I Like Him I Like That Autistic Man

sorry haven't been feeling like making art, take this catoru from last month

damn, i need man like him.

Babygirl

cw: elf king gojo 18+, angst, violence, blood, murder, political betrayal, emotional trauma, grief, death, war, manipulation, power dynamics, grief and loss, miscommunication, fantasy, elves, merciless king, dark themes, etc

The sound of hooves against the compact dirt awakens you from your slumber, mind still hazy from sleep as you begin to stir awake—only to be met by the sight of a man with his bow drawn, the arrow’s sharp point resting against the very tip of your nose.

Before you stood the Elf King himself—Gojo Satoru—a figure of whispers and gossip among the townsfolk. He was infamous for the relentless murders of hundreds, if not thousands, of humans—any who dared to trespass upon his sacred lands.

The Elf King, Gojo, stood tall before you, his silhouette carved by the blazing sun’s glory.

He was—is—a merciless king.

His hatred rooted deep within his soul—a resentment held tight in his heart ever since the day his very clan was wiped out by the likes of humans—the likes of you—during the Great Elvanor War.

A war so brutal that blood bathed the streets, children clinging to their mothers and fathers, forced to witness the wrath of the king. Dividing the humans and elves for eternal life.

And all of it—all of the bloodshed and anger—spurred on by a mere miscommunication; the defamation of your parents.

Your parents, renowned agents sent to Elvanor on a diplomatic mission, were framed for the massacre of the King’s clan—only to be unrighteously assassinated, meeting their untimely demise. A scheme carefully orchestrated by the government to enact war against Elvanor.

And now, you were here, baring your soul in search of the truth, to bring justice to your family back home—unaware that your journey to Elvanor would lead to your entangling with fate and unintentionally drawing the affection of the Elf King.

The gold of Gojo's crescent sigil gleamed under the sun’s glory, his cerulean eyes fixed on you as you shifted helplessly, slumped against the tree trunk.

Your clothes and hair lay in tatters, a testament to your travels. The world around you wavers and your ears ring—until finally, your eyesight clears, and the beauty of the Elf King graces your vision.

"Preposterous," the timber of his voice rumbles, echoing in the crowded forests as the trees shrink under his authority. "You humans—so pathetic and weak… and vulgar."

He lets out a scoff, a sound both cruel and yet amused as his gaze flickers over the ruined state of your garments.

And you—helpless—left to cower under the wrath of the King as you attempt to right the wrongs against your family.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),

S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader

Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if you’re like…. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.

— Explorations of Spencer’s (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? They’re sooooooo in love it pains me.

Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okay…. —heavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. he’s kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, don’t listen to Spencer!!! he’s being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.

w.c: 3.2k

a/n: title so long it’s basically a midwestern emo song.

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There’s intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380’s King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.

Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Because— because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe they’ll be kind to him.

Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?

12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.

Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until it’s no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend they’re not there, pretend you’re okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is ‘okay’ since ‘the incident.’ When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?

How did everyone else?

He understands now— the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.

But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tiny—

Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. It’s an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.

It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.

He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.

2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.

Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.

“You know how it’s believed that Artemis killed Orion?” He starts. He cannot begin with hi, I’m scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t.)

He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. “Well— there’s this other interpretation, that she… y’know didn’t. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother ea— yeah, you know who I’m referencing. Okay.”

Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:

‘You’re missing major arteries here, c’mon — I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.’

It would be funny if he wasn’t the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.

“Anyway, um… so— disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant — she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent will—“ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. “Basically he died. Yeah— dead. To… uh, sum it up?”

“And what?” Oh, there you are. He’s surprised you’re listening, that you didn’t hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. He’s always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldn’t. It would be romantic, if he wasn’t so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.

“Well— Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,… hence the constellation.”

There’s shuffling — a moment of uneasy silence. “Spencer—“

He keeps going. Shock-horror. “I’m not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regarding— look… it doesn’t,… it doesn’t hold any truth, of course. The gods aren’t real,” (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), “I just— it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.”

