, why they dealt with your down days that sometimes outnumbered the ups— even if they’d shown you how much they cared, you couldn’t help but feel guilty as if your sadness took up their time to save someone else.

“you can be helped, yn. you don’t have to go what you’re going through alone, you’re worth the time and the effort of helping, no one deserves to suffer,” the green haired of your two boyfriends cuts through the tail ends of your words, still keeping distance until he knows it’s safe to touch you again. there is no look of condescending pity on his face, no sign to show you’ve pulled him into the dark of your mind. it’s just izuku, trying to help you pull through.

you look to katsuki hesitantly, he hasn’t said a word. “but i don’t want to be seen as...as weak, or to worry you because i can’t get out of my own head—“

“y’not fuckin’ weak, we’d never think that of you. we see you try to hide your pain, pretend things don’t get to you when they do. but fuckin’ handlin’ things on ya own can make y’stronger than any two heroes combined,” a look of anger flashes across his features, finer with age and tired with work. but bakugou isn’t angry with you, but with himself for leading you to believe that you were an extra weight on his shoulders. both of their shoulders. “yer not gonna get rid of us or scare us away, we love ya, we’re here for ya ‘n if it’s help that you need or think yer not worthy of, we’ll find some. it’s okay t’ask for help.”

maybe it’s hearing it from someone else, that your pain and your depression is valid, that you’re not an extra weight on the people you love that allows you to come up from a tar-like ocean for fresh air in your lungs, for the waves to calm and the storm raging in your mind to soothe. maybe it’s the two of your boyfriends being there for you despite the fear that you’d scare them away with not being okay that washes away some of the awful things you think.

you know that their support won’t make things go away over night, that it will take time for you to heal but for now you can keep your head above the water just long enough to breathe.

“can i touch you now? is it okay?” deku asks, feeling less distant from you than at the start of the day, but as your body shakes with the last of your tears all you manage is a nod before the number one hero is pulling you into his chest from the tub and the number two is wrapping a towel and his arms around you.

you sit sandwiched between the two, they keep you at the surface— holding you tight while you let out what you’ve been holding back. “we can get some help if y’want it, the doctors...therapy might be nerve wrackin’...scary even, but it can help and we’ll be there every single step of the fuckin’ way,” katsuki reasures you with pets to your head, rocking you back and forth on your bathroom floor, steam clinging to the air that you can finally breathe.

izuku nods along in agreement, pressing kisses to your wet hairline. “we’ll be here. you won’t be alone.”

the murkiness of the water in your mind starts to clear, but only just— their warmth starts to push through the clouds like sunshine brushing against your skin. a light to the dark that's plagued your every waking moment, the waves no longer crash and destroy but instead lap comfortingly at your painful thoughts and tame them just enough for you to have a moment of clarity.

you don’t have to be alone or millions of miles away, you deserve the hands of your loved ones that offer you help instead of pushing them away. the process of healing and things like therapy or meds will be hard sometimes, but katsuki and izuku will be here by your side, to help you manage days where darkness rolls in waves that hurt and help you breathe once again.

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