#anxious reader

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Anxiety was something you had struggled with for a while. You thought you hid it fine, going off into corners, breaking down in silence, never asking anyone for help. That was until you got together with Frank, who unraveled you in a way you had no idea anyone could. You had both helped each other through so much. You had been there throughout rehab, standing by Frank when he thought no one would, visiting him as much as you could, keeping him strong when he felt incredibly weak. To him, you were a big encouragement to get better. And he had helped you too, so much. He helped you through your worst moments, distracted you when you couldn’t stop thinking, held your hands when they were shaking, talked you through deep breaths. All in all, you made each other better. 

You came out of all of it better, together, but, when you looked at Frank you saw your strong, resilient husband. When you looked at yourself, you saw someone who was still struggling to get by. He told you you were making progress, that you were better. There were still bad days though, too many for the amount of help you had been receiving, you thought. Days where patients got to you, days where you took one too many breathers outside, days where you couldn’t show up at all. But, Frank saw you through all of it. Talking you down, helping connect you with a therapist. You’d hoped that he feels that you’d helped him half as much as he had helped you. 

On one of these bad days, you had lost a patient. You were doing compressions for at least 20 minutes, you were sore and tired, but your patient was dead. Robby assured you it wasn’t your fault, but after the debriefing you quickly escaped to the hallway, blinking tears out of your eyes, your breath shallow and shaky as you replay the sound of the flatline in your head. You don't even realize Frank is outside of the room waiting for you, you don’t realize that you shoulder check him as he asks you if you’re ok. You just make your break for the hallway, replaying the last twenty minutes in your head over and over, trying to fix it, but you can't. 

You stand in the empty hallway, taking deep breaths, tapping your collarbones back and forth, back and forth. You focus on the feeling of your fingertips against your collarbones, trying to calm down. 

“What’re you doing?” Frank asks softly, snapping you out of your trance. You look at him for a second before replying, moving your hands away from your collarbones, starting to pick at the skin around your thumb before Frank grabs your hand and squeezes gently. 

“It’s supposed to help, I don’t know, I read it’s supposed to help.” You say, not meeting his gaze. 

“Well, does it help?” He asks, his tone patient and his brows raised. 

“In the moment, I guess it does,” You say with a nod, thinking the question over, “people do it in a lot of places, like their forehead or under their eyes or wrists,” You say, demonstrating each one for him, he follows along lightly, “but I think the collarbones help the best, it’s new.” You finish your sentence, your tone quiet and shaky. Frank pulls you into him, putting his hand on the back of your head. 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found something that helps, even a little bit,” He says, kissing your head, you nod into him, letting him hold up your weight, “Y’know what happened wasn’t your fault.” He adds, his voice muffled by your hair. 

“Robby said that too, but I just can’t stop thinking.” You say, letting out a shaky breath, tears burning your eyes. 

“I know,” He says sympathetically, tightening his grip on you, “but I just want you to know that it wasn’t your fault, ok? You’re a great doctor, and you gave it all you got.” He adds encouragingly, you nod against him, breathing him in, taking a moment before saying anything. 

“I’m sorry I put this all on you.” You say after a minute, Frank’s brows furrow at the comment. He pulls you away from him, grabbing your face in his hands so he can look at you. 

“You are not putting anything on me, ok?” He says, his tone quickly getting serious. 

“It just feels like I am sometimes.” You say, wiping your eyes and sniffling, he shakes his head and pulls you back into him. 

“You’re not, and do you know how much you’ve helped me through my shit? It’s about time I repay the favor.” He says resting his chin on your head. 

“That’s different.” You say, your voice now muffled by his chest. 

“No it’s not, and I’m never gonna stop being here, so you need to get used to it.” He adds, his tone teasing, you laugh against him, he relaxes as the sound leaves you. 

“Take all the time you need, and find me if you need anything, ok?” He asks, pulling you back to look at you again. You nod silently, kissing him, muttering thank yous in between kisses. He leaves eventually, forcing himself away from your touch and back to reality. You go back to tapping your collarbones for a minute before heading back out as well. Silently promising yourself to ensure you give as much as you take. Because with you, he is good, and soft, and gentle, and you had no idea what you did to deserve him. 

The rest of the shift you felt his eyes on you, silently checking in, making sure you were ok. You gave him small smiles or silent thumbs ups when you could, promising him everything was ok now, that you felt better. It took some convincing, but he believed you eventually, even though he made sure to hold you extra tight that night.