It’s innocent. If you don’t take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend you’re just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. He’ll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. You’ve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they can’t see what’s right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

“Bad night?” You ask. Like you don’t feel it in your ribs.

He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. “Aren’t they all?”

You’ve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You don’t hesitate, he knows you don’t— he’s seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoil— he’s watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

Sometimes, he has this dream, where he’s got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes he’s bleeding out.

He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. You’re out of the apartment complex, and what? He’s too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

The call doesn’t end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until you’re standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.

He’s making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And it’s scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.

When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, obstinate.

“So what?” You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. “I still did.”

You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesn’t. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.

Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, you’re disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you don’t suffer the same fate as Hero.

‘Geniuses are never happy,’ they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyer’s stomach, Wallace Carother’s affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.

Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When that’s all he’s ever known?

Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesn’t work. Not when you’re warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and you’re not really here, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get. “You’ll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. They’ll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.”

“No.”

“Yes—“ indignantly, he huffs, “Yes. You will. Otherwise you’re guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. You’ll be ruined.”

“That’s if they find out.”

He can’t comprehend why you’re covering for him. There’s decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then there’s this. “You’re supposed to be an upholder of the law.”

“Pft,” you scoff, brush it off. “Yknow, in Alabama, you can’t play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. There’s also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California has—“

“I get your point.” He cuts off, “Well— no, I actually don’t. Considering they’re dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.”

“Even high, you’re a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?” you push up, and he chases your touch. “C’mon, golden boy. You’re getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a modern alternative…”

He doesn’t let you see him naked. Partially because, it’s his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. He’s never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.

You’d probably think him deranged: hi, i’m saving myself for you, because any touch that isn’t yours makes me sick.

He’d rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.

The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, he’s all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (‘Never trust an atom, they MAKE UP everything’ — yeah, he hates himself.)

You don’t talk. Not until he’s consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. You’d probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.

He’ll use his intellect to hurt. And you’ll counter him with little regard.

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

“I’m fine,” he protests— hating the way you look at him when he’s so raw.

It’s that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Its— suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.

“No you aren’t,” this might be the worst you’ve ever seen him.

Would you have known? If he didn’t make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to this—

Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. You’re just the only one who cared enough to help.

You’re not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, there’s a reason you’re better. You don’t sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.

He’ll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horror…

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

“You wish.” Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. “Get comfy, you’ve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.”

“You’re not great at the whole ‘tough love’ thing.”

“Then call someone else next time.”

Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation — stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just… fade into himself. But— you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.

You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.

“I never asked for this,” he starts, “I didn’t— I didn’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasn’t even given the anatomy to choose. Now—“

The words rip free like Prometheus’ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.

He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesn’t belong to him. “Now, if I’m not thinking about my next hit, I’m thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. It’s— it’s the disappointment. I just— I don’t know why you stay.”

It’s all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and he’s crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.

Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.

His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, he’ll spiral into Tartarus itself.

Why? Why would you do this—

“You think I’m going to cut and run just because you’re inconvenient? Pft, i’m too stubborn for that. And, well…” there’s a sigh,… “I care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I don’t care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.”

His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. “I hate you,” comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.

“No you don’t.” you counter, immediately.

“No I don’t,” just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.

“I hate who I am when I’m like this. I hate— I hate my mind. It’s not… it’s not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I can’t be what they all expect of me.”

You’re doing that thing. The one where you don’t respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.

Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you don’t even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever he’s lonely. Real people aren’t this good — this good to him.

“I don’t get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I can’t be me. You’re the only one, how are you the only one who notices? I’ve tried so hard, I’ve been so good—“

He’s tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalus’ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, he’d crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.

“This isn’t just, I’m not like this just because I need you. Please— please remember that. I miss you always, even when I’m sober. Even before— before everything. I’m not in some—“

“What?” you finally (mercifully) interject. “Some drug-infused decline? Where you‘ll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?”

