eros

eros | 22 | she/her | blk dc, marvel, mha enjoyer

[amourfouu]

jaime reyes: full-time loverboy, part-time intergalactic suit host, forever a victim of khaji-da’s commentary.

it used to be serious:

“elevated heart rate. visual focus locked. is this a threat?”

now she’s just petty:

“hormone spike detected. weakness confirmed. again.”

so when jaime’s leaning against the counter, smiling all soft while you talk about your day, khaji of course chooses that moment to pop up in his head.

“this level of distraction is inefficient, jaime. would you like me to initiate ‘charm protocol’ on your behalf?”

jaime just rolls his eyes, muttering low under his breath, “shut up.”

and you pause, blinking. “excuse me?”

his head shoots up like a deer in headlights. “what? oh! no, not you. never you, baby. it’s khaji. she’s—” he makes a vague buzzing gesture around his head, “running her mouth again.”

you raise an eyebrow, a little amused. “mhm. thought so.” khajis antics were (unfortunately) nothing new

khaji chirps in his mind. “i like her, very wise. you are indeed whipped.”

jaime sighs. “khaji. i hate you.”

“untrue”

[amourfouu]

it happens the first time she watches a sitcom with him.

- they’re both curled up on the couch, flipping through channels, and she lands on a rerun of some classic comedy.

- the first few lines of dialogue play out, then laughter. it’s canned. overused. that fake, mechanical chuckle that punctuates every joke, whether it’s funny or not.

- jason freezes. jaw locks. his fingers curl into his palms, nails digging into skin.

- he stares at the screen but isn’t watching. he’s somewhere else.

- when the next joke hits and the laugh track rolls again, he snaps “turn it off.” his voice is rough, low.

she blinks, startled by the sudden sharpness in his tone. but she doesn’t question it—just grabs the remote and shuts the TV off immediately.

- he exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to shake off something thick and suffocating.

- she reaches for his hand—he doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t relax either. “jay,” she murmurs, squeezing gently. “talk to me.”

- he’s quiet for a long moment. then, without looking at her, he mutters, “i hate laugh tracks.”

- her brows furrow. “i mean, yeah, they’re kinda obnoxious, but—”

- “no,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “it’s not that. It’s... the way they sound.”

- realization hits her too late. jokers laughter. sharp, unrelenting, everywhere. the last thing jason heard before everything went black. before his body broke and the world let him die.

- and laugh tracks? they’re not the same, but they echo it. constant, mindless, inhuman. they never stop. they never sound real.

jason finally looks at her. “it just feels like it’s still there.” his voice is hoarse, thick with something he doesn’t name.

she doesn’t say sorry. doesn’t try to tell him it’s okay, because she knows it’s not.

instead, she laces their fingers together, grounding him in the present. “i won’t play them anymore,” she promises, simple and sure. “sitcoms are shit anyway.”

jason exhales slowly. and when he squeezes her hand back, it’s the smallest thing but it means everything.

she doesn’t bring it up again, but she notices things.

- the way he flips the channel immediately if a sitcom comes on.

- how his fingers twitch at the wrong kind of laughter, that’s too forced, too hollow.

so she makes small changes.

- puts on movies with soft laughter. show him real, warm, human joy.

- plays music instead of TV when they’re winding down at night.

- makes sure that whenever he hears laughter now, it’s hers. full of love not malice.

one night, when he catches her laughing at something dumb he said—her head thrown back, eyes shining, the kind of laugh that shakes her whole body—jason just stares.

because this laugh? it’s not cruel. it’s not endless or empty.

it’s his favorite sound in the world.