The bad days, for both of you, got lighter, easier to deal with. They still happened sometimes, but you were there for each other, no matter what. And now, when he was having bad days, or particularly rough moments, when the cravings were strong, you would catch him tapping at his collarbones, or wrists. And you think to yourself, maybe you do help him, maybe you do give as much as you take. You were both broken, but when you were together, it just felt right. 

The night had started with the whole gang, but slowly they’d filtered out. Nancy and Robin claiming early mornings, but you worked with the latter and knew she had the next two days off. Mike and Will trailing reluctantly after them, Dustin and Lucas already halfway into Eddie’s van—leaving you by the door. Thinking it was your cue to go too.

Until Steve lingered, a quiet “you can stay, if you want” with a brief touch to your arm that you’re definitely not still thinking about…

And now you’re on his couch. Less than a cushion width away. 

Sitting next to him like your heart isn’t doing something stupid, like you’re not hyper-aware of every inch between you, like you’re not thinking about whether you should lean in or wait or say something or—

“Why are you sitting like that?” Steve asks.

You go completely still. You don't even blink. “Like what?”

“Like you’re being held at gunpoint.”

Shit. He noticed. 

Well, you can’t really blame him—with the way your shoulders are too tight, your hands folded so carefully in your lap like they might betray you; honestly, you’d judge him more if he didn’t.

But he doesn’t look away.

His eyes trace over you, slowly, a smile—almost a smirk—tugging at his mouth, but it’s soft, tender, and even through the noise in your head you know it’s not mocking.

“Relax,” he says, softer this time. “I’m not that scary, am I?”

That’s not the problem.

The problem is that he’s Steve, and you like him, and suddenly everything feels like it matters too much—where you sit, what you say, whether his knee brushing yours is accidental or not. So yes—maybe, in a way, he is. 

Scary.

Terrifying, even.

He shifts, his leg brushing yours and not moving away; you make a weird choking noise before you can stop it. You think you say no, but your thoughts are already slipping out of reach as he playfully knocks his shoulder into yours.

“See?” he murmurs, quieter now, still with that little smirk-smile, like he’s talking you down from something you’re not sure he even understands. “You’re okay.”

You nod. Too quick. Way too obvious.

You are not okay. Not in the slightest. 

Because now all you can think about is the weight of his leg against yours, the warmth of it, the way he hasn’t moved away. If anything, he leans in a little more, shoulder nudging yours, casual—like this is normal. Like this is easy. Because, well, it should be. 

You’re just a girl sitting next to a guy she really, really likes, who’s wearing a stupidly fitted polo, which usually you wouldn’t look twice at—but it’s Steve, and Steve could rock a bin bag and still look unfairly good.

And you’re trying—you really are—to act like it is. Normal. 

But your brain won’t shut up.

Don’t move. If you move, it’ll be weird. If you don’t move, it’s also weird. Say something. No, don’t say something—that’ll make it worse—

“Hey,” Steve says suddenly (probably only sudden to you, as you’ve been staring at the same point on the wall for at least two minutes), nudging you softly again. “You even watching?”

You blink, dragged back into reality, trying to pretend you never left. “Of course I am.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his body angled fully towards you. “Yeah? Then what just happened?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You’ve been caught… once again.

His smile softens, a little more amused than teasing. “Thought so.”

And just like that, he starts describing the movie to you, head tilted towards you—and although your mind never fully switches off, the sound of Steve’s voice definitely helps.

loverboy steve masterlist ♡

P.S. introducing loverboy's overthinker. I am her. She is me.

You’re perched in front of the vanity while someone dabs shimmer onto your eyelids. Another friend is adjusting the delicate straps of your dress. The lace is beautiful. The room is beautiful. Everyone keeps telling you that you’re glowing.

Your chest feels like it’s shrinking.

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself, but the air won’t go all the way in.

You love Bucky. You want to marry him. There’s no doubt, no cold feet, nothing like that. But the room is loud and warm and bright and full of expectations. Cameras flash. Questions get thrown at you.

Are you excited? Are you nervous? Can you believe this is finally happening?

Your pulse spikes.

Someone sprays perfume too close to your face and suddenly it’s like the walls tilt. The music is too sharp. The laughter too loud. Your dress feels heavy.