Spencer flinches — not because you’re wrong, but because you’ve drawn blood from a wound he didn’t know he still had.

He hates that you’ve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like you’re just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.

Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.

You— you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.

Oh, you’re dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. “Yes, to the former. No— no, definitely no to the latter. You’re not just some emotional crutch to me. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just… everything.”

Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. “I should be able to do this alone,” he mutters, “Normal people can. I should be—”

“C’mon, Spence. You’re not a machine. You were never built for that.”

Another sharp laugh. It pierces— you can almost taste the blood this time.

“I’m so tired,” he says in defeat. “I’m so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.”

Pressing your forehead to his, you’re kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. “You don’t have to be anything,” you murmur into his hair. “You just have to be. That’s enough. That’s enough for me, and i’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Always.”

“Will you stay with me?” He doesn’t mean tonight, you know that well enough. “Will you stay with me through it all?”

You’re aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then he’s sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and i’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.

saw this and immediately screamed ‘BABIAN!!!!!!!’

WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE WITH ME AGAIN

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn! reader

Summary: you would fall in love with him over and over again.

Word count: 1k

A/N: Lyrics come from Would You Fall in Love with Me Again from Epic.

You were exhausted, work had been an absolute bitch today. You'd ended up leaving nearly an hour late, and then the grocery store had been out of the products you liked.

All you wanted to do was collapse face-first into your bed and sleep all weekend. You close the door behind you with your foot, the street lights filtering in from your apartment window your only source of light as you step towards the counter.

That same window that you very quickly realised was open, with a distinctly human-like shape crawling halfway through it.

You screech, stepping back in alarm and raising the plastic bags in your hands in front of you as a flimsy and pathetic barrier.

"No, no! Please don't be scared. It's me. It's me." The stranger pleads, stepping through the ajar window hurriedly, extending to a frankly terrifying height.

Yet any words, or screams you may have conjured die a swift death in the back of your throat.

The groceries fall to the floor with a thud, eggs cracking and vegetables bruising. Though the lighting was terrible, you couldn't help the wave of familiarity that washed over you.

It was stupid of you. It couldn't possibly be him, yet your body moved forward with single-minded determination, ignoring the warning sirens going off in your brain.

"Is it really you?" you walked dazedly forward, shaky hands reaching out to cup his scarred cheek. "Or am I dreaming once more?" Your voice is hoarse, and hesitant, distant to your ears

The man leaned into your touch, Jason, leaned into your touch. The tension melts from his broad shoulders, much larger than you remembered him being. His eyes shutter closed, brow relaxing as he basks in the feel of your gentle touch.

He was different, how couldn't he be? With the years that had come and gone, the unknown sufferings and horrors he must have undergone. Aside from the grotesque J-shaped scar carved into his cheek, his face had developed faint stress lines, dark circles lining under his eyes.

His eyes. The deep cerulean you'd loved so much was still the same, but the playful spark was gone, replaced with a weary exhaustion you longed to erase.

"I'm not the boy you fell in love with. I've done things... monstrous things." Even his voice had changed, a gravelly rasp that you suspected wasn't just from the tears threatening to spill over his misting eyes. "Any kindness, any goodness I might have possessed, has long been snuffed out. I'm not the Jason you knew before."

He's pacing now, agitated as he avoids your gaze, fearful of rejection.

You approach slowly, as if reaching for a frightened stray, fingers entwining with his much larger and calloused ones in a gentle grip, stopping him in his tracks despite how easily he could undoubtedly escape.

"What have you done Jay?" There's nothing but open acceptance in your gaze, a softness he'd forgotten could even exist. Everything about you was softer than the harsh, cutting edges of the League.

"These hands you cradle so lovingly are soaked in blood. I've become an entity of violence." He croaked. "I've callously traded lives, all of it to bring me home to you."

His chest shuddered on his next inhale as he all but rips himself out of your grasp. Instantly, you mourn the loss of contact, "It's selfish of me, but I can't help wondering. Would you fall in love with me again? If you knew what I've done? Could you even love me the same?"