“I just need a second,” you murmur, but no one really hears.

Your maid of honor notices the way your fingers tremble. “Hey,” she says gently, stepping closer. “You okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just… a lot.”

It’s a lot.

You swallow hard and try to focus on the mirror. You’re supposed to feel like a princess. Instead, your throat tightens and your eyes sting.

You know what would fix this.

Not a breathing exercise. Not a glass of water.

Him.

Before you can overthink it, you stand.

“Wait—where are you going?” someone asks.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, already lifting your skirt to move faster. “I just… I need Bucky.”

There’s a chorus of scandalized gasps.

“You can’t see him!” “It’s bad luck!” “Tradition—!”

“Tradition can wait,” you say, voice wobbling but firm. “I need my fiancé.”

And then you’re out the door.

--

Bucky is in another room down the hall with Steve and Sam when you barge in.

He’s mid-sentence, jacket half-buttoned, when the door swings open.

His eyes snap to you.

Everything else disappears.

You look breathtaking. Your dress flows around you like something out of a dream. Your hair falls perfectly around your shoulders. But your eyes—

Your eyes are wide. Shiny.

“Hey,” he says immediately, already crossing the room.

Sam and Steve exchange a look and quietly excuse themselves without a word.

The door clicks shut behind them.

“Doll?” Bucky reaches you in three strides, hands hovering at your waist like he’s afraid to wrinkle the fabric. “What’s wrong?”

The second you see his face up close, something inside you cracks.

“It’s too much,” you whisper. “It’s just—everyone’s talking and the music and the cameras and I know it’s supposed to be perfect but I can’t breathe and I—”

He doesn’t let you spiral.

His hands settle gently at your waist, grounding, warm.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

His thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

“You’re okay,” he says, voice low and steady. “You’re safe. It’s just us right now.”

You inhale, shaky.

He nods encouragingly. “That’s it. Just me and you. No music. No people. Just us.”

You focus on the way his thumb moves slowly over your skin. The familiar weight of his hands. The faint scent of his cologne.

Your pulse starts to slow.

“I didn’t mean to ruin the whole ‘don’t see each other before the ceremony’ thing,” you mumble, embarrassed.

He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I don’t care about bad luck. I care about you.”

Your breath evens out.

He leans back just enough to look at you fully. His expression softens in awe.

“You look…” He swallows. “You look like the rest of my life.”

Your throat tightens—but in a good way this time.

“I was fine until it got loud,” you admit. “And then I just needed you.”

“You always got me,” he says instantly.

The room feels calm now. Quiet. Like the world has shrunk down to the two of you.

You rest your forehead against his chest, careful of the suit. His arms come around you carefully, protective but mindful of your dress.

He sways you slightly.

“Want to stay?” he asks gently. “We can just hide out in here until it’s time.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “We’re really just throwing tradition in the trash today, huh?”

He shrugs. “Tradition didn’t go through HYDRA brainwashing. Tradition doesn’t know what it’s like to need the person you love to breathe.”

You smile at that.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s hide.”

---

You sit together on the edge of the couch. Your skirt spills over his knee. He holds your hand like it’s something sacred.

He tells you dumb jokes. You fix his tie because it’s slightly crooked. He kisses your knuckles softly, careful not to smudge anything.

At one point he leans in close and whispers, “If you wanted, we could just run. Vegas. Elvis impersonator. I’d marry you in jeans.”

You grin. “We already paid for the venue, Barnes.”

“Right. Fine. Guess we’ll do it the fancy way.”

But you stay together.

And by the time someone knocks on the door to say it’s time, your nerves have melted into something warm and steady.

---

When the music starts and the doors open, you’re not shaking anymore.

You’re not overwhelmed.

You’re just walking toward him.

Bucky’s standing at the end of the aisle, eyes already glassy. The moment he sees you, his breath leaves him completely.

He knows.

He knows you came to him earlier. He knows you chose him over superstition, over tradition, over everything.

You reach him calm. Smiling. Certain.

When he takes your hands, he squeezes them once.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Perfect,” you whisper back.

And you are.

Because it was never about the flowers. Or the music. Or the traditions.

It was always about him.

And he’s right there.

you only finally crawled out of the imperial sized bed one night because you felt disgusting enough to bathe. only when your skin was sticky and itchy and your hair was stiff at the roots. then after hours in the steaming bathroom, you realized the bedroom stunk of rotten food and sweat and blood so you asked for cleaning service and they all but forced you out the resort so they could clean your room. leading to another few hours wandering the crowded city streets. you could sit down but you feel bed enough to just keep walking.

its alot honestly, theres so many people and theres absolutely no way to escape if a tsunami rose over the tallest skyscraper or if a shooter decides right here right now would be the perfect opportunity to end their own and so many others lives or if bruce suddenly swung down in that stupid suit and forced you back to his ugly manor. no one would help, theyd just think your another criminal.

you need to take your mind off it all, you cant keep thinking about all this. your throats getting tight and you can feel tears welling, you need to get out of here. get something to take the edge off, a toy or a blade or a drink. you need to get back to your room.

your eyes watch your wringing hands instead of where your going and it makes you bump into the person in front of you, so you jump to apologize, only for someone else to catch your eye.

jason?

your head swivels so fast youd think you heard a gunshot but the glimpse of recognition is gone just as fast, drowned in a sea of people, endless faces like endless waves. violent in its intensity, the constant stream of bumping and pushing and walking. you must have been seeing things.

you manage to get pushed to the outskirts of the walk way before you lurch forward pushing through the crowd as swiftly as itll let you. trying to catch up with that man whoever he was. you push and search peoples faces, they gleam and glare but none of them are the one. you try to search faster, further, more, until all your adrenaline is gone and a lead sits between your ribs, you wont find him like this.

everyone in the family has hallucinated jason, thats a fact you know is true. still you could have sworn it. it probably wasnt your jason. it was probably just a random person that looked like your brother, you assure yourself. even as you sharply turn an alley corner. your hands are shivering. this is insane. your brother is dead. jason is dead. you went to his funeral and saw his massacared body in that gleaming glass case. hes not coming back, yet you dont try to stop your fumble through your pocket to pull out your new phone.

it takes you an unreasonable amount of time to finally get in, theres a security camera on this street and you kept messing up the force bypass. you roll back a few minutes and search the crowds for the person you tell yourself you didnt see but you catch him.

a hulking figure, something you didnt notice before, tall and wide. nothing like your little brother, who was quite the few inches shorter than you and way thinner and sure people change as they grow but surely your brother wouldnt have changed this much, right?

even you dont believe yourself. in your heart of hearts you know it, really you do. which is why you cant believe it. that cant be your jason. people dont just come back to life.....but they could....its not unrealistic...not here, not with meta humans and aliens with superpowers and witches and mutants...surely..maybe...could he have come back to life..? he had to of. theres no way that isnt your brother. your only family left, your little jason after all these years.

your fingers panic to follow him as he moves through the gotham streets, you occasionally lose him in a crowd or an area missing surveillance tech but you always end up finding him, trailing him until he finally slips into an apartment.

you slump against the brick behind you and stare at your phone. hes alive. hes alive and hes here. and jokers still around. he must hate you, all of you. you should go after him.

you can hardly breath as you stand, the air is humid and cold and the moonless sky tells of rain, you gotta go faster, not a second of hesitation is appropriate. if you grab your car you could get there before the rain starts. just dont get too jittery, just keep breathing. hes alive. this is your brother, the sweetest thing youd ever met. is he even gonna like you anymore? is he gonna hate you like the rest of the family? theres no going back now though right?

yeah, yeah. yeah. no going back, his building is in sight, you cant weasel out of this. you park as far as you can while its still in sight and walk past his apartment but only so you can disappear behind another building into the shared back alley. you try to be as silent as possible ascending the fire escape but the metal rattles under your weight. if it doesnt really work.

you turn the corner from the stairs to what would be his level, only to come face to face with a red helmet and a metal barrel to the forehead. "jason?" your words strain painfully, then your name falls just as wearily through his voice modulator. he lowers the gun back to his hip but you can see his fingers fidget around it as he hesitates to holster it.