He couldn't bring himself to glance in your direction, terrified of seeing the disgust in your eyes. He heard your soft footsteps approaching as he stubbornly refused to look at you, seeing only your hands reaching out to him once more.

He's too weak to pull away, even as you snake a hand up his chest to splay across his neck gently, your thumb rubbing circles against his jaw as you tilted his head up to look at you.

"I will fall in love with you over and over again. I don't care how, where, or when. No matter how long it's been, you're mine. Don't tell me you're not the same person. You'll always be my Jason."

You were exhausted, work had been an absolute bitch today. You'd ended up leaving nearly an hour late, and then the grocery store had been out of the products you liked.

All you wanted to do was collapse face-first into your bed and sleep all weekend. You close the door behind you with your foot, the street lights filtering in from your apartment window your only source of light as you step towards the counter.

That same window that you very quickly realised was open, with a distinctly human-like shape crawling halfway through it.

You screech, stepping back in alarm and raising the plastic bags in your hands in front of you as a flimsy and pathetic barrier.

"No, no! Please don't be scared. It's me. It's me, " the stranger pleads, hurriedly stepping through the ajar window and extending to a frankly terrifying height.

Yet any words or screams you may have conjured die a swift death in the back of your throat.

The groceries fall to the floor with a thud, eggs cracking and vegetables bruising. Though the lighting was terrible, you couldn't help the wave of familiarity that washed over you.

It was stupid of you. It couldn't possibly be him, yet your body moved forward with single-minded determination, ignoring the warning sirens going off in your brain.

"Is it really you?" you walked dazedly forward, shaky hands reaching out to cup his scarred cheek. "Or am I dreaming once more?" Your voice is hoarse, and hesitant, distant to your ears

The man leaned into your touch, Jason, leaned into your touch. The tension melted from his broad shoulders, which were much larger than you remembered him being. His eyes shuttered closed, his brow relaxing as he basked in the feel of your gentle touch.

He was different; how couldn't he be? With the years that had come and gone, the unknown sufferings and horrors he must have undergone. Aside from the grotesque J-shaped scar carved into his cheek, his face had developed faint stress lines, dark circles lining under his eyes.

His eyes. The deep cerulean you'd loved so much was still the same, but the playful spark was gone, replaced with a weary exhaustion you longed to erase.

"I'm not the boy you fell in love with. I've done things... monstrous things." Even his voice had changed, a gravelly rasp that you suspected wasn't just from the tears threatening to spill over his misting eyes. "Any kindness, any goodness I might have possessed, has long been snuffed out. I'm not the Jason you knew before."

He's pacing now, agitated as he avoids your gaze, fearful of rejection.

You approach slowly as if reaching for a frightened stray, fingers entwining with his much larger and calloused ones in a gentle grip, stopping him in his tracks despite how easily he could undoubtedly escape.

"What have you done, Jay?" There's nothing but open acceptance in your gaze, a softness he'd forgotten could even exist. Everything about you was softer than the harsh, cutting edges of the League.

"These hands you cradle so lovingly are soaked in blood. I've become an entity of violence." He croaked. "I've callously traded lives, all of it, to bring me home to you."

His chest shuddered on his next inhale as he all but ripped himself out of your grasp. Instantly, you mourned the loss of contact. "It's selfish of me, but I can't help wondering. Would you fall in love with me again? If you knew what I've done? Could you even love me the same?"

He couldn't bring himself to glance in your direction, terrified of seeing the disgust in your eyes. He heard your soft footsteps approaching as he stubbornly refused to look at you, seeing only your hands reaching out to him once more.

He's too weak to pull away, even as you snake a hand up his chest to splay across his neck gently, your thumb rubbing circles against his jaw as you tilt his head up to look at you.

"I will fall in love with you over and over again. I don't care how, where, or when. No matter how long it's been, you're mine. Don't tell me you're not the same person. You'll always be my Jason." 