"how- why?" you choke, tears burning up your eyes, forgetting in this moment everything but him. your composure is whittled to nothing and you dont care how loud you are or where you are. he on the otherhand slides back through his window into the apartment and you follow wordlessly, shutting the pane behind you.

he stands there, his arms crossed, tense like he doesnt know what to do. and you, you are a mess- each step is more clumsy than the last, wiping your tears and snot with your hoodie sleeves. youre so lightheaded, you feel like you could pass out any second but you cant let yourself. your brothers alive, really truly alive, before your eyes, infront of you. you cant let this slip away, you cant let him slip away again.

for all you know he just dug himself from his grave, though his appearance suggests otherwise. hes dirty but not 'broke my way out of my coffin' dirty more like a 'been too busy for a shower recently' dirty. bulky rather than thin as one who hasnt eaten since he was 12 would be. hes covered in scars but not a hint of blood or open wound. how much of your little brothers life have you missed?

you cant contain yourself, you wanna examine him, you want to see everything hes gone through. you want to see his face. you have to force your feet to stay planted so you dont do it for him, "take your helmet off please."

your voice twists just pathetically enough he sheaths the gun, but he doesnt clip it, instead his hands rise to the bikers helmet and then its off and there he is, your little brother.

taller, wider, bigger than you. choppy black hair with a tuff of white, it wasnt your dorky kid brothers ginger dyed black to fit in with bruce and dick, now it looked natrually black. shaved on the sides and long in the back with bangs so short they could be considered micro.

his face, though is what swears to you its him. still so soft, pudgy, sure the shape of his jaw is more refined, less chubby but still him. the scar on his neck hes had forever, the imprint of his nose, the same as when he was a kid. his skin is more tan now, hes got more angel kisses but its still jason.

you want to embrace him but something makes you hesitate, his eyes, you actively notice now. a seething, bubbling, acid green that threaten to burn. youre little brothers eyes were blue, bright blue and now they lacked the life you remembered. no, they roared with a vibrant life unfamiliar to you. a life he wasnt ready to share with you evident in his posture, his composure, how he hasnt said a word besides your name. it makes you want to dig your heel into him more.

before either of you know it your arms are wrapped around his hulking torso, squeezing him as hard as you can and trying to pick him up like you used to be able to. you can only manage a few inches this time.

he laughs in a way you know hes uncomfortable but you cant care. "shut up." you squeeze him harder and rub your face against his bicep, tears already beading through your eyelashes, "where- how-" you choke up so much you have to shake your head and start over, "s' glad youre here."

your elbows suddenly buckle and you drop him back to his feet, still refusing to let go of him, hugging him tighter than you have ever. when he was a kid he was too weak for hugs like this, hes not escaping this one. finally his hands wriggle free enough to hold you back, his arms pinned to his sides by yours and you let up on how hard your squeezing him after a minute more or so, simply holding him.

"..how are you back from the dead?" he hesitates to awnser, his voice is deep without the voice mod, scratchy but its your brothers. "its a long story." youre voice tilits to something curious, "..are you a zombie..?" he smiles down at you, "not like that.. so far.." that gets a chuckle out of you and you rub your eyes dry. "i missed you," you let your head tilt up to meet those new eyes, chin digging into his muscle. his jaw tenses like he tastes poison and you frown, gently pulling away.

he just watches you, his face not baring any emotions you can read besides tension and an ugly thought pierces your chest. "why havent you come see to me?" its accusing and it burns your throat up when he again fails to awnser.

your arms drop and you take a step back, he looks down at you how one would look at a dog before putting it down but he doesnt apologize, instead he mumbles something filler, something you dont care for anymore, something you dont need, something he doesnt mean. "i missed you too."

"where have you been if you havent been dead?" your lips curl into a sneer. you force yourself into his face and he steps back, his hand angles to go for his gun and it makes you so mad you snatch it from his hip and toss it behind the island. you keep backing him up until his back meets wall, his hands, trying to calm you down, put in front of his chest in a defenseless manner despite being able to rip you in half if he so wanted. why doesnt he just overpower you if he doesnt care that much? "where have you been if you haven't been with me?"

your hearts on your sleeve, while his is staying buried beneath his chest and it hurts. he doesnt look angry, he doesnt look sad, he isnt even scared by your behavior. he just stares with that- that- that regret! on his face that makes you want to punch him, really fucking punch him.

his hands push you back to your heels by your shoulders, your name sounds absolutely disgusting on his tongue in this moment. he keeps biting his tongue, hesitating to say and do the things he wants and its making you sick. since when did he have to hide from you? 

why does he just stand there like that? does he hate you? he looks so- just absent. does he not remember how much you love him? that hes your little brother and he means everything to you? do you need to remind him?

then he hugs you and you cant do anything but let him. his arms practically engulf your head and he digs his nose into your hairline. you can feel him breathing and every little shake and hesitation. it feels so good and just as much soul crushing. eventually you start calming down and he waddles your softening body to the couch sitting down with you and you curl up into his side. your body morphs with your breathing up and down and in and out and around and over him.

all you remeber is your eyes burning and your heart hurting and how badly you wished for him to just say something but he never does. all you get to listen to was the pace of his heart uncomfortably set, even as his hands rubbed over your sides and his lips pressed to your crown with an empty kind of presence, devoid of kiss.

the next morning you wake up to bliss. your body feels light, airy and refreshed, the bed under you is cushy, soft and perfect and everything is so, so very warm. you stretch out into the fat pillows and silky blankets, about to fall back asleep when you realize, this is not your bed. this is jasons bed. you found jason, your safe and hes safe.

you let your gaze wonder over his room, its not much. two doors leading out, an en suite and a living area. a bed and a bedstand and on the bedstand theres a small duffel bag and a note. you sweep your legs off the bed to read it, 'i was getting stronger.' simply drawn in his pretty hand writing. it makes you smile, your fingers running over its crease before you decide to pocket it. gentle hands now fall to the file underneath, flipping through it, a page on a 'roy harper', a few on big criminals and the back full of members of the family, just like before his death then.

what really intrests you is the file on yourself, its not blank, infact its as full as everyone elses. lists of things you enjoy, your achievements, the fact youve been missing from the manor for 2 months, it makes heat rise to your face. you didnt think anyone cared about you that much.

his duffle has a box of injections and a couple bottles of pills at the top, along with some clothes and other miscellaneous items. the kitchen has a bar counter into the living area and which is completely barren save for a couch pushed up against the wall. his kitchen is almost just as empty, just a couple to go boxs.

you feel weird waiting for him to come back, so you snag a blank sheet and jot in as legable writing as you can manage, your phone number, the resort youre staying in and your current license plate if all else fails. before straightening up and deciding to leave, deciding he wouldnt want you there when he got back.

its a short walk to where you parked and you slide into the drivers seat and fall forward against the wheel, your forehead digging into the handle. your eyes uselessly drill holes into your knees. your brothers alive so why do you feel so empty? you pull the note out of your pocket and look at it, 'i was getting stronger'. you want to throw up. thats why hes been gone? because he wanted revenge on the joker? he didnt visit his family after he was reborn so he could train for years- no thats not what angers you. no, not ever as much as how angry you are that bruce and dick have had the opportunity to kill joker time and time and time again. had him in their hands and havent. 

you find yourself feeling justified that jason wouldnt want to visit them. but you? selfishly, hypocritically, you cant see, why hadnt he come see you? youre his big sibling, his. you would have mourned him forever and he wouldn't have cared to tell you he was alive at least? do you matter that little to him? would he have ever told you? or would you grow to not matter to him just as you had for everyone else? even if he has a file on you, he has a file on them too. are you on the same level as them? this whole time have you been? does he hate you just as much? maybe you should have taken matters into your hands, that's what he would have wanted right? you really do deserve it huh? to be on the same level as your siblings that refuse to kill? its just as much your fault that joke is still alive as it is theirs. 

wait. do they all know that hes alive? was it just you left out again? you should know, there's no way they'd know and not you. you listened to their comms like background music, if they knew you'd know. but you stopped listnening a few days before you left the manor and it's been two months, did they know now? and they just let him get away again? no way, Bruce would get possessive over him right? hed force him to stay in the manor until he calmed down, he loved the family again. so there's no way they know, atleast you really hope not. you really hope its just you.

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

a/n : i am not immune to the mullet jason propaganda YOU CANT TELL ME HE WOULDNT HAVE A CHOPPY MULLET PLEASEEEEEEEE AND YOU WANNA KNOW WHY SUBCONSCIOUSLY HE LIKES THAT STUPID HAIRSTYLE BECAUSE WHEN HE DIED DICK HAD IT (although his was alot slicker and longer and elegant in general) also cuz its punk as fuck

i started hating this fic for like 3 days and couldn't work on it BUT that means theyll be crumbs for another fandom.. soon :)

taglist : @angelicwing @halluvic @shycreatorreview @cheshire-kitsune @willowkarmachance @noone1233nobody @dreamndestiny @cryptidkai @iloveescara @alishii