“What? You can’t possibly…” He shakes his head in denial. He was a killer, a monster. Why couldn’t you understand, you were far too good for him; he hadn’t even meant for you to find out he was still alive. 

“Don’t presume to know how I feel, Jason.” You said sternly before your face softened once more, your fingers tracing his skin almost reverently again. 

“But — ”

“No buts. I don’t… I don’t give a fuck what you’ve done. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but the only thing that matters to me is that you’re alive. That you’re here, with me.” Despite your soft tone, there’s a fierceness in your eyes and desperation in your touch as you grasp onto him as if he may evaporate into smoke at any second. 

Jason knows that he’s not a good man. He’s selfish, greedy, and so, so weak to your touch. He’s been dreaming of this for years, of your touch, of you. Now that he finally has it again, he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to leave like he knows he should. Watching from afar, checking in to make sure you were safe, wouldn’t be enough anymore.

He whispers your name, a choked prayer as he finally allows himself to fully succumb to your loving embrace. He drops to his knees, face buried in the crook of your neck as you both hit the floor together, his arms locking you against his chest. 

The noise of Gotham’s nightlife fades to a distant blur, salty tears wetting the neck of your shirt as he urgently inhales your scent, committing the long-lost smell to his memory. 

“How long has it been?”

“Six years,” you answer through your own tears before saying the words he’d ached to hear, “I love you.”

“Truly? After all these years?” He rests his forehead against yours, raw vulnerability on display. 

“Always, " you firmly declare before pulling him into a deep kiss, and Jason temporarily forgets his worries and insecurities because all that matters is you. That after six gruelling years, he’s finally home.

Jason when he came back from the Lazarus pit remembering raccoon!reader is a silly little guy who can’t protect themselves and then realizes they still live in Gotham and adopted the hybrid as the cool crime lord he is and giving them their own gun:

La danza de los dragones.

Milenios después de que la devastación atacara las tierras que los dioses le otorgaron al mundo, Hubo belleza inundando cada plano de esas bendecidas tierras, las especies vivían todas en paz, lo inimaginable sucedía como actos comunes, la vida, en pocas palabras era tranquila.

Cada ser cumplió con su deber, las sirenas habitaban el mar, las hadas plagaban los bosques, los dragones surcaban sus cielos, y el sinfín de animales y habitantes mágicos acogió sin dudarlo a la especie que se consideró lo único simple en todo el lugar, los humanos formaron parte. El mundo tenía paz.

Hasta que la perdió.

Los humanos son imperfectos por naturaleza, no es que desearan serlo simplemente no podían controlarlo. Por eso cuando la envidia envolvió las venas de los primeros hombres nadie pensó que tendrían que interferir, los dioses no pondrían a seres destructivos en la tierras que contenían la paz ¿Cierto?

El resentimiento es una enfermedad aérea, los humanos, anhelantes de peculiaridad fueron la mejor forma de contagio. ¿Por qué los otros tenían magia y ellos no? Las innumerables cuestiones los hicieron envenenarse de envidia; decidieron entonces, si no podían conseguir la magia, la arrebatarían. Los primeros levantamientos iniciaron un día de pesca, con cientos de barcos llenos con marineros que zarparon con el único objetivo de poner un ejemplo. Miles de sirenas cantaron su tragedia aquel día.

Aquellos que alguna vez fueron respetados, incluso apreciados, esta vez fueron temidos, ya no había más debilidad en los cuerpos mortales, en su lugar se alzaron lentamente contra la magia que les había sido gentilmente mostrada. Años de sangre y lucha después; poco quedo de lo divino en el mundo de Modrum. Entre la crueldad de la guerra dos figuras singulares resaltaron. Sus caminos se marcaron por sangre, ambos con la amarga ambición de un mundo diferente

Aliados, compañeros, enemigos.

La sangre y el oro coronaron a los primeros reyes humanos, avariciosos y ciegos tomaron sin dar a cambio. El poder fue repartido en dos grandes reinos, Aurelen la tierra del oro y las hadas extintas y Sylvarith la montaña de bosques y dragones. Modrum fragmentado había perdido la gloria de sus grandes días. Las hadas desaparecieron, las pocas que quedaron fueron convertidas en esclavas, y las sirenas preferían mantenerse en lo profundo, donde su belleza no cautivaba y sus cantos se ahogaban junto a marineros de poca importancia. Poco a poco no quedó rastro de lo hermoso y divino que solía ser el próspero mundo de Modrum.

Entre todos estos seres solo uno fue considerado digno de permanecer. Con vida y relativa libertad, los dragones altos e imponentes sobre cualquier otro ser, lo suficientemente sabios para callar y tan audaces para no escuchar, Estas denominadas indomables bestias, fueron los compañeros perfectos para aquellos despiadados reyes que buscaban el control de tierras que no les pertenecían.

Hace cientos de años, el cielo se iluminó con un suceso histórico, la danza de los dragones expandió el poder de aquellos que se coronaron a sí mismos en cenizas y sangre. Ambas casas ahora convertidas en nobles palacios de reyes y jinetes se atravesaron en la guerra por el control de todo. El fuego envolvió el cielo con su calor y la sangre y el oro adornaron las cicatrices en las manos de los jinetes. Cuando finalmente todo termino no había mucho que salvar, las cenizas aun ardientes se forjaron en el terror del pueblo y la poca paz que pudo conservarse era sostenida por un par de manos débiles, un tratado de paz demasiado delgado impidió una segunda gran guerra. Sus coronas se consagraron con el poder absoluto.

Aquellos días oscuros se habían alejado de ambas familias, ahora un par de décadas después la fragmentada paz que se había conseguido después del baile de los dragones, estaba pendiendo de un diente de león. Los nobles herederos de ambas familias, Plint y Creed una vez más unidos por poco más que un hilo de odio fino, el destino de un mundo colgaba del espacio entre sus dedos entrelazados.

Oliver Plint no era un luchador, prefería entre todas las cosas montar a su dragón y escapar, aunque fuese por pocos minutos del legado que le precedía. No era un sanguinario ni un prodigio de la espada, si algo lo definía era su absurda gentileza. Todo lo gentil se extingue en el mundo, la amabilidad no coexiste con la fuerza.

Kaius Creed estaba preparado para una matanza, la espada y su dragón eran sus únicos aliados y además de su ambición por la corona de Aurelen, no había nada que le importara, era un guerrero un rey nacido en la corona, envuelto en brazas y oro, echo para odiar y destruir así tuviera que morir para lograrlo era un sacrificio digno de tomar. Nada duraba para siempre, a excepción del honor.

Los dos reinos se tocan de nuevo durante una gala particularmente absurda y cuando un par de movimientos en falso podrían destruirlo todo se necesita de dos almas corrompidas para evitar que los dragones vuelvan a danzar.

The noise has everyone startled but none like Jason. It was just specific enough that it resembled a very distinct clang of metal that brought forth a memory that was the wrong kind of surreal. Jason jumps up from his seat, hands flying up in front of him. His breathing is heavy and his body is tense as he braces for pain.

Dick immediately jumps into big brother mode, though knowing he’s never had much success before with Jason. He holds his hands out in front of him on reflex, like he’s ready to restrain a frightened animal.

Jason shoves him out of the way (expected). Jason lumbers over to you and wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck (unexpected).

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Your voice has lowered significantly and Dick can barely make out your words. He guesses that was probably the point. He clocks that Jason's breathing is heavy and he’s trying desperately to nudge you out of the room, likely wanting to be out of sight of his brother. You hold him steady though, cupping his face in your hands. Jason's head drops into your shoulder, holding your forearms to keep him anchored. One of your hands wraps around the back of his neck, rubbing soothing patterns against his skin. His chest starts inhaling faster with very little exhale and his grip on you tightens.

“Breathe, Jay.”      

Oh don’t tell him that, he does not like hearing that. The last time Dick tried to comfort him with those words he ended up getting clocked in the face.

“Breathe. In…Out…” he does as instructed, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, repeating as told. It doesn’t take long at all for his breathing to revert back to its normal pace, posture relaxing.

…What?

Dick stands there dumbly, watching his little brother not only allow but embrace blatant affection. For once, he has nothing to say. He’s not even sure he can think right.

There hasn’t been a single moment since Jason returned that Dick had even had the chance to consider him being happy, in love. He’d come back so full of anger and resentment that it was borderline impossible to see through to any of who he used to be. A carefree, jovial kid. He’d hate to say it, but even after Jason came back to life, he thought that kid was still dead and gone. Everyone did, but…this is gentle and delicate. This is a side of Jason that he mourned and made his peace that he’d never see again.

But now Jason picks his head up and kisses your cheek, whispering something before pulling away. You murmur back to him softly, and Dick can only make out the word ‘water’ from his place across the room. Jason nods slowly, reluctantly releasing his hold on your wrists as you head out of the room.

He slumps into an armchair nearby and barely meets Dick’s stare before averting his gaze, muttering something like “Fuck off,” Dick just blinks, thoroughly thrown by the Jekyll-and-Hyde-like change in his brother’s attitude. He opens his mouth, though no noise comes out.

You return promptly, glass of water in hand. You give it to Jason, leaning lightly over the arm of his chair. He downs the water quickly, setting it on the coaster next to him and pulling your full weight onto the chair, holding you close. You look over at Dick, who’s still staring at you like he just saw the Easter Bunny walk into the room and steal a lamp. 

“What?” you ask him curiously, lacking all of the snap that he usually hears with the question from his brothers.

He stammers, “Uh…” Jason looks up at him, glaring. “Nothing.”

You tilt your head at him, silently inquiring about what he’s thinking. Dick ignores your gaze, turning back to his cards that had fallen somewhere in the course of the ado.

You furrow your brow and turn your attention back to Jason, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets his head lull to the side and rest against your shoulder.

You move your hand higher up in his hair, “Do you want to eat? Just a banana or something?”

He blinks, eyes heavy, “Yeah, I’ll—” he stops you from standing up again, rising to his feet himself. “I’ll go, it’s alright.”

He exits the room sluggishly and you redirect your gaze over to Dick who’s once again focused intently on the cards. You move over to where he’s sat on the ground, crouching on the opposite side of his pyramid-in-progress. “What was that look for?”

Dick blinks up at you, not sure that it’s in his best interest to answer that question. “Um…just surprised me.” he gets out, “How fast you got Jason to calm down.”

You sit back on your heels. “Oh. I guess so.”

Dick shakes his head quickly, “No, that was honestly like a magic trick. How did you do that?”

You gape at him, “What do you mean?”

“I mean one time he pulled a gun on me when I tried to hug him. More than one time, actually,” He grimaces. “So did you, like…brainwash him or something? It’s okay, I won’t tell him, it clearly worked.”

You laugh, not acknowledging the at least partial sincerity in the question. “He’s just difficult to warm up, you know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I could leave him in the toaster oven for ten years and he still wouldn’t warm up to me like that.”

Your smile is accompanied by the raise of an eyebrow, “Well I’m not his brother, so that would be part of it.” You pick up a fallen spade from the floor, setting it atop his scattered pile. “I mean we live together, I’d be pretty ill-suited at my job if I couldn’t at least get him back to baseline by now.”

He squints at you, “You live together?”

You waver awkwardly, “..He said he told you.”

He smiles at that, genuinely, “Anytime Jason says he told anyone in this family anything, he’s lying.”

The call of your name from the doorway has you turning around, smiling. Jason holds his hand out to you and you happily cross the room to take it. The second you’re by his side he picks up the armchair throw pillow with his free hand and chuck it at Dick, successfully knocking him in the face and knocking his half-remade tower to shambles.